We Are Holding the President Hostage (25 page)

SITTING AROUND the dining-room table, they continued to
watch the television monitor. The commentators were focusing now on the
whereabouts of the Padre's daughter and grandson. They had finally gotten the
message that what was happening, the release of the hostages and all the
resultant hullabaloo, was peripheral to the real story. The President remained
a hostage in his own White House and the Padre's daughter and grandson were not
yet free.

The euphoria as reflected in the world of television was
dying down. The talk turned more to deadlines and danger. And the atmosphere in
the dining room grew increasingly downbeat.

The lights on the telephone console lit up. The President
paid little attention. No point in doing anything until the woman and child
were released. The Padre had stopped pacing and seated himself at the table.
His three-day growth of beard made him look even older. Yet he seemed very much
alert, waiting, watchful.

"How do you interpret this?" the President asked
Harkins.

"He could be trying to strike a deal," Harkins
answered. It seemed as good a stall as any.

"What kind of a deal?" the President asked.

"Perhaps the message wasn't loud enough," the
Padre said, his face immobile.

"It got the point across to the Libyans, the Syrians,
and the Iranians," Harkins said.

The capitulation of Syria, Libya, and Iran was, of course,
a major geopolitical event. Whether these countries would permanently eschew
terrorism in the future was debatable. At least the perpetrators would now
understand that the tactic was a double-edged sword.

"There are limits," the President said, his voice
barely a whisper. Harkins knew the mood. The President shook his head and
rubbed his chin. Then he turned to Harkins.

"I want you to order your people to release the Libyan
and the Iranian. Immediately. Do you understand that?"

Harkins nodded. He fought the desire to look toward the
Padre for approval. The Padre said nothing and made no move to stop the order.

"And," the President said, addressing the Padre,
"I would suggest you do the same to the people you hold. Perhaps the
example will be enough for the man to act."

"I will order the boy released only after my daughter
and grandson are safe," the Padre replied.

"You are an intelligent man," the President said.
"Surely you have some sense of humanity. The fact is..." The
President paused. Harkins knew he was digging deep inside himself, gathering
all the residue of persuasive energy. "We've gone along." He looked
at his wife. Acting or not, his expression conveyed a sense of futility,
perhaps shame. He seemed to Harkins like a man throwing in his poker hand,
faceup.

"You've had the benefit of..." His gaze met Harkins',
then he pointed to the computer. "What more could possibly be done. You've
even helped to accomplish something in the, forgive the political idiom, public
good."

The Padre watched him impassively.

"What in the name of God will move you?"

He had scrupulously avoided the mention of pardon. Was it
time now? He turned to Harkins. "Where are we heading?"

"He will release them," Harkins persisted.

"All right then," the President said to the
Padre. "At the very least, there is no point in holding the Syrian
girl."

"I will decide," the Padre said.

"Neither of us are God, Padre. You would be surprised
how effective a gesture of goodwill can be."

"There is no goodwill for men like that. Only
advantage."

Harkins watched the exchange for a moment, then turned toward
the keyboard.

"Are you sure about this order, Mr. President?"
he asked, knowing it was a message meant for the Padre. The Padre watched them
without comment.

"Absolutely," the President said.

Harkins hesitated, his fingers poised on the keyboard. He wished
he had more leeway to think it out.

"I can remove you instantly, Harkins," the
President pressed. It seemed unrealistic. Without him, they would have no
access to the computers.

Harkins had hardly finished tapping out the message when
one of the networks announced yet another bulletin with the familiar words
"This just in."

All eyes turned to the television set.

"Police in Amherst have found what appears to be the
body of the twenty-one-year-old daughter of the Syrian President. The woman was
apparently murdered by a burst of fire that has severely mutilated the body.
Beside it police have found her pocketbook, which contained her license—"

"You bastards," the First Lady cried.

Her voice was shrill. When she stood up she toppled the
chair. Harkins saw the object in her hand, a bit of flashing silver. She was
holding a small pistol in firing position. She moved back a few steps, as if
wishing to take in a wider range.

