We Are Holding the President Hostage (26 page)

THEY SAT AROUND the table cluttered with the remains of the
computer monitor. The President's wife, her energies spent, brooded with bowed
head as she sat. The Padre had no stomach to punish her. Besides, his
concentration was elsewhere.

He glanced at the clock on the buffet and, as before,
checked it against his own watch. The message of the Saudi and Syrian
youngsters had its work. Angelo was crafty and clever. An image of him loomed
in his mind. The pale face and sliver of black mustache. His face would be
offering a rare smile. Once again he had shown his talent as an impresario.

Of all his men, the little Pencil and he were the most
simpatico. He had achieved everything, including the transmission of his own
private signals to the Padre. It had been a brilliant idea to change the
signature of death. In his mind, the Padre embraced him.

They still had the sick Arab youngster as a bargaining
chip. For their cooperation the Sicilian boys would demand their pound of
flesh. They were entitled. Angelo would have made whatever deals were
necessary. The crucial question now: Would the Arab's feelings of fatherhood
prevail? He did not like to be at the mercy of another man's private sense of
ritual.

If the Arab hurt Maria in any way, then his own boy would
die. Indeed, he contemplated ordering the boy killed whatever the deal, as a
message to others. And if his grandson were killed—again he faltered at
imagining such a fate for this child—then, as he had promised, the President
and his wife would be blown up. Himself included. The others as well. They,
too, had given their word.

Suddenly their attention was arrested by the television.
They watched as the commentator looked at the bulletin before him. "A
Beirut newspaper has reported it has just received a telephone call from the
man still holding Maria and Joseph Michaels." The Padre sucked in a deep
breath. Everyone in the room was instantly alert.

The commentator continued, "This man, Ahmed Safari,
has indicated that he will adhere to the deadline previously given if his son
is not immediately released unharmed. He has, however, agreed to negotiate that
deadline, providing this negotiation is carried out directly with the President
of the United States. Further, the President must be visible on television
during the negotiation."

There it was, the ritual. The Padre took no satisfaction in
his own prediction, although he saw it as a hopeful sign. It will seal the
bargain, he thought. Harkins, too, let out an unmistakable sigh of relief.

"I told you. All bluff. All we have to do is figure
out the mechanics of it. That's merely a technical detail." He looked at
his watch.

The Padre distrusted Harkins' self-congratulatory note. He
did not traffic in victories, only in necessities. He dared not allow himself
to think that his daughter and grandson's freedom was imminent. He looked
toward the President and, for some reason, did not find the assurance he
needed.

"Shall I get cracking?" Harkins asked. "One
phone call will do it. We'll need a minicam sent up and we can easily clear the
satellite time. Our net will pick up the call and switch it right into that
phone."

"Not yet," the President said.

"All the man wants is this last show," Harkins
said. "They don't like to walk away when they have everybody's attention.
He'll capitulate. No question about it."

"I have conditions," the President said calmly.
The Padre saw his eyes. There was no mistaking his resolve.

"You must untie me and remove the liquid explosives
from this room," the President said after a brief pause.

The Padre looked at the clock and nodded at his men. As
one, they began to unbutton their clothes as they left the room.

"At least let me send for the minicam and make
arrangements," Harkins pleaded.

The President ignored him. He looked directly into the
Padre's eyes.

"You as well," the President said.

There was a long silence between them.

"I am sorry, Mr. President. I cannot do that."

"You've come all this way..." the President
began. "If I don't answer that phone, he will kill your daughter."

"If you don't answer that phone, none of us will live,
Mr. President," the Padre said. The President looked toward his wife. For
the Padre it was impossible to know what passed between them.

"All right," the President said, turning to
Harkins.

Harkins spoke hurriedly into the phone. In a matter of
minutes the minicam was at the door of the sitting room. Harkins brought it
into the dining room. He plugged it in and focused the lens on the President.
The President sat at the head of the table in front of the console.

The men had filed back into the dining room and stood near
the doorway. The Padre moved closer to the President, just out of range of the
camera. They had shut off the television monitor.

