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

‘He’ll never believe that.’

‘What else have we got? He’s mad as a snake, raging and squawking.’ Bruton’s voice dropped. ‘He’s going to fucking kill us all, Bob. You do realize that? He says he wants Option B.’

‘Which one is that?’ Kassian remembered – how could he forget – the ‘black book’, carried by the President’s personal military aide, the aide who was with him at all times, setting out the menu of options, the different target lists. He just couldn’t remember which one was B.

‘North Korea and China.’

‘Mother of God.’

‘And he’s going to do it in the next sixty seconds. Just as soon as that poor bastard in the War Room runs out of excuses.’

‘You have to tell him it’s an illegal order.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Call the War Room. Tell them they are required to disobey an illegal order.’

‘But that’s bullshit. You know he has total and absolute authority. He can do whatever the fuck he wants. I can’t stop him, Joint Chiefs can’t stop him, Congress can’t stop him. This is his show. One hundred per cent.’

‘Yes, but they only have to obey an order that is constitutional.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning, the Commander in Chief must believe that he is defending the country against an actual or imminent attack.’

‘Well, maybe he does believe that.’

‘It’s a war of words, Jim. Five days of words. No reasonable person could say we’re under threat of an attack.’

‘But that’s the point. He’s not a—’

‘Well, tell your men that is the test they must apply. In fact they don’t need to make any decision. You’re telling them. This is an illegal order.’

‘It doesn’t work like that. He’s the Commander in Chief, he’s—’

‘We don’t have time for a fucking debate, Jim. Tell them. It’s that or we’re all dead.’

He hung up. And, as his car turned into Pennsylvania Avenue, Bob Kassian closed his eyes and, for the first time since he was a child, he prayed.

2 (#u330ce05c-f542-51fb-9975-ba187bd64ff5)

The White House, Monday, 8.45am

‘What in fuck’s name is that?’

Maggie Costello was in the outer office, where her boss’s PA and two others sat. She had only just spotted that on a back wall, just behind the secretary’s head, alongside the portraits of previous holders of this grand office – the White House Counsel – was a calendar. Not the usual one found in Washington government buildings, showing spectacular landscapes of the great American outdoors, but the kind you’d see in a car repair shop. The image for this month, May, depicted a woman on all fours, facing the camera, wearing nothing but tiny bikini bottoms, her mouth gaping open, her tongue visible.

The PA, a black woman in her fifties, gave a resigned shrug.

‘Seriously, Eleanor, who put that up there?’

The PA scowled at Maggie, a look that said, Don’t get me into trouble.

Maggie leaned forward, letting her voice drop to a whisper. ‘I won’t tell anyone.’

Eleanor looked over her shoulder and said, ‘Mr McNamara’s orders. He’s put them up all over the West Wing. He said it was about time this place got in touch with the working people of America. About time it looked like a regular American workplace.’

‘You’re not even joking, are you?’

The woman shook her head.

Maggie leaned across, stretching over Eleanor’s shoulder and, in one move, ripped the calendar clean off. Then, she tore through the thick, glossy paper once, twice, and headed towards the trash. Habit made her look for the green bin for paper.

‘No more recycling, Maggie. He’s got rid of that too. “It’s not called the Green Faggot House. It’s called the White House.”’

‘That’s what he said?’

‘Uh-huh.’

Maggie dumped the remnants of the swimsuit calendar in the sole trash can and marched into her office, slamming the door behind her.

She would have complained to her nominal boss, the man who carried the title of Counsel, but he was an absentee holder of the post, a pal of the President who served as his personal bankruptcy lawyer and been rewarded with a White House sinecure. Maggie had met him only once, at a cocktail party to celebrate his appointment; he hadn’t been seen at the White House since.

She reached for her phone and sent a text message to Richard.

What the hell are we doing here?

In the old days, there would have been scores of women, at all levels, who would have done what she had just done, or backed her up. But now, in this department, it was just her and Eleanor. The rest were all men, almost all of them white. And that pattern held across the White House.

A few seconds later, he replied. Am in with Commerce folks. Talk later tonight?

She shoved the phone across the desk, letting it collide with the picture she kept of herself with the previous President – a tiny gesture of rebellion in this new era. Right now, she felt like cursing that man. It was – partly – his fault she was still here.

‘Listen, Maggie,’ he had said. ‘I know how you feel about my successor—’, but she didn’t let him finish.

‘You see, even that, I can’t stomach. My successor. How can you say that, like this is normal? This is not normal. He’s a liar and a cheat and a bigot and should be nowhere near this place.’

The outgoing President had indulged her, the way he always did. ‘Maggie, you’re a woman of great passion. It’s why you’ve served this administration – and me – so well. But the people have spoken. He’ll be my President – and he should be yours.’

‘But no one’s telling you to stay and bloody work here.’

‘I’m not sure I’m the right demographic,’ he smiled.

‘Exactly. That’s another thing. It’s all white men. Hundreds of them. Every appointment he’s made. It’s like there are millions and millions of people he doesn’t even see.’

‘So, if you stay, you can even up the score a little. Woman, native Dubliner. That’s two boxes you check, right there.’

‘But—’