by Warren Adler
“You mean Padre, like in father?”
The President looked at his wife. Her face reflected his own puzzlement. Crackpots, he thought.
“Not important,” the man called the Padre said.
“Mafiosa. Cosa Nostra. The black hand.” The younger man lifted his own hand, made a fist, and punched it into the air like a hammer. “The Padre family. Little Italy. Manhattan. You never heard of us? The President. . . .”
The man called the Padre shot the younger man a withering look.
“Jesus Christ,” the President said. “He’s a Mafia boss.”
Amy began to laugh. It started as a giggle and gained momentum, becoming throaty, then uncontrollable as it rattled through the room. Tears began to roll down her cheeks.
“I’ll be damned,” the President said. “They’ve picked up the daughter and grandson of a Mafiosa boss.” He looked at the Padre and saluted. “Shades of Richard Nixon.” The Padre looked at him with a blank expression. “The Watergate tapes. Remember the tapes. And Kennedy.” He shook his head. “No, you wouldn’t remember.”
The President could not recall exact quotes, only what had lingered in his mind. Dean, the President’s assistant, had suggested that what they were doing was the sort of thing the Mafia could do better and Nixon agreed. And Kennedy had suggested some shadowy arrangement with a Mafiosa to knock off Fidel Castro. Often, he had thought of such a solution himself. An organization able to bend the rules, subject to no higher authority than their leader.
“I understand, Mr. President,” the Padre said. “Please. It is an exaggeration.” Again, he looked at the younger man and shook his head.
“Is it?” The President glanced at his wife, who had taken a napkin from the setting and was wiping her eyes. “He’s in control of the goddamned President of the United States and he says it’s an exaggeration.”
Then he turned back to confront the Padre. The Padre! A fantasy gone amuck. Forgive me, he wanted to say. But how can I take this seriously? He did not say it. Instead, he asked,“ So what can you do that I can’t?”
“As I said, all I am asking for is your cooperation.”
It was too ludicrous a request to consider. He wondered if it was time to reveal the provisions of the Twenty-fifth Amendment, to lay the facts on the line for this deluded man. All right, the President told himself, he is crazed with grief and anxiety, and, despite his apparent calm, he has perpetrated an act that, if he ever gets out of this alive, will assure him a lifetime’s stay in a mental hospital or a prison. Or worse.
He looked at Amy. Only Amy provided the real evidence of their danger. As President, he was the necessary ingredient for this delusion. But Amy was the hostage, the final persuader. Humor dissipated in his mind. No, it was not funny, not at all.
“You have resources,” the Padre said, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he distrusted the earlier sweep of the listening bugs. “You have your intelligence services, your armies, your communications connections, your undercover teams, your. . .” The Padre paused. His tongue flicked over his lips, an odd gesture. “Your authority.”
“My authority?” He considered it through a long pause, noting, too, the Padre’s laundry list of presidential resources. He lifted his eyes and locked his gaze on the Padre, who returned it. “Your action has effectively destroyed my authority,” the President finally said.
“We shall see,” the Padre replied.
The President went over it in his mind. The Twenty-fifth Amendment. The mechanics of succession. He hadn’t really thought about it much. There had not been a recent occasion for it to be considered.
When Reagan was shot, he remembered, there had been some confusion about it. But when he had undergone surgery for cancer he had written a letter handing over the power of the presidency temporarily to the Vice President. It had been in writing. Yes, it specifically said “in writing.” In the event of death there were clear-cut legalities. But in the event of capture . . . Hell, it had not happened in the history of the republic. He dug deeper into his recollection of the amendment.
Barring a written acknowledgment that he was not capable of serving, the full Cabinet had to meet along with the Vice President and choose a temporary successor within, he believed, forty-eight hours. If they could not agree, Congress had to form a parallel body to choose a new President. He seemed to recall twenty-one days. For crying out loud, it was July. They were all on junkets somewhere. Maybe this fellow wasn’t all that dumb.
“So what would you have me do?” the President asked.
“First we must know the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?”
“Who has taken my daughter and grandson? Where are they held? What is being asked for their freedom?”
“Do you seriously believe that I keep all this information in my head?”
Must he explain the dynamics of presidential leadership? Essentially, he dealt with priorities and options. His staff presented him with information, suggested courses of action and consequences. He made decisions based on weighing the ideal and applying whatever weapons of political persuasion he could muster to achieve an effect that was as close to the ideal as possible. Much of the time, he dealt in compromises, accommodation. Sometimes abject surrender. How could he explain to this man the difference between democracy and dictatorship?
“You have people, resources,” the Padre said.
“The President has people,” the President corrected. “Under these circumstances, I doubt that I’m still the President.” He looked toward Amy, who seemed confused.
“Well then, Mr. President,” the Padre said patiently. His pose of respect was getting under the President’s skin, another emotional irritant. “Who would be the person most likely to know all the circumstances that affect my daughter and grandson?”
