12

EVEN WHEN HE STOOD UP and stretched his arm, Giuseppe Carlotti's shaking fingers could not touch every point of the White House floor plan that required illustration. He was a small round man with a short narrow mustache, slick black hair, and tiny mouse eyes that blinked continuously, a condition that was obviously greatly aggravated by his present state of extreme nervousness. It was quite obvious that this was not his choice of an ideal situation.

"The pantry is here," he said, pointing to the plan. "But the food comes up from the floor below. What we do there is assemble, then we move it to the pantry, then we bring it through the door and serve. It is not an efficient way. Even so, everything must be timed precisely."

The Padre studied the plan silently. The others waited for. his reaction. Robert seemed to concentrate on the plan so intently that his eyeglasses fogged. He took them off and wiped them with a bit of tissue.

The Padre nodded and stroked his chin. Like a magnifying glass that gathers the rays of the sun and focuses down to a single pinprick of intense heat, the Padre had thought of nothing else for the past week. The idea had germinated, bloomed, and flowered.

Events had transformed a once preposterous idea into a possibility. Everyone and everything was vulnerable. This was the axiom of his life. Nothing could be foreclosed if one's purpose was single-minded. And anxiety was a forceful stimulant.

The killing of the three hostages, the unsuccessful storming of the villa by the Egyptians, the announcement that Maria and Joey were in Lebanon, all events that had hastened his decision, made action essential. Of all things, the pain of inaction was unbearable. He felt like a conspirator in his daughter and grandson's agony.

"There is no choice, Robert," he had told his son-in-law. Nor had he asked for his approval.

"I won't presume to tell you your business, Salvatore," Robert had said.

Certain decisions, once made, were irrevocable. This one would take every drop of his concentration, his friendships, alliances, and experience. Above all, he had complete faith in the reliability and efficiency of the network of families and their various and diverse interlocking relationships.

Tongue to tongue, mind to mind, the system radiated outward, a giant eye fixing on selective targets stashed in crevices everywhere. The vast extended family, knit by blood, obligation, fear, and, above all, honor, would spit out the needed ingredients from its great maw. This, in his mind, would be the ultimate test for the organization. Like the blood of his father, he knew it could not fail him.

Giuseppe Carlotti was an old marker, like all the others, waiting to be called. He was a cousin of Bernotti, brother of Connie, who had married an uncle of Vincent Moroni, son of his father's trusted capo Leonardo, whose family had been supported after Leonardo had been gunned down in a West Side alley.

Old family markers were better than gold, currency waiting willingly for the moment when the debt would be called. They were irrevocable. New generations had to assume payment. Long lists of such obligations were committed to memory, handed down from father to son, uncle to nephew, brother to brother, down through the generations on the river of blood. No questions asked. To renege was a high crime, demanding a punishment that was equal in retribution for that meted out by betrayal. It was simply a matter of honor.

The technical aspects of getting into the White House became moot the more the Padre explored them. He believed, as a matter of principle, that all security precautions created by the authorities could be breached by flaws both human and mechanical.

Inquiries among people who made a living out of foiling such technology had come up with an easy method of getting weapons through the technological barrier. The weapon would be liquid explosives carried as a kind of clothes lining in flat plastic containers that followed the body contours.

Metal detectors simply could not pick up liquid explosives, of which there were a number of common compounds. The most reliable consisted of that old standby, pure nitroglycerin, which could be exploded on impact.

Of course the carrier of these weapons would also be demolished, but that was a mere technicality. In the context of the White House, and specifically the President, the actual use of any weapon by an interloper meant automatic death. In this case, if the liquid explosives chosen by the Padre for this job were detonated, everyone within a radius of twenty feet would be also killed.

Such a possibility had to be the ultimate nightmare for anyone in the business of protecting life and limb. Naturally, the plan's effectiveness as a persuader depended on the perception of the protectors. The Padre had to be able to convince the Secret Service that he and his men were willing to die in order to save the lives of the Padre's daughter and grandson.

