We Are Holding the President Hostage (23 page)

"Perhaps we can say it and not do it," the
President said quietly, indicating what she had suspected. His mind still
searched for alternatives. No, she decided, he is not going to roll over
easily.

"Facts not words," the Padre said. "We must
show him."

"One of his," Harkins said to the President,
cocking his head toward the Padre. "After all, you are under duress. The
country knows this is so. I can get word to his people." He looked at the
Padre, who shrugged, an obvious sign of his willingness. The issue of who was
to die as a sacrifice for credibility was immaterial to him.

Amy continued to stroke the trigger of the gun. Surely her
husband was simply playing out a strategy that he had worked out in his mind.

The Padre said, "We will make sure the body is
found."

"Then we deny any complicity," Harkins said,
looking toward the Padre for approval. The Padre responded with a nod.
"He'll get the message. He'll know we mean business and that we are
capable of retaliating against his son."

"All this talk of killing," the President said,
shaking his head.

"It is not talk, Mr. President," the Padre said.
"We must deal with it."

"He's right, Mr. President," Harkins said.

Harkins watched him, obviously waiting for consent.
Slippery bastard, Amy thought. Once again he was absolving himself of
responsibility. She felt a surge of emotion. Her practiced effort at control
fell apart.

"Resist them, Paul," she cried. They all turned to
face her as if noticing her for the first time. "You don't have to."

"He has no choice, Mrs. Bernard," Harkins said.

Images of her own children, Tad and Barbara, burst into her
mind. She felt the remembered pain of birthing, the exquisite joys of motherhood
and nurturing. My children, she screamed inside herself. And theirs. Was there
any crime more monstrous than to hurt innocent children?

"Weakness now is a death warrant for my
daughter," the Padre said.

"Paul, I beg of you," Amy began. But she did not stand
up, maintaining enough presence of mind to keep the gun in her waistband,
hidden beneath the table. She reached for it again, her finger settling around
the trigger. A plan had jumped into her mind. She would put a bullet in
Harkins' head. Only Harkins knew the various codes to operate that vast
mysterious empire of evil.

At that moment the computer came alive. It deflected their
attention. Harkins watched the monitor, then began to respond on the keyboard.

"What is it?" the President asked, a man grasping
for straws.

"They're reporting in," Harkins said. With a
finger he flicked away the perspiration on his lower lip.

"We have him." He looked at the Padre, who nodded
approval.

"A hospital in Rome," Harkins said.

Harkins turned from the monitor and looked at the Padre.
Something, Amy noted, had passed between them. Then he directed his
concentration back to the computer monitor. He worked the keyboard, studied the
monitor again. His eyes blinked and his lips betrayed a nervous tremor. He
turned away and his gaze roamed the faces in the room. Amy's fingers remained
clutched around the trigger of the gun, although it was still in the waistband
of her slacks.

"Intensive care," he whispered.
"Critical."

NED FOREMAN, the National Security Advisor, stood behind a
large oak and watched the footpath in the patch of park behind his apartment
house. Vashevsky, wily as ever, rarely approached from the same direction. His
journey was always the difficult one, since he had to get out of the Soviet
Embassy compound unobserved by American surveillance, then find his way to the
strip of parkland bounded by Massachusetts and New Mexico avenues. The senior
KGB operative in the United States, he was, of course, resourceful and clever.

They had set up the rules years before, as if it were a
kind of floating crap game. Meeting places were arranged by sequence. There
were six preagreed sites, all outdoors, an imagined neutral turf, theoretically
safe from unwanted listening devices. To police these devices, Foreman carried an
electronic sensor. Its mechanism had never been triggered. Perhaps Vashevsky
carried one as well. Foreman's instinct was to trust the man.

It wasn't easy for Foreman to leave what was now referred
to sarcastically as the command bunker. Chalmers was frustrated. Most of those
around him were exhausted. The country appeared trapped in the entrails of its
own system.

He had insisted that he must go back to his own apartment.
An hour, no more, he had promised. Milly had called, reporting that Vashevsky's
signal had come. Two rings on his private number followed by an interval of one
minute, then two rings. Repeated twice. Milly actually had no knowledge about
the signal's origin. Foreman was, after all, the President's National Security
Advisor. Such mysterious goings-on required no explanation.

He had expected Vashevsky to step forward in response to
the crisis. Indeed, it had surprised him that he had not done so sooner.

Peter Vashevsky, a general in rank, had direct and mostly
secret access to the Premier of the Soviet Union, who was also the General
Secretary of the Communist Party.

A burly man with a jolly manner and a brilliant mind,
Vashevsky was highly educated and, most important, well-informed, especially on
matters of infighting and intrigue among the bureaucrats who ran the Soviet
Union. Foreman offered similar credentials. Both men enjoyed their roles,
especially the subterfuge, which seemed to satisfy some childish urge for
secrecy.

Alert to the sounds around him, he heard Vashevsky's
footfalls as they moved cautiously along the little-used path.

