by Sam Bourne
Besides, he had no conceivable incentive to come forward. Sure, they could promise him immunity if he became a government witness. But why would that even arise? Why emerge from the shadows to volunteer a confession that you had pulled the trigger, when not a shred of evidence pointed in your direction? Even McNamara accepted that Hernandez had fired the fateful shot. No one was looking for anyone else.
But McNamara was onto something all the same. He was right that the usual things – facts, proof – might not be decisive. Not any more. Kassian and Bruton could comfort themselves that there was not sufficient proof of a conspiracy to meet the legal standard, but the world had changed. This was the world after truth. Now it would be about perception and emotion and a hated elite defying the people and their sacred will – embodied by this man they had installed in the White House – and in that battle, the Chief of Staff and the Defense Secretary would be on the wrong side.
If this ever came to trial, it would be a PT Barnum production complete with blood-hungry mob sitting ringside, and in that fight there was no guarantee that truth would prevail. And here Kassian caught himself. Because, of course, the truth was on McNamara’s side. He would be the master sorcerer of the press and the cable TV channels and social media, naturally he would, but he would have another advantage too. The fact was, he was right. Kassian and Bruton had indeed plotted to kill the President of the United States. And, as McNamara had so acidly pointed out, he, like Bruton, was old-fashioned. He believed that, in the end, the truth would always out.
The pit was opening up.
‘Hey, Bob, you don’t look so good. You all right, hun?’ McNamara tilted his head to one side, a parody of therapeutic concern.
Bruton answered for both of them. He decided to take a leaf out of the President’s book, to go on the offensive. ‘With respect, Mac, you are an employee here. I am the head of the Department of Defense, confirmed for that role by the United States Senate in a near-unanimous vote. I am the head of an organization which employs more than two million Americans. I am also a man who has led troops into battle and has killed with my bare hands. As has Mr Kassian here. I can vouch for that, because I’ve seen him do it. You—’ and then, without a word of warning, Bruton slammed his fist on the desk, making McNamara jump with fright. ‘You, on the other hand, have never been anywhere near combat. You ducked out of it, so you could keep smoking weed and jerking yourself off at Yale. So don’t you dare sit there in your jeans and your Hawaiian shirt and lecture me about America. You don’t know the first thing about this country. You don’t know about sacrifice. You don’t know about duty. Talking about cowboys and Indians: hell, the closest you got to the Wild West was when you took your wife on date night to see Brokeback Mountain. So don’t think you can take me down so easily.’ He raised a crooked index finger on his right hand, and let it hover in front of McNamara’s face. ‘I won’t let you get anywhere near me.’
McNamara sat back, as if recoiling from Bruton’s threat. Kassian felt something like an intimation of hope. Not for the first time, his commanding officer had stood by his side in a situation of utter despair and somehow found the words to inspire him, to make him believe that there might just be a way out.
McNamara tilted his office chair as far back as it could go and then a bit further. He began nodding, a small smile spreading from the edges of his mouth. He picked up a pen, flicked it so that it rotated in the air several times before landing between his lips.
‘Good speech,’ he said. ‘Impressive speech, Mr Secretary. But guess what? You can save it. No one’s ever going to hear it.’
He got up and paced around behind his desk, past his version of the Washington ego wall. Studiedly, it included no photographs of himself with senators or ambassadors or foreign leaders. Instead, it was a gallery of Crawford McNamara with assorted blue-collar heroes: NASCAR drivers, football players, country singers. Anywhere else it would have marked McNamara out as a ridiculous poseur. But in Washington, it added to his mysterious aura of authenticity.
‘Nope, no one will hear that case for the defence, Jim.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re going to deny us—’
‘Because no one is ever going to hear the case for the prosecution.’
‘What?’ It was Kassian.
‘There’ll be no trial.’
‘What, is this Soviet Russia now? You’re just going to throw us—’
‘Hold your horses, gentlemen. There’ll be no trial because there’ll be no accusation. I’m going to keep this little piece of knowledge to myself.’