The Padre had absolutely no doubts about the men he had chosen to accompany him.

"Not you, Robert," he had told his son-in-law.

"But I must," he had responded. "She is my wife. Joey is my child."

"And if we die?"

"Am I not worthy to risk my life for my loved ones?" Robert asked.

"That's ridiculous."

"Then you don't trust me."

"That is not the question," the old man replied. "She will need someone to be here when she comes home."

"But she would never forgive herself if you died because of her. The others as well."

"And would she forgive you if you died there? Would Joey forgive you?"

Robert did not respond, although the Padre knew he had not provided the last word.

There was an even more important question: How can four men get inside the White House and come within the required lethal proximity to the President of the United States?

Giuseppe Carlotti, his fear at war with his reluctance, was telling them how. They were sitting around the table in the back room of Luigi's restaurant. If Giuseppe suspected the real motives behind the rapt attention he was shown by his audience, he did not offer a clue. In fact, his avoidance of the subject was palpable.

"I'm just a caterer," he told them repeatedly.

"And we are just students of architecture," the Padre said, if only to lighten the somber mood. It was understandable. There had to be something fatalistic about the atmosphere. It was not simply a matter of danger or courage. What the Padre had proposed would try the logic of even the most loyal and committed. One had to suspend the traditional judgments just to consider the possibility.

Nor was he afraid to broach the unthinkable. Which was that this idea could turn out to be a suicide mission of epic proportions. But life, the Padre knew, was a suicide mission.

Of all things, death itself could never be cheated. He saw himself in a race, trying to catch up with the man with the scythe who was chasing his daughter and grandson. The President's present course could result only in the death of his daughter and grandson. Moreover, the Padre knew these terrorists were criminals and that the criminal mind would respond only to stimuli outside the President's experience and inclination.

"I don't want to know from nothing," Carlotti was saying, determined, despite the information he was providing, to prove his neutrality. "I only know how we serve the meals."

The Padre nodded, an obvious gesture of absolution designed to soothe the agitated little man. It didn't.

"All I do is cater. I work hard. I build a good business. My partner and me, we do all the good parties in Washington. They know that when you call Carlotti and Mills, they have the best. What you do here is your business. So I lose the account. That's okay. It's a showpiece business. No big money in it. Prestige. That's all I get."

He seemed like a butterfly struggling to disimpale himself from a pin, not quite understanding that all his flapping was useless.

"Where does the President sit?" the Padre asked.

Carlotti frowned, glancing sharply at the Padre. If he was inclined to protest, it was for the briefest moment.

"Usually here. In the table directly in front of the mantel. Under the Lincoln picture. With his back to it. He'll have the Queen on his right." He pointed a stubby finger at the plan.

"And the First Lady?"

"At the next table. She sits facing the President. The King of Spain will be on her right. They are the only two tables of eight."

The Padre concentrated on the plans. He noted two small elevators and a staircase. He pointed to an elevator next to a staircase. "Does this go to the second floor?" The Padre removed the first-floor plan. Under it was the second-floor plan. The problem was that there was no vouching for the accuracy of these plans. There could be hidden corridors, dead ends.

"I don't know." Carlotti shrugged.

"You've never been upstairs? To where they live?"

"Never."

Somehow the Padre was not convinced.

"Just to the First Lady's office," Carlotti added finally.

"And where is that?"

The caterer pointed to a room on the second floor.

"None of the others?" The Padre had pointed to the rooms on the west side of the house, the living quarters. There, he had decided. Carlotti shook his head.

"You went up on the elevator or the stairs?"

"The front stairs." He pointed. "Up this circular staircase."

"But these back stairs go up too."

Carlotti looked around helplessly.

"I was there only that one time I was in her office. This area I know." He pointed to the State Dining Room and the pantry area. "And the kitchen below."

