We Are Holding the President Hostage (27 page)

IN THE THIN LIGHT OF DAWN, she saw the birds, flying helter
skelter in their wallpaper cage. She imagined she heard wings flapping and
strange eerie birdsongs.

"I heard your eyes blink," Paul whispered,
reaching out to touch her hair.

"I have to change this wallpaper," she said.
"This place should be an oasis of serenity. It's too noisy."

She laughed and cuddled close, cradling herself against
Paul's shoulder. He felt good to be near and she reveled in the feel and smell
of him. With remarkable efficiency, the staff had put things in order, scrubbed
the place free of any traces of their ordeal.

The hullabaloo still lingered. The aftermath had been a
media feast. He had addressed a joint session of Congress, told the story of
his captivity, cited the evils of terrorism in any form. His bravery and
courage were lauded. The Soviet Union, too, came in for plaudits. People were
saying that their equally heroic gestures brought down the curtain on the cold
war.

"So every cloud has a silver lining," she said.

"Or an Achilles' heel," he replied.

"You're mixing my metaphor."

Her effort to be cute won her a kiss on her head. She
entwined her fingers in his and squeezed. He was silent for a long time. The
light deepened, picking out shapes with greater clarity.

"Suppose they had blown us up? Would it have made any
difference?" Paul whispered. Was this the first hint of what she had been
waiting for? An explanation? Insight? She had not yet unraveled it for herself.

"It would to us," she said. "We'd both be
dead." She wanted to say more, to offer contrition and apologies. She had
been willful, impatient, romantically self-righteous. But it had taken him so
long to get to the integrity part.

"There are times when the shortest distance between
two points is not a straight line," he said. "The son of a bitch took
us as far as we were willing to go."

Maybe even further, she decided. An honored homily bit the
dust. Ends, on occasion, did justify means.

He turned his body and pressed himself against her.

She whispered, "A First Lady isn't even safe in her
own bed anymore."

"HOW MUCH FURTHER, MOMMY?" Joey asked, for the
tenth time in the last half hour.

"A few miles more," Robert replied gently.

"About ten more minutes, sweets," Maria said.

She watched the rolling Pennsylvania countryside pass by.
The brightness of the winter sun made her squint as its beams bounced off icy
patches on the hard, fallow farmlands. The three of them sat up front, Joey between
them, touching. These days they were always touching and embracing. She
squeezed Joey's shoulder and kissed his cheek, then reached over and ruffled
Robert's hair.

Six months ago he might have minded and fussily moved her
hand away. Now he seemed to welcome the attention.

"Strange place for a birthday party," Robert
said.

"Time marches on, even in the penitentiary,"
Maria replied. In front of Joey they used penitentiary instead of prison to
describe his grandfather's residence.

"In thirty years, he'll be exactly one hundred,"
Robert said. "The judge had a sense of humor." He had sentenced the
Padre and the others to from thirty to life. They had all pleaded guilty and
been shipped off to Allenwood, which was only a couple of hours from Princeton
where Robert had resumed his teaching.

"Away from his life in the Village, I just don't know
how he'll take it," Maria said. It worried her deeply.

"Let's face it, Maria. Where he is will be better for
a lot of people."

"I suppose," she mused.

It was a rare remark on his part.

Before sentencing, the Padre and his men had been held in a
maximum-security cell on Riker's Island, less than a mile from the island of
Manhattan. Visits there were severely restricted, but the authorities had
relented for that first day when she and Joey had arrived home by plane. She
hadn't seen him since, although she had talked to him on the phone.

They saw the sign, Allenwood Correctional Facility, and
turned into a well-kept road. At least it was a minimum-security prison and the
signs were clearly visible: manicured lawns, neat buildings, no fences, even a
tennis court in the distance. The decision to send him there had surprised her.
She had, considering who he was, expected worse. His lawyers had hinted about
the influence of a person in a very high position of power. Neither of them had
dared to question what that meant.

They parked the car in the parking lot, where they found
Benjy waiting for them. He shook hands with Robert, kissed Maria's cheek, and
patted Joey's head. She opened the trunk and took out a birthday cake.

"Is he all right?" she asked solemnly.

"You'll see."

"Thirty years is such a long time," she
whispered.

They followed Benjy into a clean airy building, through a
whitewashed corridor, and into a large dining room, currently serving cafeteria
style. Men sat around in groups eating lunch. Some lifted their eyes and looked
at her briefly.

"I don't see him," she said after a cursory look
around the large room.

"He's in there," Benjy said.

They followed him through another doorway to a small, neat
room. There were photographs on the wall depicting scenes from New York and Italy.

He did not see her immediately. Joey and Robert stood
beside her. She had stopped moving and she held them back.

She needed to freeze the moment in her mind. There he sat
at a round table covered with a crisp, checkered table-cloth. On his face was a
two or three-day sprout of beard. He wore a frayed white-on-white shirt with
the collar unbuttoned. Beside him sat Vinnie, the Prune. Benjy took his seat
beside him at the table. He did not look up. He was busy concentrating on
pouring Chianti into their glasses.

At that moment she saw the Canary, his bovine bulk swathed
in an apron as he moved across the room precariously carrying a large platter
of antipasto. The men looked up and watched him. He moved with great care. When
he reached the table with the platter intact, her father patted him on the arm.

"You did good, Carmine," she heard her father
say.

Across the table from the Padre sat little Angelo Petinno,
the Pencil. There were scraps of paper in front of him and a pencil in his
hand.