by Sam Bourne
They finally got back to the Monteleone where she made her excuses, though not before running into a crestfallen Tim, who gently asked whether her headache had cleared.
‘My what?’
‘Your headache.’
Christ, she’d completely forgotten. That had been her explanation for leaving the bar, hoping Tim wouldn’t notice that Rigby was waiting for her just outside. ‘Oh, yes. Right as rain. Thanks for asking.’
‘So perhaps you’ll join me for that nightcap we missed out on?’
She checked her watch: gone midnight. ‘You know I’ve had a long day, Tim. Flight down and all that. Would you hate me if I had an early night?’
Of course he wouldn’t, he insisted, his words brimming with the caring solicitude of an English gentleman, even as his eyes wondered if, since she was taking to her bed, she might want some company.
Once upstairs, having shaken him off and closed the door behind her, she plunged into her pocket and pulled the thing out. Fucking hell, if it wasn’t actually a poxy coaster after all. From the bloody ‘Midnight Lounge, S Claiborne Street’.
She threw it on the bed, convinced that she had screwed up royally. What the hell was she doing here? She was an analyst of international relations, a diplomat for Christ’s sake, and here she was, fannying around pretending to be a journalist, playing at being Sherlock bleeding Holmes. And she was crap at it. Somewhere in that house – in that cupboard – was Forbes’s BlackBerry, bursting with the information that would answer every one of the questions that would save Baker, and she had missed it, passing over the magic lamp and reaching for the wooden spoon instead. She could curse-
There it was again. The buzz. The coaster was buzzing.
She picked it up and stared at it. At last she smiled. So that was what this was. She hadn’t seen one of these things in years. Not really the style of the kind of places she dined in these days. Not very Washington.
But maybe joints like the Midnight Lounge in New Orleans still went in for handing customers a pager while they waited for a table. Get a drink at the bar; when the pager buzzes, you can be seated. She wondered how the police could have missed it: but perhaps it would only have started going off again late in the evening, as the Midnight Lounge reopened for business.
And if it was still buzzing now, its batteries still alive, did that not suggest Forbes had picked it up recently, maybe even very recently?
She glanced at the bed, with its enticing offer of rest after an exhausting day that was already eighteen long hours old, and then back to the coaster.
She was damned if she knew how she would explain her miraculous resurgence of energy if she ran into Telegraph Tim, but she’d just hope to bloody well avoid him. Mind made up, she went downstairs, stepped outside and hailed a cab. ‘Midnight Lounge on South Claiborne Street please. As quick as you can.’
In her haste, she didn’t notice the man watching from the other side of the street. The same man who had seen her arrive from the airport, step out with that British journalist and then return with another person entirely – male, Caucasian, one hundred eighty pounds, five feet eleven – to the Forbes residence. Nor did she notice this man flag down a second cab, so that he could follow her into the New Orleans night.
20
Washington, DC, Wednesday March 22, 22.55
As Stuart Goldstein made his way to the Residence – a hop, skip and a jump for most White House employees, but not Stuart, whose last memory of hopping, skipping and jumping coincided with the Ford administration – he concluded that Stephen Baker was not like other men.
Of course, he knew that already. He had always known that, since they met in New Orleans nearly twenty years ago at a conference for rising stars in the Democratic firmament. Back then Baker had been the man to watch in the Pacific North-west, building up a defence practice in Seattle that had the town’s granola-eaters wetting their knickers in excitement at its fearlessness in acting for even the most under of underdogs.
Goldstein had taken instantly to Baker. Handsome, fluent, smart, he also had that rarest quality in a politician: courage. He had picked fights with powerful forces in the state, those whose asses most ambitious twenty-somethings would be bending double to kiss. And somehow he had done it without making them hate him. The guy had been just a few years out of law school and already they regarded him as a worthy adversary. The big corporate boards, the lobby firms and logging interests all loved his profile: the son of a lumberman who had worked his way through college, pulling himself up by his all-American bootstraps. When it came to young Stephen Baker, they had only one question: how do we get him to come work for us?
But back then, in their first lunch a few months later at the Metropolitan Grill in Seattle, when the two had clicked intellectually, politically and tactically, Stu Goldstein had come away with a vague sense of dissatisfaction. It was a feeling that, in the early years, used to nag away at him: there was something missing, some layer he was not breaking through.
Even after they had endured their first failed campaign together, and then their first success – with all those endless hours on the road, just the two of them, in Baker’s beat-up old stationwagon, Baker driving because Goldstein had never learned how – it was no different. Stu’s wife might joke that Baker spent more time with her husband than she did. And it was true. Probably also true that no one knew Stephen Baker better than he did. But still, he would say. There was some part of him he didn’t really know.
Until recently, it had stopped bothering him. He gave up thinking about it around the time they took the Governor’s Mansion. Baker was, he decided, simply not like other men. You could get to know most guys over a beer; two for the complicated ones. But Baker was carved from different timber. That was why you could spend eighteen hours a day with him on the road, sharing motel rooms during that attorney-general’s race, and still not truly know him. And that was why he would one day be President of the United States.
