by Sam Bourne
And yet, such is the survival instinct, his body rebelled against the decision he had half-made. He began to wriggle, to resist. But the younger man simply tightened his grip as easily as if turning the screw on a vice. The doctor remained fixed in place, on this patch of earth, as he felt the older man open up his fingers and put the gun into his hand.
He wondered about accepting the weapon and using it against them, but there was no scope for that. They had him by the wrist; they had full control of the angle. And now, as easily as if they were manipulating a mannequin, or a child’s doll, they retracted his arm until he could feel the cold metal of the barrel on the soft skin under his chin.
Now he felt the latex fingers tugging at his own index finger, curling it around the trigger. He heard some shuffling as the two men got into position, ensuring they were out of the bullet’s path. And, aware of how feeble this was, how uselessly impotent he was, he felt his finger curl a notch tighter, a notch tighter, a notch tighter until he could feel no more.
8
Washington, DC, Tuesday, 7.25am
She woke to a text message, her phone giving a perky little chime that did not even slightly reflect her mood. Maggie looked over at the other pillow to realize Richard had already left: his morning run, no doubt.
She reached for the device, aware in that small movement that she was mildly hungover. The memory of it came back to her now. She had started early yesterday evening, knocking back the Laphroaig on the phone to her sister who had told her that awful story. And then her sister’s words resurfaced. I cannot believe you work for that evil man, Maggie.
She used the Touch ID on her phone, pressing the pad of her index finger onto the circle at the bottom, which duly unlocked the device, and squinted to read the message.
It was from Crawford McNamara:
Need to see you urgently.
One thing Maggie had noticed about this man. His written communications were entirely free of the sexist banter, faux flirtation and borderline racism that made up his speech. In his emails and text messages, there was no gleeful breaking of the supposed taboos of political correctness. Smart operator that he was, he was careful to leave no trail that could indict him on page A1 of the Washington Post. He would not bequeath an incriminating email cache for WikiLeaks or anyone else to publish during the re-election campaign which, she had no doubt, he was already planning.
Maggie hunted around for some clean clothes, and was poised to revive a shirt from the laundry basket, when she found one still wrapped in dry cleaners’ cellophane. She didn’t like it, but it would do.
With no more than half a cup of coffee inside her, as well as the low throb of last night’s whisky, she was in front of McNamara twenty minutes later.
‘So here’s the deal,’ he said, before she’d even sat down. Once she had, he stood up, so that he could pace the room, circling around her, forcing her to twist her neck to maintain eye contact. She noticed a framed quotation behind his desk, rendered in the style of a New England sampler. ‘It is better to live one day as a lion than a hundred years as a sheep.’ The line was unattributed, but she knew the source. Benito bloody Mussolini.
‘A runner – not your boyfriend, someone else – was out in Rock Creek Park this morning.’
‘OK.’
‘And she’s listening to the Gabfest or NPR or some other liberal shit in her state-of-the-art earbuds, when, guess what, she trips over a pair of legs. Turns out it’s a corpse.’
‘Right.’
‘She calls the park police, because she’s a good citizen, and they identify the body and you’ll never believe who it is.’
Maggie waited for the reveal, then realized McNamara was waiting for her. She briefly closed her eyes. ‘You seriously want me to guess?’
‘I thought it might be fun. Never mind.’ Now he sat himself on her side of the desk, so that his knees, exposed and hairy in his cargo shorts, were just a few inches away from Maggie’s face. He was wearing cologne, a fairly expensive one.
‘The dead man is none other than Dr Jeffrey Frankel, of these parts.’
‘The White House doctor? Jesus.’
‘The very same. Seems he blew his brains out early this morning.’
‘Christ. Why would he do that?’
