We Are Holding the President Hostage (10 page)

Carlotti stood in the center of the circle of waiters, like
a director of a great opera performance. Each was dressed in a black uniform, a
short vest with piping, wing collar, and black tie. He barked last-minute
instructions, went over details that must have seemed elementary to the
professionals among them. Before he had finished, a tall lady in a black
evening dress and a pinched, severe expression intruded. Carlotti's fawning
attested to her rank and he introduced her to the group, giving her title a
resounding fullness.

"This is Miss Hartford, social secretary to the wife
of the President of the United States."

With a look of disdain, her eyes roamed the faces of the
waiters, alighting with obvious distaste on the thick features of the Canary.
Try as he might, he would never look the part.

"It is a privilege to work in this historic house,
home of Presidents," Miss Hartford intoned. "You must remember this
privilege when you do your job. Each must pull his own weight. We ask for the
best that is in you. Impeccable service. We are expecting that your work will
help make this one of the most memorable evenings ever in the history of our
republic."

She nodded, acknowledged the sporadic applause, and swept
out of the room again.

The Padre had listened to the lady with half an ear. Now to
business, he told himself, as he surveyed the room. He saw the method of
exiting—through the pantry, up the stairs to the living quarters. He and his
men were already inside. Timing would be a matter of accessibility.

"Now," someone said, handing him a silver tray of
hors d'oeuvres. He took the tray and followed another waiter into the main
hall. Looking behind him, he could see the Canary carrying another tray loaded
with drinks. The waiters ahead of them stayed well beyond the presidential
receiving line.

Women in gowns and men in black tie snaked in a slow-moving
line extending from the staircase to the right of the main entrance. Each was
introduced to the King and Queen and the President and the First Lady.
Pleasantries were exchanged. The President laughed. The First Lady smiled. The
King bowed and the Queen offered a shy grin.

As the people came off the receiving line, waiters stepped
forward offering drinks and hors d'oeuvres. The guests took them, sipped and
ate, and roamed through the hallway. Some stepped into the Green Room and looked around.

The Padre thrust his tray in front of one man who studied
him briefly with some curiosity. He turned his face away as quickly as was
appropriate. For a moment he felt the man's eyes following him. Then,
miraculously, the man seemed to give it up, turning to engage in conversation
with one of the other guests. The Padre quickly moved to another part of the
crowd.

Carmine moved among the guests dispensing drinks, an odd
grin on his face. He saw Vinnie carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres, looking very
much the professional. Occasionally Carlotti's face would peer from the
entrance of the State Dining Room as he watched the proceedings. When their
eyes met, Carlotti turned away. He noted, too, that there was a circular
pattern to the way in which the Secret Service men watched the President and
observed the guests.

When the last guest had cleared the receiving line, the
President led the Queen through the group to the dining room. The King
followed, the First Lady on his arm. It was all very formal, ritualized. The
waiters brought half-filled trays back to the pantry. Carlotti stood in the
doorway of the pantry watching while each waiter picked up a bottle of uncorked
white wine. The appetizer had already been placed before each guest.

"When?" Benjy asked. He was at the pantry bar
placing an array of bottles for after-dinner drinks on a silver tray. Carlotti
suddenly raised his hand, a signal for the waiters to march into the dining
room to begin pouring the white wine.

As the Padre passed him, he could see the repressed panic
in Carlotti's eyes. The Padre shrugged and offered a half-smile of reassurance.
It did not appear to give the man any comfort.

In the dining room, the Padre surveyed the scene. The
Secret Service men maintained their circular vigil. They were adept at fading
into the woodwork. The President and the First Lady chattered with their dinner
partners. The hum of voices rose and fell in rhythmic patterns. In his mind,
the Padre worked out the final method of exit. He would proceed along the
mantel wall to the swinging door of the pantry. The First Lady would have to be
led forward from her seat, following in the President's wake.

