To Kill the President

by Sam Bourne

  McNamara sat back, proud of his instant handiwork. ‘It writes itself, Maggie.’ He leaned forward again, excited. ‘Ooh, I nearly forgot. Just in case there’s any liberals and bedwetters who are thinking of rallying around you, you know, hashtag “I stand with Maggie”’ – he raised his hand in a clenched fist salute – ‘we can tell them exactly who it was who broke their hearts last time around. We can reveal the name of Miss Goody Two-Shoes, the woman who spilled the beans on a certain leading politician’s use of an unsecured phone. Yep, your boyfriend shared that little confession with me.’ He adopted a high-pitched, strangulated tone, and clasped his hands together in a mocked gesture of female panic. ‘“It was me, Maggie Costello. It’s my fault that that evil man is President!”’

  Maggie felt her jaw tighten. She was determined not to be knocked off course. ‘Richard told you everything, didn’t he? Whatever I said, the moment it was out of my mouth, he let you know. So you knew what I was thinking about Kassian and Bruton, after the death of Dr Frankel.’

  ‘Richard is a very loyal colleague, yes. Or he was. I mean, keeping a record of my messages to him: that’s not so nice, is it? I suppose he thought that would be his insurance policy, just in case. But he’s young. Perhaps he didn’t know what you and I know, Maggie: never play a player.

  ‘But sure, it was Richard who first gave me the heads-up. Once he told me that Batman and Robin had made their late-night house call to Dr Frankel, well, I had an inkling what was going on. Just like you did. You see, great minds think alike!’

  ‘Hold on,’ Maggie said, as much to herself as to him.

  ‘It was obvious. What else would they want with the doctor, except for him to certify that the President was out of his mind?’

  ‘Hold on, hold on.’ She looked up at him, her mind turning over at double speed. ‘I never told Richard they went to see Frankel at home.’

  ‘Wherever, it doesn’t matter. The point—’

  ‘All I said was that they’d had a meeting with him, following the incident in the Situation Room. So why did you say they saw him at home?’

  ‘Look, the point is—’

  ‘No, no, no. You knew they went there. You always knew. You probably had the goons from your private security force tailing them that night. Of course you did. And the minute they came out of his house, you thought there was a risk Frankel had agreed to certify the President. You had to stop him before he signed that declaration. You had him killed. It wasn’t Kassian and Bruton. It was you.’

  ‘Like I said, Maggie. If you have power, you use it. So endeth today’s lesson.’ He pressed the speaker button on his phone once more.

  ‘April, Maggie has decided to leave us. Could you ask security to escort her to her office? She has fifteen minutes to pack her boxes – under supervision – and be gone. And please ask Comms to revoke all email and access codes instantly. Thanks, April.’

  McNamara stood up. ‘Maggie, it’s been real. You’re a smart girl. You know the drill. You make any of these baseless accusations again and you will feel the full might of the Presidency of the United States come down on you. And remember, you’ve got nothing that can’t be dismissed as speculation, deranged conspiracy theory or a malicious, partisan smear. Maybe all three. Bottom line: we will destroy you. And, as you’ve seen for yourself, we don’t mind taking the ultimate step if we have to.’

  He extended his hand. Maggie ignored it. As she left, she could hear him cry out, ‘Have a great day!’

  51

  Silver Spring, Maryland, Saturday, 5.45pm

  Maggie was holding a mug of tea in her hands, more for the warmth than for the drink. It remained stubbornly true that Americans could not make a cup of tea to save their lives, even an American as kind and welcoming as Eleanor.

  Still, she was glad to be here. She felt as sure as she could be that this was a safe place, though she had come by a circuitous route – one cab, two buses – just in case. But she suspected that even the Praetorian guard would not have the home of a mid-ranking, middle-aged White House secretary, on a residential street in the Maryland suburbs, under constant surveillance.

  They took precautions, all the same. Eleanor ushered Maggie into the house quickly, not letting her linger on the doorstep. She drew the curtains, turned the TV on loud and only spoke euphemistically about the meeting Maggie had just come from. The rest of the time, she sought to make Maggie comfortable, giving her something to eat, letting her settle into a deep armchair, watching her as she closed her eyes and drifted into a brief sleep.

