We Are Holding the President Hostage (19 page)

"I wish you could give me guarantees that it could
work," the President said.

"I'm sorry, Mr. President, I can't."

"He is a good talker," the President said,
looking at the Padre, who nodded.

"It is the only way to get Ahmed to release the woman
and the boy," Harkins said. "He will be pressed to do so by those who
support groups like his, people whose children we will have as hostage. We need
just enough to make the point. A favorite Saudi prince at Berkeley. The
daughter of the President of Syria attending school in New England. The
grandson of Khomeini, who teaches in Teheran. The teenage son of Colonel
Qaddafi himself, who can be snatched in Tripoli by our people. We have watched
him for months. A mere five."

"You really think you can pull this off?" the
President asked.

Harkins nodded. "Except in the States. The CIA has no
mandate for that."

"You're joking. I must have missed something in this
scenario. Why suddenly the attention to the legal scruples?"

"There is no need for us to violate domestic American
laws."

"How decent of you," the President said. Harkins'
use of the collective pronoun "us" struck him as ironic.

"The Padre's organization will do the work in the
States," Harkins said.

The President felt himself holding down an inner panic.
"Are you serious?" he asked.

"We can't be responsible for what the Mafia does, Mr.
President." Harkins shot the Padre a quick glance.

"Got all the answers," the President said.

"Some," Harkins said. He smiled.

The President tried to summon up an attitude of great
indignation. It was difficult and it frightened him.

"Are you asking me to condone the use of kidnapping as
a national policy? In effect to practically sanction the perpetration of a
capital crime by the number one outlaw group in this country? The idea of
hostage-taking is repugnant in itself. It is bad enough to be victimized by it.
But to authorize it." He shook his head. "Dammit. It's a heinous
crime."

"Yes it is, Mr. President," Harkins said, perhaps
too swiftly, as if he had been waiting in ambush for the idea to reappear.
"It is on a par with murder." He coughed into his hand. "We all
know that war is state-authorized murder. In effect, what is happening out
there can be characterized as a brutal no-holds-barred war. In that case
kidnapping is a legitimate weapon."

"These are innocent people," the President
protested.

"Yes they are," Harkins retorted.

The President twisted in his chair. It went against all
moral justification. He looked at the Padre. The man stood up suddenly and came
closer. An arm's length away, the President thought as his hand reached
casually into his pocket. He fingered the blade that lay there. One slash. He
wondered what the others would do once the Padre was "disarmed."

Yet he resisted taking any action. He slipped his hand out
of his pocket. He fleetingly wondered whether such inaction constituted
approval of Harkins' plan. It was a question he did not choose to answer.

Looking up, he saw the Padre's calm, serene face. There was
not the slightest hint of hesitation. They simply occupied different moral
space. And yet he allowed his mind to drift along an untrod path. Each step
forward was painful. Ahead was blackness, deeper than mere darkness. And yet he
could not deny, independent of his predicament, that the idea had some force to
it. Vengeance, after all, had a compelling magnetism of its own.

"And if I don't agree?" the President asked.

"It is do-able, Mr. President," Harkins said.
"I'm not saying that it will be perfectly executed. These things never
are. But it will send the message once and for all."

Harkins had, of course, evaded the President's question.
Had it already been answered by the Padre? Did he really have a choice?
Absolutely not, he assured himself. To live or to die. Those were apparently
his only alternatives.

But wouldn't his consent legitimize the idea? And yet did
he dare admit to himself that such a tactic had a grotesque attraction?

Of course it was possible they just might achieve their
goal without bloodshed. Presidents have taken chances in the past, lost lives,
blundered. The world would know he was making such decisions under duress. And
if it achieved its purpose? He counted his political capital. To collect, he'd
have to be alive. That, of course, was the most seductive persuader of all.

"And after these people are collected. What
then?"

"Someone will have to respond at their end,"
Harkins said.

"But how will they know we really mean business?"
the President asked. "There is no way that I would order the killing of
innocent people in cold blood."

There, he thought, he had found a moral imperative, a bit
of indignant flotsam to hold on to against the rushing river of action.

"But there could be bloodshed, Mr. President,"
Harkins said coolly. "You can't have any illusions about that."

He had gone under for a moment, then surfaced.

"I said I can't justify killing in cold blood."

"Of course not," Harkins said, shooting a
disturbing glance at the Padre, who shook his head in affirmation.

The President tapped the table. "I don't like
it," he said. Like Harkins' pose of reluctance to act without orders, it
was a voice for posterity's evidence. On balance, in theory, even transcending
the magnetic seductiveness of it, he did like the idea intellectually. It had
verisimilitude.

"It is necessary," the Padre said, as if reading
his mind. "Power is nothing without respect."

The Padre watched him rubbing his chin. The President felt
the chill of his own nakedness. He both feared and loved the use of power to
subvert the conventional means and plunge directly into the enemy's heartland.
The old bastard was right, and Harkins was right about the old bastard.

