To Kill the President

by Sam Bourne

  Of the fact that Frankel was physician to the President of the United States, and that he had ministered to several other key Washington players, there was no sign. Kassian had seen enough private studies in this town to know this was unusual. The lack of an ‘ego wall’ made Frankel a rare creature. Everyone said they cherished family above all, but this man seemed to mean it.

  ‘Dr Frankel,’ he began at last. ‘It’s very good of you to see us at home and at such short notice.’

  ‘All right.’ Translation: Don’t waste my time with pleasantries. Kassian remembered that one of the very few groups of people who had as high an opinion of themselves as politicians were doctors. They were very seldom overawed.

  Now Bruton spoke. ‘Doctor, we wouldn’t be here unless we had one helluva big problem.’

  ‘I’m sure. But why is your problem my problem, Mr Bruton?’

  ‘Because we need your help.’

  Kassian tried to make amends by adding swiftly, ‘We need your judgement.’

  ‘Enough with the riddles. Tell me what’s going on.’

  Bruton led, as always. He proceeded to describe what had happened during the night. He dropped in the odd military term, always useful when trying to strong-arm a civilian, but otherwise kept it straight. At the end, the Defense Secretary looked over at Kassian. His eyes said: Close the deal.

  Kassian swallowed, then said, ‘Dr Frankel. The United States constitution allows for this situation. The Twenty-fifth Amendment says—’

  ‘I know what it says. I’m the Chief Physician at the White House. Of course I know what it says.’

  ‘So now you know why we’re here.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the Vice President and the other cabinet secretaries? The amendment is very clear that any declaration that the President is unfit “to discharge the powers and duties of his office” has to come from the Vice President and a majority of the heads of those departments of the federal government. They’re the ones you should be talking to.’

  Kassian shot a look at Bruton. The Vice President was all but an unknown quantity, to them and to the rest of Washington. A former mayor plucked from obscurity by the President, he had cannily allowed himself to become a blank screen on which every faction could project their fantasies. The op-ed pages, along with a cluster of House liberals, imagined him to be the moderate on a white charger who would ride to the republic’s rescue. Meanwhile the party’s ideologically pure wing nurtured the hope that he was a conservative true believer, just waiting for the right moment to emerge. Neither camp had much to go on besides its own wishful thinking.

  ‘Sir, with all due respect,’ said Kassian. ‘I think those individuals’ first response would be to ask for an expert medical opinion.’

  ‘That’s what I’d ask for,’ Bruton said, before adding, ‘So this ball is going to come bouncing back to you, one way or another.’

  ‘Especially,’ Kassian said by way of reinforcement, ‘because you weren’t his personal physician, before January. You’re seen as fair. Impartial.’

  Frankel hauled himself out of his chair and walked the short distance to the door. Bruton shot a look at Kassian: Is he about to walk out? Is he about to call the President?

  But it appeared the doctor just wanted to pace around the room. He stopped to look at one of the photographs, showing what Kassian guessed was a son’s graduation.

  ‘I will respect the confidence of this meeting,’ Frankel said finally. ‘I respect your offices, just as I respect the office of the presidency. And I also believe you’ve come to me in good faith. The events you describe are indeed alarming.’

  Bruton let out a noisy sigh. ‘Well, that’s good to hear. People said you were a good man and—’

  ‘But this is not straightforward.’

  ‘We understand.’

  ‘I also swore an oath. You understand that, hmm? I’m a doctor. I can’t make up a diagnosis, no matter how expedient – politically expedient – it might be. The minute I do that, I stop being a doctor. I become one of you.’

  ‘Dr Frankel, when did you last examine the President?’ Kassian hoped to prevent Bruton coming in too hard.

  ‘I see him once a week. I saw him on Tuesday.’

  ‘Tuesday? So before the current …’ Kassian hesitated before lighting on the appropriate word, ‘… situation with North Korea. And how would you describe his health?’

  ‘He’s not young. He’s overweight. He has some diabetes, which he manages with—’

  ‘What about his mental health, Dr Frankel? How would you describe his state of mind?’

