We Are Holding the President Hostage (4 page)

THE PADRE SAT SLUMPED in his chair in the darkened front
parlor of his house. He had watched the shadows lengthen and disappear along
the much-worn oriental rug, his wife's, Rosa's, favorite. He had changed
nothing in the house since her death, had not removed the family pictures. Not
even those of his sons who had betrayed him. Nothing ever changed the fact of
family. They had died before they had married and their seed had dried out in
their coffins.

"Damn," he muttered, raising his eyes to the
ceiling. He poked a finger into the darkness. "You want an eye for eye.
You got it."

Robert's voice on the telephone was a hammer blow. The
Padre's feet became weights, as if all the blood of his body had drained
downward. He had to lean against the wall for support and, for a brief moment,
he was certain he had fainted, sustained upright only by the fear of showing
weakness to his men.

Despite the whooshing sound in the telephone line, the
Padre heard Robert's words distinctly. His first reaction, he remembered now
with shame, was to direct his wrath at his son-in-law.

"Bastard. I trusted you to take care of them," he
cried. "You take them to this foreign place and then you let this happen.
I cut your heart out...."

Then he had slammed his fist into the wall. Alarmed, Rocco
and Benjy came rushing in from the main dining room.

Luigi ran in from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his
apron. He was waved away by Vinnie, who had, as a misguided gesture of
protection, drawn his Magnum, his face a mass of prunelike wrinkles. The
Canary, imitating his colleague, had also drawn his gun in the face of this
intangible enemy. But the Padre's misplaced anger quickly dissipated.

"Maria told me this did not happen in Egypt," the Padre said, trying desperately to calm himself.

"I know how you feel, Salvatore," Robert said
with a sob in his throat. "I love them. They are my life."

The Padre searched himself for some lever of control. The
pain seeped into his gut. The long training of reacting to crisis forced his
voice to respond. Was it because of me? he thought. The organization? In Egypt? Impossible, he concluded.

"Who are these people?"

"No one knows. They say Islamic Jihad. Someone called
a television station. It's madness. Maria and Joey. They've done nothing."

"They gave no reason?"

"They wanted someone else, an Assistant Secretary of
State. She was waiting for me in front of the museum." His voice faltered.
"They want their people released."

"What people?"

"Their own. Their brothers."

"For Maria and Joey?"

"I know, Salvatore. It makes no sense at all. It has
to do with hating America."

"My Maria." The Padre swallowed hard, keeping the
pain on the inside. "My grandson."

"Oh, Salvatore. I'm so sorry," Robert said.

The Padre held back his own grief.

"What can we do?" he asked hoarsely.

"There are others." Again Robert's voice
faltered. "Some have been killed. Few have been released. Most of them
rot. It's very cruel, Salvatore."

"If they touch one hair on her head," the Padre
said. "If they put one finger on my grandson." Rage smoldered. Then
an idea occurred to him. "We make a deal. Buy her out. Any money they
want."

"I would do that in a minute, Salvatore.
Unfortunately, it's a political thing. Our own government takes the
position..."

Helplessness was besieging the Padre now. He felt his anger
shifting to the old familiar target—governments, authority.

"Our own government. Like a helpless giant." He
could hear the persistent choking in his son-in-law's voice. Then the long,
statical silence as Robert fought for control. His own tears were flowing like
a river of burning oil, inside himself.

"They came to me," Robert continued. "The
ambassador himself. They said they would do everything possible."

"Bullshit," the Padre said. He spat on the floor,
an old-country gesture of his father's. He had not done that for many years.

"I just don't know what to say, Salvatore. I feel so
helpless. I have no idea what to do next."

"Do they know where they are?"

"They say no. We must do something, Salvatore."

"We will think of something, Robert."

"I'll keep calling," Robert said. "Can I
call you at home?"

"You call me anywhere."

"We'll find a way, won't we, Salvatore?"

"If there's a way to get them, we'll get them."

"Please, Salvatore."