  While they waited for him to arrive, they chatted, as indirectly as they could, about everything that had led to this moment. Maggie said she now understood why McNamara had worked so hard to get her out of the way: hijacking her car on the road, having her beaten up by those goons, nearly poisoning Liz and the kids. He was worried she might foil the assassination plot, when McNamara had decided it was in his interest to let it go ahead. Once he had seen Maggie’s late-night jottings on that pad, McNamara resolved to let Kassian and Bruton’s effort play out.

  Still, the topic they wanted to discuss most, but which they could only tiptoe around, was ‘Rosemary’. When that reporter had asked Maggie what she knew of this woman everyone was talking about, she was not feigning her ignorance. True, she had heard the name a couple of times, but she had not been lying when she said she didn’t know who she was.

  And so, when Maggie and Eleanor had met at Au Bon Pain soon after she’d come off the phone from Jake Haynes, Maggie had asked her old friend straight: ‘Who is she?’

  Eleanor had looked down at the table, focusing on her fingernails, then at the door, then back to her fingernails. ‘You know I love you, Maggie, but there are some things …’

  Maggie had reached across the table, placing her hand gently on the older woman’s. ‘You know me, Eleanor. I’m careful. I’m thorough. And I would never, ever put you in danger.’

  ‘I’m in danger just sitting here with you.’

  ‘Say I’ve got boyfriend trouble. You’re consoling me.’ Maggie gave a weak smile, one that conveyed that she understood the risk Eleanor was taking, that she would not downplay it. ‘But you can see what’s happening. You can see why I have to do something.’

  The TV on the wall just above them was tuned to CNN. The caption along the bottom read: Military announce new emergency powers. The network had even designed a special logo: Crackdown.

  ‘So,’ Maggie said again. ‘Who is she?’

  Eleanor let out the sigh of a woman who feels she has no choice. ‘Rosemary is a secretary. Kind of.’

  Maggie thought of that name on the staff list, the one she had considered too junior to count. She kicked herself for being so dismissive.

  ‘What do you mean, “kind of”?’

  ‘I mean she used to be. She’s dead now.’

  ‘Dead? Don’t tell me she’s been killed too. What the hell—’

  ‘No, listen. I’m not explaining this very well. You know about Watergate, right?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You ever hear the story of Rose Mary Woods?’

  The name rang a distant bell, but nothing more. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘So Rose Mary Woods was Nixon’s secretary. Very, very loyal – even at the end. She became famous because there was a gap – eighteen and a half minutes long – on one of the Watergate tapes, and Rose Mary put her hand up and said it was her fault. She said she was transcribing the tape and must have accidentally hit the erase button, while her foot was on the pedal.’

  ‘The pedal?’

  Eleanor smiled. ‘You’re too young to know about all that. Heck, I’m too young. It was a long time ago. Different world; before computers. Anyway, the tape was recorded in the Oval Office: you know there was a secret recording system, right? It’s a long story. Nixon didn’t put it in there, but he used it.’

  ‘And the tapes helped bring him down over Watergate?’

  ‘Right. They got rid of the whole thing after Nixon.
Ripped it out. No recording system.’

  ‘OK.’ Maggie was beginning to get impatient.

  ‘So “Rosemary” is kind of a codename.’

  ‘For what?’

  Eleanor hesitated, then looked up to meet Maggie’s gaze. Her eyes said, ‘Don’t make me spell it out.’

  Maggie bit her lip as the thought took shape. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said eventually. ‘They’ve brought it back. Rose Mary is the name for the recording system?’

  Eleanor nodded.

  So that, thought Maggie, was what Richard was referring to in those messages to McNamara, even if he’d spelled it wrongly. Hey maybe I can get Rosemary on it, see what the deal with those two is.

  ‘And I bet it was McNamara who put it in.’

  Eleanor nodded again.

  ‘And it records every meeting in the Oval Office?’

  ‘Not just there. It’s all over.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘All over. Audio and video. Any room they want to listen to, any time.’

