by Warren Adler
No, he decided, this was the summit of such action. However they pushed the tide of terror further and further into the dark oceans of intimidation and blood, few, perhaps none, would be able to match the reaction he had achieved. He savored the sense of it, the exhilaration of owning power, of manipulating events on the vast world stage. One could not characterize these events as mere fantasy. He was not a puppet on a string any longer, to be jerked and pulled to fit the design of others. He was the fingers now, manipulated by his own brain.
“So what do you think you are worth?” Ahmed asked. “To get you back. What should we ask for?” Yes, he thought, enjoying the special irony of the collective pronoun.
“You will soon get something you didn’t ask for.”
He ignored her belligerence. “No. I am serious. You know the man. Think what lengths he has gone to. It is beyond conception. The boldness. The daring. What is in his mind?”
“That should be easy for a man like you to figure out.”
“A man like me?”
“A man totally devoid of moral scruples,” the woman said, her voice tinged with regret.
So her father’s act had puffed up her courage, engaged her hope. He smiled.
“If I were you,” the woman said, “I would just get us out of here and send us on our way.”
“Good idea. Get dressed.”
The woman looked at him warily, studying his expression. Ahmed watched her run the gamut of uncertainty, warmed by her confusion.
“Now?” she asked, looking toward the boy.
“Now.”
“We’re going home?”
“That would be strictly up to your father. He will decide.”
I will decide, he silently corrected himself.
He did not move, but continued to stare silently at her as her confusion increased. Finally she turned away, moved toward her son, bent down, and shook him gently. Again he opened up cranky eyes and she managed to get him out of the sleeping bag.
Ahmed watched her dress the child with a mother’s care. Briefly he thought of his own mother, her gentle touch, the soft cool lips on his forehead. For a moment his thoughts drifted to another time, his childhood, the billowing safety found between his mother’s breasts. Often he had found comfort there.
His gaze turned inward, explored another landscape, a place where he had been before, narrow streets of pounded dirt, the smell of cooking oil and sweat, raindrops on the roof of corrugated steel, the feel of the cold metal of his first rifle. Where does the road to hate lead? Hate Israel. Hate America. Allah had decreed his destiny. The door to paradise led through a curtain of blood.
He had pushed such speculations far out of his mind. Until now. They were wrong. All of them. Paradise was power. Of course. Allah was merely the idea. He looked upward at the naked bulb and nodded.
Suddenly the woman’s actions intruded. She had unbuttoned the shirt. Now she removed it. She was totally naked, but she paid no attention to him, as if he were some inanimate object. Her figure was full, high large breasts, small waist, a thick bush of pubic hair.
Again she was flaunting herself, showing her contempt. Arrogant bitch, he thought. Anger welled up inside him. Was this the prize? He tried in his mind to calculate the worth of this woman, daughter of the Mafiosa Padre. Hardly something so paltry as a king’s ransom. She seemed to be deliberately stalling, holding back, determined to show him her body, mocking him. You fucking fag. Had he heard those words?
Then it came to him, what he should ask in trade for this bitch and her boy. Black void for black void. All that must be done would be to light the fuse. Perhaps he was not technically correct, but the image would suffice. He chuckled. A very fair trade indeed.
22
AIR FORCE TWO TAXIED to a stop in a remote corner of Andrews Air Force Base. Armed men packed into a tight circle surrounded the plane. A man dressed in one of Chalmers’ suits stepped out of the opened cabin door, saluted, and rushed down the stairs. The tight circle opened briefly, the man stepped into a waiting limousine, and a convoy of armed vehicles took its place in a phalanx that quickly moved down the tarmac. Others began to file down the stairs.
A man in battle dress burst into his cabin. He had been instructed to stay inside, alone. The man saluted and Chalmers returned the salute.
“Put this on, sir,” the man said crisply. He obeyed without protest, sliding into the bulletproof vest, then putting his hands through the sleeves of an oversized camouflage jacket.
“The height of fashion,” Chalmers said. He felt testy, annoyed. The words echoed and reechoed in his mind. Proctor’s voice had been hoarse with strain. “We have a problem,” he had said over the line. “No kidding,” Chalmers had responded, but then had come that long pause.
“No kidding,” Proctor had repeated, like a blow struck at his solar plexus. Then the Secretary of State had said, “I wouldn’t use this line to tell you what’s going on. Just in case. We’ve got to keep it out of the press. I’m sorry. Wait until you get here.”
He followed the man down the center aisle, moving quickly toward the rear of the cabin. Other men, who had been posted along the cabin windows, followed behind him, automatic weapons drawn. Perhaps, he thought, the President is dead.
It was a thought to be chased away, not to be dwelled upon in its raw unconfirmed state. Unthinkable, he told himself, not wishing to experiment with his own sense of guilt and inadequacy. He was not quite ready to handle the situation. Not with Proctor’s ominous words ringing in his ears.
At the rear cabin door the man who led stopped, using his arm as a turnstile. Chalmers waited, sucking in deep breaths. It was all so mysterious, like a child’s game.
“Now,” the man said.
