To Kill the President

by Sam Bourne

  Desperate to move across to the shoulder, she lightly touched the brake and felt the dread inside her rise. She pressed down harder, just to be sure. There could be no doubting it. The brakes did not work. She tried the accelerator, giving it a small tap, to see if that made any difference. It did not. There could be no denying it: she was on a highway, at speed, in a car over which she had next to no control.

  She gripped the steering wheel tighter, devoting all her mental strength to screening out the grinding, sawing metal noise coming from the radio that was splitting her brain in successive blows, an axe chopping through a tree stump. Her skin was cold and clammy at the same time. Every sinew in her body was straining to get out of this vehicle. It was, she knew, carrying her to her death.

  Maggie understood what was happening. She had read about it not so long ago: the hackers who had staged a stunt designed to expose a flaw in the software favoured by all the big car companies, demonstrating that they could take wireless control, over the internet, of almost any vehicle, via the car’s onboard entertainment system. From a laptop anywhere on the planet, they could send electronic commands to the dashboard – operating the radio or air-con – but also to the engine, steering or brakes. Someone sitting at a keyboard or screen miles away from here was driving this car. But whoever they were, she knew they had no mechanism for seeing the road ahead, for seeing what obstacles or dangers lay in her path. There were no traffic-facing cameras on this car. She was being driven by someone else far away – and that person was wearing a blindfold.

  Now she saw an opening to change lanes, to inch closer to the shoulder. She moved the steering wheel and, to her relief, that at least responded. They had left her that much. She touched the brake, in the hope that perhaps that too had been restored to her. But no. It remained dumb and useless. If a car stopped suddenly in front of her, she would plough into it, bringing death to her and to God knows how many others.

  That gave her an idea, one fraught with risk. She glanced at the dashboard. The display told her that the metal station was now playing Morbid Angel; the noise level was undiminished. But she also saw, just below the hazard lights button, the illuminated green circle she was looking for.

  She held her position in the middle lane and then, looking over her shoulder, changed lanes once again. Now she was where traffic was slowest. The shoulder was at her right side.

  One touch on the accelerator confirmed that that function was still lost to her. Her only option was to wait. Signs for the exits to Rockville were approaching. She half-wondered if her unseen masters might soon take the wheel and drive her somewhere of their choosing, down this side road or that, into a disused layby or area of wasteground. Was that what this was, a kidnapping as well as an electronic car-jacking? But the exits passed, the car still forging ahead at a steady seventy: a metal box hurtling towards a disaster she could not stop. Were her captors offering her a choice: to jump out and die instantly on the roadside, or to wait for the inevitable crash? Which death would be worse, which more painful? And which would inflict most calamity on others?

  She watched the tail of the car in front coming closer, an SUV with a reassuringly substantial rear bumper. She checked the rearview mirror once and then twice. No one too near. The speedometer told her she was still going at seventy, the same speed that she had held in the fast lane. Simple maths meant that soon she would catch up with the car in front.

  Who would be driving in an SUV in the slow lane of a highway in Maryland on a weekday morning? She pictured it: a young mother, her baby strapped into a seat at the back. Maggie imagined Liz in Atlanta, fussing over her own two baby boys in the car. She felt her face twist into a grimace at the thought of what she was about to attempt.

  The SUV was closer now, its speed probably closer to sixty than Maggie’s menacing seventy. Was that a ‘Baby On Board’ sticker? Her dread was rising.

  There was now the distance of two cars between them, no more. She glanced at the dashboard. It was saying nothing yet, though if there had been any kind of alarm she knew she wouldn’t hear it. The radio drowned out all else. Not for nothing was blasting hardcore music into the ears of prisoners deemed a method of torture: the noise was unbearable.

  Now she could see the ridge of the baby seat in the car in front and, though she could not be sure, the outline of a child’s head. Surely she should pull off now, swerve into the shoulder and hope for the best. She had to face facts: her gamble had not paid off. She was doomed. The only task now was to prevent her own death killing others.

