We Are Holding the President Hostage (9 page)

ABOVE ALL, THE PADRE KNEW, however carefully one planned,
one could always expect an unforeseen problem. Carmine's uniform had presented
a formidable obstacle. It had been intended that the four men would carry the
liquid explosives on their bodies in long plastic flaps. Because of the extreme
sensitivity of the liquid, it could be detonated by impact. They had tested
exactly how hard this impact might be by dropping a tiny bag of it from a
height of six feet. It had exploded with a surprising thunderclap. It could
also be exploded by a sharp blow from a metal hammer.

The Pencil had found the best boom-boom man on the East
Coast, a safecracker who was a fanatic on the subject and who eagerly lectured
them on "the exciting new advances in explosive technology." He was
tall, with long hair. He wore little round glasses and affected what seemed
like a slight lisping British accent.

"It's the latest trend," the man told them.
"In my business, you have to keep up."

"And you are certain it will pass through all known
detectors?" the Padre inquired.

"Like your own skin. But every new idea spawns an
evasive action and the technology to detect it is coming fast. At the moment
it's clear sailing. Me, I prefer the plastic for my line of work. Not as
unstable. But you can't disguise it like the liquid. And some of the new
detectors can pick up the plastic explosives. Then there's the detonators. No
matter how small they are, there is always the risk of detection. But not the
liquid. That's why I will never fly again. Some asshole will carry it on board
disguised as cough syrup or booze."

They had actually sent someone through the airport
detectors to test his assertion and it was confirmed.

"The only problem," the man began, "is
convincing other people that this stuff is really dangerous. Not too many
people know what it can really do. Looks innocent. Like water. But it can do a
nasty job on flesh and bones."

"How much force would be required to set it off?"
the Padre had asked.

"Depends on how the substance is contained," the
boom-boom man said authoritatively. "The less air, the less evaporation.
And, of course, the greater the density, the less impact required."

"What would happen if it were carried in plastic
bags?"

The boom-boom man thought for a moment. According to the
Pencil, he had an uncanny record of cracking safes, although he had spent a
decade of his life in various prisons on two continents.

"Plastic bags?" The man rubbed his chin, and the
Padre studied him as he thought. "Soft?"

"Yes."

The man's eyes narrowed behind his round glasses, although
he tactfully avoided any special study of the Padre's face. He had gotten the
message.

"Like a fall?"

"Depends on how high and how hard. Also on the
surface." The man sucked in a deep breath. "And the density. How
thick?"

"You tell me," the Padre said. It was a command
and the man knew it.

"About as high as the seat of a chair from a standing
position to a hard uncarpeted floor with a two-inch density. Change the
variables and you got a different result." He scratched his head.
"Man wants to make a weapon out of himself, this is it." He looked at
the floor. "Never thought of it like that," he said innocently.
"Thing is, though, if the bag leaks, or is sliced open, you get nothing
but wet pants." He laughed.

The Pencil had paid the man and had urged him to take a
long ocean cruise.

The uniform Carlotti had provided for the Canary was too
small to be worn over the flaps of explosive. By then it was too late for
changes. Carmine would have to go in without it.

Luigi had given them a cram course in basic table service.
It was, of course, less than adequate, since Luigi's knowledge of fancy service
was sparse. It had come mostly from working as a busboy on four crossings of
the old
Queen Mary
.

They had taken turns in being the server and the served.
The Padre had never realized how clumsy he was, how little he had noticed when
other people served him. Luckily, Benjy had some experience in bartending. He
was also the only one who looked presentable in his uniform.

They had driven down from Manhattan and checked into a
motel on the Virginia side of the Potomac, where Carlotti met them. He brought
with him plates, silverware, large serving trays, and implements, even chunks
of food as props for further instruction. Understandably, the man was nervous.
His hands shook when he demonstrated how the food was scooped and served.

