finger. ‘There’s one more thing. Agent Galfano did some extra probing, based on the computerIP address in New Orleans. She examined the data records of the so-called liberal blogger who so ingeniously hacked into MSNBC’s emails, thereby revealing their source.’
One step ahead as always, Tara MacDonald shook her head. ‘Don’t tell me. New Orleans.’
‘Yep. Forbes.’
Sanchez whistled in apparent admiration. ‘The guy outed himself.’
A noise like a door opening out on a snowstorm came through the room. Anyone hearing it for the first time would have been puzzled. But these veterans of eighteen months on the road together were used to the sound of Stuart Goldstein sighing. ‘Seems so,’ he said.
Sanchez crinkled his forehead, in a way that recalled the precociously bright teenager he had obviously been all of seven or eight years ago. ‘Why the fuck would he do that?’
Now Maggie spoke. ‘So that we’d listen to him.’ All heads turned to her, including, she noticed, the President’s. ‘He knew what we’d do. He knew we’d trace his message to Katie. He wanted to be certain that once we’d found him, we’d know he was for real. He wanted us to match him up to the MSNBC source.’
Stuart came in behind her. ‘First rule of blackmail. It’s not enough to have the goods. Your target has to know you’ve got the goods.’
Baker decided he had heard enough. ‘Thank you, Stuart. Everyone, that is the background to the decision we need to make this evening. Who wants to go first?’
Tara MacDonald didn’t wait for the customary polite silence. ‘I wanna be clear what exactly it is we’re talking about here? Are we discussing negotiating with a blackmailer?’
Neither Baker nor Goldstein said anything.
‘Because that’s a whole world of pain we’re entering if we go there. I mean, do we really think something like thiscould ever stay secret? I don’t mean whatever shit this guy’s holding, I mean the fact that we talked to him. Do we really think that’s going to stay underground? Uh-uh.’
Sanchez fiddled with his watch. ‘Doesn’t it depend a little on what we think the guy might have?’
Maggie felt the air suck out of the room. You had to admire the balls of the guy, the fearlessness of youth and all that. But there was only one person who could answer that question and you didn’t want to be the one to ask him.
There was, to everyone’s relief, a knock on the door. A butler, probably seventy years old. ‘Sir, I have an urgent note from the Press Office. For Mrs MacDonald.’
Baker beckoned the man forward; he walked in stiffly and presented the piece of paper to her. She pulled on the glasses that hung around her neck on a chain and read rapidly. Then she cleared her throat. ‘Forbes has just released a statement. Most networks are only quoting it in part, but apparently there’s a full version on Drudge. It reads as follows. “I want to make clear that the further information I hold on Stephen Baker does not relate to the way his campaign was funded nor to the state of his health.”’
Maggie realized she was holding her breath. So was everyone else. MacDonald kept reading.
‘“It’s about his past. An aspect of his past that I think will shock many Americans. An aspect of his past that the President has not shared with the nation. An aspect of his past he may not even have shared with his own family.”’
Maggie felt a new mood enter the room. It was a sensation she dimly recalled from her teenage years at home in Dublin. She could picture her younger self, sitting on the couch beside her sister Liz, cringing as a vaguely sexual scene appeared on the TV; her father getting up out of his chair, fumbling to change the channel. That was the sensation she could feel spreading over her and, surely, everyone else inthis room: embarrassment. Sheer, hot-faced, look-away embarrassment.
What mortifying secret might the President have kept from his own wife? No one
One step ahead as always, Tara MacDonald shook her head. ‘Don’t tell me. New Orleans.’
‘Yep. Forbes.’
Sanchez whistled in apparent admiration. ‘The guy outed himself.’
A noise like a door opening out on a snowstorm came through the room. Anyone hearing it for the first time would have been puzzled. But these veterans of eighteen months on the road together were used to the sound of Stuart Goldstein sighing. ‘Seems so,’ he said.
Sanchez crinkled his forehead, in a way that recalled the precociously bright teenager he had obviously been all of seven or eight years ago. ‘Why the fuck would he do that?’
Now Maggie spoke. ‘So that we’d listen to him.’ All heads turned to her, including, she noticed, the President’s. ‘He knew what we’d do. He knew we’d trace his message to Katie. He wanted to be certain that once we’d found him, we’d know he was for real. He wanted us to match him up to the MSNBC source.’
Stuart came in behind her. ‘First rule of blackmail. It’s not enough to have the goods. Your target has to know you’ve got the goods.’
Baker decided he had heard enough. ‘Thank you, Stuart. Everyone, that is the background to the decision we need to make this evening. Who wants to go first?’
Tara MacDonald didn’t wait for the customary polite silence. ‘I wanna be clear what exactly it is we’re talking about here? Are we discussing negotiating with a blackmailer?’
Neither Baker nor Goldstein said anything.
‘Because that’s a whole world of pain we’re entering if we go there. I mean, do we really think something like thiscould ever stay secret? I don’t mean whatever shit this guy’s holding, I mean the fact that we talked to him. Do we really think that’s going to stay underground? Uh-uh.’
Sanchez fiddled with his watch. ‘Doesn’t it depend a little on what we think the guy might have?’
Maggie felt the air suck out of the room. You had to admire the balls of the guy, the fearlessness of youth and all that. But there was only one person who could answer that question and you didn’t want to be the one to ask him.
There was, to everyone’s relief, a knock on the door. A butler, probably seventy years old. ‘Sir, I have an urgent note from the Press Office. For Mrs MacDonald.’
Baker beckoned the man forward; he walked in stiffly and presented the piece of paper to her. She pulled on the glasses that hung around her neck on a chain and read rapidly. Then she cleared her throat. ‘Forbes has just released a statement. Most networks are only quoting it in part, but apparently there’s a full version on Drudge. It reads as follows. “I want to make clear that the further information I hold on Stephen Baker does not relate to the way his campaign was funded nor to the state of his health.”’
Maggie realized she was holding her breath. So was everyone else. MacDonald kept reading.
‘“It’s about his past. An aspect of his past that I think will shock many Americans. An aspect of his past that the President has not shared with the nation. An aspect of his past he may not even have shared with his own family.”’
Maggie felt a new mood enter the room. It was a sensation she dimly recalled from her teenage years at home in Dublin. She could picture her younger self, sitting on the couch beside her sister Liz, cringing as a vaguely sexual scene appeared on the TV; her father getting up out of his chair, fumbling to change the channel. That was the sensation she could feel spreading over her and, surely, everyone else inthis room: embarrassment. Sheer, hot-faced, look-away embarrassment.
What mortifying secret might the President have kept from his own wife? No one
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