Got it.
Maggie? He sounded different, as if signalling a change in direction.
Yes, Stu?
His voice was softer now, the voice of the early hours of the morning. Weve kind of given our lives up for this guy, havent we?
Sorry?
You and me. I have a wife and all, but I spend more time with CNN than I do with Nancy. And lets face it, youre married to the job.
Maggie felt a sting of something like shame. Hadnt Uri said exactly the same thing, that her devotion to the job had made their relationship impossible? They had fought and fought over that. Perhaps Uri was right, perhaps she had sacrificed their relationship for the sake of Stephen Baker. Which only made the current situation more unbearable. If the Baker presidency collapsed, it would all have been for nothing.
Stuart spoke again. We cant let this thing go down. Not like this. Not so early. Hes hardly had a chance to do any of the things we dreamed of, that you dreamed of. We havent saved the world yet, Maggie.
Despite herself, Maggie smiled. Saving the world. She knew Stuart was teasing her, as he always had: the passionate idealistic woman among all those pragmatic, political men. But she also knew that even Stuart cynical, poll-watching Stuart only worked as hard as he did because he believed it too. That was the magic of Stephen Baker: he made idealism possible. When he spoke, changing the world was no longer some naïve adolescent dream, but something achievable and within reach. That was why he had been the first politician she had ever truly trusted. She would do anything anything in her power to stop those out to destroy him.
Injecting confidence into her voice, she said, Were not going to let it go down. Were going to survive this. Just like we survived everything else. Remember, when Chester-
This is different, Maggie. We both know it. In the morning, Im going to start counting the votes. See if Franklin has enough of our guys even potentially to win this thing.
And if he does?
I was thinking of telling the President he should resign.
Jesus Christ, Stuart.
Dont go nuts, Maggie. Think about what it would mean to fight on. Wading through all this shit. And what do the history books say then? That Baker was removed from office after less than two months. Better to leave with some dignity.
Like Nixon you mean?
Bad example. But then I think about us. You and me. We cant let him do that, can we? If he goes, whats left of us? Actually, youve got plenty. Youre smart and youre beautiful.
Maggie didnt know what to say. She felt her eyes pricking, with real tears this time. She had talked about every point of the globe with Stuart Goldstein, every possible permutation of politics, domestic and foreign, yet he had never spoken like this before.
But me, Maggie. There wouldnt be much left of me, would there? For twenty years, Ive been Stuart Goldstein, the guy behind Stephen Baker. Without Baker, theres no Goldstein. Who else is gonna hire a big fat Jewish guy who eats gherkins out the jar? Baker was the only one who never cared about all that stuff.
She could hardly bear to listen. Stuart, dont. Were going to come through-
So what Im trying to work out is, if Im being selfish for wanting to fight this. If Im doing it for my sake, not his. Maybe the best thing for him is if we let him walk away.
Enough, Stu. Enough late-night maudlin talk. I can get that in Ireland. She wanted him to laugh but he didnt.
Youre right. I know. I know. Im just so tired, thats all. Weve worked so hard His voice tailed off, exhausted, on the edge of defeat.
Maggie felt her heart swell. She had to do this for both of them: for all of them. Go home, Stu: go home and get some rest. Ill call you in the morning. Things will look better then, trust me.
Good night, Maggie.
She cut the connection and closed her eyes. What had she got herself into?
25
Washington, DC, Thursday March 23, 07.55
I love the smell of fresh bagels in the morning.
Senator Rick Franklin and his Head of Legislative Affairs, Cindy Hughes, had just stepped out of the elevator onto the fifth floor of the building on L Street which, to the naked eye, looked like a regulation 1970s-built office block in Washington, DC. Functional and dull.
To those in the know, however, it was for this hour every Thursday morning, at least the epicentre of American conservatism. Or, as those on the inside would put it, the movement.
This was the Thursday Session, when the conference room of a single right-wing think-tank would host the activists, lobbyists, congressional staffers, movers and shakers who together represented Washingtons key movement conservatives. At the back of the room, jugs of coffee and trays of fresh bagels alongside bowls of cream cheese. If you were fifteen minutes early, youd load up a plate and take a seat. Any later than that and youd be standing at the back or at the sides or spilling into the corridor. The Thursday Session was the American rights hottest ticket.
