The Chosen One

26

New Orleans, Thursday March 23, 09.12 CST

‘Good morning, Maggie. You are cordially invited to a funeral.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘A funeral!’

‘A funeral? Whose?’

‘Are you all right, Maggie? You seem a bit-’

‘Sorry. Didn’t get much sleep last night.’

Telegraph Tim looked wounded, shooting an involuntary glance across the breakfast room of the Monteleone Hotel at Francesco of Corriere della Serra: had the older man – Italian and experienced – succeeded with the lovely Miss Costello where he had failed?

Maggie read his face and sought to relieve his pain. ‘You know, that headache. Couldn’t sleep.’ The truth was, she had collapsed into bed shortly after two and, shattered by a day that had begun in Washington nearly twenty hours earlier, had slept deeply. ‘So what’s this funeral then?’

As she contemplated the scrambled eggs and cooked tomatoes of the breakfast buffet, Tim excitedly explained the morning’s developments.

Forbes appeared to have left no wife or children or family of any kind that could be tracked down. In most cities, that would be a bleak and lonely state of affairs. But not New Orleans. This city still had the Paupers’ Burial Society, a relic of the antebellum days of plantation owners doing good works. The white-suited tobacco growers may have been slave owners, but there was a little corner of their hearts where resided some good. Tim appeared to be quoting from the story he had already written for the newspaper.

‘They left a pot of money to be spent burying the poor. The fund is still there, still paying out.’

‘But Vic Forbes wasn’t a pauper.’ She had to stop herself saying she had seen his apartment.

‘That’s the beauty of it. It’s not just for the poor. It’s for anyone who dies alone within the city limits of New Orleans. If police can find no next of kin, the Paupers’ Burial Society step in.’

Maggie smiled. ‘Must be a pretty liberal bunch, given the way Forbes wound up.’

‘Apparently they don’t care. Anyway, it wasn’t their decision.’

‘No?’ Maggie said, choosing between grapefruit juice and orange.

‘No,’ said Tim, hovering behind her. He explained that while most cities would have wanted the Forbes episode to fade away as quickly as possible, the mayor and tourist board of New Orleans had, after Katrina, a what-the-hell attitude: they had nothing to lose. They reckoned there was a marketing opportunity to be had. With so many journalists in town, why not lay on a show? Prove to the outside world that the city hadn’t drowned, that it was still a place with party in its soul.

An hour later, Tim was bouncing from one foot to the other in his delight. He couldn’t believe his luck. This was what any editor in London wanted from a story out of New Orleans. ‘Liz,’ he said to Maggie, ‘truly, we have been blessed on this one. Sex, death, men in tights – and now this!’

Standing on the kerb, he swept his hand at the procession now getting underway on the street. Leading the way was a trio – clarinet, banjo and tuba – playing what began as a slow, mournful spiritual: ‘Nearer My God to Thee’. Behind them was a larger group, dressed the same way: black trousers and red shirts, bearing trombones, trumpets and saxophones, one man with a snare drum on a strap around his neck. These musicians were not yet playing, but moving in a stately fashion. The walk was slow, not quite a regular march, more a sort of graceful shuffling in time to the music coming from the front. Finally, behind them, came the hearse.

When they got close to the media huddle, a woman with a clipboard – a PR for the tourist board, Maggie guessed – had a quiet word and the march drew to a halt, though the music kept playing.

Now more men, all but one of them black, gathered around the hearse. After a minute of pulling and shoving, they emerged holding the silver casket. There were at least a dozen of them, clutching the rails on both sides of the coffin that served as handles. Why so many, Maggie wondered, used to no more than six pallbearers at any funeral she had been to. A moment later she understood.

The refrain kept playing, but the volume was rising. Instead of the clarinet carrying the tune alone, now there was loud brass support, another trumpet or sax joining every few bars. And, as if lifted by the music, those around the coffin made a sudden, swift move that produced a few gasps among the press pack, all but one of whom were white.

The pallbearers raised the coffin aloft, so that it was high above their heads. But they didn’t hold it still; instead they made it sway. Then they brought it down again, to waist level where, once again, they began shifting it from side to side, as if they were rocking a cradle. Whispering the explanation that had been passed along from the PR girl, a TV reporter standing behind explained to the woman next to him that this was another tradition of the jazz funeral: let the deceased dance one last time.

