24

FROM THE MOMENT they had been brought to the living quarters, Amy Bernard had been thinking about the little silver-plated .22-caliber pistol that lay in the rear of the drawer of the table next to her side of their king-size bed. Without her husband's knowledge, she had put it into an empty metal pastille box and had brought it with her from their home in the Kalorama section of Washington where they had lived when Paul was a senator.

Was it fear or simply whim that made her take it with her? Certainly she had been frightened at the prospect of living in the goldfish bowl of the presidency. It was not comforting to remember what had happened to Jack Kennedy and Ronald Reagan. Sometimes the knowledge of its presence passed vaguely across her mind. No one had ever asked her about the pastille box. Indeed, she frequently opened the drawer where she kept a set of reading glasses, a roll of Tums, and a box of tissues.

She knew it was loaded, six rounds. And accurate only at close range.

She had taken a bath, amused by the incongruity of soaking in the warm comfortable steamy water while strangers kept her imprisoned in her own home. She had taken off her evening gown and dressed in comfortable slacks and a blouse, ideal captive wear.

Then, instead of her bedroom, which was reserved for Paul and his constant companion, they had allowed her to use the bed in her dressing room. An interesting cell, all orange, with its white leaf prints and the dressing table deliberately put in front of the window for better light. Useless now. They had drawn the blinds of both windows.

Her "keeper" had carefully sat down on the upholstered straight chair and put his feet on the round antique table, a travesty that she ignored. No point in raising issues that had nothing to do with her objective, which was to get her hands on that pistol.

"May I read?" she asked pleasantly.

The young man shrugged an indifferent consent.

She looked around the room. On a little table she found a book in an antique binding. She had never opened it. She had been sitting on the edge of the couch where she had often taken catnaps. Cautiously, she got up, walked to the table, opened the book. To her surprise it was printed in French.

"My glasses," she said coyly.

"Where are they?"

She paused. All make-believe, she decided, like when she was in a school play. Pause briefly, flutter eyelids, smile thinly, show uncertainty.

"In the drawer in the master bedroom, the table next to my bed. May I get them?"

Her mind had devised a half-formed plan. She would open the drawer, remove her glasses, and the pastille box. He would be watching her.

"The President is sleeping there," the young man said. "I wouldn't wake him. He'll need his rest."

"How thoughtful," she said, angered by her own sarcasm. She wasn't following the stage directions.

"You should be getting rest yourself. Keep you in a better mental state."

For what, she wondered.

"I won't wake him," she said, ignoring what she decided was a preposterous remark. Why would he care?

He thought for a moment, then nodded his okay and stood up.

They moved through the doorway into the darkened bedroom. She could see her husband's form on the bed. He was under the covers on his side of the bed. On top of the covers, fully dressed, occupying her side of the bed, attached by the ubiquitous umbilical cord, was the ugly man, Vinnie. He was instantly alert. The other man, Carmine, sat near the desk, his chair slanted against the wall, his feet flung out in front of him.

"She wants her glasses," the young man said.

She walked toward the bed, opened the drawer, felt around for her glasses, then quickly moved her hand to grasp the pastille box. Even in the half-light he was alert to her movements, watching her hand. She drew out her glasses and held the pastille box in the other.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Candy," she replied, ignoring the pounding of her heart.

She walked calmly through the door to her dressing room and arranged herself lengthwise on the couch, book in hand. Please let him move to the other side of the room. He followed her, stood over her for a moment, studying her. Then he bent over. Her insides clenched and a sudden chill made her body tremble. He was looking at the candy label, squinting.

"Pastilles," she said. "French." She showed him the open pages of the book she was reading. "Like the book I'm reading. Parlez-vous français?"

He watched her for a moment more, then moved back to the chair, again putting his feet on the antique table. After a while she flicked the switch of the lamp that provided light for the couch, moved the pastille box under one of the pillows, and closed her eyes. Yes, she decided, she would need her rest. Her alertness was essential.