Benjy, who had been closest to her, started to move.

"No," the Padre barked. Benjy stopped in his
tracks.

"Easy, Amy," the President said.

Although there was a slight tremor in her hand, she held
the pistol firmly. Only her eyes betrayed her panic as she fought to keep
herself under control. The men in the room froze, watching her.

"The choices are yours now, Mrs. Bernard," the
Padre said.

"I'm not afraid," she said with effort.

"There's still time," Harkins said. He had not
yet let go of the old assumptions. Perhaps now, with the Syrian's child gone,
Safari would get the message. Odd, he thought, how he could not shut down his
mind in the face of imminent death. He was, surprisingly, unafraid.

"You know it's wrong, Paul. These people are
murderers. How can you deal with them?

"Amy, please. Whatever happens, you have your own
children to think about."

"These people are vermin, Paul."

"There were no clear choices, Amy. Please put that gun
down."

"There were for me."

"Dying is not a choice," the President said.

She looked at the Padre. The panic was draining out of her
eyes. She had obviously assessed her position. She was, very definitely, in
control.

"None of you seem interested in that condition for
yourselves." she mocked, looking at the Padre. "But you're quick to
dispense it for others."

"I told you," the Padre said coolly.
"Everything is in direct relation to the fear of death."

"Then you fear it as much as we do," she said,
her voice stronger but still shaky. "I would say there were hot times
ahead for you."

"Please, Amy."

The President stood up, took a cautious step forward. It
did not deter her from pointing the gun in his direction.

"This is Paul, Amy," he said.

"Then act like Paul."

He stopped. In the long pause that followed, the
commentator's voice seemed to fill the room. He was still talking about the
young Syrian girl. Then the scene shifted to the face of a man. He was the
Syrian President. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. Although her attention,
too, had been deflected to the screen, no one made a move to get to her.

"Was it really necessary?" she asked the Padre.

"The man is knee deep in other people's blood,"
the Padre responded. "He does not deserve your pity."

"And the girl?"

"Sins of the father." The Padre shrugged.
"He does not cry for other people's losses."

"The girl was innocent."

She was becoming agitated again, losing control, waving the
gun.

"Amy. One bullet in the wrong place will blow us all
up."

"Paul," Amy said, the tremor returned to her
voice. "You must resign. We can't have this on our consciences."

"You press that trigger, none of our consciences will
exist," he said.

She was standing with her back to the closed draperies. She
studied each of the men in the room. As she did so she pointed the gun at each
of them in turn, as if making up her mind who should live and who should die.

When the blast came it startled no one. Barely a crackle.
Then another. She continued to empty the magazine into the computer monitor
until it was completely smashed. Then she calmly tossed the gun to the floor,
where it fell with hardly a thud, muffled by the thick oriental carpet.

THEY HAD MOVED ON FOOT in the dusk. Most people had already
locked themselves into their shabby tenements in this part of West Beirut. A
few could be seen sitting on windowsills silently watching the sparse traffic
on the mean streets.

The night was thick with the smell of cooking oil and
sesame. A cacophony of shouting children, the squawk of human anger, plaintive
Arab music mixed with ear-splitting rock 'n' roll filled the air.

One gloomy street looked the same as any other. Maria held
Joey's hand and Ahmed clutched her firmly under the arm. When people
approached, Safari dragged them into an alley or into a doorway.

In the open streets she was more afraid than she had been
in a closed room. Safari had about him an air of desperation that, she sensed,
made him more dangerous, more savage. His grip hurt her arm but she said
nothing, struggling to keep the pace. Only when they moved too fast did she
resist.

"The boy. He can't keep up." He slowed down.

Earlier her mind had tried to contemplate avenues of escape.
She was too tired to imagine them now. She felt like a bit of flotsam on a
choppy river, at the mercy of the flow.

