Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

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Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Copyright © Jonathan Freedland 2017

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Cover photographs ©

Jonathan Freedland asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Source ISBN: 9780007413720

Ebook Edition © 2015 ISBN: 9780007413751

Version: 2017-09-12

Dedication

For my sister Dani: funny, warm and always good company. A devoted mother to her boys, her determination knows no limits. This is for her, with a brother’s love.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About Sam Bourne

By Sam Bourne

About the Publisher

1

Alexandria, Virginia, Monday, 3.20am

It began the night the President sought to bring about the end of the world.

The first Robert Kassian knew of it was when his phone started vibrating on the nightstand. He woke with a start, his heart thumping. It took him a second to understand where the sound was coming from: he wondered if he had dreamed it. He reached for the nightstand, fumbling to make the vibrations stop. The task was urgent: his wife was a light sleeper who, once stirred, stayed awake.

Only then did he realize this was no alarm, but an incoming call. He took in the next two facts at once: it was 3.20am and the call was from the White House switchboard.

‘Mr Kassian?’

‘Yes,’ he whispered, peeling the duvet back and moving towards the bathroom, the phone jammed against his ear. He had barely opened his eyes.

‘Please hold for the Situation Room.’

So it was happening. The three am call Washington folks always talked about. He’d only been Chief of Staff for four months and this was the first call of its kind. Sure, there had been late-night crises – plenty of those – and urgent meetings just after dawn. The pace had been relentless and round the clock since the inauguration in January. In the last week, that had only intensified. But a bona fide emergency in the middle of the night? This was the first.

A couple of clicks and he was put through. Instantly he could hear a commotion; there was a banging sound. A voice came on. A woman, young and nervous.

‘Mr Kassian. This is Lieutenant Mary Rajak. We have a situation, sir. I think you need to get down here right away.’

Now he could hear shouting. He wondered if this woman had been taken hostage. Maybe the White House was under siege. He blinked hard, his brain now revving.

‘What kind of situation?’

Kassian was sure he heard the woman dip her voice. ‘It involves the President.’

Jesus Christ. Had the President been taken hostage? How would anyone … ‘What’s happened?’

‘Please, sir. Just come.’

‘I’m on my way. But can you—’ He stopped himself. He could hear someone shouting. A man. It sounded as if his voice was coming from the next room.

‘Hold on, sir.’ He guessed she was putting her hand over the receiver. ‘Yes, I’m speaking to Mr Kassian right now. He’s on his way.’

In the second that followed, he could hear it clearly. It was unmistakable. There couldn’t be a soul on the planet who didn’t recognize it. Over the last two years, that voice had been heard every day, once at least, whether on the news or in a video that went viral, sometimes mocking an opponent or taunting a heckler at a rally, sometimes being impersonated by a TV comic or a precocious kid in a school playground. But no one had heard the voice like this, bellowing with rage – real, not confected. Get out of my way. I’m your Commander in fucking Chief and this is an order.

As he listened, Kassian grabbed a shirt and reached for the first suit his hand could find. ‘What the hell is going on there, lieutenant?’

‘It’s difficult to explain on the phone, sir.’

‘This is a secure line.’

‘I don’t think we have much time, sir.’ Her voice was trembling.

‘In a nutshell, lieutenant.’

She spoke quietly, as if fearful of being overheard. ‘North Korea, sir. The President wants to order a nuclear strike.’

‘Jesus fuck.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Has something happened? Is there an imminent attack on the United States?’

‘No, sir.’

‘So, what the—’

‘A statement, sir. From Pyongyang.’

‘A what?’

‘Please, sir. This is very urgent.’

‘A statement? You mean, this is because they said something?’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘OK. OK. What’s he doing now?’

‘He’s demanding to be put through to the Pentagon War Room, sir.’

Kassian felt his stomach lurch. He’d had upwards of sixty handover meetings, briefings from every branch of the US government before the inauguration, cramming his head with more information than he had learned in all his previous fifty years. But only one session had struck the fear of God into him. It came when he, the soon-to-be President and the Defense Secretary were instructed in the procedure for launching a nuclear strike.

It was so simple, it was terrifying. The President had merely to call the War Room at the Department of Defense, state the secret codes that confirmed he was indeed the President and give the order. That was it. No process, no meetings, no discussion. And no one with any authority to say no. That was the whole point. The system had stayed that way since Truman, enabling the Commander in Chief to act within seconds of an all-out attack on the country.