When Franklin appeared something happened that he at least had never seen before: a spontaneous round of applause which soon turned into a standing ovation. He had been used to the red carpet treatment at the Thursday Session for at least a month, ever since he had won himself folk-hero status by heckling the Presidents first speech to Congress. The media had hated it of course; the press back home were embarrassed: Frankly, Mr Franklin, youre a disgrace! ran one column in The Greenville News. But it had made Rick Franklin, once little noticed outside South Carolina, a star.
This, though, was different: a reception for a leader. He thought back to Cindys remark of last night, just before he spread her across his knee and before he telephoned the President to notify him of his imminent impeachment. And you, sir, will only just be started. Already his push to remove Baker had anointed him as de facto leader of the opposition. If he were to succeed, then in three short years time, surely he would be frontrunner for
He waved aside the offers of an empty seat: he was far too humble for such gestures of deference. Instead, and humbly, he stood close to the door. His body language was politicians semaphore for Im here to listen.
Matt Nylind, the activist who had turned this meeting into the dominant force it had become, called for order. Franklin took a good look at him. Classic behind-the-scenes operative; looked like an overgrown college student. One tail of his shirt was already edging its escape over the waistband of his trousers; his glasses were smeared. Just the fact that he wore glasses: no politician would wear glasses. Who was the last? Truman? But these guys the dweebs who crunched the numbers, drafted the Republicans policies and found the flaws in the Democrats, who blogged twenty-four hours a day and never stopped working to advance the cause, inch by inch these guys could look awful. No one cared. No one ever saw them. Maybe Nylind would occasionally do a turn on Fox. But basically they were creatures of the dark. Better that way: if voters ever got a glimpse of them in daylight, theyd head screaming for the hills. No, the current division of labour made the best sense. Men like Franklin with their gleaming white teeth, full heads of hair and pretty wives would be front of house while the elves stayed hidden in the grotto, working their magic.
Franklin looked at them and felt a surge of gratitude. If it werent for these guys, with their BlackBerrys and their obsessive reading of indigestible pamphlets from the Cato Institute, his job would be so much harder. And he loved his job. He glanced at Cindy, standing next to him, her face a picture of studious concentration, and thought how much he loved the perks too.
Nylind was making his introductory remarks: some big news overnight, but before we get to that I want to run through other items on our agenda. First, governors races in Virginia and New Jersey. Baker stole both of those last fall but were trending two points behind on the generics. And that was before last night. There was some bullish laughter and a smattering of more applause in Franklins direction, which he duly acknowledged by inclining his head minutely. Humbly.
Nylind resumed. OK, the legislative agenda. The banking bill. Polling is horrible for us on this right now. Suggestions for how we can turn it around?
Immediately a voice piped up, though Franklin couldnt see whose it was. We gotta death-tax it, the voice was saying. When the Democrats called it an estate tax it was popular. Once we called it a death tax, we killed it. We need to do the same with this bill.
Who is that? Franklin whispered to Cindy, enjoying the scent of her that came to him as he bent closer to her.
Michael Strauss. Hes the head of the American Bankers Association. Lobbyist for the entire financial services sector. Normally sends a deputy. Must be something cooking.
Nylind was asking for new names for the banking bill. A woman close to the front suggested the anti-wealth bill. Nylind nodded, but without enthusiasm. Lets remind ourselves of its core elements. This bill will cap bonuses from now till these banks have paid back the federal government every last cent they owe. Which could take decades. It will be the biggest cap on wealth and individual freedom since Leonid Brezhnev.
Why dont we call it the Brezhnev bill? asked the woman, undeterred.
Nylind muttered, more to himself than the room. Yeah, cause that will play really well with eighteen to twenty-fours. Then, his volume duly adjusted: Lets get to the matter of the moment. Republicans on the Hill have set a remarkable lead, showing an aggressive response to the Iranian Connection with a move to impeach the President.
More applause, which seemed to make Nylind impatient. Such displays were fine for the TV cameras, but here, in his meeting, they just wasted time. Clearly thats gonna depend on headcount, pulling in moderate Democrats. Which in turn means shifting public opinion to our side of the issue. I suggest the climate will depend less on the technicalities of donations from Iran and more on the general mood created by the Forbes episode. Where do people think weve got to on that?
This was what Franklin had come to hear.
A man standing directly opposite, also too jammed to get a seat, spoke up, identifying himself as a producer of one of the nations best-known talk radio shows. Theres still plenty of flesh on that turkey, he began, with an accent Franklin placed in Alabama. Like the psycho piece. More to say on that, I reckon. And what was this bomb Forbes was gonna drop? Folks are mighty interested in that, I can tell you.