His presence was an excuse for the unconventional treatment
of this international illness. Let's go get the sons of bitches. As for
consequences, hell, he could always go back to the old hypocrisies. Politics
was his business, for crying out loud.

"All right," the President said, his voice low.
He was determined not to show them his exhilaration.

"Now, Mr. President?" Harkins asked, his fingers
on the computer keyboard.

"Do it then," the President said, his voice
affirming his authority.

He was, of course, covering only his end. What the Padre
and his cohorts did was none of his business. Render unto Caesar what is
Caesar's and to God—he looked at the Padre—what was God's.

They watched as Harkins' fingers darted over the keyboard.
His eyes became mesmerized by the screen. After a few minutes Harkins' fingers
rested. He looked at the screen again. Hit the keyboard keys, then paused.

"Failsafe confirmations," he whispered.
"Trick is to avoid using the phone. This scrambles and only comes out
whole through unscrambling." Harkins paused again. Then he tapped out
another message. "Turkey in the oven," he said, looking up, offering
them all a broad smile.

"What hath God wrought," the President said. Well
hidden behind his mask of concern, he smiled. He looked toward the Padre. The
Padre's face was grim.

THIS SUMMIT WAS BEING HELD in an underground bunker. Ahmed
enjoyed the irony. He also took pleasure in sitting at a round table as an
equal. In this game personal symbols were important. Dress, facial hair, hat,
sidearms, and, above all, the illusion of noncontrivance. Arafat was a master
at it. His barber must be a genius to keep that seven-day growth immaculately
authentic.

He had dressed for the occasion. Tailored khakis, a
powder-blue beret and matching silk cravat, a pair of wrap-around sun goggles,
a Smith & Wesson 9-mm automatic pistol tucked into a spring shoulder
holster, and a waist belt with pockets for four eight-shot magazines. He had
trimmed his bushy mustache and cut off its side droops.

There were eight of them around the table. Number twos
mostly. It would be unseemly for the number ones to appear, responding to this
summons by an upstart. At one time or another he had worked for all of them.

His contacts were with those on the third and fourth
levels, buying his expertise in managing these enterprises. Most of them, over
the years, had become nameless, then faceless, finally merely ciphers. Also, he
claimed ideological neutrality, a strong asset, considering the competing
religious and national animosities. He was a professional among fanatics.

"I am a gun," he would tell them. "A gun has
no ideology, only accuracy."

Iranians, Syrians, Libyans, Palestinians of three factions,
and Shiites were represented, whoever had organizational strength, finances,
the big boys in this business. Remarkably, it had taken less than twelve hours
to get them all together.

Of course they were uneasy, not knowing what to expect.
Only yesterday he had been characterized as a blunderer, a misguided missile,
although his boldness had given him a kind of cachet. Boldness was currency in
this business.

He had taken the woman and her child as an after-thought, a
booby prize. As it turned out it was the hottest ticket in the hostage game.
His once-faltering status had skyrocketed overnight.

There had been the usual preliminaries and rituals of Arab
politeness, an exchange of pleasantries that transcended the fierce and often
bloody competition. But the rule, as he well knew, was to bring the rhetoric
but leave the weapons at the door.

It took some time for the politeness to run its course. The
fundamental question before the group was how best to use this sudden windfall
of power. For Ahmed the question was how to use his prizes for his own
purposes.

Ahmed's objective was to get them to coalesce, behind him,
to follow his lead. Quite simply, and they all knew it, he had the President of
the United States by the balls.

"What are you suggesting then?" the Libyan asked.
It seemed to Ahmed a consensus-type question.

"We've got to demand more than we have been
asking," Ahmed said.

"But they haven't caved in to our original demand to
release our brothers," the Libyan said. He was a middle-aged man with a
head of tight gray curls, thick moist lips, and hooded brown eyes. In this
group he had spread Qaddafi's money around in great buttery gobs, which, he
felt, gave him the right to wear the mantle of spokesman.

"That's the point. We have to make the kind of demand
that will force them all to take notice."

"So then," the Libyan said. He did not look at
the others for approval. "I agree that we might ask for something larger.
But the ultimate humiliation for the U.S. would be to get them to negotiate
with us. That would be a victory in itself."

"A victory, yes. But not a route."

"I don't understand."

Ahmed had their attention. He must be cautious, he told
himself.

"Up to now we have been delivering gnat bites to the
rump of the horse. Annoying, yes. But nothing has occurred to bring our cause
one step closer to fruition." He was deliberately vague here, since they
all harbored variations of the cause.

"What we need to do now is to deliver a hammer blow,
to get the horse to go berserk, to scare the shit out of the whole world. Only
then will they realize that we mean business." He felt a sudden surge of
the old fanaticism.

"So what sort of a brew do you propose for our great
Satan to drink?" the Iranian said, a thin handsome man with a mustache.
Although he was dressed neatly in Western-style clothes, Ahmed suspected him of
being a mullah.

Ahmed deliberately took his time before continuing, studying
each man's face, bracing for their reaction. He felt tingles in his crotch and
a radiant warmth crawl up his spine.