‘I don’t know. And nor do you. And nor does anyone else. Not yet anyway. But I tell you what I do know.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That as soon as this death is announced, and I mean within ten seconds, maybe five, there will be two hundred different crackheads saying it was murder. Within ten minutes, there’ll be fully fleshed-out theories assigning guilt, motive and culprit. And by tonight, maybe tomorrow morning at the latest, every asshole in America will be linking to some five-thousand-word blog titled, “The Unanswered Questions about the Death of Dr Jeffrey Frankel”.’
‘And you know this because you—’
‘—because I am the king of this world. That’s right, Costello.’ He stood again. ‘I was once the master and lord supremo of this dominion. These people are my people. The lonely virgins living in their moms’ basements who never read a conspiracy theory they didn’t believe, and who never saw a corpse within twenty-five miles of the Beltway that died of natural causes – they are,’ and here McNamara raised his arms aloft, in the manner of a TV evangelist, to mimic a Southern preacher’s accent, ‘my people.’
‘They’ll be all over this.’
‘They will love it. This is gonna give Bill O’Reilly orgasms for the next six months. I know because it’d have done the same for me and my old comrades back in the day.’
‘Not that long ago.’
‘Yep.’ He adopted a baritone, as if doing a movie voiceover. ‘“The road from the wilder shores of the patriotic right to the White House proved shorter than any of them ever expected.” But I know you don’t hold that against me. I know you’re going to do your solemn duty.’
‘Which is what?’
‘You’re going to conduct the independent investigation by the White House Counsel’s office set up by the President to look into this tragic occurrence.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. Your reputation travels before you, Miss Costello. That’s why I asked you to deal with those bimbo eruptions.’ He saw Maggie wince, but ignored it. ‘Which, incidentally, you can drop now. I’ll give that particular hospital pass to someone else. Look, I know you dug the previous folks out of some serious shit. Bottom line is, you’re a troubleshooter and we have here some major league trouble that needs shooting. Besides.’
‘Besides, what?’
‘People inside and outside know that you’re not one of us. In fact, I know you hate us. But that’s just a bonus. The thing is, you’re obviously not a loyalist. You’re not a partisan hack, everyone knows that.’ He gave her a knowing wink, which made her queasy. ‘Starting assumption of the wingnuts – I’m sorry, the concerned citizens – will be that this is a cover-up. But why would the respected Maggie Costello – loyal servant of the other team – engage in a cover-up to help this President?’
Maggie felt the old guilt rising, accompanied by its ever-present companion: a biliousness as complete as if she were on the deck of a heaving boat. ‘She wouldn’t. Because I wouldn’t. And I won’t.’
‘Exactly.’ McNamara did a kind of vertical clap, letting his hands slap against each other in a chopping motion. ‘That’s my girl! You be as independent and rigorous as you want. Do whatever it takes. Those conspiracy theories will get started in the next hour or two. Your job is to—’
‘To get to the truth.’
‘I was going to say, your job is to shut them down. To deny them the oxygen on which they feed. How you do it is up to you. But I know this phenomenon. I’ve seen it a million times. Your mission is to strangle it at birth. Don’t let me down.’
9
The White House, Tuesday, 9.15am
‘Jim, a moment of your time?’
They were filing out of the Ov
al Office, after yet another meeting of principals to discuss the stand-off with North Korea. The President had been subdued, Bob Kassian thought. He’d watched him idly twisting a pen between his fingers and turning at intervals to glance at the TV set, now permanently turned to a hostile cable TV network (‘It gets his juices flowing,’ McNamara had explained, before adding a leering reference to the First Lady.) The TV was muted, but subtitles gave a rough, if delayed, sense of the on-air conversation. Kassian was at the wrong angle but what he could see displeased him.
… painted himself into a corner. I agree with Mark and John. At this point, anything short of a military response will look as if the President’s wimped out. You can’t issue red lines and not enforce them …
Not for the first time, Kassian found himself cursing the media. Perhaps they didn’t realize how closely the President paid attention to them, to television especially. For them it might be no more than time-filling hot air, but it had an effect. The President took each of their remarks as a challenge. No, it was more basic than that. As a dare. When they said he was being weak, he’d lash out just to show that he was strong. Fine, when it was only the campaign. Fine, when lashing out merely meant bad-mouthing some senator or congressman who had bruised his ego. But the stakes were higher now.
