To Kill the President

by Sam Bourne

She shoved the phone across the desk, letting it collide with the picture she kept of herself with the previous President – a tiny gesture of rebellion in this new era. Right now, she felt like cursing that man. It was – partly – his fault she was still here.

  ‘Listen, Maggie,’ he had said. ‘I know how you feel about my successor—’, but she didn’t let him finish.

  ‘You see, even that, I can’t stomach. My successor. How can you say that, like this is normal? This is not normal. He’s a liar and a cheat and a bigot and should be nowhere near this place.’

  The outgoing President had indulged her, the way he always did. ‘Maggie, you’re a woman of great passion. It’s why you’ve served this administration – and me – so well. But the people have spoken. He’ll be my President – and he should be yours.’

  ‘But no one’s telling you to stay and bloody work here.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m the right demographic,’ he smiled.

  ‘Exactly. That’s another thing. It’s all white men. Hundreds of them. Every appointment he’s made. It’s like there are millions and millions of people he doesn’t even see.’

  ‘So, if you stay, you can even up the score a little. Woman, native Dubliner. That’s two boxes you check, right there.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘This isn’t just about him, Maggie. Just like it was never about me. It’s about the country. You need to make sure the train stays on the tracks.’

  ‘Sure, so that he can ram it into the buffers. Besides, what would I even do for him? Former UN aid worker, former peace negotiator, woman – I’m not exactly his cup of tea, am I?’

  ‘You could do for him the same thing you did for me. Troubleshooter in chief. The woman who knows how to get to the bottom of any crisis and solve it.’

  ‘But that requires trust.’

  ‘I know, Maggie.’

  ‘You trusted me and I trusted you. Totally.’

  ‘I know and I cherish that. But you’ll find a way. You always do.’

  Maggie looked at the photograph, marvelling at the naiveté of her earlier self. Even a year ago she would never have believed this was possible. Mind you, nor would anyone else.

  And then she felt it, that familiar stab of guilt and with it the attendant nausea. It seemed to rise from a specific place, a site of revulsion deep in her guts. If only she hadn’t …

  In an attempt to push that dread thought out of her mind, she thumbed out another message to Richard.

  How early can you leave tonight?

  Let’s eat at my place. Really need—

  But before she had finished, her office door flung open. She heard him before she saw him. ‘Are you decent?’

  Crawford ‘Mac’ McNamara, senior counsellor to the President. If Maggie and all the other non-partisans who had stayed on were dedicated to keeping the train on the tracks, McNamara was the man who decided the destination. Even Bob Kassian, the nominal Chief of Staff, was a mere bureaucrat compared to McNamara. In the White House solar system, only one star burned more brightly.

  Of course, Maggie was several moons below him – even under the previous president, her official title never reflected her true status – which under the old Washington rules meant a man of his rank would never deign to say so much as two words to her, let alone make the journey to come see her in her office. But McNamara was the self-styled outlaw, the sorcerer who had shredded the Washington rulebook to get his man elected President. Protocol could go hang. Memos were for dweebs, minuted meetings were for assholes. Instead he patrolled the West Wing each day, strolling into whichever office he wanted to whenever he wanted to. The Oval was no exception. McNamara saw the President first thing in the morning and last thing at night; he was the all-powerful voice in his ear.

  Nor was this the first time he had made the journey to see Maggie. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Richard had said, when they discussed it over Chinese takeout the other night. ‘You’re the most attractive woman in the office and he’s … intrigued. I’d be flattered.’

  Maggie’s reply had been concise: Ugh. And now here he was again, middle-aged but wearing cargo-style shorts, with square, capacious pockets, and a Linkin Park T-shirt. He wore socks, but no shoes. His head was almost completely bald.

  ‘You seen the paper today, Costello?’ He threw over a copy of the Washington Post, landing it just in front of her. It was folded open on a story about a new poll, confirming the country was ‘more divided than at any time since the civil war’.