For the first time since they had come into this room, there
was complete silence. The Padre continued to watch the President. In a moment
the President would be beyond his control. If the President betrayed him, the
Padre vowed to himself, he would act.

At precisely the time arranged, a single blinking light went
on in the console. The President hesitated, waited. The Padre watched him.
Their eyes met. The President nodded. A red light began to blink below the lens
of the minicam.

"Is this the President of the United States?" a
voice said over the speaker-phone.

"It is," the President said. He lifted his eyes
and looked around the room. One hand slipped into his pocket.

The President, his voice calm and firm, began, "Under
no circumstances, whatever the consequences, will the President of the United
States ever negotiate with terrorists."

Then an arm shot out toward the Padre. He saw it coming,
tried to deflect it. He was surprised it made no impact, no sound.

His body felt suddenly moist. Instead of moving toward the
President, he forced himself to rise, then ran toward the wall, hitting it
directly with the full impact of his body.

He fell to the floor, stunned, fighting for breath.
Suddenly he heard a vaguely familiar sound, a staccato thudding. Despite the
filter of distance, and the muffling effect of the speaker-phone, he recognized
it. Machine guns. My Maria, he cried within himself. A sob bubbled up from his
chest.

HE HAD TIED THEM BOTH to pipes in the Pullman kitchen.
Thankfully, he did not blindfold them. Maria suspected what he had meant by
that. He could not resist having them watch his performance. The television set
was on. A commentator was making remarks in Arabic. From his tone, she knew he
was preparing his audience for something momentous.

Yet there was an air of uncertainty in the commentator's voice,
as if he, too, were not completely convinced that the President had agreed to
this so-called negotiation.

In her heart, as an American, she hoped he wouldn't. If
Ahmed Safari got away with it, others would follow. She rebuked herself for
having such thoughts. Above all, she wanted to live, although she felt fully
prepared to die. After all, she told herself, one died only once.

But the sense of bravado was quickly drowned by a wave of
uncontrollable panic. By straining at her bonds, she was able to touch Joey's
shoulder with her hip.

"Don't be afraid, sweets," she whispered. But her
fear for him was overwhelming, palpable. My baby, she cried to herself. You
mustn't hurt my baby. Please Daddy. Save Joey. "Please," she said
aloud.

"Quiet," Ahmed said urgently. Looking toward
them, he pointed his gun. "Not a word. You understand."

She nodded, swallowing hard to keep down the back-wash of
salt tears. She was helpless, beyond despair, at the outer limits of hysteria.
She pressed against her son, feeling the bonds cut into her wrists, ignoring
the pain.

Safari picked up the phone. He held the instrument
delicately, reverently. This was going to be his moment. Slowly, he put the
instrument against his ear. As he waited, he turned toward her again and
smiled. Look at me, his smile said. I have done it. She tried to close her
eyes, but the effort eluded her. She was paralyzed, her body inert.

"Yes, it is I, Ahmed Safari. You say the connection is
going through."

He glanced toward her again, smug, contemptuous, his eyes
glistening with malevolent pride. She watched as he wet his lips and began to
speak into the phone. Her eyes jumped to the television screen. She saw
President Bernard. He was sitting at a table, a telephone console in front of
him. He had not yet picked up the phone. She wondered, where is my father?

Apparently the connection had been made, but the President
was refusing to pick up the telephone. Please, she begged him. She wanted to
scream out her encouragement. She whipped her head from side to side in
frustration.

"You must," she screamed.

He covered the receiver with the palm of the same hand in
which he held the gun.

"I'll kill you now," he said.

"No," she whispered, straining to press against
her son. "It's all right," she told Joey.

Safari turned away to watch the television. Still the
President held back.

"His choice." Safari glanced toward her. His skin
glistened with sweat. Again he pointed the gun directly at her. Its shaking
belied his attempt to appear calm.

Then she saw the President reach out to grab at the phone.
Her heart leapt with relief.