‘I don’t follow. Why on—’
‘Me and you. We’ll be the only three people who will ever know of the evil intent you carried in your heart towards the elected President of this great nation. And Costello, I suppose. But don’t you worry about her; I’ll take care of her.’
‘What is this, Mac? What are you talking about?’
‘You guys are so impatient! Jeez. All right. Think for a second. Put yourself in my shoes. I go to the Feds and the press and tell them the truth about you two. What happens? The next three years of this presidency are consumed by the juiciest bone the Washington press corps has had to chew on since you-know-who jizzed all over that girl’s dress. “Valkyrie in the White House: the failed plot to kill the President”. Can you imagine how they’d cream themselves over that one? The trial, the pre-trial, the hearings on the Hill. They’d set up a special cable channel: all assassination, all the time.
‘And you two? Christ! You’d be the Redford and Newman double handjob to every liberal in America. NPR would get a hard-on just thinking about it.’ He lowered his voice, into the stentorian baritone of a broadcast anchor: ‘“The war heroes who couldn’t take it any more.” Vanity Fair would be rubbing themselves raw. “The inside story of two decorated veterans – and their struggle for the soul of America.” No thank you!’
‘So—’
‘Wait, would you! Like I said, put yourselves in my shoes. Or try this exercise. Think of the question that the President asks himself every hour of every day.’
‘What works for me?’
‘There you go! You see, Kassian, you’re smart. Useless. And too weak for this game. But smart. That’s exactly the question. So what’s the answer? If you’re me, I mean.’ McNamara was enjoying himself. ‘What works for me?’
Bruton was clenching his jaw. It looked like he was exerting an enormous amount of strength just to stop himself punching McNamara’s lights out.
‘Give up? OK, I’ll tell you. What works for me is the sudden discovery that Jorge Hernandez was the latest example of – and let’s say these three words together – radical Islamic terrorism to strike at the very heart of the United States.’
Kassian leaned forward. ‘But that makes no sense. You’ve seen the Facebook stuff. The crazy letters. He was a Latino veteran, angry about the deportations. They’d deported his mom, for Christ’s sake. And he was quoting the gospels every third sentence. He wasn’t a Muslim at all.’
‘Maybe not, according to what’s been disclosed so far. But you know how the news works. This is just the first wave. More new information will come to light overnight.’ He grinned. ‘And before you say anything else, Bob, reflect on this: you’re not the only ones who can invent a convenient backstory for Mr Hernandez. This happens to be my skill set. Remember?’ And he pointed at the only framed newspaper article on the wall. It was a mini-profile of McNamara from the New York Daily News, published the day he was recruited to the President’s campaign. There was a picture of him looking rumpled, carrying a wad of newspapers under one arm, a cardboard cup of coffee in his hand. The headline read: Behold the King of Fake News.
‘It won’t take long. Give it a few hours. We’ll soon have “I saw Mad Jorge in Mosque”. I’m sure there’ll be some anonymous fellow veterans who witnessed Hernandez roll out the prayer mat five times a day, bending his knee to Allah. All those Bible quotes? Why, he included those to mock us and our faith. And didn�
�t I hear something about him demanding his comrades call him by his new name, Muhammed Raheem?’
‘But why would anyone believe that?’
McNamara laughed. ‘Seriously? After the stunt you just tried to pull off, you’re asking me that? Oh, you guys. Haven’t you realized yet? People will believe anything. Just so long as two conditions are met. First, they have to want to believe it. Second, it’s got to be on Facebook.’
Bruton now spoke, more quietly than before. ‘And why would you do this, Mac? What are you planning?’
McNamara smiled widely, extending one arm at full-stretch, pointing at the Defense Secretary, while touching the tip of his own nose – as if Bruton had just guessed correctly in a game of charades. ‘Smart guy! Smart, smart guy. Such a good question. Can you guess?’
‘I don’t want to guess.’
‘Oh, go on. It’ll be fun. Do it for the lulz.’
‘Mac, this is not a game.’
