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.

"Reach?"

"We can place our people anywhere. There are no boundaries. We have the necessary assets and the ability to use them. As a matter of fact," Harkins added proudly, "we are not as inefficient as we are portrayed in the media. The truth is, we court the image. Gives us more leverage in short strokes."

"Good." The Padre nodded, not completely understanding the language, but thoroughly understanding the implications.

For most of the early morning, banging on his keyboard, consulting his monitor, Harkins was able to provide the Padre with the information to concoct any scenario that might have occurred to him. The Padre absorbed this information, sifted and refined it in his mind. It became a cram course on terrorism and the groups that perpetrated these acts.

The names of these groups formed what appeared to be an endless parade on the monitor. They were not confined to the Middle East. There were the Irish, the Basques, the Sikhs, the Croats, and on and on, espousing causes that sometimes were centuries old. Impossible causes, pursued by people with obsessive fantasies and implausible dreams.

Harkins relished his presentation. Although the Padre was interested primarily only in what affected his daughter and grandson, he watched and listened with respect. It was, he agreed, a remarkable system. More important, it held the key to releasing Maria and Joey.

"The man who leads the group that holds your daughter is Ahmed Safari, thirty-seven, a hard case, a homosexual, a wife and sick teenage son in Jordan. Born in a Lebanese refugee camp." The intelligence became microscopic, tracing every aspect of the man's life and his present circumstances.

The Padre nodded at intervals, continuing to absorb the information, keeping what was essential, rejecting what was not useful, translating it into organizational terms he could understand, searching for vulnerabilities that would strike fear.

"And you know where she is being kept?" the Padre asked.

"She and the boy are being moved around and held in various safe places in the Muslim section of Beirut. We have an asset in the group. But the man is clever. He rotates his people. Mostly young boys."

"And you have your own groups that could go in, button men?"

"Yes, we do."

"They will obey?"

"If we pay them enough. In our business, people are mercenaries."

"Of course," the Padre said.

"And how fast can you transmit orders?"

"Remarkably so."

"And weapons?"

"We have access to those as well." Harkins smiled and coughed into his fist. His face darkened. "Problem is..."

"Yes."

"We have to cover our tracks. Legitimize our actions, clean it up for public consumption. The fact is, you can't run a covert action program with those Congressional oversight idiots having to know every move beforehand. It's ridiculous. But they do hold the purse strings. In the end, though, the authority for all our actions still flows from the President."

The Padre was getting the message. Harkins was asserting his own power in this situation. He would act, of course, but only on orders from the President, tendered after manipulative and vague briefings. So, the Padre thought, he needed presidential authority to cover his ass. Yet he was also telling the Padre that this computer was his weapon and he was the only one present who could fire it.

The Padre stood up and paced the dining room. Then he stopped at the buffet and poured a glass of water from a crystal decanter. The ice had melted. It was warm, but he drank it anyway. He was conscious of Harkins studying him, waiting.

"The leaders of these countries who finance them..." The Padre paused. His thoughts were coming together now. "They have families, of course."

"Of course."

"Are they heavily protected?"

"Some," Harkins replied. "Many have children or grandchildren in school in this country."

The Padre smiled. Harkins remained poker-faced, but the Padre knew now where they were both headed.

"You know where?"

"Yes." Now Harkins smiled too. "But we have no mandate to operate within our borders."

"We would, of course, respect each other's territory," the Padre said.

"Of course."

"And this fellow who holds my daughter?"

"In Jordan he has a son he adores," Harkins answered eagerly.

The Padre remained silent. He had learned that certain characteristics were common to all men. Some feared death. Some feared dishonor. Some feared losing loved ones, especially children, who represented a sense of continuity, of immortality. Some feared a loss of power, cojones sliced off, a worse fate than death to a man who knew its full meaning. There were others, of course. Every man had his fears.

"Tell me, Mr. Harkins," the Padre asked. It was a question that was nagging at him, although he had not been fully conscious of it. "What plans did you people consider?"

Harkins wet his lips.

"It was only gamesmanship," he said, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "You know, making up scenarios, concocting different situations, most of which are politically impossible to carry out."

"Like what?"

"A kind of tit for tat. Do unto them what they did unto us. They hijack planes. We hijack planes. They shoot up airports. We shoot up airports. They plant bombs. We plant bombs. They take people ... You get my drift. Problem is, wherever you put these ideas forward in a kind of committee, they get sidetracked. Too inflammatory. Too immoral. The beast in us gets like the beast in them. You know the arguments."

Harkins hesitated suddenly. Despite his earlier eagerness, he seemed to pull back. He had drawn his line.

"I just give options and take orders," Harkins said.

The Padre nodded.

"All right then, Mr. Harkins. I think it is time we woke the President."