The Canary, with his big clumsy fingers, proved the worst.
The Padre and Vinnie were barely passable. For a moment he was almost tempted
to call Robert, who had protested to the last. But the Padre had been adamant.

"We will stay in touch through Angelo," the Padre
had assured him.

But the matter of Carmine's clumsiness nagged at him.

"We'll put him in the Red Room," Carlotti
suggested. He was still fantasizing about his professional standards. The Padre
did not tell him it was highly unlikely that the meal would reach the main
course.

Carlotti informed them they would be serving trays of
drinks and hors d'oeuvres during the cocktail hour while the President and his
party stood on the receiving line. It was, the Padre knew, a crucial time. If
they blew it then, the entire enterprise could fail.

They arrived, as Carlotti had instructed, at the East Gate
of the White House at precisely 6 P.M. along with others among the serving
help, many of whom eyed them curiously.

The Padre had reluctantly shaved and carefully groomed his
hair. He hoped that no one would recognize him. Actually, he had not been
photographed for years, and the only pictures ever taken of him showed him with
a three-day growth of beard and mussed-up hair. Above all, he had taken great
pains never to look like a greaseball. Looking in the mirror now, he felt, for
the first time in his life, that he resembled one. Good, he decided. An
excellent disguise.

"You work this place before?" a man asked the
Padre as they stood on line waiting to get through the first checkpoint, manned
by the White House police.

"First time," the Padre muttered.

"What happened to Harry and Joe?" the man
persisted.

"Other commitments," the Padre answered
patiently.

Carlotti had, a week earlier, given their new social
security numbers to the security people along with the dates of birth of the
cardholders. They were guaranteed numbers with matching IDs, Maryland licenses,
and credit cards. The names were authentic and fresh, of bona fide living men,
all of them clean under scrutiny, guaranteed to pass muster except under the
most scrupulous investigation. Best of all, they were carefully matched.

Later, the men who were being impersonated would be shocked
by the allegation, although they would be cleared as genuinely innocent, which
they were. The organization understood the reliance of investigative agencies
on computers and had adapted to the new technology with a few tricks of their
own. Yet, no matter how advanced the technology, all of it was
people-dependent. And people represented the vulnerable soft underbelly of all
technology. People had flaws, made mistakes, could be compromised.

As they moved forward the man who had asked the questions
frowned and shook his head.

"Just surprised to see so many new faces," he
said.

"A job's a job," the Padre responded. Beads of
sweat had already sprouted on his forehead. The flaps of explosives were heavy
under his uniform.

Benjy was ahead of him on the line. The Padre watched as
the man in uniform looked at his ID, then checked his list on a clipboard and
waved him through. They had memorized their new names and birth dates. The
Padre was pleased. He had no anxiety about the numbers. Providing IDs was a
highly efficient operation of the organization.

Ahead, he could see the frame of the metal detector. It was
manned by three uniformed men, with two others in civilian clothes observing.
From the little buttons in their ears, the Padre could tell that they were
Secret Service.

He came through the first checkpoint without incident and
watched as Benjy moved through the detector. The uniformed men were intense
about their job. They watched the monitor with deep concentration, and the
Secret Service men's eyes seemed to bore through everyone as they passed
through. The Padre could not deny his anxiety. Suppose he was stopped and
searched? The flaps were hanging from a harness that hung from his shoulders
and reached down front and back. He was literally encased in it. Even the most
cursory hand pat would detect them.

It surprised him to move through the detector so easily. He
was also, inexplicably, annoyed. They were supposed to be protecting the
President of the United States, for chrissakes. The uniformed men smiled at him
and he returned the pleasantry. Even the Secret Service men seemed less grim.
He patted his side pocket where he had put the typewritten note. Four copies
had been made. Each man carried one.

Would they be convinced? The Padre hoped so, although he
knew that none of them looked either suicidal or fanatic. He would settle for
determined. Why then would they have put themselves in this position? If the
others were bothered by the prospect, they did not voice any objections. None of
them had families. The organization was their whole life. Loyalty was
fundamental to their character.

