could bring themselves to look at him.
Maggie stole a glance at Stuart: he too was avoiding Baker’s gaze. But she could see that Stuart Goldstein’s embarrassment was already compounded by something that shook him much more: political panic.
How much more of this could this new presidency take? Here was a committed assassin, somehow armed with weapons-grade dirt, determined to destroy Baker. He had already landed two direct hits and now, it seemed, he was preparing for a third. Surely there would be a fourth. And a fifth. The confidence of Vic Forbes – swaggering even in this written statement – suggested he would not rest until he had finished the job. And Baker was no more.
Her voice dry, Tara spoke again. ‘There’s one last paragraph. “I do not plan on providing the full details today. I just wanted the American people to be aware that I have them. I wanted everyone following this story, especially those following it real close, to know I have them.”’
The gall of it was stunning. Vic Forbes was using a combination of live television and the internet to present a blackmail demand to the President of the United States.
Stuart did not let the silence linger. ‘Like I said, this is an attempt to destroy the President. Ideas for what we should do, people.’
Tara MacDonald spoke first. ‘I say we do a Letterman. We go to the police and then we go on TV. We expose Forbes for what he is, a cheap scumbag felon.’
Larry Katzman, the pollster, piped up. ‘I worry about that. Initial response can be positive, but there’s great volatility. Once you go public with something like this, it kind of gives people free rein—’
‘They can say what the hell they like about you,’ added Sanchez, clearly making the effort to substitute one four-letter word for the other he had in mind. ‘Makes it legitimate. Remember, David Letterman could only make his move because he fessed up to whatever the blackmailer had. Got in his retaliation first.’
The pollster responded, emboldened. ‘In other words, the critical variable is the nature of the, er, allegations, the charges…’ His voice trailed off, as he reached for the glass of water on the coffee table in front of him.
Tara MacDonald stepped in again, perhaps, thought Maggie, as an act of compassion, protecting the dweeby pollster from twisting in the silence for a second longer. ‘Seems we’re out of good options. If we say nothing, Forbes is gonna keep coming at us, letting off these bombs. If we try to fess up, then the bomb’s gonna be going off anyway. OK, it’s gonna be us pressing the detonator and that helps. But we still don’t know what damage it’s gonna do.
‘Which leaves making contact with this prick and trying to cut some kind of deal. Which I don’t even want to think about. I mean, even if we managed to pull it off, which I have to tell you I seriously doubt, do we really think it would stay quiet? Of course, it wouldn’t. Because nothing in this town ever does.’
Now Sanchez added his voice. ‘I have to say, this is bad enough.’ When he saw a quizzical eyebrow from Goldstein, he gestured around the room. ‘This. This meeting. Just imagine this on Glenn Beck: White House operatives sat around in the Residence discussing possible negotiations with a—’
‘All right, all right,’ Stuart interrupted. ‘We get the idea. A series of dead ends. But right now there are also rather too many known unknowns. We don’t know what Forbes knows and we need to. Somehow, between now and tomorrow, we need to be inside Vic Forbes’s head. Whatever he has—’
But he didn’t get to finish his sentence. Stephen Baker, the cool, steady, unflappable Stephen Baker, the man who had barely put a foot wrong in a two-year, outsider’s presidential campaign, the man who had debated much more experienced rivals without ever slipping up, the man who had never broken a sweat even when his poll numbers were in the tank and his bank accounts dry
Maggie stole a glance at Stuart: he too was avoiding Baker’s gaze. But she could see that Stuart Goldstein’s embarrassment was already compounded by something that shook him much more: political panic.
How much more of this could this new presidency take? Here was a committed assassin, somehow armed with weapons-grade dirt, determined to destroy Baker. He had already landed two direct hits and now, it seemed, he was preparing for a third. Surely there would be a fourth. And a fifth. The confidence of Vic Forbes – swaggering even in this written statement – suggested he would not rest until he had finished the job. And Baker was no more.
Her voice dry, Tara spoke again. ‘There’s one last paragraph. “I do not plan on providing the full details today. I just wanted the American people to be aware that I have them. I wanted everyone following this story, especially those following it real close, to know I have them.”’
The gall of it was stunning. Vic Forbes was using a combination of live television and the internet to present a blackmail demand to the President of the United States.
Stuart did not let the silence linger. ‘Like I said, this is an attempt to destroy the President. Ideas for what we should do, people.’
Tara MacDonald spoke first. ‘I say we do a Letterman. We go to the police and then we go on TV. We expose Forbes for what he is, a cheap scumbag felon.’
Larry Katzman, the pollster, piped up. ‘I worry about that. Initial response can be positive, but there’s great volatility. Once you go public with something like this, it kind of gives people free rein—’
‘They can say what the hell they like about you,’ added Sanchez, clearly making the effort to substitute one four-letter word for the other he had in mind. ‘Makes it legitimate. Remember, David Letterman could only make his move because he fessed up to whatever the blackmailer had. Got in his retaliation first.’
The pollster responded, emboldened. ‘In other words, the critical variable is the nature of the, er, allegations, the charges…’ His voice trailed off, as he reached for the glass of water on the coffee table in front of him.
Tara MacDonald stepped in again, perhaps, thought Maggie, as an act of compassion, protecting the dweeby pollster from twisting in the silence for a second longer. ‘Seems we’re out of good options. If we say nothing, Forbes is gonna keep coming at us, letting off these bombs. If we try to fess up, then the bomb’s gonna be going off anyway. OK, it’s gonna be us pressing the detonator and that helps. But we still don’t know what damage it’s gonna do.
‘Which leaves making contact with this prick and trying to cut some kind of deal. Which I don’t even want to think about. I mean, even if we managed to pull it off, which I have to tell you I seriously doubt, do we really think it would stay quiet? Of course, it wouldn’t. Because nothing in this town ever does.’
Now Sanchez added his voice. ‘I have to say, this is bad enough.’ When he saw a quizzical eyebrow from Goldstein, he gestured around the room. ‘This. This meeting. Just imagine this on Glenn Beck: White House operatives sat around in the Residence discussing possible negotiations with a—’
‘All right, all right,’ Stuart interrupted. ‘We get the idea. A series of dead ends. But right now there are also rather too many known unknowns. We don’t know what Forbes knows and we need to. Somehow, between now and tomorrow, we need to be inside Vic Forbes’s head. Whatever he has—’
But he didn’t get to finish his sentence. Stephen Baker, the cool, steady, unflappable Stephen Baker, the man who had barely put a foot wrong in a two-year, outsider’s presidential campaign, the man who had debated much more experienced rivals without ever slipping up, the man who had never broken a sweat even when his poll numbers were in the tank and his bank accounts dry
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