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

‘Maybe something with the President? Had the President perhaps …’ Maggie stopped herself. She could see a thought had passed across the woman’s eyes, like a plane across the sky.

‘The only thing I can think of.’

‘Yes.’

‘Talking of bringing work home—’

Maggie nodded.

‘—was last night. That was unusual, I suppose.’

Maggie stayed silent, aware that she was taking a risk: the couple behind her might step into the lull and seize Mrs Frankel’s attention for themselves. But instinct told her she needed to keep quiet.

‘Jeffrey doesn’t often get visited at home. But Mr Kassian and General Bruton came here last night. They went into Jeffrey’s study with him.’

‘The Defense Secretary? And the Chief of Staff? Here? Last night?’

‘I offered them lemonade.’

‘Do you know why they were here?’

‘They didn’t want any. Even though it’s homemade. And it was such a warm night.’

‘Do you know what they wanted, Mrs Frankel? It could be important.’

But she was already looking away, extending her arms to hug the woman who’d been waiting so long. Maggie heard a muffled, ‘We’re so sorry, Helen.’ She squeezed her way back through the throng, raising her eyebrows in recognition as she saw more colleagues, most of them former rather than current. But she was in no mood to linger. She needed to be outside, to be able to breathe. She needed to be far away from here, and absorb what she had just been told – and what it meant.

There was now no doubt in her mind that Dr Jeffrey Frankel, physician to the President, had been murdered. Much harder to face was the fact that his widow had, inadvertently, pointed the finger of suspicion at two of the most senior figures in the United States government.

13 (#ulink_1bf24eda-cd4f-5151-88e5-654a5425613c)

The Willard Hotel, Washington, DC, Tuesday, 6.53pm

‘And no checking your phone.’

Robert Kassian said nothing. He was checking his phone.

‘Bob!’

His wife couldn’t see him, but she knew. She was in the bathroom, getting ready for tonight’s reception: his second of the evening. He had bidden Jim Bruton goodbye, slipped out of the East Room and come straight here.

As he perched on the end of the bed, waiting for her, he wondered: was the use of this suite a perk of Pamela being a board member, or had it been granted as a gesture towards his needs, as White House Chief of Staff? If the latter, it was considerate. Privacy, space to meet his wife and make the transition from the working day to the evening: it was helpful. Unless – and the thought appalled him – someone in his office had demanded it, treating this tiny not-for-profit as if it were one of the mega-charities the White House was used to. He thought about thumbing out a quick email to his assistant, but thought better of it. What if Pamela poked her head around the bathroom door and caught him in the act?

She was in there adjusting her dress, perfecting her make-up, he didn’t know which. He’d been in there once, to make a judgement on jewellery – earrings or bracelet or both? – and she had seemed almost ready then. But that meant nothing. It was perfectly possible that a choice of necklace had triggered a rethink of the entire ensemble, dress included.