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.
“And you’re asking my advice?”
“No. I’m asking you to be my Vice-President if Cliff doesn’t come back.”
A beat of silence: Bee’s big lumberjack face dipping toward the brandy in thought. “It’s mighty flattering, Dex.”
“Frankly, I might have preferred Sam March but he’s gone. But the important thing is you were Cliff’s first choice. I feel obliged to honor his wishes — after all he’s the one who was elected President.”
“You are being blunt.” The famous Bee grin.
“Next to March you’d be my own choice. That’s the truth.”
Bee lifted his head to sip from the globe. “Sam March was pretty good company to be in. I’m not offended.”
“You and I might make a good team, don’t you think?”
Bee uncrossed his legs and recrossed them in the other direction. “I guess you want my decision pretty fast.”
“I’m afraid so.”
The big Californian lifted to his feet. “Let me sleep on it.”
“I’ll call your office tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
They moved toward the door. Bee said, “It seems damned callous, doesn’t it.”
“It does. Like picking the pockets of a man who isn’t quite dead yet.”
“Sometimes I hate politics,” Bee said. He gave Ethridge his quick firm handshake and went.
It was well past midnight. The headache was beginning to throb again. Ethridge thought of calling the doctor but decided to get a night’s rest and see if the headache disappeared.
Feeling strangely guilty, thinking of the big desk in the White House, he went up to bed.
Tuesday,
January 11
11:35 A.M. Greenwich Mean Time The signal came on a faint pulse on the five hundred-kilocycle marine band. At Land’s End the W/T operator logged it in, time-of-origin 1135 hours. It was in Morse, an awkward fist on the key. Written out it was brief: Fairlie will broadcast this frequency 1200 GMT keep channel open.
The W/T station got right through on the land line to Commander-in-Chief Portsmouth.
There was no time to think about the possibility of a hoax. C-in-C sent immediate orders to all stations. By 11:48 every official wireless set on the coasts of England and France was ready to receive.
At 11:50 a crackle of introductory static and then a voice transmission:
“This is Clifford Fairlie speaking. In... ten minutes... I will speak... on this... band.”
C-in-C Portsmouth had reached the Admiralty by telephone at 11:49. Word sped to 10 Downing Street.
Two lines to Washington were opened: the Prime Minister’s hot line to President Brewster and a satellite-relayed broadcast circuit to convey the promised broadcast live.
At 11:55 another voice transmission on 500 KG: “This is Clifford Fairlie speaking. In... five minutes... I will speak... on this... band.”
To a few monitors with good ears it was apparent the second broadcast was the same voice recording as the first with the exception of the phrases “ten minutes” and “five minutes.”
The PM heard it, live, by telephone from Admiralty; the PM remarked the curious hesitations between words. It sounded like Fairlie’s voice... The PM inquired of the First Lord of the Admiralty: “We are taping this of course?”
“Naturally.”
“Very good, then...”
“Whitehall is alerted?”
“Yes of course.”
The PM went to the hot line telephone. “Mr. President?”
“Right here.” The twanging Oregon drawl.
“We shall pipe this straight through to you.”
“Let’s hear what it has to say then.”
8:50 A.M. EST The National Security Agency had monster banks of computers designed to analyze ciphers and codes and electronic transmissions. The Fairlie tape had been punched into the IBM consoles and then had been put in again, this time as sound recordings on ultra-high-speed half-inch tapes designed to disclose every nuance of volume and frequency. NSA’s electronic detection devices were the ultimate in Sherlockian analysis: an inaudible sound, an imperceptible fraction of time sufficed for clues.
Ames was the NSA official assigned to the Fairlie tapes and Lime had worked with him many times before. He had been Lime’s supervisor during the years of foreign fieldwork.
“Voiceprints are all positive,” Ames said. “We’ve matched it against his recorded speeches. It’s not a phony — it’s Fairlie’s voice.”
Satterthwaite was scowling through thick lenses at the turning tape reels. “Edited.”
“Edited like mad,” Lime muttered.
The place always put Lime in mind of space-flight mission controclass="underline" the electronic consoles ran on relentlessly along great curved walls.
Lime held a computer print-out. It diagrammed the splices, showing where Fairlie’s words had been cut and pasted together:
This is Clifford Fairlie speaking.
I’ve been kidnapped.
I’m being held for ransom
in a place I can’t identify by a group of people who have not shown their faces to me or otherwise identified themselves.
They have not harmed me physically.
The
ransom demands
seem reasonable. I
think Washington will agree to these demands.
I understand how
you
may
suppose
I’ve been
brainwashed
but
I’m reasonably tough
and
I rarely send my brain out to be laundered.
They have not harmed me.
I speak my own words, free of restraint.
I cannot be bought.
A man in my position hasn’t the luxury of being able to afford being bought.
I
speak
only on my own terms.
The point is I have a position in the world — alive or dead I still represent that position. The man in that position can’t put his voice to
words
that
aren’t true.
The
revolutionaries
have a cause that makes good sense
to
them.
They
agree to turn me loose
in exchange for the seven bombers we’ve got on trial.
My freedom in exchange for the
bombers’.
They are to be released and given safe asylum.
Instructions will follow.
This is Clifford Fairlie.
Satterthwaite said, “Is this a professional editing job?”
Lime shook his head and Ames said, “A talented amateur, but not a pro. It sounds almost natural but I’d say they probably made their tapes by switching back and forth from one small portable stereo deck to another. There’s a lot of background tape noise — the kind of thing you get from too much overdubbing. They had to do several tracks to wipe out the clicking sounds between splices — it shows up. At any rate it wasn’t done in a well-equipped sound studio.”