by Sam Bourne
So he registered not shock, but rather the weight of the mission that had just been placed on his shoulders. And then, in a gesture that might have surprised them both, Julian Garcia got to his feet and, there, in his civilian clothes, he pulled his right hand towards his brow and delivered a crisp salute in the direction of the Secretary of Defense. Staring straight ahead, he said simply, ‘Yes, sir.’
16
Landmannalaugar, Iceland, 7.40am, three weeks earlier
The long days suited him. Sunrise at four am, sunset at eleven pm: he loved this time of year, the sense of endless day. Each year it was the same story. Birkir Arnason would stagger through the interminable, nocturnal winter and would decide by early January, when the sun would show its face for only four or five hours, that that was it, no more. It was time to leave this strange little island and head to, what the hell, California: he’d had plenty of offers.
But then spring would come and with it the evenings of light and the mornings where it felt like no hardship to spring out of bed at five am because the sun was there to greet you. And his country ready to be unwrapped, after months hidden under layers of snow, and to be revealed as clean and perfect.
The best thing, he always said, about having founded a start-up was not the money, but the autonomy that the money made possible. Not yet thirty, he was the boss of a company with two hundred employees working at headquarters in Reykjavik and several hundred more around the world and with a share price that meant he was sitting on tens, maybe hundreds, of millions of dollars, should he ever choose to sell. But what was best was this: the fact that on a weekday morning in May, he could decide that he didn’t want to go to the office today, that he wanted instead to jump into his super-Jeep with its absurdly wide tyres and ludicrously high chassis, and drive to the highlands, through waist-deep pools and along roads strewn with rocks the size of fists. All it took was one email. No one asked where they could reach him. (Most of them could take a guess.) No one asked when he would be back. No one judged him. He was the boss and he was free.
So now, as he walked, he closed his eyes and breathed in the pristine air. He barely needed to look around. He knew that on his right were hillsides that had turned a very particular shade of green, the colour of oxidized copper. He knew that he only had to swivel left to look over the field of rocks that resembled a deranged sculpture garden, each formation a troll cast in dark grey lava. He’d been here so often he could single out his favourite characters – the lawyer, leaning forward to make his point; the nun; the mother with her child – all frozen forever.
Now he headed up a sharp slope, the gradient just steep enough to be rewarding. He let his mind wander onto work. Had he been right to stand so firm? The deal on the table would have made him crazy rich. He would never have to work another day in his life. He could walk here every day, and spend the winters in Malibu or Sydney or wherever the hell he wanted. For a suite of games and apps, it was ridiculous money. His partners were surely right: they were young, they would think of other ideas. This was not their last shot.
But that was not his prime concern. His worry was not what his business meant to him, but what it meant to the buyer. It was not the same thing. For him, this was a company that had begun as an enthusiasm, a game he and his friends wanted to play: they’d invented it because they liked it. And now it had spread across the world, delighting kids in every language. What’s more, and he didn’t want to be pompous about it, but it was teaching them a thing or two, too. Each time they got a wrong answer they’d see the right one. It was only an app, but it stood for facts. Even for truth. It meant something.
He was not convinced the bidders quite saw it that way. For them, it was a toehold in a market they’d not yet conquered. It was a way to develop brand loyalty among kids, winning their devotion early, turning them into lifelong customers. (The research showed remarkable longevity for consumer habits developed in childhood.) For that reason, whatever the bidders’ promises, he knew that the app’s current name, the name he and his partners had chosen (it had come to them over a plate of chips on Vitastigur Street when they were first-year students), would be ditched, eventually. It would be replaced by that single word. It had to be. Why else were they prepared to pay out several billion dollars for a few games?
His buddies were desperate for him to say yes. As he reached the brow of the hill, looking at the snow that still capped the mountains across the valley, he succumbed again to guilt: with his controlling stake in the business and his decisive vote, he was the one standing between them and a life-changing fortune. They wanted to get on with their lives. He was denying them a future. And yet he knew they respected his judgement. When he told them to trust him, that they could make more magic together, they believed him. But now, under this vast blue sky, that only made him feel guiltier.
He looked downward, at the hikers’ hut that marked the start and end of the trail. Almost no one here this early in the morning. Just that fellow solo walker, dressed all in black, who he’d spotted two hundred yards or so behind: a kindred spirit perhaps. He walked on.
As he threaded his way down the path, he marvelled for the thousandth time at the gashes in the ground from which steam rose, sometimes in thin, curling wisps, sometimes in full, locomotive clouds. The sense that the ground beneath his feet was a mere lid on this bubbling, roiling cauldron below had thrilled him as a child and it did still. Who knew what seismic brew was cooking down there? This whole lava field had formed so recently, they could put a date on it. He had learned it at school: 1477. Imagine that, the earth taking shape before your eyes. Beneath your feet.
He wheeled around. He’d heard a crunching sound and he expected to see someone coming up behind him, a walker who’d made brisk progress. But there was no one there.
