We Are Holding the President Hostage (17 page)

AIR FORCE TWO TAXIED to a stop in a remote corner of
Andrews Air Force Base. Armed men packed into a tight circle surrounded the
plane. A man dressed in one of Chalmers' suits stepped out of the opened cabin
door, saluted, and rushed down the stairs. The tight circle opened briefly, the
man stepped into a waiting limousine, and a convoy of armed vehicles took its
place in a phalanx that quickly moved down the tarmac. Others began to file
down the stairs.

A man in battle dress burst into his cabin. He had been
instructed to stay inside, alone. The man saluted and Chalmers returned the
salute.

"Put this on, sir," the man said crisply. He
obeyed without protest, sliding into the bulletproof vest, then putting his
hands through the sleeves of an oversized camouflage jacket.

"The height of fashion," Chalmers said. He felt
testy, annoyed. The words echoed and reechoed in his mind. Proctor's voice had
been hoarse with strain. "We have a problem," he had said over the
line. "No kidding," Chalmers had responded, but then had come that
long pause.

"No kidding," Proctor had repeated, like a blow
struck at his solar plexus. Then the Secretary of State had said, "I
wouldn't use this line to tell you what's going on. Just in case. We've got to
keep it out of the press. I'm sorry. Wait until you get here."

He followed the man down the center aisle, moving quickly
toward the rear of the cabin. Other men, who had been posted along the cabin
windows, followed behind him, automatic weapons drawn. Perhaps, he thought, the
President is dead.

It was a thought to be chased away, not to be dwelled upon
in its raw unconfirmed state. Unthinkable, he told himself, not wishing to
experiment with his own sense of guilt and inadequacy. He was not quite ready
to handle the situation. Not with Proctor's ominous words ringing in his ears.

At the rear cabin door the man who led stopped, using his
arm as a turnstile. Chalmers waited, sucking in deep breaths. It was all so
mysterious, like a child's game.

"Now," the man said.

He followed him quickly down the stairs to a waiting car.
In the distance he heard a chopper's staccato chomp. The car, he noted, was
brownish, nondescript. There were no flags on the fenders. As soon as he got
into the back seat, the car began to move.

"Welcome home," Vic Proctor said. Chalmers turned
to find a pale, tired face offering a grim smile. At that moment the driver,
too, turned to show his profile. Ned Foreman, the President's National Security
Advisor. He waved two fingers in acknowledgment.

"We bring you greetings from the snakepit."

"What the hell is going on?" Chalmers demanded.

The car had gone barely a few feet when it moved upward
suddenly into a dark space. Foreman cut the motor.

"It's the latest form of transportation," Proctor
said. "Silly. But, the Secret Service says, very effective. At least in
theory."

He felt movement below him, but it wasn't the car. They
were obviously in some kind of moving van.

"The meeting is still set?" Chalmers asked.

"It may be academic," Proctor sighed. "He
says he can govern."

"He must be out of his mind." The comment had
seeped out too quickly for Chalmers to stop it.

"Maybe." Foreman shrugged.

Suddenly Chalmers was seized by a sense of unfairness. He
wanted to protest. They were paying it out like a fishing line, torturing him
deliberately. He wanted to strike out at them.

"It's a dilemma," Proctor was saying. Chalmers
wondered if he had already missed the explanation. "We have it in writing,
too. His own hand." The Secretary of State reached into his inside pocket
and pulled out a letter on presidential stationery written in a firm,
unmistakable hand. Chalmers read it, then reread it while the words swam
randomly in his head.

"Despite my present circumstances, I am physically and
mentally able to carry out the duties of my presidency." It was signed
Paul Bernard, President of the United States.

"It's one bitch of a catastrophe," Proctor said.
"There's only the three of us who have the word."

"So far."

Chalmers licked his lips, which had suddenly dried.
"Seems pretty clear to me. We ignore it."

"The Twenty-fifth Amendment?"

"Fuck the Twenty-fifth Amendment," Chalmers
snapped. "The man can't operate. He can't move freely. It's a matter of
national security."

"But there is no precedent," Proctor said.

"Precedent, hell. We can vote him out."

"Not so easy according to the Twenty-fifth," the
Secretary of State cautioned. "If he says he can govern, we have to throw
it over to Congress. They can impeach him."