  A memory came back to Maggie, something she had barely registered. It was when she had gone in to see Bob Kassian. As soon as the conversation had turned sensitive, he had put on some classical music. It had been oddly loud. Maggie had not made much of it: she was too focused on questioning him over the death of Dr Frankel. Now, though, she remembered what Kassian had said as the music started playing. Rosemary doesn’t like it, but it helps me relax.

  At the time, she assumed ‘Rosemary’ was Kassian’s wife or perhaps his assistant. She’d given it no thought. But now she understood. Kassian was having to act like a dissident under an authoritarian regime: working on the assumption that he was bugged and taking suitable steps to make his conversations inaudible. And this was the Chief of Staff of the White House.

  ‘So at any moment,’ Maggie said, ‘McNamara can listen in to any office, anywhere?’

  ‘And not just at that moment. He can play back recordings going back weeks. It’s state of the art.’

  ‘My office too?’

  ‘Everywhere. Including his own office. He wants to have a record of everything people have said, everything they’ve agreed to, so he can use it against them if he needs to.’

  So her office had been bugged. McNamara would have seen and heard every one of her conversations, in person and on the phone. She had been exposed from the beginning. At home, through Richard. And at work, through a hidden, all-seeing eye.

  ‘How do you know all this, Eleanor?’

  Now she looked away, even warier than before.

  ‘Eleanor?’

  ‘Listen, Maggie. I’ve told you what I know because I like you. And I think you’re trying to do the right thing. But I’ve got to put my family first.’

  ‘Your family? What’s this got to … Oh. Of course. Martin.’

  Eleanor’s eldest son, the one who worked at the White House. He’d got an apprenticeship there during the last administration, back when they were still hiring African-Americans. He was in IT, one of the geeks who made everything work.

  ‘Maggie, please. Martin can’t afford to lose this job. I’m old now, they can fire me. I’ll get by. But Martin. He’s got his life ahead of him.’

  Maggie said nothing.

  ‘Oh no. Don’t give me that look. I know that look, Maggie Costello. That means you’ve got an idea.’

  That had been more than five hours ago, before Maggie’s meeting with McNamara. And now here they both were, in Eleanor’s home, Maggie with her eyes closed, trying to rest, while Eleanor was picking at her eyebrow, a habit that returned at times of high stress.

  Finally, they both heard a key turning in the front door. Eleanor got up and hugged her son without saying a word. Her head barely reached his chest. ‘Thank God,’ she said quietly.

  Maggie noticed that Martin was not smiling.

  He nodded in her direction, sat down on the couch and breathed out – a long whistle of air.

  Maggie braced herself for disappointment. ‘So,’ she said. ‘Was it impossible?’

  Martin met her eyes and said, ‘Yes. Impossible. The security protocols on Rosemary are, like, triple tight. And there’s the time it takes to transfer HD video files. Completely impossible.’

  Then he dug into his right pocket to produce a USB stick, which he held up for Maggie and Eleanor to see. ‘But I did it anyway.’

  52

  Silver Spring, Maryland, Saturday, 8.01pm

  They spent the rest of the evening watching the video recording of Maggie’s meeting with Crawford McNamara and deciding what to do with it.

  Eleanor wasn’t kidding about ‘state of the art’. Both the sound and pictures were crystal clear. There could be no mistaking that it was McNamara who was speaking – and no mistaking what he was saying either.

  The three of them – Maggie, Eleanor and Martin – sat huddled over a laptop watching it together. Maggie winced when the video showed McNamara revealing that it was she who had sounded the alarm over the unsecured cellphone used by the President’s election opponent. Eleanor had closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. ‘Oh, Maggie,’ she said quietly.

  Soon afterwards, Martin had offered to edit that bit out. ‘I can do it easily,’ he said.

  Maggie considered it. After all, it would complicate matters unnecessarily; it could confuse the point; better to keep it simple.

  But then she thought of how McNamara and his team would respond. ‘You see,’ they’d say. ‘That tape has been doctored. What else did they edit out?’ No, the tape would have to be left intact. It had to show the whole meeting – and the whole truth. The thought filled Maggie with dread. The secret she had held onto so long, the one that would destroy her career and, much worse, would shame her in the eyes of everyone whose opinion she valued, would be secret no more.

  Martin did what he had to do, converting the file, turning it into a protected link. ‘We need a password,’ he said eventually.

