We Are Holding the President Hostage (18 page)

FROM THE MOMENT they had been brought to the living
quarters, Amy Bernard had been thinking about the little silver-plated
.22-caliber pistol that lay in the rear of the drawer of the table next to her
side of their king-size bed. Without her husband's knowledge, she had put it
into an empty metal pastille box and had brought it with her from their home in
the Kalorama section of Washington where they had lived when Paul was a
senator.

Was it fear or simply whim that made her take it with her?
Certainly she had been frightened at the prospect of living in the goldfish
bowl of the presidency. It was not comforting to remember what had happened to
Jack Kennedy and Ronald Reagan. Sometimes the knowledge of its presence passed
vaguely across her mind. No one had ever asked her about the pastille box.
Indeed, she frequently opened the drawer where she kept a set of reading
glasses, a roll of Tums, and a box of tissues.

She knew it was loaded, six rounds. And accurate only at
close range.

She had taken a bath, amused by the incongruity of soaking
in the warm comfortable steamy water while strangers kept her imprisoned in her
own home. She had taken off her evening gown and dressed in comfortable slacks
and a blouse, ideal captive wear.

Then, instead of her bedroom, which was reserved for Paul
and his constant companion, they had allowed her to use the bed in her dressing
room. An interesting cell, all orange, with its white leaf prints and the
dressing table deliberately put in front of the window for better light.
Useless now. They had drawn the blinds of both windows.

Her "keeper" had carefully sat down on the
upholstered straight chair and put his feet on the round antique table, a
travesty that she ignored. No point in raising issues that had nothing to do
with her objective, which was to get her hands on that pistol.

"May I read?" she asked pleasantly.

The young man shrugged an indifferent consent.

She looked around the room. On a little table she found a
book in an antique binding. She had never opened it. She had been sitting on
the edge of the couch where she had often taken catnaps. Cautiously, she got
up, walked to the table, opened the book. To her surprise it was printed in
French.

"My glasses," she said coyly.

"Where are they?"

She paused. All make-believe, she decided, like when she
was in a school play. Pause briefly, flutter eyelids, smile thinly, show
uncertainty.

"In the drawer in the master bedroom, the table next
to my bed. May I get them?"

Her mind had devised a half-formed plan. She would open the
drawer, remove her glasses, and the pastille box. He would be watching her.

"The President is sleeping there," the young man
said. "I wouldn't wake him. He'll need his rest."

"How thoughtful," she said, angered by her own
sarcasm. She wasn't following the stage directions.

"You should be getting rest yourself. Keep you in a
better mental state."

For what, she wondered.

"I won't wake him," she said, ignoring what she
decided was a preposterous remark. Why would he care?

He thought for a moment, then nodded his okay and stood up.

They moved through the doorway into the darkened bedroom.
She could see her husband's form on the bed. He was under the covers on his
side of the bed. On top of the covers, fully dressed, occupying her side of the
bed, attached by the ubiquitous umbilical cord, was the ugly man, Vinnie. He
was instantly alert. The other man, Carmine, sat near the desk, his chair
slanted against the wall, his feet flung out in front of him.

"She wants her glasses," the young man said.

She walked toward the bed, opened the drawer, felt around
for her glasses, then quickly moved her hand to grasp the pastille box. Even in
the half-light he was alert to her movements, watching her hand. She drew out
her glasses and held the pastille box in the other.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Candy," she replied, ignoring the pounding of
her heart.

She walked calmly through the door to her dressing room and
arranged herself lengthwise on the couch, book in hand. Please let him move to
the other side of the room. He followed her, stood over her for a moment,
studying her. Then he bent over. Her insides clenched and a sudden chill made
her body tremble. He was looking at the candy label, squinting.

"Pastilles," she said. "French." She
showed him the open pages of the book she was reading. "Like the book I'm
reading.
Parlez-vous français?"

He watched her for a moment more, then moved back to the
chair, again putting his feet on the antique table. After a while she flicked
the switch of the lamp that provided light for the couch, moved the pastille
box under one of the pillows, and closed her eyes. Yes, she decided, she would
need her rest. Her alertness was essential.

