We Are Holding the President Hostage

by Warren Adler

  The Secret Service contingent was ready and waiting outside the corridor. He knew the routine, the pacing, the right moves. They wore their little lapel buttons and earpieces that plugged them in to the great orchestration known as “protecting the President.”

  He supposed he had upset Amy with his talk about danger. Subconsciously deliberate, he decided, regretting it. But it was easy to dispense advice about violence and morality when you were safe and snug. Or thought so.

  The fact was that danger existed every second of every day. Indeed, he had been continually reminded of this situation by the head of the Secret Service contingent, Ike Fellows. No system was perfect. To press the point home, he had been shown notes, letters, transcripts of conversations, all threatening, in one way or another, to eliminate him. Whenever he exhibited the slightest bit of bravado or machismo, the material was trotted out for his perusal.

  “You make them up,” he had told Fellows. “Just to scare the hell out of me.”

  “I’m not asking you to be a believer. Just to remind you of four things.” It was his standard reply and the President knew his response.

  “And what are those?”

  “Lincoln, McKinley, Garfield, and Kennedy.”

  “And Roosevelt and Reagan. The two that got away.”

  The remainder would invariably find its mark.

  Nevertheless, he had offered a pro forma objection to the placement of cement barriers around the White House entrances and the use of walk-through security devices to check all incoming personnel, visitors, and guests.

  “It’s demeaning,” he had protested to Fellows.

  “Yes, it is,” Fellows had agreed. “But less demeaning than lying on the floor showing the world the presidential innards.”

  Fellows knew all the stock answers and was savvy enough to spare him the “My job is to keep you alive” crap. Mostly, the President worried about Amy and the kids. Their children were both grown. They had their own lives; Tad, a stockbroker in New York, Barbara married to a doctor in Connecticut. They, too, were protected by the Secret Service. But there was some comfort in the historical fact that no presidential wife or child had ever fallen victim to either an assassin’s bullet or a kidnapping.

  As instructed, he moved through the corridor from the Oval Office in the direction of the East Room. Nickels met him at the corridor’s entrance.

  “Ready?” Nickels asked.

  “Like a pig being introduced to a python.” The President smirked.

  “Which one are you?”

  The President looked at his Chief of Staff and snorted.

  “Where’s Potter?” he asked, looking around for his press secretary.

  “He just called, Mr. President,” Nickels said. “He asked us to wait.”

  “Wait? I’m the President.”

  The little self-effacing wisecrack seemed to fall flat.

  “Got a good house?” the President asked.

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Want to switch jobs for the rest of the afternoon?”

  “I would if I could, Mr. President.”

  And so you would, the President thought. Nickels was a good man, loyal and tough on the troops. Just the way he wanted it. They waited for a minute or so. The President began to get impatient. Then he saw him, coming across the corridor from his own office. He was walking slowly, as if the unhurrying gait was a deliberate attempt to advertise an oncoming sense of doom. He was obviously not carrying happy baggage.

  “What’s with you, Steve?” the President asked. For some reason, he had the impression that Potter’s burden was of a personal nature.

  “Jesus, Mr. President,” his press secretary replied. His voice seemed to hang in his throat. The President reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “They’ve executed three of them,” he whispered.

  “Three. My God.”

  “Ruthless bastards,” Nickels said.

  The President leaned against the wall and shook his head.

  “How can I face them?”

  “They won’t know until after it’s over,” Potter said without conviction.

  “But I know,” the President whispered. “Can we call it off?”

  “Probably be worse,” Nickels said.

  “But they’ll know I knew,” the President said.

  “Who’ll tell?” Nickels replied. He turned to the Secret Service man standing a few feet from the President, just out of earshot. “No one in or out of that room until after the President is finished. All doors closed.” The Secret Service man nodded and whispered hurriedly into the microphone on the inside of his wrist.

  Subterfuge, the President thought with disgust. How he hated that part of it.

  “We better hurry,” Nickels said.

  The President straightened, breathed deeply, determined to compose himself. There was no alternative but to go through with the charade, no time to debate a course of action. He strode toward the room, holding the file of letters in a manila envelope. His hands were sweating.

  It did not occur to him until he reached the podium that he might be carrying letters from the dead.

  9

  THE PADRE SAW IT ALL ON TELEVISION. There was the President handing out letters, assuring them that the government was doing everything it could, appealing for their patience, implying that negotiations were going on at this very moment. It was sickening, especially since this performance followed the disgusting exhibition of three Americans being executed by smiling masked men. The Padre stood up, furious. Something had to be done. Anything.

  “This man is a fool,” Vinnie said, his creased face mirroring his reaction.

  “Only one way for these people,” the Canary said, patting his Magnum.

  But the voices were distractions. The Padre motioned for them to leave the room. When they were gone he shut off the television set and moved about, fingering the various objects that Rosa had collected over the years, a glass vase, a carved wooden figure of the Holy Mother, a Wedgwood ashtray, a miniature tea set that Maria had played with as a child. Maria! Had she or Joey been hurt? He felt impotent. He did not like the feeling.