So it was hardly a surprise that he had no idea what to expect from the late-night conversation they were about to have. He had had the call summoning him to the Residence, but that had come from the operator: no clue to gauge the mood.
Would Baker be as anxious as he had been – and as he had been unable to conceal – last night, when he had wished Vic Forbes gone? Would he be pacing, would he demand to know what the hell Goldstein was going to do to save his skin, would he want detailed updates on what Maggie Costello had found in New Orleans? Would he be fretting about the rising level of noise from the wilder shores of talk radio and cable TV, hinting there was something fishy about the strangely convenient demise of Vic Forbes?
Or would he have found some relief in the simple fact that Forbes had indeed now ‘gone’? Would he feel, as Stu himself had felt at various points during the day, that if Forbes truly had taken his plutonium-coated secret to the grave with him, then there was no political challenge, no amount of political heat, they could not withstand and eventually repel?
As it turned out, the President’s reaction seemed to fall into the latter category. He spoke about the First Lady’s spirits rather than his own. He said Kimberley was, frankly, grateful that the lowlife who had dared prey on Katie would never bother them again.
‘And you? What do you think about it?’
‘I think, Stuart, that a problem which was already consuming far too much White House time – for which, I hasten to add, I blame myself not you – need distract us no more.’
‘It’s a relief, right?’
‘Yeah, it’s a relief.’ He allowed himself a smile. Not the full wattage beam that was known around the world, but a more intimate version, one that lit up only the room rather than the greater metropolitan area. ‘Those stories were giving me a headache. And there didn’t seem to be any easy solution.’
‘Except the one that landed in our lap.’
‘Not sure I would put it like that, Stuart.’
‘No. Of course not.’
Th
ere was a pause. In the silence, Goldstein reminded himself that whatever history they shared, Baker was now in another realm, one that prevented him talking like a buddy, even if he wanted to. But he couldn’t leave without asking the question.
‘Mr President, is there anything at all that I should know about Vic Forbes and his death?’
‘What do you mean, Stuart?’
‘I mean, is there anything at all I ought to be aware of about these events. Something that would, um, enable me to manage this process…?’ He was flannelling, because he didn’t want to say it outright.
‘Stuart, you’ve known me a long time. In my entire political career, every path that I’ve taken, you’ve known about. You’ve taken most of them – hell, you’ve taken all of them – with me.’
‘For me to do my job-’
‘Stuart, you know all there is to know.’
The tone was final. The President picked up the papers at his side, a gesture that signalled the meeting was over. Goldstein began the mammoth effort required to eject himself from the sofa.
‘Before you go, Stu: this morning I found myself remembering a golden Goldstein rule.’
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘Never forget the base.’
‘If I said it, it must be true.’
‘We need to mobilize them. We have enemies out there, girding themselves for battle. The Iran thing is going to be very hard for us. We need our friends saddled up.’
‘What do you have in mind?’
‘An outreach effort. Below the radar at this stage. But finding a way for them to keep talking to us and for us to keep talking to them.’
‘For example?’
‘Nothing showy, nothing that will look defensive. Just getting obvious people to talk to their constituencies. Get Heller in front of the Jews, get Williams on a few black radio stations.’
‘The Vice President’s got his hands full with the Helsinki process, but if-’
‘I know. Just something to be aware of. Like I said, nothing over the top. But best to be ready. Thanks, Stu.’
He had just reached the door when the phone rang. The private line.
Baker looked at his watch and gave Goldstein a raised eyebrow. Who could be calling who would be put through this late? Some foreign leader, asking for urgent help? He picked up the phone, silently indicating that Stuart should stay.
‘Yes. Good evening, Senator.’
Goldstein made a face. Who?
Baker mouthed back a single word: Franklin.
Franklin? What the hell was that prick doing phoning here, and at this time? Goldstein watched his boss listening intently. Then he saw a change in him he had never witnessed before. The telephone conversation ended with Baker saying, ‘Senator, I appreciate the courtesy of the call. Good night.’ But Stuart was hardly paying attention to the words. He was transfixed by the sight of the President of the United States turning the colour of death.
21
New Orleans, Thursday March 23, 00.06 CST
The cab threaded its way first through the streets close to the hotel, where blues licks still drifted through the air wreathing themselves around the wobbling groups of miniskirted girls, drunk in their stilettos. But then it left the French Quarter behind and the streets slowly became wider and more desolate. Soon they were passing boarded-up shops and whole blocks that seemed abandoned.
Maggie leaned forward to speak to the cab driver, an African-American whose hair was tipped with grey. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Just where you told me to go.’
‘Is it far?’
‘’Bout ten minutes. Maybe less. You don’t want to go?’
‘No, I want to go. I just thought it was closer, that’s all.’
‘Not many tourists come round here. I’m taking you the scenic route. This is the Ninth Ward.’