"Is this the President of the United States?" It
was Safari's voice, unfamiliar in tone. She heard its echo on television. Then
other words which seemed garbled, confused. She forced herself to concentrate,
her eyes darting from the television set to Ahmed. She heard the President's
voice.

"Under no circumstances," he began. Her
comprehension seemed to dissolve. From somewhere deep inside herself she heard
her cry of pain, as she struggled hopelessly against her bonds.

"You..." It was Safari's voice filing the room as
his eyes sought hers. His stare was cruel as he leveled the muzzle of the gun
directly at her forehead. Her own scream was drowned in the sounds of heavy
footsteps and smashing wood. Then she saw bursts of flame and heard
ear-splitting thumps of sound, like a hundred hammers at work simultaneously.

Is this how death comes? she wondered, on the cusp of sound
and fury. Then she saw Safari jump in his chair like a puppet operated by a
nervous hand. It took a moment for her to comprehend the situation. Safari
slumped in his chair like a piece of bloody discarded meat. But her own fear
for herself and her son made it impossible to dwell on Safari's fate. The men
had turned their guns on her and Joey. There was no mistaking the intention in
their eyes. She fought the urge to close her eyes.

The men were hesitating, looking toward another man who
apparently was their leader. He barked at them in words she did not understand.
He held up his hand, then concentrated on what was happening on the television.
The men stood frozen in their poses, their guns continuing to point at her and
Joey.

On the screen, she saw a close-up of her father's face. He
looked old, defeated. The camera seemed to mock him, emphasize his frustration.

Suddenly, for a reason she could not immediately
understand, her father flung himself against a wall, then slumped to the floor.
She had closed her eyes briefly, expecting an explosion, or at the least a
burst of gunfire. None came. The camera sought him out. He lay on the floor.
His eyes were closed.

The leader, who had observed this event, picked up the
telephone, which dangled by its cord over the desk.

"I bring you greetings from the Soviet Union,"
the man said in accented English. He barked another order to his men. Slowly,
they lowered their guns.

ROBERT HAD JUMPED from his chair screaming with joy. He
embraced Mrs. Santorelli, hugged her, kissed her on her fat jowls.

"Thank God, thank God," he cried. Tears of joy
streamed down his cheeks.

"We celebrate with my special pasta, yes?"

"Anything, Mrs. Santorelli."

Soon he would have them both in his arms. What did anything
matter but that?

The Pencil stood to one side, impassively watching the
monitor.

"Only a razor would have done it," he said,
following the commentators' speculation of what had occurred. Apparently the
authorities had crashed into the living quarters. Everyone had been taken away.
As Robert's excitement cooled he joined the Pencil to watch the various live
interviews.

Rocco, the Talker, came into the apartment and stood beside
them.

"It is a propaganda field day for the Russians, of
course," Ned Foreman, the President's National Security Advisor, was
saying. "But then they deserve it. They saved the President's life.
Perhaps we have here a new beginning on the road to world peace. Maybe, by a
strange twist of fate, we have even broken the back of terrorism."

"Bullshit," Rocco sneered. "It is the Padre
who made it possible." It was the longest sentence Robert had ever heard
him utter.

Suddenly a wave of sadness washed over him. What would
happen to his father-in-law now and the loyal men who accompanied him? How
could he ever thank him? And yet, despite his happiness, something nagged at
him. Surely the murders of the Saudi prince and the daughter of the Syrian
President could not be excused.

Despite the happy outcome, he could not shake off the
conflict in his heart and mind. After all, the freedom of Maria and Joey was
paid for with their blood. Nor could he excuse himself. Hadn't he, in the end,
stood on the sidelines and cheered them on? He looked at the Pencil.

"And the Arab boy?" Robert asked.

"He will go home to his mother. I have already made
the arrangements," the Pencil said impassively.

"I feel very bad about the other two, Angelo,"
Robert said, compelled to express the thought.

"They will be going back to school."

Robert's heart lurched.

"They're alive?"

"We do not kill children for any government,"
Rocco said.

"Unfortunately, young people drive too fast," the
Pencil said. He did not crack a smile. "It was no trouble finding
bodies."