Indeed, Kassian had made some discreet inquiries of the senior butler in the Residence. It turned out that shortly after one am yesterday, the President had asked to see playbacks of the Sunday talkshows that had aired the previous day. Several pundits had demanded a show of US ‘resoluteness’ in the face of Pyongyang’s provocations. It struck Kassian as highly plausible that it was these goads to action from a few talking heads on NBC and CBS, rather than the specific wording of a statement from the DPRK Workers’ Party, that had pushed the Commander in Chief to the threshold of all-out nuclear war.
The meeting in the Oval Office had been devoted entirely to the North Korea question, pitting hawks against doves. As so often, those who had seen armed combat with their own eyes were most cautious. Those whose familiarity with war extended to owning the director’s cut of Saving Private Ryan were more gung-ho. It was yet another fact of DC life that Kassian could not stand.
At one point, the discussion had moved onto the ‘paper tiger’ statement put out by Pyongyang, the one that had pushed the President into his late-night meltdown. Kassian felt his back muscles tense. He caught Jim Bruton’s eye for the briefest of moments. They both braced themselves for the inevitable response from the President: Oh, yeah but they apologized to me over that. At which point, the others would look puzzled and demand to see the text and things would get very awkward.
But, thank God, he was not paying attention. His eye was fixed on the TV, chiefly, Kassian suspected, on the straight blonde hair and shiny, waxed legs of the Fox morning anchor, seated on the couch between two middle-aged white men.
A new worry replaced the first. What if the President asked why the media were not trumpeting the humiliating climbdown he had forced the North Koreans to make? But that was the one upside of working for a man with an apparently extreme case of attention-deficit disorder, a man who seemed to struggle to focus on one subject for more than a few seconds: played right, it was not hard to get him to move on.
Now as they filed out, agreeing only to meet again in twenty-four hours’ time if not sooner, Kassian steered the Defense Secretary as subtly as he could down a corridor and out into the covered walkway, the colonnade that looked out onto the Rose Garden.
Only once he was sure they were neither overlooked nor overheard did Kassian allow his demeanour to change. The two men had already spoken once by phone earlier that morning, so now they could pick up where they left off.
‘You’ve heard about Frankel?’ Bruton began. ‘The state his body was in?’
‘I heard,’ Kassian replied.
‘I mean, Jesus Christ, Bob. We were there just a few hours before. It’s so obvious.’
‘Listen, Jim. I hear McNamara is hoping to have a new physician in place by tomorrow morning. Perhaps even tonight.’
‘Jeez, that’s quick.’
‘Like he doesn’t want to leave anything to chance.’
‘Shouldn’t that be you? Choosing the White House doctor: that’s up to the Chief of Staff, no?’
‘Of course it should be.’ Kassian looked over his shoulder. He could see two reporters, heading towards the briefing room. (Had Frankel’s death been announced already?) ‘But guess who got involved over breakfast this morning?’
‘You’re kidding. Daughter? Son-in-law? Don’t tell me. Both?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. But however early I get in here, McNamara’s already on it. He meets the boss in the Residence every morning. Cup of coffee, shooting the breeze. Taking the temperature from the daughter—’
‘And the son-in-law.’
‘The whole imperial court. Czar, Czarina—’
‘He’s a regular Rasputin.’
‘Anyway,’ sighed Kassian. ‘He’s ahead of me on this one. Now he gets to do what they all wanted to do on day one.’
‘Appoint the family physician?’
‘Yep. The loyal retainer.’
‘That guy who signed off the bullshit statement during the campaign?’ Bruton allowed himself a smile. ‘It’s a wonder that jackass wasn’t struck off years ago.’
‘Well, his position is safe now,’ said Kassian. ‘And we can forget him signing off any “inability” medical letter.’