  She put her hands on the wheel, readying herself to give up and make the turn when she saw the green circle on the dashboard turn red. Was it working?

  And then she felt it: the descent of the engine as the car itself changed gear and then the brakes, applied sharply and automatically, bringing the car to a sudden, lurching halt. She felt her neck snap forward and then back.

  But her hunch had been right. The car’s forward collision warning system had overridden whatever control the hackers had.

  Heart hammering, she put on the hazard lights and turned the steering wheel rightward to get herself onto the hard shoulder. But it was no good. The car was stalled, the engine killed. It wouldn’t move. She looked over her shoulder: cars were coming towards her right now, in her lane.

  Maggie threw open the car door on her side and leapt out into the shoulder – hoping the sight of the open door would act as some kind of warning to the oncoming traffic. A split-second later a car came towards her now-immobile vehicle, swerving just before impact. Then another and then a third, honking angrily as it sheared off the wing mirror on the driver’s side.

  She ran away from her car, in the direction of the traffic, so that she could give the oncoming vehicles sufficient warning and time to brake or change lane. She stood there, her hands waving in a desperate semaphore, the buffet of wind as each car passed a terrifying, physical force. She did not have time to register that her hands and knees were trembling.

  And yet even in that state, her mind did not stop whirring. On the contrary, it was throbbing with two sets of questions. Had Robert Kassian had sufficient time following their meeting this morning to have ordered this lethal hacking of her car? Were the resources at the disposal of the White House Chief of Staff and his ally, the US Secretary of Defense, so great that they could make such a thing happen so fast?

  At the same time, she wondered: had the man she regarded as her lover until a few hours ago realized that she had broken into his phone and read his most confidential messages? If he had, had he shared that information with Crawford McNamara? And did McNamara have sufficient resources at his disposal to order an act of hacking against Maggie that could very easily have ended her life and the lives of several wholly innocent others, including at least one child?

  The awful thing about these questions, as she put each one to herself in quick succession, and as she saw the flashing lights of a police car approach, was that she knew the answer to all of them.

  32

  Olney, Maryland, Thursday, 12.23pm

  ‘So what you got?’

  Classic Goldstein. No time for pleasantries.

  ‘It’s a mess. That’s what I’ve got.’

  ‘Why not start by telling me who you trust? Warning: the correct answer in Washington DC is always and forever—’

  ‘Nobody with two legs.’

  ‘Good girl. Somebody taught you well.’

  ‘That would be you, Stuart.’

  She looked around. This place was gorgeous in springtime. Leafy, beautifully maintained, quiet. Completely ridiculous that Stuart Goldstein, of all people, should be here. He was loud, unkempt and a creature of the city. He’d always looked out of place in Washington, let alone Olney, bloody Maryland. For a New Yorker like him, all pastrami sandwiches and pickles straight from the barrel, DC was the sticks. This place was the sticks of the sticks.

  But after what had happened on the highway, she could think of no place she’d ra
ther be. It had been her original destination, but even if it hadn’t she’d have come straight here anyway.

  The police had appeared quickly. She’d explained how her vehicle had suffered a complete system failure and how she believed she was the victim of external hacking. She produced her White House pass, said that she suspected this touched on questions of national security and added that her colleagues were likely to be investigating this episode themselves. She gave the officer the name and contact details for Eleanor as the person to liaise with, hoping that she’d done just enough for them to leave it at that.

  She did not tell them about the final display on the dashboard screen, which stayed on for a full minute, even after the engine had cut out. WARNING, it said. Except the word filled the entire screen and was not in the standard, corporate typeface for the car. That came direct from the hackers, she was sure of it. As if she hadn’t already got the message.

  ‘So put it this way, Maggie. Who do you distrust least?’

  ‘No one. Now that the president has gone.’

  ‘You mean the old president?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Isn’t it about time you were getting over him? Isn’t it time to moveon dot org?’

  Maggie smiled. ‘It’s past time.’

