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.
“I still won’t do it.”
It came down to ancient basics: did the end justify the means? Satterthwaite turned to the chair and sank into it. Chagrined and elated at the same time by Brewster’s righteousness.
Then the President punctured it. “There’s a point you’re missing.”
“Yes?”
“Have a look.”
The President pushed the pad across the desk. Satterthwaite had to get up to reach for it.
Brewster’s fitful handwriting:
LINE OF SUCCESSION
? President
X Vice-President
X Speaker of House
President pro tem of Senate
Secretary of State
Sec of Treasury
Sec of Defense
Atty General...
“You see the point, Bill? Cross but Wendy and who’s next? Secretary of State? Hell, John Urquhart’s no better qualified for this job than Willie Mays. He’s a pencil pusher. You’ve been doing his job for the past four years. I’d have dumped him a long time ago if you hadn’t been here.”
Of course that was old-fashioned politics; Urquhart was a fool but he’d helped elect Brewster to the Presidency and he had his job through patronage, just like Treasury’s Chaney and several of the others. It was one of the weapons the Republicans had used in the presidential campaign: Fairlie had roasted Brewster for his Cabinet appointments and the people seemed to have heeded him.
A year ago Brewster had toyed with the idea of replacing Urquhart — had tentatively offered the post to Satterthwaite; but then the Republicans had started sniping and Brewster had to vindicate himself so he had not only kept Urquhart in the job, he had vowed loudly his undying support for the Secretary of State. That was the way the game was played.
“I’ll tell you, Bill, Wendy might go charging right into a war with his eyes closed tight, but John Urquhart would likely go blundering into one just as fast with his eyes wide open. Fairlie was dead right, damn him. I shouldn’t have been such a prideful fool.”
“We all shared in that decision. It was a party decision. We couldn’t afford to retreat under fire. I still think it was the right decision at the time.”
“Let’s not waste words on hindsight,” the President said. He opened the desk drawer against his belly and lifted out a pamphlet-sized copy of the United States Constitution. “You read this thing lately Bill?”
“Why?”
“I keep thinking there’s an answer in here but I’m damned if I can find it.” He opened the covers and began to paw through. “Here. Article Twenty, Section Three. ‘... the Congress may by law provide for the case wherein neither a President-elect nor a Vice-President shall have qualified, declaring who shall then act as President, or the manner in which one who is to act shall be selected, and such person shall act accordingly until a President or Vice-President shall have qualified.’”
“That’s clear enough, isn’t it? Congress was authorized to decide who succeeds to the office. They did so — that’s what the Act of Succession is.”
“Seems to me you can’t read the Constitution the way a brimstone fundamentalist reads the Bible, Bill. It’s not a literal document.”
“You’d have to take that up with the Supreme Court, Mr. President.”
“The Final Resort of Exalted Conjecture,” the President muttered. It was one of his time-honored phrases; he used it whenever the Court voted him down.
“I still don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“Well neither do I to tell you the truth. But it just seems to me there’s got to be some way to use this Constitution to help us prove the Government wasn’t set up for the express purpose of installing the oldest and most senile member of the Senate as President of the United States.”
“The Constitution doesn’t say anything about that. All it says is the Congress may provide for filling the office when there’s a vacancy. The Constitution doesn’t spell out how they’re supposed to do it.”
The President gnawed thoughtfully on his cigar and Satterth-waite scowled at him. In the end Brewster began to smile. “That’s it, ain’t it Bill.”
“Sir?”
“You put your finger on it. The Constitution doesn’t specify how they’re supposed to fill the vacancy.”
“Yes but that’s immaterial isn’t it? I mean they’ve already complied with the Constitution. They’ve provided for a line of succession. It’s a fait accompli.”
“Is it now.”
“I guess I’m not following you. But I’m no expert on constitutional law. Maybe you ought to be talking to the Attorney General.”
“I’m talking to the right man. Every time I rub brains with you it strikes sparks. That’s what you’re here for.” The President tossed the pamphlet back in the drawer and slid it shut. “The Act of Succession is an Act of Congress, right?”
“It’s the law of the land, as they say.”
“Uh-huh. You got any idea how many Acts of Congress get passed every year, Bill?”
“Not exactly. A fair number.”
“Aeah. And how many get amended every year?”
Satterthwaite shot bolt upright in the chair. The President waved his cigar; suddenly he was looking almost smug. “Now I’m not a hundred per cent positive, mind you, but it’s becoming my horseback opinion that this here Act of Succession is not exactly carved into stone tablets. I seem to recall it’s been amended four or five times in the years I’ve been in Washington. Back in Nineteen and sixty-six, and I believe again in Nineteen and seventy. And a couple-three times before that too.”
Satterthwaite was still absorbing the impact of it. Brewster reached for the intercom buzzer. “Margaret, see if you can scare me up a copy of the Act of Succession, will you?” He released the button and examined his cigar. “Yes sir, that may be just the ticket out of this hole.”
“You’re talking about ramming a new Act of Succession through Congress in the next three days?”
“Not a new Act. An amendment to the old one, that’s all.”
“Designed to take Hollander off the list?”
The President squinted at him. “They’d never stand still for that, Bill.”
“Then I still don’t see the option.”
“What we do, Bill, we ask the Congress to insert one name on that list between the Speaker of the House and the President pro tempore of the Senate.”
“What name?”
“The man best qualified to act as interim President until the rightfully qualified President-elect is recovered.”
It dawned on Satterthwaite a split instant before Brewster voiced it: “The most recently retired former President of the United States, Bill.”
And the President added in a very quiet voice: “Me.”
5:20 P.M. North African Time The CIA chief in Algiers went by the name of Samuel Gilliams. He was one of those Americans who thought the United States owned the mortgage on the whole world and could foreclose any time it pleased. It was the standard CIA philosophy and it was one of the things that had driven Lime out of the intelligence service. Gilliams was almost the archetype; Lime detested him on sight.
Years ago Algeria had broken off diplomatic relations with the United States; Gilliams had a cubicle in the chargé d’affairs’ office in what was called the American Affairs Section of the Swiss Embassy. Behind his desk Gilliams was self-important and miffed. “We’ve been on it for five days now. I don’t know what-all you expect to accomplish that we haven’t already covered.”