His son-in-law's words continued to echo in his ears. He
paid little attention to the darkness descending in the room. The present was
too painful to accept. It was more comforting to deal with memories. They were
filled with both joy and pain. But the real incurable pain was in confronting
the reality of his own loneliness.

Yet all around him loyal people fawned and scraped and
depended upon him. No. It was not the same. What he wanted near him, to touch,
was Maria, his little girl, his grandson, Joey, Rosa, his boys.

Finally he stood up and shook himself like an old dog. When
the knock came, he knew he had recovered, although the aching pain remained
inside him. Mrs. Santos opened the door quietly. Even in the darkness he could
imagine her sour, perpetually frowning dark face. Their relationship was based
on sarcasm, mutual disdain, and absolute fealty to each other's welfare.

"You can't starve, you old goat," she croaked.
Her skin was wrinkled, her body bowed. But her eyes were clear, her look
fierce. Bent and wiry, she was as tough as aged leather.

"Put the light on."

She flicked the switch. Suddenly the room was bathed in
light.

"The boys?" he asked.

She made a movement with her head.

"You bring me food and tell them to come in."

He waited as they filed in, filling the small room. With
the exception of Benjy, they were an aging, gray, bulky-looking group. In this
atmosphere, pushed close together on the couch and chairs, they looked like
overripe fruit that had rolled out of its sack and rearranged itself
helter-skelter in the room.

"We saw it on the television," Vinnie said, his
voice gruff and rasping. "A statement from the President. He said they
better stop pushin' us, that they better release our people. All of them."

"Same old shit," Benjy said. "We should go
in an nuke 'em all. Crazy shits."

"They showed pictures," Angelo said, as always
his pencil and pad at the ready. "Maria and the boy."

He was glad he hadn't seen them. What he needed most now
was to contain his emotions.

"Did they say she was my daughter?" the Padre
asked.

The men looked at each other, as if they were not quite
certain what answer would please him. Finally it was Rocco who spoke.

"Nothing. We would remember."

The Padre was not sure whether the knowledge of their
relationship would make Maria and Joey's situation better or worse.

Robert and Maria had gone to great pains to keep Maria's
identity hidden. He had, of course, secretly disapproved. But he understood. It
wouldn't have helped Robert's career if the university people knew he was
married to the daughter of a so-called Mafiosa boss. It crossed his mind that,
had their captors known who he was, they might have thought twice about
kidnapping Maria and Joey.

"We got something in Egypt?" the Padre asked
Angelo.

"They got gambling there. And junk. Girls. Not too
organized. Too many cooks, too much religious shit. Lot of rackets but heavy
stuff. Arms. Things like that. Lotta Sicilian connections."

"We take some of theirs, we get them back. Right,
Padre?" Carmine, the Canary, said, the deep creases in his bovine face
showing his concern.

"Like who?" the Padre asked gently.

"Everybody got somebody."

"We need the horses," the Padre said.

"Then we'll get 'em," Vinnie snapped.

He knew they all shared his frustration and it made him
feel better to hear their talk, their bravado. Naturally, he would send word to
the other American families. All would be eager to help, to return his many
favors. Perhaps someone would even have an idea, a connection, the ability to
make a deal. He would pay any price, of course. What were worldly goods
compared to the life of his daughter and grandson?

The men stayed with him half the night, for which he was
grateful. Although he had first sought seclusion, he now dreaded it. But his
mind had finally begun to operate and he had ordered the Pencil to send
emissaries to the families, mostly to learn about connections in the Arab
world. He also ordered a sweep of all their inside contacts on the federal
level. From long experience he knew that before anything could be done,
information was needed. Information always came before action.

He stayed near the phone in his house, afraid he might miss
a call on his way between the house and Luigi's. And, of course, he continued
to make decisions for the organization. Above all, the organization must
continue to operate. Any hint of faltering leadership or weakness was
dangerous. Anyone taking advantage of his situation would receive swift
punishment.