"YOU'RE NOT SERIOUS?" the President asked. Had he
actually asked the question or was it some repetitive tape gone awry, zipping
away in his mind? He sat in the dining room, beside him the ever-present
Vinnie, whose sour odor seemed to have become a staple of the air they shared.
He had slept beside the man in the same bed. There was something obscene in the
memory.

Strangely, he had actually slumbered. His mind had clamped
shut, as if he had slipped into a deep black pit of emptiness, rising without
an iota of residual dream memory.

His first thought had been of Amy, whose missing presence
set off the alarms of thirty years' awakenings. He couldn't bound out of bed,
of course. Vinnie was attached, and they had taken the precaution, sometime
after he had dozed off, of taping his ankles to a leg of the bed.

"My wife?" the President had asked.

"The other room."

"I must see her."

The man shrugged and followed him into the dressing room.
She was still sleeping. He had leaned close to her cheek, moved a wisp of
errant hair, and kissed her on the forehead. The young man, who had risen from
a chair when they came into the room, looked haggard from his night of
surveillance.

"She's sleeping like a baby," he said with a
cocky smile.

The President did not answer. He returned to the bedroom
and started to undress.

"I'm not going to stink all day, pal," he said.
"Bad enough I've got to carry you along."

His captors' communication system revolved around the big
man with the heavy face, who seemed always lurking behind them. They had these
mysterious little eye and body signals between them. The big man disappeared
and came back with consent, and the two men stayed by as he was untied. They
also followed him into the bathroom.

"I'm going to try and ignore you guys," he said.
He began to shave. The blade glided over his face. Then he remembered what he
had thought earlier about the plastic sacks holding the liquid explosive. A
razor's slash, quick, sharp, direct. Would it empty the liquid, seep away the
danger? He tried to dismiss the thought, couldn't, then he replaced the blade
and palmed the one he had just used.

To deflect their attention, he held up the razor. "Old
faithful. Real gold." As they looked he put the palmed blade in the pocket
of his robe. Never know, he told himself. Then he patted his face with
after-shave and pinched his cheeks. Old habits never die, he thought. "I
know it looks kind of silly."

Neither man responded while the President kept up his
bouncy monologue. "Sorry fellas," he said sitting on the toilet.
"You remind me of my mama standing over me a hundred years ago, urging me
on to duty. Making birdies, she called it. Funny, haven't thought about this
since the kids were being housebroken. Might have been how old—two,
three?"

He looked at the men. "You have mamas, guys?" He
shook his head. "Doubt it. God, you both are ugly. No self-respecting
woman would have spawned either of you."

He put up his palms. "Sorry. I don't mean to be so
outspoken, but hell, it throws you off your feed to have to take a crap with two
guys observing the process." He stood up. "Want to inspect the
results?"

They were impassive. He flushed the toilet and jumped into
the shower, sticking his head out as he regulated the taps.

"Come on in and play. Wouldn't drop the soap in front
of you guys." He felt giddy as he moved into the stream, turning the knobs
to make the water as hot as he could stand it, then reversing the process. Must
clear out the cobwebs, he thought, raise the adrenaline.

He came out of the shower and toweled himself off. The two
men leaned against the wall and watched him. They followed him back into the
bedroom, where he dressed. With more sleight of hand, he transferred the blade
from his robe to a pocket of his slacks. Then he put on a sport shirt and a
cardigan with a Camp David logo stitched over the breast.

"I'm at home, after all. Why not be casual?" he
said, really to himself.

Aside from the observing men, the situation struck him as
routine. After he had dressed, they reattached him to the cord. Even that act
felt expected. He tried to find some reference to a similar situation, one that
might act as an anchor of logic. It came to him suddenly. He was Alice and he
had walked through the looking glass.

"So let's get on to the tea party," he said,
striding across the bedroom threshold, traversing the west sitting room with
its doorway piled high with couches, like some decorator's nightmare. "And
there's the mad hatter," he muttered. "And the March hare." A
strange sight.

