“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.”
“We have reason to think they’ve got Fairlie down here.”
“Because this fellow Sturka used to operate in the bled ten-fifteen years ago?”
It was so damned tedious. “Mostly because we’ve identified Benyoussef Ben Krim as one of the cell.”
“Yeah I heard that, I heard that. Well we’ve had a net out after Ben Krim ever since we got your signal from Helsinki. He ain’t turned up and he ain’t lakly to.”
Lime wondered if they had filled Gilliams in on him. Did Gilliams know it had been Lime who had set up the secret negotiations between De Gaulle and Ben Bella back in the ALN days?
Lime said, “Information’s highly marketable here. It always has been. If Sturka’s here there are people who’ll know about it. I need to arrange a meet with Houari Djelil.”
He saw by the surprise in Gilliams’ face that he had scored a hit. It was evidence enough: nobody had bothered to tell Gilliams Lime was not just another tenderfoot.
“Well——”
“Djelil is still alive isn’t he?”
“Yeah sure. But he ain’t always inclined to cooperate. You know these Melons, I gather.”
Melon was what the pieds-noirs, the Algerian-born French, called the Arabs; the only equivalent was nigger. Lime only said, “I know Djelil.”
“Well I’ll see what I can fix up.” Gilliams picked up a phone—a direct line, Lime noticed, because Gilliams didn’t dial—and spoke into it.
In the inferior regions of the city—the Casbah, named after the sixteenth-century fortress which surrounded the height overlooking the old quarter—Lime stood at the corner of a brasserie and viewed the street’s squalid colors and scented the alleys’ smell of urine and waited for the signal. He heard the long slow wail of a muezzin calling for evening Islamic prayers.
In the old days Djelil would sooner have been tortured to death than betray Sturka but in those days Sturka had been fighting for the Algerians.
But now there were arguments that might sway Djelil. If nothing else he was a practical man.
The present rulers of Algeria had functioned underground for so many years they had got into the habit and hadn’t been able to break it. They still went under their revolutionary aliases and not many people knew their real names. The regime tended to support every self-styled national liberation movement that came along anywhere in the world: the State was socialist but the enemy was “imperialism” whatever its ideology. For these reasons the ruling party was often willing to assist murderous movements anywhere whose objectives claimed to be the overthrow of imperialism.
The only American mission recognized in Algeria was the Black Panthers. The Canadians were represented by the Quebec Liberation Front which had abducted and murdered various Canadian and British officials. FRELIMO, the Mozambique liberation movement, had training camps in the Algerian bled, and the desert was being used by training cadres of Al Fatah, the Palestine Liberation Movement. Altogether the ruling NLF accredited fifteen or sixteen liberation movements and granted them varying degrees of assistance in their attempts to overthrow established governments.