Line of Succession by Brian Garfield

Representative-elect from the State of Connecticut.”
    â€œThe chair recognizes Mr. Wood of California.”
    â€œMr. Clerk, as chairman of the Republican conference and by authority, direction, and unanimous vote of that conference, I nominate for Speaker of the House of Representatives of the Ninety-fifth Congress the Honorable Philip Krayle, a Representative-elect from the State of New York.”
    â€œThe Honorable Milton C. Luke, a Representative-elect from the State of Connecticut, and the Honorable Philip Krayle, a Representative-elect from the State of New York, have been placed in nomination. Are there further nominations? … There being no further nominations, the Clerk will appoint tellers. The Clerk appoints the gentleman from Ohio, Mr. Block, the gentleman from Illinois, Mr. Westlake, the gentlewoman from California, Mrs. Ludlum, and the gentlewoman from Vermont, Mrs. Morrison. Tellers will come forward and take their seats at the desk in front of the Speaker’s rostrum. The roll will now be called, and those responding to their names will indicate by surname the nominee of their choice—Luke or Krayle. The reading clerk will now call the roll.”
    â€œThe State of Alabama. Mr. Price.…”
    Bob Walberg looked at his watch and looked up across the gallery. Sandra was watching him.
    It was time. He stood up, apologizing sotto voce to the lady beside him; he placed his briefcase on the seat, as if to save it for his return, and made his way out into the aisle past the lady’s knees, and turned up to the back of the gallery. The uniformed guard watched him approach. Bob Walberg whispered in the guard’s ear and the guard pointed and whispered something which Bob Walberg didn’t catch, but he nodded and thanked the guard and slipped out.
    12:30 P.M. EST The East Portico afforded the best exit from the Capitol because you could head right out Maryland or Pennsylvania Avenue without getting tangled in the tortured traffic patterns of the Mall. With that in mind David Lime had posted himself beside the radio car on East Capitol Street immediately below the Portico where he could watch the faces of those who emerged from the building. It was a long shot; of course it was a long shot—everything was.
    He kept fighting the impulse to reach into the car and snatch up the microphone and bleat into it: has anybody found anything? They would let him know if they did.
    He looked around again, turning a full circle on his heels, and now he began to develop an interest in the spruce-green Plymouth that had pulled up at the curb below the New Senate Office Building. It had a young man in a self-conscious Afro at the wheel and white wisps of exhaust flailing from its tailpipe. Lime automatically noted the license number in his pocket pad and this time he succumbed to the urge to reach for the microphone.
    â€œDispatch, this is Lime.”
    â€œGo ahead Lime.”
    â€œHave you got a squadrol on Maryland Avenue between here and Stanton Square?”
    â€œHold on.… Car Five Niner, you on Maryland? Whereabouts? Okay, stand by.… Hello Lime?”
    â€œRight here.”
    â€œAffirmative your query.”
    â€œRequest you hold your car on Maryland until further notice from me.”
    He heard Dispatch relay the message to Car 59 and re-experienced the irritation he always felt when dealing with vehicular patrols: you had contact with Dispatch but not with other cars and therefore everything had to be relayed through Dispatch. It was the only method that made real sense but nevertheless it was annoying.
    Lime said into the microphone, “Convey this to Car Five Niner, please. A ‘Seventy-two Plymouth four-door, blue-green, license New Jersey Samuel Bravo Dog Three Three Four. If that car comes north on Maryland with more than one person in it, I want it stopped.”
    â€œAffirmative Lime.… Car Five Niner——”
    Lime handed the microphone