Line of Succession

by Brian Garfield

  Rifkind was scraping a palm down across his face and the number two was baleful: “They should’ve come out to have a look at us by now.”

  “Well maybe they think we’re revenooers.” The black lieutenant had an engaging grin.

  “That’s not all joke,” Rifkind muttered. “Basque country—they do a lot of smuggling up here. Back and forth over the French frontier. These hills are full of Basque nationalists who fought Franco in the thirties and never got over it.”

  The rotors finally were coming to rest—whup-whup-whup. The lieutenant said, “Most likely nobody’s home. But I’ll have a look. Everybody sit tight.”

  The lieutenant pushed his door open and stepped down. Rifkind and his number two were watching the farmhouse with taut squints and Fairlie leaned forward for a better view.

  The lieutenant was standing on the snow beside the open door. He had stripped his gloves off and was sizing up the farmhouse, in no hurry to move in; he used his hands to light a cigarette and then he turned a slow full circle to scrutinize the yard. Fairlie could not follow his glance beyond the periphery to the left; the helicopter was blind to the rear.

  The lieutenant completed his turn. Then coolly as if there were nothing remarkable about it he snapped his cigarette into Meyer Rifkind’s face.

  Fairlie had no time to absorb it. Men appeared from the blind rear of the chopper—the door was opening on the right side, the lieutenant was jabbing the bunched rigid fingers of his hand into Rifkind’s diaphragm; Rifkind folded up in his seat and sucked for breath, clawing for his service revolver; the abruptness of it electrified the skin of Fairlie’s spine, he began to twist in his seat, and someone to his right fired a shot.

  The number two’s head snapped to one side: magically as if by stop-motion photography a dark disk appeared above his eyebrow, rimmed at the bottom by droplets of crimson froth. The lieutenant was hauling Rifkind out of the helicopter. A hand reached in past the number two, toward Fairlie; he saw it in the corner of his vision. There was another gunshot—Rifkind’s hand went out to break the fall but by the time his body had fallen that far it was dead and the arm was crushed underneath.

  Fairlie had just a glimpse of the gas pistol before he passed out.

  10:20 A.M. EST Bill Satterthwaite carried in his pocket the genuine symbol of status in Washington: a radio-activated beeper which uttered sounds when the White House wanted him.

  It was mostly a source of sophisticated amusement. Washington hostesses joked about it (“My dear, when Bill’s beeper goes off in the middle of my hors d’oeuvres I never know whether to continue the dinner or rush everyone into the basement in case it’s World War Three”). The thing angered his wife, fascinated his sons, baffled the diplomats who came from countries where nothing ever required unseemly hurry.

  Satterthwaite was one of the handful who hadn’t been searched on entering the courtroom and that was a symbol too.

  The courtroom was jammed. Reporters and sketch artists filled the seats. Satterthwaite sat near the side of the room, polishing his glasses, prepared to be bored.

  This was only the arraignment. The Federal Grand Jury had taken a week to word its indictments because no one could afford loopholes.

  It was the Government’s serve. At precisely ten o’clock the District Judge had entered the courtroom and the defendants had refused to rise. Judge Irwin’s lips had compressed; he had adjusted his robes and delivered an address from the bench on the subject of contempt of court, at the end of which he cautioned the defendants that if they attempted to disrupt the proceedings he would order them bound and gagged.

  No one took it for overreaction. The trial of the Washington Seven gave every indication of turning into a spectacle. Philip Harding and his clients knew they had no hope of avoiding conviction; the only hope was to overturn it on appeal. If the court could be baited into losing its temper it might lay the basis for future appeals or the declaration of a mistrial. And since the defendants sought the overthrow of the system which the court represented they had no reason to obey its rules of decorum and etiquette; they meant to defy and provoke at every opportunity.

  The Government’s every ball had to clear the net and land inside the service court. There was not much doubt there would be basis for sufficient appeals to carry the case to the Supreme Court, but the Attorney General had to make certain the Supreme Court had no grounds to reverse the convictions.