The Padre looked directly at him. He hesitated and replaced the top plan. They had been enlarged from a book on the White House taken out of the public library.

"How many men does it take to serve the meal?" the Padre asked gently.

Carlotti brushed away droplets of sweat that had gathered on his upper lip. Some rolled onto his mustache.

"In the front, eighteen waiters, one to a table. And remember, there are four tables in the Red Room. So four more makes twenty-two. And three bartenders at three stations." He pointed. "Here. Here and here. They come off the receiving line and get a drink. At dinner we serve the wine. Three kinds. White, red, and champagne for the toasts. Everything is served French style."

"And the Secret Service men? Where are they?"

"Everywhere?"

"Like where?"

"In the corners, I think. I don't watch them."

"Are they in the dining rooms during the meal?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

Carlotti thought for a moment. Above all, he seemed to know that he must not appear evasive.

"Six, maybe. But they are also in the other rooms."

"All told then?"

"A dozen, maybe. I don't count. They are very clever in the way they do this. They are all connected with these things in their ears and microphones that come out of their cuffs. You can barely see them."

"And they are armed?"

"Of course." Carlotti seemed to betray a more than casual curiosity about this point. "Uzis under their jackets. They are also clever in the way they are concealed." Suddenly Carlotti showed some hopefulness. "There are all sorts of secret things they have."

"Like what?"

"I'm not sure. I heard."

The Padre rubbed his chin. He knew he would not get much more information from this man. To work, his plan must depend primarily on persuading the Secret Service that he and his men were walking bombs. If the Secret Service failed to believe this, then the plan would collapse. It must appear fatal for the President to resist. And the attack must come as a complete surprise.

"Giuseppe," the Padre asked, offering a smile. "This food you serve. It is good?"

"The best."

"And the service, the waiters?"

He paused and seemed to puff up with pride, as if he were pitching a prospective client. "My waiters are all Europe-trained. No finer in the city. White gloves. Immaculate. The works. I resisted all their efforts to have me use the staff butlers. The White House people are cheap as hell. But they want the best and I give it to them. So I lose money. It's a calling card. I know my business."

The Padre nodded and offered a wan smile.

"Now tell me, Giuseppe, how does the help get in?"

"Get in?" Despite all the energy spent on denying the unthinkable, Carlotti could not contain his obvious wonder at the immensity of the idea. "My God." For a moment he seemed to be struck dumb. The Padre had to prod him to answer.

"How do they do it?" he snapped. No smiles now.

Carlotti shook his head with a kind of shivery jerk.

"We give their social security numbers, they investigate, and they get clearance. When they come through they show IDs to the guards. Then they pass through the security machines." He looked about him suddenly, as if a new idea had miraculously emerged to save him. "They're very very strict about this. They look into backgrounds."

When that information did not move the Padre, he tried another tack, suddenly lowering his voice. "I'm not supposed to say, but they got tasters too."

"Tasters?" Benjy asked.

"Filipino mess men. They make sure the food isn't poisoned."

Quite obviously, Carlotti was trying to build up the concept of White House invincibility, as if to further illustrate the madness of the idea, yet without letting on that he suspected what all this conversation meant.

"No shit," the Canary said.

"Like for kings," Vinnie pointed out.

The exchange broke the tension in the room. But the Padre's thoughts were elsewhere.

"You must make room for four in your crew," the Padre said without raising his eyes from the plan. His tone was emphatic. The blood drained from Carlotti's face. The inevitable had finally struck. He looked as if he might faint. The Padre waited for him to recover.

"But the clearances."

"You do your business. We do ours."

There were ways, the Padre thought. Other men would be investigated, cleared, given permission. Angelo would know what to do.

"I got family, Padre ... I..." Carlotti began, his words swallowed in fear.

"Surely you will be considered innocent," Robert suddenly blurted. His face had gone ashen. The Padre shot him a glance of reproach, shaking his head. Keep out of this. Robert nodded, catching his meaning. But it did not restore his color.