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.

2

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?’

The woman shook her head.

Maggie leaned across, stretching over Eleanor’s shoulder and, in one move, ripped the calendar clean off. Then, she tore through the thick, glossy paper once, twice, and headed towards the trash. Habit made her look for the green bin for paper.

‘No more recycling, Maggie. He’s got rid of that too. “It’s not called the Green Faggot House. It’s called the White House.”’

‘That’s what he said?’

‘Uh-huh.’

Maggie dumped the remnants of the swimsuit calendar in the sole trash can and marched into her office, slamming the door behind her.

She would have complained to her nominal boss, the man who carried the title of Counsel, but he was an absentee holder of the post, a pal of the President who served as his personal bankruptcy lawyer and been rewarded with a White House sinecure. Maggie had met him only once, at a cocktail party to celebrate his appointment; he hadn’t been seen at the White House since.

She reached for her phone and sent a text message to Richard.

What the hell are we doing here?

In the old days, there would have been scores of women, at all levels, who would have done what she had just done, or backed her up. But now, in this department, it was just her and Eleanor. The rest were all men, almost all of them white. And that pattern held across the White House.

A few seconds later, he replied. Am in with Commerce folks. Talk later tonight?

She shoved the phone across the desk, letting it collide with the picture she kept of herself with the previous President – a tiny gesture of rebellion in this new era. Right now, she felt like cursing that man. It was – partly – his fault she was still here.

‘Listen, Maggie,’ he had said. ‘I know how you feel about my successor—’, but she didn’t let him finish.

‘You see, even that, I can’t stomach. My successor. How can you say that, like this is normal? This is not normal. He’s a liar and a cheat and a bigot and should be nowhere near this place.’

The outgoing President had indulged her, the way he always did. ‘Maggie, you’re a woman of great passion. It’s why you’ve served this administration – and me – so well. But the people have spoken. He’ll be my President – and he should be yours.’

‘But no one’s telling you to stay and bloody work here.’

‘I’m not sure I’m the right demographic,’ he smiled.

‘Exactly. That’s another thing. It’s all white men. Hundreds of them. Every appointment he’s made. It’s like there are millions and millions of people he doesn’t even see.’

‘So, if you stay, you can even up the score a little. Woman, native Dubliner. That’s two boxes you check, right there.’

‘But—’

‘This isn’t just about him, Maggie. Just like it was never about me. It’s about the country. You need to make sure the train stays on the tracks.’

‘Sure, so that he can ram it into the buffers. Besides, what would I even do for him? Former UN aid worker, former peace negotiator, woman – I’m not exactly his cup of tea, am I?’

‘You could do for him the same thing you did for me. Troubleshooter in chief. The woman who knows how to get to the bottom of any crisis and solve it.’

‘But that requires trust.’

‘I know, Maggie.’

‘You trusted me and I trusted you. Totally.’

‘I know and I cherish that. But you’ll find a way. You always do.’

Maggie looked at the photograph, marvelling at the naiveté of her earlier self. Even a year ago she would never have believed this was possible. Mind you, nor would anyone else.

And then she felt it, that familiar stab of guilt and with it the attendant nausea. It seemed to rise from a specific place, a site of revulsion deep in her guts. If only she hadn’t …

In an attempt to push that dread thought out of her mind, she thumbed out another message to Richard.

How early can you leave tonight?

Let’s eat at my place. Really need—

But before she had finished, her office door flung open. She heard him before she saw him. ‘Are you decent?’

Crawford ‘Mac’ McNamara, senior counsellor to the President. If Maggie and all the other non-partisans who had stayed on were dedicated to keeping the train on the tracks, McNamara was the man who decided the destination. Even Bob Kassian, the nominal Chief of Staff, was a mere bureaucrat compared to McNamara. In the White House solar system, only one star burned more brightly.

Of course, Maggie was several moons below him – even under the previous president, her official title never reflected her true status – which under the old Washington rules meant a man of his rank would never deign to say so much as two words to her, let alone make the journey to come see her in her office. But McNamara was the self-styled outlaw, the sorcerer who had shredded the Washington rulebook to get his man elected President. Protocol could go hang. Memos were for dweebs, minuted meetings were for assholes. Instead he patrolled the West Wing each day, strolling into whichever office he wanted to whenever he wanted to. The Oval was no exception. McNamara saw the President first thing in the morning and last thing at night; he was the all-powerful voice in his ear.