‘The boss is right: you two are a total buzzkill. All right, I’ll tell you.’ He resumed his seat at the desk, then placed his forearm across it, in the manner of a 1960s news anchor. The voice dropped an octave and he started performing. ‘Good evening. Tonight the United States is under attack from radical Islam. The President continues to receive treatment as it becomes clear that the men behind his attempted assassination were the forces of “international jihad”. The White House is in discussion with Capitol Hill, as Congress considers a request for emergency powers and the temporary suspension of the Constitution. The Senate Majority Leader told reporters, “This is an unprecedented move. But these are unprecedented times.”’ McNamara sat back and folded his arms, proud of his work.
‘You’d never dare.’
‘Don’t keep making the same mistake, Bob. Don’t keep doing it again and again and again. You did it with him and you’re doing it with me. Don’t underestimate us. It’s a bad move, Bob. Very bad move.’
‘The Supreme Court would stop you. They’d never let—’
‘You sure about that, Jim? This Supreme Court? He’s got a six-to-three majority on there now. And those two headbangers he just put on there? They owe him everything. You saw what he wrote, the young one, Justice Whatshisname?’ He reached for a piece of paper, then for a pair of reading glasses, in amongst the debris on his desk. ‘Here we go. “The Constitution was never intended by the Framers to be an impediment to public safety, but rather its protector. If the Bill of Rights somehow limits the nation’s ability to protect itself, then it is not the nation that must give way. The Constitution itself must yield to those whom that document is meant to serve: We the People.” You think that guy is gonna object when the President says he needs to shield the country from the jihadist enemy? We couldn’t believe we got that wingnut through the Senate. Really. Very pleasant surprise.’
‘And what will the President do with this blank cheque you think everyone’s going to write for him, impose martial law?’
McNamara smiled and shook his head, as if dealing with a pair of especially stubborn pupils. ‘Whatever we do, we’re not going to call it that, are we? I mean … Jeez.’
‘I don’t care what you call it. What are you going to do?’
‘Which do you think sounds better? The America First Act? Or the Saving American Lives Act? I like the simplicity of America First. But the daughter loves the whole “saving lives” thing. Thinks it sounds humanitarian. We’re going back and forth. But the big guy listens to her.’
‘I said, what are you going to do?’
‘That’s the whole point, Jim. We don’t have to decide now. We don’t have to limit ourselves. We get this through, which on the back of the attempted murder of an elected president by a deadly terror organization we will, we can do whatever the fuck we like. We can step up the deportations. We can get on with the ragheads ban. But we wouldn’t have to be so prissy about who gets kicked out. We could start including US citizens, which, let’s face it, is the whole point. And they don’t just have to be Muslim. It can be anyone “whose presence is not conducive to the public good”.’
‘Jesus.’
‘No, he can stay. For now!’ He laughed with delight at his own joke. ‘But seriously, our scope for executive action will be hugely increased. We can finally move on the press. You know, that whole licence scheme thing? We can expedite that. No official licence, no publish. Simple. And the internet. I mean, that needs some serious housecleaning. And once all that is out the way, we can really start changing things in this country.’
‘I’ve heard enough.’ It was Bruton, rising to his feet.
‘Oh, not yet. I’ve not thanked you yet.’
‘What?’
‘I need to thank you. You’ve done your country a great service. By dreaming up this crazy – and I mean, crazy – assassination idea, you’ve given us this amazing opening. The chance to seize real, serious power. And can you imagine what this is going to do to our poll numbers? Oof. We’re indebted. Really.’
Bruton was at the door. ‘Send me a bouquet. Goodbye, Mac.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. You really do need to sit down.’
Kassian turned in his seat and without saying anything implored his commanding officer not to abandon the battlefield just yet. Bruton remained by the door, but he was no longer gripping the handle. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.
‘All right. Thank you. To sum up. You’re not going to be arrested. You’re not going to be executed. No one will know of your treason. That’s the good news. But I can’t just let you go. You need to stay in your posts. If we’re going to have martial law – oops, I said it – then we’re going to need the military headed by someone the American people trust. And I’m afraid that’s you, general. Your poll numbers are so high, they make me dizzy. And genuinely nauseous. But it means we need you.
