15

ABOVE ALL, THE PADRE KNEW, however carefully one planned, one could always expect an unforeseen problem. Carmine's uniform had presented a formidable obstacle. It had been intended that the four men would carry the liquid explosives on their bodies in long plastic flaps. Because of the extreme sensitivity of the liquid, it could be detonated by impact. They had tested exactly how hard this impact might be by dropping a tiny bag of it from a height of six feet. It had exploded with a surprising thunderclap. It could also be exploded by a sharp blow from a metal hammer.

The Pencil had found the best boom-boom man on the East Coast, a safecracker who was a fanatic on the subject and who eagerly lectured them on "the exciting new advances in explosive technology." He was tall, with long hair. He wore little round glasses and affected what seemed like a slight lisping British accent.

"It's the latest trend," the man told them. "In my business, you have to keep up."

"And you are certain it will pass through all known detectors?" the Padre inquired.

"Like your own skin. But every new idea spawns an evasive action and the technology to detect it is coming fast. At the moment it's clear sailing. Me, I prefer the plastic for my line of work. Not as unstable. But you can't disguise it like the liquid. And some of the new detectors can pick up the plastic explosives. Then there's the detonators. No matter how small they are, there is always the risk of detection. But not the liquid. That's why I will never fly again. Some asshole will carry it on board disguised as cough syrup or booze."

They had actually sent someone through the airport detectors to test his assertion and it was confirmed.

"The only problem," the man began, "is convincing other people that this stuff is really dangerous. Not too many people know what it can really do. Looks innocent. Like water. But it can do a nasty job on flesh and bones."

"How much force would be required to set it off?" the Padre had asked.

"Depends on how the substance is contained," the boom-boom man said authoritatively. "The less air, the less evaporation. And, of course, the greater the density, the less impact required."

"What would happen if it were carried in plastic bags?"

The boom-boom man thought for a moment. According to the Pencil, he had an uncanny record of cracking safes, although he had spent a decade of his life in various prisons on two continents.

"Plastic bags?" The man rubbed his chin, and the Padre studied him as he thought. "Soft?"

"Yes."

The man's eyes narrowed behind his round glasses, although he tactfully avoided any special study of the Padre's face. He had gotten the message.

"Like a fall?"

"Depends on how high and how hard. Also on the surface." The man sucked in a deep breath. "And the density. How thick?"

"You tell me," the Padre said. It was a command and the man knew it.

"About as high as the seat of a chair from a standing position to a hard uncarpeted floor with a two-inch density. Change the variables and you got a different result." He scratched his head. "Man wants to make a weapon out of himself, this is it." He looked at the floor. "Never thought of it like that," he said innocently. "Thing is, though, if the bag leaks, or is sliced open, you get nothing but wet pants." He laughed.

The Pencil had paid the man and had urged him to take a long ocean cruise.

The uniform Carlotti had provided for the Canary was too small to be worn over the flaps of explosive. By then it was too late for changes. Carmine would have to go in without it.

Luigi had given them a cram course in basic table service. It was, of course, less than adequate, since Luigi's knowledge of fancy service was sparse. It had come mostly from working as a busboy on four crossings of the old Queen Mary.

They had taken turns in being the server and the served. The Padre had never realized how clumsy he was, how little he had noticed when other people served him. Luckily, Benjy had some experience in bartending. He was also the only one who looked presentable in his uniform.

They had driven down from Manhattan and checked into a motel on the Virginia side of the Potomac, where Carlotti met them. He brought with him plates, silverware, large serving trays, and implements, even chunks of food as props for further instruction. Understandably, the man was nervous. His hands shook when he demonstrated how the food was scooped and served.

The Canary, with his big clumsy fingers, proved the worst. The Padre and Vinnie were barely passable. For a moment he was almost tempted to call Robert, who had protested to the last. But the Padre had been adamant.

"We will stay in touch through Angelo," the Padre had assured him.

But the matter of Carmine's clumsiness nagged at him.

