“Clifford Fairlie.”
Silence against the background noise.
Finally: “Dear sweet God.” A voice so weak Lime hardly caught it.
“We got them all if it matters. Sturka and Renaldo bought the farm.” My God. Bought the farm. An expression he hadn’t heard or used in fifteen years.
Satterthwaite was saying something. Lime didn’t catch it. “What?”
“I said that puts President Brewster back in office for four more years. The Senate voted cloture on Hollander’s filibuster a couple of hours ago. They’ve amended the Act. It’s on the President’s desk for signature.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not sure I care.”
“I think,” and Satterthwaite’s voice was very low and very slowly distinct, “I have to know how and why Fairlie died, David.”
“He died of an overdose of tranquilizers. I suppose you could say I killed him. I suppose you could say that.”
“Go on. Tell me all of it.”
Lime told him. And then asked, “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to see. Don’t say anything to anyone just yet. Keep all your people together, bring them all home. You’ll fly Fairlie’s body into Andrews—I’ll meet you or have someone meet you. There’ll have to be a debriefing—make sure you keep all your people incommunicado.”
“No announcement at all?”
“Not from you. We’ll have to release the news at this end. Actually I suppose it’s up to the President to make the announcement.”
Lime fumbled for a cigarette. “You may as well recall those seven prisoners. There won’t be any exchange now.”
“I will. All right, David, I’ll see you,” Satterthwaite said lamely and broke the connection.
Lime tossed the handset into the bed of the Land Rover and began jabbing his pockets to find his cigarette lighter.
12:20 A.M. EST It looked like snow again. Satterthwaite stood in a small bare room on the top floor of the Executive Office Building. He hadn’t switched any lights on. The city beyond the window threw in a little light. He had been standing alone in the dimness for some time. Just standing there.
Everybody had gone home. The war room had been dismantled. He had sat in it alone until the clean-up crews had come to clear up the mess; then he had come up here to think.
The Southern bloc had fought for Hollander but it had been no real contest. Brewster’s supporters had played on the senility issue; nothing overt had been said on the Senate floor about Hollander’s political leanings. That would have been too raw. In fact very little had been said about Hollander at all, except by his supporters. The issue—the pretended issue—was experience and qualifications. Mr. President, I gladly avail myself of the privilege of offering my support to the able and distinguished Senator from Montana in affirming that in national crises when time is of the essence, the laws of succession to the Presidency of the United States must take into account the realities of today’s complex administrative problems. We cannot and should not expect anyone to have to assume the burdens of this office without adequate preparation and introduction—that is to say briefings—on the multitude of critical ongoing problems which inevitably hang in the balance between changing administrations. Under the present circumstances where there is quite obviously no time at all to hand over the reins of government to a newcomer in an orderly fashion, is it not clear that we have but one intelligent course to follow? …
Of course it was all poppycock, everyone knew it: Brewster could easily stay on as a guest in a White House wing for long enough to brief the new President if that were the only difficulty. Hollander’s supporters had pointed out such things with biting scorn and thundering anger but there had been no stemming the pressure for Brewster. Everyone remembered how close the popular election had been. The accusations against Los Angeles and other cities, the recounts, the solid Democratic majority in both houses which secretly applauded Brewster’s move because it vindicated the party.
But all these were minor; there was only one real issue and that was Wendell Hollander. His senile paranoia, his political dementia. Hollander had the unique ability to terrify almost everyone in Congress. And those who knew him best were those whom he terrified most.
Against that terror the anti-Brewster arguments, no matter how legion and logical, had carried no weight. It was true Brewster had usurped the prerogatives of the electorate: having lost the popular election he was overruling its results by act of Congress. It was true as Fitzroy Grant insisted that Brewster’s action was in defiance of every reasonable interpretation of the spirit of the Constitution’s safeguards. Maybe it was true also that Brewster’s ability to acquire power far exceeded his ability to exercise it wisely; at least Fitz Grant suspected as much.
Yet what Brewster had done was not illegal, not unconstitutional, not technically refutable. He had seized upon the law—or a loophole in it—and had won because Congress had seized on an emotional loophole. The legislators had accepted the emergency plan primarily because it covered an emergency they had hoped and expected not to have meet. Like everyone else they had convinced themselves that Fairlie would be recovered alive. The irony was, they probably wouldn’t have voted for the measure if they had known Fairlie was about to die—and so Hollander would have been President after all.
The Senate’s opposition had been led by Grant, who was respected even if unheeded; over in the House the resistance had been led by a handful of hysterical far-right Congressmen who had quite literally been hooted off the floor. Ways and Means had reported out the House resolution within hours of the President’s appeal and the roll-call vote had been taken with the relentless speed of a panzer blitz. The Acting Speaker, Philip Krayle of New York, had directed Ways and Means to form a subcommittee ready to meet on ten minutes’ notice with the Senate’s companion committee the instant the Senate bill had been ratified. It had all taken place with guilty haste and scores of them had slipped away furtively the instant their work had been done.
Satterthwaite hated equally Brewster’s lunatic confidence and Fitz Grant’s lunatic misgivings. Congress had taken the better of two choices. No denying that. But to prevent one form of tyranny they had created another.
Abruptly Satterthwaite stopped in front of the window. He made a number of grunts, audible punctuation to his thoughts. He was staring out at the city with the intense concentration of a lecher watching a woman disrobe but he wasn’t seeing much of anything: his mind was turned inward and abruptly he shot out of the room and hurried toward the elevators.
The clean-up crew still mopped in the war room. Satterthwaite popped across the hall into the conference room and reached for the telephone and the federal directory. He found Philip Krayle’s number and dialed.
It rang a dozen times. No answer. Well of course that would be Krayle’s office. It was one o’clock in the morning. Satterthwaite spoke an oath, looked in the city phone book. No number for Representative Krayle.
Unlisted. Damn the son of a bitch. Satterthwaite pounded his fist on the table.
Finally he dialed a number he knew: Liam McNeely’s home phone.
McNeely answered on the second ring.
“It’s Bill Satterthwaite, Liam.”
“Hello Bill.” A voice utterly devoid of everything. Well it was understandable: McNeely had been Fairlie’s closest political advisor and friend and had only learned of Fairlie’s death within the past couple of hours. The President had gone on television at eleven to make two announcements. Someone—possibly Perry Hearn—had thought to call McNeely because McNeely had called Satterthwaite to ask for details. Satterthwaite had stuck to the prepared script: Fairlie had been dead before the rescuers arrived, the kidnappers had injected him with an overdose of drugs.
“Liam, I’m sorry to bother you at a time like this but it’s vital. I need to reach Philip Krayle. I thought you might have his home number.”