the House, normally third in line to the presidency, in that the most powerful person in the House of Representatives had to be elected by the members of the majority party.
Like the vice president, members of the president’s cabinet, including the secretaries of treasury, state, and defense and the attorney general, were nominated to their posts by the president. The Senate had to confirm their nominations.
“We nominate and congressionally confirm a vice president,” Holt said, ticking off points on his gloved fingers. “We elect a Speaker. And we nominate and confirm cabinet members at the Senate.”
Holt started to walk up the Senate steps. “Only one position in the immediate order of succession to the Oval Office is automatic. The person fourth in line to the presidency, the Senate president pro tempore, is always the most senior member of the majority party. When that senator dies, the next in seniority automatically and immediately inherits the position and title.”
The scene jumped to inside the Senate, with Holt standing outside the chambers.
“In the chaos of the hours that have passed since the attacks, a single fact seems to have been forgotten, or perhaps ignored,” he said. “When the Senate president pro tempore, West Virginia senator Arthur Jones, had a heart attack and was pronounced dead, the next senator in line automatically and with zero fanfare became Senate president pro tempore.”
The anchorman paused for effect. “This all happened a good four hours before the assassinations. In light of this obscure but very real rule, should Samuel Larkin be running the country? Launching attacks against the power grids of other nations? Provoking nuclear war? Or should the new Senate president pro tempore—Bryce Talbot of Nevada—be president of the United States?”
The screen cut to show archival footage of Senator Talbot, a slick, smart, silver-haired former prosecutor from Reno in his late sixties. I knew Talbot, or knew of his reputation, anyway, and it made me slightly unsettled.
The senator from Nevada was one of the top fund-raisers on Capitol Hill, and he held the power of the purse strings as chairman of the Senate Appropriations Committee. Talbot was reputed to be in the back pocket of, among other special-interest groups, the gambling industry. Then again, what senator from Nevada wouldn’t be?
The screen cut to Senator Talbot in his office. Talbot looked genuinely stunned when Holt said that according to the Constitution and rules of the Senate, he should be the president of the United States.
“Is that true, Lester?” he asked, shocked.
“I believe it is, Senator,” Holt said. “Will you seek to remove Mr. Larkin and take his place in the Oval Office?”
Talbot looked deeply conflicted but said, “Well, I’ll have to talk to people smarter than me about this before I make any firm decisions. But if what you’re saying is true, Lester, then it is my solemn duty to take office, regardless of the high esteem in which I hold Sam Larkin.”
CHAPTER
81
SHORTLY BEFORE SIX that Saturday evening, I was on my second cup of coffee at the Mandarin Oriental bar when the man I was waiting for entered, looking harried and jittery, a backpack slung over his shoulder.
I left my coffee cup to cut across the lobby to intercept him.
“Dr. Winters?” I said.
The concierge doctor started and seemed puzzled and then threatened by my presence.
“Dr. Cross? What are you doing here?”
“Can I have a few moments of your time?”
“I have a patient waiting.”
“The patient’s me.”
He looked confused. “What’s wrong?”
“Just a few questions we need answered sooner rather than later.”
Winters, who was in his early forties, scratched at his hand. “I get paid for this, you know, making calls.”
“The FBI will cover your fee. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Bourbon,” Winters said.
A few minutes later, a waitress set a tumbler with two fingers of Maker’s Mark in front of Winters; he raised it, drank it down, and ordered another.
“What do you need?” he said.
“What was your relationship to Viktor Kasimov?”
“I was his doctor.”
“Nothing else?”
“No. What do you mean?”
“I’ve read the file on your medical-license review,” I said.
Winters got disgusted and then angry. “I’m clean, and I have been clean for almost four years.”
“You were reprimanded for overprescribing pain medication,” I said.
“Four years ago,” he said.
“So you didn’t give Kasimov a script for Oxy?”
“No. He had a stomach bug. Why would I?”
“What about seeing makeup and masks? You neglected to tell us about that when we spoke.”
Winters ducked his chin, and you could tell he was wondering how the hell I knew that, and then he did