Under the American constitutional system, the two branches of government, legislative and executive, must remain separate. The 1947 Succession Act deals with this prohibition by requiring that the Speaker of the House and/or the president pro tempore of the Senate first resign their congressional post prior to being sworn in as president. But how could either then be eligible to be president since, once resigned, they would no longer be Speaker or president pro tempore, hence ineligible to succeed under the statute.
When a cabinet officer succeeds under the statute there is language in subsection (d)(3) of the act that specifically provides:
The taking of the oath of office by a [cabinet officer] shall be held to constitute his resignation from the office by virtue of the holding of which he qualifies to act as President.
No such proviso appears in the subsection of the law that provides for succession by the Speaker of the House or the president pro tempore of the Senate.
More legal questions also exist with a member of the cabinet being placed in the line of succession. The 1947 Act expressly states that any cabinet officer who succeeds serves as “Acting-President” until a new Speaker of the House or new president pro tempore of the Senate is chosen, who would then replace that cabinet officer as acting president. Scholars call this “bumping,” but this statutory language conflicts with Article II, Section 1, Clause 6 of the Constitution, which says that when an officer of the United States succeeds to the presidency “such Officer shall act accordingly until the disability [of the president] be removed or a President shall be elected.”
Experts agree that there is no constitutional sanction for the bumping of one officer for another, which makes sense, as the prohibition prevents the confusion that would surely arise if the American presidency were transferred to several different people in such a short period of time. It would also prevent Congress from exercising influence over the executive branch (violating the separation of powers) by threatening to replace a cabinet member acting as president with a newly elected Speaker of the House.
In short, the Presidential Succession Act of 1947 is a flawed statute. One observer calls it “an accident waiting to happen.” If its statutory provisions were ever applied it would generate nothing but litigation. In the appendix attached hereto is a long list of law review and other scholarly articles (from 1947 to the present) that have come to the same conclusion. Yet the United States Congress has made no attempt to repair its deficiencies.
So consider this: If a president dies in office, clearly, under the 25th Amendment, the vice president becomes president and serves out the remaining term. If a vice president dies in office, under the same amendment the president and the Congress choose a replacement, who serves out the remaining term. If the president-elect dies before taking the oath, the 20th Amendment provides that the vice-president-elect becomes president.
But what happens when both the president-elect and the vice-president-elect die before noon on January 20?
The 20th Amendment fails to address this possibility. Instead, the amendment empowered Congress to provide an answer, which became the Presidential Succession Act of 1947. But that act would not solve anything relative to this catastrophic scenario. Instead, under the statute as it is presently drafted, the United States would be plunged into political and legal chaos.
Stephanie finished her second reading of the memorandum.
Another sheet in the file noted that the document had been intercepted on April 9, 1982, part of a cache seized from a Soviet spy captured in West Germany. Its author was unknown. But the KGB had certainly gone to a lot of trouble to learn about the Presidential Succession Act of 1947, a relatively obscure aspect of American law.
She was ensconced on the White House’s third floor, inside a modest bedroom with two queen-sized beds, a lamp burning on a mahogany table between them. Danny was one floor below in the master suite. She’d tried to sleep but had been unable, deciding to read the memo once more. She considered herself well versed in the Constitution, and was aware of some of the 20th Amendment’s shortcomings. But the flaws in the 1947 Succession Act surprised her, as did Congress’s seeming indifference at changing them.
Although she could understand that hesitation.
What were the odds of the act ever coming into play?
Only in two instances was the American government ever congregated in a single location. One was the yearly State of the Union address, which happened each January in the House of Representatives chamber on Capitol Hill. The other was a presidential inauguration. Every major player was present for both events.
Except one.
The designated survivor.
Usually a member of the cabinet, chosen in secret by the White House chief of staff before the event and hidden away in a remote and undisclosed location with both presidential-level security and transport. An aide even carried a nuclear “football” that could be used by the survivor to authorize any counterattack. In the event of a total catastrophe that person, in direct line to succeed thanks to the 1947 Succession Act, would become acting president. All of these plans assumed, though, no political or constitutional problems associated with such an ascension.
Yet that might not be the case.
In fact, the whole idea of the 1947 Succession Act now seemed suspect.
But what did this have to do with Aleksandr Zorin and missing Russian nukes? Was Zorin aware of this information and now planning an attack on the inauguration? That seemed the logical conclusion, given what Cotton had reported about Zorin and the zero amendment. Certainly on Monday the entire government, save for the designated survivor, would be present on the west side of the Capitol, there to watch the beginning of the Warner Fox administration.
But what would be gained by such a reckless act? “His name is Aleksandr Zorin and he wants revenge.” That’s what Osin had told her.
Then there was what else Cotton had been told.
Fool’s Mate.
Danny had said he was waiting on Osin to provide more on that, too.
