We Are Holding the President Hostage (15 page)

The President looked at him for a moment, then smiled.
"How am I supposed to conduct Cabinet meetings?"

"On the telephone."

"And you expect me to conduct foreign policy tied to
this man?" He looked at Vinnie with disdain.

"What would you do if you had a cold, Mr. President?
Perhaps a little fever. The doctor would ask that you stay in bed. Nothing
more. No Twenty-fifth Amendment."

"I don't understand any of this," the President
said, shaking his head. "Is this in the context of a suggestion?"

"I am simply asking if you think it is possible,"
the Padre said.

One-track mind, Harkins thought. He simply edits out what
is not relevant.

"I wouldn't consent to it in any event," the
President said.

The Padre nodded to Benjy, who rose suddenly. The First
Lady, feeling the tug around her waist, rose in tandem. She turned pale.

"Where are you going?" the President asked.

The younger man started to move toward the entrance of the
dining room. The First Lady looked toward her husband.

"I'm not afraid," she said, her voice tremulous
under the pose of defiance.

"I demand..." the President began, standing up
suddenly. His attached companion did the same. The cord stretched. Aware of the
pressure, the President buckled slightly, his fingers held stiffly against the
table, his back slightly arched. He was not a foolish man, but he was having a
difficult time dealing with his frustration. Finally, after a long moment, he
sat down. A politician, Harkins knew, was, above all, a practitioner of the
possible. There was no point in calling the Padre's bluff.

"Just leave her alone," the President said.

Again, the Padre nodded and the younger man led the First
Lady back to the dining-room table.

"Cold-blooded bastards," Amy said. The color had
come back to her cheeks. Nevertheless, Harkins saw, the gesture had made its
point.

"May I repeat the question?" the Padre asked when
they had settled down. His voice was steady, calm.

The President sucked in a deep breath. It was now obvious
that few choices were open to him. Bravado was futile. Courage was merely a
word.

"I doubt it," the President said. "It's
never been tried. A President operating under these conditions. Push comes to
shove, they'd throw it into Congress."

"And in the meantime you would be able to act?"
the Padre asked. "All you have to do is to tell them that you are capable
of carrying out your duties?"

"Telling isn't doing," the President muttered,
looking at Harkins with eyes hard as agates.

By then Harkins had had time to consider possibilities.
Like himself, the Padre was a man of plans. This one had taken a detour, but
the premise still existed, and it was the premise that the Padre was fighting
for. Harkins, too, fully understood that premise. Wild, yes. But there was a
bizarre logic to it. More important, it heralded the arrival of Harkins'
long-sought moment. Again, he cautioned himself.

"He wants you to remain in office," Harkins said
into the silence that followed. He hoped he had mustered the appropriate
skepticism. Harkins paused. He looked at the Padre. Their eyes locked for a
moment, acknowledging an alliance.

Harkins' mind raced as he compressed reflection. The idea
was the concoction of a totally amoral man. Harkins could empathize with that.
He must be careful, he warned himself, to maintain his neutrality. At some
point there would be an accounting. Above all, he must come out of this
situation unscathed, celebrated.

"What he's doing is giving us an opportunity."

"What opportunity?" the President asked.

"To act in the only way possible," Harkins said.

"Your way."

"The only way."

"Which I certainly won't agree with," the
President said.

"Maybe."

"Maybe? What the hell does that mean?"

"Taking you hostage waives the rules. You now have
permission to proceed without restraints." He hoped he was getting the
idea across. He shot a glance at the Padre's eyes. He could detect approval
there.

"Permission?"

"In a manner of speaking," Harkins said.

"How would it guarantee the safe return of his
daughter and grandson?" the President asked. From protest to debate,
Harkins thought with some satisfaction.

"I understand the mentality of these people," the
Padre said. It was his way of signaling agreement with Harkins' analysis.

"I was doing my damndest to get them back. All of
them." The President glared at the Padre. "Apparently you had no
faith in the way I've been going about this?"

The President looked at Amy. Her nostrils quivered with
anger.

"I have considerable experience in these
matters," the Padre continued.

"I'll bet you do."

"I am not offering you any choices, Mr.
President," the Padre said calmly.

"All you want me to do is put the madmen in charge of
the madhouse."

"In a way, Mr. President, the insane are already in
charge," Harkins said. He wondered if the right moment had arrived for him
to commit himself.

"What the hell is going on here?" the President
asked. His face flushed as he fought to keep himself under control. "Are
you in on this, Jack? Is this one of your spook tricks?"

