Read We Are Holding the President Hostage Online

Authors: Warren Adler

Tags: #Hostages, Mafia, Presidents, Fiction, Political, Thrillers, Suspense, Espionage, Mystery and Detective, General, True Crime, Murder, Serial Killers

We Are Holding the President Hostage (20 page)

BOOK: We Are Holding the President Hostage
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27

TO THE PADRE there was no novelty in defying governmental authority.
It was a solemn duty. His values demanded it. The government represented
repression, rigid conduct, straitjacketed ideas. Governments were created to
force order, to demand adherence to a system of law that inhibited man's
natural state of freedom. Its so-called much-vaunted ethical system favored the
few who manipulated the many. If the system failed the needs of the leadership,
then the leadership had to change the system to meet its needs.

This, to the Padre, was the heart of the government's corruption.
Until now he had never realized how truly corrupt it was. His lifelong
antagonist, the government, had stolen some of the methods of his organization
to further its own corruption.

An entire operation was devoted to this pursuit. They
actually had set up and financed an entity that could deal in murder,
intimidation, theft, and kidnapping. This entity acted under orders from the
President.

Talk about injustice, the Padre thought. Might just as well
have licensed his organization or others like it to do the same job. Wouldn't
have to waste energy fighting the system. He would be able to operate inside
it.

He had thought it would be difficult to coerce the
authorities into following his advice. It turned out to be easier than he had
believed. They were ready. It was like lighting a match to dry tinder.

Harkins sat at one end of the table tapping out
instructions on his keyboard, receiving reports on his monitor. The President
sat at the other end of the table near the telephone console. Occasionally their
eyes would drift toward the images on the television set, which kept them
remarkably informed about events happening outside the White House.

Apparently those officials charged by law to take action in
the event the President was unfit to perform his official duties had accepted
his assertion that he was, in fact, willing and able to govern. They had tested
this assertion all day and he had patiently responded with ideas, orders, and
approvals. The presidency, the Padre had discovered, was a job similar to his
own. Put out fires, settle or compromise disputes, perform rituals, make
decisions, exercise leadership.

He felt remarkably compatible with the President. The man,
after a little tap dance of opposition and disapproval, had an affinity for his
ideas. Despite his protestations, he knew the hidden meaning of power and
manipulation.

But the woman was a problem. He had taken her to apply more
pressure on the President. Now he wasn't so sure it was a good idea. Yet he
would be a fool to release her now.

Women baffled him. He often wondered whether he had ever
truly known his beloved Rosa. Rosa, too, had been reluctant to give his
business her blanket blessing, but she had never resisted him, had understood
her role.

This Harkins was a superb organizer. He had even devised a
way to get confidential information to the Pencil. By hand-delivered message,
no less. He punched out info, then one of their covert operatives passed the
word directly.

All the Pencil needed was names and places. The Saudi's
favorite son was a student at Berkeley, the daughter of the Syrian President a
student at Amherst. The Pencil would know what to do with that kind of
information. Those operations under his control did not worry the Padre. It was
the government that worried him. Above all, they had better not fail in Jordan.
This Safari boy must be taken. He was the key to the operation.

The Padre's eyes drifted toward the television set. He had
lowered the sound. Besides, the images themselves had become too tiresome and
repetitive.

"Our Iranian operation is completed," Harkins
said, looking at the monitor.

"The Libyan?"

"In progress."

"And Jordan?" the Padre asked.

"No word yet."

The President looked up. He had been talking on the
telephone and making notes on a pad. He looked toward the television set, then
returned to his conversation. The Padre had listened to the conversation with
half an ear. The President was talking import quotas with someone. He had heard
the beginning of the conversation. The President had said:

"Pretend all things are normal. Let's just stick to
the issues."

Remarkable, the Padre thought. The man had the kind of
discipline required for the job. The government was functioning. The idea had
begun to take hold. It was all grist for the television mill.