Which meant Birkir Arnason was wholly unprepared for the blow that came. He suddenly felt himself shoved around his midriff, in the manner of a rugby tackle. Two strong arms had encircled his waist, while a shoulder was on his hip, pushing him backward. Still on his feet, he was now bulldozed fifteen yards off the path.
Until this moment, sheer surprise had prevented him fighting back. Only now did he let his fists fly, randomly lashing out at the black-clad figure whose grip on him did not loosen. He could not see his face. He still maintained the rugby tackle posture, so that his head was down. All Birkir could do was thump the man on the back. But it did no good.
He could feel that he was now on softer, boggier ground. The air was becoming harder to breathe. It was harder to see too: he was enveloped in mist. He could sense the terrain was turning wet – and hot.
And now a thought hit him with full force, as hard as the attack a few seconds ago. He understood.
The realization made him push back, the adrenalin converting itself into new strength. With great exertion, he got his hands around the neck of his assailant and began to squeeze.
But it did not last long. The man simply released his grip on Birkir’s waist, transferring his energy to his arms, which he used to force Birkir’s hands off his throat. But that gave the prey a chance to escape the predator. Birkir began to run. He stumbled at first, but soon he was back on the trail.
Now he could get some momentum. He felt himself pick up speed. He was heading downhill. If only he could reach the hut, someone—
But then he felt himself fall forward, his face thudding into the ground. Only once he was down did he realize that the man had caught him by the ankle.
Birkir somehow wriggled away and got to his feet. But no more than a second or two later, the man in black, himself breathless, piled into him from behind, gripping him as he steamrollered him along the path, then off it. Once again, Birkir could sense the mist and the heat.
Then, with one shove into his back, he was down on the ground. His attacker pulled him for a yard or two by his ankles, heedless of the stones and plants that were cutting and tearing into Birkir’s flesh. Horizontal like this, he was powerless. His head was pounding fr
om the fall. The man was too strong for him. He knew what was coming.
Now he could smell it, the sulphurous reek of a hot geothermal pool. Even at this moment, his brain was functioning well enough to determine that this man had chosen his spot well, striking just where the pools were at their most dangerous, reaching temperatures far beyond boiling point.
Birkir struggled, he shook, he tried to break free, but somehow he knew it was futile. He could barely see the man who was about to do this to him: his face was clouded in hot steam.
Was that his own voice begging for mercy? He could hardly tell. He was wondering only if he was about to be pushed into the seething waters head first, which would surely have the advantage of depriving him of all consciousness, or if he was about to feel his flesh burning. His brain flooded with the fear of being scalded alive.
In the last seconds, he wondered if anyone would ever know what happened to him, if any trace of his body or clothes would remain. Or would every last piece of him be dissolved in these waters?
He tried to draw a final measure of comfort from that thought: that he was about to be devoured and ingested by a landscape he had loved.
17
The White House, Wednesday, 9.23am
Walking the corridors, Maggie was trying to pick up what Richard had described, the sense of an office in the grip of rumour and speculation. The trouble was, so many of her usual ports of call were no longer here. Her most reliable sources of office gossip had, naturally, left with the transition. There were still too many faces she hardly knew. More importantly, there was no way of knowing if they were friend or foe.
The obvious starting point would be Eleanor, but she wasn’t around. Maggie was just pulling up a legal pad, getting ready to organize her thoughts on one of its long, yellow pages when truly the last person she wanted to see – the man she was not ready to see – appeared. McNamara.
He announced his arrival with his usual trick, putting his head around the door first, knocking on it second. The appearance of courtesy, but giving her no chance to say no.
‘If it isn’t Margaret Costello, ace investigator.’
‘Hello, Mac.’
‘I’m not saying this, OK? Because if I did, I would be creating a “hostile environment”’ – the air quotes again – ‘so these are words I am not saying. Are we clear? But – off the record – Richard is one lucky motherfucker. Those pants: ow! Smokin’!’
‘Completely inappropriate.’
‘Remember: I did not say those words. Not one of them.’
‘One of these days, Mr McNamara, I am going to put my phone down on this desk, record the way you talk to female staffers and sue you for everything you’ve got.’
‘I’m ahead of you, Ms Costello.’ He emphasized the hard ‘s’ on Ms, so it made a buzzing sound: Mzzz. ‘I have the nerds working on that already. Now: to business. How’s the Mysterious Case of the Suicidal Doctor?’
Maggie could feel her flesh crawl. The idea that she was helping this man appalled her. But now, she told herself, she had her own reason to do this work. Fuck McNamara. She wanted to find out what had happened to Frankel for her own sake: a crime had been committed which she could not ignore. Doing this work would enable her to get to the truth, regardless of whether that helped McNamara or not.
‘Well, I know what you wanted from me on this.’
‘Shutdown.’
‘But I’m afraid it’s not quite as simple as we’d hoped.’
Only now did McNamara sit down, pulling up a chair and putting his feet on her desk. Given that he was wearing shorts, Maggie believed there was a clear risk she might see what she very much did not want to see. She kept her gaze locked onto his eyes.
‘What’s happened?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t think suicide makes sense.’
‘Shit.’ He bit the top of his thumbnail. ‘Why not?’
