We Are Holding the President Hostage

by Warren Adler

  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 pap
er. 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.

  “What do you want?” the man in charge asked. His tactic, the Padre knew, was to stretch out the dialogue as long as possible.

  “What we want,” the Padre said, “is to move quietly to the President’s quarters on the second floor. It will be much more comfortable for the President and the First Lady there.”

  “We can’t let you do that,” the man in charge said. The Padre noted, for the first time, a tiny tremor of anxiety in his voice.

  “Well then,” the Padre said, “we could stay here until we can no longer stand. If we falter or in some way move too hastily, this area of the White House will require a great deal of costly repairs. Not to mention the tremendous expense of a great number of funerals.”

  He looked directly into the eyes of the man in charge. Instinctively, he knew which of them would blink first, but the man held his stare for a longer time than expected. Finally, the man turned his eyes away.

  “What is it you want?” he asked tersely, the pose of politeness quickly dissipating.

  “A very simple request. We wish to move forward, through that door.” He pointed with his head. “Up the stairs behind it.”

  “I mean, why have you done this?”

  “. . . and then we wish to be left alone for a while.”

  “For how long?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “I’m sorry for the discomfort, Mr. President. But this man is very stubborn,” the Padre said.

  The man in charge seemed rattled. His options, it was obvious, were few.

  “You’ll kill yourself too,” the man in charge said. “You want to die?”

  “Do you?” the Padre asked.

  The man in charge shrugged. He was wearing a microphone and earpiece. The Padre noted peripherally that the outside lawn was bathed in strong lights. He heard movement in the dining room, chairs being pushed back, the sound of moving feet, hushed voices.

  “What is your cause? Is it publicity?

  “For crying out loud, Ike,” the President snapped at the man in charge. “We’re not getting anywhere. Let’s move it upstairs.”

  “Very sensible,” the Padre said.

  “They obviously want something. Well get up there, we’ll talk about it,” the President said. No panic in his voice, the Padre noted. The President was a man who had come a long way on a very rough course. He had learned to control himself. A good sign.

  “I can’t let this happen,” Ike Fellows said.

  “Yes, you can,” the President said. “I order you to do it.”

  “We’re Secret Service, Mr. President. Your safety
is our mission. We have a right to supersede your orders.”

  “Are we going to stand here and have a procedural argument? They don’t want to take us out of here. Only upstairs. Hell, you’ve got them surrounded.”

  “I don’t think—” Fellows began.

  “For chrissakes, man, if he wanted to kill us, he would have done so already.”

  “Absolutely correct, Mr. President,” the Padre said.

  “We’ll talk,” the President said. “We’ll work it out.”

  Fellows’ body seemed to collapse from the inside. He shook his head, all his bravado gone.

  “Step away,” he said to the men who surrounded them. They moved a few feet beyond the tight little circle and the Padre started forward, feeling the pull of the others as they followed. It was an awkward, clumsy way of walking.

  With each step, the circle of Secret Service men followed, although they had to make room for the Padre’s circle to pass through the wide doorway. They reformed again in the corridor and moved slowly in tandem with the Padre’s circle.

  The staircase seemed narrower than expected. A number of Secret Service agents moved ahead of them, backward, the muzzles of their Uzis continuing to point directly at the foreheads of the Padre and his men.

  The Padre led the way upward. It was difficult for those behind him to follow. And dangerous. As they moved, Carmine momentarily lost his balance and slipped backward. But he could not unlock his arms and the clot of bodies listed as they resisted his fall. The Padre pushed forward, straining like a horse in a harness. They were halfway up the stairs. A tumble would be deadly.

  The Padre felt the enormous strain on his shoulders and heard the heavy breathing and grunting behind him. For a moment he felt his strength ebb. He could not hold back the enormous weight being helped by the force of gravity, carrying him downward. Husbanding his energy, he shifted his effort so that the full weight of the circle might move sideways toward the banister.