Heres what kills me about the liberal news media, folks. This is what kills me. He paused, leaving two or three seconds for effect. They have such a Short. Attention. Span. Thats right. They dont pay attention. They forget to take their Ritalin or something, I dont know. Let me give you an example. Cast your mind back just a few days ago. It was wall-to-wall Vic Forbes. He paused again, then fell into a sing-song delivery for the next phrase. Wall to wall! You could not move for Vic Forbes. Fortyeight hours, he was all anyone wanted to talk about. Forbes on the Presidents psychiatric episode. Forbes on the Iranian Connection. Then Forbes promises the big one. Another pause. The BIG ONE, ladies and gentlemen. And what happens? Hes found dead and the liberal media forget what theyd been talking about twelve hours earlier. Clean forgot! Now he went high-pitched and effeminate, the prissy voice of the East Coast liberal. Whoops! Where was I? I forgot! And of course, now its tributes on MSNBC and in the New York Times to that great liberal, Stuart Goldstein: the heavyweight champion of interest group, Democrat identity politics. Thats who he was, my friends. And heavyweight is the right word. The guy was heavier than I am! And thats saying something.
He allowed himself a little laugh, one that made Maggie want to rip the radio out of the dashboard and hurl it out the window. But he was still talking.
You see, even Im at it now. Changing the subject. Lets not get distracted. Thats how they are, folks. And thats how the liberal elite want you to be too. Forgetful. They want you to forget that Mr Forbes was about to tell us something. Well, we dont forget on this show. Not here, no sirree. Lets go to a call. Bloomington, Indiana, youre on
She listened to the caller for a while, who introduced himself as a dittohead, then went on to condemn Stephen Bakers upcoming visit to China. She hit FM, found an alternative rock station and cranked the volume knob to full, hoping somehow to channel the new rage coursing through her. How dare he?
She checked the mirror once more. Still the same truck. She strained to see the driver, but the angle was too steep.
At least the landscape outside, while unchanging, was easy on the eye. Mile after mile of tall pine trees, scraping the sky like sharp pencils. She had passed mirror-clear lakes, forests dusted with Christmas-card snow and all of it bathed in a piercing blue light. Were it not for the noise of the logging trucks thundering past her on the interstate, laden with treetrunks stacked like cigarettes, she would have kept the window down, so that she could gulp in the cold, fresh air.
She checked the mirror once more. Still the same truck. She strained to see the driver, but the angle was too steep.
At least the landscape outside, while unchanging, was easy on the eye. Mile after mile of tall pine trees, scraping the sky like sharp pencils. She had passed mirror-clear lakes, forests dusted with Christmas-card snow and all of it bathed in a piercing blue light. Were it not for the noise of the logging trucks thundering past her on the interstate, laden with treetrunks stacked like cigarettes, she would have kept the window down, so that she could gulp in the cold, fresh air.
She had flown to Seattle without calling Sanchez. She knew she was meant to liaise with him, but she wasnt going to start deferring to a twenty-seven-year-old guy whose place of work prior to the White House was the corner table at Starbucks, Dupont Circle branch. Besides, their encounter at Union Station suggested contact was now officially difficult if not forbidden. She understood why. If she emailed or texted or phoned, it would show up on records. And he had outed Bob Jackson, CIA agent, to her. Of course, rationally, that shouldnt matter: Jackson was already dead and there was no danger posed by revealing his affiliation to the CIA. But the connection between rationality and politics, Maggie had learned some time ago, was very slender indeed.
There was his safety to think of, too. If they really did face an enemy ready to kill, it helped no one to put Doug Sanchez in the firing line.
What was more, if she were honest, she didnt want him trying to talk her out of it. What did she have? Little more than a hunch. Thats what Stuart would have said. She could hear him saying it: Youre going backwards, Costello. We need to know what Forbes or Jackson or whatever the fuck his name is knew. Youre not writing his biography. Tell me about your childhood, and all that crap. Youre meant to be finding out what he had and where he hid it.
That voice was nagging away at her even as she clocked up her hundredth mile from Seattles airport, even after the pine forests gave way to the lake and finally the sign saying Welcome to Aberdeen. A thin strip of new signage, in the same colours and typeface, had been added just below: Onetime Home of President Stephen Baker.
