We Are Holding the President Hostage (22 page)

"They will do nothing," he said, suddenly
becoming calm. "It is just another silly ineffective CIA ploy." He
continued to pace the room, speaking more to himself than to her. But he could
not seem to shake himself free of his concern. "They want to play their
little games, then play we shall." He looked at her and the boy. "On
with the show. The more sympathetic we appear, the more the people in your
country will protest."

He sat on the chair again and the blond boy put down his
gun and picked up the camera. But Ahmed was a changed man, Maria noted. He
seemed, despite his bravado, somehow less deadly. He waved his hand impatiently
at the blond boy.

"Now," he said. The camera purred. He turned
toward Maria.

"And how are you being treated, Mrs. Michaels?"

She lifted her eyes, staring at him directly, lips pursed.
Daddy, she thought. Her father's face materialized in her mind. Do it, she
begged herself. Find the courage.

"Brutally. Without regard to human decency. These
people are monsters—"

Ahmed sprang from his chair. The blond boy, out of surprise
or mental paralysis, continued to record the scene. Ahmed's arm flashed and the
camera fell to the floor. The blond boy lost his balance and tumbled beside it.
Then Ahmed focused his attention on Maria. Something, she noted, had changed in
the calibration of his arrogance. "You'll pay the price for this, you
bitch."

He reached his hand out to touch the boy's head. She sprang
up and, still holding the boy, moved away. He did not follow her. Instead, he
waved a finger at her. "I swear to you." He was suddenly speechless,
snarling impotently.

"So, Ahmed," she said, her tone measured,
"there is a human side to you. Congratulations." She had found her
strength. His vulnerability was quite defined now. "You had better treat
your bargaining chip with some respect."

"He is a sick boy."

"I feel for him, Ahmed," she said.

Again he paced the room, then sat down on the table. He
began to write on a piece of paper. She watched him. He wrote, paused, waited,
grew thoughtful, wrote again. Then he waved to the blond boy and said something
to him in Arabic. The boy took the paper and left the room.

"I have given them a deadline," he said, his
voice gravelly.

Her heartbeat pounded in her throat. His eyes had narrowed;
the whites seemed to have disappeared. They looked cruel, snakelike. His lips,
too, had tightened, and when he spoke they barely moved.

"The boy will deliver the message. He will call the
newspapers. Soon the world will know. A simple request, really. Your CIA will
release my son by tomorrow noon our time."

"What makes you so sure?" Maria asked.

He looked toward her and pointed his chin.

"You do," Ahmed said. "And if they do not
react, we will make a show of it, so they will know we mean business. I assure
you, your people will get the message, especially your father."

She tightened her grip around her son. My father, she
thought. Whatever happens, she thought, he will write his answer on your
corpse.

OF COURSE IT WAS possible to imagine, Amy assured herself.
She was in the middle of a computerized experience, a special-effects thrill
concocted for Disneyland. Action transpired according to however Jack Harkins
programmed a sequence of events. The results of these sequences were then
displayed on television. They were then assessed and further sequences arranged
to continue to manipulate the experience. Such convictions made the reality of
what she was experiencing bearable.

Once again they had let her join the "adults" in
the dining room. But only after she had promised that she would behave. It was
pointless to do otherwise. Her protests were totally ineffectual. They had
shunted her off to the bedroom, a kind of child's Siberia. She had lain on the
bed pouting and resentful, frustrated by the indignity.

Then it had occurred to her that perhaps she was wrong.
Perhaps these kidnappings were merely a setup. Perhaps all that was happening,
the computer-directed events, the television images, were a contrivance
designed to lull the Padre into acceptance before striking back.

It was these doubts that made her delay going forward with
her plan. In actuality, it was a weapon, and it rode, like a piece of ice, on
the bare skin above her right hip. Its presence was a goading reminder, forcing
her to think about alternatives.

"I'll be good," she had promised Benjy, her eyes
imploring him to let her go back to the dining room. "I'd rather be with
my husband." Her mimicking of a child's contrition seemed to impress him.

"Now you're getting smart," Benjy said, with what
seemed gentler tones than before. She had little doubt about his reason for
acting this way. She had assumed her rightful woman's place in their manly
universe.

"Don't make waves. They know what they're doing,"
Benjy told her.

"So it seems," she offered fatuously. Her
apparent reasonableness put in motion their odd but effective communication
system. The big man, who was ubiquitous, shuttled Benjy's message to the Padre,
who consented, and they had let her come back into the dining room.

Paul was on the telephone. He looked up at her and nodded.
Behave yourself. That seemed to be his message as well. Beside him was his
ever-present human attachment, his face rutted and wrinkled, his eyes watchful.

In the dining room, the television set was on. Harkins
watched the computer and the Padre sat quietly slumped in a chair appearing to
be half asleep. If she did not know better, she might have characterized him as
bored. Nothing here was as it seemed.