At one point he had stopped at the entrance of an apartment
house. It was a broken-down tenement, but he was apparently familiar with it.
He walked through the entrance. A pay phone hung from a cinder-block wall. He
signaled her with the muzzle of his gun to squat on the floor against the
opposite wall. She obeyed, welcoming the opportunity to rest, giving permission
for Joey to urinate against the wall.

She barely listened as he whispered into the phone in
Arabic. Although she did understand a few words, she could not put them in any
logical context.

When he had finished he banged the receiver down and said
in English, "They will know who they are dealing with now." He glared
at her for a long moment, as if he expected some comment from her. She said
nothing. It was safer, she decided, to be silent.

"You think all this is a pointless exercise?" he
snapped.

Still she would not answer.

"He will negotiate with me directly."

"Who?" she asked timidly, as if it were a line in
a play.

"The President of the United States."

She had been wrong to respond. He spoke between clenched
teeth, his words hissing. "They will have to take notice. He will give me
back my boy without conditions. Only then..." He reached out and roughly
lifted Maria to her feet. She could smell his sour breath. Her eyes could
barely focus. A frightened Joey buried his face in the folds of her galabia.

"I will make him do it," he said angrily. He was
hurting her arm, but she would not acknowledge it.

Finally he dragged them outside the tenement and they
walked a few more blocks. He ducked into another building, pushing her and the
boy ahead of him. He led them through a darkened corridor to a door. Fishing a
key out of his pocket, he opened it.

He flicked on the wall switch and the light revealed a
reasonably comfortable basement studio apartment. There was a double bed, a
television set, a desk on which was a telephone and framed photograph of a dark
boy with sad eyes. To one side was a small Pullman kitchen containing a sink.
Of all the places she had been kept, this one seemed lived in. She suspected it
was his own.

He rummaged in a cupboard and found a bottle of scotch.
Opening it, he took a deep drag, then looked at his watch. Maria and Joey
slowly sank to the floor, their backs against a far wall. They were exhausted.
The end of the line, she thought.

"Your son?" she whispered, tilting her chin
toward the picture on the desk.

His response was to take another deep pull on the bottle.
She looked up into his face. His eyes glared with intensity, his nostrils
quivered.

"Soon," he said. Again he looked at his watch.

Turning, he switched on the television set. Light from the
images on the screen flickered in the darkened room. She turned toward it,
forcing her concentration.

The images seemed garbled, disconnected. Voices speaking
different languages seemed to compete with each other for attention. Did these
words and images concern her? she wondered. The voices spoke of death. The
Saudi prince and the daughter of the Syrian President had been killed. Then a
picture flashed on the screen of the same boy whose photograph rested on the
desk. So it is, she thought. The voices droned on, speaking of anger and death.

Then came news of her father. He still held the President
hostage in the White House. "Daddy, hurry," she whispered, tightening
her hold on the boy.

Suddenly she saw smiling faces. Hostages released. Tears of
joy and reunion.

"Filthy cowards," Safari cried. "Death to
you all." He pointed the gun in the direction of the screen but did not
pull the trigger.

She heard her own name being spoken and saw her picture
again. The commentator spoke in Arabic. She could catch only bits and pieces.
Then her image was gone, replaced by moving pictures of the President and his
wife. They were laughing, holding hands. She heard the commentator mention
Ahmed Safari. Then she saw his photograph.

Finally, she pieced it together. Safari was going to make
the President negotiate for her life. By doing so, the President would admit
his participation, his collusion. Moreover, he would be acknowledging their
existence, their struggle. The commentator was highly biased. He reveled in the
possibility.

Safari had given the President a deadline. If the President
did not consent to this plan, he would kill her. Despite the sudden stab of
fear, she thought only of her son. She crushed him to her. He started to
whimper and she kissed away his tears.

She tried to force her optimism, but the fear continued. No
President had ever agreed to negotiate with any terrorist. Was it possible that
her father's bold act could actually change the unalterable policy of the
United States?

And yet, if he failed to do so, she and her son would die.