Line of Succession
- Автор: Гарфилд Брайан
- Год: 1972
- Язык: английский
- Год: Delacorte Press
- ISBN: 978-0440048473
- Жанр: Политические детективы
Электронная книга - «Line of Succession». Краткое содержание книги:
It all happened so fast: the terrorist bombings of Congress which killed nearly a hundred senators and congressmen; the incredible kidnapping of the President-Elect, Clifford Fairlie.
Tough, veteran agent David Lime was summoned to track down the kidnappers, who threatened to kill Fairlie if the captured terrorists were not set free. And behind the scenes, ruthless men battled for the glory of the highest office in the land.
The rescue efforts swung into high gear. It became a vast, global manhunt. The entire world watched in frozen horror.
But only two men had the power to shape the end of this chilling, savage drama — agent Lime and the terrorist leader for whom hate had become a holy mission.
The normal pressures had been applied, and had proved minimally effective, so drugs had been introduced. Thus far the results had been poor but tonight might prove more satisfactory. In the meantime the prisoners each morning complained to their lawyers of the nightly roustings and the interrogators replied gravely that the prisoners were either dreaming or lying maliciously, The Establishment could produce a plethora of reliable witnesses to testify that the prisoners had lain undisturbed in their cells all night long; the Establishment could also produce doctors to testify that the prisoners had not been drugged. These radicals, Lime thought, had imagined a fascist police state and had created it.
In court it would be the Justice Department’s job to goad the prisoners into confessing their guilt aloud. The issues were inflammatory and volatile and only public confession by the bombers would assuage public unease. Such a confession would be obtained.
It wasn’t Lime’s department to obtain it and he was thankful for that, but he recognized the Government’s needs and knew that somehow the Government would find a lever to use against one or another of the prisoners.
He listened for ten minutes to the FBI agent’s questions. Sandra Walberg said very little and none of it was in direct response to the questions. The kid lawyer in the corner yawned without bothering to cover his lips. Lime exchanged jaded glances with the FBI man and twisted past the table and went out.
In the lobby of the Executive Office Building he found his boss DeFord and Attorney General Ackert talking to reporters. Ackert was talking without saying much, with a politician’s practice. He did it very well; his delivery was as impersonal as a print-out from a computer and he sounded like a cop testifying in court. It made him appear professional and competent; in fact he was both those things, but the act he was putting on at the moment was a conscious and deliberate role, therefore false. DeFord on the other hand was a fool but in public he had a way of giving the impression of informed crispness: he cloaked his incompetence in a fabric of secretiveness: I know the answers of course but security prevents me from divulging them at this time. He didn’t exactly say it in so many words.
There was more questioning and Attorney General Ackert was saying tonelessly, “Naturally. They’ve been informed, in the presence of their attorneys, that they have every right to remain silent, that anything they say can and will be used against them, and that they have the right to counsel at all times during questioning.”
Lime and DeFord broke away from the journalists and walked toward DeFord’s sanctum.
DeFord, twisting the doorknob, said, “I’d like to see them hang that lawyer while they’re at it.”
They went inside and the woman at the desk gave them her equitably chilly smile. Lime followed on into DeFord’s office.
DeFord sat down and tugged at the slack in his amply fleshed throat. “I, ah, had a telephone call from a gentleman named Walberg a few hours ago. The twins’ father. He’s just flown into Washington. I gather he’s tried to see his children and nobody wants to talk to him.”
Lime nodded. “He can’t comprehend that his children could possibly have had anything to do with it. There must be some mistake — a misunderstanding or a frame-up. Or maybe under the influence of bad companions. But it can’t be their fault.”
“You already talked to him, then.”
“No.”
“Eh. Well. I’m sure that’s the way I’d feel if I were in his place.”
“I’m sure it is.” Lime was thinking of Sandra Walberg. A determined up-yours resenter, that girl; how anyone could go on believing in her innocence—
“David, I’m sorry but I told the man you’d explain things to him.”
“You did.”
“He’s, eh, waiting down in your office. I thought I ought to tell you...” DeFord trailed off, turning an apologetic hand over, palm up.
“You damn fool.” Lime’s anger intensified the meaning of the drab words.
He walked out of the office and instead of slamming the door he pulled it shut with a quiet reproachful click.
Walberg had the lugubrious face of a professional mourner. His cheeks and hands were covered with freckles; his thin ginger hair was carefully combed across the baldness of his scalp. He appeared more doleful than indignant. Soft as a Number One pencil, Lime thought.
“Mr. Lime, I’m Chaim Walberg, I’m the fa—”
“I know who you are, Mr. Walberg.”
“It’s kind of you to see me.”
“It wasn’t my choice.” Lime went around his desk, spun the chair, sat. “Specifically what do you want to ask me to do?”
Walberg inhaled deeply. If he’d had a hat he’d have been rotating it in his hands. “They won’t let me see my children.”
“I’m afraid they’re the Government’s children right now, Mr. Walberg. It’s a security matter.”
“Yes yes, I understand that. They don’t want people leaking messages to or from the prisoners. They told me that. As if they think I’m in league with anarchists and assassins. In the name of God, Mr. Lime — I swear...”
Walberg stopped to compose himself. Now he summoned dignity. “There has been an error, Mr. Lime. My children are not—”
“Mr. Walberg, I haven’t the time to be your wailing wall.”
It stung Walberg. “I was told you are a cold man but people think you a fair one. Evidently that was not correct.”
Lime shook his head. “I’m only a faceless assistant to an assistant, Mr. Walberg. They shunted you onto me to get you out of their hair. There’s nothing I can do for you. My job consists mainly of making out reports on the reports other people have made out. I’m not a cop, I’m not a prosecutor, I’m not a judge.”
“You are the man who arrested my children, aren’t you?”
“I’m responsible for the arrests, if that’s what you wanted to hear.”
“Then you can tell me why.”
“You mean why I singled out your son and daughter?”
“Yes. What made you believe they were guilty of anything? Were they running? Because my children have had misunderstandings with officers, they’re afraid of the police — you know how the young people are. But to run away from a uniform and a gun — is this proof that—?”
“You’re jumping to conclusions, Mr. Walberg, but I’m not at liberty to divulge the Government’s case. You’d have to see the Attorney General, but I doubt he’d tell you very much. I’m sorry.”
“Are you old enough, Mr. Lime, to remember the days when you could tell good from evil?”
“I’m afraid I’m very busy, Mr. Walberg.” Sorry, the number you have dialed is not a working number. Lime walked to the door and held it open.
Walberg stood. “I’m going to fight for them.”
“Yes. I think you should.”
“Where has morality gone, Mr. Lime?”
“We still eat meat, don’t we.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Walberg.”
When Walberg was gone Lime emptied his In box. Intermittently for a half hour or so he thought of Walberg’s stupefying naiveté: the twins had posted plenty of storm warnings, they hadn’t rotted overnight, but the handwriting on the wall was always a message for someone else. Not my children.