by Sam Bourne
‘Yes.’
‘And then this afternoon …’ Liz was struggling to get the words out. ‘This afternoon, after school, Mia’s sister went home. And she’s only twelve, this girl. She gets home. And she finds … she finds …’
Maggie waited in dread for the inevitable.
‘… her hanging there. Her own sister.’
And there it was. Maggie felt her gut contract. ‘Oh, Liz, I’m so sorry. That’s so terrible.’
‘I can’t believe it, Mags. It’s so cruel.’
‘It is.’
‘I mean what is wrong with this country? It’s so fucked up.’ Liz blew her nose and regrouped. ‘Because of a decision by one vote on the Supreme fucking Court, a beautiful, bright, kind girl is dead. Dead.’
Maggie knew what was coming.
‘And how did that one vote get there? Eh, Maggie? How did it get there?’
‘I know.’
‘It got there because this President put it there, didn’t he, appointing that medieval bastard to be a Supreme Court judge. That’s how.’
‘Liz—’
‘I cannot believe you work for that evil man, Maggie. I just cannot believe it.’
‘It’s not as simple—’
‘My own sister! My own, high-and-mighty, save-the-world, help-the poor, end-all-the-wars sister, Saint fucking Maggie Costello is actually working for this man. Serving this evil man.’
‘It’s not like I—’
‘I don’t want to hear it, Maggie. Mia is dead and you’re helping the man who killed her. End of.’
And with that the line went dead. Maggie, who had been standing throughout, slumped into a chair. Not for the first time she reflected that the bitterest arguments come when you know you’re wrong and your opponent’s right. And, right on cue, the hard knot of guilt tightened inside her – becoming harder than Liz could possibly have imagined.
Before it had time to break the surface, there was a buzz from downstairs. Richard.
Until Liz called, Maggie had told herself she wanted to be alone. Now, though, the idea of a diversion appealed. And, without admitting it to herself, she welcomed the opportunity to balance the scales: she knew Richard would insist that what she was doing was no crime, that there was right on her side too. She did not believe it, not really. But it would be good to hear it.
She answered the door and, to her own surprise, Maggie did not let him speak, kissing him long and deep instead. He was taller than she was, with a head of thick, dark hair, cut in a retro style that meant he could have passed for a 1940s movie star. He’d recently shaved off the beard, which Maggie regretted – she thought it made him look French and intellectual – as an act of deference to the new regime. Richard said he’d heard the President regarded men with facial hair as ‘unreliable’.
He responded to her kiss, dropping his bag to the floor. He pushed her backwards, towards the bedroom. Taking the lead, she unbuckled his belt and pulled off his clothes, enjoying the sight and touch and taste of his skin. She wanted to devour as much of him as she could take. Her need was hungry. And urgent.
They didn’t really start talking till long after nine, arranged on the sofa, both of them wearing a loose combination of underwear, sweatpants and pyjamas, with assorted cartons of Chinese takeout on the table in front of them. It was raining softly outside, the TV was on. It felt cosy.
Maggie told him about her phone call with Liz. He nodded sympathetically while she was telling the story, then held her when she reached the end. For a while they stayed like that, in silence.
After a while, they traded the odd nugget of workplace gossip. He’d heard there’d been some tantrum in the middle of the night: the speculation in the office was that the President and the First Lady had had another screaming match. She was hardly ever around; the staff called her ‘the invisible woman’. But that didn’t stop her and the President having the most vicious fight on the phone. According to Richard, last night’s had reached a whole new level. ‘It was full-on nuclear,’ he said.
Maggie listened, but her heart was not fully in it. Professional duty meant she had to hold back. She could not discuss the material she had glimpsed that day, supplied to her by Crawford McNamara’s assistant. What he had called ‘bimbo eruptions’ amounted to a pattern of behaviour by the President that would have had lesser men disciplined for sexual harassment or charged with sexual assault. A cleaner in the Residence had complained to her manager that the President had manoeuvred her into a guest bathroom and groped her between the legs. The manager had spelled out to the cleaner – no doubt at length and in detail – the seriousness of such a charge and the dire consequences if her allegation turned out to be false. Unsurprisingly, the woman had declined to take the matter any further.
Physically less intrusive, but actually more shocking, was the very discreet note that had been sent by the Dutch embassy and passed on to the White House via the State Department. It said the government of the Netherlands would not be making any formal complaint at this stage, but it wished it to be noted that the ambassador believed the President had kissed her inappropriately at a recent diplomatic reception, causing her humiliation and distress. It said that several witnesses had been present who would be willing to verify her version of events, so that it would be ‘wise to accept her complaint in good grace and to ensure nothing like it happened again’.
Maggie had been astonished by the sheer cheek of it. She could imagine the reaction of her old mentor, Stuart Goldstein. The chutzpah of the man is beyond belief, he’d have said. To do such a thing not just with a domestic servant, whose word he could brutally dismiss – such were the realities of Washington’s society – but with a foreign ambassador, and with people watching!