After passing through the machine, the Padre lingered in
the corridor, pretending interest in the pictures displayed there, photographs
of earlier days in the White House. From the corner of his eye he watched
Vinnie move through without incident. He was concerned about the Canary. It
hadn't occurred to him, perhaps because he was so used to the man's heavy
features and bulky body, that Carmine was so different-looking, so bovine, so
suspect.

Now he glanced at him as he towered above the others on the
line. The man was slavishly devoted, loyal beyond the shadow of a doubt. He
would fall on a grenade if it endangered the Padre's life. Indeed, the Padre's
well-being and safety were his only reasons for living. It would be unthinkable
to be parted from Carmine. At that moment he wished he had not brought him.

He could tell the Secret Service men were eyeing him with
more than cursory curiosity. He passed through the first checkpoint without
incident, but as he moved through the detector the Padre noted that one of the
Secret Service men nodded. A White House policeman then whispered something to
the Canary. The Padre watched as the policeman and Carmine, who towered above
him, moved aside.

Benjy and Vinnie had already disappeared beyond the corner
of the corridor. They would proceed along the lower hall to the downstairs
kitchen. There they would get their last-minute instructions and move up to the
State Dining Room, where they would set out the beginning course. It would be
waiting for the diners when they arrived.

The Padre moved toward another picture display where he
could get a better view of Carmine and the policeman. He watched as the Canary
unbuttoned his uniform jacket. No way to save him, the Padre thought, until he
realized that the Canary was not carrying any explosives. With clumsy fingers,
Carmine was opening his shirt. He reached through the opening to draw out a
huge St. Christopher medal, which obviously had been picked up by the sensitive
detector. He saw the policeman smile and lift the medal for the Secret Service
man to see. The Secret Service man nodded and turned his gaze back to those men
still coming through the detector.

Then the Padre proceeded along the corridor, waiting for
Carmine to catch up with him.

"It works. He was looking out for me," Carmine
said.

"Who?"

"St. Christopher."

The Padre smiled and patted the Canary's arm.

In the kitchen, Carlotti scurried about giving last-minute
instructions. He was obviously ignoring what had occurred, carrying on as if it
were business as usual.

"You, the new men," he cried imperiously. This
was his turf and he was not going to give the impression that he was under
anyone's domination. The Padre admired his courage. Good, he thought,
confirming his view that Carlotti would not bend until the end. Then he would
surrender completely.

He assigned tables to the men, pointing to a large diagram
on the wall. The Padre would be two tables from the President. Benjy would
remain in the pantry mixing drinks. Vinnie was assigned to the table nearest
the door and Carmine to the comparative Siberia of the Red Room.

Then Carlotti led the serving crew up a staircase, through
the pantry, where he stopped briefly to explain how the food would arrive in
the large serving elevator. He warned them it must be dispensed with
split-second efficiency. After the explanation, the crew filed out to the State
Dining Room.

The Padre was struck first with the profusion of roses—reds,
pinks, yellows. There were two huge vases filled with them on the mantelpiece
below the picture of Abraham Lincoln. In the center of the mantelpiece was
another huge bouquet, which was replicated in a smaller version on each yellow
tablecloth. The candle-shaped bulbs on the large gold-plated chandelier were
lit as well as the sconces that hung between white, fluted bas-relief pillars.
Lights were reflected on every piece of crystal and plate. It was, the Padre
thought, a breathtakingly beautiful sight.

For a brief moment he was mesmerized by it. It seemed so
incongruous with the act he was about to perform. Finally, reality intruded,
coming in the form of a question posed to himself. How was it possible that
such festivity could be going on in the face of his own sadness? In an odd way,
he felt foolish, out of step. Nevertheless, his instinct was confirmed. Nobody
really cared. If tragedy did not strike you or yours, it simply did not exist.