"Ashamed to say, I don't think I would have the
imagination, Mr. President," Harkins said, knowing he was treading on
dangerous ground.

Again Harkins and the Padre exchanged glances. The Padre
nodded.

"The CIA meets the Mafia. Perfect marriage," the
President snickered.

"An odd couple, I'll admit," Harkins said.
"But look at the opportunity." Harkins paused. Why didn't the
President grasp the logic of it? "The fact is that we are in a bind over
the hostages. Nothing has worked. We're caught between a rock and a hard place.
He may not realize it, but he's giving us an out. Now we can throw inhibitions
to the winds. I'm not sure he has the answers. But I am sure of one thing. For
whatever reasons, we don't."

"Blame it all on him," the President said.
"The devil made me do it." He turned toward the Padre. "Offense
intended."

The Padre showed no reaction. He didn't have to. Harkins
knew he had permission to carry the ball. He pressed forward.

"He's taken this risk because he believes he has the
answers. All right. What's to lose if we try it his way?" He raised his
palms. "I'm not saying I know what he's up to. It's obvious he wants to
use our covert operation. It's all set up, ready to go. I'm only saying that
you can do things because he's got you under the gun that you might not be
doing if he wasn't here. You don't have to worry about our so-called allies
second-guessing you. As long as you retain your authority, you can use your
power."

The President crossed his arms over his chest. Protection
or defiance, Harkins wondered. He wasn't sure which.

"Suppose it doesn't work, even if I follow your
instructions and it doesn't get your daughter and grandson back safely. We're
dealing with ruthless bastards. They could kill them without batting an eye.
Then what?"

"That is thinking too far ahead," the Padre said.

"And if I don't go along in the first place?"

"I told you, Mr. President. I did not offer you a choice."

"You'd actually blow us up?" the President asked,
looking at his wife, who had gone pale again. "Yourself as well."

"I am a man of my word," the Padre whispered.

The President looked at his fingers, obviously
contemplating his options.

"Even if I resign?"

"I have tried to be reasonable," the Padre said.

"But they will act. My situation is obvious."

"Then they should realize this."

The fact was, Harkins saw, there were no options.
Compromise was not in the man's vocabulary.

"Without veto power on your suggestions, how can I be
a President?" the President asked.

"I am a man who always welcomes suggestions," the
Padre said.

"Can't ask for anything more than that," Amy said
sarcastically. They paid no attention to her outburst. "Macho men,"
she said with contempt

Harkins' mind was already heading in other directions. He
was excited. He knew he was absolutely central to any idea the Padre might
have. Finally, he would be able to fully utilize the full power of the CIA
machinery.

The President bit his lip and tapped his fingers on the
table.

"Suppose they don't let me continue in office?"
he asked.

"You must convince them."

"A man goes to these lengths..." Harkins began.

"No need to explain, Mr. Interlocutor," the
President said to Harkins.

After a long pause, he turned to the Padre. "Can you
put the plug in this way or do I have to bend over?"

ROBERT MICHAELS SAT in the misty pungency of Mrs.
Santorelli's kitchen watching the portly woman stir pasta sauce with a wooden
spoon. She shuffled around in worn slippers, offering benign smiles when she
looked at him, winking at him as she tasted the sauce from her wooden spoon.

Because of the heat, he had stripped down to his T-shirt.
Yet he had chosen to sit in the kitchen rather than the cooler living room
because he did not want to be alone. Not that he and Mrs. Santorelli had much
to say to each other. Her frame of reference was only that of her dead husband,
the sainted Giovanni, and almost no sentence escaped her mouth without a
reference to what her Giovanni used to say.

When he was not watching Mrs. Santorelli's movements in
front of her old-fashioned gas range, his eyes drifted to the black and white
television set on her Formica kitchen table. From where he sat, he could also
see Angelo, the Pencil, sitting at the dining-room table speaking softly into
the black telephone. The heat did not faze him. In fact, little fazed him. He
seemed to be a man wearing blinders, his eyes wandering only as far as his
little notes, which he consulted periodically, after which he dialed a number
and whispered into the phone.

Agitation and frustration had given way to helplessness. He
felt childlike, half-made, ravaged by the triple demons of guilt, uncertainty,
and depression.

"Not to worry," Angelo had assured him.

It was only when he heard the first announcement on
television that the enormity of the act blasted into his consciousness. To hear
it in this manner, stark and blatant, shattered his hopes.

