The Chosen One

30

Washington, DC, Thursday March 23, 19.41

Doug Sanchez’s instructions had been clear. The information he had to give her could not be conveyed over the phone or by email or by fax. They had to meet face to face. She was to take the next plane to DC and then head straight to Union Station and stand facing the Amtrak departures board. In happier times she might have laughed at the intrigue of it all, political operatives pretending they were secret agents. But that talk of the Kennedy assassination and the CIA had come from the President himself. It was clear Stephen Baker genuinely felt he could no longer trust anyone.

There was a sudden flurry of movement, as passengers who had previously been waiting suddenly took off in a hurry. She looked up at the departures board to see that it had at last revealed the track number for the Acela Express to New York, leaving in ten minutes. In the throng of people, she felt herself jostled. She looked to her left and there was Doug Sanchez, handsome in raincoat and scarf, looking straight up at the board.

He kept his gaze upward, prompting her to do her own bit of playacting. She pulled out her BlackBerry, smiling and saying hello as if it had just vibrated with a new call.

‘Maggie, listen. This is radioactive. It is a federal crime to leak the identity of a CIA agent.’

‘Even a dead one.’

‘In the eyes of the law, I’m not sure. In the eyes of Fox News, definitely.’

‘So I was right. Forbes is ex-CIA.’

His gaze was still fixed on the board. ‘Took a whole bunch of crap to confirm it, but yes. The trouble is, none of our people are in there yet. Fucking Senate. It’s all holdovers from the last crowd.’

‘So who helped you?’ Maggie asked, still grinning into her phone and looking in the opposite direction.

‘The number three there is a holdover from the crowd before the last crowd. One of ours.’

‘And?’

‘He did more than was required. I asked for a simple yes or no. Was Forbes an agent or wasn’t he? But then he sent me his personnel file.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Not all of it. A summary.’

‘What’s it say?’

‘That you were right. Jackson is the same age as Forbes. He retired three years ago. Served everywhere, Saudi, Pakistan. Central America in the eighties.’

‘Why’d he quit?’

‘Doesn’t say. Just says “discharged”. That could mean anything. Could be straight retirement.’

‘OK. What else?’

‘There’s a full résumé. I didn’t even read it properly. We need deniability on this. Like I say, I didn’t ask for the whole nine yards.’ He paused. ‘I’ve been wondering if this is some kind of set-up. Send it to us, see what we do with it.’

‘So there has to be no trail on this, I get it.’

‘Nothing. Remember the legendary “Josh diary”?’ White House staffers lived in fear of that story: the young aide whose personal diary had been subpoenaed in some long-forgotten presidential investigation, allowing a grand jury and teams of lawyers to pore over the exact details of when he’d broken up with his girlfriend and why. All of which leaked of course. An independent counsel – or a special prosecutor – would demand everything: telephone, fax and email records would be just the start of it. They had to ensure there was no record of Sanchez passing this information to her.

‘So how do we do this?’

‘I’m going to drop the stack of newspapers under my arm-’

‘Max!’ Maggie gave a false laugh, as if her friend on the phone had said something hilarious.

‘I’ll drop them, you’ll bend down to help me out, you’ll give me everything back-’

‘Except-’

‘Except the brown envelope. Ready?’

‘OK.’

He counted to three, then dropped the papers. A whole pile went from under his arm: the Washington Post, two blue document wallets, a pile of A4 computer print-outs. Instantly, Maggie bent down so that she was opposite Doug as he apologized profusely.

‘I’m such an idiot,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘I’ll call you right back,’ Maggie promised her imaginary friend. ‘There you go,’ she said to Doug, smiling brightly. She handed him back a wad of paper, keeping hold of the brown envelope.

‘Thanks,’ Doug said, making eye contact for the first time. She saw that he was genuinely rattled; a redness around his eyes testifying to nights deprived of sleep. Maybe he too had been pole-axed by Stu’s death. She began to like him more.

Under his breath, he said, ‘Don’t let us down, M. We need you. He needs you.’ And then he turned and walked away.