But she knew a quicker way that information might be found.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Zorin stared across the water at Eastport, Maine. He and Kelly had sailed from the Canadian side of the bay in just under two hours. Finally, they’d lowered the sail and dropped anchor about half a kilometer offshore. The cabin belowdecks came with two bunks, some spare equipment, and life jackets. They huddled inside, with the curtains drawn on the portholes. Peering past them he saw a dock and marina that accommodated a variety of boats. Eastport seemed like a quaint little town, its claim to fame being its status as the easternmost city in the United States, as Kelly had explained.
“This is a formal port of entry,” Kelly said. “A ferry sails from here to Deer Island in New Brunswick, but only in the summer. This time of year entry in and out is informal.”
“We cannot be detained.”
“We won’t. I’ve tested this path before. What were we taught, Aleksandr? Be ready or die.”
He climbed topside to the small aft deck and listened to the distant hiss of small breakers as they splashed against a rocky shore. Out here on the water, with nothing to block the wind, the north air knifed through him. Like another cold day, long ago on the Kamchatka Peninsula, when six opium-addicted soldiers seized a Tu-134 destined for the Siberian oil fields. Two of the 74 passengers were killed and the airplane damaged, which temporarily prevented it from being flown to the West, which was where the soldiers wanted to go. He’d sat offshore that day, about half a kilometer, waiting for an opportunity, another stiff Arctic wind chilling his bones. Eventually, he and three others from his spetsnaz unit slipped ashore and stormed the plane, killing all six of the hijackers.
He’d been good at his job.
Respected.
Feared.
And rewarded.
Unmarked buses had crisscrossed Moscow every day providing free rides for KGB employees. No shortages ever affected him or any other
intelligence officer. KGB grocery stores stayed stocked with salmon, sausage, cheese, bread, even caviar. Western clothing was readily available. There were gyms, saunas, pools, and tennis courts. A private medical staff worked around the clock. A modern clinic employed dentists. Even masseuses could be hired. The headquarters of the First Directorate, just outside Moscow, came with better security than the Kremlin. And what a place. Its construction materials had been imported from Japan and Europe. The Finnish supplied all the interior furnishings. A sense of awe was evoked at every corner. Its marble façade sparkled in the sun, the wooden floors buffed to a mirror finish. No costs were spared, the whole site designed to remind everyone who worked there that they were special.
Only the best for the best.
And officers, like him, who worked the North American Department had ranked as the most important.
Then it all vanished.
“Did you ever see what happened to the Woods?” he asked. That was how they’d referred to the First Directorate headquarters.
Kelly shook his head. “I never went back after that night with Andropov. Never had an opportunity.”
“You were lucky. It would have shamed you. I went in ’94. The building was crumbling, paint scabbed and peeling, the inside filthy, most of the people drunk by midday. That Finnish furniture, which we so admired, was either gone or destroyed. In the bathrooms were dozens of liquor bottles. Everything reeked of alcohol and tobacco. No toilet paper or paper towels anywhere. People stole those as fast as they were laid out. You used old newspapers to wipe your ass. The place, like us, had been allowed to rot.”
It sickened him to think about it. Bright, loyal, confident men broken in half. But he needed to never forget. Hate provided a powerful fuel for his aging emotions. As a foreign officer living overseas he’d learned that everything was temporary. Training taught him to suspend the mind in the surrealness around him. Home was always Moscow, familiar and comfortable, but when that world ceased to exist all logic and reason had fled him.
He’d truly felt abandoned and alone.
“I almost wish that I’d been like you,” he said. “Living here you were able to avoid the failure.”
“But I never forgot that I was an officer of the KGB. Not once. And I was given a mission by Andropov himself. That meant something to me, Aleksandr.”
As it had to him.
He listened to the patter of water against the hull. Salmon-colored sky off to the east signaled dawn. The wind had not weakened, the water shifting like a sheet of wrinkled foil. Kelly reached into his bag, found a map and flashlight, opening the folds and spreading the paper out on the deck. Zorin saw that it showed the eastern United States, stretching from Maine to Florida.
“We’re here,” Kelly said, pointing the beam at the northeastern tip of Maine. “We’re going to drive west to Bangor, then take Interstate 95 south. Once we get on that superhighway we can make good time. We should be where we need to be by tonight.”
“I assume you don’t plan to tell me any details.”
“How about we discover things together, one step at a time.”
He was in no position to argue, so he stayed silent. Kelly was doing what he wanted so little reason existed to complain. He stared past the deck at the town on shore. A few people moved across the dock near the marina. Headlights passed back and forth on a street that paralleled shore, then turned inland illuminating buildings on either side.
The United States of America.
It had been a long time since he last visited.
“How do we get onto those highways and head south?” he asked. “Stealing a car could be a problem.”
“That’s why we’re going to do this the easy way and rent one. I’m a U.S. citizen with a Canadian driver’s license. It shouldn’t be a problem. Is anyone in America aware of you?”
He shook his head. “Not that I know of. Apparently, Moscow is watching, but they have no idea where we are now.”
He wondered about Anya and how she was doing. He still carried the mobile phone that matched hers and would try and make contact tonight.
“What about the SVR?” Kelly asked. “They obviously knew you were coming to me.”
Which made him wonder again about Belchenko. Had what the archivist said in the black bath been repeated to Moscow? “You’re right. They knew.”
