We Are Holding the President Hostage (11 page)

"What do you want?" the man in charge asked. His
tactic, the Padre knew, was to stretch out the dialogue as long as possible.

"What we want," the Padre said, "is to move
quietly to the President's quarters on the second floor. It will be much more
comfortable for the President and the First Lady there."

"We can't let you do that," the man in charge
said. The Padre noted, for the first time, a tiny tremor of anxiety in his
voice.

"Well then," the Padre said, "we could stay
here until we can no longer stand. If we falter or in some way move too
hastily, this area of the White House will require a great deal of costly
repairs. Not to mention the tremendous expense of a great number of funerals."

He looked directly into the eyes of the man in charge.
Instinctively, he knew which of them would blink first, but the man held his
stare for a longer time than expected. Finally, the man turned his eyes away.

"What is it you want?" he asked tersely, the pose
of politeness quickly dissipating.

"A very simple request. We wish to move forward,
through that door." He pointed with his head. "Up the stairs behind
it."

"I mean, why have you done this?"

"...and then we wish to be left alone for a
while."

"For how long?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"I'm sorry for the discomfort, Mr. President. But this
man is very stubborn," the Padre said.

The man in charge seemed rattled. His options, it was
obvious, were few.

"You'll kill yourself too," the man in charge
said. "You want to die?"

"Do you?" the Padre asked.

The man in charge shrugged. He was wearing a microphone and
earpiece. The Padre noted peripherally that the outside lawn was bathed in
strong lights. He heard movement in the dining room, chairs being pushed back,
the sound of moving feet, hushed voices.

"What is your cause? Is it publicity?

"For crying out loud, Ike," the President snapped
at the man in charge. "We're not getting anywhere. Let's move it
upstairs."

"Very sensible," the Padre said.

"They obviously want something. Well get up there,
we'll talk about it," the President said. No panic in his voice, the Padre
noted. The President was a man who had come a long way on a very rough course.
He had learned to control himself. A good sign.

"I can't let this happen," Ike Fellows said.

"Yes, you can," the President said. "I order
you to do it."

"We're Secret Service, Mr. President. Your safety is
our mission. We have a right to supersede your orders."

"Are we going to stand here and have a procedural
argument? They don't want to take us out of here. Only upstairs. Hell, you've
got them surrounded."

"I don't think—" Fellows began.

"For chrissakes, man, if he wanted to kill us, he
would have done so already."

"Absolutely correct, Mr. President," the Padre
said.

"We'll talk," the President said. "We'll
work it out."

Fellows' body seemed to collapse from the inside. He shook
his head, all his bravado gone.

"Step away," he said to the men who surrounded
them. They moved a few feet beyond the tight little circle and the Padre started
forward, feeling the pull of the others as they followed. It was an awkward,
clumsy way of walking.

With each step, the circle of Secret Service men followed,
although they had to make room for the Padre's circle to pass through the wide
doorway. They reformed again in the corridor and moved slowly in tandem with
the Padre's circle.

The staircase seemed narrower than expected. A number of
Secret Service agents moved ahead of them, backward, the muzzles of their Uzis
continuing to point directly at the foreheads of the Padre and his men.

The Padre led the way upward. It was difficult for those
behind him to follow. And dangerous. As they moved, Carmine momentarily lost
his balance and slipped backward. But he could not unlock his arms and the clot
of bodies listed as they resisted his fall. The Padre pushed forward, straining
like a horse in a harness. They were halfway up the stairs. A tumble would be
deadly.

The Padre felt the enormous strain on his shoulders and
heard the heavy breathing and grunting behind him. For a moment he felt his
strength ebb. He could not hold back the enormous weight being helped by the
force of gravity, carrying him downward. Husbanding his energy, he shifted his
effort so that the full weight of the circle might move sideways toward the
banister.

Behind him, he heard panicked voices and the clatter of
shoes. He paid little attention. The circle listed further sideways. Then,
suddenly, the Padre felt resistance. They had been inhibited from falling by
the banister. They rested now. He could feel and hear them taking deep breaths.

"Now forward," the Padre said. His voice had
weakened. But the Secret Service men who had preceded them had melted away, as
well as the others who followed. They moved upward haltingly, step by step, finding
a foothold, then rising in unison until they reached the upper landing.

They were in the long central hall. Quickly he took in the
brightly lit crystal chandeliers, the polished double partners' desk, the
beautiful picture of the lady and her two children on the far wall, the plants
and figures of animals on shelves, the gold carpet.

Secret Service agents were posted everywhere, Uzis at the
ready. A line of men was stretched across the corridor, beginning at a point
where a door opened to what the Padre knew as the yellow Oval Room.

Although the men were in different positions, no longer in
a tight circle around them, the basic situation had not changed. It was still a
stalemate. The Padre's circle had stopped moving just beyond the partners' desk
at the entrance to what the Padre realized was the west sitting room.

"Now what?" Fellows asked.

"You will please order your men from the west side of
the house," the Padre said.

He had studied the plans for hours, picking the best
possible place for them to be with the President and First Lady. He had chosen
the west quarter of the house for a variety of reasons. The plans showed that
by closing off the sliding doors that separated the west sitting hall from the
central hall and the corridor that connected the President's study with the
master bedroom, they could effectively seal off this section from the rest of
the house. Also, in that area was a small kitchen and service pantry, the
family dining room, the First Lady's dressing room, and a bathroom. After all,
they had to eat, had to perform ablutions, had to sleep.

"Won't we need guns?" Benjy asked the Padre, loud
enough to be heard across the hall.

"No guns," Fellows said.

"We have no need for them," the Padre said.

