it. Maggie watched mesmerized as he batted away a series of questions as if he’d been doing this all his life.
Describing himself as a ‘researcher’, he insisted he was aligned with ‘no party and no faction’, a phrase that, to Maggie’s ears at least, reeked of pomposity.
‘I am a truth-teller, if you will,’ he said. ‘I had this information – this truth – and I felt guilty that I wasn’t sharing it with the American people. It’s an old-fashioned phrase, but I believe they have a right to know. They have a right to know who their president really is.’
‘But how did you get it?’ the interviewer asked. ‘Surely the American people have a right to know that too, don’t they?’
Maggie felt her own fist clench, involuntarily. Come on.
‘Well, Natalie,’ he began.
Good, thought Maggie. He seemed flustered.
‘The thing is . . . Look, in an ideal world . . .’
Maggie glanced at Stuart, who was as transfixed as she was, hoping that they were witnessing the unravelling of Vic Forbes on live television.
‘The point I would make, Natalie, is to ask you this: would you reveal your sources, if your network had broken a story like this without my help? Of course you wouldn’t.’ Maggie felt the air deflate out of her. ‘And nor would anyone ask you. That’s a basic principle of journalism.’
‘Yes, but you’re not a journalist, are you, you scumbag bastard!’ Stuart hurled an empty Styrofoam cup at the TV.
The same sentence ran through Maggie’s head, on a repeat loop: Who is this guy?
Stuart’s phone rang. He stabbed at it, putting it on speaker. ‘Hey, Zoe, whaddya got?’
Maggie heard the agent’s voice, stiff and correct. ‘It’s still very early in our inquiries, Mr Goldstein.’
‘I know that. And I also know that electronic data of this kind is complex and searches can take several weeks—’ his voice was rising, ‘—and that it’s impossible to be certain, I know all of that, Zoe. But I need to know. WHAT. HAVE. YOU. GOT?’
The sound of shuffled papers was finally followed by an intake of breath.
‘OK, Mr Goldstein. Our preliminary investigation—’
‘Zoe.’
‘New Orleans. We think the person who sent that message to Katie Baker’s Facebook page was white, male, extremely adept with computer technology and from New Orleans, Louisiana, sir.’
He hung up, shooting one eye at Maggie, the other on the TV.
‘So, Stu, he’s the same guy, right?’
‘Confirmed,’ Goldstein said, staring at the screen, watching Forbes perform. ‘How come this guy’s so good? All that BS about “the people’s right to know”. Where did that come from? He looks like shit; he’s sweating. But he’s impressive. He’s careful. He’s like a goddamn politician.’
Without taking his eye off the screen, he reached for the remote and hit pause. (A set-top box, allowing the pausing and rewinding of live TV, was now an essential tool of the trade: it meant never having to miss an enemy gaffe again.) He rewound and watched the last minute again.
‘What are you looking for?’ Maggie asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he murmured. ‘But I’ll know it when I see it.’
There he went again, more guff about his ‘duty’ to lay out the facts before the American people. He couldn’t play judge and jury, but people should know he was serious and the President should know he was serious.
But on this second viewing Goldstein was not listening. He was looking. And now he saw what he had glimpsed so fleetingly. Maggie could see it too. A movement of the eye, still looking at the camera but no longer as if trying to meet the gaze of the unseen interviewer: he was, instead, looking into the audience. More than that, he seemed to be addressing someone specific.
The President should know I’m serious.
Goldstein hit pause once more, freezing Vic Forbes at the moment he lifted his eyes, the signal that he was speaking to an audience of one.
The President should know I’m serious. Deadly serious.
Washington, DC, Tuesday March 21, 18.15
For the third time in two days, Maggie was in the White House Residence. ‘Maybe I should get myself sacked more often,’ she had said to Stuart. ‘It seems to be a good career move.’
This was an emergency meeting, called by the President. He wasn’t pacing this time; his exterior, at least, was calm and cool. He had chosen one of the wooden chairs, allowing him to stay upright even if everyone else would be forced to slump on a sofa.
Maggie looked around the room, five of them had been called here – Goldstein, her, Tara MacDonald, Doug Sanchez, and Larry Katzman, the pollster.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Baker said, steadily. ‘This is not a White House meeting, which is why we’re gathering in my home. You’ll notice my Chief of Staff is not here. This is a discussion among my campaign team. Old friends.’ He attempted a smile. ‘Some of you work in the White House. Some of you don’t.’
Maggie stared at her feet.
‘I need your advice,’ he went on. ‘This presidency is under sustained assault. We knew it would happen one day. But not as soon as this.’ He paused. ‘Stuart, remind us what we know.’
‘Thank you, Mr President.’ Stuart Goldstein cleared his throat and moved to the edge of the sofa he was on so that he could have a line of eye contact with everyone in the room.
He looked horribly uncomfortable. Maggie always felt for Stuart in casual situations. His body was not designed for it. He needed a suit and a hard chair, preferably on the other side of a desk. In casual clothes, or on a couch, he was lost.
‘Vic Forbes, from New Orleans, Louisiana, supplied MSNBC with two stories in the course of little more than a single news cycle. Both of these stories were calculated to cause maximum damage and both required deep investigative skills. Or inside knowledge.’
Maggie saw Tara MacDonald shift in her seat.
‘At the same time, he has made an indirect, but personal contact with the White House.’
Now both MacDonald and Sanchez sat to attention.
‘Last night someone posing as a friend of Katie Baker’s sent her a message via Facebook.’
There was a gasp.
Stuart went on. ‘This message effectively claimed responsibility for both the first MSNBC story and, in advance, the second. He said it