‘Same goes for you, Kassian. Except the bit about the ratings. No one’s heard of you, obviously. But folks in Washington trust you. And it’ll look like continuity if you guys hang around. “Nothing to see here folks. Same old, same old.” Put in new faces – at Defense especially – and everyone starts saying the c-word.’ He paused for effect. ‘You know,’ he whispered. ‘Coup.’
‘So you’re going to trust me to run the Pentagon? Even after everything you’ve just said?’
‘Fuck no! Whatever gave you that impression? Absolutely not, Jim. I wouldn’t trust you to pick up my dry cleaning. I’ll have Bob for that. Just kidding! No, no, no. No trust necessary. You will sit in the Secretary’s chair at Defense, but you won’t be running anything. Your deputies – our people – will be in control. You will be there as a figurehead. Same goes for you, Bob. No power at all.
‘And I will be watching and listening to you all the time. Twenty-four seven. Cameras, microphones, special agents: constant surveillance, at home, in the office, whether you’re texting your mistress or rubbing your haemorrhoids when you take a dump. The instant you so much as nod to each other, I’ll have a seven-bell alert. You order pizza, I’ll know about it. You sniff your daughter’s underwear, I’ll know about it.’ He broke into song again, an eighties hit which dated him precisely. ‘They’re watching you, watching you, watching you!’
‘You’re putting two members of this administration under virtual house arrest.’
‘You’ve got it in one, Kassian. You’re sharp, I’ll give you that. Not as smart as me, or you wouldn’t be in this mess. But smart.’ He squared the papers on his desk and exhaled sharply, a man tired at the end of a long, but rewarding day’s work. ‘All right,’ he said finally. ‘Get out. Go. Go!’
As Kassian rose to his feet to join Bruton by the door, McNamara remarked – more to himself than to them – that there was only one more person left to deal with. As Robert Kassian left the office of Crawford McNamara, and as he contemplated the abyss into which he and his mentor and friend had fallen, he was sure he could hear the senior adviser to the President humming a familiar song. He was not mistaken. Crawford McNama
ra was amusing himself to the tune of ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling’.
44
Washington, DC, Saturday, 6.47am
Getting many congrats on being first President to take a bullet and live. Many say we can do nothing about terror. They are WRONG!!!!
Maggie read it once, then again and then once more. As always, reading one of his tweets was a multi-layered experience. First came the disbelief. Was this for real? Was he really saying this? Surely he couldn’t …
That sensation was doubled on this occasion. Maggie had to absorb the fact that this meant the President had clearly survived the attempt on his life and had done so sufficiently comfortably that he was now able not only to pose mutely for the cameras, as he had last night, but to take up his phone and resume tweeting to tens of millions of adoring followers. She knew he had lived, but she had wondered if perhaps he would require surgery or if he had suffered at least a few internal injuries, in defiance of the upbeat briefings his team had been giving all evening. Taken at face value this tweet suggested the spin was, for once, true and that he was all but unharmed. Her instinct was to believe it.
Next came the fact-checking reflex. She knew she was not the only one to suffer from it. It had become a habit – a bad one, she had recently concluded – among many of those who opposed the President during the campaign, and the habit had endured. The President would say or tweet something outrageous and immediately all the hyper-educated media savants would be online, pointing out his error or outright lie. In this case, the mistake – or lie – was so obvious, it was almost comically ignorant. A previous president had of course survived an assassination attempt, taking a bullet, just a few decades ago. The episode was famous and within the current incumbent’s adult lifetime, as several hundred on Twitter could not resist pointing out.
Maggie felt the same urge, but it was lunacy. Because it distracted you from whatever new horror he was actually proposing. He could tweet, ‘Listen up, Latinos. Your all going to be deported on trains to labour camps in the Alaskan wilderness. Round-ups begin at 6am’ – and the liberal chorus of reply would be instant: ‘It’s *you’re*’.