The President turned the question over in his mind. Jack Harkins, of course. He took an odd pleasure in contemplating the prospect of Harkins’ involvement. At last, the bastard would have someone who talks his language.
“Probably the CIA,” he said with a touch of malevolence. “The head of the CIA would have access.” The President looked toward Amy, repressing a desire to wink. “But you still have to deal with the matter of authority, specifically mine. I have, at the moment, a severe credibility problem.”
The Padre nodded. Then he got up from the table and walked to the buffet, bringing the telephone console to the table and placing it in front of the President. He stretched out the wire to the speaker-phone and put it in the center of the table.
“I think any request would be useless,” the President said. They were, he was certain, waiting for the kidnappers to make the first move. Undoubtedly, by now, the most authoritative crisis-management team had been mobilized. The man in charge, he knew, heaven protect us all, was the Vice President, who was surely speeding home from Asia.
“Mr. President,” the Padre said. “This is a simple request.”
“And if I refuse?”
“You cannot. Not under the circumstances,” the Padre said calmly.
“I’m telling you, I don’t have the authority. You don’t understand—”
“Mr. President . . .” The Padre shook his head. Then he nodded to Benjy who was attached to Amy.
“This is not a personal thing, believe me, Mr. President.”
The President looked at Amy, who had gotten the message.
“I’m not afraid of them,” she said. “Let’s call their bluff.” She stood up abruptly. The cord that attached her to the young man tightened and he stood up in tandem. For a moment she faced them, fearless and defiant. She started to take a step backward. Benjy closed the distance between them and held her in a viselike grip. She struggled briefly.
“Amy,” the President shouted. “For crying out loud.”
The younger man held her, then deftly twisted one arm behind her. She grimaced in pain but did not cry out.
“This is not necessary,” the Padre said quietly, his
features showing no emotion or concern.
“Tell him to get his hands off of her,” the President commanded.
He watched as Amy tried desperately to repress any expression of pain.
“Please,” the President said. Benjy loosened his grip.
“Bastards,” Amy hissed.
“Please, Amy.” She looked at the President for a moment. Then she shook her head in disgust. Tears welled in her eyes. But the man did not release her. He guided her back to her chair and he stood behind her, his forearm locked around her neck.
“Leave her alone,” the President commanded.
She could not speak. But she shook her head in defiance.
“After the call, Mr. President.”
Reluctantly, the President reached for the phone.
“What could be more simple? We are inviting him here for a talk.”
“They will not grant it. I promise you. . . .”
He glanced at the clock on the buffet.
“You tell him we will expect him in a half hour, precisely. Eleven-thirty.” The President punched in a button.
“Yes, Mr. President.” It was an operator’s voice, hollowed and amplified by the speaker-phone. The Padre rose and stood beside the President.
He felt a warm hand on his own. The touch of the man’s flesh was surprisingly warm. He had expected it to be cold and clammy. “Only the request. Nothing more,” he whispered.
“It won’t do any good.” The President shrugged. The Padre offered no comment and lifted his hand from the President’s.
“Jack Harkins, please.” He heard his voice. It did not sound like his own. Then there were other sounds.
“This is Vic Proctor, Mr. President.”
The President looked toward the Padre. So they were routing all calls to the crisis-management team.
“The Secretary of State,” the President said. The Padre nodded and motioned with his hand, a signal to continue.
“I would like you to have Jack Harkins here in precisely one half hour.”
“Yes, Mr. President.” There was a brief pause. Then a whooshing sound. He knew that they had patched in another line.
Damn them, the President thought. Why must they still call him Mr. President? Why hadn’t they figured out a way to fire him?
Suddenly the Padre touched the connecting button. The line went dead. At the same time, he noted that the younger man released his grip on Amy and returned to his seat.
“He won’t come,” the President said. “You just don’t understand how these things work.”
“We shall see,” the Padre said.
17
MARTIN CHALMERS, Vice President of the United States, sat in the front cabin of Air Force Two. He wore a light headset and microphone attached to an open line that led to a conference room in the Executive Office Building, a gingerbread building next door to the White House.
He was alone in the front cabin by choice. He did not completely trust his traveling staff. Some were a conduit to the President’s men. Unfortunately, this knowledge induced a paranoia that was counterproductive. He needed a clear head, an alertness to subtlety and nuance.
The stakes, he assured himself, were larger than mere personal ambition. Yet the dilemma was unavoidable. He was, indeed, next in line. The President was a hostage and he, the Vice President, had been, to the President’s men, an outsider. Now they would consider him a usurper. The thought made him exceedingly uncomfortable.
No Vice President in history had ever been caught in such a situation. Others, he knew, would characterize it as a catastrophe. Surely, in national terms, it was a crisis of the first magnitude. As soon as he arrived in Washington he would take charge—fully, completely, speedily. They would have to accept him now. Indeed, it was their patriotic duty.
Earlier they had patched him in to the conference room devoted to the crisis management of this situation. He was waiting for Vic Proctor, the Secretary of State, to report to him on the results of any conversation with the President.
