Sam Bourne - To Kill the President - The most explosive thriller of the year

But no one planned for this situation. Or this Commander in Chief.

‘What shall I do, sir?’ The woman sounded like she was quaking.

Kassian was now downstairs. His movements had stirred the security detail who guarded his house. The lead officer was standing, close to the front door. Kassian made a driving gesture with his right hand. They headed to the car.

‘Has he got the codes? Did the military aide give him the codes?’

‘He tried not to, sir. He delayed as long as he could.’

‘But he’s got them?’

‘The President put his hands around his neck and threatened to strangle him.’

‘OK. OK.’ Kassian looked out of the window, watching a sleeping Alexandria speed by. Even at this pace, he could make out the lawn signs that had sprouted all over this town and – in certain places – across the country. Not My President.

‘Have you called Jim? Secretary Bruton. Have you called him?’

‘He’s being spoken to now, sir.’

‘OK. In the meantime, you need to tell the President the procedure for such a decision requires the presence of Secretary Bruton and myself. There is a sequence we need to follow.’

‘But, that’s not—’

‘Just tell him.’

‘Shall I put you on the phone to him, sir?’

Kassian weighed it up. Instinct told him it would not work. The President would not take it, not from him. Military officers – neutral, anonymous – stood a better chance: there was a possibility he would hear their words as the response of a system, a machine, with no inherent hostility to him, no feelings either way. So far that had proved the best way to stop him.

‘No, I’ll talk to him when I get there.’

‘But you may not get here in time.’

Kassian remembered what the President’s daughter had said about her father in a TV interview during the campaign. ‘You never say “No.” You say, “Yes, but maybe not right now.”’ The interviewer had laughed, joking that it was kind of like dealing with a toddler. The daughter had laughed back, saying, ‘Whatever works, right?’

‘All right. Tell him, you’ve spoken to us. We support him and want to be with him on this one. And the best way to ensure this decision goes well for him is if he waits for me and Secretary Bruton.’

There was a banging sound. It could have been a fist pounding the desk or a door being slammed, Kassian could not be sure. He hoped it was the latter. Maybe the President had stormed out of the Situation Room in frustration, his will thwarted. Perhaps he would just go to bed or watch TV. The man hardly ever slept.

But then the officer spoke again. ‘He’s been put through, sir. He’s talking to the War Room at the Pentagon right now.’

Kassian felt a heave in his guts. Good God, what was this man about to do?

He killed the call and moved to make another, dialling Jim Bruton’s cell. It was hard to press the buttons; his hands were trembling. And as he put the phone to his ear, all he could think of were the words from that briefing, perhaps three days before the President was sworn in. At your command, sir, will be thousands of weapons, each one ten or twenty times more lethal than the bomb dropped on Hiroshima … Retaliation by the enemy will be automatic, swift and devastating. The combination of an initial US strike and the enemy’s counter-strike will lead to the deaths of hundreds of millions of people within a matter of hours … Yes, sir, we have gamed that out: our most conservative scenario projects a global catastrophe that would end civilization itself, sir … On your command, eight hundred and fifty missile warheads will take flight within no more than fifteen minutes … No, sir. Once the order is given, there can be no stopping, no recall and no turning back.

Busy signal. He tried again. And then again. Until at last he heard that trademark, Louisiana drawl, the one voice in Washington he truly trusted, the voice he’d heard in countless moments of mortal danger – though none as terrifying as this.

‘Bob, is that you?’

‘Jim, thank God. Listen, you have to get hold of the War Room right now, before he does. You have to tell them—’

‘I already did. I told them they have to stall.’

‘How?’

‘They’re telling him there’s a malfunction in satellite comms. They can’t reach the subs.’

‘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.

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?’