The Chosen One

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.’

There 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.