Nor was this the first time he had made the journey to see Maggie. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Richard had said, when they discussed it over Chinese takeout the other night. ‘You’re the most attractive woman in the office and he’s … intrigued. I’d be flattered.’

Maggie’s reply had been concise: Ugh. And now here he was again, middle-aged but wearing cargo-style shorts, with square, capacious pockets, and a Linkin Park T-shirt. He wore socks, but no shoes. His head was almost completely bald.

‘You seen the paper today, Costello?’ He threw over a copy of the Washington Post, landing it just in front of her. It was folded open on a story about a new poll, confirming the country was ‘more divided than at any time since the civil war’.

‘Why are you showing me this, Mr McNamara?’

‘Ooh, did someone just let my father in the building? Mister McNamara? Who’s that? It’s Mac, Maggie. Mac. Thought all you liberals dug that informality thing in the workplace.’ He made a mincing gesture and raised the pitch of his voice. ‘Oh, we’re all equal. Treat me equally.’

She reminded herself of what she and Richard had agreed. That perhaps they could mitigate the effects of this presidency, even in a small way, by being here, on the inside. They had a duty to make a difference, if they could. She took that vow again now. ‘How can I help you, Mister … Mac.’

‘Look at the paper, Maggie.’

‘“First states roll out registry of Muslim citizens. Arizona, Texas, pilot new scheme.”’

‘Not that story. The one I’ve marked, next to it. Look where we are with eighteen to twenty-four-year-olds.’

‘Twenty-three per cent approve, seventy-four per cent disapprove, three per cent don’t know.’

‘Exactly. Twenty-two last month, now up to twenty-three. The young are coming round to us, Maggie. I can feel it.’ And with that he threw his head back and burst into song, his own version of a David Bowie classic.

‘Allllllt-Right, we are the young Americans!’ As he repeated the line, he did a slow turn, his eyes closed, head nodding – a middle-aged rocker on stage in a nostalgia tour.

Maggie said nothing.

‘OK, you got me. That’s not why I came in here.’

‘If it’s about that calendar, there’s no way that’s going back up.’

‘I noticed the lovely Miss May was missing in action. Are you to blame for that? Are we still doing that, the student protest thing?’

‘Under the legal definition of sexual harassment, just putting that on the wall counts as creating a hostile environment.’

He smiled and shook his head. ‘None of you get it, do you? Not even a little bit. Don’t you realize that’s why the folks elected the big guy last November? I mean, sure it helped that his opponent had endangered national security by using an unsecured phone.’

Maggie rolled her eyes.

‘But the main reason was precisely this kind of bullshit. Because folks were sick to their hind legs of prissy little missies spouting horseshit like “hostile environment”.’ He made the quotation marks with his fingers, delivering the two-word phrase in a high-pitched voice now accompanied by an effeminate swing of the hips. ‘People are sick of being told that being a normal, red-blooded white man is a federal crime.’

‘I’m sure you didn’t come here to re-fight the election campaign, Mac.’

‘No, but as it happens, it’s all relevant.’ McNamara helped himself to a chair, sat back in it and put his shoeless, socked feet on her desk. Maggie all but recoiled.

‘Here’s the thing,’ he said. ‘I need you to make something go away.’

Maggie raised her eyebrows.

‘It came up in the campaign and it’s coming up again now.’

Maggie still said nothing. She saw no reason to make this any easier for him.

Eventually, he lowered his voice. ‘I think you Washington insiders call them “bimbo eruptions”.’

Maggie paused. ‘Do you mean the President has been having extra-marital affairs?’

‘No!’ Mac smiled. ‘Not affairs. Nothing that you’d call an affair.’

‘Oh, you mean sexual assault. Grabbing random women.’

‘I mean accusations of that.’

‘More accusers coming forward? People from the past, alleging that—’

‘Partly that.’

‘Oh, so not just the past? The present. Here? In this place? Jesus, Mac, they impeached the last man who did that.’

‘Oh, I’m not worried about that. The House leadership are rimming our asshole. The tongue’s in deep.’

Maggie did her best to show no expression. She knew he wanted a reaction out of her and she was damned if she was going to give it to him. He went on: ‘None of them will dare move on this. Remember, he’s bigger in their districts than they are. But it’s a distraction. I need you to make it go away.’