  ‘Why are you showing me this, Mr McNamara?’

  ‘Ooh, did someone just let my father in the building? Mister McNamara? Who’s that? It’s Mac, Maggie. Mac. Thought all you liberals dug that informality thing in the workplace.’ He made a mincing gesture and raised the pitch of his voice. ‘Oh, we’re all equal. Treat me equally.’

  She reminded herself of what she and Richard had agreed. That perhaps they could mitigate the effects of this presidency, even in a small way, by being here, on the inside. They had a duty to make a difference, if they could. She took that vow again now. ‘How can I help you, Mister … Mac.’

  ‘Look at the paper, Maggie.’

  ‘“First states roll out registry of Muslim citizens. Arizona, Texas, pilot new scheme.”’

  ‘Not that story. The one I’ve marked, next to it. Look where we are with eighteen to twenty-four-year-olds.’

  ‘Twenty-three per cent approve, seventy-four per cent disapprove, three per cent don’t know.’

  ‘Exactly. Twenty-two last month, now up to twenty-three. The young are coming round to us, Maggie. I can feel it.’ And with that he threw his head back and burst into song, his own version of a David Bowie classic.

  ‘Allllllt-Right, we are the young Americans!’ As he repeated the line, he did a slow turn, his eyes closed, head nodding – a middle-aged rocker on stage in a nostalgia tour.

  Maggie said nothing.

  ‘OK, you got me. That’s not why I came in here.’

  ‘If it’s about that calendar, there’s no way that’s going back up.’

  ‘I noticed the lovely Miss May was missing in action. Are you to blame for that? Are we still doing that, the student protest thing?’

  ‘Under the legal definition of sexual harassment, just putting that on the wall counts as creating a hostile environment.’

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘None of you get it, do you? Not even a little bit. Don’t you realize that’s why the folks elected the big guy last November? I mean, sure it helped that his opponent had endangered national security by using an unsecured phone.’

  Maggie rolled her eyes.

  ‘But the main reason was precisely this kind of bullshit. Because folks were sick to their hind legs of prissy little missies spouting horseshit like “hostile environment”.’ He made the quotation marks with his fingers, delivering the two-word phrase in a high-pitched voice now accompanied by an effeminate swing of the hips. ‘People are sick of being told that being a normal, red-blooded white man is a federal crime.’

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t come here to re-fight the election campaign, Mac.’

  ‘No, but as it happens, it’s all relevant.’ McNamara helped himself to a chair, sat back in it and put his shoeless, socked feet on her desk. Maggie all but recoiled.

  ‘Here’s the thing,’ he said. ‘I need you to make something go away.’

  Maggie raised her eyebrows.

  ‘It came up in the campaign and it’s coming up again now.’

  Maggie still said nothing. She saw no reason to make this any easier for him.

  Eventually, he lowered his voice. ‘I think you Washington insiders call them “bimbo eruptions”.’

  Maggie paused. ‘Do you mean the President has been having extra-marital affairs?’

  ‘No!’ Mac smiled. ‘Not affairs. Nothing that you’d call an affair.’

  ‘Oh, you mean sexual assault. Grabbing random women.’

  ‘I mean accusations of that.’

  ‘More
accusers coming forward? People from the past, alleging that—’

  ‘Partly that.’

  ‘Oh, so not just the past? The present. Here? In this place? Jesus, Mac, they impeached the last man who did that.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not worried about that. The House leadership are rimming our asshole. The tongue’s in deep.’

  Maggie did her best to show no expression. She knew he wanted a reaction out of her and she was damned if she was going to give it to him. He went on: ‘None of them will dare move on this. Remember, he’s bigger in their districts than they are. But it’s a distraction. I need you to make it go away.’

  ‘Sounds like a matter for his personal lawyer.’

  ‘No. He’s the President now. An attack on him is an attack on the Presidency.’