‘That’s why they want him there. He’ll have one job.’
They stood and faced outwards together. Kassian wondered if they were too visible. ‘Frankel was right about one thing,’ he said.
‘What’s that?’
‘There’s nothing in the Twenty-fifth about an expert opinion. Nothing about a doctor’s certificate.’
‘So?’
‘It makes things even harder. For us, I mean.’ Kassian reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a thin booklet, no bigger than a wallet. ‘Since this is the document we swore to defend, I thought I ought to look at it. I read it again this morning.’ He started flicking through the pages. He came to one towards the end. ‘Here we go,’ he said.
‘Key bit is Section Four.’ He read out loud. ‘“Whenever the Vice President and a majority of either the principal officers of the executive departments, yadda yadda, transmit … their written declaration that the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, the Vice President shall immediately assume the powers and duties of the office as Acting President.”’
‘So we’d have to have the Veep and a majority of the cabinet,’ said Bruton. ‘Not or. And. Fuck. We’d have to have both.’ He twisted the sole of his cowboy boot into the ground, just like he did when stubbing out a cigarette butt on the road to Baghdad. His frustration was visible.
Kassian said, ‘My hunch is there’s no way we can bring the VP on board with this. He couldn’t do it.’
‘Folks would say he was out for himself.’
‘He’d be dead to the base if he backed a stunt like this. Forever. And he’s smart. “The assassin never inherits the crown.”’
Kassian put the document back in his pocket. ‘So what if the cabinet came together – without him – and wrote the statement? Presented it to the Veep as a fait accompli. Nothing to do with him, he can’t be blamed. He just has to go along with it.’
Bruton shook his head. ‘Fine in theory. And he gets what’s going on. Or at least he should, a man like him. But the others? Look at them, Bob. I sit around the table with those guys. They’re nodding dogs. So long as they’re getting their beef and gravy, they’ll salute. Have you seen even one of them voice misgivings about anything?’
‘Tom is anxious, I know that.’
‘The Ag Sec? You think the President is going to be removed from office because he’s lost the Department of Agriculture?’
‘Barbara is also unhappy. Health and Human Services is a significant department.’
‘Yeah, but Barbara’s husband is a tranny, Bob.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘“Transitioning to become a woman.”’
Kassian exhaled. ‘I did not know that.’
‘McNamara’s been holding onto it for weeks. Leverage.’ Bruton opened his eyes wide, as if to say: We’re not in Kansas any more, Toto.
‘We did the right thing with the doctor, but it’s not helped us,’ Kassian said, mindful that they both ought to get back to their offices before people – McNamara – started getting suspicious. ‘We can’t get the VP. We can’t get the cabinet. We don’t have any of the tools in place to trigger the Twenty-fifth and we have no prospect of getting them.’
Bruton sighed. ‘We’re back to impeachment.’
‘We’ve been over this, Jim. “Treason, bribery, or other high crimes and misdemeanours”.’
‘But what’s a freakin’ higher crime or misdemeanour than ordering the end of the freakin’ world? Jesus.’
‘Look, you don’t have to persuade me. It’s Capitol Hill we’d have to persuade. And they’re in lockstep with him. They’re terrified of crossing him. They wouldn’t believe us anyway. There’s no way we could provide the proof – not unless we want to make public what happened yesterday. Which could trigger a nuclear war all by itself.’
‘So you’re telling me we’re all out of options,’ Bruton said.
‘I think so, yes.’
There was a silence between them, filled by what they both knew but did not want to say. In truth, it had hovered over them since that first phone call in the small hours of yesterday morning. They both knew it.
Eventually Kassian, so used to letting Bruton lead, spoke first. ‘The Twenty-fifth Amendment is closed to us. So is impeachment. Not for reasons that anyone could defend, not because of public servants taking a different view of what’s best for the safety of the country, but because of politicians thinking of what’s best for their careers.’
Bruton nodded, willing Kassian to speak for both of them – and to say it.