"Pete," he whispered. "Here."

Vashevsky halted behind the tree. From there they had a
clear view of both ends of the path.

"Ned," Vashevsky said, offering his hand. Foreman
took it and shook it warmly.

"Goes from bad to worse," Foreman said, kicking
his toe into the dirt for emphasis.

"They are confused at home," Vashevsky said.
"How is it possible for the man to stay in office? He is a captive."
The setting sun made his pale blue eyes shine. He shook his head. "There
was Watergate and the President resigned. Hardly a terrible crime. Now this.
Your system needs an overhaul." A deep chuckle rumbled in his throat.

"Polls show that the people overwhelmingly support
him."

Vashevsky shook his head. "The General Secretary is
not happy. All this instability is dangerous."

"You've put your people on alert," Foreman said,
careful not to adopt an accusatory tone.

"There was no choice. It was not at all like the
surgical bombing ploy of Reagan. Instability feeds the paranoia of our
military. When in doubt, put the troops out."

"The President has refused to do this," Foreman
said.

"Wise move on his part. Keeps our paranoids from
acting hastily. But, Ned, there are problems. When you destabilize you set an
uncontrollable course, especially among those fools in the Middle East."

"Can't you rein in your friends?" Foreman asked.
"At least until we get things sorted out."

"Believe me, we are trying." Vashevsky sighed.
"We are having our hands full just keeping some of them from massacring
every American they can get their hands on. I think we can lean on the Syrians
and the Libyans. The Iranians are irascible. The Saudis are your problem."
He lowered his voice. "The King must be really pissed off."

"He is. I've spoken to him."

"Your President can't keep denying his complicity,
Ned. Our people know what is happening. It is ridiculous."

"I know."

"This Harkins." Vashevsky pointed to his temple
and made a twirling motion. "He loves these macho games. Besides, we know
where at least three of the people have been put."

Foreman's ears perked up. "Only three. You're
slipping, Pete."

"We have to assume you know where the other two are.
The Saudi boy and the Syrian girl."

"Wish we did," Foreman said sadly. "The FBI
is on the case. But we're dealing with a clever bunch of bastards."

"The Mafiosa."

"It's as if we were all in on this great big secret.
We are all winking at each other."

"Look, Ned, if it doesn't get out of hand, I know we
can get the Syrian President to play ball. But if the girl is harmed, I assure
you he will go crazy."

"You think our Mafiosa friend will sit still if they
harm his daughter or his grandson?"

"It has troubled us, Ned," Vashevsky said. His
knowledge of the American idiom was superb and his accent detectable only by the
strange rhythm of his speech, not the pronunciation of his words. He hesitated
for a moment, rare for him. Ned could see he was having trouble putting his
thoughts in context. "There are those who believe that the President and
Harkins staged these events to allow this action to proceed."

"And you, Pete? What do you believe?" Foreman
asked.

"Ninety percent no."

"And the other ten percent?"

"This Harkins is a snake."

"Our snake." He looked pointedly at Vashevsky.
"A requirement for the job."

"Nevertheless," Vashevsky said, scratching his
chin. "He is capable of orchestrating the event."

"I'm sure of that. But I'm afraid it's out of
character for the President," Foreman said. "No way. You're letting
your penchant for concocting disinformation scenarios run away with you,
Pete."

"All right, Ned," Vashevsky said. "Whatever
the genesis of the act, the fact is inescapable. The President is
colluding."

"There is a knife at his throat," Foreman said.
"He's in a double bind. If he resigns, he's a dead man. If the man's
daughter and grandson are not released unharmed, he's a dead man."

"It does limit his options," Vashevsky said.
"It would certainly limit mine."

"I know the man. He can be manipulated only if he
allows himself to be," Foreman said, bowing to loyalty. He owed the
President a great deal. He also liked the man and respected his political
instincts, the one indispensable ingredient for high office.

"You will never know what a man will do when his life
is in danger."

"And the life of his wife," Foreman added.

"That," Vashevsky said, "is debatable."

Foreman blanched. The Soviets had a talent for heavy humor.
Then he remembered that Vashevsky had at least two former wives.

Vashevsky smiled and shook his head. Despite his intriguing
mind, he had a limited sense of subtlety. He took a package of chewing gum from
his pocket and offered a stick to Foreman, who refused. Then he unwrapped a
stick and popped it into his mouth, chewing contentedly.

"We must assume that he is acting according to the
wishes of his captors." Vashevsky chomped on his gum. "It is
possible, therefore, that he is a party to the idea, that he aids and abets and
approves what is going on, whether out of fear or his own desires. It is not
only a matter of life and death, Ned." He stretched out a pause with
vigorous chewing. "Death is death. But life is the presidency. If he gets
out of this alive, he would want to be whole. To continue in office."