As she looked around the place shabby and peeling in the way of all small towns that have lost the role that once shaped them she wondered if she had made a bad mistake. She was a continent away from Washington, DC where the President she believed in was fighting for his political life. Was she really going to help him by snooping around a place that was on the other side of America and might as well have been the other side of the world?
She had punched the zipcode for the high school into the satnav and now it led her straight into the car park. She checked her watch. Thanks to the three-hour time difference and her early flight, it was still only early afternoon. The place should still be functioning. She looked over her shoulder: no sign of that truck or of any other vehicle she recognized.
There was a framed photograph of Stephen Baker in the hallway and, next to it, an eighth-grade art project: Dear Mr President, in which students of James Madison expressed, through a drawing or a poem, their hopes for their most famous alumnus. When she saw the earnest pictures of handshakes, one hand white, one hand black, or of a bruised and bandaged globe, she was taken back to her own school days, and the art-room of the convent. The world had been bruised by nuclear weapons back then, rather than global warming; but there were always wars, and the misery they caused. Not much had changed. Looking at the pictures reminded her of her earlier self, the earnestness that had inspired her to take up her chosen career, trying to bandage the world. And now these children were being inspired by their new president. A lump rose in her throat, reminding her why she was here.
Can I help?
Maggie spun around to see a smiling woman with long straight hair. In an instant calculation, she guessed that she was Maggies age, but that motherhood, and life in Aberdeen, Washington, had added ten years.
Oh yes, Im looking for the Principals office.
Im the Principals secretary.
Good. I wonder if I might-
Hes busy with students right now. Whats your question? The smile remained fixed.
Its about a former pupil at the school.
Are you a journalist? All media inquiries go through-
No, Maggie said, with what she hoped was a warm grin. Im not a journalist and its not about him.
The secretary stood and said nothing. She was not going to make this easy.
My name is Ashley Muir, Maggie said, extending a hand. Im with Alpha, the insurance company. Im here because one of our policyholders has, sadly, passed away. He left insufficient instructions as to beneficiaries and I-
Do you have ID?
I have my business card. Maggie opened her bag and pulled out the card she had been handed by Ashley Muir, Head of Government Relations for Alpha, at an awful Sunday brunch in Chevy Chase. He had called too, a couple of times, suggesting they go out on a date. She had said no but she was grateful to him now for giving her the only business card in her desk drawer that combined insurance and a female first name.
The secretary studied it for a moment. This says something about the government.
One of my duties is to look after policyholders who also happen to be federal employees. Maintain eye contact, Maggie told herself. Dont look down or away: classic signal of an untruth. Reading other peoples body language was one of the skills you had to acquire in backroom diplomacy; but she was finding that deploying it on your own behalf was rather more difficult.
So what is it you want?
Im starting at the beginning, you see, Maggie said, moving towards the office, hoping it would send a subliminal cue to the woman to take her there. Which is why it would be an enormous help if I could see the school record of the policyholder in question.
Hmm, the secretary said, as she did indeed lead Maggie into the office. Well, we dont keep the records here.
Maggie could feel her spirits sag. Wouldnt that be typical: to trek the entire width of the American continent only to be told the papers were kept in where? some storage facility in Maryland, no doubt.
In fact, the secretarys smile was now back, I didnt have any idea they were kept at all until last year. She paused, as if anxious that Maggie might not follow. With the election and all.
Maggie nodded, happy to play the pupil.
Then suddenly everyone wanted to see Stephen Bakers school file: Vanity Fair, ABC News, Inside Edition. All of them. Had to call the files from that class up from the basement. But it was all there, yearbook entry, the whole deal.
So the files are here, in the office, now?
Oh, no. Once wed got Stephen Bakers file, we put the rest back into storage.
I see. This was painful.
Oh, it was a wonderful thing to see. He was only here for a year or so, of course. But it was a nice picture. And his grade score. Through the roof! She laughed.
Yes, he seems like a very smart man.
Well, people voted for him round here, I can tell you.
Maggie felt a little warmer towards this woman at hearing that. So about this file?
Well, youd need to fill out a form and wed have to process the request, then Id have to get Terry our janitorial manager to go down to the basement and retrieve it. So if you were able to come back, say next Thursday, then I-
Instead of a frustrated grimace, Maggie managed to give her an apologetic smile. The problem, Im afraid, is that Im based in Washington, DC. I cant be here for a full week.
We could mail it to you. If you just leave your address, Im sure-