To Kill the President: The most explosive thriller of the year

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.’

‘What 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 (#ulink_d9c700e7-68be-5666-a297-372febd405e0)

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.