She sat on one of the dining-room chairs and concentrated
on what was transpiring. Harkins, she noted, was more agitated than he had been
earlier. He was working feverishly with the computer, mumbling curses under his
breath. Paul wound up his conversation on the telephone and shook his head.

"Gridlock," he said. "That was the Speaker.
He's appointed a committee, but he assures me they probably won't act. The
polls have taken the wind out of everybody's sails." He looked at the
Padre. "In other words, the people like what we're doing."

He glanced at Amy, but turned away quickly. He seemed
deeper into it than before, his face flushed, as it became when he was feverish
with excitement. "This is not to say that they aren't nervous. All that
military activity has them worried. Not to mention the edgy Soviets. Be good
for them to fret a while."

Harkins looked up from the computer screen.

"The assessment boys still stick with their
conclusion. The Saudis and the Syrians won't stir. They make a move and the
Israelis will clobber them. They've called up their reserves. Nice move on
their part. Scares the shit out of everybody. The Iranians haven't got the
assets. Too bogged down with Iraq."

"And crazy Qaddafi?" the President asked.

"He's jumping up and down," Harkins said, sucking
in a deep breath. "Not to worry. They have nowhere to go, not with the
Egyptians staring down their noses. But there's always a chance he might go off
the deep end, except that his council won't let him."

"No more talk of atomic bombs?" the President
asked. He looked at Amy.

"None," Harkins said.

The President laughed and slapped the table.

"On the outside it might look like brinkmanship,"
Harkins said. "Trick is to scare enough people into putting a stop to this
terrorist crap." He looked at the Padre, who ignored him.

She had heard variations of this conversation before,
always one-sided reconstructions by Paul. Hearing it at first hand was more
chilling than she had imagined. To avoid listening further, she looked up at
the television screen. She felt like a child who had missed an important lesson
and was now working hard to catch up.

The television commentator had begun to update the
situation. There were now five kidnap victims. Three overseas. Two in the
States. She listened in horror. He, too, seemed overly excited by events. For
him it was the story of a lifetime.

"There is still no word on the condition of any of the
victims," the commentator announced in his frenetic staccato. "Nor
has anyone claimed credit, although speculation all over the world insists that
this is the work of our own CIA on orders from the President. The President,
despite the accusations and his own tenuous position, is reported to have
denied any complicity. Nor would any responsible official confirm that this was
an American-sponsored enterprise. Of course the head of the CIA is with the
President, but no statement has been forthcoming."

"Keeps 'em guessing," the President said. He and
Harkins seemed to have been emboldened by events, as if their captivity had not
occurred. A conspiracy, Amy decided. They were all in it together.

But the Padre, Amy noted, showed no such delight. He seemed
deep in thought, his concentration elsewhere.

Harkins went back to working the keyboard.

"No word?" the Padre asked, suddenly reunited
with events. The question perked up her own curiosity.

The Padre turned toward Harkins, who looked up from the
screen.

"I'm sorry," Harkins said.

"The others?" the President asked.

"All accounted for," Harkins said. "In safe
houses. Well cared for." He looked at the Padre. "What about your
people?" Harkins looked first to the President, then back at the Padre.
"We don't know where you've ... where they are."

"Still nothing about the boy?" the Padre asked
pointedly, ignoring Harkins' question. Beneath the mask of calm, Amy saw the
cold, cruel resolve.

"Just taking them longer to respond," Harkins
said. His mood had changed. He was obviously distressed.

She struggled to piece things together without calling
attention to herself. The television commentator was beginning to fill in the
blanks, including more details about Ahmed's son, who had been taken from his
home in Jordan. These revelations had only compounded the shock. The boy was
weak, sickly, a rheumatic heart. He was only seventeen. In fact, all five were
under twenty. Five innocent children. Terrorism in reverse.

Still, Amy did not show them her disgust. The general
assumption, as reported by the commentator and seconded by various pundits, was
that negotiations were currently under way by all parties for the release of
all hostages, that the Americans, although it was denied, had demonstrated
their ability to reach out anywhere in the world. Their willingness to cross
the moral line and kidnap other innocents for barter was the latest escalation.
As always in the media, the question was debated, analyzed, dissected ad
infinitum.

"We will pay the price," someone said. They had
arranged a panel show to fill the time between bulletins. Above all, don't let
it get boring, she thought. As usual, a confrontation had been contrived.

"We've descended to their level," the panelist
declared. Despite her cynicism, her inclination was to agree. They are going
mad, she thought.

"The Mafia have not only kidnapped the President.
They've brainwashed him," another said. Not really, she decided. They've
merely broken down the artificial barriers.

"Damned bleeding heart," the President said with
contempt. It was not a term he used very often and it puzzled her.