‘Sounds like a matter for his personal lawyer.’

‘No. He’s the President now. An attack on him is an attack on the Presidency.’

‘That’s not quite—’

‘Besides, you’re the right person for this.’ He began to get up. Before Maggie had a chance to ask what he meant, he leered, ‘You’ve got the right equipment.’

He closed the door after him, allowing Maggie to sink her head into her hands. She needed to see Richard.

They’d only been dating a couple of months, but given how many of her old friends had left the White House, he had become the default confidant. Three years younger than her and absurdly handsome – one of those Washington men who, no matter how early their first meeting, had already managed a run – he was far from her usual type. Appointed during the transition, he had nevertheless shared her doubts about the wisdom of serving the new administration. Along with the former president, Richard Parris had been a big influence on her decision to keep at it. ‘Maggie, we’re powerless on the outside. Imagine how guilty we’d both feel if we saw something horrible happen and we could have done something – anything – to stop it.’

At first Richard didn’t quite understand why that argument resonated with her so deeply. There was a reason, but she tried to hold it back from Richard the way she held it back from everyone else. Eventually, in bed one night, she gave in and told him. Just thinking about that now brought it back: a guilt so present it was almost physical, bobbing to the surface like a cork. She pushed it back down, a psychological manoeuvre she made at least a dozen times a day.

She headed down the stairs now to find him, to suggest they take a walk. She needed to unload. She began rehearsing the speech she’d make. We’re not softening the blow, Richard. We’re legitimizing it. We’re nothing more than a fig leaf for them. I did not come to Washington to help an abuser of women get away with it. That is not the reason—

But her train of thought was interrupted. She had just turned the corner when she saw a group emerging from the Oval Office. Richard was among them – odd, for someone at his level – but he didn’t notice her. Instead he was busy smiling and laughing with the only woman in the group, whose hair alone made her instantly recognizable. Thick and lustrous, it shone with wealth. There was no mistaking her.

Now Richard was showing the woman his phone, bringing a warm smile and a reciprocal gesture, as she showed him hers. Their faces – young and gorgeous, as they appeared to Maggie – seemed to be glowing in the electronic light. It was clear. Her boyfriend was flirting with the President’s daughter.

3

New York, Monday, 9.20am

Having zero charisma had its advantages, Bob Kassian reflected. Seated in business class on the shuttle to New York, a single Secret Service agent at his side, few people had bothered him. A couple of travellers had flashed him the thumbs-up. A reporter from Fox had tried to engage him in conversation at the gate, but Kassian had given such short, monosyllabic answers – delivered in his barely audible, low hush – that the woman had soon backed off. As for the rest, he reckoned they had simply not recognized him. He didn’t do the Sunday talkshows, he made few speeches. And that was just fine.

Especially this morning. He would have struggled to pose for selfies, grinning broadly with the fanboys in their correctly coloured baseball caps. How they revered his boss. If only they knew what he knew, if only they had seen what he had seen just a few hours ago. (A grim thought surfaced: perhaps it would make no difference. Nothing seemed to shift their devotion to this man.)

For the thousandth time he wondered if he had done the right thing. A backroom operative, he had never been a committed partisan. He had fallen in with this crowd simply because those were his friends and contacts. He had established a reputation as a man who could run things – big things – smoothly. After the army, everyone told him skills like his could make him a fortune. They were right. He went to New York, to one of the big financial houses, and was paid unimaginable sums. But he missed what he had loved most about the army: purpose. Politics seemed like a decent second-best.

As for this job? He knew what prompted the offer: he would be presented as the responsible adult on the team, his calm, technocratic presence a token of reassurance to a nervous party establishment. It sounded old-fashioned but he felt it was his patriotic duty to say yes. If he hadn’t, one of the crazies surely would have. And, from the inside, he could perhaps act as a restraining influence, holding back a President who would otherwise be listening to the swivel-eyed extremists led by Crawford McNamara who clearly had the ear of the Commander in Chief.

Now in the back of the car ferrying him to Manhattan, he closed his eyes, grateful to be cocooned, however briefly.

Somehow, they had survived. The sun had come up, the sky had not fallen in. Civilization had not ended. For that he could not congratulate either himself or his closest ally, Jim Bruton. It wasn’t their intervention that had stopped the President giving the order.