What made this worse was that even if this incident were to be made public, there was no guarantee it would inflict that much damage on him, still less destroy his presidency. Revelations about his conduct just as damning had emerged during the campaign. People like Maggie had made the mistake then of thinking they would be terminal to his candidacy. They had proved to be nothing of the sort. So why would this be any different? She suspected the Dutch knew as much, and that was one reason why they had kept their objection muted.
So she held back, listening to Richard’s chatter, chipping in now and then, the two of them talking about nothing, tiptoeing around both of the big subjects on Maggie’s mind.
Eventually, as relaxed as she could manage it, Maggie said, ‘Did I see you come out of the Oval today? Big step up.’
‘It’s true. Second best thing to happen to me today.’ He stroked her thigh, held her gaze. She felt her face grow hot. Had she misinterpreted what she had seen? It wouldn’t be the first time.
‘How come?’
‘Frank’s not around. They needed someone from Commerce liaison to sit in.’
‘To sit in on what?’
‘Come on, Mags. Ground rules, remember. Chinese wall. Even here.’
Maggie picked at a stray noodle on her plate. ‘You mean, you discussed something that may be of interest to the White House legal office? Should I be alerting the ethics team?’
‘Maggie!’
And then, as relaxed and as offhand as she could, ‘I saw the daughter was also there.’
‘Yeah, she sort of dropped by.’
‘Oh, was she not there for the whole meeting?’
‘You know, I can’t remember, honestly.’ Maggie watched Richard’s throat, always a giveaway.
He swallowed.
‘Well, she was either there at the start or she wasn’t.’
‘Is this an interview? Should you be reading me my rights?’
‘Sorry.’ Maggie got up to get water from the kitchen. She shouted from there, her tone striving for nonchalance. ‘So what’s she like then?’
‘Who?’
‘You know who. You seemed kind of friendly.’
‘Well, it’s like everyone says. She’s very charming.’
‘Très charmant
e.’
‘Exactly.’
Maggie resumed her place on the couch. She wanted to ask what the two of them had been looking at on their phones, but restrained herself. She didn’t want to sound like a stalker. ‘Attractive, too.’
He smiled, leaned over and began tickling Maggie’s sides. Then he kissed her. ‘Maggie Costello, I do believe you’re jealous.’
‘Of course I’m not,’ Maggie laughed. ‘Nothing of the sort. The very idea …’
‘You sure?’ he said, reaching for the remote.
‘I’m sure. If only because the last thing in the world I’d want is to have that man as my father.’
‘Are we back on that again?’
‘Did I tell you what McNamara asked me to do today?’
‘Hold on.’ Richard had tuned to CNN. Above a ‘Breaking News’ caption was a live shot of protesters in Florida, clashing with men in uniform. He turned up the volume.
… escalated in the last hour or so. As you know, Kelly, officers of the new United States Deportation Force have been deployed across the state, part of the first phase of rounding up undocumented migrants. The USDF have come here in very big numbers and they’re armed. But as you can see, they’re meeting stiff resistance. Locals here in Miami have formed a human chain, insisting that they will not let the USDF pass. But you can see around me, Kelly, the officers are wielding nightsticks and they’re – hold on, whoa – they’re beating two men right in front of me. Press! We’re press! I’m sorry, Kelly, I don’t know if you can still hear me. Dave, our cameraman, is down. I’m just gonna keep … We’re press! CNN!… The USDF men are charging into this crowd now. They seem to be smashing the heads of anyone and everyone in their way. People are screaming and running and trying to get away. There are children here, Kelly …
Richard turned the TV off.
They were silent for a while until Maggie said, ‘“I cannot believe you work for that evil man.” That’s what Liz said.’
‘Look,’ Richard replied. ‘We’ve been over this. We can either be like everyone else in this country, sitting on the sofa, watching the news and doing nothing. Or we can stay where we are right now. On the inside. Where we can make a difference.’
She had clung to that line, parroting it to herself for months. She felt it more keenly than anyone could possibly know. She of all people needed it to be true. How else was she to make amends?
‘But what difference are we actually making, Richard? I mean, look.’
She grabbed the remote and turned the TV back on. It looked like a full-blown riot. A few of the protesters had started burning tyres. In the corner of the screen, she could see a USDF officer clubbing a man who lay unmoving on the ground.
Maggie stood up. ‘This is not right, Richard. Something’s going to crack, very soon. I can feel it.’
5
The Watergate Building, Washington, DC, Monday, 7.25pm
‘Here. Scotch, water, no ice. Let’s talk on the balcony.’
Robert Kassian let Jim Bruton steer him through the living room and outside. Bruton closed the door behind them, tight shut. ‘You can’t be too careful.’
It was a warm, May evening – in that precious interim between the bone-chilling Washington winter and the stifling, damp summer. He’d been here over ten years, but still Kassian didn’t care for this city. He dreamed often of moving back home to Cleveland or perhaps, who knows, California. But if the place was bearable at all, it was in springtime.
He looked at the glass dwarfed by Bruton’s hand, then down at his own. Physically, they were an odd match. They always had been. Bruton was a bear of a man. He’d played college football and, while the muscle tone had gone, the size had not. He was always the broadest, tallest man in the room. Kassian was perhaps an inch shorter than him, no more. But he was thinner and, he knew, with a fraction of his friend’s presence. Bruton spoke often and in a voice that demanded attention. Few would ever have guessed at their shared past.