  The reading of the indictments was a rote formality; Ackert’s presence was an indication of the President’s personal involvement in the case, as was Satterthwaite’s. Brewster had said, “Just show yourself. Let the reporters see you.”

  In the seats around him Satterthwaite counted four Senators and six Representatives—members of both parties, well-known figures. Congressman Molnar from California, who stood about four goose-steps to the right of Hitler; Congressman Jethro, the black socialist from Harlem; Senator Alan Forrester from Arizona, who stood plumb in the political center. The President’s intent was to demonstrate the solidarity of the Government and it was interesting that the angriest of these spectators was the Leftist Jethro because in his estimation the bombers had set back his cause by ten years.

  To Satterthwaite causes and ideologies were tiresome things. He saw history in terms of the theory of random games. The course of events was determined not by mass movements or ecopolitical struggles but by royal whims and feminine intrigues and the accidents of personalities and coincidences. Those in power had the responsibility for judging odds, estimating resources, placing the right bets on the right numbers; the long-term goal was to win more than you lost and the method was to study each turn of the wheel as an individual case. “Long-term policy” was a meaningless phrase because you could never predict when you might encounter an opponent’s surprise gambit, a new Hitler, a new Gandhi. You did your best with what chips you had.

  The Attorney General’s voice droned on, the monotone of a man reading aloud from documents designed more to be printed than spoken. The defendants were skirting the boundaries of contempt: yawning, playing ticktacktoe, scratching themselves, laughing intermittently. Robert Walberg was flipping a coin continuously in an obvious effort to make a point about the trial and Establishment justice. Philip Harding with his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his vest grinned obscenely at Ackert throughout the reading of the indictments.

  Ackert reached his summation and paused for breath and that was when Satterthwaite’s electronic device began beeping.

  The thing always alarmed him; this time it gave him a grateful sense of reprieve as well. He climbed across six knees and walked quickly up the aisle.

  A guard held the door for him and Satterthwaite stopped to ask the location of the nearest telephone.

  “Court clerk’s office, sir.”

  He followed the direction of the pointing finger and entered an office occupied by several women behind desks. Satterthwaite spoke a few words; one of the women turned a telephone toward him.

  The President’s secretary was unusually crisp; she sounded distressed. “The President wants you immediately—we’ve sent a car for you.”

  So it was more than a trivial flap. He strode toward the street.

  The EPS squadrol was just drawing in at the curb, the seven lights on its rooftop flashing red and amber. The driver had the back door open for Satterthwaite when he reached the foot of the steps, and as soon as he was inside the siren climbed painfully against his eardrums. The cruiser surged along the boulevards, slowing for the red lights, dodging lanes, and he felt the speed against his kidneys.

  In the outer office the President’s secretary told him, “They’re in the Lincoln Sitting Room,” and he went there, striding along on his short legs with a growing sense of urgency.

  The President was on his feet pacing; he acknowledged Satterthwaite with a palm-out gesture that stopped Satterthwaite just inside the door. Satterthwaite quickly catalogued the half dozen men in the room: B. L. Hoyt, Director of the Secret Servi
ce; Treasury Secretary Chaney; the directors of the FBI and the, Central Intelligence Agency and the National Security Agency; and Secretary of State John Urquhart.

  The President came forward speaking over his shoulder with his favorite executive mannerism, the disguised order in the form of a question: “Now shouldn’t you boys get moving?” He came right by Satterthwaite and touched his elbow as he passed through the doorway; he took B. L. Hoyt in tow and the three of them tramped across the carpet. The President’s cigar left a wake of ash and smoke through which the Secret Service agents traveled efficiently; one of them held the door and the three men passed into the President’s office.

  Brewster walked around behind the Lincoln desk and sat, a bit vague against the light that spilled in through the three windows behind him. Satterthwaite, making his guess from the selection of men who had been in conference with the President, said flatly, “Something’s happened to Cliff Fairlie.”

  The President’s twang was emotional and pained. “He’s been kidnapped.”

