Line of Succession

Monday,

January 10

10:15 A.M. Continental European Time The sky was weak lemon in color and Perdido loomed above the hotel, powder snow blowing off its peak in little gusty clouds. Eleven thousand feet of mountain and nothing to do but ski. The lodge was huge with a heavy-handed massiveness that failed to create the kind of rusticity it was evidently intended to provide. The Germans had built it just last year — the Germans, who built everything in Spain. They had hacked a road up the mountain and built Perdido Spa out of Krupp steel and Hilton plastic, and endeavored to give it the quaint appearance of logs. It was an abomination.

Liam McNeely stood outside the lodge on a wooden deck the size of a football field, open to the sky. Ordinarily it would be crowded with little tables occupied by lunching skiers but today there were no tourists. Premier Perez-Blasco had shelled out of the Spanish treasury enough to hire Perdido Spa for the duration of President-elect Fairlie’s skiing visit. The tables had been removed and Fairlie’s Navy helicopter squatted there on its skids, motionless rotor blades drooping.

Fairlie had originally planned to ski here but he had no interest in skiing now — not after the bombing. Yet the Spanish plans were not easily or quickly changeable. Fairlie was waiting here, resting, en route.

Early this morning Torres, the Foreign Minister, had arrived from Madrid in a black Seat limousine. As Fairlie’s aide-de-camp and chief factotum McNeely had met Torres’s party at the car-park steps and ushered them quickly into the banquet room which the hotel had set aside for Fairlie’s meetings.

Torres had with him his interpreter and two underlings and a squat brigand named Dominguez who turned out to be the director of the Guardia Civil. McNeely produced the aides and Meyer Rifkind, who was head of the Secret Service detail assigned to Fairlie, and they had all sat down in a little group near one side of the enormous empty room. Stiff and hesitant, as if they were the only people left from a crowded party that had broken up an hour ago.

But Torres was congenial and they had ironed out the schedule for Fairlie’s visit to Madrid. Dominguez had done most of the groundwork; it remained mainly to coordinate Secret Service operations into the Spanish security arrangements.

These visits always required intricate and voluminous preparation. The precise time of arrival, the precise spot where the helicopter would land and be met by Perez-Blasco and the civil guardsmen, the motorcade route from helicopter to palace. Dominguez went over the maps for more than an hour with Meyer Rifkind. Here — a stubby finger jabbed the map — Perez-Blasco and Fairlie would make an “unscheduled” stop to pop out of the limousine and shake hands with members of the crowd. Guardianos were clearing the block in advance, screening every storefront and window and rooftop, posting themselves to enfilade the area.

Here, television cameras would be posted along the boulevard to cover the motorcade. There would be good camera shots of Fairlie and Perez-Blasco when they made a “spontaneous” stop to accept roasted chestnuts from a street vendor.

It was all contrivance, the game of personal diplomacy.

A Guardiano would drive the limousine and a United States Secret Service agent would sit beside him on the front seat. Two more, similarly paired, on the limousine’s jump seats facing the dignitaries. Guardianos in their taut uniforms and hard tricorner hats would ride the running boards. Cars ahead and behind would carry security men.

At three-fifteen the motorcade would arrive at El Pardo palace; Fairlie and Perez-Blasco would dismount, the Guardia would form a flying wedge around them, they would enter the palace with Secret Service agents following in a fan.

There would be a midafternoon luncheon. Perez-Blasco and Fairlie would share the dais alone; was that acceptable to McNeely? Perez-Blasco would introduce the honored guest — here, a copy of the brief welcoming speech Perez-Blasco would deliver. Then Fairlie would make a brief address; was it possible for Torres to obtain a copy of that now? Then the dignitaries and reporters would be ushered elsewhere; Fairlie and the Spanish chief executive would retire with their aides for private discussions...

On cue, Clifford Fairlie came down the wide stairs in his lounging jacket, the one with elbow patches, all smiles; shook hands warmly all around, sat down and chatted.

The protocols were observed and finally Torres was leaving. They all emerged from the hotel onto the deck and McNeely smiled vaguely at the chopper pilot when they walked past the helicopter toward the steps. The Secret Service men were scanning the corners, the shadows, the mountainside, even the sky; they were paid to do only one thing and they did it professionally.

Fairlie and Torres and the entourage descended to the pavement. The limousine drew up, Guardianos coming to attention. Later, trying to recall the exact sequence of events, McNeely had a great deal of difficulty sorting out the movements he had seen. The press car drove up behind Torres’s limousine; the aides and guards got inside while Torres and Dominguez said goodbye — this after the usual nonstatements to the press pooclass="underline" the discussions have been very useful, everything is going smoothly, we look forward to a frank exchange of views in Madrid...