She turned away from the set. It was too painful to watch.
Both her disgust and her doubts were accelerating. She wished it would all go
away. Harkins continued to beat on his keyboard. The Padre stood near him,
watching.

It was obvious that all was not well. What she had
determined was that they did not yet know the whereabouts of Ahmed's son. The
most essential ingredient of the operation was to have the boy in their possession.

"Any definitive terms yet?" the President asked.

"Everyone is waiting for someone else to make the
first move," Harkins said.

"What happens when they do?" the President asked.
"How do we hide behind the denials?"

"Our people will make a deal," Harkins said,
looking toward the Padre. "All hostages for all hostages. We don't have to
confirm or deny our complicity. Just arrange the exchange. Isn't that the way
you see it, Padre?"

The Padre nodded. "As long as my daughter and grandson
are part of the package, I do not care about the others."

The Padre began to pace the floor. Amy watched him, then
looked at her husband, whose elation of moments before had disappeared.

"We must know about the boy," the Padre muttered.

At this point a commentator interrupted the ongoing panel
discussion on television.

"This just in," the commentator said with
appropriate solemnity. "Ahmed Safari, the man who is holding the daughter
and grandson of Salvatore Padronelli hostage, has just communicated with a
Beirut radio station. He has issued the following ultimatum. If his son is not
released by noon tomorrow without conditions, then Maria Michaels will be
killed."

The Padre had turned ashen.

"I am sure it's only a bluff," Harkins said.
"These people—"

"Where is the boy?" the Padre asked. His
expression had darkened despite Harkins' assurances.

"Our people have lost contact."

"Your people are not competent..." the Padre
began, his calm shattered. "Without the boy, we have nothing."

"He won't do it," Harkins said, but without much
conviction. He turned back to the keyboard and pounded out a message. "I
have ordered our asset in his group.... What?" He was not satisfied with
his answer on the monitor. Again he typed out a message. "Gone," he
said, swallowing the word. "He's changed his people."

"What does that mean?"

"He's no longer got one of his assets on the
inside," the President explained.

"You mean we're out of touch?" the Padre asked.

"For the moment."

"We know of his attachment to his boy," Harkins
added. Beads of sweat had sprouted on his upper lip. "He won't risk
it."

"But we haven't got the boy," the President said.

"Ahmed thinks we do," Harkins said.

"He will expect us to respond," the Padre said.

"Our people can get word to him. Say we have
him," Harkins said nervously. "Anyway, it's only a threat. No point
in hurting your daughter. He won't. I'm sure of it."

"He is testing us," the Padre said.

"How?" the President asked.

"By our willingness to kill," the Padre said.

Amy felt an iciness crawl down her spine.

"He does not believe that we will respond in kind. If
we don't, he will kill my daughter. He will then bargain for my grandson."

"Now really," the President began.

The Padre raised his hand for silence. "We must send
the only message he will understand."

"I don't like the sound of that," the President
said.

"We could play it in kind, give him the same
deadline," Harkins said. "Contact a Beirut radio station. Get the
word out to him and the others whose people we have. Tell them, release your
daughter and grandson without conditions or..."

"Or what?" the President asked.

"Mr. President," the Padre said slowly. "The
problem is that you are not taken seriously."

"Because I refuse to sanction cold-blooded
killing."

"The decision is not in your hands, Mr.
President," the Padre said.

"The hell it isn't," the President said, looking
at Harkins, who turned his eyes away.

Amy's finger groped for the trigger of the gun.

"And yet you would stand by and let them kill my
daughter. Let them kill others at will."

"But I'm not ordering that."

"Not directly," the Padre said.

"I can't."

"There is no choice for you." His meaning was
unmistakable.

"Ah, but there is," the President shot back.
"I can refuse to govern. I can step down."

"It is too late for that," the Padre said.
"I will not permit it."

"Who the hell do you think you are?" the
President shot back.

"I can decide who lives and dies in this place."

Silence seemed to crackle in the room. Although frightened,
Amy discovered that her fear was not incapacitating. One thing was certain, she
told herself. I will not go quietly. But she still could not find the courage
to remove the gun from her waistband. The Padre had his back turned to her. How
easily she could end his life. One bullet to the head.

"We shall see," the President said calmly.

His hand reached out for the phone. There was only the
briefest hesitation, but Amy saw it. She was sure the Padre saw it as well.
They all knew it. A feeble ploy at rebellion. The prune-faced man's arm shot
forward and quickly removed the phone from the President's hand.

The President seemed to crumble. His shoulders gave way. He
leaned back in his chair. She had seen him like that before, finding his second
wind. Yet despite her instinct for blind loyalty, a trait she had demonstrated
time and time again, she tried to distance herself from that role, to maintain
some degree of objectivity.