  ‘How about “Rosemary@1974”?’ Maggie suggested.

  With that done, Martin then handed over the keyboard. She would be the one sending it out, and deciding where it went. It was up to her.

  Maggie sent it to four addresses – the leadership of both parties in the House and the Senate – and then a fifth: Jake Haynes at the New York Times. It was the least she could do.

  Early the next day, Jake gave her advance warning for when the story would go online, allowing her time to get out of DC before she, and her apartment, got deluged. It meant that she was in her car when the news broke. She heard it on the radio.

  This is NPR News in Washington with a reminder of our top story. Leaders in the House of Representatives have announced that they will bring impeachment proceedings against the President as soon as this week. The move follows the release of a videotape in which the President’s senior counsellor, Crawford ‘Mac’ McNamara, is seen admitting the secret deployment of CIA personnel to kill civilians, including US citizens, solely for the advancement of the President’s private business interests.

  The tape also includes a recording of the President’s own voice, apparently authorizing the killings.

  The revelations come after the death of Sergeant Gary Turner, a CIA operative involved in such a mission in Africa earlier this month.

  Speaking this morning, the Chairman of the House Judiciary Committee said hearings would begin on Monday, with a view to drawing up articles of impeachment …

  Maggie carried on driving, parked up and then walked along the paths and through the gardens until she reached Stuart.

  ‘So what’s up, my girl?’

  ‘“My girl?” Since when did you call me “my girl”?’

  ‘Since today. That’s quite something you pulled off there, Maggie Costello.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Though, I must confess one small disappointment.’

  ‘Oh, really? What?’

  ‘Rosemary. Or rather “Rose Mary”. How could you not have got that? How many times did I tell you abou
t Watergate? Rose Mary Woods. I mean that’s Watergate for Dummies, Maggie.’

  ‘Have I let you down, Stuart?’

  ‘No, Maggie. You really have not.’

  There was a pause, while Maggie listened to the breeze. Then she heard his voice again. ‘So. Are you ready for what’s coming? The stuff about you, I mean. The unsecured phone and all that.’

  ‘I think so. I’ll just have to say, I believe in upholding the law. Whoever’s broken it.’

  ‘That sounds good. Sincere, authentic.’

  ‘And true, Stuart.’

  ‘Which, like I always say is—‘

  ‘—always a bonus.’

  Maggie smiled. ‘In a way, Stuart, it’ll be a relief. I’ve been carrying this around too long. I think it’ll be good to have that weight off my shoulders.’

  ‘And what will you do next?’

  ‘Next? Jesus, I haven’t even thought about that. But I’ll think of something. There’s no shortage of work to be done, you know that. I mean, have you seen the state of the Vice President?’

  That brought a warm laugh. Even if it was only in her own head. After a minute or so of silence, Maggie bent down and, as she always did on these visits, she found a stone – a smooth, round one – and, following the custom of the cemetery, she placed it on the gravestone.

  She read the inscription to herself one last time. Stuart Goldstein, Wise Counsellor, Loving Husband, Enduring Friend.

  ‘Goodbye, Stuart,’ she said. ‘Thanks for everything.’

  She got back in her car, checked the map for the route to Liz’s house in Atlanta, and readied herself for the long drive. She didn’t mind that. In fact, she was looking forward to it. She would be out on the open road, the sun was bright and summer was on its way.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  If this book is about a conspiracy, then I had several co-conspirators along the way. Tom Cordiner and Steven Thurgood were once again generous with their expertise on all matters computer-related, while Nick Hopkins enlightened me on the dark arts of encryption. Steve Coombe remains a fount of knowledge on arms and armaments – and a shrewd and encouraging reader. Jason Burke was an inspired guide to the backstreets of Delhi,z Andrew Miller shared his knowledge of Atlanta and I’m grateful to Nizad Salehi for helping me with the arcane science of heating systems gone rogue. Robin Niblett of Chatham House instructed me on the geopolitics of nuclear confrontation in Asia, while the writings of Bruce Blair proved indispensable on the protocols and powers that govern a US president in charge of the world’s mightiest nuclear arsenal. I also learned much from Radiolab’s documentary, The Rhino Hunter.