"This is crap, Victor, and you know it. We just go
ahead, have our little meeting, and appoint me Acting President. The man
obviously cannot function. You know it. I know it. Every goddamned person in
this country knows it. He's out. That's final. So let's get on with it."

It felt good, but just for the moment. They were moving,
but no one in the car had any control over their movement. Foreman looked at
him archly.

"Comes down to, are we a country of men or laws?"
the National Security Advisor said.

"Jesus, Ned," Chalmers responded.

He was furious. But it was the kind of fury without an
outlet. He felt it sticking in his throat.

"Then we call their bluff," Chalmers said.

"Who gives that order?" Proctor sighed.

"I do," Chalmers said.

"Under what authority?" Foreman asked, but
gently.

"We're..." Chalmers faltered. "We're
responsible men. Millions of people throughout the world depend on us. There
are predators out there. People who would take advantage. The Soviets..."

"Let the string run out," Proctor said.

"What the hell does that mean?" Chalmers asked.

"He says he can govern," Foreman answered.
"Let him govern. Meanwhile we throw it to Congress. Impeachment may be the
only solution. Should take a few days to bring them home. The thing might
resolve itself in a day or two. Surely the country can get through forty-eight
hours without a President. Meanwhile we do our job. He thinks he can do his
job. Remains to be seen."

"And this Mafia man, this Padre, what happens to
him?" Chalmers asked.

Foreman shrugged.

"He's got his own ax to grind. Maybe he'll frighten
them into giving up his daughter and grandson."

"Sounds like you're grasping at straws," Chalmers
said.

"I suppose we are," Proctor mused. "The
trick is not to panic. If we panic, the country will panic. Indeed, the world
will panic."

"I think it's dangerous as hell," Chalmers said.

"Any way you look at it, it's a tough call,"
Foreman said.

They exchanged glances. Suddenly the movement stopped. They
heard the van door squeak open. Light flooded into the space.

So they will try to put it off as long as possible,
Chalmers thought, wondering if the idea was prompted by paranoia, ambition, or
an inordinate respect for the law.

"There's only one issue here," Chalmers said.
Above all, he would keep his dignity.

"What is that?" Proctor asked.

"What's best for America."

Chalmers wondered if he sounded sufficiently presidential.

THE PADRE WATCHED Harkins' fingers glide lightly over the
keyboard of the monitor. The President had ordered it to be brought in. A man
had placed the console in front of the entrance to the west sitting room and
the Canary had scooped it up. It had a built-in modem and Harkins had connected
it to telephone lines.

At times Harkins' stubby fingers would stop their keyboard
dance and the man would contemplate the monitor screen.

The Padre had sat stiffly watching Harkins' performance.
Perhaps he had dozed. He wasn't certain. At intervals the computer beeped or
buzzed. But it was only the absence of sound that jogged the Padre to
alertness. On the buffet they had placed a television set, moving aside the
expensive candelabra. They had shut off the sound, although the images
continued to flicker throughout the night.

Most of the network stations were on twenty-four-hour
alert, as they were during the Kennedy assassination. Since the gruesome
killing of the hostage, there was little to report, except speculation.

It did not surprise him that they had not yet reported the
President's announcement about his insistence that he was willing and able to
govern the country. But Harkins had expressed his suspicion that they would not
put out that information until the Vice President had met with the Cabinet.

Earlier, the coverage had become dizzying. The Padre had
listened with half an ear. He saw his own face on the screen and a long segment
on his organization. He did not like to see his face on TV, but he was mildly
amused by what was said about him by commentators.

They called him ruthless and cold-blooded, a man who
controlled a network of rackets, hijacking, prostitution, protection, and a
myriad of legitimate businesses, a man who bought and sold politicians and
judges, a man who had ordered hundreds to their deaths.

As always, it was an exaggeration, mostly pandering lies.
They had deliberately excised from this so-called biography that concept of
honor and family, which was fundamental to his character. As for the reason for
the organization, there was no way they could understand the necessity of rebellion
against authority, its lies and hypocrisies.

They had also shown Maria in her high school graduation
picture with a cap and gown. At that point he changed the channel. There was,
incredibly, a game show on one of the independent stations. People were jumping
wildly up and down, celebrating their winnings.

Finally he had switched back to one of the networks. This
one showed pictures of the outside of the White House ringed with troops in
full battle gear, guns at the ready. There was also old footage of the
President's living quarters, then a live shot of the windows outside.