  ‘So come on. Who among your colleagues don’t you hate, besides Eleanor and the others?’

  Maggie paused, looking towards the trees.

  ‘That’s pretty telling, isn’t it?’

  Maggie nodded.

  ‘All right. Different approach. What do you know for certain?’

  ‘That Frankel is dead and someone killed him.’

  ‘Who would do that? Come on, Maggie. Cui bono?’

  ‘Well, that depends on what the doctor told Kassian and Bruton, doesn’t it?’

  ‘All right, walk me through it.’

  ‘If Frankel refused to declare the President mentally unfit, then Kassian and Bruton had every reason to kill him.’

  ‘He held their secret. OK. What if the doctor agreed?’

  ‘Then they needed him alive.’

  ‘Which means, Maggie, that someone else would have needed him dead.’

  ‘Yes. Anyone whose loyalty was to the President.’

  ‘OK, who do we have in mind?’

  ‘McNamara, obviously. Backed by Richard.’

  Stuart’s tone became sympathetic – and weary. ‘People say politics is brutal, but I tell ya, it ain’t got nothing on love.’

  Maggie paused before answering. She was worried her voice was going to wobble and that if that started, she wouldn’t know how to stop it. ‘I just feel so stupid, Stuart. So completely stupid.’

  ‘Not you, Maggie. Plenty of people I could name. Long list of them, in fact. But not you.’

  ‘I mean to be so used like that. And not even to see it. I mean, why, for Christ’s sake? Was I flattered, because he was younger than me and, you know, so good-looking? Was that it? Because that would be pathetic. And, Stuart, the things he said. The things he believes. I mean, how could I not see that this man – this man in my bed, touching me … Christ, it makes my flesh crawl just thinking about it. He’s a proper racist bastard, Stuart. A racist, misogynist, antisemitic bastard.’

  ‘Oh, I’m glad they didn’t leave us out of it. They usually keep a spot for us, these guys.’

  ‘I mean, I do have to ask myself, Stuart. At this stage of my life, why do I keep making this mistake? This same stupid, idiotic, naïve mistake.’

  ‘Keep making? I think this is the first Gestapo agent you’ve dated, unless there’s something you’re not telling me.’

  ‘I mean, you know … getting it wrong. With men.’

  ‘Like I say, love makes politics look like a stroll in the park.’

  ‘I’m not sure it was ever love, Stuart. More like lust.’ As she said the words, she wasn’t sure they were right. Sex had drawn her to Richard and kept her there, that was true. But those evenings together, those nights on the couch, watching cable news, lamenting the state of the world and their part in it – all that was true too. She might try to deny it now, but they had become close. She had let him in.

  ‘Well, lust is one of Goldstein’s big three, as you know.’

  ‘“Sex, money and power. The only three things that truly motivate people to act.”’

  ‘With an honourable mention for religion, in all its forms. Faith, idealism. Don’t forget that one.’ He was steering her back to the topic in hand.

  ‘With McNamara, he’s hungry for power, no doubt about it’, Maggie said. ‘And money.’

  ‘Kind of a package deal for those guys.’

  ‘And for Richard, sex seems to be a factor.’ She thought of the daughter. She thought of herself. ‘That’s not all. They’re true believers. Those messages from Richard. Like I said, they’re hardcore racists, Stuart. Hardcore. I kind of wish it was just about money and sex or whatever. They’re much more frightening than that.’

  ‘Are you scared, Maggie? Not a crime to be scared.’

  She laughed. ‘Someone just tried to crash my car with me in it.’ She paused and then said, ‘I’m scared for myself, Stu. Always got to be, at least a little bit. Otherwise you start taking stupid risks. But this feels different.’ She looked up. ‘I don’t think he was bluffing. The President, I mean. The other night. I think he did want to launch a nuclear strike. He ordered it. So yes, I’m scared. Not for me. Not only for me.’

  ‘Who for, Maggie?’

  She could feel her eyes pricking. ‘The first people I think of when you say that … I think of Callum and Ryan.’