Inside the entrance to the pantry, they would lock arms
with the President and the First Lady and proceed up the stairs to the living
quarters. Of course the Secret Service men could not be expected to sit idly
by. They would be figuring out countermeasures, talking to each other on their
little microphones. Maybe they had a secret plan for coping with this eventuality.

The Padre moved to the dining room with the others and
poured the wine, proud of his steady hand. He went around the table to which he
was assigned, knowing he was under the watchful gaze of at least one Secret
Service agent, the man to the right of the mantel, who stood, hawk-eyed and
alert, hands folded behind him. Peripherally, he saw the President. He was
smiling and telling what seemed like a funny story to the Queen. He heard the
Queen's appreciative giggle. Vinnie was serving another table at the north side
of the room. The Padre could not see Carmine, who was working in the Red Room.

He finished pouring the wine and started back toward the
pantry. At that moment the Padre heard a crash. Not loud, but uncommon enough
to attract attention. There was a moment of silence. He could feel the sudden
tension in the room. The Secret Service men standing at either end of the
mantel took a few steps forward, closing ranks behind the President. After a
second or two, the hum of voices began again.

Back in the pantry, the Padre saw Carmine enter. He looked
crestfallen as he carried the remains of broken glasses on a tray. Behind him,
he caught a glimpse of Miss Hartford, her face grim. She strode toward
Carlotti, who was supervising the final details of the entrée, making sure the
food was arranged perfectly on each plate. Although she did not speak loudly,
her voice carried to where the Padre stood.

"Get that clod out of here," she said. The Padre
turned. His eyes met Carlotti's. He moved his head, just enough for Carlotti to
note his negative reaction. The color drained from Carlotti's face.

"He's a good man," Carlotti protested in a
whisper.

"I will not leave here until that man is removed from
this place," Miss Hartford said.

"I swear—" Carlotti said.

"Now."

She was livid with anger. Carmine seemed helpless. His
knowledge of women was as inadequate as his knowledge of serving. His hands
hung at his sides; his large head hung down over his shoulders. His hangdog
eyes sought out those of the Padre. Easy, Carmine, the Padre's gaze told him.
Without the Padre to hold him back, he could be capable of a sudden violent
eruption. At that moment a Secret Service man came into the pantry.

"Who is this clown?" he asked Carlotti.

"One of my waiters," Carlotti responded weakly.
His skin was the color of alabaster. The man looked at the Canary.

"You'd think it was his first job." He turned
toward Carlotti. "Is this man experienced?"

Carlotti was sweating, his complexion yellowing.

"He has home problems. His wife. Very very sick. His
mind is not on this job." He turned to Miss Hartford. "I'm
sorry."

"I want this man out of here immediately," Miss
Hartford said, showing all her meanness.

"What's your name?" the Secret Service man asked.
The Padre wondered whether he would remember the fictitious name on his ID.
Circumstances dictated. The time was now. He moved his head toward Vinnie and
Benjy. The three of them grabbed bottles of the red wine. He waited until
Vinnie and Benjy had come within striking distance of the President and his
wife. Then he moved.

As he passed the Secret Service man, the Padre put his hand
in his pocket, pulled out the little note, and tapped the man on the arm.

"You dropped this," he said as he passed. The
Secret Service man took the paper. It was a reflex action. Before he moved back
into the State Dining Room, he paused a moment to be certain that the man had
begun to read. The Padre knew the words by heart.

To the Honorable Secret Service. Please
read every word. We are carrying liquid explosives on our person. They can be
detonated on impact. There are four of us. If you interfere with our plans in
any way, we will detonate the explosives. This will surely kill the President
and the First Lady. It will also kill us. We are not afraid to die.

WE ARE HOLDING THE PRESIDENT HOSTAGE.

In the dining room, the buzz of conversation had settled
into normalcy. People were eating and drinking.