They were sitting calmly across the table from each other,
the Padre, still in his waiter's uniform, his bow tie removed, and Harkins, who
looked up from his keyboard and offered a thin, hesitant smile. The President
was instantly on his guard.

Despite the obvious fact that both men seemed to have been
up all night, they looked strangely alert. On the table stood a pot of coffee
and rolls and butter.

The Padre, as if he were the host, pointed to the
President's accustomed chair. The President smirked, sat down, putting a strain
on the cord that attached him to Vinnie, who quickly sat down beside him. He
poured himself some coffee, but had no appetite for anything more.

"The wonders of the computer age," the President
said.

"Greatest invention since the wheel," Harkins
said.

"Or curse," the President mumbled. They were
bantering with clichés. He watched as Harkins turned toward the Padre,
signaling. So he had picked up the eye and body signals.

"There is a certain logic to what he has in
mind," Harkins began. The President clasped his arms across his chest. It
was, he knew, an uncharacteristic gesture on his part, a kind of protective
act. Here it comes, he thought, wondering just how much caution and subtlety
Harkins would be able to muster.

"He insists he understands these people, the
hostage-takers," Harkins continued, nodding his head toward the Padre, who
blinked his eyes in mysterious acknowledgment. "Kind of a new way of
looking at the eye-for-an-eye concept. Like two eyes for one."

"I like the way you put things, Jack," the
President said, sipping his coffee.

"It's important to place all this in the proper
context," Harkins said.

"Of course," the President replied, looking
toward the Padre, who returned his gaze impassively.

"It boils down to the following," Harkins said
cautiously, again looking toward the Padre. His delivery had the appearance of
a well-rehearsed script. Harkins pointed to the monitor.

"In our data banks we have the names of most of the
big players in the Middle East terrorist game and some of the little ones. The
financiers, the bosses and underbosses, some legal heads of state, the rest
hustlers, renegades, opportunists, many hiding under arguably legitimate
causes."

Again he looked toward the Padre. "Like what you call
consigliatoros and capos and button men." He was being transparently
patronizing. The Padre showed no reaction.

"So chicanery is universal. How profound," the
President said, noting that his mocking tone was ignored. He had the impression
that Harkins was making this presentation merely as a courtesy.

The President looked at the Padre and addressed him.
"Okay, you've got his motor running. You want your daughter and your
grandson. Just lay it out. Tell me how you think you can do it. I said I'd go
along if I thought it would work. I don't want a catalog of the bad guys. I've
been through it all before ad nauseam." He felt his anger rise. The Padre
listened, unruffled and thoughtful.

"You have the means," the Padre said, darting a
glance at Harkins.

"What he wants to do..." Harkins said.

"Let him speak for himself," the President said
testily.

The Padre put up one hand like a traffic cop, playing the
role of peacemaker. Unreality, the President assured himself, seeing the image
of the tea party unreel again in his mind.

"He is a good talker, this fellow," the Padre
said pleasantly. "We have discussed the situation and made
suggestions."

"Options," Harkins corrected.

"A rose by any other name..." the President said,
his words drifting off. Probably sold the man a bill of goods that he knows how
to handle me, the President thought.

"I'm an interpreter," Harkins said, summoning up
whatever humility he could muster. Again the President saw the signals pass
between them. They are brothers, he decided. This man Harkins was like a pig in
dung.

"May I continue?" the CIA Director asked. There
was something touchingly childish in his request. The President looked toward
the Padre and turned away quickly, suddenly fearful that he was contracting
this strange virus of obedience. Okay, the President told himself. It's only an
option.

"Ahmed Safari," Harkins said. "The man who
holds his daughter. Although he is a known homosexual, he has a wife and son in
Amman. He cares nothing for the wife. An arranged marriage, typical in the Arab
world. But he does adore his son. The boy is seventeen and sickly. Rheumatic
heart."

"I can't be a party to that," the President
snapped.

"We have the assets in Jordan. We can have him in
custody in hours."

The President shook his head. Harkins again looked toward
the Padre.

"Mr. President. It is a viable option," Harkins
said.

