The Chosen One - Sam Bourne

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Iranian Connection’ did the job perfectly. Exotic and dramatic, like a movie, but with the added threat of somewhere dark and scary. Sure the details were obscure, the experts unintelligible bald guys captioned on TV as ‘forensic accountants’, but that only made it better. The liberal editorial boards could sweat through their tieless shirts explaining that there was ‘no case to answer’, but that wouldn’t wash with the folks. Oh no. They would see a blizzard of numbers and laws and rules – and they would conclude that, whatever the fine print might say, Mr Perfect President was no longer as pure as the driven snow.

      Which is why he had got on the phone to his Democratic colleague within minutes of the story breaking. Calling for an independent counsel was the no-risk move. If the investigation found nothing, then Franklin could claim to have performed a public service, getting to the bottom of baseless rumours. If it found something, then bingo! And, in between, day after day of stories full of mind-numbing detail on campaign finance law and on the horror show that was the Iranian regime. The mere fact that these subjects were raised in the same breath as Stephen Baker would generate a quite perfect stench of scandal. Voters would be forced to conclude, as they had so many times before, ‘Ain’t no smoke without fire.’

      He knew Vincenzi would be a reliable ally. Sure, he was a Dino – Democrat in Name Only – and sure, everyone knew he couldn’t stand Baker, but Vincenzi’s presence at his side would give Franklin the lofty, bipartisan patina the media could never resist. ‘This is above party politics,’ they had both said in their statements. The press always lapped up that shit.

      As for the phrase ‘special prosecutor’, that particular bolt of inspiration had only come to him as he headed over to the hastily arranged press availability. The nerds would say it was inaccurate, but they’d be too late. The poison arrow would already be in flight.

      So Senator Franklin felt able to hum ‘Happy Days are Here Again’ as he straightened the blotter on his desk and moved the paperweight – the one that, if you looked closely, revealed a Confederate flag preserved as if in amber inside the thick glass. Things were going according to plan.

      He carried on humming even as there was a gentle rap on the door. Cindy, his Head of Legislative Affairs, coming in with a smile he hadn’t seen since the night he was elected more than four years ago. It always gave him pleasure watching her move, her rear end tightly contained in a skirt that was never any lower than the knee. But now there was a spring in her step that gave him an extra pulse of enjoyment.

      ‘I can see you come bearing glad tidings, sweetheart.’

      ‘I do, sir, I do.’

      They played these games, the Southern gentleman and the demure young lady, with dialogue sub-Gone With the Wind – but only when the political or personal weather was clement.

      ‘Pray tell.’

      ‘I do declare, Senator,’ she said with a girlish flutter that, even though he’d seen it a hundred times, still sent electricity to his groin, ‘that the source of MSNBC’s recent tales of woe has been – what’s the word – outed’.

      ‘Outed? Already? What the hell’s happened?’ The game was over. Too important for games.

      ‘Daily Kos. They’ve named him. Seems some liberal hacker broke into the MSNBC system and found the emails between their Washington bureau and the leaker. Then went ahead and named him on his own website. Kos picked it up.’

      ‘You sure the White House weren’t behind this?’

      ‘Can’t be sure. But Kos are adamant that it was some ultra-liberal crazy outraged his beloved Baker was being slammed. Seems to add up.’

      ‘And what have they found about him?’

      ‘The hacker?’

      ‘No! Fuck him. The leaker.’

      ‘All they have so far is that he’s late forties, white and from New Orleans.’

       Washington, DC, Tuesday March 21, 10.55

      ‘Get in. I’ll brief you in the car.’

      Maggie did as she was told, impressed by the authority of this woman, who could only have been in her late twenties. Maggie had seen her in the White House Residence, dressed like an au pair, young and unshowy. Her name was Zoe Galfano and she was the lead Secret Service agent assigned to the Baker children, with particular responsibility for Katie.

      ‘It’s a classic threat message,’ Zoe said, as Maggie strapped on her seatbelt. ‘Not especially unusual in the White House. Except this was different.’

      ‘Because it was addressed to Katie?’

      ‘That, and the fact that it’s not easy to get a direct message to her. Hijacking a Facebook identity took ingenuity.’

      ‘Was it hard to trace him?’

      Zoe turned to look at Maggie with a smile. ‘We don’t know it’s a him.’

      ‘Right.’

      ‘No preconceptions. That’s part of the training.’

      ‘And all this internet stuff, you learn that too?’

      ‘I did. Figured I was never going to have the edge in the muscles department.’ She flexed a bicep. ‘So I decided to focus on those areas where I could compete with the men on a level playing field.’

      ‘I hear that,’ Maggie muttered, looking out of the window.

      ‘Graduated top of my class in psychology and computer studies.’

      They were driving out of the District and into Maryland, two other agents following two cars behind. It was strictly against protocol for White House staff to meddle in Secret Service business, but Goldstein had spotted a loophole: ‘As of today, you’re not White House staff any more. You’re a family friend. Katie Baker wants you there, so you’re there.’

      Just before she had got into Agent Galfano’s car, the identity of the alleged leaker of the MSNBC stories had begun to surface on a blog, though there had been no official confirmation from the network. And still no name. A white male from New Orleans was all they knew. Maggie’s first job was to see if the creep who had terrorized Katie and the guy who’d been feeding MSNBC were one and the same.

      Zoe parked up. They were on a residential street in Bethesda, quiet on this midweek morning. The agent checked the address once more and looked back up at the house. Number 1157. Out loud, she confirmed that this was the right street, right block. Four houses away, a woman in her sixties was bending down, ostrich-style, apparently to examine the bottom of a rosebush. Zoe turned to Maggie. ‘We’re going to have to do this quietly.’ She spoke into the radio on her cuff. ‘Are you good to go, guys?’

      Maggie heard nothing in reply.

      ‘Wait for my word, Ray. I’ll go first, walking pace, you two hang back a few yards. Remember, weapons are not to be visible. Repeat, not visible.’

      She turned to Maggie. ‘Now, Ms Costello. The suspect is likely to be armed and dangerous. Do you understand?’

      Maggie nodded.

      ‘I consider it a great risk that you’re here. But Mr Goldstein insisted that you accompany me at all times, so here you are. That means you do whatever I tell you to do. Duck, run, hit the floor. Instantly. Are we clear?’

      ‘We’re clear.’

      She watched Zoe check out the house once more. Curtains open on the top floor, blinds, halfway between open and closed, on the ground. Garden neatly kept. No car in the driveway. Light on upstairs. She saw the agent feel for her gun, holstered just below her armpit.

      Zoe raised her cuff once more. ‘Go.’

      Not waiting for an answer,

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