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

‘So you won’t help, even though I have been honest with you and told you I believe there is a risk of all-out nuclear war on your territory and in your backyard?’

Zheng shook his head. ‘I cannot give you what you want.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Remember, Beijing is not so different from Washington. Maybe it’s not so visible. There’s not so much publicity. But we have arguments too. Factions who compete for power. If my president were to do what you ask, there would be much opposition from some very powerful people. It would be a great risk for him. So I cannot give you what you ask.’

‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’

‘But I can give you something else.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Time.’

‘I don’t follow.’

The Chinese diplomat took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes and put the spectacles back on. ‘You said I have some influence in the governing circle in my country and, with some modesty, perhaps you are right. So here’s what I can promise you. We will give you five days to resolve the problem you have with your President. For these five days, the People’s Republic of China will,’ he paused, looking for the right word, ‘restrain the hand of our friends in the north of Korea. But once these five days are passed, we can offer no guarantee. Then, if the young leader in Pyongyang is provoked once more, it will be his right to respond with great force.

‘You and I agree that that would be a disaster for all of us. But this is how it must be. I repeat: you have five days, Mr Kassian. I hope for all our sakes you use them wisely.’

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

Washington, DC, Monday, 7.02pm

Maggie was home at seven pm. Unheard of, at least under the previous president. Back then, Maggie regarded eighteen-hour days as the norm. That felt a long time ago.

Ideally, she wanted to flop into bed, pull the duvet over her head and not come out for a week. Pathetic, she knew, to have her priorities so out of whack. So right, she said to herself, when your main problem was that the free world was led by a bigoted sociopath – let alone one you worked for – that was somehow bearable. But seeing your boyfriend smile at another woman, suddenly that istoo much? What kind of person are you, Maggie Costello?

This was not a new question. She was used to interrogating herself this way and almost always in these circumstances. ‘Boyfriend trouble’, as Eleanor at work put it, making Maggie feel fifteen years old. ‘Heartache’ had been her mother’s preferred term.

The consensus among her friends – and family – was that Maggie was a bad picker, that she chose men who were either absurdly unsuitable or transparently unavailable. There had certainly been several in that first category. She thought fleetingly of Edward, her first Washington boyfriend and a certifiable control freak. How funny: they had lived together, yet now she hardly thought of him.

There were a few in the second category too: relationships doomed from the start. She thought back to her much younger self, working for an NGO in the Congo, part of a team charged with brokering a ceasefire. She had become involved with a leader of one of the armed factions, hopelessly compromising her status as a mediator. That mistake had cost her dear. The affair had been charged and intense, of course, but it was obvious now – and surely obvious then – that it could never have worked.

But then she thought of Uri, the man she had met in Jerusalem, who had followed her here. Nothing unsuitable about him. He was gorgeous, clever, loving. And he had been available too. He had wanted to settle down, to have a family. It had been Maggie who had been unavailable, too restless to fix on one place or one person. It had been Maggie who had said no. Just bad timing with that one, she told herself.

She had made it to the bed when the phone rang. Shit. She had told Richard to meet her back here for Chinese. What if that was him? She didn’t want to see him, but she was pleased he wanted to come. Or maybe not. She had no idea.

She looked down at her phone. Not Richard. But her sister.

‘Hi, Liz.’

There was a pause and then, ‘Oh, Maggie.’

‘What? What is it? Has something happened to the kids? Are they OK?’

‘Yes,’ her sister sniffed. ‘They’re fine. It’s not them.’

Truth be told, Maggie was not yet used to having her sister phone like this. Not used to her being in the same timezone. But Liz’s husband had been offered a job in Atlanta two years ago and so they’d left Dublin. ‘Now that Ma’s gone,’ Liz had said, ‘it makes sense, don’t you think?’ Maggie had agreed of course, but she wasn’t convinced. Having the Atlantic Ocean between her and her closest relatives had worked pretty well until now: why mess with a winning formula?

‘So what is it? Is it you? Are you ill?’

‘No. Nothing like that. Do you remember I told you about that girl in my class?’

‘Which one?’ Maggie had moved to the kitchen, where she was opening and closing cupboard doors, looking for a serviceable bottle of whisky. She didn’t want any of that hipster shite Richard claimed to like.

‘Mia.’

‘The one who was raped?’

‘Yes. Really lovely girl. Quiet, but smart. Thoughtful.’

‘What happened?’

‘Well, she got pregnant.’

‘Christ.’

‘Yes. And she wanted an abortion. She thought about it. She had counselling. And she was, like, “There is no way I can have this baby.”’

‘Course.’

‘But guess what? Thanks to the Supreme fucking Court, there is no way within six hundred miles of here that she could get an abortion.’

‘Oh no.’ Maggie found a bottle of Laphroaig behind the tins of peeled tomatoes, several of them with pre 9/11 use-by dates. She poured herself a glass.

‘No exceptions, remember? Not even for rape or incest. Maybe for “life of the mother”. She’s been getting counselling, seeing doctors, trying to establish that her life is in danger.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘And she just can’t find two doctors who will agree to say it, to say her life is in danger.’

‘Why? How difficult can—’

‘I was pleading with the principal, saying we have to do something. I went to the police. No one would listen. And Mia’s saying, “I can feel this thing growing inside me. Because of him. I can’t bear it, Miss Costello. I can’t bear it.”’

Maggie felt the dread rising. She knocked back the glass. And poured herself another. ‘Go on.’

‘I made a plan. I thought, I’m going to raise the money and put her on a plane to Canada. Or maybe Cuba or something. But I’ll get her out of here and we’ll do it. I was going to see her parents tonight, to arrange it.’

‘What happened?’

At that, her younger sister let out the most awful howl. And then there was an explosion of snot and tears. Maggie knew. But she waited for her sister to say the words.

‘This morning. She wasn’t in school.’ More sobbing. ‘And I was worried. I had this feeling, you know?’

‘Yes.’

‘And then this afternoon …’ Liz was struggling to get the words out. ‘This afternoon, after school, Mia’s sister went home. And she’s only twelve, this girl. She gets home. And she finds … she finds …’