by Sam Bourne
‘Right,’ said Franklin, wondering if there was any question he could ask to which Nylind would not know the immediate answer. ‘So this means-’
‘-that we need to switch to the Senate.’
‘You mean, wreck the bill there so that it voids whatever comes out of the House.’
‘Wouldn’t put it quite like that, sir. Prefer to say that a strong pro-growth Prosperity for America bill needs to come out of the body that looks to America’s long-term interests. That’s what the American people expect.’
It was part of Nylind’s genius, this. He never crafted so much as a tactic, let alone a policy, without framing the language in which it would be sold. Thanks to him, a Democratic proposal to levy the wealthiest Americans in order to fund expanded healthcare coverage became known as ‘the sick tax’ – and promptly fell to defeat. ‘Define the terms, define the battlefield.’ That’s what Nylind had said then and since, with the rest of the Republican party and the wider conservative movement – from the editorial board of the Weekly Standard to the production offices of Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck – hanging on his every word.
‘I hear you,’ Franklin said. ‘But, as I know you know, I am not the ranking Republican on the Senate banking committee. Shouldn’t you be talking to Gerritsen?’
‘How can I put this, Senator? Whatever the formal hierarchy might be, the movement regards you as the lead man on this. Our representative, if you like.’
If Nylind was aiming to flatter, he had succeeded. Franklin couldn’t dispute the premise: Ted Gerritsen was one of the last remaining liberal Republicans in the Senate if not the planet. An old Maine ‘moderate’, beloved by official Washington and the press corps, he was from the era when the Republican base was the country club, not the megachurch. He couldn’t get enough of Stephen Baker – who had carried Gerritsen’s state the previous November – and there had been a rumour that he was in line for one of Baker’s ‘spirit of bipartisanship’ cabinet posts. Maybe Commerce or Trade Rep. Either way, it was no surprise that Nylind regarded him as utterly unreliable.
‘I’d need some back-up,’ Franklin said after leaving the statutory two-second pause required in Washington in order to be deemed ‘thoughtful’, a crucial piece of reputational armour.
‘You got it.’
‘Serious back-up. My staff have never led on a bill this size before.’
‘We got it all. Economists, lawyers, number-crunchers. Heck, we’ve even got a bill drafted!’
‘Oh, yeah? Where’d that come from?’
‘Well, as you know, sir, there are a lot of people in this town who have a direct interest in ensuring that Congress gets this issue right. They see the wisdom in sharing resources.’
Translation, thought Franklin: banking industry lobbyists have drafted the bill. He remembered that man who spoke at the last Thursday Session.
‘OK. Well, let’s fix a meeting. Cindy from my office and whoever you recommend from yours.’
‘Good to know, Senator. Good to know. Next item: some of us feel we might be losing momentum on the impeachment project.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘We still don’t have our Democrats on House Judiciary.’
‘That’s not my fault!’ Franklin shot back, instantly regretting the defensiveness of his tone, as if he were a pupil summoned to the principal’s office to account for himself. In a bid to assert his authority, he took his voice down half an octave. ‘That has to be a matter for the House leadership. That surely is their responsibility.’
‘Agreed, sir. But for that to happen, they need more.’
‘More? You saw the Post story today,’ he said, referring to an investigative piece on the Iranian Connection which had appeared on the front of the Washington Post that morning, setting out – in wonderfully mind-numbing detail – the chain of funds, offshore accounts and shell companies in the Caymans through which cash might, conceivably, have been funnelled from Tehran to the Baker for President campaign.
Franklin had immediately had Cindy email it to everyone who mattered, including Nylind. It was perfect. The abundance of numbers, dates and tedious minutiae made the charges look credible and serious, even if no one could be bothered to read the small print.
‘Sure, but I’m not talking about that,’ said Nylind. ‘I meant more on Forbes.’
