Line of Succession

“I’ve got to go to the White House. Have you got anything more for me?”

The FBI Director had a telephone at his ear. “Tell him to wait. Put him on Hold.” He put the receiver down and looked at Satterthwaite. In his left hand Shankland held a pencil upright, bouncing its point on the table as if to drill a hole in the surface. “We’ve traced Raoul Riva back to the Cairo Hotel. Of course he wasn’t using that name. But it was him. He only had two visitors — the same two guys several times during the past few days.”

“The two that were with him last night?”

“Yeah. Harrison and the dead guy, Kavanagh.”

“Well that’s what Harrison said, isn’t it.”

“I’m not ready to believe the son of a bitch yet.”

“But everything confirms it. Doesn’t it?” He put it to Shankland as a challenge but Shankland only shrugged. Satterthwaite said angrily, “You’re not listening to the rumors are you? Of all people you ought to know better.”

“What rumors?”

“About the enormous conspiracy.”

Shankland said in his flat prim nasal voice, “Mr. Satterthwaite, we thought we had them all the first time and it turned out we were wrong.”

“You still think there’s an endless supply of them coming out of the woodwork?”

“I’ll only repeat what I said to the Security Council an hour ago. Until we’ve got dependable airtight information to confirm what Harrison says, I have to go on record as recommending a full-scale crackdown.”

That was the way Shankland always talked. He was straight out of the Hoover mold.

Satterthwaite said, “What else have you got for the President?”

“Well they still had three bombs left. Unexploded ones, in the back seat of that Chevrolet.”

“Any idea who they were meant for?”

“Harrison says it was flexible. They figured to hit whoever was available — they’d figured out ways to hit eight or nine VIPs on the outskirts of Washington.”

“Harrison,” Satterthwaite said. “Is he going to pull through?”

“He wouldn’t if I had my preferences.”

“Goddamn it we need him alive. If he dies we’ll never have any way of proving it ends here.”

“Who’s going to believe him anyway? If he pulls through alive you’ll just have to hold off a lynch mob on top of everything else. I’d as soon he kicked off right now.”

“The point is he’s willing to talk.”

“Talk? He’s willing to boast. He knows he has no chance to squirm out of it; he’s a dead man, he just hasn’t been executed yet. He seems to think the more cooperative he acts the longer we’ll keep him alive, if only to keep pumping him. Or maybe he wants everyone to know how clever they all were. Maybe he’s looking for a place in the history books.”

“I still want to know what his chances are.”

“I guess they’ll patch him up. He took a couple of thirty-eights in his guts.”

On his way out of the room Satterthwaite felt a rising sense of alarm. If the rumors could get into this room they could go anywhere. Hard facts were in short supply, the events were beyond everyday understanding, and nothing terrified men more than ambiguous uncertainties that directly affected their lives.

The rumors were to the effect that there was a giant international movement bent on toppling the American government. It was based in Cuba or Peking or Moscow; it was the brainchild of an evil genius — Castro, Chou En-lai, Kosygin; it was Communist-inspired or Communist-led or both; it was, in short, the opening skirmish of World War Three.

“How long’s he intend to keep me waiting like a Goddamn office boy?” Wendell Hollander demanded with biting scorn.

Satterthwaite’s nostrils flared. “The President’s up to here with troubles, Senator. You can see that.”

“His troubles,” Hollander snapped, “are gon’’ to last exactly seventy-five hours by my timepiece. My troubles might well last the next four years.” His eyebrows narrowed shrewdly. “If the country lasts that long, that is.” Even when he was using his confidential tone of voice Hollander tended to yell; he was somewhat deaf.

And if you last that long. Hollander for the past decade or more had had the rheumy appearance of a terminal patient. But like most unhealthy men he took extremely good care of himself; it was not impossible he would live to be ninety and if that was the case he still had thirteen dyspeptic years to go.

“With all due respect,” Hollander shouted, “I would like to suggest you remind that yellow-bellied coward down the hall that I’m waiting here to see him.” His face bulged thick with blood and anger.

“Senator, the President will see you as soon as he can.”

Hollander’s indignation reached its peak. For a moment he stood gathering himself — drawing himself up, pumping air into his caved-in chest. In an effort to be reasonable Satterthwaite said quickly, “These are terrible times for us all.”