The procession headed down Bourbon Street, towards the cemetery. The TV guys hastily decoupled their cameras from their tripods and hoisted them onto their shoulders, while the reporters scrambled to catch up. Maggie, back in character as Liz Costello of the Irish Times, did the same, joining the growing crowd behind the coffin.

These people too were half-strolling, half-dancing to the music, some twirling parasols in the air, others holding a handkerchief aloft. An improbably wide white woman with little sense of rhythm beamed at Maggie. ‘This is the second line!’

‘What’s that?’ Maggie said, straining to be heard above the music, which was now thumpingly loud.

‘The second line!’ the woman said, her smile unbroken. ‘It was in my guide book. You dance along with the funeral. It’s a New Orleans tradition!’ And with that, she held up a white tissue and did a twirl.

By the time they reached the burial ground, Maggie had drifted from the journalists. She put her notebook away and watched as the long snake of people now turned into a thick crowd at the gates of the cemetery. The music began to wind down as a priest called for hush.

He said a few words of welcome, dwelling on New Orleans and its customs. As if remembering himself, he then added a quick mention of Vic Forbes before suggesting that they all head to the graveside.

The crowd was thinner now, dominated by the men in red and black – those, Maggie suspected, who were being paid to be there. She hung back, not wanting to claim a proximity she didn’t have, close enough to hear, far enough away not to be visible.

The priest offered a series of platitudes, further evidence that he, like everyone else there, had never so much as met Vic Forbes. The words seemed to waft into the air and die on the breeze.

Maggie looked around, only belatedly realizing that someone was standing next to her. A man with white, thinning hair, sixty or so, in a grey suit – camouflaged to blend in perfectly into a cemetery. Against the grey of the tombstones, he was almost invisible. Like her, he had no notebook. And, like her, he wasn’t dressed like a tourist: he was in a dark, formal suit. Could this man be the one true mourner for Vic Forbes?

She gave him a solemn look, eyebrows raised, the look people give each other at funerals. ‘Hello,’ she whispered. Then, trying her luck, ‘Did you know him well?’

His gaze remained firmly ahead, watching the priest, but he spoke immediately, not answering the question, but asking one of his own. ‘What line of work you in?’

An instinct told her not to claim to be a journalist, not now. ‘I’m in the foreign service.’

Now he looked at her.

‘Did you know him from the Company?’

Intuition took care of her answer. ‘That’s right.’

‘You here as the official representative?’

This was one trick Maggie had learned in a thousand negotiations. However fast your mind was whirring, however hard you were scrambling to assimilate new information, you had to give no outward sign of it. Best to react as if there was nothing to react to. So she looked impassive as she processed what she had just heard. The Company…the official representative. Maggie looked at her own clothes, looked at his, and a realization began to dawn. ‘I’m here to pay the Company’s respects, yes.’

The man exhaled, as if he had just peeled off the first of several protective layers.

‘Figured you must be. Bob didn’t have many friends, if you know what I mean.’ Friends was offered with an emphasis that suggested the word referred to women. ‘That’s good. Didn’t know if you still did that, but that’s good.’

Maggie nodded stiffly, trying to play the role this man had assigned to her. Official representative. Her mind, though, raced with a single word. Bob.

‘Long time ago now, of course. But he was good at his job. Even in some tight spots. Honduras, Salvador, Nicaragua.’

Maggie turned her face towards him, a three-quarter turn meant to convey warmth. The penny had now dropped fully into the slot. ‘That was important work. The nation owes you a debt. Both of you.’

‘Oh, he could be an asshole too, don’t get me wrong. Funny that he ended up in New Orleans. Probably lived up the street from me. Had no idea.’

‘You weren’t friends then?’

‘Hadn’t clapped eyes on him in nearly twenty years. Then I see him all over the tube this week, badmouthing the President.’ He waited for Maggie to nod. ‘I was thinking I should get back in touch – for old times’ sake. Next thing I know, he’s dead.’

‘Yes.’

They both paused, watching the priest throw a handful of earth on the coffin. Maggie had to fight the urge to bombard this man with questions: she had to do whatever an official representative of ‘the Company’ would do. And that, she decided, meant playing it ice-cool.