Instinct made Maggie keep back what she’d seen at the Medical Examiner’s office. ‘The way his family spoke about him.’
‘You’ve met the family?’
‘Last night.’
‘You were at the shiva?’
‘Yes.’
‘Rather you than me.’
‘What’s that? What did you say?’
‘Never mind. What d’you find out?’
She shook her head and decided to stay focused. Remember, she told herself, it’s in your interest to keep this channel open. ‘You know, everything to live for. Daughter’s wedding coming up. Devoted grandfather. Contented guy.’
McNamara was back to chewing his nail. ‘No history of mental illness? Depression?’
‘Not that anyone talked about. The opposite. Solid, stable man.’
‘Or maybe they’re covering up for him? Ashamed that the old man was cuckoo?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘So let’s say you’re right.’ McNamara crossed his legs at the ankles, prompting Maggie to look at the floor. He was so close she could see the individual hairs on his calves. She could smell him, a thin layer of expensive cologne covering the sweat and what she imagined was the rotting stink beneath. ‘Who on earth would want the White House doctor dead? Who would even care about that guy?’
‘Well, you for one. If you thought he knew something about the President that would be embarrassing. Or damaging.’
‘Now, now. Don’t tell me you’re reading all that shit online?’
‘I’ve looked at some of it. Haven’t you?’
‘Never drink your own piss, Maggie. Oldest lesson in the book.’
Now she hesitated, wondering how much she should reveal of Kassian and Bruton’s late-night visit to Dr Frankel. Her instinctive answer would be: nothing. Her level of trust in McNamara was zero.
But, realistically, what were the chances McNamara didn’t already know what she knew? Also zero. She would be giving nothing away. But by seeing his reaction, she might gain something. She might also get some cash in the bank with McNamara, persuade him that she was, if not an ally, then at least useful to him. The more information she gave him, the more he might give her. That was how this town worked: information was the reserve currency.
And yet she held back. Just for now, she told herself. She could change her mind soon. But for the moment, this would remain her own private knowledge. What she had was valuable. It was worth holding onto.
Eleanor did not need warming up, chiefly because they had been friends from the first day Maggie arrived in this place. Back then, they were both new and, they eventually confessed to each other, both felt like imposters. Maggie was Irish, a former aid worker who’d cut her teeth as a peace negotiator, always more comfortable in the field than navigating the swamps of Washington. Eleanor was African-American, twenty years older than Maggie and had been middle-aged even then, a woman whose children had already grown. Her résumé consisted of decades working as secretary to the then-new president in his home state. For her, Washington was as distant as Versailles and half as appealing. She and Maggie had clicked instantly.
‘Coffee?’ Maggie said. Eleanor needed no further persuasion. They headed out of the office together, crossing through Lafayette Square and heading for the Au Bon Pain on 17th and H: a regular route of theirs.
The first few hundred yards were taken up by Eleanor detailing all the serial office atrocities Crawford McNamara had performed. Other things being equal, she would of course have left the White House after the election. She felt as out of place in the new set-up as Maggie did. But, as she put it, she was at an age ‘when you don’t just walk into another job’. The former president had offered her a role, running his post-White House life. But after eight years in Washington her kids had put down roots and found jobs of their own. She couldn’t just ‘up and leave’.
Now she was having to shout over the protesters, whose ‘Not My President’ demo had become a permanent fixture, almost a vigil, outside the White House.
‘The thing is, something like this doesn’t happen every day,
Maggie. It’s happening every hour.’
‘It’s impossible to keep up.’
‘Like, before there might be an “incident”, or what have you, every six months. And they’d often be quite subtle, you know what I mean?’
‘Like Shapiro and the coffee?’
‘Exactly! Irritating or whatever. Maybe a little old-fashioned. But not like—’
‘Outright naked misogyny.’
‘No! This is something else.’
‘Completely different category. And you know what, this whole administration is like that. They’re doing ten things a day that, in normal times, even just one would be a proper scandal.’
Eleanor shook her head and said, ‘I still like the way you say “proper”, Maggie.’
As they ordered their coffee, Maggie asked Eleanor what gossip she’d picked up – meaning from the West Wing secretaries and PAs, who always knew everything.
Predictably, next to no one believed that Frankel had killed himself. Didn’t fit the man; made no sense. Which was useful to hear, though Maggie was careful to say nothing of her own findings.
And then Maggie asked what proved to be a crucial question.
‘Have you heard about anything out of the ordinary over the last few days – I mean, apart from everything, obviously—’ They both smiled in mutual acknowledgement of how their once supremely efficient, scandal-free workplace had become a madhouse. ‘Anything which might, I don’t know, have been stressful for Dr Frankel?’
‘Well, you heard about Sunday night, right?’
‘Some big domestic with the missus?’
‘What?’
‘Didn’t he have a bust-up with the First Lady?’
‘Oh, maybe that’s what it was.’
‘No, go on,’ said Maggie. ‘What were you going to say?’
‘Well, maybe it’s wrong. You know what people are like, they often talk such horseshit.’