He followed him quickly down the stairs to a waiting car. In the distance he heard a chopper’s staccato chomp. The car, he noted, was brownish, nondescript. There were no flags on the fenders. As soon as he got into the back seat, the car began to move.
“Welcome home,” Vic Proctor said. Chalmers turned to find a pale, tired face offering a grim smile. At that moment the driver, too, turned to show his profile. Ned Foreman, the President’s National Security Advisor. He waved two fingers in acknowledgment.
“We bring you greetings from the snakepit.”
“What the hell is going on?” Chalmers demanded.
The car had gone barely a few feet when it moved upward suddenly into a dark space. Foreman cut the motor.
“It’s the latest form of transportation,” Proctor said. “Silly. But, the Secret Service says, very effective. At least in theory.”
He felt movement below him, but it wasn’t the car. They were obviously in some kind of moving van.
“The meeting is still set?” Chalmers asked.
“It may be academic,” Proctor sighed. “He says he can govern.”
“He must be out of his mind.” The comment had seeped out too quickly for Chalmers to stop it.
“Maybe.” Foreman shrugged.
Suddenly Chalmers was seized by a sense of unfairness. He wanted to protest. They were paying it out like a fishing line, torturing him deliberately. He wanted to strike out at them.
“It’s a dilemma,” Proctor was saying. Chalmers wondered if he had already missed the explanation. “We have it in writing, too. His own hand.” The Secretary of State reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a letter on presidential stationery written in a firm, unmistakable hand. Chalmers read it, then reread it while the words swam randomly in his head.
“Despite my present circumstances, I am physically and mentally able to carry out the duties of my presidency.” It was signed Paul Bernard, President of the United States.
“It’s one bitch of a catastrophe,” Proctor said. “There’s only the three of us who have the word.”
“So far.”
Chalmers licked his lips, which had suddenly dried. “Seems pretty clear to me. We ignore it.”
“The Twenty-fifth Amendment?”
“Fuck the
Twenty-fifth Amendment,” Chalmers snapped. “The man can’t operate. He can’t move freely. It’s a matter of national security.”
“But there is no precedent,” Proctor said.
“Precedent, hell. We can vote him out.”
“Not so easy according to the Twenty-fifth,” the Secretary of State cautioned. “If he says he can govern, we have to throw it over to Congress. They can impeach him.”
“This is crap, Victor, and you know it. We just go ahead, have our little meeting, and appoint me Acting President. The man obviously cannot function. You know it. I know it. Every goddamned person in this country knows it. He’s out. That’s final. So let’s get on with it.”
It felt good, but just for the moment. They were moving, but no one in the car had any control over their movement. Foreman looked at him archly.
“Comes down to, are we a country of men or laws?” the National Security Advisor said.
“Jesus, Ned,” Chalmers responded.
He was furious. But it was the kind of fury without an outlet. He felt it sticking in his throat.
“Then we call their bluff,” Chalmers said.
“Who gives that order?” Proctor sighed.
“I do,” Chalmers said.
“Under what authority?” Foreman asked, but gently.
“We’re . . .” Chalmers faltered. “We’re responsible men. Millions of people throughout the world depend on us. There are predators out there. People who would take advantage. The Soviets . . .”
“Let the string run out,” Proctor said.
“What the hell does that mean?” Chalmers asked.
“He says he can govern,” Foreman answered. “Let him govern. Meanwhile we throw it to Congress. Impeachment may be the only solution. Should take a few days to bring them home. The thing might resolve itself in a day or two. Surely the country can get through forty-eight hours without a President. Meanwhile we do our job. He thinks he can do his job. Remains to be seen.”
“And this Mafia man, this Padre, what happens to him?” Chalmers asked.
Foreman shrugged.
“He’s got his own ax to grind. Maybe he’ll frighten them into giving up his daughter and grandson.”
“Sounds like you’re grasping at straws,” Chalmers said.
“I suppose we are,” Proctor mused. “The trick is not to panic. If we panic, the country will panic. Indeed, the world will panic.”
“I think it’s dangerous as hell,” Chalmers said.
“Any way you look at it, it’s a tough call,” Foreman said.
They exchanged glances. Suddenly the movement stopped. They heard the van door squeak open. Light flooded into the space.
So they will try to put it off as long as possible, Chalmers thought, wondering if the idea was prompted by paranoia, ambition, or an inordinate respect for the law.
“There’s only one issue here,” Chalmers said. Above all, he would keep his dignity.
“What is that?” Proctor asked.
“What’s best for America.”
Chalmers wondered if he sounded sufficiently presidential.
23
THE PADRE WATCHED Harkins’ fingers glide lightly over the keyboard of the monitor. The President had ordered it to be brought in. A man had placed the console in front of the entrance to the west sitting room and the Canary had scooped it up. It had a built-in modem and Harkins had connected it to telephone lines.
At times Harkins’ stubby fingers would stop their keyboard dance and the man would contemplate the monitor screen.
The Padre had sat stiffly watching Harkins’ performance. Perhaps he had dozed. He wasn’t certain. At intervals the computer beeped or buzzed. But it was only the absence of sound that jogged the Padre to alertness. On the buffet they had placed a television set, moving aside the expensive candelabra. They had shut off the sound, although the images continued to flicker throughout the night.
