The Chosen One. Sam Bourne

all, Goldstein had not denied the accusation. If this does not turn out to be bullshit was the best he could offer. Did that mean Baker had taken money from the Iranians? If he had, that made him an idiot – and worse.

      By now, she was out of the shower and standing in a towel, staring at her wardrobe, wondering what you were meant to wear for a full-blown political crisis. A special prosecutor, Jesus.

      The cellphone rang again, displaying ‘restricted’. Maggie grabbed it. ‘Stu, you didn’t need to call back.’

      ‘Excuse me?’ A woman’s voice. ‘Is this Maggie Costello?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Can you hold for Magnus Longley?’

      Maggie felt her guts clench.

      ‘Miss Costello?’ The voice was dry enough to sand a table. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you so early but I thought it best to let you know of my decision immediately. I’m afraid Dr Adams is . . . adamant.’ Longley sounded pleased with his pun. ‘He insists that you be removed from your post. And I see no alternative but to bow to his wishes.’

      Maggie felt as if someone had plunged a needle into her neck, mainlining fury directly into her bloodstream.

      ‘Does the President know about this?’

      ‘Perhaps you haven’t seen the news, but the President has rather a lot on his plate at the moment.’

      ‘I know that, but just yesterday he asked me—’

      ‘You should come in early this morning and clear your desk. Your White House computer log-in will expire at twelve noon. And you will need to surrender your pass.’

      ‘Don’t I get at least to—’

      ‘I fear my 6.45 meeting is due to start. Goodbye, Miss Costello. And thank you for your service.’

      She stood there a full five seconds, the rage inchoate and rising. How could they do this to her? After all she had sacrificed? And just when she had so much to give? Not twenty-four hours ago, she had been asked by the President of the United States himself to draw up a plan to save lives – perhaps thousands or tens of thousands of lives – in Darfur. Besides, she was needed on this latest Iran problem. Stuart had said so.

      And now that was all going to come to nothing because of, what? Calling a bloody pompous old git an asshole – when that was exactly what he was.

      She turned around, raised her arm and was about to hurl the phone at the bedroom wall – bracing herself for the satisfaction of seeing it shatter – when it began to ring. That stopped her. Her arm raised aloft, she suddenly felt ridiculous. She looked at the display: Restricted.

      She hit the green button. A woman’s voice again, different this time. ‘Please hold for the President.’

      A second later, it was him. A voice known to millions, though in a tone heard only rarely and by those closest to him: ‘Maggie, I need to see you. Right away.’

SEVEN

       Washington, DC, Tuesday March 21, 07.33

      Baker had insisted they meet in the Residence: him, her and Stuart. Maggie called Goldstein immediately and explained that she’d just been fired. ‘I’ve got to surrender my pass by twelve noon, for Christ’s sake!’

      ‘OK,’ he said. ‘That means we’ve got a few hours.’

      ‘Is that meant to be funny?’

      ‘No. And Maggie? Come to my office first. I need to give you a heads-up before we go in.’

      She was there twenty minutes later. Stuart was tearing his way through a memo, his eyes red and agitated. He looked awful.

      She spoke from the doorway. ‘Is that the file on the Iranian?’

      He didn’t look up but kept his eyes fixed on the document on his desk. ‘Known in this country as Jim Hodges, resident in the state of Texas.’

      ‘He’s a US citizen! So then we’re off the hook. The whole point is—’

      ‘But he’s also Hossein Najafi, citizen of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Who just happens to be a veteran of the Army of the Guardians of the Islamic Revolution, better known as the Revolutionary Guard.’

      ‘But he gave the donation as Jim Hodges. How was anyone to know that he was really—’

      ‘Because we’re meant to check these things!’ Now Goldstein was looking up, his voice raised, his eyes bugging out with rage. ‘We’re the fucking White House. He’s the fucking President of the United States. He sends people into wars. To die. He’s meant to know who he meets, for Christ’s—’

      ‘He met him?’

      ‘Yes! Some fundraiser. During the transition.’

      ‘So there’ll be a photograph.’

      Stuart’s reply came in a quieter voice. ‘Yes.’

      ‘And people will ask why we didn’t have the basic intel to know we were letting an Iranian spy get close to the President-Elect.’

      ‘Yes.’ Stuart spread his hands across the table and let his head fall onto them. ‘And why—’

      ‘—on earth the Iranians would want to give money to Stephen Baker.’

      ‘You could make the ad now.’ He picked his head up and did a mock voiceover. ‘“The Ayatollahs like Stephen Baker so much they gave him cash. In secret. Is Baker working for you – or them?”’

      ‘It’s a nightmare,’ Maggie agreed.

      ‘But that’s not why he wants to see you. Us. Not completely, anyway.’

      ‘Why, then?’

      Stuart hauled himself upright and told Maggie about the message sent to Katie Baker via Facebook. He reached for a piece of paper to read the final paragraph: And if that doesn’t smash his pretty little head into a thousand pieces, I promise you this – the one after that will. Make no mistake: I mean to destroy him.

      ‘Jesus.’

      ‘Oh yes.’ Stuart checked his watch. ‘He wants us over there right now.’

      Inside the Residence, the difference in mood from the previous morning was palpable. Kimberley Baker had taken the children to school early – the White House breakfast event she was chairing on cervical cancer awareness would just have to start without her – so that they could be out of that atmosphere. She spent the journey repeating what she had said last night, over and over: reassuring Katie that Daddy was going to be fine, that the police would find and punish whoever sent that horrible message and she would make sure there would be no more of them.

      The President was in the kitchen again, but this time he was pacing. Maggie had seen Stephen Baker receive all kinds of bad news during the campaign and, on all but a handful of occasions, he had remained calm, almost preternaturally so. He would keep his voice down, when others would raise theirs; he would be forgiving when any other candidate would be demanding instant revenge; he would stay seated when the rest would be leaping to their feet. But now he was pacing.

      ‘Thank you both for coming.’ He nodded towards two chairs but remained standing. ‘Maggie, I take it you now have the full picture?’

      ‘Yes, Mr President.’

      ‘And you know why you’re here?’

      ‘Not entirely, sir.’

      ‘The crank who wrote that message to my daughter. He warned there would be another big story “tomorrow morning”. And there was. Which means he’s no crank.’

      Goldstein