‘But we don’t have any hard evidence on that, Matt. You and I would both dearly love to have something concrete implicating the President in Forbes’s death. But until we do, allegations about Forbes cannot be part of the case for impeachment. Right now the “high crimes and misdemeanours” referred to in the articles of impeachment relate only to the Iranian Connection. That’s all we got.’
‘Technically, that’s true, Senator. But only technically. Forbes is the mood music. He’s the soundtrack for the impeachment.’
‘You mean, how he died?’
‘And what beans he was about to spill. Both.’
‘The trouble is,’ said Franklin, adopting the superior tone of the man in the know, ‘it seems someone may be at work cleaning up all that mess. A dustbuster.’
‘That’s what I hear too, Senator.’
‘That’s what you hear?’
‘There’s not much that goes on that I don’t know about. And let’s face it, sir, you wouldn’t be talking to me now if that wasn’t true.’
Franklin felt uneasy. How was this possible? He had told no one, bar Cindy, about that Costello woman. He was holding on to that particular nugget, confidentially provided on a private and secure phone line by Governor Orville Tett, so that it could be deployed at the moment of maximum effectiveness. Yet here was Nylind hinting that he knew about it already.
Now Franklin felt an additional tremor of panic. There’s not much that goes on that I don’t know about. Was this some kind of threat? Did Nylind know about him and Cindy? Did ‘the movement’ know about every action, every dumb indiscretion, every sexual encounter, that occurred even within its own ranks? At this moment, hearing Nylind’s even, unflappable breathing down the phone, he was terrified that the answer was yes.
‘So let’s be candid with each other. What exactly is it you’re hearing?’
‘I have very few details.’
Irritated now, resentful that this, this activist was as well informed as he was, if not better, Franklin did not so much raise his voice as enhance it, adding some heft as he demanded, ‘Why don’t you tell me what details you do have?’
‘I’m not playing games with you, sir. We really don’t know much.’
‘I understand that. Now, I repeat. What is the little you do know?’
‘There seems to be some kind of lone, intelligence-gathering operation. By a woman formerly on the National Security team at the White House.’
Shit. So he really did know.
‘Our worry is that she might be standing between us and our storyline.’
‘Our storyline?’
‘Yes, sir. On Forbes. If she’s cleaning up all the mess, that hurts us with the impeachment push. We need that stuff, sir, and she’s getting in our way.’
The ‘sir’ thing was needling Franklin more than ever now. He had a strong urge to get Cindy in here. Best way to drain off some of the aggression he was feeling. Like sugar into alcohol, he found his anger could turn seamlessly into lust – and it certainly beat an hour of circuit-training in the Capitol Hill gym.
‘So what is it you’re asking me to do, Matt?’ Matt. Put him in his place.
‘I suppose I’m suggesting you keep on doing what you’re doing – but more so. Whatever resources you and other colleagues have deployed so far, we need to step it up a gear. We need to get ahead of this thing. Take radical action if necessary.’
He should only know, Franklin thought to himself. But all he said was, ‘OK. Was there something else?’
‘Oh yes, some good news. Christian Coalition are planning a new push, ahead of the next fundraising cycle. Their theme is the True American Family.
They want to highlight a few beacons of family values. Some from sport – that great golf guy – some from music, and one or two from politics. I suggested you and your wife and your three sons were a perfect example of the True American Family. They are very excited about this.’
‘Wow,’ said Franklin, tepidly, thinking only of Cindy in her eyepatch underwear, bent over his desk. ‘That’s great.’
‘This will give you a major fundraising advantage, sir.’
‘I know it.’
‘You see, Senator, the Movement not only taketh. It giveth too.’
‘I appreciate it, Matt. I really do.’
Franklin hung up and rubbed at his temples. Everything about the phone call suggested progress. He was to be entrusted with a key ideological task on the banking bill; he was seen as the lead player in the Forbes business and now he was to be held up as a poster boy for family values. It all spelled career gold. Iowa and New Hampshire were not much more than three years away.