The truth was, he had been about to do it. The President had been put through to the colonel in the Pentagon War Room, who had, following procedure, issued the challenge code: Echo Bravo, or whatever it was. The President had responded, giving the codes that confirmed his identity: say, Delta Zulu. And then he had told the war room his decision, explaining that he had chosen from the menu of strike options and selected Option B.

At that point – and kudos to him for the effort – the colonel had suggested that the President might want to consider going a la carte for this highly unusual situation. Highly unusual in that the United States was not under attack, the only scenario for which anybody had been trained or prepared. Nice try on the colonel’s part: ordering a special ‘dish’ would have taken hours or days. It would have bought Kassian and the others what they needed: time. But the President was adamant. Option B. Now.

Apparently, there was a stillness in the room then. Even the President briefly stopped raging. The colonel turned to the team in the War Room and gave the signal. They set about formatting the ‘emergency action message’ that would unleash the forces reflecting the President’s choice – the bombs that would have destroyed the world. That task would have taken about a minute.

But after about fifteen seconds, a young intelligence analyst told the colonel to wait. He had seen a report of a new statement from Pyongyang, apparently backing down on the earlier one that had so offended the President. It had just come in.

The line connecting the Pentagon and the White House was still open and the colonel spoke. ‘Mr President, we have reason to believe the North Koreans have backed down.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Sir, they have fully capitulated. An abject apology.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘That is our information, sir, yes.’

‘OK.’

There were twenty seconds left till the action message went live.

‘Does that mean you wish to abort the order, sir?’

‘What did the North Koreans say exactly?’

‘Sir, we have ten seconds to decide. Should I abort the order?’

‘Fuck them.’

‘Sir?’

‘All right, all right. Abort.’

And that’s how they had averted Armageddon. One sharp-eyed desk officer may well have saved the world. Quick-witted and creative, more than sharp-eyed, as it turned out. Jim Bruton arrived at the Pentagon minutes afterwards, where the colonel on duty discreetly let him know him that the supposedly abject statement from North Korea, fortuitously released just seconds before the trigger was about to be squeezed, was more a work of wishful thinking than reality. The analyst had correctly read the situation, understanding that his immediate commanding officer and the Defense Secretary were desperately looking for an excuse to delay, and he had provided them with what they needed. In the process, he had left Bruton with a new headache – he now needed to generate a text that looked plausibly like a full apology from Pyongyang – but, given the stakes, that could be forgiven. Jim had immediately recommended the officer and the entire duty team in the War Room for a Defense Superior Service Medal.

Kassian had now reached the Waldorf Astoria hotel. Without looking either left or right, he made straight for the elevators, letting his Secret Service agent clear a path, press the button and select the floor. Avoiding eye contact with hotel guests, he caught himself in the mirror. He retained a full head of hair, but it seemed to be greying by the day. Back in January, it was all dark. He was still tall, still lean. His wife insisted he remained handsome: ‘Real handsome, not Washington handsome,’ was how she put it. But what he saw in his eyes was something else: a look of alarm and worry that was becoming permanent. The face staring back at him seemed haunted.

They stepped out on the fifth floor and went to the suite whose number he had been given. They were let in by a warm, rounded blonde woman in her mid-forties who introduced herself as the Swedish ambassador to the United Nations. She struck him as unexpectedly maternal.

There was an awkward moment or two as Kassian’s agent checked for security, including – especially – for bugs. Then the agent was introduced to his counterpart, who did the same. Only when both were satisfied, and had nodded in the direction of the Swedish host, did she give the signal that, a second later, meant a door – presumably to one of the bedrooms – was opened. Through which stepped out a man Kassian recognized as the Ambassador to the United Nations of the People’s Republic of China.

Kassian, still standing, offered his hand, which the Chinese diplomat took firmly. Kassian knew the man was just a year older than he was: fifty-one. He wore a plain blue suit, an off-white shirt and oversized, 1970s-style glasses. No retro chic was intended. They were just old.

Their host gestured for them both to sit down in the living area – two couches, armchair, coffee table – at the centre of the suite. In an accent that suggested an expensive education in England, she spoke first.

‘Gentlemen, as you know, we were asked to make a space available for you to talk in a way that would remain completely unrecorded and confidential. It was Mr Kassian’s suggestion that you meet here, rather than in Washington, where he suspected discretion would be harder to achieve, especially perhaps for him.’ She smiled. ‘He was also aware, with all due respect to the Republic’s ambassador in Washington, that you, Mr Lei, are widely reputed to be even closer and, dare I say, more influential with your government in Beijing.’