  At this, the doctor paused. Then he paced a little more, before returning to his chair. ‘Look, he’s not like you and me. He’s … unpredictable. He’s volatile. He can have strong … moods.’

  Bruton jumped on that. ‘And what if those mood swings made him unable to—’

  The doctor overrode him. ‘But to declare that a pathology, that’s something quite different. To declare that that makes him unable—’

  Kassian tried to find a way through. ‘We’ve seen the evidence of it, Dr Frankel. We’ve seen how his violent temper, his mood, has led him to act directly at odds with his oath to protect and defend the United States.’

  ‘Are you sure you haven’t seen him merely discharge the powers and duties of his office in a way that you – and I perhaps – do not like? That does not make him unable to discharge those duties. There is a difference.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, doctor.’ Bruton was now on his feet. ‘This is not medical school. This is not debate camp. This is not a drill. You’ve got to see that there’s more at stake here.’

  ‘I do see that.’

  ‘This is a life and death situation. But not just one or two lives. This is about the life of the whole fucking human race.’

  ‘I understand. More, perhaps than you realize. But you must see that I cannot make my decision on that basis.’ He looked down at his fingers. ‘You don’t need to tell me how high the stakes are. This cannot be a political judgement. If it is, it’s worthless. It has to be a medical one. They’re not the same thing.’

  ‘So what would—’

  ‘I’ve seen some signs of what you describe. It is undeniable that there are signs of … erratic behaviour. But the same could be said of many men, especially of his age.’

  ‘But we’re not talking about “many men”,’ said Bruton, his patience thinning and his voice rising. ‘We’re talking about the President of the United States, the man with his finger on the trigger of an arsenal that could destroy the entire goddamn world!’

  The doctor ignored Bruton. His gaze remained fixed on his fingers. To Kassian, he seemed like a man locked in his own thoughts, wrestling with the dilemma. Now he spoke, but less to them than to himself.

  ‘The medical question is: what symptoms would have to be present for this to constitute an inability to fulfil his duties? Would we need to establish mental impairment? Is a tendency to ignore evidence, or to act rashly, sufficient? Or must there be clear proof of an unwillingness, or inability, to think through the consequences of one’s actions? How high, or low, does the bar need to be set?’

  ‘Dr Frankel?’

  The doctor looked up, to meet Kassian’s gaze. ‘I cannot make this decision straight away. I must examine the patient, run a full battery of tests. I would, ordinarily, wish to consult with colleagues to—’

  ‘That definitely cannot happen.’ Bruton, his voice raised.

  ‘Complete confidentiality is, as you know, of paramount importance,’ said Kassian, pausing to let his words sink in. When he was satisfied, he said: ‘Besides, there isn’t time. What happened last night could happen again.’

  ‘At the very least, I need to consult my files at length—’

  ‘On him?’ Bruton said, barely keeping the lid on. ‘I hear there aren’t any medical records. It was an issue in the campaign, remember? Press thought he hadn’t let any doctor come near him in years.’

  ‘Wh
at the rumour mill says is not relevant to me. I need to have another look through my notes and weigh the question that you’ve put to me. This is not a decision to be taken lightly. It takes time.’

  Bruton seemed poised to throw a punch. Kassian cut in: ‘That’s fine, doctor. The Secretary and I will wait for you in the hallway.’

  ‘No. I need several hours at—’

  ‘If we had more time, we’d give it to you. We’ll wait for you in the hallway.’

  And so they waited, the pair of them, Kassian sitting, Bruton pacing and occasionally the other way around. Once, Mrs Frankel appeared – a kindly woman of the same vintage as her husband – who asked if either of them would like something to drink, perhaps some homemade lemonade on this warm evening. Kassian was thirsty, but he didn’t say yes. Somehow he sensed that a patina of normality would only make this situation even more enervating, for him at least.