And yet, something nagged at him. It was not just Nylind’s apparent omniscience, it was his manner – as if he were the general and Franklin a subordinate, expected to take instruction. What else to make of the attempt at withholding information, the unstated hint that this was beyond Franklin’s level? Above his paygrade, as they said in these parts. Maybe that was how it always was between the operatives and the horseflesh, but Nylind was worse than most at disguising the fact.
Franklin gazed at his power wall, the collection of framed photographs to his right. A few showed visiting foreign leaders whose names he could barely remember, there to suggest a national security expertise he did not have. Another of him with the US commander in Iraq, included for the same reason and to underscore his patriotism. And, in the centre, a smiling handshake with the last Republican president. He loved that photograph.
He needed to get to work right away. But first there was that itch to deal with.
He reached for his phone, found the last text message he had received and hit reply.
Master requires his little lady, forthwith and without delay.
45
Aberdeen, Washington, Sunday March 26, 08.55 PST
‘Turns out we’re a pretty good team, Mags,’ Liz had said, as they wrapped up what had been an hour’s phone call in the middle of the Dublin night.
‘Even if you think I’m wasting my life because I don’t have a husband and kids.’
‘I didn’t say that.’ There was a pause. ‘Did I? Blame it on lack of sleep.’
The password had worked immediately. No variations required, just the name of the President. Once she had keyed that in, the image at victorforbes.gov had suddenly appeared to turn into a square of dark, dull grey. Almost black. At first Liz had worried that she had failed to follow a protocol programmed by Forbes, that perhaps she had set off a booby trap he had laid that closed down the site to trespassers. But then she quickly checked a site on steganography and read that the apparent fade to black was a familiar trick. She had only to turn up the brightness on Maggie’s screen – a move so low-tech even Maggie understood it – and a new image revealed itself.
Though it was not really an image at all. Just six large numbers at the centre of the screen, separated by two slashes.
A date; American format. The month, slash, the day, slash, the year.
Working back, Liz discovered that Forbes had done some extra engineering on his apparently defunct website. It was programmed to a kind of timer: if the site remained unvisited for more than three days, then it would slowly emerge from Freenet, shedding its darkweb restrictions, and emerge onto the regular web.
‘Why three days?’ Maggie had asked. ‘Why not straight away?’
‘Because three days means you really are dead. You might have a heart attack and be away from your computer for forty-eight hours, but it doesn’t mean you’re dead. Three days gives you some buffer.’
As it happened, four days had passed since Forbes’s corpse had been found and that time-sensitive algorithm had now kicked in: the website’s underlying code had changed in such a way that soon the site would turn up on a search conducted not only by those using Freenet but anyone who typed the name Victor Forbes into Google. At that point, Liz explained, the encoded image would start yielding its secrets too. Hour by hour, the pixels in the Forbes self-portrait would start altering, so that the hidden image – the date – would reveal itself even if no one had had any idea it was there.
‘Smart guy, your Victor Forbes,’ Liz had said.
‘He’s not mine.’
‘Whatever. But he found a way to make sure that, if someone bumped him off, his little secret would rise up off the seabed and burst into the daylight.’
Maggie smiled. ‘You sure you don’t want to get back to writing again, Liz?’
‘You saying my choice to be a full-time mother is not valid?’
For a second, Maggie feared that she and her sister were about to plunge into yet another of their perennial sibling squabbles. Then Liz gave a small chuckle, announced that Calum was stirring and said goodbye.
Maggie sat there, staring at the screen. March 15, just over a quarter century ago, when both Robert Jackson and Stephen Baker would have been graduating college. Suddenly, she was certain that whatever Forbes had been trying to tell her from the grave must relate to the shared past of these two young men who had started out as friends and ended as lethal enemies.