"I throw this gathering open for your
suggestions," he said. He needed to draw them in.

"We ask for the release of every Palestinian from every
jail in the world," one of the Palestinians said, a fierce man with eyes
that glowed like burning charcoal.

"Not all," the Syrian said.

"That is very shortsighted," another of the
Palestinians said. "We are all brothers."

"Some are only half brothers," the Syrian shot
back.

"But our general goals are the same," the third
Palestinian said.

"Not completely," the Iranian said, obviously
injecting a religious note. The meeting seemed to be heading for contention.

"My friends. Please. The suggestion of our esteemed
brother, while heartfelt, is still far from the mark. Considering what we have,
it is still not enough," Ahmed said.

"Not enough?" the Palestinian shouted, his voice
high-pitched, strident.

"I have a better idea," the Libyan said, slapping
the table. "A delicious idea." He looked around the table before
speaking again. Then his tongue licked his heavy lower lip, wetting it until it
glistened. "We ask for an atomic bomb."

"Thank you," the Syrian said, chuckling
derisively. "Why not ask them to give up Texas?"

"Maybe not the latest version," the Libyan
continued, surprised at the derision. "But one with just enough power to
effectively render harmless a small country of three million people."

He heard a loud chuckle come from one of the Palestinians,
then silence.

"But you know that will never happen," the Syrian
said.

"But think of the fear we will sow by the demand
alone. Our point has always been the same. We have a respectable bargaining
chip now. Why settle for bodies? This is the ultimate fear of our
enemies."

"It will goad them to some massive retaliation,"
the Iranian said. "We can't discount their armaments."

"And the Israelis?" the Syrian asked.

"We will freeze their bowels with fear," the
Libyan said. "But we will give them no real justification for
retaliation." He smiled. "It is a splendid opportunity. After all, we
have the President of the United States."

"We don't have the President," the Syrian
corrected. "We have a surrogate. There is also another problem."

"And what is that?" Ahmed asked.

The Syrian had a pleasant face and smiled easily, which, to
Ahmed, meant he was very dangerous. "Whatever is negotiated is best done
through us. Only we maintain relations with the United States."

Their narrow view amazed Ahmed. They were doomed to petty
fighting, constant jabbering among themselves. They lacked vision, imagination.

"And what will you negotiate?" Ahmed asked.

The Syrian waved his arm in a sweeping gesture.

"Whatever we decide. Aren't we, after all, the Islamic
Jihad?"

It was so pleasantly put that it disarmed them all. Except
for Ahmed. Vipers, he told himself. They would come out of this affair as the
great white knights. Whatever private concessions they would get from the
Americans would be valueless to Ahmed. He didn't want settlements. His business
was chaos. His objective was the sweet heady joy of power and celebrity. Did
they think they would manipulate him? Lily-livered swine.

"There is only one resolution," Ahmed said. It
was, of course, the heart stopper, and he listened with pleasure to the
silence. "The Mafia has given us a great prize. They boast of their honor.
Well, we should allow them the opportunity to show it. After all, gentlemen, I
have lit the fuse."

"You mean force them to blow up the American
President," the Syrian said, unable to contain himself. He suddenly looked
upset. "Madness."

"No," Ahmed responded. "It is a logical
step, the ultimate act of terrorism. We have acquired the means to assassinate
the President of the United States. We will never have this opportunity
again."

"And what will it achieve for our cause?" the
Syrian asked.

"Once and for all, it will validate that we are people
to be reckoned with, a force that cannot be ignored," Ahmed continued.
"We will slay the beast in his own den."

The Palestinians had been remarkably silent. Although the
three groups and their adherents hated each other, the commonality of interest,
their mutual hate for the enemy, held them together.

"It would be wise to keep us anonymous in this
affair," one of them said. He was the representative of the PLO, a shadowy
figure whose name, Ahmed was certain, was a pseudonym. "Although we will
cooperate fully behind the scenes." He cleared his throat. "As
always."

"So you intend the Libyans and the Shiites to take the
brunt, as usual," the Libyan declared.

"Are you frightened?" Ahmed asked. It was always
the ultimate question to these macho-oriented types, sure to get them riled.

"None of us at this table have to present our
credentials of courage."

Suddenly the discipline within the group broke down. They
all began to talk at once.

"Friends. My brothers," Ahmed cried, slamming his
fist down on the table. "I am not here to divide us. I am here to unite
us. Believe me, I am happy to take all the credit myself. Let it be my
contribution to the cause. Think of what it will do. It will make the world sit
up and take notice. It is a boldness beyond anything that we have ever
concocted. I ask only for your trust and support. No need for anyone to reveal
themselves. I can handle this myself."

His words drifted away. He had called this meeting to test
the water, confirm his power.

"You realize that we will have to publicly
disassociate ourselves from you," the Syrian said.

"Of course."

The Libyan nodded concurrence.

"I am aware of that," Ahmed said.

Ahmed looked at the men around the table. Without a word
being exchanged, he knew that consensus had passed between them.

"Then tell us, Ahmed, what can we do to help?"
the Syrian asked.