Bruton spoke first. ‘So, tell me about New York.’
Kassian sipped from his glass and took in the view of the Potomac. The lights of the city were winking. ‘Not good, Jim. Not good at all.’
‘Did Zheng even understand what you were telling him?’
‘He understood. I’m not sure he believed me, but he understood.’
‘Will he get us the statement, from the North Koreans?’
‘I think so. Later tonight, he said.’
‘Has the President brought it up?’
‘At the briefing this morning, he mentioned it. The CIA briefer looked blank. I jumped in. I said we were still working on a translation.’
Bruton shook his head. ‘This is horrible.’
‘The good news is, there’s been nothing more out of Pyongyang. I think Beijing have told them to zip it.’
‘For five days.’
‘Exactly. Five days.’
‘And then?’
‘Then North Korea would have every justification, given what happened this morning, to launch a pre-emptive attack on the United States. And China can’t promise they won’t stop them.’
There was a moment of silence. They both looked towards the Kennedy Center, illuminated and shining. Inside, doubtless hundreds of well-dressed, well-paid members of the capital’s elite were blissfully unaware of how close they had come just sixteen hours earlier to being incinerated.
Bruton spoke first. ‘Even if Pyongyang come to Jesus, play nice, it still could happen again. With them or with someone else.‘
‘Of course it could.’
‘And next time we might not get so lucky.’
‘The War Room couldn’t pull the same stunt twice.’
The two men paused again. Kassian would think often of the moment that followed. Were they awed by the thought they were about to utter, by the weight of it? Or were they hesitating, wondering which one of them was going to say it out loud first?
In the end, it was Kassian. ‘The current situation is unsustainable.’
Bruton nodded.
Kassian went on. ‘At any moment, a civilization-ending decision could be made.’
‘And there’s not a blind thing we could do to stop it. We’re impotent.’
‘On this, his power is absolute. He’s the nuclear monarch.’
Bruton raised his eyebrows.
‘That’s the term of art apparently, you know in “the national security community”. Can you believe that? No one even hides it.’
‘So he has no obligation to discuss anything with us?’
‘Not with us, not with Congress. Nobody. He can take this step at any time, for any reason. And we now know he’s ready to take it.’
Bruton knocked back his whisky. ‘Do you remember the oath we took, right at the start?’
‘I do.’
And suddenly, there on the balcony of the Watergate, the White House Chief of Staff and the US Secretary of Defense both raised their right hands and, in the dark, declared, ‘I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.’
Kassian drained his whisky glass. ‘Our oath is to defend the Constitution. It’s this republic we have to save. Against all enemies.’
‘Yeah, but now you’re cherrypicking.’ Cherr-pickin’. ‘What about “obeying the orders of the President of the United States”? That’s in there too.’
‘Like I said this morning, we are only required to obey those orders which are lawful. An unprovoked nuclear strike that will destroy America and most of the human race cannot be lawful.’
Bruton knew where they were heading. They both did. ‘It is our constitutional duty then.’
‘Yes, Jim, I believe it is. I believe we are honour-bound, by virt
ue of the oath we swore, to do all we can to remove the President.’
6
Chevy Chase, Maryland, Monday, 9.25pm
Robert Kassian considered asking the Secret Service man to knock on the man’s door, but feared that might backfire. The mere sight of an agent on a suburban street (and no matter how much they bragged to the contrary, they always looked obvious) would attract too much attention, might scare their man off.
But neither could they simply turn up themselves, unannounced. That too would get attention. Even if he was not recognizable, Jim Bruton was. Within a few minutes, somebody would have tweeted a photo with the caption: Guess who just turned up in this neighbourhood. What *are* they up to?
The obvious solution was to call ahead. But every call on their phones was logged. Same was true of the driver’s. It was not worth the risk.
So they simply pulled up in Kassian’s official car – which was fractionally the less visible of the two – and asked the driver to go knock on the door and inform Dr Jeffrey Frankel that the White House Chief of Staff was waiting outside on an urgent matter and ask if he would be so kind as to allow him to come in.
To Kassian’s relief, the doctor and his wife were alone. No house full of teenagers, no Washington dinner party: that, he hoped, would reduce the likelihood of a leak. Dr Frankel said nothing in the hallway, though when he saw that there were two of them – that the Defense Secretary was here too – he furrowed his brow. He waved them into his study, which looked out onto the street.
‘Excuse me,’ Kassian said, closing the curtains without asking the doctor’s permission. ‘Just to ensure a little more privacy.’
Dr Frankel’s face creased in irritation. He looked older than the sixty-four years registered in the White House personnel database. His face was lined, even wizened. What hair he had was white and wiry, framing a birdlike face.
Kassian looked around. There were pictures on display on every available surface: Frankel and wife on vacation in Florida; Frankel and daughters deep-sea fishing; Frankel raising a glass at a bar mitzvah; relaxed and smiling with adult children and a horde of grandchildren, at what appeared to be a Thanksgiving dinner.