Most of the network stations were on twenty-four-hour alert, as they were during the Kennedy assassination. Since the gruesome killing of the hostage, there was little to report, except speculation.
It did not surprise him that they had not yet reported the President’s announcement about his insistence that he was willing and able to govern the country. But Harkins had expressed his suspicion that they would not put out that information until the Vice President had met with the Cabinet.
Earlier, the coverage had become dizzying. The Padre had listened with half an ear. He saw his own face on the screen and a long segment on his organization. He did not like to see his face on TV, but he was mildly amused by what was said about him by commentators.
They called him ruthless and cold-blooded, a man who controlled a network of rackets, hijacking, prostitution, protection, and a myriad of legitimate businesses, a man who bought and sold politicians and judges, a man who had ordered hundreds to their deaths.
As always, it was an exaggeration, mostly pandering lies. They had deliberately excised from this so-called biography that concept of honor and family, which was fundamental to his character. As for the reason for the organization, there was no way they could understand the necessity of rebellion against authority, its lies and hypocrisies.
They had also shown Maria in her high school graduation picture with a cap and gown. At that point he changed the channel. There was, incredibly, a game show on one of the independent stations. People were jumping wildly up and down, celebrating their winnings.
Finally he had switched back to one of the networks. This one showed pictures of the outside of the White House ringed with troops in full battle gear, guns at the ready. There was also old footage of the President’s living quarters, then a live shot of the windows outside.
After a while the coverage became boring and repetitious. World leaders had been interviewed ad nauseam. There were even interviews with official and unofficial Middle Eastern leaders in Beirut, Libya, Syria, Egypt, and Israel. Yassir Arafat also got in his two cents’ worth. Everybody had differing points of view, speculations, analysis.
Terrorism and hostage-taking, some agreed, had gone too far. Others believed that terrorism, hostage-taking, and other forms of intimidation were the ways to get the message across. The world was drowning in bullshit, the Padre thought. What has all this got to do with my daughter and grandson? What did they know about a father’s pain?
Occasionally the Canary would poke his big face into the room, survey the situation, and leave. He had been given the role of inspector. His job was to patrol the premises, keep a watchful eye. Like the Padre, he did not need sleep.
They had organized the routine with an eye both to security and comfort. This was, after all, the White House, and a certain modicum of dignity was required. Food had come up from the downstairs kitchen by dumbwaiter, trays of excellent fare prepared by the chef. It showed a very sensible acceptance of reality. They had apparently yielded to the idea that it was better to cooperate than risk the President’s life, which meant that the Padre and his men had won the battle for credibility.
As a gesture of good faith for the President’s cooperation, the First Lady was released from her cord attachment to Benjy, who, nevertheless, stuck close to her despite her protestations. The Padre trusted his instincts about the President, who was essentially an honorable man. Unfortunately, he was also a political animal. All of his reactions seemed to be considered in the context of politics. It was a good thing, because it was the hook that Harkins had used to persuade him. Now he understood why the President had so much difficulty taking the necessary action to free the hostages. A pity the government could not be run like his organization.
Of course he did not fully trust the President. Nor did he order Vinnie to untie the cord that attached him to the man. That proximity was his most effective weapon.
The two of them, Carmine had reported, were now dozing peacefully together in the master bedroom. The First Lady was sleeping in her dressing room. She had been allowed a bath and to perform her
usual female ablutions. Considering the situation, he decided, his adventure into hostage-taking was extraordinarily civilized and humanitarian. He wished the same treatment for his daughter and grandson, although he doubted it.
The Padre had, of course, expected difficulties. In the end, he knew he would get the President’s cooperation. No one ever wanted to give up power.
“You see, Mr. President,” the Padre had told him after they had brought in the monitor. “They obey your orders as before.”
The President had looked at him and shaken his head.
“They won’t buy it for long,” he had said.
“Perhaps it won’t be for long,” the Padre had suggested.
With the exception of the threatening gesture against the First Lady, it had all been remarkably nonviolent. The Padre liked that. Nevertheless, he knew he must be wary of Harkins. Harkins was clever, but as crafty and venomous as a snake.
Earlier, Harkins had revealed what the Padre had merely suspected. That the CIA did indeed have people stashed all over the world, that they had the ability to act in the shadows, behind the scenes of authority and legitimacy. Harkins had characterized them as agents, but it sounded to the Padre as though they were organized tightly in a hierarchy of information gatherers, transmitters, and doers.
The doers, translated into the Padre’s terms, were more like button men hired out for whatever jobs that came along. Harkins called them “coverts,” a nice clean way to portray them. “They are trained to play dirty,” Harkins had explained. The Padre was amused by the characterization. Dirty was a matter of perception.
Harkins also had his “pencil,” a computer network with secret access codes that kept track of missions. It also gave orders and transmitted information. It was airtight, Harkins had assured him. No hacker, amateur or pro, had ever been known to access it. He wondered if such machines would improve the operations of his own organization. He doubted it. A machine could be loyal only to itself.
“You would be surprised at our reach,” Harkins had explained as he pounded the keyboard. Sitting in front of the monitor, he seemed very much at home.