  ‘That’s not quite—’

  ‘Besides, you’re the right person for this.’ He began to get up. Before Maggie had a chance to ask what he meant, he leered, ‘You’ve got the right equipment.’

  He closed the door after him, allowing Maggie to sink her head into her hands. She needed to see Richard.

  They’d only been dating a couple of months, but given how many of her old friends had left the White House, he had become the default confidant. Three years younger than her and absurdly handsome – one of those Washington men who, no matter how early their first meeting, had already managed a run – he was far from her usual type. Appointed during the transition, he had nevertheless shared her doubts about the wisdom of serving the new administration. Along with the former president, Richard Parris had been a big influence on her decision to keep at it. ‘Maggie, we’re powerless on the outside. Imagine how guilty we’d both feel if we saw something horrible happen and we could have done something – anything – to stop it.’

  At first Richard didn’t quite understand why that argument resonated with her so deeply. There was a reason, but she tried to hold it back from Richard the way she held it back from everyone else. Eventually, in bed one night, she gave in and told him. Just thinking about that now brought it back: a guilt so present it was almost physical, bobbing to the surface like a cork. She pushed it back down, a psychological manoeuvre she made at least a dozen times a day.

  She headed down the stairs now to find him, to suggest they take a walk. She needed to unload. She began rehearsing the speech she’d make. We’re not softening the blow, Richard. We’re legitimizing it. We’re nothing more than a fig leaf for them. I did not come to Washington to help an abuser of women get away with it. That is not the reason—

  But her train of thought was interrupted. She had just turned the corner when she saw a group emerging from the Oval Office. Richard was among them – odd, for someone at his level – but he didn’t notice her. Instead he was busy smiling and laughing with the only woman in the group, whose hair alone made her instantly recognizable. Thick and lustrous, it shone with wealth. There was no mistaking her.

  Now Richard was showing the woman his phone, bringing a warm smile and a reciprocal gesture, as she showed him hers. Their faces – young and gorgeous, as they appeared to Maggie – seemed to be glowing in the electronic light. It was clear. Her boyfriend was flirting with the President’s daughter.

  3

  New York, Monday, 9.20am

  Having zero charisma had its advantages, Bob Kassian reflected. Seated in business class on the shuttle to New York, a single Secret Service agent at his side, few people had bothered him. A couple of travellers had flashed him the thumbs-up. A reporter from Fox had tried to engage him in conversation at the gate, but Kassian had given such short, monosyllabic answers – delivered in his barely audible, low hush – that the woman had soon backed off. As for the rest, he reckoned they had simply not recognized him. He didn’t do the Sunday talkshows, he made few speeches. And that was just fine.

  Especially this morning. He would have struggled to pose for selfies, grinning broadly with the fanboys in their correctly coloured baseball caps. How they revered his boss. If only they knew what he knew, if only they had seen what he had seen just a few hours ago. (A grim thought surfaced: perhaps it would make no difference. Nothing seemed to shift their devotion to this man.)

  For the thousandth time he wondered if he had done the right thing. A backroom operative, he had never been a committed partisan. He had fallen in with this crowd simply because those were his friends and contacts. He had established a reputation as a man who could run things – big things – smoothly. After the army, everyone told him skills like his could make him a fortune. They were right. He went to New York, to one of the big financial houses, and was paid unimaginable sums. But he missed what he had loved most about the army: purpose. Politics seemed like a decent second-best.

  As for this job? He knew what prompted the offer: he would be presented as the responsible adult on the team, his calm, technocratic presence a token of reassurance to a nervous party establishment. It sounded old-fashioned but he felt it was his patriotic duty to say yes. If he hadn’t, one of the crazies surely would have. And, from the inside, he could perhaps act as a restraining influence, holding back a President who would otherwise be listening to the swivel-eyed extremists led by Crawford McNamara who clearly had the ear of the Commander in Chief.

  Now in the back of the car ferrying him to Manhattan, he closed his eyes, grateful to be cocooned, however briefly.

