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

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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.’

       4

       Washington, DC, Monday, 7.02pm

      Maggie was home at seven pm. Unheard of, at least under the previous president. Back then, Maggie regarded eighteen-hour days as the norm. That felt a long time ago.

      Ideally, she wanted to flop into bed, pull the duvet over her head and not come out for a week. Pathetic, she knew, to have her priorities so out of whack. So right, she said to herself, when your main problem was that the free world was led by a bigoted sociopath – let alone one you worked for – that was somehow bearable. But seeing your boyfriend smile at another woman, suddenly that is too much? What kind of person are you, Maggie Costello?

      This was not a new question. She was used to interrogating herself this way and almost always in these circumstances. ‘Boyfriend trouble’, as Eleanor at work put it, making Maggie feel fifteen years old. ‘Heartache’ had been her mother’s preferred term.

      The consensus among her friends – and family – was that Maggie was a bad picker, that she chose men who were either absurdly unsuitable or transparently unavailable. There had certainly been several in that first category. She thought fleetingly of Edward, her first Washington boyfriend and a certifiable control freak. How funny: they had lived together, yet now she hardly thought of him.

      There were a few in the second category too: relationships doomed from the start. She thought back to her much younger self, working for an NGO in the Congo, part of a team charged with brokering a ceasefire. She had become involved with a leader of one of the armed factions, hopelessly compromising her status as a mediator. That mistake had cost her dear. The affair had been charged and intense, of course, but it was obvious now – and surely obvious then – that it could never have worked.

      But then she thought of Uri, the man she had met in Jerusalem, who had followed her here. Nothing unsuitable about him. He was gorgeous, clever, loving. And he had been available too. He had wanted to settle down, to have a family. It had been Maggie who had been unavailable, too restless to fix on one place or one person. It had been Maggie who had said no. Just bad timing with that one, she told herself.

      She had made it to the bed when the phone rang. Shit. She had told Richard to meet her back here for Chinese. What if that was him? She didn’t want to see him, but she was pleased he wanted to come. Or maybe not. She had no idea.

      She looked down at her phone. Not Richard. But her sister.

      ‘Hi, Liz.’

      There was a pause and then, ‘Oh, Maggie.’

      ‘What? What is it? Has something happened to the kids? Are they OK?’

      ‘Yes,’ her sister sniffed. ‘They’re fine. It’s not them.’

      Truth be told, Maggie was not yet used to having her sister phone like this. Not used to her being in the same timezone. But Liz’s husband had been offered a job in Atlanta two years ago and so they’d left Dublin. ‘Now that Ma’s gone,’ Liz had said, ‘it makes sense, don’t you think?’ Maggie had agreed of course, but she wasn’t convinced. Having the Atlantic Ocean between her and her closest relatives had worked pretty well until now: why mess with a winning formula?

      ‘So what is it? Is it you? Are you ill?’

      ‘No. Nothing like that. Do you remember I told you about that girl in my class?’

      ‘Which one?’ Maggie had moved to the kitchen, where she was opening and closing cupboard doors, looking for a serviceable bottle of whisky. She didn’t want any of that hipster shite Richard claimed to like.

      ‘Mia.’

      ‘The one who was raped?’

      ‘Yes. Really lovely girl. Quiet, but smart. Thoughtful.’

      ‘What happened?’

      ‘Well, she got pregnant.’

      ‘Christ.’

      ‘Yes. And she wanted an abortion. She thought about it. She had counselling. And she was, like, “There is no way I can have this baby.”’

      ‘Course.’

      ‘But guess what? Thanks to the Supreme fucking Court, there is no way within six hundred miles of here that she could get an abortion.’

      ‘Oh no.’ Maggie found a bottle of Laphroaig behind the tins of peeled

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