"We'll put him in the Red Room," Carlotti suggested. He was still fantasizing about his professional standards. The Padre did not tell him it was highly unlikely that the meal would reach the main course.

Carlotti informed them they would be serving trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres during the cocktail hour while the President and his party stood on the receiving line. It was, the Padre knew, a crucial time. If they blew it then, the entire enterprise could fail.

They arrived, as Carlotti had instructed, at the East Gate of the White House at precisely 6 P.M. along with others among the serving help, many of whom eyed them curiously.

The Padre had reluctantly shaved and carefully groomed his hair. He hoped that no one would recognize him. Actually, he had not been photographed for years, and the only pictures ever taken of him showed him with a three-day growth of beard and mussed-up hair. Above all, he had taken great pains never to look like a greaseball. Looking in the mirror now, he felt, for the first time in his life, that he resembled one. Good, he decided. An excellent disguise.

"You work this place before?" a man asked the Padre as they stood on line waiting to get through the first checkpoint, manned by the White House police.

"First time," the Padre muttered.

"What happened to Harry and Joe?" the man persisted.

"Other commitments," the Padre answered patiently.

Carlotti had, a week earlier, given their new social security numbers to the security people along with the dates of birth of the cardholders. They were guaranteed numbers with matching IDs, Maryland licenses, and credit cards. The names were authentic and fresh, of bona fide living men, all of them clean under scrutiny, guaranteed to pass muster except under the most scrupulous investigation. Best of all, they were carefully matched.

Later, the men who were being impersonated would be shocked by the allegation, although they would be cleared as genuinely innocent, which they were. The organization understood the reliance of investigative agencies on computers and had adapted to the new technology with a few tricks of their own. Yet, no matter how advanced the technology, all of it was people-dependent. And people represented the vulnerable soft underbelly of all technology. People had flaws, made mistakes, could be compromised.

As they moved forward the man who had asked the questions frowned and shook his head.

"Just surprised to see so many new faces," he said.

"A job's a job," the Padre responded. Beads of sweat had already sprouted on his forehead. The flaps of explosives were heavy under his uniform.

Benjy was ahead of him on the line. The Padre watched as the man in uniform looked at his ID, then checked his list on a clipboard and waved him through. They had memorized their new names and birth dates. The Padre was pleased. He had no anxiety about the numbers. Providing IDs was a highly efficient operation of the organization.

Ahead, he could see the frame of the metal detector. It was manned by three uniformed men, with two others in civilian clothes observing. From the little buttons in their ears, the Padre could tell that they were Secret Service.

He came through the first checkpoint without incident and watched as Benjy moved through the detector. The uniformed men were intense about their job. They watched the monitor with deep concentration, and the Secret Service men's eyes seemed to bore through everyone as they passed through. The Padre could not deny his anxiety. Suppose he was stopped and searched? The flaps were hanging from a harness that hung from his shoulders and reached down front and back. He was literally encased in it. Even the most cursory hand pat would detect them.

It surprised him to move through the detector so easily. He was also, inexplicably, annoyed. They were supposed to be protecting the President of the United States, for chrissakes. The uniformed men smiled at him and he returned the pleasantry. Even the Secret Service men seemed less grim. He patted his side pocket where he had put the typewritten note. Four copies had been made. Each man carried one.

Would they be convinced? The Padre hoped so, although he knew that none of them looked either suicidal or fanatic. He would settle for determined. Why then would they have put themselves in this position? If the others were bothered by the prospect, they did not voice any objections. None of them had families. The organization was their whole life. Loyalty was fundamental to their character.

After passing through the machine, the Padre lingered in the corridor, pretending interest in the pictures displayed there, photographs of earlier days in the White House. From the corner of his eye he watched Vinnie move through without incident. He was concerned about the Canary. It hadn't occurred to him, perhaps because he was so used to the man's heavy features and bulky body, that Carmine was so different-looking, so bovine, so suspect.

