Initial response can be positive, but there’s great volatility. Once you go public with something like this, it kind of gives people free rein—’
‘They can say what the hell they like about you,’ added Sanchez, clearly making the effort to substitute one four-letter word for the other he had in mind. ‘Makes it legitimate. Remember, David Letterman could only make his move because he fessed up to whatever the blackmailer had. Got in his retaliation first.’
The pollster responded, emboldened. ‘In other words, the critical variable is the nature of the, er, allegations, the charges . . .’ His voice trailed off, as he reached for the glass of water on the coffee table in front of him.
Tara MacDonald stepped in again, perhaps, thought Maggie, as an act of compassion, protecting the dweeby pollster from twisting in the silence for a second longer. ‘Seems we’re out of good options. If we say nothing, Forbes is gonna keep coming at us, letting off these bombs. If we try to fess up, then the bomb’s gonna be going off anyway. OK, it’s gonna be us pressing the detonator and that helps. But we still don’t know what damage it’s gonna do.
‘Which leaves making contact with this prick and trying to cut some kind of deal. Which I don’t even want to think about. I mean, even if we managed to pull it off, which I have to tell you I seriously doubt, do we really think it would stay quiet? Of course, it wouldn’t. Because nothing in this town ever does.’
Now Sanchez added his voice. ‘I have to say, this is bad enough.’ When he saw a quizzical eyebrow from Goldstein, he gestured around the room. ‘This. This meeting. Just imagine this on Glenn Beck: White House operatives sat around in the Residence discussing possible negotiations with a—’
‘All right, all right,’ Stuart interrupted. ‘We get the idea. A series of dead ends. But right now there are also rather too many known unknowns. We don’t know what Forbes knows and we need to. Somehow, between now and tomorrow, we need to be inside Vic Forbes’s head. Whatever he has—’
But he didn’t get to finish his sentence. Stephen Baker, the cool, steady, unflappable Stephen Baker, the man who had barely put a foot wrong in a two-year, outsider’s presidential campaign, the man who had debated much more experienced rivals without ever slipping up, the man who had never broken a sweat even when his poll numbers were in the tank and his bank accounts dry – Stephen Baker finally snapped.
He slammed his fist onto the table and raised his voice, something his team had never seen or heard before. ‘Vic Forbes! VIC FORBES! I don’t want to hear that man’s name again? Do you understand me?’ He shook his head then, his voice much quieter, he murmured, almost to himself: ‘I want him gone.’
Washington, DC, Wednesday March 22, 06.35
She was with Liz, in the shady area at the back of their garden. They were holding hands, Liz tugging her, a five-year-old girl impatient to show her big sister what she had found. They were wading through grass that had grown taller than they were, brushing their bare arms. Any second now, they would find it. It would be here, at the bottom of the garden.
A loud siren yanked her from sleep and bolted her upright. Her heart was thumping. The siren sounded again, though now Maggie realized it was the ringer on her cellphone, left on her bedside table. She squinted at her watch: 6.35am.
‘Hello.’
‘Maggie. It’s Stuart. Did I wake you?’
‘No. Not at all.’ It was a reflexive lie. No one in Washington ever admitted to being asleep, not even at 6.35am. In DC setting the alarm for 7am counted as a lie-in.
‘Sorry about that. Anyway, put the TV on.’
‘Is this like some kind of daily service? Because I don’t remember signing up.’
‘Now.’ There was something different in Goldstein’s voice. Not so much panic as a kind of manic energy.
Maggie’s eyes were still closed, as if she were half-expecting to glimpse whatever it was Liz had promised to show her. She fumbled for the remote, knocking over both a glass of water and her watch in the process.
‘Jesus.’
‘My first reaction too.’
‘Hold on, I haven’t got it on yet.’ She leaned over the bed, to grope on the floor there. Her hand was met with a discarded T-shirt and a pair of sneakers, as well as an eye-mask she’d once picked up on a business class flight.
At last, the remote. She aimed it at the small box in the corner and waited for it to glow into life. It was tuned to MSNBC: unable to sleep, she’d been watching a re-run of Olbermann in the middle of the night.
Still squinting, she gasped at what she saw. ‘Fucking hell.’
‘My sentiments exactly.’
She couldn’t say anything else, even though she knew Stuart was waiting for an instant reaction. But she simply couldn’t speak. All she could do was stare at the words streaming across the bottom of the screen.
Breaking News: Vic Forbes found dead in New Orleans.
The Corner, National Review Online, posted March 22, 07.39:
It’s too early to speculate, details are sketchy, yadda, yadda, yadda. (The fullest account so far seems to come from AP.) Suffice it to say, we know what Democrats would be howling right now if there were a Republican in the White House. Don’t we? Well, conservatives should not sink to their level. Instead, we should do no more than point out that some deaths are more convenient than others. And for Stephen Baker the death of Vic Forbes is very convenient indeed.
From the comments thread, Talking Points Memo, March 22, 08.01:
We shouldn’t speak ill of the dead and I don’t want to speak ill of Vic Forbes. Like everyone else in Washington, apparently, I never knew the guy, never even heard of him until this week. But I would be lying if I said that a deep wave of relief did not come over me when I heard the news just now. I’m not proud of that, but there we are. I want to be honest. Bottom Line: Forbes was trying to destroy the elected president of this country and that was a threat not only to Baker and the Democrats – though it most certainly was that – but to the United States constitution. With his death, that clear and present danger to the republic has passed . . .
Washington, DC, Wednesday March 22, 06.37
Maggie kept staring at the screen, which showed a residential street in New Orleans, a row of timber-clad houses in light blues and greens, with the one clearest in vision now behind yellow-and-black tape. Even from here, the words were in focus: Police Line Do Not Cross.
She clicked channels: same street, different angle. With a reporter doing a stand-up. She could hear Stuart breathing heavily into the phone, waiting for her to speak. She turned up the volume on the TV.
‘.
