To Kill the President Read online

  Her hand was gripping her phone, and she could feel it growing clammy. She had tried calling the head of the Secret Service but she had not been put through. She had tried both the numbers of an agent she knew well. The first had gone straight to voicemail. Now she dialled the second.

  It was ringing. One ring, then a second. Please, pick up. Pick up, pick up, pick up.

  Four rings. And then a voice.

  ‘Bailey.’

  ‘Jeff? It’s Maggie. Listen, I have reason to believe that an attempt on the President’s life is imminent. Right now. You’ve got to—’

  ‘Maggie? Is that you?’

  ‘Yes, listen to me. Someone is going to try to kill the President. It’s about to happen.’ Maggie could see the driver’s eyes widen into a stare of cold panic. He was gripping the steering wheel. As a pre-emptive move, she said to him in a quiet, but firm voice: ‘Keep driving.’

  ‘Maggie, this is a really bad line. What are you saying?’

  Now she shouted. ‘You need to get the President away. He’s at the Marines memorial. In Arlington. Just—’

  ‘Where are you calling from?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Jeff. This is urgent. I can explain later. For now you need to contact the team on the ground and tell them that a White House official has clear evidence that an attack on the President is imminent. They need to pull out now!’

  The line was silent. She hoped to God he had hung up and was doing as she had said. But now she heard those three beeps that told her the call had dropped out. The phone was asking if she wanted to retry and she did. She hit the green button but a second later got the message. User busy. Retry? One more time, same result.

  They were now crossing the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge. It was 4.02pm. She looked over her shoulder to see if they were being followed. She glanced at the dashboard of the car: it struck her that this taxi was sufficiently old and lacking in computer technology that it’d be impossible to hack. The only person steering this vehicle would be her petrified driver.

  She reckoned they were five minutes away. She didn’t have five minutes.

  She tried the White House again, this time asking to be put through to McNamara. Voicemail. She left a frantic, incoherent message. ‘Mac, this is Maggie. I know this sounds crazy but I believe an attack is imminent. On the President. Any minute now. An assassination attempt. You’ve got to get him to pull out. Please.’

  She tried again, this time asking for McNamara’s office. The secretary picked up and, without waiting, Maggie said, ‘This is a matter of life and death. This is Maggie Costello. I need to speak to Mac now.’

  ‘Please hold.’

  Maggie waited, but McNamara never came on the line. Nor did his secretary. She tried the Secret Service again, but was directed to the information line where a recorded voice assured her that, ‘Your call is important to us. We check this line frequently and will take note of any information you have. You don’t have to give us your name and number, but if you do it will help us …’

  What the hell was she meant to do? No one would speak to her, every door was being slammed in her face. Six months ago, she could have dialled any number in the White House and she would have known who would be on the receiving end and they would have taken her call in an instant. Now she was like some crazy woman off the street, banging on the doors of the White House, utterly ignored.

  She thought about calling the police but she knew that they too would dismiss her as a crank. By the time it would take her to explain who she was, it would be too late.

  There was only one person left to call. She would not have done it in any other circumstances but these. But too much was at stake. She found the number and dialled it.

  The audience was small: twelve rows of twelve outdoor chairs, filled by uniformed Marines and their wives or husbands, just enough to look like a modest outdoor quorum. The wreath was already there, positioned on an easel, to the left of the base of the statue. But otherwise, the scene was as simple and pared down as it could be for a presidential visit. There was no military band striking up a memorial tune, no pastor clearing his throat to intone a prayer. There were just two pool cameras, a handful of reporters and of course the Secret Service detail. On McNamara’s orders, the optics were meant to convey sombre modesty: a man engaged in a private moment, contemplating the loss and sacrifice of America’s heroes.

  From his third-floor hotel window, Julian Garcia could see very little. The screens and canopy had made sure of that. But with CNN showing a live shot of the memorial, the camera fixed on the sculpture of the men of Iwo Jima, planting their flag, he had a good idea of what was going on. While the flagpole they gripped was made of bronze, the flag itself was real: it formed the centre of the image on the TV screen, fluttering in the May sunshine.

  Minutes away now from the arrival of the President. No word yet on whether he will be making any formal remarks, White House sources telling CNN they expect him to have a moment of silent contemplation as he lays the wreath in memory of those Marines who have given their lives to the United States in battle since 1775. This is an almost impromptu addition to the President’s schedule, very little preparation. CNN understands it was very much the initiative of the President himself. Formal ceremonies on Monday of course, but for now, on the eve of this Memorial Day weekend, he wanted his own moment of prayer and reflection. We’ll keep watching that for you, and when the President arrives of course we’ll be right there. In the meantime, let’s hear from CNN Senior Political Analyst …

  On the bed, Jorge was now sitting up but saying nothing. He knew better than to disturb a fellow soldier.

  Julian glanced at the TV and then back to the image through the infra-red sight. They corresponded perfectly, barring a small delay. When someone moved into the frame on TV, Garcia could see a white shape move into his shot.

  The audience were seated, expectant. Any minute now.

  ‘Richard, is that you?’