He looked at Fellows, now nervous and pasty-faced. The
Padre was certain that the exact circumstances of his actions had never been
seriously considered by the Secret Service as feasible. "Now please remove
your men to the east side of the central hall."

He was being deliberately specific, illustrating his
expertise and sense of authority. That, too, was important. They must believe
in his authority.

"Let the boundary between us be the partners'
desk."

Fellows hesitated. This was his turf. He seemed humiliated
by the request.

"For chrissakes, follow his instructions, Ike,"
the President said.

"We're setting up a command post out here,"
Fellows said. He was tentative and hesitant.

"I have no objection," the Padre said. "But
I strongly advise that you do not pass the present line. In the interests of
our mutual safety and the safety of your men."

"Thank you." Fellows sneered.

"Now there are certain ground rules that must be
established," the Padre said.

"Jesus," Fellows hissed.

"Under no circumstances must you interfere with us. No
sneak attacks. No heroics. We will, from time to time, give you instructions.
For example, we will need meals, perhaps other necessities." He was
deliberately vague. "You must follow these instructions to the
letter."

"And if, for some reason, the instructions are not
followed?" Fellows asked.

"That would be a mistake," the Padre said.
"You must understand. We do not intend to kill the President. Or
ourselves. Don't make us do it. Let us proceed under that idea."

"What is it you want?" Fellows asked.

"I will explain everything. I promise you."

"May I ask who you are?" Fellows asked.

"All in due time," the Padre said.

"All right then. How about a name? Surely we're
entitled to a name."

"You know the best way we can establish a
relationship?" the Padre asked. Fellows seemed momentarily at a loss for
words.

"By not asking any questions," the Padre said.

It was, the Padre knew, rubbing their noses in it. The
great Secret Service had been circumvented on their own turf. It was an
organizational humiliation. He hoped it would not prod them to take chances. By
now they would be taking all available countermeasures, bringing all their
technological expertise to bear. He was very sure they would be scouring the
East Room and the pantry for prints.

The Padre and his men had worn white gloves. But the Padre
knew that, sooner of later, their identity would be discovered. Better later
than sooner. There had been no need to worry about a credibility problem. Their
choice of weapon had been more than adequate. But Fellows was still not conforming,
still hesitating on the order to withdraw his men.

"Mr. Fellows," the Padre said in an effort to
cement a reasonable working relationship. "All your questions will be
answered. I promise you."

The Padre counted twenty men, all with Uzis drawn. They took
positions behind what had become the imaginary line, and the Padre started to
move the circle backward. They reached the west sitting room. At the doorway,
the Padre paused and moved the group first to one side, then to the other. They
maneuvered the group inside the west sitting room and closed the sliding wooden
doors. Still, he would not let them unlock their arms.

"One more simple job," the Padre said, moving the
group to the presidential bedroom. He paused for a moment, surveying the
connecting corridor between the bedroom and the President's study. He heard
movement in the closet, behind the President's clothes.

"Mr. Fellows is not a man of his word," the Padre
said. "You people there in the closet, I would suggest you tell him
that."

Clothes rustled and three men hopped out from behind the
clothes and dashed out toward the President's study. He closed the door. With a
sigh of relief, the Padre began the process of unlocking all their arms. They
were stiff, and each of them flayed the air to get the circulation going.

The Padre pointed to two chairs and signaled the President
and the First Lady to be seated. Benjy, as he had been instructed, closed the
draperies and tore out the pulley ropes. He threw one to Vinnie, who let out a
ten-foot lead and tied one end around his waist and the other around the
President's. It was a tight, complicated knot, one that could not be undone
without effort. Benjy repeated the process with himself and the First Lady.

The Padre instructed Carmine to clear away the objects from
the desk and place it against the door to the corridor. That task completed,
the group again moved into the west sitting room. Creating a room out of this
end of the large upper hall, with its huge rosette window, seemed like an
afterthought. A brilliant floodlight provided a striking back-light to the
window's latticework, making it look like a giant spiderweb. Such a pretty
window, the Padre thought as he pulled the heavy gold draperies, shutting out
the glare. Then he instructed Carmine to move the couches and place them side
by side in front of the sliding doors.

"Good you came, Carmine," he said, patting the
Canary's back. The big man turned and showed him a broad, partially toothless
smile. A compliment from the boss was all he ever needed.

The Padre stepped into the dining room, inspected it, then
moved to the upstairs pantry beside it. Although it had facilities for cooking,
the pantry was sparsely equipped and looked as if the main meals were prepared
in the kitchen two floors below. Then he inspected the entire suite as the
others followed him with their eyes. He kneeled on the floor and looked under
the furniture, then upended all the chairs.

"Maybe the chandeliers," the President said.

"Are you sure?"

"I've always suspected them."

He instructed Carmine to stand on tables and check the
chandeliers for any signs of listening bugs. They waited until he went through
all the rooms. Carmine returned from the dining room, his last stop, shaking
his head.

"Good to know," the President said.

"Why not check behind the pictures," the First
Lady said. "Saw it in a movie once."

The Padre nodded, and Carmine proceeded to look behind the
pictures. He found one bug behind a painting of a beach scene hung on the south
wall of the west hall, holding it up for all to see.

"Speak of the obvious," the President said.
"But then they didn't have much time."

"Unless they were there all along," the Padre
said.

"Nothing would surprise me," the President said,
casting a quick glance at the First Lady.

Carmine found five more bugs, all wireless and remote and
magnetized to metal picture hangers. They had covered each room. The Padre
found an antique nutcracker on one of the tables and handed it to Carmine, who
crushed each microphone one at a time.

"Do you play bridge?" the First Lady asked,
looking at Benjy, to whom she was attached.

Benjy chuckled.

"A real joker," he said.

The Padre turned toward the Canary.