  Finally, perhaps forty minutes later, the doctor emerged from his study. He looked at both men, moving his gaze from one to the other, until finally, and with no expression either of them could discern, he said: ‘Come inside. Let me give you my answer.’

  7

  Chevy Chase, Maryland, Tuesday, 6.05am

  At just after six, the sun already bright, the call came. The doctor answered it, barely dipping his voice. Unlike him, his wife was a heavy sleeper. There was no risk she would wake.

  ‘Yes. I understand. I’ll be there right away. No, no, you did the right thing. If he’s asleep now that’s very good. Certainly no need to wake him up. What? We can assess that when I get there. I won’t be long.’

  He dressed quickly, working through the possible scenarios in his own mind. Nothing in what he had heard alarmed him. But this was a relatively new administration; the staff at the Residence were still getting to know their new charge. They did not yet know what was ordinary, which made it harder to work out what was extraordinary.

  As he brushed his teeth, Jeffrey Frankel reflected again on his meeting the previous evening with Robert Kassian and General Bruton. Nothing like that had ever happened before. Indeed, he doubted if he had ever exchanged more than two words with either man’s predecessors.

  He wondered if he had given them the right answer. He had spent most of the night wrestling with that question.

  He reached for his briefcase, by the front door, as always; grabbed his keys, on the hook by the front door, as always, and stepped outside.

  Washington was always so beautiful at this time of year: the clear blue skies, the trees in bloom, the sun not yet chokingly hot. He looked up and down the street: one jogger had just rounded the corner, out of view, leaving not a soul in sight.

  Frankel walked the six yards to his car, clicked the doors open and settled into the driver’s seat. Only when he checked the rearview mirror did he see that there were two men sitting in the back. He jolted, as if ten thousand volts had been put through him, and let out a little yelp.

  Instantly a gloved hand was placed flat over his mouth, the fingers forming a ridge that simultaneously blocked his nostrils. He could smell the latex. ‘Don’t scream. Don’t say anything. Just drive.’ It was the older of the two men who spoke: short, muscled, unsmiling. ‘My assistant here is holding a gun which is aimed directly at your back. He will shoot you if you do anything stupid. Do you understand?’

  The doctor could hardly breathe. He began to think about his heart and his blood pressure. He stayed frozen.

  ‘Do you understand me, Dr Frankel?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, though the sound was muffled and unintelligible.

  ‘Good. Now just drive to the end of this street, turn right and park up. Then I’ll take my hand away from your mouth.’ The younger man, with long hair, remained silent. Only the older, broader man spoke. ‘That’s it. Just past this hydrant. OK, here. Just park here.’ The man did as he had promised and took away his hand. Frankel panted, gulping down air.

  The men let him do that for a second or two. Then they ordered him to shift himself into the passenger seat. He had to adjust it to make room for his legs: it was set for his wife. Then, calmly, the older of the two men got out of the car and re-entered, this time taking the driving seat, which he too adjusted.

  ‘We’re going on a little trip,’ he said. ‘The first thing I’m going to need you to do is give my friend your phone. Can you do that?’

  Frankel dug into his pocket and handed his phone to the long-haired man sitting behind him. Frankel always associated the back seat with his children and grandchildren. He thought of them now and wondered if he would ever see them again.

  ‘Don’t worry. You’ll get it back. We just need a little privacy right now. OK?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you comfortable? You OK?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. This won’t take long. We’ll be there in ten minutes. No traffic at this time of day.’ The man smiled, a move that made Frankel queasy.

  This was obviously connected to the meeting last night. He was being punished, though for what he could not precisely say. If only he had never opened the door to Kassian and Bruton. If only he had refused to have the conversation. If only he had invoked patient–doctor confidentiality from the start, insisting that there was nothing further to discuss. If only he had left the White House in January, with everyone else. If only he had never joined. If only he had remained in private practice, seeing coughing toddlers and aching seniors in Chevy Chase. If only he could see his children again …

  ‘Some music, doctor?’ The driver began to fiddle with the radio.