  He put a fist in his mouth and bit down hard, although not hard enough to break the skin. Sooner or later, when it suited their captors, they would kill them too. He could not stand by and let them die.

  He paced the room like a caged animal. His mind was turning over at lightning speed. What would you do, Father? Had he said the words aloud? He found himself waiting for an answer. None came. All he could hear was the pounding in his head.

  His head was still pounding when Robert returned.

  “It was beyond belief,” his son-in-law said, throwing himself into a chair.

  “I saw it on television,” the Padre said.

  “It was definitely not a good day for the President. We got the news just as we walked out the door. An army of the press surrounded us. I felt so bad for those relatives who had to learn the truth that way. They said the President hadn’t heard until after the meeting.”

  “Bullshit,” the Padre hissed.

  “Who the hell can you believe?” Robert said.

  “No one. Never the authorities. They always lie.”

  “What does it matter?” Robert sighed. His head rolled over onto his chest, as if it was too heavy a burden for him to carry. He was silent for a long time. Then suddenly he looked up. “Salvatore. Why doesn’t he meet their demands?”

  “Because as soon as he agrees they will ask for more.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “We are dealing with people who do not know how to compromise.”

  He seemed suddenly vague and distracted.

  “Salvatore, what would you do if you were him?”

  “You would not agree with my solution.”

  It was more than enough of an answer to a man who did not approve of his way of life. Maria, bless her wisdom, had never forced him to justify himself in front of her husband. Maria had never need
ed such justification. She was a Padronelli.

  Of course the Padre understood the real intent of the question. Deliberately he had let it hang in the air. But behind the facade of silence, the Padre’s thoughts whirled along a spiraled track of memory. Kidnapping had once been a favorite weapon of organizations that vied for turf in the early days of the century, before a sensible method had been worked out to divide territories fairly. Men were picked up in the streets, held in obscure cellars, guarded around the clock while demands were negotiated. He remembered how his father had railed against the tactic. He had called it cowardly.

  But his father had found a way to put a stop to it. His theory: Tear out the root and the limbs will fall away. The next time a man was taken, he did not negotiate with the perpetrators. He punished those who had ordered the act. And he did not stop there. He punished their families, their friends, their sympathizers. He also punished their property and their possessions. Homes were blown up, businesses burned and robbed. He was indiscriminate, ruthless, swift, and sure. Blood ran in the streets. The innocent along with the guilty. And it stopped kidnapping as a tactic against the Padronelli family.

  How could Salvatore Padronelli possibly explain such actions to his son-in-law? More than once, in his courtship days, Robert had arrogantly pointed out to the Padre that acts of murder for revenge or coercion were characteristics of the jungle. The Padre had not argued, although to him it was a total confusion of attributes. In the jungle, revenge was unknown and animals murdered only for nourishment, rarely for ascendancy. Compared to humans, the jungle beast was benign.

  After a long silence, Robert again asked:

  “So what would you do, Salvatore?”

  “I would use my power,” the Padre said, hoping that all the suggested implications of this comment would suffice.

  “How?”

  He studied his son-in-law, who met his gaze. His eyes seemed feverish, intense.

  “Power is no good unless it is used,” the Padre said. “I would go against all who made this action possible.”

  “Then why doesn’t he do that?”

  “You ask me that? You of all people.”

  Robert was becoming more agitated. He stood up and banged a fist into his palm. “He must know who they are, who finances them, what countries give them sanctuary. He has information.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then why doesn’t he do something?”

  The Padre shrugged. In his mind, he had already put himself in the President’s place, assuming the characteristics of leadership and the various options that might be available to such a powerful man. Like him, the President was a leader. He had men who obeyed him. Why had he not used them? The question rolled through his mind like thunder.

  “Surely, someone at the meeting must have asked him?”

  “One person did. An old man whose son was one of the hostages. The President answered him.” He had grown thoughtful. “If you’re a civilized country, the President said, then you can’t become as ruthless and uncivilized as your adversaries.”

  “And did this answer satisfy you?”

  He shook his head vigorously in the negative.

  “It satisfied none of us.”

  “You want justice,” the Padre said.

  “I want my wife and child.”

  “With this President we will never get them back.”

  Robert looked at his father-in-law with horror.

  The Padre watched his son-in-law. He empathized with his pain. He lifted his hand, palm upward, making a five-pronged claw out of his fingers. The gesture, he knew, would appear obscene to his son-in-law.

  “Only if we put his cojones in here.” He moved his fingers together and slowly brought them together.

  Robert’s eyes narrowed as they focused on his father-in-law’s closed fist.

  “Whose?”

  “The President’s.”

  “And just how would you get them there?” Robert asked.

  “There is always a way,” the Padre said.

  10

  FROM WHERE SHE SAT on a little wooden stool chained to a radiator, Maria could see Joey. A chain had been attached around his waist with the lead attached to another radiator at the other end of the room. Beside her was a pail, which both she and Joey used as a toilet. It was awful, dehumanizing. And it stank.