She paused and continued. ‘I should stress that Sweden has no selfish interest of our own in whatever issue has brought you both here. But you will both be aware of Sweden’s great and historic interest in advancing the cause of peace in the world. If there is anything that can be done to avoid war, then my country will give whatever we can.

‘I repeat that what is said in this room will remain confidential. No word of it shall be spoken by us. We will deny this meeting ever took place. No one knows any of us are here. This room is booked in the name of an anonymous Swedish businessman. As it happens, there are quite a few of those.’ That did as was intended, and brought smiles from both men. ‘Mr Kassian, it was you who suggested we meet. Why don’t you begin?’

‘Thank you, ambassador. And thank you, sir, for coming to meet me here today and at such short notice. You know, I hope, that I would not have asked our mutual friend,’ he nodded towards the Swede, ‘to bring us together unless I regarded it as of the gravest importance.’

Zheng Lei looked at him impassively.

Kassian glanced down at his own hands, wondering if they might start trembling again. ‘I don’t know how much, if anything, you know of what happened last night in the White House.’ No response from the man opposite. ‘But I’m going to be extremely frank. I can see no other way.’

He cleared his throat. He had thought about what he would say – on the plane, in the car – but that had not prepared him for the sensation of actually saying it.

‘In the early hours of this morning, my country came within ten seconds – less than ten seconds, in fact – of launching an all-out nuclear assault on the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea and,’ he heard a dryness enter his throat, ‘the People’s Republic of China.’

The Swedish ambassador gasped at that. An involuntary, and entirely genuine, sound. Her hand now covered her mouth. Kassian went on.

‘The President had given the order. The War Room at the Pentagon was in the process of encrypting and communicating that order to nuclear commanders around the world, including firing crews based on land, in our underground launch facilities, as well as those on submarines and onboard our bombers in the sky. Only an ingenious and brave intervention from one of our military officers, at the very last moment, caused the order to be aborted.’

The Chinese ambassador kept his gaze on the coffee table positioned between them. Kassian decided to read that as a reaction of sorts: perhaps this man was fearful of looking him in the eye, lest he give himself away. Kassian spoke again.

‘What prompted the attack was the statement issued by the DPRK late last night our time. It appeared to taunt the President. If I may quote.’ Kassian reached into his breast pocket, and unfolded a single piece of paper. ‘“The Workers’ Party knows it confronts in Washington a paper tiger, a coward and a small man. We will demonstrate our strength – for we know our enemy’s weakness.’”

Still Zheng said nothing. Kassian went on.

‘Ordinarily, under previous administrations perhaps, such statements might be dismissed as rhetoric.’ He thought he saw the tiniest hint of a nod from the ambassador. It encouraged him.

‘But these are not ordinary times. For one thing, the DPRK has repeatedly signalled its intention to build a nuclear weapon capable of reaching the west coast of the United States. Capable of hitting Los Angeles. Our intelligence suggests that the DPRK is either at, or close to, that stage.

‘However there is a more – how should I put this? – pressing way in which these are not ordinary times. The leader of my country is not a politician. And he is not a military man. He hears statements like these’ – he held up the sheet of paper – ‘the way a young man might hear them in a bar.’ He hadn’t planned to say this; he wondered if he had made a mistake. ‘He hears them as a provocation. He believes he is being dared to prove the North Koreans wrong.’

At that, Zheng sat up, readying himself to speak. Kassian did not know if that meant he had succeeded or failed.

‘Mr Kassian, are you a student of history?’ His English was impeccable.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Your résumé says you studied the liberal arts at Princeton. But it doesn’t tell me if you studied history.’

‘Some.’

‘I see. Well, I am a student of history. My specialism is the history of this country, in fact. Especially the last century. I took great interest in the Presidency of Richard Nixon. I wrote my master’s thesis on Mr Nixon’s relations with Asia.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you know why I bring this up now?’

‘I sense you’re about to tell me.’

‘Because Mr Nixon was very careful to have his closest aides – Dr Kissinger especially – travel the world warning everyone that their boss was a madman.’ At this he smiled. “Crazy! Unhinged!” Nixon was not offended. He encouraged it. He wanted America’s enemies to be frightened. “America has all these bombs – and Nixon is crazy enough to use them!”’

‘And you think that’s what I am doing now?’

