Читать книгу To Kill the President: The most explosive thriller of the year - Sam Bourne - Страница 11

Chevy Chase, Maryland, Monday, 9.25pm

Robert Kassian considered asking the Secret Service man to knock on the man’s door, but feared that might backfire. The mere sight of an agent on a suburban street (and no matter how much they bragged to the contrary, they always looked obvious) would attract too much attention, might scare their man off.

But neither could they simply turn up themselves, unannounced. That too would get attention. Even if he was not recognizable, Jim Bruton was. Within a few minutes, somebody would have tweeted a photo with the caption: Guess who just turned up in this neighbourhood. What *are* they up to?

The obvious solution was to call ahead. But every call on their phones was logged. Same was true of the driver’s. It was not worth the risk.

So they simply pulled up in Kassian’s official car – which was fractionally the less visible of the two – and asked the driver to go knock on the door and inform Dr Jeffrey Frankel that the White House Chief of Staff was waiting outside on an urgent matter and ask if he would be so kind as to allow him to come in.

To Kassian’s relief, the doctor and his wife were alone. No house full of teenagers, no Washington dinner party: that, he hoped, would reduce the likelihood of a leak. Dr Frankel said nothing in the hallway, though when he saw that there were two of them – that the Defense Secretary was here too – he furrowed his brow. He waved them into his study, which looked out onto the street.

‘Excuse me,’ Kassian said, closing the curtains without asking the doctor’s permission. ‘Just to ensure a little more privacy.’

Dr Frankel’s face creased in irritation. He looked older than the sixty-four years registered in the White House personnel database. His face was lined, even wizened. What hair he had was white and wiry, framing a birdlike face.

Kassian looked around. There were pictures on display on every available surface: Frankel and wife on vacation in Florida; Frankel and daughters deep-sea fishing; Frankel raising a glass at a bar mitzvah; relaxed and smiling with adult children and a horde of grandchildren, at what appeared to be a Thanksgiving dinner.

Of the fact that Frankel was physician to the President of the United States, and that he had ministered to several other key Washington players, there was no sign. Kassian had seen enough private studies in this town to know this was unusual. The lack of an ‘ego wall’ made Frankel a rare creature. Everyone said they cherished family above all, but this man seemed to mean it.

‘Dr Frankel,’ he began at last. ‘It’s very good of you to see us at home and at such short notice.’

‘All right.’ Translation: Don’t waste my time with pleasantries. Kassian remembered that one of the very few groups of people who had as high an opinion of themselves as politicians were doctors. They were very seldom overawed.

Now Bruton spoke. ‘Doctor, we wouldn’t be here unless we had one helluva big problem.’

‘I’m sure. But why is your problem my problem, Mr Bruton?’

‘Because we need your help.’

Kassian tried to make amends by adding swiftly, ‘We need your judgement.’

‘Enough with the riddles. Tell me what’s going on.’

Bruton led, as always. He proceeded to describe what had happened during the night. He dropped in the odd military term, always useful when trying to strong-arm a civilian, but otherwise kept it straight. At the end, the Defense Secretary looked over at Kassian. His eyes said: Close the deal.

Kassian swallowed, then said, ‘Dr Frankel. The United States constitution allows for this situation. The Twenty-fifth Amendment says—’

‘I know what it says. I’m the Chief Physician at the White House. Of course I know what it says.’

‘So now you know why we’re here.’

‘Have you spoken to the Vice President and the other cabinet secretaries? The amendment is very clear that any declaration that the President is unfit “to discharge the powers and duties of his office” has to come from the Vice President and a majority of the heads of those departments of the federal government. They’re the ones you should be talking to.’

Kassian shot a look at Bruton. The Vice President was all but an unknown quantity, to them and to the rest of Washington. A former mayor plucked from obscurity by the President, he had cannily allowed himself to become a blank screen on which every faction could project their fantasies. The op-ed pages, along with a cluster of House liberals, imagined him to be the moderate on a white charger who would ride to the republic’s rescue. Meanwhile the party’s ideologically pure wing nurtured the hope that he was a conservative true believer, just waiting for the right moment to emerge. Neither camp had much to go on besides its own wishful thinking.

‘Sir, with all due respect,’ said Kassian. ‘I think those individuals’ first response would be to ask for an expert medical opinion.’

‘That’s what I’d ask for,’ Bruton said, before adding, ‘So this ball is going to come bouncing back to you, one way or another.’

‘Especially,’ Kassian said by way of reinforcement, ‘because you weren’t his personal physician, before January. You’re seen as fair. Impartial.’

Frankel hauled himself out of his chair and walked the short distance to the door. Bruton shot a look at Kassian: Is he about to walk out? Is he about to call the President?

But it appeared the doctor just wanted to pace around the room. He stopped to look at one of the photographs, showing what Kassian guessed was a son’s graduation.

‘I will respect the confidence of this meeting,’ Frankel said finally. ‘I respect your offices, just as I respect the office of the presidency. And I also believe you’ve come to me in good faith. The events you describe are indeed alarming.’

Bruton let out a noisy sigh. ‘Well, that’s good to hear. People said you were a good man and—’

‘But this is not straightforward.’

‘We understand.’

‘I also swore an oath. You understand that, hmm? I’m a doctor. I can’t make up a diagnosis, no matter how expedient – politically expedient – it might be. The minute I do that, I stop being a doctor. I become one of you.’

‘Dr Frankel, when did you last examine the President?’ Kassian hoped to prevent Bruton coming in too hard.

‘I see him once a week. I saw him on Tuesday.’

‘Tuesday? So before the current …’ Kassian hesitated before lighting on the appropriate word, ‘… situation with North Korea. And how would you describe his health?’

‘He’s not young. He’s overweight. He has some diabetes, which he manages with—’

‘What about his mental health, Dr Frankel? How would you describe his state of mind?’

At this, the doctor paused. Then he paced a little more, before returning to his chair. ‘Look, he’s not like you and me. He’s … unpredictable. He’s volatile. He can have strong … moods.’

Bruton jumped on that. ‘And what if those mood swings made him unable to—’

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.’