Foreman studied the man. He had a benign look about him,
kind and grandfatherly, hardly the demeanor for a tough KGB operative who had
won his rank and privilege the hard way. Despite his more academic background,
Foreman felt equal enough to match wits with Vashevsky. Neither felt threatened
by the other. Each had learned to accept nothing at face value, to look behind
the political masks and words, to distrust the apparent. And each enjoyed
unraveling the puzzle of political motivation. Vashevsky, Foreman knew, was
enjoying this episode immensely.

"You have a very hard view of human nature,
Pete," Foreman said.

"Believe me, my friend, I long for innocence. But you
must remember, your President is a man under our microscope. We must know him
better than you, perhaps as well as you know our General Secretary. Your
President, like all of them, is a man who does not wish to relinquish control.
He must have calculated that it is safer for him and his wife if he continues
to hold the reins of power. He is in a better position to know what this Padre
will do if he opts out of governing. Our Mafia man wants his daughter and
grandson back alive. He will do anything to save them. He is also not afraid to
die which makes him, in a way, a fanatic and quite capable of killing the
President and his wife if his daughter and grandson are harmed."

"Is that a revelation, Pete?"

"An introduction only. Frankly, I believe the
President is playing the game on two tracks."

"Only two?"

"And it is dangerous on both counts. For himself and
the country," Vashevsky said. "Yours and mine." He chewed
heavily for a few moments. "Ned, the General Secretary would like to see
this episode ended immediately. Indeed, the General Secretary has always been
confused by your reaction to hostage-taking. Your President should have taken a
page out of our book."

"Maybe he should enlist your services," Ned said,
but only half-facetiously.

"The General Secretary offers it," Vashevsky said
with unmistakable seriousness. "Ned, we can't allow this event to
continue. One thing will lead to another. It will get out of hand."

"Why can't your own trusted people in Lebanon just go
in and snatch them away from him? Your surrogate runs the show there."

"Our surrogates are idiots," Vashevsky said,
"and this Safari is a clever son-of-a-bitch. Believe me, we are looking
for him. If only he made a telephone call. We would trace him instantly."

Vashevsky spat out the chewed ball of gum. "However it
is done, your President must be removed from office." He paused, then
added: "One way or another."

Foreman turned his eyes from Vashevsky's. A sudden chill
made him tremble.

"It is terrible, I agree," Vashevsky said.
"There were tears in the General Secretary's voice. But I ask you, my
friend, look at what we risk. Uncertainty is our mutual enemy. Better our
stalemate than one or another of our surrogates acting alone. Our respective
military people will get trigger-happy. This is the risk. I tell you there is
no way to control these crazy people, Ned."

"You ought to know. Most of them are yours,"
Foreman replied. They had often traded barbs in the guise of banter. But
neither of them ever became angry. They were too professional for that.

"We all agree. At least it has been illustrated that
the tactic of terrorism and hostage-taking is too dangerous, too
counterproductive," Vashevsky said with an air of contrition. "We
have accepted it for too long among our friends."

Frankness was the treasure of their relationship. Often
they were the first to admit when a favored tactic went awry. Both knew that
the objective of the game was to control the balance between them, to keep the
tension perfectly calibrated. At this moment it was out of control, the
calibration terribly faulty.

Foreman was good at Machiavellian theory but bad at
practicing it. Besides, as a man, he considered the President his friend and
mentor. Although the idea that Vashevsky was imparting remained scrupulously
unarticulated, it flew in the face of his value system. Did the President's
life depend on the vehemence of his objection? Did ambition presume this kind
of responsibility? He was merely an advisor, for chrissakes.

"I'm not comfortable with this idea," Foreman
said.

"Nor are we."

"You've had more experience along these lines."

"I am sorry. I am only the messenger."

Foreman turned and walked up the path for a short distance.
So they were scouring West Beirut looking for Safari. For them it would be
easier to kill him, the woman, and the boy. It was certainly the road to
stability. They've already made up their mind. Foreman was sure of that. Kill
off the President by remote control. No one would know. He came back to where
Vashevsky still stood.

"Just don't tell me it's because you want to save the
world."

"I won't say it then, my friend."

"We've gone over that option as well and come up with
the same conclusion. We'll never get them out alive. Besides, we can't stop
you."

"Not really," Vashevsky said.

"Dead or alive, it won't matter to you," Foreman
sighed.

"It does matter," Vashevsky said. "We would
prefer to get them alive. Surely, as in your own scenario, it is most unlikely.
Unless..."

Foreman felt that Vashevsky was sincerely disturbed by the
news he was imparting. "We did consider another aspect," Vashevsky
continued. "If our people were lucky enough to rescue the woman and her
child, then we would have saved the life of your President."

Foreman felt a sudden burst of elation and optimism.
Indeed, for the Soviets it would be the public relations coup of the century.

Vashevsky put out his hand.

"Some day as old men we will enjoy our nostalgia over
a few vodkas," Vashevsky said.

"If we ever get to be old men," Foreman said.
Considering this new-found knowledge, it seemed to be an unlikely possibility.