Stories about Maria and Joey's kidnapping appeared on
television and in the papers for three days, then faded as regular fare. It
surprised him that no one had, as yet, revealed their relationship to him.
Maria had covered her tracks well.

Only years later did he learn that she had used another
name, Panelli, when she worked as a buyer for Bloomingdale's before she was
married. She had even had her own apartment on the East Side in those days.
With pride, he remembered her stubbornness. Not that she had defied him. She
simply stuck to her guns.

"I am an independent woman, Daddy. Which does not mean
I will ever stop loving you."

There was no way to stem the flood of memories. My little
girl. He also could not stop the burning tears that flowed inside him.

Robert called with little to report. He was standing by in Cairo. The officials in Egypt, he told the Padre, were becoming increasingly annoyed by
his aggressive inquiries.

"Can't even get them on the phone now," Robert said,
his voice heavy with despair. "It's pretty rough, Salvatore. I go back to
our apartment, see their things. God it's awful."

"I know," the Padre responded. But it was faint
comfort for them both.

The Padre watched the television news, saw the President's
handsome, smiling face. Once he was pictured at a dinner, his pretty wife
beside him. He was telling a joke. While his daughter and grandson were locked
away in some terrible hole. He had wanted to kick out the screen.

Occasionally, one of the relatives of the hostages would
make a public query to the government and a spokesman from the State Department
would respond that the government was doing everything it could to free the
hostages. Unfortunately, the Padre had learned, everything meant nothing.

Two weeks after Maria and Joey had been taken, Robert
appeared at the Padre's door looking pale and exhausted. His house in Princeton was rented and he had no desire to stay with friends.

It had been years since he had been to the Padre's home,
although Maria and Joey had been frequent visitors. He did not seem too happy
to be there now. Yet, inexplicably, he had brought his suitcase and the Padre
understood. Maria, they both knew, would have wanted them to be together.

"The President has agreed to a meeting with all the
hostage families the day after tomorrow," he announced, as if that bit of
information made it all right in his own mind to be with the father-in-law he
had avoided all of his married life.

"You want me to go with you?" the Padre asked,
but only as a formality, since he knew the answer in advance. Robert's response
was surprisingly gentle.

"I think you're entitled to go, Salvatore. I've
thought about it a great deal. But I think your presence might complicate
matters, maybe raise the stakes for her and Joey. No need to add a new
dimension."

The Padre was not sure he agreed totally, but nodded
consent.

Mrs. Santos gave Robert Maria's old room upstairs and made
them both dinner. They sat in the dining room saying little as they picked at
their food.

"No gas in the tank. No gas in the head," Mrs.
Santos said, tapping her skull, but it made little difference. Neither of them
had any appetite. After dinner they sat in the front parlor. Despite their
common problem, the awkwardness between them remained.

"So damned unfair," Robert said suddenly.

"He'll say nothing of value," the Padre said.

"Smile and fob us off."

The Padre shook his head in agreement.

"I could write tomorrow's script," Robert said.
"He'll explain, once again, ad infinitum, the government policy of never
negotiating with terrorists, never giving in to their demands. And it's going
to sound perfectly logical. Except to our little group."

Robert sighed and was silent for a long time. "And how
can the rest of the country dispute the logic that if you give in to terrorists
you give them a blank check to take hostages again and again? He's probably
right about that. I might do the same thing if I was him. But it's not his
loved ones that are being victimized."

Robert banged a fist into the palm of the other hand.
"But the worst part is the inability to do something. To act."

He looked toward the Padre, who shook his head. But the
look began to linger, extend itself, fasten onto the Padre's face. The Padre
turned to meet his gaze. It confused him at first, until he realized that the
look carried a fervent appeal.

"I've not been idle, Robert."

"Do you think it's possible?"

The Padre shrugged.

"There is no knowing who to deal with. And our
connections in Egypt are not good. But I'm waiting. Maybe someone will have an
idea."