  ‘Yes, Maggie. It’s me.’ The voice was flat, but Maggie didn’t care.

  ‘Thank God. Listen, I can’t explain why, but I believe there’s about to be an attempt on the President’s life. Any second now someone is going to try to kill him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know it sounds crazy, but you need to get a message to whoever’s with him. Body man or Secret Service or McNamara. They have to pull him out.’

  ‘Pull him out? From where?’

  Maggie felt a small pulse of relief. At last, someone was listening to her. ‘He’s at the Marines War Memorial. Please, Richard. Do it. Do it now.’

  ‘Maggie, this sounds a bit crazy. Are you sure about this? This is not one of—’

  ‘Richard. If you do this, you’ll be a national hero. If I’m wrong, you can just blame the crazy Irish woman you’ve been fucking. OK? Just do it.’ She hung up. The dashboard clock said it was 4.11pm.

  The taxi was now turning off Arlington Boulevard. She could see a cluster of vehicles parked ahead, blocking off the road. Several of them had their roof lights flashing silently: state troopers. The rest were black SUVs. No guarantee that the President was already here; this could be the advance party. She might still have time. She threw a twenty down on the passenger seat and got out of the car while it was still moving.

  Maggie began running towards the impromptu roadblock. She knew it was a mistake. She knew that it would announce her as someone unhinged, a member of the public who had to be kept at bay. So much better to stroll towards them with confidence, purposeful in her Washington pantsuit, flash her White House pass and then say she had information that needed to be passed to their commanding officer right away.

  Instead, she reached them breathless, holding up her pass and saying, ‘I’m from the White House. Someone’s going to shoot the President!’

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am. This is now a secured area. You cannot proceed.’

  She tried to push past this first man, a Virginia state trooper, but that only raised the alarm.


  ‘Ma’am!’ he said, turning around to catch up with her. That alerted two other troopers who now stepped forward to block her. Noticing the disturbance, a fourth man – in plain suit and with a curly wire emerging from his ear – approached too.

  ‘My name is Maggie Costello and I am a Special Assistant to the President in the General Counsel’s Office.’ She tried to lift up her pass, so that all four of these men might see it, but the sudden movement jolted the first trooper. He now grabbed her forearm, gripping it tight.

  ‘Ma’am, I must ask you to stop right there and—’

  ‘Listen to me!’ Maggie said, shouting so loud her own voice shook her. ‘Just fucking listen to me. Someone is about to kill the President. I’m here to warn you of a credible threat on the President’s life. Now. One of you needs to tell the team with him right now or it will be your fault. Do you understand?’

  His eye was still in the sight when he heard the voice on the TV.

  And here now is the President, come to pay his respects ahead of Memorial Day. He shakes hands first with the curator of the US Marines War Memorial, as you can see there, and now greeting several of the veterans and their families who have gathered here in this sacred place. He’s pointing towards a couple of faces in the crowd, smiling almost as if this were a campaign event. And now an aide seems to be whispering in his ear and the President’s expression becomes more sombre, more in tune, some might say, with an occasion of this solemnity.

  Garcia stretched his hands out twice, loosening up his fingers. He glanced at the TV. Now the curator was guiding the President, leading him as they circled around the monument. CNN showed the two men pausing at some of the battles whose names were engraved on the base: the Philippine Insurrection, the Boxer Rebellion, Grenada.

  The assassin trained his eye through the scope once more. Once the President had completed his circuit, that would be the natural moment to pick up the wreath, move to the planned mark, pause and then step forward onto the dais. It would be in a few seconds.

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t waste any more time. Just get on your fucking radios and tell them what I’m telling you!’

  She saw the Secret Service agent glance over at the most senior of the state troopers, a moment of silent consultation. Is this woman nuts? Or are we gonna end up blamed for not passing on this information?

  Finally, and with studied reluctance, the agent stepped forward, signalling for the state troopers to let go. ‘All right,’ he said, taking his time. ‘What is the nature of the information you wish me to pass on?’

  There was no time for Maggie even to exhale her exasperation. ‘Tell them you have credible information about a threat to the President’s life. He needs to get out of here. If he’s exposed to the public, you need to get him somewhere—’

  But she never finished her sentence.

  Garcia had waited for this moment. It was, he believed, what set him apart from his peers. In this instant of maximum stress, he felt his pulse not quicken but slow down. It was a physical sensation, his body dropping to a steadier, almost meditative state. He was sure he could feel it: the pressure of the blood in his veins falling, as he readied himself. Put a hand on his forehead and it would be cooler; he was sure of it.

  He was in the eye of the hurricane now. There would be noise and clamour soon, but for this second it was serenely quiet. At no other time did he know tranquillity like this. The sense of purpose, of complete and total focus. The dedication of mind, body and spirit to a single goal. He loved this moment. If he could extend it, he would. But, he knew, its nature was fleeting, transient. It could not last.