  Somehow, they had survived. The sun had come up, the sky had not fallen in. Civilization had not ended. For that he could not congratulate either himself or his closest ally, Jim Bruton. It wasn’t their intervention that had stopped the President giving the order.

  The truth was, he had been about to do it. The President had been put through to the colonel in the Pentagon War Room, who had, following procedure, issued the challenge code: Echo Bravo, or whatever it was. The President had responded, giving the codes that confirmed his identity: say, Delta Zulu. And then he had told the war room his decision, explaining that he had chosen from the menu of strike options and selected Option B.

  At that point – and kudos to him for the effort – the colonel had suggested that the President might want to consider going a la carte for this highly unusual situation. Highly unusual in that the United States was not under attack, the only scenario for which anybody had been trained or prepared. Nice try on the colonel’s part: ordering a special ‘dish’ would have taken hours or days. It would have bought Kassian and the others what they needed: time. But the President was adamant. Option B. Now.

  Apparently, there was a stillness in the room then. Even the President briefly stopped raging. The colonel turned to the team in the War Room and gave the signal. They set about formatting the ‘emergency action message’ that would unleash the forces reflecting the President’s choice – the bombs that would have destroyed the world. That task would have taken about a minute.

  But after about fifteen seconds, a young intelligence analyst told the colonel to wait. He had seen a report of a new statement from Pyongyang, apparently backing down on the earlier one that had so offended the President. It had just come in.

  The line connecting the Pentagon and the White House was still open and the colonel spoke. ‘Mr President, we have reason to believe the North Koreans have backed down.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Sir, they have fully capitulated. An abject apology.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘That is our information, sir, yes.’

  ‘OK.’

  There were twenty seconds left till the action message went live.

  ‘Does that mean you wish to abort the order, sir?’

  ‘What did the North Koreans say exactly?’

  ‘Sir, we have ten seconds to decide. Should I abort the order?’

  ‘Fuck them.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘All right, all right. Abort.’

  And that’s how they had averted Armageddon. One sharp-eyed desk officer may well have saved the world. Quick-witted and creative, more t
han sharp-eyed, as it turned out. Jim Bruton arrived at the Pentagon minutes afterwards, where the colonel on duty discreetly let him know him that the supposedly abject statement from North Korea, fortuitously released just seconds before the trigger was about to be squeezed, was more a work of wishful thinking than reality. The analyst had correctly read the situation, understanding that his immediate commanding officer and the Defense Secretary were desperately looking for an excuse to delay, and he had provided them with what they needed. In the process, he had left Bruton with a new headache – he now needed to generate a text that looked plausibly like a full apology from Pyongyang – but, given the stakes, that could be forgiven. Jim had immediately recommended the officer and the entire duty team in the War Room for a Defense Superior Service Medal.

  Kassian had now reached the Waldorf Astoria hotel. Without looking either left or right, he made straight for the elevators, letting his Secret Service agent clear a path, press the button and select the floor. Avoiding eye contact with hotel guests, he caught himself in the mirror. He retained a full head of hair, but it seemed to be greying by the day. Back in January, it was all dark. He was still tall, still lean. His wife insisted he remained handsome: ‘Real handsome, not Washington handsome,’ was how she put it. But what he saw in his eyes was something else: a look of alarm and worry that was becoming permanent. The face staring back at him seemed haunted.

  They stepped out on the fifth floor and went to the suite whose number he had been given. They were let in by a warm, rounded blonde woman in her mid-forties who introduced herself as the Swedish ambassador to the United Nations. She struck him as unexpectedly maternal.

  There was an awkward moment or two as Kassian’s agent checked for security, including – especially – for bugs. Then the agent was introduced to his counterpart, who did the same. Only when both were satisfied, and had nodded in the direction of the Swedish host, did she give the signal that, a second later, meant a door – presumably to one of the bedrooms – was opened. Through which stepped out a man Kassian recognized as the Ambassador to the United Nations of the People’s Republic of China.