Carlotti's face represented a kaleidoscope of conflicting expressions. A cowardly man, the Padre decided, but too fearful to betray them in advance. Later he would be the first to protest his innocence. On his knees, swearing on the life of his mother, he would tell them that the Padre had put a gun to his head. Poor little Giuseppe, the Padre sighed. I forgive you in advance.

The Padre said, "All you know is that you must hire four outside men. Waiters. Bartenders."

"But are they experienced?" the little man asked, as if it were still another straw to grasp. The Padre suppressed a desire to smile.

"They will learn," the Padre said.

"How can you serve a meal in the White House without experienced men? This takes training. This is French service. One hand pickups with a fork and spoon. They wear white gloves."

"You got to go to college to learn this?" Benjy said. It was an idea that added to the unreality of the scene. Carlotti shrugged.

"They'll get wise," he said. "You can't fool them. There's this woman—"

"This is our business," the Padre said, putting an end to the discussion. There was no way Carlotti could keep this account. "We'll take care of all the other details, social security cards, IDs." He looked at the Pencil, who made his inevitable notes.

"This is the White House, Padre," Carlotti said, his little mouse eyes darting from face to face. He seemed to want to say more, to argue, to protest. The Padre reached out and patted his arm.

"It's all right. You know nothing," the Padre said, as if it were an incantation. Carlotti nodded. But there were tears in his eyes. He no longer bothered to wipe the droplets of sweat that gravity forced over his mustache onto his lips and chin. As he turned, he seemed to stagger. But the Canary was quick, grasping him about the arms as he led him out the back door.

"So who knows about waiting tables and being a bartender?" the Padre asked when the Canary returned. They all raised a hand.

"You are all liars," he said, but he was greatly pleased at their reaction.

"Actually," Robert said, "I waited on tables for three years when I was in college. Good restaurants. I was excellent. I'd be perfect casting."

"No way," the Padre said.

"I'd be more credible than these people," Robert insisted.

"We must end this, Robert," the Padre said. "It wouldn't work."

"Why?"

The Padre looked at him and smiled benignly.

"In the first place," he said, "you're not Italian."

Benjy let out a high-pitched laugh. The others joined in.

"That's absurd," Robert snapped, "and you know it. I have every right."

The Padre nodded, reached out and grasped Robert's upper arm.

"It is your personal life, Robert. I know that. I know how much Maria and Joey mean to you. But we are dealing here with what is not your business."

"It is my—" Robert said.

The Padre shot him a stern glance that quieted him in mid-sentence.

"It is not your professional business," the Padre explained gently. "Besides—" he paused and sucked in a deep breath "—Maria and Joey will need you."

"Surely there is something useful I can do."

The Padre contemplated the request.

"You will stay with Angelo at Mrs. Santorelli's, Luigi's sister." He turned toward Angelo. "She is a good cook, yes?"

Angelo kissed his fingers in confirmation. More important, the Padre knew, her apartment, just two blocks from Luigi's Trattoria, was one of the organization's many absolutely safe places in the neighborhood. A good church-going woman, Luigi's sister was part of the early-warning network long established by the organization. Her husband, Giovanni, had been a made member until he had been gunned down by a rival family in less tranquil times. Aside from the Church, her loyalty was to the Padre and the organization.

"I still say—" Robert began.

"Enough," the Padre said. It was a dismissal. The Padre turned to the others.

"You, Rocco, must stay outside too."

Rocco nodded.

The Padre would need both these men, Angelo to facilitate what was necessary and Rocco to keep the organization going in his absence, which could be forever. In any event, Rocco could be the only one to succeed him. And yet he could not simply put his mantle on him. Rocco would have to demonstrate his authority, as the Padre had demonstrated his ability to command after his father's death.

"Now someone call Luigi to teach us how to be good waiters," the Padre said.