The Padre moved toward the President's table. Benjy was
already there. Vinnie stood behind the First Lady. The two Secret Service men
behind the President moved forward, then stopped suddenly. They were listening
intently through their earpieces, watching the three men. Each, as if on
signal, began to pour the wine, moving, but maintaining the required lethal
proximity to the President and the First Lady.

As he poured, the Padre looked up. He stared at one of the
Secret Service agents posted in front of the mantel and motioned with his
bottle toward the President. The man hesitated, listened, spoke into his
microphone, then whispered something into the President's ear. Bewildered, the
President, fork in midair, looked up, meeting the Padre's gaze. The Padre
nodded, then looked toward Vinnie, who stood near another Secret Service man,
who now leaned over the First Lady.

"Will you excuse me," the Padre heard her say,
moving toward the President as he rose from the table. Benjy, too, came
forward. The First Lady walked past the President's table to the wall with the
mantel, with Vinnie close behind her. Carmine, too, now materialized. They
moved in a tight knot toward the pantry. The dining guests continued their
conversational din, although it seemed to subside as the party moved the short
distance to the north end of the room.

As they reached the pantry door, Benjy moved quickly, the
Padre behind him, locking arms with the President. The maneuver was replicated
with the First Lady by Vinnie and Carmine, who had somehow escaped further
notice. But as the pantry door swung back, they quickly changed position, arms
entwined, forming a tight circle, with their backs to the President and his
wife, who were trapped in the center. The Padre led the pack as a kind of point
man, with Carmine and Vinnie facing the rear, moving backward.

Around this moving circle the Secret Service men formed
another circle, Uzis drawn, muzzles pointed directly at the foreheads of the
four men. Additional men stood beyond the circle, all with weapons drawn. In
seconds they had completely cleared the pantry of the serving personnel.

They seemed to be in a soundless vacuum. The Padre had
visualized this moment, but the silence was much more than he had expected.
Even the din in the other room had fully subsided.

"There is no place to go," a man's voice said. He
was standing unarmed, just outside the rim of the circle made by the Secret
Service men. He was tall and authoritative and did not wear a tuxedo. The man
in charge, the Padre thought. Along the length of the rear of his body he felt
the bodies of the President and his wife. They felt like a clot of flesh, nailed
together. The Padre sucked in his breath, eyes narrowing as he studied the
faces around him. He felt the cold steel of the Uzi's muzzle against his
forehead.

He would wait, he decided. Perfect timing was required. The
hot flame of passion must dissipate.

"Now if you would just slowly release your arms and
walk forward, no one will get hurt," the man said. Obviously he was
carefully trained for such an event, his voice steady, almost friendly.

"What we will do now," the Padre said, ignoring
the man's instruction, "is to walk forward as a group. You must please
keep your distance. Our wish, too, is that no one gets hurt."

The Padre heard his own voice. It was cool and steady,
exactly the right tone. He was concerned that a tremor might indicate that he was,
in some way, concerned for his own life. At all costs, they must believe that
he did not fear death.

"But we can't let you do that, you see," the man
said with deliberate politeness.

"I am very sorry but you have no choice in this
matter," the Padre said with equal politeness. "I thought the note
explained about the liquid explosives. They will go off at the slightest
impact." He looked around him. "The explosives will blow up this
entire room and everyone in it."

"That fellow, the big one," the man in charge
said. "We know he's not carrying explosives."

"Mr. President," the Padre said.

He felt a slight movement and heard a muffled voice behind
him.

"Yes."

"With respect, Mr. President. Please feel along my
chest and down my sides. But very gently. This material is not as stable as I
would wish."

He felt the President moving his hands along his chest and
down his sides, probing.

"I take your word for it," the President said.
The Padre felt his breath whiz past his left ear.

"We don't doubt you, Mr.... "the man in charge
said. "What did you say your name was?"

"I think we are wasting time here," the Padre
said gently. "We do not wish to tire the First Lady."

"Don't worry about me," the First Lady snapped
behind him. A fighter, the Padre thought, surprised that his lips could curl in
a tight smile at this moment.