  He waited a half-second more and there he was, the white shape of the President’s thermal image standing exactly where it was meant to stand, corresponding perfectly to the picture on TV. The white silhouette filled the lens of the sight, the neat lines of the glass bisecting just across his chest. He was a big barn-door of a man, there was plenty of target to aim at. And so all those intense hours of preparation and planning, all the years of experience and training, now flowed through him and into the index finger of his right hand. With not even a microscopic tremor, he felt the trigger yield to him and he watched and listened as the bullet exploded out of the chamber and into the air, rushing across those three hundred and forty yards of parking lot and trees and parkland, ripping through the hessian canopy and over the heads of those hundred odd people and finally into the expanse of dark blue suit that covered the chest of the President of the United States.

  She heard a single scream first, loud enough to silence her. Maggie froze, as did the men around her. The interval between that and the subsequent screams would, when she heard it again – in the TV clips that played endlessly – last less than half of a second. But then, that first time, it seemed to endure, a long, echoing hiatus in which the air itself vibrated with fear, disbelief and shock.

  And when it ended, the noise was a concentrated explosion of sound, a raucous rumpus of shouting and hoarse-voiced panic.

  The agent who had been speaking to her turned around and instantly ran towards the commotion. Only then did Maggie realize how near she was. She had been held on the road that separated Arlington Cemetery from the Marines memorial. The ceremony was little more than a hundred yards away.

  Still, for the first few seconds she could not see it. As she followed the agent towards the source of the noise, she could only hear the screams of the people who were running past her, families getting away from the memorial as fast as they could. Did that mean the assassin was there? Had he been in the crowd? Had he been sitting in the audience and suddenly stood up and opened fire? Maggie had considered that.

  Or had it been the other scenario she had imagined? She wondered about the assassinations of Anwar Sadat and Indira Gandhi, killed by their own bodyguards. Is that what Kassian and Bruton had done? Had they recruited a member of the Secret Service for this mission?

  But now, as she got past the trees and closer to the sculpture, she could see a thick knot of agents surrounding a man on the ground, that group itself circled by an outer ring of agents whose guns were cocked and aimed at anyone who dared come close.

  She didn’t need confirmation but it came over a radio used by a cop or a paramedic, in the melee she couldn’t tell which. Even with all the noise and the crackle, its message was clear. ‘The President is down. Repeat, the President is down.’

  Jorge was on his feet now, standing alongside Garcia. He didn’t look at the TV or out of the window. He focused only on Garcia. ‘Wipe your prints,’ he said, nodding towards the rifle.

  Garcia did as he was told. And then they faced each other. ‘It’s not too late, you know,’ Julian said. ‘You can change your mind.’

  Jorge smiled. ‘It is too late. Now get the hell out of here.’ They hugged, only for a second but long enough for nearly thirty years of comradeship, trust and gratitude to flow between them.

  Julian looked around one last time, checking that he had left nothing behind that was his. Then he ripped off the plastic trousers and apron he’d been wearing, scrunched them up and put them into his backpack. He noticed that Jorge already had his Glock 17 in his right hand. He was ready.

  ‘Go,’ Jorge said.

  ‘Thank you, brother,’ Julian replied.

  He closed the door behind him quietly and headed for the fire escape directly opposite, just as he had planned. He had taken a couple of steps when he heard the shot, single and clean. Jorge Hernandez, the faithful soldier, had followed the plan to the last letter.

  As Garcia took the stairs, he could hear voices from the third-floor corridor. But he wasn’t alarmed. As far as he could tell, his mission had been accomplished.

  40

  Washington, DC, Friday, 5.41pm

  This is CBS News with an urgent update. Here’s what we know so far.

  The President was shot this afternoon during a ceremony at the United States Marines War Memorial, just north of the National Cemetery at Arlington. He i
s believed to have been struck by a single bullet. He was rushed urgently, in the presidential limousine, to George Washington University Hospital, where he was treated immediately. No word at this hour on his condition.

  Law enforcement officials believe the gunman was this man, forty-eight-year-old Jorge Hernandez, whose body was found in a room on the third floor of this hotel, the Virginian Suites, which is just a few hundred yards away from, and which overlooks, the memorial. Police sources telling CBS this hour that they found a sniper rifle aimed precisely at the spot where the President had been standing when he was hit. They say Hernandez had appeared to take his own life. Witnesses at the Virginian Suites hotel report hearing a gunshot seconds after TV pictures showed the President shot.

  Live now to correspondent Clare Romine who’s outside the George Washington University Hospital for us. Clare, what’s the latest?

  John, we’re waiting for an official news conference at the top of the hour from the Medical Director here, but let me pass on one important piece of information, which I ought to stress is still unconfirmed at this stage: White House sources telling CBS that the President was wearing some kind of protective body armour, a bulletproof vest if you will, and that might have an important bearing on the President’s condition going forward. Again, that’s unconfirmed at this stage. John?

  Clare, is that usual? For a President to be wearing protective armour like that?

  John, I’ve been covering the White House for several years and, as you know, the Secret Service never discuss operational matters – they never talk publicly about how they protect the President—

  OK—

  But, just on the basis of what I know, I would say the answer is no – it is not usual for a President to be protected in that way. That seems unusual to me. Which will of course raise questions in the coming days about what knowledge or information or warnings this White House had about any threats to the President.