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

believe you work for that evil man.

      ‘Are you all right, Miss Costello?’

      She opened her eyes, only realizing at that moment how long she had kept them closed.

      ‘Are you feeling a little faint? Would you like a glass of water?’

      ‘I’m OK.’

      ‘It happens a lot here.’ It was Fong, passing her a paper cup filled with ice cold water.

      Maggie drank it down, then forced herself to give a smile. Then she answered the question the male doctor had asked her. ‘This is Dr Jeffrey Frankel, White House physician.’

      ‘Have you known the deceased for more than three years?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And how is he known to you?’

      The present tense made her pause. ‘We both work at the same place.’

      ‘And there is no doubt in your mind that this is Dr Jeffrey Frankel?’

      ‘No doubt at all.’

      ‘All right.’ And with that he reached for the sheet which lay at the bottom of the counter and pulled it upwards, covering Frankel’s shoulder and then his face. As far as he was concerned, Maggie’s work here was done. He gave a slight nod towards his colleague, as if to suggest Maggie should now leave.

      ‘Excuse me,’ Maggie said. ‘Can I just ask: on the basis of what you’ve seen, is there anything to suggest this was not suicide?’

      The woman spoke before her colleague could reply. ‘We’ll be issuing a full report in the regular way. Once the examination is fully complete.’

      ‘I appreciate that,’ Maggie said. ‘It’s just I’ve been sent here by the White House. I will be expected to deliver a full report.’ Registering the woman’s unmoved expression, Maggie added: ‘To the President. He will want to know what happened to his personal physician.’

      The two officials looked at each other. Sensing an opening, Maggie pressed her case. ‘I will stress that what I am relaying are unofficial, interim findings, awaiting confirmation.’ And then: ‘I will put nothing in writing until we have had your official report.’

      That seemed to be the reassurance the woman was waiting for. In Washington, DC, the world capital of ass-covering, fear of the written record was the spectre that loomed largest.

      ‘All right, Ms Costello. You can ask my colleague one or two questions. But there are no guarantees he can answer.’

      ‘Of course. Doctor, have you seen anything that would make you doubt that what happened here was an act of suicide?’

      ‘Nothing so far.’

      ‘In terms of ballistics, residue or burn marks on the hands, position of the entry and exit wounds, all—’

      ‘All of that. It all points to suicide.’

      ‘He just put a gun in his mouth, pulled the trigger?’

      ‘In or just by his mouth. Seems that way, yes. I’m afraid so.’

      ‘And you’ve seen the police report presumably?’

      The doctor looked over at his boss, who gave him a nod. ‘Yes.’ He raised his clipboard again. ‘And one of the officers was here with me. Just before you came.’

      ‘And what he saw—’

      ‘She.’

      ‘—she saw fits with a finding of suicide?’

      ‘Yep. The deceased was found with a gun in his right hand. Full match on the prints.’

      ‘Everything in the right position? Gun held the right way?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘The angle matching the wounds?’

      ‘Like I said. Yes.’

      ‘No anomalies or discrepancies at all?’

      ‘None.’

      ‘Open and shut case? I can tell the Pres … my bosses that this is a tragic but straightforward case of suicide.’

      ‘That’s it, yes.’

      ‘OK,’ Maggie said, collecting herself as if to leave. ‘Thank you.’

      Maggie was nearly at the door before she turned and said, ‘You know what: belt and braces. I can predict exactly what my boss is going to ask me. There will be photographs from the crime scene. Could you just let me take a quick pass through those?’ There was a pause Maggie didn’t like. ‘So I can tell the White House how incredibly helpful the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner has been?’

      ‘I already explained that we have very little time, Miss Costello. And, besides, this is police evidence. I really—’

      ‘I understand. Just the pictures of how Dr Frankel was found. He and the President had known each other a long time. They were close.’

      The woman didn’t even attempt to hide her reluctance, sighing as she tilted her head to suggest her colleague lead Maggie to the computer which was perched on a high table, close to the examination counter. He pulled up a stool on wheels and, with Maggie and Fong watching over his shoulder, he clicked several times until he had opened a folder of photographs. From the time stamps, Maggie could see they were taken at 7.12am today.

      There were dozens. ‘Can we just scoot through them?’ Maggie said, trying to keep it light.

      The first few showed Frankel lying in a shaded part of the park, perhaps six yards off the joggers’ track, among shrubs and underbrush. A swathe of trampled twigs and grasses was visible from the track to where the corpse lay.

      The pictures got closer now, focusing on the body. Frankel appeared to be wearing trousers and a sports jacket, with a shirt and no tie. Nicely polished leather loafers. Classic Washington, smart-casual attire. He had his glasses on.

      Maggie touched the doctor’s shoulder. ‘The glasses. Was he wearing—’

      ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘When the body was brought here, the glasses were there. We removed them, along with his other personal effects.’

      ‘OK.’

      He carried on scrolling through. The police had photographed the dead man from every angle. They had also taken pictures of the ground nearby. Maggie saw several images of tree bark spattered with what she guessed was blood, bone and brain material.

      Something in the image she was looking at jarred, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

      Finally, there were a dozen photos of a car: a Honda Civic, parked near Rock Creek. Frankel’s car: shown from all angles, both inside and out. She scrutinized it, trying to think herself into the shoes of a conspiracy theorist, trying to notice what they would notice. The exterior was unremarkable, no dents or scratches that she could see. The car looked worn and well-used, unflashy for a man who’d have had a decent income, but otherwise wholly ordinary. The interior was neat: she saw a couple of CDs in the slot near the handbrake, a bottle of de-icer held in the passenger door. She looked and looked, but that seemed to be that.

      Indeed, it was only after she had said her goodbyes, thanking Dr Fong and her colleague, and had hailed a cab and was sitting in the back, staring out of the window, returning to the White House that a thought struck her. Her eyes had skated over this one detail, but she had not absorbed its meaning – until now.

       11

       The White House, Tuesday, 6.16pm

      Ordinarily, Bob Kassian dreaded occasions like these. He would do his best to arrive late and leave early which,