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.
Kaiser was tugging at his sleeve. Kaiser had a telephone cupped in his hand. “It’s for you. The President.”
Satterthwaite said to Shankland, “Get on it, Clyde,” and slammed down the phone and grabbed the other one from Kaiser. “Yes, Mr. President.”
4:23 A.M. EST The city was amok with crying sirens. Riva circled the block and got back into his car and reached for the walkie-talkie. “Copasetik?”
“Copasetik.”
“They’re on their toes. Let’s do the alternate.”
“Copasetik.”
The central area was getting too hot; they would skip the other targets and head for the outskirts.
The Secret Service men had questioned him for several minutes but Riva’s identification was in order and his story was plausible and they had bigger things to worry about than him.
He put the car in gear and headed up toward Senator Forrester’s house.
4:28 A.M. EST Special Agent Pickett slid into the front seat of the limousine to use the radio. His hand brushed the manila folder on the seat and when he pushed it aside the ID sheet came ajar and he was looking straight into the face of the man they had questioned less than ten minutes ago.
He picked up the ID sheet and stared at the photo and blurted into the microphone.
“This is Pickett. I’ve just seen your man Riva.”
4:31 A.M. EST DeFord and B. L. Hoyt marched into the war room and Hoyt said to Satterthwaite, “Listen, they may be pulling something in that apartment house. Those rifle shots could have been a diversion to distract our people’s attention while someone slipped into the building. We’d better get Milton Luke out of there.”
“And put him where?”
“The White House. It’s the best guarded place we’ve got.”
DeFord said, “I’ll arrange for a heavy escort. We’ll want motorcycles and squadrols.” He reached for a phone.
4:33 A.M. EST The two FBI agents reached Arizona Terrace and parked at the curb.
“That’s the Senator’s house.”
“All right. No point waking him up. Look, I’ll post myself in that open garage across the street. You stick here in the car. Anybody shows up, we’ll have them crossfired.”
“Okay.”
4:37 A.M. EST Riva parked at the mouth of Arizona Terrace and within moments the Chevrolet drew up alongside. Kavanagh at the wheel.
“Everything okay?”
“So far,” Riva said.
“You want to do this hit and run?”
“He’s got that plate-glass picture window in front. Just throw it in through the window.”
“I don’t know. It’s a cul-de-sac, this street.”
“I’ll sweep it first,” Riva said. “Give me two minutes.” He pulled out into the street and headed up the hill in low.
Forrester’s house was at the bottleneck of the street just before it widened into a circular turnaround. Riva drove slowly into the turnaround. Was that a shadow in the parked car? He looked again. Nothing.
Getting nervous. He chastised himself. It would take them a lot longer than this to get men out this far. Forrester was only a junior senator from an unimportant state.
He cruised around the loop and headed out again. Glanced into the shadows of an open garage; nothing there. The snowfall had let up, the flakes were drifting down singly. He drove back over the crest and down to the mouth of the drive.
“All clear.”
4:41 A.M. EST The FBI agent spoke low into the microphone of his car radio. “Somebody’s just cased Forrester’s house. You better get another car or two up here.”
4:42 A.M. EST Harrison put the satchel charge in his lap while the car climbed the hill. He set the timer for two minutes.
Kavanagh drove past the parked Plymouth and pulled in across the front of the Senator’s driveway. “Go.”
Harrison shoved the door open and stepped out. Started to walk up the driveway toward the front of the house.
“Hold it right there. FBI.”
Harrison turned slowly on his heels, twisting his head to look over his shoulder.
The FBI man stood beside the Plymouth, aiming the pistol casually at the middle of Harrison’s coat and making it clear he felt it was an easy shot.
The timing device was ticking. Harrison dropped the bomb and dived for cover but the FBI man switched his headlights on and caught Harrison blindingly in the beams.
Kavanagh was coming out of the Chevrolet with his gun but there was a wink of orange flame arid a roar from the dark open garage across the street and Kavanagh pitched onto his face.
Harrison got up to run — he couldn’t stay there, the bomb had thirty seconds at most...
He felt the bullets thud into him but before he went under he heard the earsplitting thunder of the satchel bomb. Something whacked agony against the back of his neck.
4:43 A.M. EST The shots alerted Riva and he reached for the walkie-talkie. “Copasetik?”
When they didn’t answer right away he switched on his lights and drove for the mouth of the street.
A pair of cars came swerving into it. Saw him approaching and slewed across the pavement to block his exit. Riva turned the wheel and floored the pedal, ramming the Dodge up onto the sidewalk, heading for the open boulevard beyond them. But he had their headlights straight in his eyes and it was hard to see.
He heard the bomb go off. Something starred the windshield in front of his face. His wheels banged up across the concrete and the car was slithering on wet snow, the rear wheels shrieking. He spun the wheel to go with the skid and crashed into one of the cars.
He dived across the seat and got out the far door, rolling, bringing the silencer-pistol up. But his eyes were still blinded from the headlights and he couldn’t find a target and then three or four of them were shooting him from behind the lights.
5:10 A.M. EST Four Secret Service cars formed a convoy escort around the limousine and there were pairs of motorcycles fore and aft. Speaker of the House Milton Luke and his wife were surrounded by a flying wedge of security agents from the door of their apartment to the elevator, down to the ground floor, across the lobby, through the doors and across the sidewalk to the waiting limousine. The Lukes settled in the back seat looking aged and half asleep and showing the signs of having dressed hurriedly. Men were emerging from the building with the Lukes’ two overnight bags; more clothing would follow later.
The sirens climbed to a shriek and the limousine pulled out into Wisconsin Avenue.
The burst of engine power sent a hot stream of waste gases through the limousine’s exhaust pipes and the heat ignited the detonator of the hosepipe bomb. When it exploded it ruptured the gasoline tank and the fuel exploded.
The rear section of the limousine was blown to fragments and the passengers with it. The noise was audible thirty blocks away.
8:40 A.M. EST In the clamor of the war room Satterthwaite couldn’t hear the President’s voice. He went out and across into the private conference room and picked up the phone. “Yes Mr. President.”