16

IF YOU SHOW THEM FEAR, the President thought, they will capitalize on it. Fortunately, he had been too stunned to react normally. He was sure it was the same for Amy. Not one of the scenarios ever posed by the Secret Service had mentioned this possibility. He always figured some little piece of the puzzle had been kept from him, as if he could not be trusted. That was the most difficult part of being President, coping with gaps in the flow of information. Too many middlemen deciding what he should be allowed to know. Now he was damned angry. But he kept that fury hidden as well. If he ever got out of this madness, heads would roll.

He had expected that his captors would make a play to leave the White House. It surprised him that they hadn't. Here in the living quarters, surrounded by armed agents, what did these men expect to accomplish? Sooner or later they would have to surrender. Or die. They had left themselves no middle ground.

Was the same true for him and Amy? Hell, he shrugged, summoning what he suspected was more bravado than courage, he had had a good run. If he had to choose a place to die, this one was as good as any. In fact, the best.

Thankfully, the Secret Service had not forced the issue. Biding one's time was always the best choice. If only he could resist showing his fear, hold it from their view, keep his mind clear, alert for opportunities.

He had no doubt that the men were carrying liquid explosives. Indeed, he had felt the sacks in which it was contained beneath the leader's clothing. Soft. Pliable. A kind of waterproof plastic container somehow fastened to their bodies. Able to explode on impact. He believed that implicitly as his mind searched for some countermeasure. Perhaps the slash of a razor blade, clean cut through clothes and plastic, might safely disarm them. He would think about that. Think hard.

Contemplating the havoc that these men had wrought was daunting. The very idea of the presidency was about to undergo a metamorphosis. Who the hell was in charge at this moment? He had sent the Vice President on one of those endless combination funeral and goodwill tours. The idea was to keep him out of the country, out of the political mainstream. A string of world leaders had died in recent weeks and Martin Chalmers was fast becoming the perfect mourner. He wondered how long it would take him to get home. Twenty hours. Poetic justice.

He had used Marty, used his regional clout and antecedents to get elected, but he never brought him into the fold. Now all the people on his own team, the people whose careers, ambitions, jobs, and futures depended on him, were in deep trouble. And if Marty's plane blew up or he stepped on a rusty nail, who then? The Speaker of the House. That turkey. Leadership in depth, he thought. Sarcasm aside, these men who had taken him hostage weren't as clever as they appeared. Didn't they know about the damned Twenty-fifth Amendment for chrissakes?

They were all seated around the dining-room table now. The heavy blue draperies had been drawn, a remarkably perfect fit. Not a rim of light from the powerful floodlights seeped out from where the edges joined. The crystal chandelier above them was lit. The table, an ironic counterpoint to this incongruous situation, was, as always, permanently set for four, with the usual centerpiece of fresh flowers, plates, crystal glasses, and silverware.

"I want my daughter and my grandson. I want them freed. I want them home," the man said. He spoke quickly, his tone commanding, yet surprisingly gentle.

"You know," the President said. "I really feel for you. But we have a problem. I represent two hundred and thirty-odd million souls. Any crackpot demands something, he takes an American. You tell me what I'm supposed to do."

"That, Mr. President, is why I am here," the man answered calmly.

"He's done everything humanly possible," Amy interjected. "You really are off the wall on this."

"Amy, please," the President said.

"It's an exercise in futility and he should know it," Amy persisted, directing her attention to the President. "It's wrong. What they're doing is just as inhuman as what is happening to his daughter and grandson."

She turned to the leader. "You're not really going to blow yourselves up. This whole thing is silly.... "Her voice trailed off. The men watched her impassively. She waited, then shook her head and said, "Just a stupid woman, right?"

They were tolerating her, waiting. In the distance, he heard the telephone's ring. It seemed so inconsistently normal under the circumstances. The men exchanged glances.

"It doesn't ring in here. Only lights up," the President said, pointing to a console device with a speaker-phone attachment on one corner of the buffet with a number of buttons, one of them flashing. "It can reach to the dining table. I'm supposed to be always in touch."

"Of course," the leader said.

The telephone continued to ring in the distance.

"Let it," the leader said.

"Can you imagine what's going on out there?" the President asked.

He could barely imagine it himself. To contemplate the ramifications staggered him. The country was a rudderless juggernaut. He wondered whether provisions had ever been made for this eventuality.

"Now, Mr. President," the leader said calmly, "all I ask is for your cooperation. I know that this is very difficult for you."

"How kind of you to understand," Amy snapped.

"And for Mrs. President," the leader continued without missing a beat, "we must try to ignore the circumstances and work together."

"May I ask you a question?" The President was genuinely confused by the man's tone.

The man contemplated the question for a moment, then nodded.

"My wife and I are here under the most terrible conditions of duress. You claim to be wearing an explosive device that could blow us all to hell. You have the entire world holding its breath. We're here, for chrissakes, in the goddamned White House, and you have the gall to ask my cooperation. Would you please tell me what the devil is going on here?"

"I have only one thought in mind," the man replied. "To get my daughter and grandson home safely. I am willing to die for that mission. I'm sorry that it has come to this. We have, it seems, a simple disagreement in method."

"He's crazy," the President said, turning to his wife, then exploring the faces of the other men seated around the table. But when his gaze lighted on the face of the man to whom he was attached by the cord, he shook his head. The man's expression had become a mass of dark wrinkles.

"Who are you?" the President asked, turning to the leader.

"My name is Padronelli," the man said.

"Who?"

"The Padre," the younger man said.

The President was genuinely confused.

"You never heard of the Padre?"

"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.