Now he glanced at him as he towered above the others on the line. The man was slavishly devoted, loyal beyond the shadow of a doubt. He would fall on a grenade if it endangered the Padre's life. Indeed, the Padre's well-being and safety were his only reasons for living. It would be unthinkable to be parted from Carmine. At that moment he wished he had not brought him.

He could tell the Secret Service men were eyeing him with more than cursory curiosity. He passed through the first checkpoint without incident, but as he moved through the detector the Padre noted that one of the Secret Service men nodded. A White House policeman then whispered something to the Canary. The Padre watched as the policeman and Carmine, who towered above him, moved aside.

Benjy and Vinnie had already disappeared beyond the corner of the corridor. They would proceed along the lower hall to the downstairs kitchen. There they would get their last-minute instructions and move up to the State Dining Room, where they would set out the beginning course. It would be waiting for the diners when they arrived.

The Padre moved toward another picture display where he could get a better view of Carmine and the policeman. He watched as the Canary unbuttoned his uniform jacket. No way to save him, the Padre thought, until he realized that the Canary was not carrying any explosives. With clumsy fingers, Carmine was opening his shirt. He reached through the opening to draw out a huge St. Christopher medal, which obviously had been picked up by the sensitive detector. He saw the policeman smile and lift the medal for the Secret Service man to see. The Secret Service man nodded and turned his gaze back to those men still coming through the detector.

Then the Padre proceeded along the corridor, waiting for Carmine to catch up with him.

"It works. He was looking out for me," Carmine said.

"Who?"

"St. Christopher."

The Padre smiled and patted the Canary's arm.

In the kitchen, Carlotti scurried about giving last-minute instructions. He was obviously ignoring what had occurred, carrying on as if it were business as usual.

"You, the new men," he cried imperiously. This was his turf and he was not going to give the impression that he was under anyone's domination. The Padre admired his courage. Good, he thought, confirming his view that Carlotti would not bend until the end. Then he would surrender completely.

He assigned tables to the men, pointing to a large diagram on the wall. The Padre would be two tables from the President. Benjy would remain in the pantry mixing drinks. Vinnie was assigned to the table nearest the door and Carmine to the comparative Siberia of the Red Room.

Then Carlotti led the serving crew up a staircase, through the pantry, where he stopped briefly to explain how the food would arrive in the large serving elevator. He warned them it must be dispensed with split-second efficiency. After the explanation, the crew filed out to the State Dining Room.

The Padre was struck first with the profusion of roses—reds, pinks, yellows. There were two huge vases filled with them on the mantelpiece below the picture of Abraham Lincoln. In the center of the mantelpiece was another huge bouquet, which was replicated in a smaller version on each yellow tablecloth. The candle-shaped bulbs on the large gold-plated chandelier were lit as well as the sconces that hung between white, fluted bas-relief pillars. Lights were reflected on every piece of crystal and plate. It was, the Padre thought, a breathtakingly beautiful sight.

For a brief moment he was mesmerized by it. It seemed so incongruous with the act he was about to perform. Finally, reality intruded, coming in the form of a question posed to himself. How was it possible that such festivity could be going on in the face of his own sadness? In an odd way, he felt foolish, out of step. Nevertheless, his instinct was confirmed. Nobody really cared. If tragedy did not strike you or yours, it simply did not exist.

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 paper. 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.

Behind him, he heard panicked voices and the clatter of shoes. He paid little attention. The circle listed further sideways. Then, suddenly, the Padre felt resistance. They had been inhibited from falling by the banister. They rested now. He could feel and hear them taking deep breaths.

"Now forward," the Padre said. His voice had weakened. But the Secret Service men who had preceded them had melted away, as well as the others who followed. They moved upward haltingly, step by step, finding a foothold, then rising in unison until they reached the upper landing.

They were in the long central hall. Quickly he took in the brightly lit crystal chandeliers, the polished double partners' desk, the beautiful picture of the lady and her two children on the far wall, the plants and figures of animals on shelves, the gold carpet.

Secret Service agents were posted everywhere, Uzis at the ready. A line of men was stretched across the corridor, beginning at a point where a door opened to what the Padre knew as the yellow Oval Room.