"Madness," he said aloud. Angelo had looked at
him and frowned. It was a conclusion he had not allowed himself to make during
the planning stages. Salvatore had made it seem so simple, so logical. We will
take the President hostage and not give him up until Maria and Joey are
released. An eye for an eye.

Now he blamed himself for encouraging it to happen. Not
that he could have stopped the vaunted Padre from doing anything.

"They will surely kill them now," he sighed. By
then, Angelo merely ignored him. Robert knew why. There was no role for a
Cassandra in the organization. Not now or ever. They were simply geared to
believe that they could perform the impossible.

Mrs. Santorelli began to slap meat into meatballs, clapping
her hands around the little globs of beef as if she were cheering the tenor in
some Verdi opera. It was such an incongruous sight, he could not, despite his
gloom, keep himself from smiling.

At that moment Rocco burst in the door. He was out of
breath, sweating from walking two flights. He grunted in Robert's direction,
passing him to where Angelo was sitting in the dining room. Robert listened as
the men spoke in low tones.

"The Pole," Rocco, the Talker, said.

"Again," Angelo said. "We trashed his
trucks."

"He still makes trouble."

"It was not enough of a message," the Pencil
said.

"No."

"Not a warning this time," the Pencil said.
"He has made his bed."

The Talker nodded. The Pencil made a note.

"Something to do with Salvatore?" Robert asked.
He knew better, but needed to ask the question.

"Just business," the Pencil said. The Talker
grunted.

"You're going to have a man killed, aren't you?"

They both looked at him, ignoring his question.

"Considering what we're involved with now—"
Robert pointed to the television set "—how can you, it boggles the
mind."

"It is business, Robert," Rocco said in a
gravelly voice.

"It is the Padre's orders," the Pencil said,
"to conduct business."

Robert did not expect an answer. He felt imprisoned in a
value system that he could never really understand.

Rocco moved into the kitchen. Mrs. Santorelli looked up and
nodded a greeting.

"You want some, Rocco?" she asked.

"Later," he said. His expression was dark and
gloomy. For a moment he looked at the television set.

"It was a stupid idea," Robert said testily.

Rocco glowered at the television, then left.

Luigi came into the apartment without knocking. He looked
agitated. His face was red and he, too, was sweating.

"They know. The FBI is everywhere, even in the
restaurant."

"Did you think it would be a secret?" Robert said
sarcastically.

"But the Padre is inside the White House," Luigi
said, after he had cooled down. "Right in the bonanz. You'll see, they
will succeed." He looked at Robert, then bent over and patted his hand.
"Your Maria and Joey will be coming home soon."

"Blind faith," Robert said. Inside himself, he
was churning. Did he feel pride in his father-in-law's incredible achievement?
It was awesome, beyond madness.

Mrs. Santorelli slid the meatballs from a wooden board into
a pot of boiling water. Something in the act panicked him, as if she were
throwing bits of Maria and Joey into the pot. He imagined their pain and felt
it himself.

"Those people are animals," Luigi said, watching
the television screen. They saw images of the dead after a recent airport
terrorist attack.

Mrs. Santorelli muttered something in Italian.

"What did she say?" Robert asked Luigi.

"'Without a heart, they will lose every time.' An old
Italian saying."

Considering what he had heard earlier, he did not savor the
irony.

"We are all flesh and blood," he whispered. It
was then that the idea occurred to him. With the all-seeing media eye focused
on the issue of hostage-taking, perhaps the time had come for another bold
step. He would get on television. Surely he would be a commodity of news value,
the son-in-law of the man who held the President hostage. He would make an
appeal, let the world see a husband and father's anguish. Appeal to the
hostage-takers, to his father-in-law, to the world. He would certainly have
their attention.

Suddenly his interest was drawn back to the television set.
The commentator was making an announcement: "Another American hostage has
been murdered."

"Oh my God," Robert shouted.

"We have been provided with these tapes, distributed
by the group calling itself the Islamic Jihad," the commentator continued.
"They are not for the squeamish."

Mrs. Santorelli turned from her pots. The Pencil came in
from the living room to watch the television set.

On the screen was a man sitting on a chair in a barren
room, his face bearded, his eyes glazed and fearful. Beside were two smiling
young men waving weapons. Suddenly they leveled their guns and took aim at the
man's body. There was a burst of silent gunfire. The man's body bounced in a
macabre St. Vitus dance. Then, bloody and riddled with bullets, the body
slumped to the floor in a gruesome closeup.

Robert ran to the bathroom, knelt beside the toilet, and
vomited.