Despite his paranoia, despite his suspicions and uncertainties, Martin Chalmers, in fact, had never felt more whole, more alive, less frightened. He savored the thrill that trickled up and down his spine. His main worry, of course, was his own worthiness. Would he have the resources, the talent to be, well, presidential? Such a condition was wholly apart from performing as Vice President, which was essentially a waiting game.
He also worried that he would be equal to maintaining the image and tone of a man meeting his destiny. Think of Lyndon Johnson, he urged himself, remembering those days nearly thirty years ago when the whole world became a camera eye focusing on the Kennedy assassination. Old Lyndon had pulled it off with dignity.
Martin Chalmers searched his heart for the levers of magnanimity, even forgiveness. The President’s men had put him down, ignored him, insulted him with their indifference and silence. Above all else, he hated being patronized. Nor did he have any illusions. Attitudes like that filtered down from the top. Suddenly he heard a momentary burst of crackling static, then a whooshing sound.
“Martin.” It was Vic Proctor’s voice coming through again. Chalmers had put the Secretary of State in charge until he got home. Whatever his faults, Vic had probity. Never mind that he would be one of the first to go in a Chalmers administration. Most of them would in any event. No vindictiveness there, he assured himself. A leader needs people around him with whom he could be comfortable.
“Yes, Vic.”
He wanted his voice to sound purposeful, commanding. He had ordered that the conversations between him and the crisis team be recorded. The world must have evidence of his leadership.
Paul had picked him as his running mate for his region, the Southwest sun belt, his antecedents—his father had been the beloved senator from Texas, Tad Chalmers—and his innocuousness. All his life he had been a figurehead, a one-term governor of Texas, the chairman of the board of Chalmers Industries, a professional board member of a dozen corporations. When you need a good rubber stamp, get old Marty. He was, above all, a professional ingratiator. It was a role he despised. Coming up at last was the moment he had waited for all his life.
“The President has asked to see Jack Harkins. No reason given.”
“You spoke directly to him?”
“Directly. No other conversation.”
“Did you mention the . . .”
“The procedure?” Proctor asked. They had chosen the word for the euphemism.
“Yes.”
He would have to be cautious. Procedure meant the legalities of the Twenty-fifth Amendment, specifically the necessity for the President to put in writing his admission that he was unable to govern. It was explicit in the amendment. Section three. For the Vice President the Twenty-fifth Amendment was holy writ. The words were engraved in his mind. The amendment read:
“Whenever the President transmits to the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives his written declaration that he is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, and until he transmits to them a written declaration to the contrary, such powers and duties shall be discharged by the Vice President as Acting President.”
“He said nothing about that,” Proctor said. “But then he has a gun to his head.” Proctor paused. “A figure of speech. But it means the same thing.”
“Perhaps we had better put the procedure for Section Four on standby,” the Vice President said calmly. He felt the pounding of his accelerating heartbeat. It was, after all, explicit: in writing. He supposed the President could scribble the words on a piece of toilet paper and get it out through Harkins. It was possible to do it if he was clever, and it would save them all the back-biting and trouble. Section Four could be a real problem. The Cabinet would have to decide. He had that down too.
“Whenever the Vice President and a majority of either the principal officers of the executive departments, or of such other body as Congress may by law provide, transmit to the Pr
esident pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives their written declaration that the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, the Vice President shall immediately assume the powers and duties of the office as Acting President.”
It got more complicated after that. One step at a time, he told himself, although a black thought lapped at the edges of his mind, despite his conscious refusal to acknowledge it. Blow him up. Jesus, Marty, he told himself, you blood-thirsty bastard.
“Shall we give them Harkins?” Chalmers asked.
Proctor hesitated at his end of the line. For a moment the Vice President confronted the statical void.
“I . . . I didn’t think we had a choice,” Proctor said. “It was a request from the President.”
“The man’s a hostage, Vic.” It took a great effort of will to keep his voice down.
“But he’s still the President.”
His paranoia flared.
“What about Harkins’ life?” Chalmers asked. Of all the President’s gang, he detested Harkins the most.
“We gave him the option of not going,” Proctor said.
“Since when is that bastard calling the shots,” Chalmers blurted, immediately regretting the outburst. Proctor’s hesitation was diplomatic. Both knew that the heart of the problem was the recognition of the President’s authority. Proctor, of all people, would stick to the most orthodox legalities.
“I must say, he has got a lot of courage stepping into the eye of the storm,” Proctor said with the barest hint of deflection.
“I think it’s very stupid,” Chalmers muttered. He hoped the man would get his ass blown up.
“Maybe—” Chalmers paused to calm himself “—we should have that cabinet meeting. Explore Section Four just in case.”
“I’ll get them together.”
“And I’d like to be kept informed.”
“Of course,” Proctor snapped. Chalmers heard the man suck in his breath. “TOA still the same?”
“About seven hours to go,” Chalmers said, looking at his watch.
“They’ll be here waiting,” Proctor said.