“Then why haven’t they made contact until now?” Kelly asked.
“Because there was no reason, or maybe they simply did not know everything until now.”
“Do they know of Fool’s Mate?”
“It’s possible. Those old records I found, they could find, too. Other archivists could know what I was told. But you said you told no one of your success. No report was ever made. Was that true?”
Kelly nodded.
He still could not believe Belchenko had talked. “They have to be grasping in the dark, hoping you and I will lead them to the cache.”
Another look across the water. Eastport had a somber, eerie quality—inviting, tranquil, yet ominous.
And he wondered.
Was the SVR here?
Waiting?
* * *
Malone slowed the car as he and Cassiopeia entered Eastport, Maine. The town sat on Moose Island, connected to the mainland by a causeway. They’d kept watch from St. Andrews on the sloop as it dipped and rose across the swells, wind nudging it forward, the water giving way as it heeled over slightly to the pressure of its sail. Once it was no longer in sight they’d fled the Canadian side of the bay and driven south, entering the United States on U.S. 1, passing through a border station, then paralleling the St. Croix River even farther south. Cassiopeia had determined from her smartphone that Eastport would give them the farthest point east.
Then they’d caught a break.
The drone, which had kept the sailboat under surveillance, revealed that it was now anchored in the lower reaches of the bay just off Eastport.
All in all they’d made good time and kept up.
Eastport’s central downtown was small and eclectic, its main street lined with squatty wood buildings, some with black ironwork railings and decorative grilles. A Stars and Stripes on an eagle-topped pole blew stiff in the cold wind. The place seemed like one of those perfect weekend escapes, with Portland less than 250 miles south. Edwin Davis had just reported that all was quiet on the boat, its two occupants still aboard.
“How do they get into the country?” Cassiopeia asked.
“Believe it or not, up here this time of year it’s the honor system. Somewhere down near the docks will be a video telephone booth. You’re supposed to stand there so your image can be sent back to inspectors. Then you dial the phone inside and they ask you some questions. If it looks good you’re given permission to enter, if not you’re supposed to go back where you came from. The inspectors rely on the locals to police things for them and report problems.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I’ve made that call myself a couple of times in other places. Guarding a 5,500 mile border is tough and expensive. I imagine Kelly knows how loose things are with Canada. After all, he came straight here.”
He eased the car to a stop in front of a bed-and-breakfast. “Zorin knows me, so I have to be scarce. But you’re a different story. We’ll let the drone do the seeing, until we need the personal touch. That’ll be you.”
She gave him a mock salute. “Yes, Captain. I’m ready to serve.”
He smiled. “I’ve missed that attitude.”
“Good thing.”
Her cell phone buzzed.
She answered on speaker.
“They’re leaving the boat in a dinghy,” Edwin Davis said.
“Is everything clear here? If anyone calls anything in, Border Patrol will squelch it.”
“All done. They should have an open-field run. I’m told we do have hidden cameras all over that dock. It’s a busy place in the summer.”
“Have you found out anything about Fool’s
Mate or zero amendment?”
“Oh, yes, and you’re not going to like either one.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
WASHINGTON, DC
8:05 A.M.
Stephanie left the White House and rode in a cab back to the Mandarin Oriental where she showered, changed clothes, and grabbed something to eat. She’d managed just a few hours of sleep, her mind reeling from what she’d read in the file Danny had provided.
The Soviet Union had been intently interested in the 20th Amendment to the Constitution. So intent that they’d even provided it with a nickname.
The zero amendment.
What that meant the old memo had not explained, but other memos in the file noted that references to the term appeared repeatedly in Soviet communiqués back in the late 1970s and into the 1980s, all linked directly to Yuri Andropov himself.
Then in 1984 references to the term vanished.
American intelligence paid close attention to when subject matters blossomed and wilted, as both events were significant. Analysts spent whole careers pondering why something started, then equally as much time on why it may have stopped. Linking subject matters was the Holy Grail of intelligence work and here the connection had been provided to Cotton when Vadim Belchenko, in his dying breaths, said “Fool’s Mate” and “zero amendment.” Stephanie needed to know more about the term Fool’s Mate, and knew exactly where to go.
Kristina Cox lived within sight of the Cathedral Church of St. Peter and St. Paul in the city and diocese of Washington, DC. Most people simply called it the National Cathedral, as most called Kristina, Kris. Her husband, Glenn, had been an Episcopal canon, a towering man with a booming voice. For thirty-one years he’d served the church, eventually rising to bishop of the DC diocese, working from the cathedral. But one sad Sunday he’d dropped dead at the pulpit from a heart attack.
In gratitude for his long service, a small house had been provided to Kris for life, a two-story cottage that sat back from the street, its cream-colored façade dominated by tall windows whose symmetry was marred only by an air-conditioning unit set into the bottom left one. No one had thought it strange that the wife of the Episcopal bishop of DC had also been a spy. In fact, no one had ever even questioned it, her professional and personal lives never mingling. That separation was one of the first things she’d learned from Kris Cox, and only once had Stephanie ever violated that rule.