Although the men were in different positions, no longer in a tight circle around them, the basic situation had not changed. It was still a stalemate. The Padre's circle had stopped moving just beyond the partners' desk at the entrance to what the Padre realized was the west sitting room.

"Now what?" Fellows asked.

"You will please order your men from the west side of the house," the Padre said.

He had studied the plans for hours, picking the best possible place for them to be with the President and First Lady. He had chosen the west quarter of the house for a variety of reasons. The plans showed that by closing off the sliding doors that separated the west sitting hall from the central hall and the corridor that connected the President's study with the master bedroom, they could effectively seal off this section from the rest of the house. Also, in that area was a small kitchen and service pantry, the family dining room, the First Lady's dressing room, and a bathroom. After all, they had to eat, had to perform ablutions, had to sleep.

"Won't we need guns?" Benjy asked the Padre, loud enough to be heard across the hall.

"No guns," Fellows said.

"We have no need for them," the Padre said.

He looked at Fellows, now nervous and pasty-faced. The Padre was certain that the exact circumstances of his actions had never been seriously considered by the Secret Service as feasible. "Now please remove your men to the east side of the central hall."

He was being deliberately specific, illustrating his expertise and sense of authority. That, too, was important. They must believe in his authority.

"Let the boundary between us be the partners' desk."

Fellows hesitated. This was his turf. He seemed humiliated by the request.

"For chrissakes, follow his instructions, Ike," the President said.

"We're setting up a command post out here," Fellows said. He was tentative and hesitant.

"I have no objection," the Padre said. "But I strongly advise that you do not pass the present line. In the interests of our mutual safety and the safety of your men."

"Thank you." Fellows sneered.

"Now there are certain ground rules that must be established," the Padre said.

"Jesus," Fellows hissed.

"Under no circumstances must you interfere with us. No sneak attacks. No heroics. We will, from time to time, give you instructions. For example, we will need meals, perhaps other necessities." He was deliberately vague. "You must follow these instructions to the letter."

"And if, for some reason, the instructions are not followed?" Fellows asked.

"That would be a mistake," the Padre said. "You must understand. We do not intend to kill the President. Or ourselves. Don't make us do it. Let us proceed under that idea."

"What is it you want?" Fellows asked.

"I will explain everything. I promise you."

"May I ask who you are?" Fellows asked.

"All in due time," the Padre said.

"All right then. How about a name? Surely we're entitled to a name."

"You know the best way we can establish a relationship?" the Padre asked. Fellows seemed momentarily at a loss for words.

"By not asking any questions," the Padre said.

It was, the Padre knew, rubbing their noses in it. The great Secret Service had been circumvented on their own turf. It was an organizational humiliation. He hoped it would not prod them to take chances. By now they would be taking all available countermeasures, bringing all their technological expertise to bear. He was very sure they would be scouring the East Room and the pantry for prints.

The Padre and his men had worn white gloves. But the Padre knew that, sooner of later, their identity would be discovered. Better later than sooner. There had been no need to worry about a credibility problem. Their choice of weapon had been more than adequate. But Fellows was still not conforming, still hesitating on the order to withdraw his men.

"Mr. Fellows," the Padre said in an effort to cement a reasonable working relationship. "All your questions will be answered. I promise you."

The Padre counted twenty men, all with Uzis drawn. They took positions behind what had become the imaginary line, and the Padre started to move the circle backward. They reached the west sitting room. At the doorway, the Padre paused and moved the group first to one side, then to the other. They maneuvered the group inside the west sitting room and closed the sliding wooden doors. Still, he would not let them unlock their arms.

"One more simple job," the Padre said, moving the group to the presidential bedroom. He paused for a moment, surveying the connecting corridor between the bedroom and the President's study. He heard movement in the closet, behind the President's clothes.

"Mr. Fellows is not a man of his word," the Padre said. "You people there in the closet, I would suggest you tell him that."