  They were in a room with high ceilings and windows that looked out on what must have been a garden. It was now totally overgrown with high weeds, which concealed almost all of the view. But Maria could tell the time of day by the degree of light that managed to seep through the foliage.

  Her resilience amazed her, although she worried about Joey, who had grown morose by his confinement. Yet she had derived strength from trying to keep up his spirits. Mostly, she made up long stories from her memory. She was, in effect, reliving her life, creating entertainment for her son from the events of her past.

  Maria was surprised at the interest it engendered in her son and the degree to which it kept her revitalized and able to cope with the physical discomforts of this cruel confinement. It struck her as a miracle that she had alighted on this idea. We humans are resourceful little suckers, she told herself now, although she had been paralyzed with fright when the man had first fastened her to the radiator.

  “Not the boy. Please,” she had begged.

  He had smiled and chucked her under the chin.

  “Nothing to it.” He had looked around the room. “We will feed you well.” With a thick hand, on which tufts of thick black hair grew along the ridges of his fingers, he tousled the boy’s hair.

  “You want to play, little boy?” the man said with surprising gentleness. Joey shrank from the man, cowering against the wall.

  “I want my daddy,” Joey whispered.

  “But you have your mommy,” the man smirked.

  “Leave my child alone! Can’t you see he’s upset?” Maria shouted.

  She had an urge to spit in the man’s face, kick him in the testicles. He had blindfolded them both, covered them with canvas and made them lie on the floor of the rear seat. They had driven for what seemed like days, although, after the blindfolds had been removed, she had noted that only three hours had elapsed since they had been kidnapped.

  She heard voices of other men in the house, which seemed large and smelled musty and old. Her nostrils picked up the fetid smell of moisture and she decided that they were somewhere close to the Nile. Unfortunately, her Arabic was spotty and she was not able to understand some of the words that, at times, could be heard clearly.

  It took Maria some time to make an intelligent assessment of the rhythm of life that went on around them. Meals came at regular intervals, giving her a time frame to adhere to. They were brought by a fat woman wearing a galabia. She also wore a veil and smelled putrid, like rotting fish.

  “I hate this food, Mommy,” Joey said as he spat it back into his plate.

  “You must eat it, sweets.”

  He would try again. Sometimes he gagged and retched. Finally, he began to keep it down.

  “That’s a good boy,” she said with encouragement.

  “I want to go home.”

  “I know, sweets. Soon. I promise.”

  In a few days, she got somewhat used to the rhythm. They gave them both sleeping bags, which they spread out on the floor near the radiators. The most pressing problem was being able to sleep with the chain, but soon that, too, was compensated for by some mysterious inner mechanism. It was this same mechanism that goaded her senses, awakening in her an alertness that she had never known.

  The worst part was not being able to touch her son. Even when they both stretched as far as they could, there was still a man’s length between them.

  “Make believe we’re touching, Joey. Close your eyes and imagine that our fingers are entwining. Do that.”

  She watched him close his eyes and stretch his small arm as far as he could reach.

  “Do you feel my hand?”

  �
��Yes, Mommy.”

  “Is it warm or cool?”

  “It is cool.”

  “Shall I tell you a story?”

  “Tell me about when you were a little girl.”

  It was essential to keep the mind going. She was proud of her son.

  “I love you, Joey,” she said often.

  “And I love you, Mommy.”

  In the middle of the day it grew very hot in the room. Occasionally the man who had kidnapped them, the one with the ridges of black hairs on his fingers, would come in and squat down near them, but just out of reach. Sometimes he smoked a fat cigar, blowing the smoke out of his nostrils and spitting great wads of brown saliva on the floor beside him.

  “Why are you doing this to us?” she would ask.

  “Because you are a great prize,” he would say.

  She wondered if he knew the identity of her father, but she declined to tell him. In the back of her mind, her father represented the ultimate hope. To him the concept of family was far more important than the concept of God. Even at her most desperate, this was the primary thought that kept her spirits up.

  “Why?” she had asked cautiously.

  “Americans are sentimental about women and children,” he said. “It turns out that this little accident may be what you call the straw that broke the camel’s back. Your President is against the wall. He will have to negotiate.”

  “Never,” she said.

  It seemed a reflex. Negotiate what, she wondered. But she would not give him the satisfaction of her ignorance. As she sat there, she memorized him. She did not want his face to escape her mind. A day would come when she would exact her revenge. I am my father’s daughter, she told herself. Robert is wrong. His morality is an illusion. There is only one law, one rule, one unalterable fact of life. Survival.

  “The least you could do is release the boy. It is terrible to make war on children,” Maria scolded him.

  “Children always suffer most in a war,” he replied coolly.

  “It is not necessary. I beg of you.”

  “At least you are together,” he interrupted. “I could easily separate you.” His words found their mark, and she felt the paralyzing effect of her fear.