More research to be done, and quickly. But starting where? Local papers from the time…Her fingers moving across the keyboard in a blur, she typed the words ‘Aberdeen Public Library’ into the search engine and, to her intense relief, the website told her a ‘community outreach’ effort meant that the library was now open for a few brief hours on Sunday mornings. What was more, the library did indeed keep the archive of The Daily World, the magnificently-named newspaper of Aberdeen, no doubt established in the era when a small town in the American West truly believed there was no limit to its potential.
She showered, aching at the effort of it, then packed her bags and requested a change of room, asking that someone come and move her bags later on in the day and tell her the new room number when she returned. This was a trick the Israelis and Palestinians used to deploy when engaged in secret negotiations. If you knew you were under surveillance, there was no point making it easy for those doing the watching. If you have to be a target, be a moving one.
By 10am she was standing outside the fine, arched entrance of the public library on East Market Street like a customer at the January sales, waiting for opening time. Once the door was unlocked, she headed straight for the newspaper archive.
‘No longer bound copies, I’m afraid,’ explained the librarian – early thirties, male, overweight and with a sibilant ‘s’. ‘They are on microfiche.’
‘Microfiche? I didn’t know that still existed.’
He gave Maggie a withering look, one that conveyed both resentment of her East Coast condescension and disdain for her ignorance of archival methods.
‘Do you need me to show you how to use the reader or,’ and here he allowed himself a bitchy smile, ‘maybe you remember using these at college? It must have all been microfilm back then, right?’
Swallowing a sharp response, Maggie smiled serenely and asked for a demonstration, explaining that she only needed to see the paper for two or three specific days in a specific year: the editions of March 15, March 16 and March 17. The librarian raised an eyebrow, but said nothing more. He showed her to a second-floor room, empty and municipal, then reappeared fifteen minutes later with little boxes that brought back to Maggie memories of her father’s old cine movies, each containing a spool of film. The librarian loaded the first one into the machine and then left her to it.
Maggie adjusted to the newspaper design of an earlier generation and started scanning the front page for anything relevant. A lead story on a budget crisis at the state capital, Olympia; a report on a resignation from the Aberdeen school board. Inside, car acci
dents, a high school basketball player set for a scholarship to Duke and a recipe column.
She was not deterred. Logic had warned her that the paper of March 15 might be a dead end. Whatever had happened on that day might well not be reported until the next day or the day after. She spooled forward to March 16 and cued up the front, the black-and-white image wobbling between the lines on the oversized screen. The lead this time was a statement by the Governor, something about agricultural subsidies. There was reaction from a union spokesman and another story forecasting healthy profits for logging. She turned to page two.
Now she read more slowly, her eye taking in each line, searching for the words Forbes, Jackson or Baker. She peered at every photograph, leaping when she saw a page four headline ‘Destined for greatness’ above a group shot of smiling young people. They were around the right age: Washington State students set to embark on the then-novelty of a junior year abroad. There was a Locke, a Chan, a Rosenbaum and a Massey. Not a Baker or Jackson in sight.
She looked at the next page: six. Nothing there either. Mainly ads on seven, letters on eight, more ads on nine and then an advice column, financial tips and, eventually, sport. Maggie felt her energies wilt, the dull throb in her ribs returning. The paper for March 17 proved just as empty.
She spooled back, reviewing what she had seen, now at half the pace. Still nothing. Then she did the same for the March 16 edition. Page one, news: nothing there. Two, taken up by an ad containing cut-out coupons for the Safeway supermarket and a story about sales of new cars. Three, a follow-up on yesterday’s report on budget negotiations in Olympia and a half-hearted attempt at international news with three in-brief items from around the world including one, Maggie noticed, reporting the death of a soldier in Belfast.
Four, that picture of smiling young Washingtonians heading to Europe. She stared at the faces. Was one of them Forbes, under yet another name? Was Baker there? But no matter how hard she stared, she could not conjure them up.
Next was page six, a preview of a vintage car rally coming at the weekend. Then the ads on page seven.