After a while the coverage became boring and repetitious.
World leaders had been interviewed ad nauseam. There were even interviews with
official and unofficial Middle Eastern leaders in Beirut, Libya, Syria, Egypt,
and Israel. Yassir Arafat also got in his two cents' worth. Everybody had
differing points of view, speculations, analysis.

Terrorism and hostage-taking, some agreed, had gone too
far. Others believed that terrorism, hostage-taking, and other forms of
intimidation were the ways to get the message across. The world was drowning in
bullshit, the Padre thought. What has all this got to do with my daughter and
grandson? What did they know about a father's pain?

Occasionally the Canary would poke his big face into the
room, survey the situation, and leave. He had been given the role of inspector.
His job was to patrol the premises, keep a watchful eye. Like the Padre, he did
not need sleep.

They had organized the routine with an eye both to security
and comfort. This was, after all, the White House, and a certain modicum of
dignity was required. Food had come up from the downstairs kitchen by
dumbwaiter, trays of excellent fare prepared by the chef. It showed a very
sensible acceptance of reality. They had apparently yielded to the idea that it
was better to cooperate than risk the President's life, which meant that the
Padre and his men had won the battle for credibility.

As a gesture of good faith for the President's cooperation,
the First Lady was released from her cord attachment to Benjy, who,
nevertheless, stuck close to her despite her protestations. The Padre trusted
his instincts about the President, who was essentially an honorable man.
Unfortunately, he was also a political animal. All of his reactions seemed to
be considered in the context of politics. It was a good thing, because it was
the hook that Harkins had used to persuade him. Now he understood why the
President had so much difficulty taking the necessary action to free the
hostages. A pity the government could not be run like his organization.

Of course he did not fully trust the President. Nor did he
order Vinnie to untie the cord that attached him to the man. That proximity was
his most effective weapon.

The two of them, Carmine had reported, were now dozing
peacefully together in the master bedroom. The First Lady was sleeping in her
dressing room. She had been allowed a bath and to perform her usual female
ablutions. Considering the situation, he decided, his adventure into
hostage-taking was extraordinarily civilized and humanitarian. He wished the
same treatment for his daughter and grandson, although he doubted it.

The Padre had, of course, expected difficulties. In the
end, he knew he would get the President's cooperation. No one ever wanted to
give up power.

"You see, Mr. President," the Padre had told him
after they had brought in the monitor. "They obey your orders as
before."

The President had looked at him and shaken his head.

"They won't buy it for long," he had said.

"Perhaps it won't be for long," the Padre had
suggested.

With the exception of the threatening gesture against the
First Lady, it had all been remarkably nonviolent. The Padre liked that.
Nevertheless, he knew he must be wary of Harkins. Harkins was clever, but as
crafty and venomous as a snake.

Earlier, Harkins had revealed what the Padre had merely
suspected. That the CIA did indeed have people stashed all over the world, that
they had the ability to act in the shadows, behind the scenes of authority and
legitimacy. Harkins had characterized them as agents, but it sounded to the
Padre as though they were organized tightly in a hierarchy of information
gatherers, transmitters, and doers.

The doers, translated into the Padre's terms, were more
like button men hired out for whatever jobs that came along. Harkins called
them "coverts," a nice clean way to portray them. "They are
trained to play dirty," Harkins had explained. The Padre was amused by the
characterization. Dirty was a matter of perception.

Harkins also had his "pencil," a computer network
with secret access codes that kept track of missions. It also gave orders and
transmitted information. It was airtight, Harkins had assured him. No hacker,
amateur or pro, had ever been known to access it. He wondered if such machines
would improve the operations of his own organization. He doubted it. A machine
could be loyal only to itself.

"You would be surprised at our reach," Harkins
had explained as he pounded the keyboard. Sitting in front of the monitor, he
seemed very much at home.

"Reach?"

"We can place our people anywhere. There are no
boundaries. We have the necessary assets and the ability to use them. As a
matter of fact," Harkins added proudly, "we are not as inefficient as
we are portrayed in the media. The truth is, we court the image. Gives us more
leverage in short strokes."

"Good." The Padre nodded, not completely
understanding the language, but thoroughly understanding the implications.

For most of the early morning, banging on his keyboard,
consulting his monitor, Harkins was able to provide the Padre with the
information to concoct any scenario that might have occurred to him. The Padre
absorbed this information, sifted and refined it in his mind. It became a cram
course on terrorism and the groups that perpetrated these acts.