  B. L. Hoyt had his finger on the large globe behind the flagstaff. “In the Pyrenees.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” Satterthwaite breathed. There followed the President’s hard grunt. Satterthwaite’s consciousness receded defensively: he could absorb only fragments of the President’s story: “… on the way to Madrid to nail down the bases with Perez-Blasco.… was McNeely who tumbled to it first.… phony Navy helicopter … pilot’s dead … a mountain called Perdido about seventy-five miles west of Andorra.”

  The President tapped his palm against the desk top gently and his ring clacked against the wood. Satterthwaite came to. “He was taken alive?”

  “Apparently.” That was B. L. Hoyt, very dry. “At least we have no evidence to the contrary.”

  “Do we know why?”

  Howard Brewster said, “We don’t know who and we don’t know why.” He removed the cigar from his mouth. He had nearly bitten it in two. “Goddamn it.”

  Satterthwaite had a little trouble with his knees; he found his way to a chair. “Sweet Jesus.”

  “We got word about two hours ago. I’ve put the machinery in motion, we’re using every plane and helicopter and pair of eyes we’ve got in the Med. Madrid’s cooperating, naturally.”

  Satterthwaite plucked the handkerchief from his pocket, took off his glasses and wiped them. “I’m sorry, Mr. President. I feel stunned—it takes getting used to.”

  The President said, “I know,” and spoke into a telephone: “Have you got McNeely yet? … Buzz me the minute he’s on.” He dropped the receiver on its cradle. “McNeely’s all right. The minute he discovered what was going on he sealed off the exit road up there and restricted the telephone switchboard to official calls—he’s got the reporters bottled up in there, he’s giving it out that Fairlie’s got a head cold, some temporary indisposition.” Brewster smiled briefly. “McNeely’s a country slicker just like me.” He tapped the ash off the end of his cigar. “We want to keep it in the family for a few hours. Maybe we can get Fairlie back before it gets out.”

  “It doesn’t sound too hopeful,” Satterthwaite said.

  “No, I reckon it doesn’t.”

  Satterthwaite pulled his head around toward B. L. Hoyt. “On general principle I suppose you’d better intensify the guard on the Vice-President-elect.”

  “Already done. We’ve got a crowd around Ethridge a fly couldn’t get through.” Hoyt was a gaunt cadaver with a pulmonary pallor, the shrunken pattern of his skull clearly visible; but his china-blue eyes were bitter-bright.

  Satterthwaite waited, attentive. He saw the President’s eyebrows contract. “Bill, suppose they hide Fairlie somewhere. Suppose this thing drags out more than a few hours—suppose it turns into days, weeks.”

  “Don’t we have to wait and see what it’s all about, Mr. President?”

  “Oh I expect we’ll hear from them. Some sort of ransom demands. We’ll deal with that when we come to it. But in the meantime we’re obliged to hunt for them. Now that puts us in a mess, Bill. We’re just not organized for this kind of operation. The jurisdictions aren’t laid out, there’s no chain of command, no real communications. Technically I suppose it’s Madrid’s ball but we’re not about to let them carry it. State’s in touch with Paris right now and if this lasts more than a few hours I guess we’ll have to bring in some others—the Portuguese, Rome, maybe the North African countries. But in the meantime we’ve got Navy and CIA and NSA and Air Force falling all over each other, reporting each other’s helicopters every ten minutes. All these Goddamn bureaucracies and no coordination at all.”

  “Then let’s set up a center. Put somebody in charge.”

  “Uh-huh.” The President removed the cigar from his mouth and blew smoke at its ash. “Hoyt here recommended you for that job.”

  “Me?” He glanced at Hoyt in surprise.

  Hoyt’s thin nostrils dilated. “Technically it’s my bailiwick, protecting Fairlie. But overseas the Secret Service hasn’t got a pot to piss in. We could turn it over to the Navy or one of the intelligence agencies, but it seems to me that would be inviting a lot of interservice bickering we haven’t got time for. Put an admiral in charge and you’d have all the CIA types resenting it. Put the CIA in charge and the Navy would resist taking orders from them. We need somebody who’s neutral—somebody up high enough to command respect.”