‘History does not repeat itself, Mr Kassian. But it does sometimes rhyme.’

The American found himself looking to the Swedish ambassador, by way of an appeal. She nodded, but only to encourage him to reply. She was not about to take sides.

‘Mr Lei. I have taken quite a risk by coming here this morning. My President does not know I am here. I would be fired if he knew. I can assure you I am not doing his bidding.’

‘Then why are you here?’

‘I’m here because I am scared.’ The words surprised Kassian as much as the other two, perhaps more. ‘I don’t think you understand what I’m telling you. Your neighbour was within seven or eight seconds of being wiped off the map this morning and your country within seconds of being hit by a nuclear bombardment. Every last one of North Korea’s people would have been killed, along with millions of your own countrymen. Children. Families. Perhaps even your own family.’ Kassian thought he saw a shadow pass across Zheng’s face. ‘This is not a tactic. This is not a game. This is deadly fucking serious.’

‘Mr Kassian—’

‘No. Listen to me. I’m warning you because I think – no, I know – that this could end in catastrophe. For the entire planet. He’s ready to do it. He did do it. He gave the order.’

‘So why didn’t it happen?’

‘We found a way to stop him.’

‘How?’

Mr Kassian stole a sheepish look in the Swede’s direction. Without meaning to, he heard his voice dip. ‘We told him the DPRK had apologized for the statement.’

‘I see.’

‘It was the only way.’

‘So now you need my country to use its leverage over the Democratic People’s Republic to persuade them to make good on the lie you told to stop your “crazy” President blowing up the world?’

‘That’s about the size of it, yes. And the North Koreans need to do it soon. They also need somehow to backdate it, so it appears they issued the statement at around 3.45am Eastern Standard Time.’

Kassian hesitated before making that last request. Partly because he feared it might be asking too much, but also because he had wondered if it was even necessary. These days, you could probably get away with falsifying a timestamp: in this era when everyone was ready to shout ‘fake news’ about anything, who would know or care? Not the President, who paid no attention to detail and who barely read the papers put in front of him.

But Kassian knew that wouldn’t hold. Crawford McNamara, for one, immersed himself in the minutiae and was assiduous in his reading of documents. As a master purveyor of fake news, he rarely allowed himself to be a consumer of it.

‘That won’t be easy, Mr Kassian. The North Korean people are a very proud nation. They take pride in their defiance of the American tyrant. They will not fall to their knees.’

‘No one is asking them to fall to their knees, Mr Zheng. Just a form of words that gets us through to—’

‘You seem to forget something, Mr Kassian.’

‘What’s that?’

‘That North Korea and the United States now have something in common. Both these nations are led by very unpredictable men – with very thin skins.’

Kassian nodded. He knew it was bad diplomatic form to appear to be agreeing with criticism of one’s own leader, but he couldn’t help himself. Besides, it seemed to bear fruit. Zheng spoke again.

‘Nevertheless, I appreciate the approach you have made to me. I will see what can be done.’

Kassian hoped he hid his relief. ‘I am grateful, Mr Zheng. But I’m afraid I need to ask even more of you.’

The ambassador said nothing.

‘The reality is that so long as the DPRK is led by this man, his presence will provoke the President I serve. You might say that is unjust or disproportionate. Even that it is irrational. There are some who might well agree with you. But that is the fact of the matter. So long as North Korea is led by its current ruler, a great danger exists. The risk is mainly to the DPRK, of course, but China is mortally threatened too. He could have chosen to hit just North Korea last night. But his orders were to strike at China too. So long as that regime remains in place, your country is in grave danger. The whole world is in grave danger.’

‘You are asking the People’s Republic to topple the ruler of the DPRK? Seriously? This is the request you would have me discuss with my government?’

Kassian signalled that this was indeed his request.

Zheng smiled and said, ‘Now I know for sure that you are on this mission alone. Your State Department would never have let you come here saying such nonsense! This is craziness, Mr Kassian. Complete craziness.

‘Of course we would not do that. If we topple the regime in North Korea, the country would collapse in an hour and by nightfall it would be entirely ruled from Seoul. My government has not forgotten what happened to Germany in 1989. The Berlin Wall came down and, a day or two later, Germany was one country again, ruled by the west. A united Korea would be wonderful for America, but not so good for China. Like you say in the United States, “We have seen this movie before: we know how it ends!”’

‘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.’

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