Nevertheless, a task force continued to operate from its
headquarters in the basement of the Executive Office Building. Vice President
Chalmers, as the heir apparent to the presidency, was the man in charge.
Congress had been summoned to return and would soon meet to debate the question
of accession.

The miracles of satellite communication allowed everyone to
have their say. Television had reported the views of the Soviets, the Syrians,
the Israelis, the Libyans, the Egyptians, and on and on.

The foreigners were confused as to why the President had
not been superseded by the Vice President. This situation had been explained
from every conceivable vantage point. The President himself had been pressed to
appear on television, but the Padre had vetoed that idea. He did not yet wish
to relinquish any control he might have over him. He knew that the President's
phone conversations were being recorded, but they were not being publicly
aired.

Harkins' fingers bounced endlessly on the keyboard. He had
assured the Padre that the computer was foolproof. It could not be tapped by
anyone who was not authorized. The CIA had commissioned computer experts to
attempt to infiltrate the covert data base, and these included teenage hackers.
Some had actually broken in, but the method was swiftly analyzed and the system
debugged to prevent it.

Suddenly something flashed across the computer screen that
startled Harkins.

"What?" he cried.

The Padre felt a cold, pinching sensation in his guts. The
President, once again, turned from the conversation and looked at both men.

"What is it?" the President asked.

Harkins looked up at the television screen.

"We always get it first," he said. The pride did
not erase the sense of dread. The Jordan operation, the Padre thought. If that
failed ... ?

At that moment the First Lady, followed by Benjy, came into
the dining room from the pantry.

"A call to a Beirut newspaper. Soon it will be
released to every corner of the world. A demand from our friend Ahmed on behalf
of the Islamic Jihad."

"What is it they want?" the President asked.

"You won't believe this," Harkins said.

"Try me."

"An atomic bomb," Harkins said. He looked toward
the Padre. "In return for the delivery of your daughter and
grandson."

"Quite an idea," the President said.

Of course they would raise the ante. A perfectly logical
expectation, the Padre thought. In an odd way, he was relieved. Although he had
not admitted it to himself, the absence of any reaction from the kidnappers was
cause for worry. Now he could assume that Maria and Joey were still alive.

"Why not?" Harkins said rhetorically.

"It's impossible," the President said.

"They know that, Mr. President," Harkins said.

"Then why demand it?"

"To tell us how much leverage they have." He
turned toward the Padre. "They must have something else up their
sleeves."

The President's wife, who had been uncharacteristically
silent, suddenly spoke:

"He's unleashed the beast, that's what," she said
with disdain. The woman had not been taken into their confidence. If she knew
what was happening, the Padre thought, she would be even more excited.

The Padre signaled with his eyes, and Benjy turned up the
sound on the television set.

"There," Harkins said, looking up at the
television screen. "It's moving now." He looked at his watch.
"Beat the bastards by five," he said. He got up from the chair and
turned up the sound. A correspondent in Beirut was providing the information
that Harkins had just imparted along with various speculations and a picture of
Ahmed Safari.

"Next thing we can expect is an interview with your
daughter and grandson," Amy said. "And now, direct from the cell of
Maria and Joey Michaels—"

"Amy, for crying out loud," the President said.

"They know it's impossible to grant," Harkins
said.

"But it serves their purposes to frighten the hell out
of all of us," the President roared. "And remind us of the ultimate
nightmare, the big bomb in the hands of some crazy." He paused to
concentrate on what the commentator was saying.

"Even the size of the bomb was specified. Something to
knock out a nation of three million people." The commentator's face had
turned ashen.

"What of the Jordan operation?" the Padre asked
calmly.

"It has gone forward," Harkins said. "We
would not get word until the boy is safely in our hands."

"What boy?" the President's wife asked. She
looked at her husband. The President turned to the Padre, who shrugged. Her
reaction is immaterial, he thought. No harm in telling her.

"This man, Ahmed Safari. We are referring to his own
son," the Padre said.