  ‘No, I don’t want any music. I want you to tell me what’s going on.’ Instantly he felt some pressure in the back of the seat. He did not need to be told that the younger man had pressed the barrel of the gun closer towards him.

  The car was now heading east on Military Road. There had never been so little traffic. Each time a stop light appeared, Frankel would pray that it would turn red. And as they crossed 31st it seemed destined to go his way. Surely it couldn’t stay green so long. But somehow it did.

  The car barely slowed down. Only once did it draw so close to another vehicle that Frankel could see the face of the driver. He didn’t dare tap on the glass of his window – he thought that would count as the something ‘stupid’ that was punishable by a bullet in the back. But he did try to stare sufficiently hard that he might win the driver’s attention. If he could only make her turn around, he would mouth the word ‘Help!’ But she never turned her head.

  Eventually they had reached Rock Creek Park and the driver brought the vehicle to a halt.

  ‘OK,’ he said, his voice light as he turned off the engine, even cheery. ‘Here’s our stop.’

  It was then that Frankel felt the anxiety distil into panic and undiluted adrenalin. He was not a man given to rages; he shouted rarely, but now he heard himself. ‘I will not get out of this car until you tell me who you are and what is going on here! Who are you?’

  The older man swivelled to look at him. ‘I’m sorry, doctor, but we can’t tell you that. Believe me, this will work out much better for you if you just do what we say. OK?’

  ‘No. It’s not OK. I insist you tell me who you are this instant. Otherwise I am staying put. You’ll have to shoot me if you don’t like it.’ He folded his arms, in a gesture of stubborn defiance he might have learned from his three-year-old grandson.

  At that, the older man gave a nod to the younger one who got out of the car, closed the rear door and instantly opened the one by Frankel. At the same time, the other man got out too, closing his door and coming round so that the two of them – both packed with muscle – were looming over him, while he remained seated and inside. Now the younger man leaned in and in a single motion unbuckled Frankel and pulled him out, tugging him by the lapels of his jacket.

  Then, in a movement that must have looked comic – a parody of the MGM dance routines his mother loved – the two men each took one of Frankel’s arms, threaded it through th
eir own and marched forward, lifting Frankel clean off the ground. He heard the electronic sound of his Honda being locked and sensed the keys being returned to his pocket, and felt ridiculous, lifted so effortlessly by these two men. He could tell it involved no strain for them at all.

  They advanced swiftly into the park, along its winding paths, their pace barely slowed by the soft, damp terrain. Eventually they turned off into a kind of dip, where the petals of that spring’s blossom had fallen and were turning into mulch. It was a gorgeous spot, lit only by the odd fragment of morning sunlight.

  ‘All right, here we are,’ the older man said, as he slowed down and lowered Frankel to the ground. ‘Gun, please.’

  The junior reached into his jacket and produced a weapon which a second or two later the doctor recognized as his own. His wife’s Colt .25, a small automatic pistol, nickelplated for a more ‘attractive’ look, right down to the nickel coin embedded into the butt. That was the word she had used when she bought it: ‘attractive’. He had pleaded with her not to bring it into the house; he wanted nothing to do with it. Yet here it was. How on earth had these men got hold of it?

  ‘OK, so here’s how this is going to work, Dr Frankel. You’re going to do exactly what we say and make this clean and simple. If you don’t, if you make this messy, then you’re going to die anyway – but, after you’re dead, maybe in a few days’ time, we’ll go back and kill your wife and maybe one of your grandkids. Say Joey. Or maybe Olivia. She’s cute. Except, with them, we’ll make it last longer and be more painful. OK? Are we good?’

  ‘What? What are you saying?’

  ‘We’re saying you’re going to help us this morning, by taking this gun and putting it under your chin and pulling the trigger. Don’t worry, we’ll help. But it needs to be your prints, I’m afraid.’

  Frankel felt his bowels straining. He was so confused, but he believed what these psychopathic men were telling him: that they would not hesitate to kill his family. They wanted this to look like suicide and he had no option but to co-operate.