  ‘Liz’s boys.’

  ‘Yes. I worry we’re going to mess everything up. For them.’

  ‘So let’s see if we can’t get to the bottom of this crater full of shit. You got your shit-shovelling clothes on?’

  Maggie smiled. ‘Always.’

  ‘Right now, you need to focus on the key question.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Remember I told you about JFK’s desk? Two in-trays?’

  ‘Urgent and Important.’

  ‘Right. And?’

  ‘They’re not the same thing.’

  ‘Right again. So what’s the important question?’

  ‘Who is behind all this? Who killed Frankel? Who tried to kill me?’

  ‘That’s three questions, but OK. Now what’s the urgent question?’

  Maggie bit her lower lip, looking into the distance at a tree that, somehow, still had a last whisper of blossom on its branches. The sky was a perfect blue.

  ‘Come on, Maggie. I haven’t got all day.’

  ‘Oh, am I keeping you, Stu?’

  ‘Places to meet, people to go.’

  ‘All right. The urgent question is …’

  ‘Come on, Mags. What do you need to know now? What is it you must know now?’

  ‘I need to know when.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘And where.’

  ‘Even better.’

  ‘I need to know when and where they’re going to kill the President.’

  ‘That’s right. You do. And I have an idea for how you can find out.’

  33

  Chantilly, Virginia, Thursday, 12.27pm

  There were hundreds of them, an embarrassment of riches. Wherever Julian Garcia looked, there were men – there may have been one woman – walking around with rifles slung over their shoulders, each one with a tell-tale little flag popping out of the barrel, to indicate these weapons were for private sale. It was ideal.

  He’d not been along to many of these things. He spent too much time around the real thing for a gun show to hold much appeal. As he parked up outside the hangar-sized venue, assessing the vehicles – with their ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ plates and occasional Confederacy-themed bumper stickers – he let his prejudices fill in the blanks. He imagined this place would be filled with weekend wannabes and armchair commandos, overweight white guys desperate to fondle the butt of a rifle they wouldn
’t know how to hold, let alone use in anger.

  But once he’d paid his $10 admission fee and started wandering around, he saw that, yes, there were plenty of those types but also large numbers of vets, most of them from the first Gulf war rather than the second. Some, Garcia supposed, were reliving the glory days: everyone knew of men who never again found the happiness they had felt in uniform. Others, he guessed, just liked all the gear, overgrown boys who could never quite get enough of all the toys. For others it was politics. The government, the Feds, the liberal elite were always on the brink of imposing a dictatorship: the only thing that stood in their way was good patriots keeping themselves armed and protected.

  Garcia had expected that feeling to have diminished now that they had a President who talked like them. What would they have to fear from this guy, who believed all the same conspiracy theories as they did? But, he discovered, most had simply adapted to the new situation. ‘He’s just one man’, had become the new mantra. ‘He’s taking on a whole system.’

  What was more, Garcia thought to himself with a smile, they weren’t completely wrong, all these wingnuts, were they? There was a conspiracy, behind the scenes, hidden from view, at the highest levels of power. Hell, he should know. He was part of it.

  How would ‘Jorge Hernandez’ explain why he was here? He would do his best to avoid being asked the question, for a start. He would talk to nobody. But if he stopped one of these men looking for a private sale, as he would soon have to, he would make clear he too was a man comfortable around guns. He had grown up in Texas; his dad, Garcia had decided, was a keen duck hunter. And, of course, he was a veteran.

  Jorge’s budget was finite. As he threaded through the stalls in this indoor marketplace, each trader setting out his wares – vintage muskets, knives, T-shirts emblazoned with the slogan ‘The Second Amendment … It Ain’t About Duck Hunting’ – on tables arranged into long, long rows, he was on the look-out for a solid, unflashy rifle. He wouldn’t buy it from any of these official sellers: that would mean showing ID, same as at a regular gun store. Better to find an individual, pay in cash. No paperwork required.