"Not for me."

"But it would be deniable," Harkins pressed.

"And obvious." He felt his gut pinch and harden.
"Also, this Ahmed will know that we could not harm the boy. You know we
can't be a party to that. It would be too transparent." He turned toward
the Padre. "What is his motive for releasing your daughter and grandson if
he knows that this boy will be safe?"

"It's only a part of the plan," Harkins muttered.
"We will have to illustrate to him that we mean business."

"And how do we do that?" the President asked. He
had relaxed, curious to hook in to their logic.

"You are absolutely right, Mr. President. This is the
heart of the matter," the Padre said.

"We must establish our credentials," Harkins
said.

"For what?" the President asked. A moot question.
He knew the answer.

"I told him how the Soviets had handled a similar
episode," Harkins said. When the President did not interrupt, he
continued. "A group had picked up four Soviet diplomats in their embassy
in Lebanon. They killed one. Then the Soviets retaliated by kidnapping one of
the leaders of the group that had perpetrated the kidnapping. No fanfare. Quite
simple. They cut his balls off, stuffed them in his mouth, and dispatched him
back to his cohorts. The three Soviet hostages were released in the flash of an
eyelash."

"And you want me to be a party to that kind of
tactic?" the President asked.

"To the concept," Harkins said.

"You liked that?" the President asked.

"It is a question of credibility," Harkins said,
again looking at the Padre.

"I'm sorry," the President said. "We've
spent nearly two and a half centuries establishing other credentials. We don't
castrate, gouge eyes, or crack kneecaps." He looked pointedly at the
Padre.

"But we haven't dealt with this kind of warfare
before. It's a new phenomenon requiring a novel way to deal with it. Aside from
the moral judgments," Harkins said, "a threat requires believability.
Our antagonists are very good on that score."

"On average," the President muttered. Despite
himself, he felt engaged, dangled on the hook of Harkins' presentation.

"It is their most effective weapon," Harkins
said.

The Padre nodded. The President grew thoughtful. He knew
that they were waiting for his next question. But he delayed asking it. They
were right, of course. America was afflicted with ethical inhibitions, and such
moral strictures created by the Ten Commandments and various rules flowing from
them. Not that he was a purist, but there were tolerable limits to any
violations. Their suggestions were not within such limits.

"So what are you suggesting?" the President
asked. "Cut off the kid's ear and send it as proof of our resolve?"

"You might also get an ear in the mail," Harkins
replied.

"I don't like that talk," the Padre said darkly.

"We need something bigger than that, less likely to
stimulate such a reprisal. We need something to make our threat credible. Most
of all, we need chips to play with.

"What we must do," Harkins said. He looked toward
the Padre. "It is the Padre's suggestion. But the concept is quite
logical. We take Safari's boy. That's a given. But we also take some blood kin
among the other top players. We've searched the data banks. We have names,
places, possibilities." Harkins paused. "Even in the States. You
would be surprised who is attending our schools. They would be an easy
job."

"You're not serious?" the President repeated. He
wondered just how credible his own protestations were becoming.

Harkins was working up a good head of steam, throwing an
occasional glance toward the Padre, as if he were performing just for him. In a
night of mad planning, the two had devised a wicked brew that flew in the face
of every philosophical tenet of the Judeo-Christian ethic.

"Of course we're considering only the most impressive
options," Harkins continued. "The computer has spit out its choices.
In fact, most of the actual missions have already been worked out in
theoretical scenarios."

"I never knew," the President said.
Self-righteousness was turning to self-delusion. Of course he knew they played
these games.

"Verisimilitude," Harkins said, pressing on.
Nothing was going to stop him now. "How many times have you said in your
public statements that we would go after these bastards if you could make a
clean surgical strike against those responsible? Problem—it's never clean.
Remember Libya. In an odd way we lost more than we gave. With due respect, Mr.
President, we rattle our swords and do little that is truly effective. They
bash our people and we tweak their noses. They just don't believe we will act with
the same degree of ruthlessness. Well, here is the perfect ploy. Do unto them
as they do unto us. Only more so."