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 needed 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.