She did not need any further explanation. Her lips
trembled, her nostrils flared. She turned to the President.

"So you've sold out to them," she said.

"Not quite," the President said.

Before she could reply, the commentator was offering
another bulletin. A Saudi prince, grandson of the King, had disappeared from
Berkeley.

"My God," the First Lady exclaimed.

"No one has been harmed," the President began.

"You've authorized kidnapping," she said.

The Padre signaled to Benjy, who grabbed the woman from
behind, lifted her out of the chair, and moved her, kicking and screaming, out
of the room. The President paled and stood up. The tautness of the connecting
cord brought back the reality of his situation.

"If you hurt her..."

"Of course we won't, but we can't deal with a
hysterical woman. Benjy will be careful, I assure you," the Padre said.

The voice of the commentator compelled them to silence
again. He explained that there were no clues to the disappearance of the Saudi
prince. Someone in the apartment complex in which he lived saw three men, but
he wasn't sure.

"We are handling our end. What about yours?" the
Padre pressed.

Harkins tapped away on the keyboard.

"No word yet."

"Perhaps the CIA should take a lesson from the
Mafia," the President said. The color had come back into his face. The
Canary, who had been in the other room, poked his head into the dining room.

"She is in the bedroom," he said. "She is
all right."

"She had better be," the President said, but he
seemed relieved.

The President's telephone lights began to blink. He picked
up the instrument. The Vice President spoke:

"You've got to give it up, Mr. President," he
said. "We've got a worldwide panic on our hands."

"Don't exaggerate, Martin."

"All you have to do is say the word."

"I am governing," the President said. "Stop
letting a bunch of tinhorn terrorists make you crazy."

"Make me crazy? You're the hostage. You realize that
this is a totally irresponsible act on your part."

"Do you think for one moment that I would entertain
such a request?"

"No, I guess not," the Vice President said,
retreating from his earlier belligerence. "But this bomb business is
unsettling."

"It's an absurd demand."

"But if you stepped down, Mr. President. Got out of
the line of fire."

"Then what, Martin?" the President asked
pointedly, letting the question hang ominously in the air.

"This is irrational, there is the country to think
about, the people."

"Stop it, Martin. Nobility does not become you."

There was a long pause.

"And in the meantime, Mr. President, what are we
supposed to do?"

"Hang in there."

"I might if I knew what the hell was going on."

The President hung up.

Harkins continued to tap away at his keyboard, watching the
monitor.

"The boy?" the Padre asked.

"No. But here's something. The Libyan. Right in their
own backyard. In Tripoli. Now you've got to admit, Teheran, then Tripoli,
that's something. That's one helluva coup. Damn, we're good."

He tapped the monitor. Then he looked at the President.
"It's what I kept telling you, Mr. President. We've got the means. We've
got the reach. And we can move these people out of the country."

"Like where?" the President asked.

Harkins smiled.

"The Libyan will be in Morocco in a few hours. The
Iranian in Oman. All set up."

"And they will not be hurt?"

"Those kids will never have it so good. They'll come
out loving the United States."

"And when they get out will they know who did this to
them?"

"Mr. President," Harkins said. "This is a
covert operation. And that's the way it will remain. I've been telling you this
for months. We've got the greatest underused weapon in the world."

A braggart, the Padre thought. Yet there was something
miraculous in the operation. A man directing a vast operation from a computer.

"Louder," the President said, pointing to the
television screen. "What is that man saying?" Benjy turned up the
sound.

"Sonya Rashid, the daughter of the Syrian President,
has disappeared." The commentator's voice was high-pitched with
excitement. His forehead glistened with sweat.

"We have an open line to our Boston
correspondent," the commentator said. "Tell me, Bob, when was Miss
Rashid last seen?"

"Last night," the correspondent said. "She
said she was going out to a movie. She loves the movies. She never came back to
the dorm."

BOOK: We Are Holding the President Hostage
12.53Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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