  The President said, “You’re Cabinet rank, Bill, and you’re neither military nor security-intelligence.”

  “But what qualifications have I got?”

  “Brains,” the President grunted, and sank the cigar in his mouth.

  “It’s not good politics,” Satterthwaite said. “If anything goes wrong we’ll all get roasted because we didn’t have a professional in charge.”

  “The secret of administration,” the President said, “is to know how to pick good men. You’ll have your pick of every professional we’ve got.”

  Hoyt said, “You’ve already got a base of communications through the Security Council. We’ll arrange to have all reports sent there. It’ll be up to you to coordinate them. You’ll get all the help you need.”

  “Don’t argue the point,” the President said, “we haven’t got time.”

  “All right, Mr. President.”

  “Fine. Now when McNeely calls I want you on the extension. He’s on top of things over there. In the meantime while we’re waiting you can get some of the details from Hoyt.” Brewster ashed his cigar in the glass tray, swiveled his chair to put a shoulder to them, and began to speak into a phone.

  Hoyt came around the Presidential flag and took a stance in front of Satterthwaite on the seal of the United States that was woven into the carpet. He talked in a clipped monotone and he was good at it; Satterthwaite quickly began to form a picture of what had happened at Perdido.

  It had been carefully timed and organized; they weren’t amateurs. Someone at the hotel had sugared the helicopter’s fuel tanks and poured finely ground glass into the engine lubricants. The same saboteur, it was assumed, had waited his opportunity to get Navy pilot Anderson alone and had killed him.

  The sabotage had been committed at the last minute—probably while everyone’s attention was distracted by the departure of the Spanish minister’s car. The timing had been well planned, for it left insufficient time for Fairlie to travel to Madrid by car. So the Fairlie party had summoned a replacement helicopter from Sixth Fleet and the kidnappers had monitored those messages; the kidnappers had appeared ten minutes ahead of the real Sixth Fleet helicopter and in Anderson’s absence the kidnappers’ pilot had been employed. All of it obviously planned to every detail. There was only one clue of any significance. “The phony Navy chopper pilot was black, and he was either native American or a damned good imitation of one.”

  “That’s something to start with, at any rate.”

  “We’ve already got Sixth Fleet checking. The FBI and the other agencies are running through their R & I files for black helicopter p
ilots.”

  The President was off the phone. “That probably brings you as up to date as any of us. Any ideas?”

  “One, for a start. I’ll need the best people I can get.”

  “Obviously.”

  He turned to Hoyt. “I’ll want your man Lime.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Don’t ask him. Order him.”

  Hoyt nodded. “I’d better get on my horse, then. Mr. President?”

  Brewster waved him out.

  When the door closed behind Hoyt the President said, “His head’s going to roll of course. I guess he knows that.”

  “He’s not stupid.” The Secret Service had committed two grave blunders in a space of ten days and the public would demand a villain; Hoyt would be It and Hoyt would have to accept the blame publicly. In this room during the past twenty minutes Hoyt had known all that perfectly well but had shown no sign of it.

  The President said, “We’ve got to get Fairlie back. I don’t care how many feathers we have to ruffle on our good neighbors overseas. We’re going to get him back if it takes the Marines.” He was growling around a fresh cigar. “It’s going to start a hell of a whipsaw in this country, Bill.”

  “Sir?”

  “We’ll be split right down the middle between the flag wavers and the libertarians.”

  “I suppose you’re right. But we’ve hardly got time right now for theoretical arguments on the dilemma of protecting officials without limiting public access to them.”

  “At any rate we’ve got Fairlie to worry about first. I want you to ride them hard, Bill, make sure every agency in Warshington’s on top of this thing. I want the rivalries dropped, I want absolute cooperation right down——”

  The telephone buzzed.

  “——the line. Yes Margaret? … Fine. About damn time. Put him on.” The President glanced up at him. “It’s McNeely. Get on that other phone, will you?”