‘I see.’ Everyone in America knew of the Lower Ninth Ward of New Orleans, the part of the city where Katrina had packed her hardest punch. Maggie had seen the footage on the news a hundred times, but still it was a shock to see a house that had clearly been swept clean off its pilings wedged against a tree some three yards away. It was a shock to see it was still there – and that so much of the area looked as if the hurricane had just struck.
Even in the dark she could read the warning daubed in white paint on the door of one ruined home – U Loot U Die – and the other houses still marked by crosses, spray-painted in orange, the legacy, the driver explained, of rescue workers who hastily marked those buildings they had already searched for survivors – or corpses. Harder to make out in the dark, but no less striking, were the gaping gashes visible in roof after roof: the holes people had chopped as they tried to escape the rising flood waters that had chased them up into the attic and continued to rise, even there.
Eventually there were a few lights at the side of the road: a gas station, a Denny’s, a liquor store, outside of which four men sat on the sidewalk drinking from bottles clad in brown paper bags. And then, what looked like a warehouse or a giant shed, a single-storey building of grey corrugated steel decorated by a vertical sign: The Midnight Lounge. The illuminated black-and-white graphic of a curvy, thick-lipped stripper might have conveyed glamour once. Now it just looked forlorn and tatty.
Maggie paid the driver, nodded to a bouncer the size of a fridge on the door, as if she came to places like this all the time, and walked in.
Save for a few feeble table candles, the place was cast in a deep gloom, one that matched the rancid smell in the air. She had to walk past a cloakroom and a bar in order for the dimensions of the room to reveal themselves. Now she saw what it was: a stage area, dully lit in low purple, facing a clutch of small tables, all of which lay under a blanket of darkness. A strip joint, designed to spare the blushes of the audience and – judging by the performer bending into an improbable angle at that moment – to spare nothing of those on stage.
‘You here alone?’
She looked up to see a waitress wearing a strip of material that few would recognize as a skirt and the skimpiest of bras, inside which were two unmoving globes of not-quite-flesh. She could see Maggie staring.
‘You here on business, darling? How about we get you nice and relaxed with a private dance, just us two girls, now what d’ya say?’
Maggie had her response ready. ‘I need to talk to your manager right away. A personal matter.’ Nervous, but doing her best to be friendly.
The expression on the human blow-up doll dropped instantly; now she looked as bored and surly as a checkout girl at an all-night supermarket. She inclined her head towards a table near the bar and slunk off, heading for richer pickings in the corner, where a bearded man, the sweat visible on his pate, was staring at the stage open-mouthed, as if he’d been hypnotized into a deep trance.
It was impossible to see who was at the manager’s table until she was just a few feet away. A woman, short blondish hair, Maggie’s age, dressed – to Maggie’s relief – in actual clothes. Black cigarette pants, a spangly top.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Can we speak in private?’
‘This is private.’ The voice, like the words, was firm but not quite harsh.
Maggie stayed in character for the part she had sketched for herself during the cab-ride over. She leaned in closer, then lowered her voice. ‘I need to speak about something personal. Very personal.’
‘It’s going to have to be right here.’
‘OK. Can I sit down?’
The woman gestured her into the seat opposite. A black leatherette portfolio wallet filled the space between them on the small circular table. On top were papers that looked like inventories, invoices and the like – as if the Midnight Lounge was a regular American small business. Which, Maggie supposed, it was.
‘I know you have your rules about privacy and all,’ Maggie began, her voice wavering just as she intended it to. ‘But I need something from you. I need to know if my husband was here last night.’
‘I’m sorry, we have a strict pol-’
‘I knew you would say that, but this is different.’ Maggie hoped her eyes were full of imploring desperation and, to her surprise, she saw something that was, if not quite warm, then at least not cold, in the eyes scrutinizing her.
‘I know you have a business to run, but this is about my life.’
‘I’d love to help, but we couldn’t function if our guests didn’t feel their confidentiality would be resp-’
‘You see,’ Maggie whispered, playing her trump card, ‘I’m pregnant.’
The face of the woman opposite softened, only for a fleeting second, but visibly.
‘And I need to know what kind of man I am married to.’ She looked down, examining her own hand. ‘I took the ring off my finger this morning. You see, I need to know if this man is capable of being a father to my child. Or if I need to protect myself.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t want to insult what you do here.’
‘Why don’t you go right ahead?’
The tone was sardonic but the woman’s face told Maggie she should press on.
‘He said he had stopped all this: coming to strip clubs, seeing hookers. He promised me months ago. I told him I needed that if we were to be a family.’
‘But you think he’s been coming round here?’
Maggie nodded mutely, trying to look as distressed as possible, though it required an effort on her part. She had learned long ago that some men simply couldn’t stay away from places like these. That was just how they were.
‘I tell you, honey, if a woman didn’t hate men before working at this joint…I’d say you were better off without him. But you didn’t come here for relationship advice.’
Maggie gave a weak smile.
‘Like I say, I’d really like to help. But we don’t exactly take names at the door.’