The names of these groups formed what appeared to be an
endless parade on the monitor. They were not confined to the Middle East. There
were the Irish, the Basques, the Sikhs, the Croats, and on and on, espousing
causes that sometimes were centuries old. Impossible causes, pursued by people
with obsessive fantasies and implausible dreams.

Harkins relished his presentation. Although the Padre was
interested primarily only in what affected his daughter and grandson, he
watched and listened with respect. It was, he agreed, a remarkable system. More
important, it held the key to releasing Maria and Joey.

"The man who leads the group that holds your daughter
is Ahmed Safari, thirty-seven, a hard case, a homosexual, a wife and sick
teenage son in Jordan. Born in a Lebanese refugee camp." The intelligence
became microscopic, tracing every aspect of the man's life and his present
circumstances.

The Padre nodded at intervals, continuing to absorb the
information, keeping what was essential, rejecting what was not useful,
translating it into organizational terms he could understand, searching for
vulnerabilities that would strike fear.

"And you know where she is being kept?" the Padre
asked.

"She and the boy are being moved around and held in
various safe places in the Muslim section of Beirut. We have an asset in the
group. But the man is clever. He rotates his people. Mostly young boys."

"And you have your own groups that could go in, button
men?"

"Yes, we do."

"They will obey?"

"If we pay them enough. In our business, people are
mercenaries."

"Of course," the Padre said.

"And how fast can you transmit orders?"

"Remarkably so."

"And weapons?"

"We have access to those as well." Harkins smiled
and coughed into his fist. His face darkened. "Problem is..."

"Yes."

"We have to cover our tracks. Legitimize our actions,
clean it up for public consumption. The fact is, you can't run a covert action
program with those Congressional oversight idiots having to know every move beforehand.
It's ridiculous. But they do hold the purse strings. In the end, though, the
authority for all our actions still flows from the President."

The Padre was getting the message. Harkins was asserting
his own power in this situation. He would act, of course, but only on orders
from the President, tendered after manipulative and vague briefings. So, the
Padre thought, he needed presidential authority to cover his ass. Yet he was
also telling the Padre that this computer was his weapon and he was the only
one present who could fire it.

The Padre stood up and paced the dining room. Then he
stopped at the buffet and poured a glass of water from a crystal decanter. The
ice had melted. It was warm, but he drank it anyway. He was conscious of
Harkins studying him, waiting.

"The leaders of these countries who finance
them..." The Padre paused. His thoughts were coming together now.
"They have families, of course."

"Of course."

"Are they heavily protected?"

"Some," Harkins replied. "Many have children
or grandchildren in school in this country."

The Padre smiled. Harkins remained poker-faced, but the
Padre knew now where they were both headed.

"You know where?"

"Yes." Now Harkins smiled too. "But we have
no mandate to operate within our borders."

"We would, of course, respect each other's
territory," the Padre said.

"Of course."

"And this fellow who holds my daughter?"

"In Jordan he has a son he adores," Harkins
answered eagerly.

The Padre remained silent. He had learned that certain
characteristics were common to all men. Some feared death. Some feared
dishonor. Some feared losing loved ones, especially children, who represented a
sense of continuity, of immortality. Some feared a loss of power, cojones
sliced off, a worse fate than death to a man who knew its full meaning. There
were others, of course. Every man had his fears.

"Tell me, Mr. Harkins," the Padre asked. It was a
question that was nagging at him, although he had not been fully conscious of
it. "What plans did you people consider?"

Harkins wet his lips.

"It was only gamesmanship," he said, his Adam's
apple bobbing nervously. "You know, making up scenarios, concocting
different situations, most of which are politically impossible to carry
out."

"Like what?"

"A kind of tit for tat. Do unto them what they did
unto us. They hijack planes. We hijack planes. They shoot up airports. We shoot
up airports. They plant bombs. We plant bombs. They take people ... You get my
drift. Problem is, wherever you put these ideas forward in a kind of committee,
they get sidetracked. Too inflammatory. Too immoral. The beast in us gets like
the beast in them. You know the arguments."

Harkins hesitated suddenly. Despite his earlier eagerness,
he seemed to pull back. He had drawn his line.

"I just give options and take orders," Harkins
said.

The Padre nodded.

"All right then, Mr. Harkins. I think it is time we
woke the President."