The funeral party was turning away from the grave now and Maggie sensed her chance was about to slip away. She would have to push her luck. ‘I confess we did not quite know what to make of this…latest outburst.’

‘Like I said, he could be an asshole. That was the thing with Bob Jackson. Marched to his own drum.’

Bob Jackson. Were they dealing with someone who had lived a double life? Was Vic Forbes his true identity, or a fake? Expressionless, she filed that away to be wrestled with later. She pushed again. ‘What about his death? The police here say it was suicide.’

He smiled, as if he’d been told an old, but good joke. ‘I know. But after the guy had been threatening the President like that, you gotta wonder, haven’t you?’

Maggie kept her face impassive. The band was now playing a raucous version of ‘When the Saints go Marchin’ In’. She turned as if to head back, praying that he would not take that as his cue to say goodbye. But he was a man of sixtyish alone in the middle of the day, with memories of the glory years working for ‘the Company’ who had found someone – a woman, decades younger than him – who was willing to listen. Somehow she suspected he was not about to leave.

He walked alongside her, keeping time with her funeral stroll. She said nothing, waiting for him to fill the silence. Men, especially eager men, almost always obliged.

‘Look, I would not rule it out. Jackson was not always the most popular guy around. Loner. Kind of obsessive. He might have made some enemies, even before this Baker thing.’

Maggie raised an encouraging eyebrow. Go on.

‘But here’s what makes me doubt it. Anyone who knew anything about Bob Jackson would have known that he would do what he was trained to do. What we were all trained to do.’

The trumpets and trombones were making it hard to hear. ‘I don’t follow.’

‘The blanket. No point taking out a guy like Jackson. Or any of us. Not if you’re worried about what we know. He’d have prepared his blanket.’

‘Of course,’ Maggie said, even as she thought furiously, What the hell is a blanket? They were now back by the cemetery gates, about to be swallowed up by the crowd that had waited to make the return journey. Maggie could see Telegraph Tim interviewing one of the horn players. Any moment now, he could come over, breaking her cover. She shifted on her feet, hoping to show him only her back.

There was so much she needed this man to explain. Should she ask for his name and number, so that she could arrange a meeting? She could say the Company still had some unanswered questions about ‘Vic Forbes’, and ask if he would be willing to help. But she hesitated. The man was experienced and well-trained. He would demand a business card; he would phone Langley to check her out. She was lucky to have got this far. It would be madness to push any further.

No. She would have to get what she needed now. The two of them had stopped walking, so that for the first time she was looking him directly in the eye. It struck her how similar to Forbes – or Jackson – he looked. The same banal features, the same blandness of expression: faces designed to disappear.

‘Jackson was a pro, no doubt about that,’ Maggie said finally, the official representative paying tribute. ‘He’d have prepared his blanket, just as you would. He’d have known what to do with it too.’

That was it, cast out like one of her father’s fishing lines and with about as much chance of success. Inside she was wincing at the clumsiness of it.

‘Yep, he sure would,’ the man said.

She was about to press him further when she felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Tim behind her, looking proprietorial. She made a face that she hoped said not right now. He looked disappointed, maybe even a little offended, but to her relief he moved away.

But when she turned back, the man who had been at her side for the last ten minutes had vanished, lost in the crowd.

She had to call Stuart right away. With this information they could get to work; this could be just the breakthrough they needed. Hurriedly, she thumbed the buttons on her phone, trying his direct line at the office. Straight to voice-mail. Next she tried the mobile. I’m sorry but this phone is no longer in service. I’m sorry but this phone is no longer in service. I’m sorry…

Goddamn it! Now she dialled the White House switchboard. ‘Stuart Goldstein, please,’ she said, as a group of ‘mourners’ jostled her at the cemetery gates.

The operator’s voice was hesitant. ‘May I ask who is calling?’

‘My name is Maggie Costello, I’m on the National Security – I mean, I used to be on the-’

‘Ms Costello, I’ve been told to direct your call to Mr Sanchez. Please hold.’

There was an interminable delay, filled by piped classical music. Maggie could feel her palms grow moist. Finally she heard the voice of Doug Sanchez, though with none of the pep she was used to.

‘Hi Maggie. I don’t know where you are but you may want to sit down. I have some very bad news, I’m afraid. Stuart is dead.’