Clothes rustled and three men hopped out from behind the clothes and dashed out toward the President's study. He closed the door. With a sigh of relief, the Padre began the process of unlocking all their arms. They were stiff, and each of them flayed the air to get the circulation going.

The Padre pointed to two chairs and signaled the President and the First Lady to be seated. Benjy, as he had been instructed, closed the draperies and tore out the pulley ropes. He threw one to Vinnie, who let out a ten-foot lead and tied one end around his waist and the other around the President's. It was a tight, complicated knot, one that could not be undone without effort. Benjy repeated the process with himself and the First Lady.

The Padre instructed Carmine to clear away the objects from the desk and place it against the door to the corridor. That task completed, the group again moved into the west sitting room. Creating a room out of this end of the large upper hall, with its huge rosette window, seemed like an afterthought. A brilliant floodlight provided a striking back-light to the window's latticework, making it look like a giant spiderweb. Such a pretty window, the Padre thought as he pulled the heavy gold draperies, shutting out the glare. Then he instructed Carmine to move the couches and place them side by side in front of the sliding doors.

"Good you came, Carmine," he said, patting the Canary's back. The big man turned and showed him a broad, partially toothless smile. A compliment from the boss was all he ever needed.

The Padre stepped into the dining room, inspected it, then moved to the upstairs pantry beside it. Although it had facilities for cooking, the pantry was sparsely equipped and looked as if the main meals were prepared in the kitchen two floors below. Then he inspected the entire suite as the others followed him with their eyes. He kneeled on the floor and looked under the furniture, then upended all the chairs.

"Maybe the chandeliers," the President said.

"Are you sure?"

"I've always suspected them."

He instructed Carmine to stand on tables and check the chandeliers for any signs of listening bugs. They waited until he went through all the rooms. Carmine returned from the dining room, his last stop, shaking his head.

"Good to know," the President said.

"Why not check behind the pictures," the First Lady said. "Saw it in a movie once."

The Padre nodded, and Carmine proceeded to look behind the pictures. He found one bug behind a painting of a beach scene hung on the south wall of the west hall, holding it up for all to see.

"Speak of the obvious," the President said. "But then they didn't have much time."

"Unless they were there all along," the Padre said.

"Nothing would surprise me," the President said, casting a quick glance at the First Lady.

Carmine found five more bugs, all wireless and remote and magnetized to metal picture hangers. They had covered each room. The Padre found an antique nutcracker on one of the tables and handed it to Carmine, who crushed each microphone one at a time.

"Do you play bridge?" the First Lady asked, looking at Benjy, to whom she was attached.

Benjy chuckled.

"A real joker," he said.

The Padre turned toward the Canary.

"Carmine, I want you to stay right there." He pointed to the entrance to the presidential bedroom, which opened off the west hall. "There are only two places where they could rush us. So watch and listen."

The Padre moved into the dining room and signaled the others to follow. He placed them around the polished rectangular table, and pulled another chair to join them.

"You could have at least let me finish my main course," the President said.

"Wasn't bad at all," the First Lady said. She sighed. "All that planning for nothing." She looked at the Padre. "You sure loused up the evening."

"Okay," the President said. "Now that we have our appointment, what are you selling?"

All this small talk and wisecracks, the Padre thought, was a defense mechanism.

"I am the father of Maria and the grandfather of Joseph Michaels," the Padre said.

"Who?"

The President turned to the First Lady, whose expression registered no recognition of the names.

"The woman and child who were taken hostage," the Padre prodded.

"Oh my God," the President said. "How stupid of me."

"Not stupid. It is simply not in the forefront of your mind."

"True. But it obviously is in yours." The President seemed to stop in mid-thought. "I understand. I want you to know that."

"We have two children—" the First Lady began.

"I am not here for understanding," the Padre said.

In the long silence that followed, the President and the First Lady exchanged glances. For the first time since they were seized, the Padre detected in their expressions a sense of tangible fear.

"I am as helpless as you are," the President said, his throat scratchy. He coughed into his fist, clearing it. "I've tried everything."

"Not quite everything," the Padre interjected.