26

THIS SUMMIT WAS BEING HELD in an underground bunker. Ahmed enjoyed the irony. He also took pleasure in sitting at a round table as an equal. In this game personal symbols were important. Dress, facial hair, hat, sidearms, and, above all, the illusion of noncontrivance. Arafat was a master at it. His barber must be a genius to keep that seven-day growth immaculately authentic.

He had dressed for the occasion. Tailored khakis, a powder-blue beret and matching silk cravat, a pair of wrap-around sun goggles, a Smith & Wesson 9-mm automatic pistol tucked into a spring shoulder holster, and a waist belt with pockets for four eight-shot magazines. He had trimmed his bushy mustache and cut off its side droops.

There were eight of them around the table. Number twos mostly. It would be unseemly for the number ones to appear, responding to this summons by an upstart. At one time or another he had worked for all of them.

His contacts were with those on the third and fourth levels, buying his expertise in managing these enterprises. Most of them, over the years, had become nameless, then faceless, finally merely ciphers. Also, he claimed ideological neutrality, a strong asset, considering the competing religious and national animosities. He was a professional among fanatics.

"I am a gun," he would tell them. "A gun has no ideology, only accuracy."

Iranians, Syrians, Libyans, Palestinians of three factions, and Shiites were represented, whoever had organizational strength, finances, the big boys in this business. Remarkably, it had taken less than twelve hours to get them all together.

Of course they were uneasy, not knowing what to expect. Only yesterday he had been characterized as a blunderer, a misguided missile, although his boldness had given him a kind of cachet. Boldness was currency in this business.

He had taken the woman and her child as an after-thought, a booby prize. As it turned out it was the hottest ticket in the hostage game. His once-faltering status had skyrocketed overnight.

There had been the usual preliminaries and rituals of Arab politeness, an exchange of pleasantries that transcended the fierce and often bloody competition. But the rule, as he well knew, was to bring the rhetoric but leave the weapons at the door.

It took some time for the politeness to run its course. The fundamental question before the group was how best to use this sudden windfall of power. For Ahmed the question was how to use his prizes for his own purposes.

Ahmed's objective was to get them to coalesce, behind him, to follow his lead. Quite simply, and they all knew it, he had the President of the United States by the balls.

"What are you suggesting then?" the Libyan asked. It seemed to Ahmed a consensus-type question.

"We've got to demand more than we have been asking," Ahmed said.

"But they haven't caved in to our original demand to release our brothers," the Libyan said. He was a middle-aged man with a head of tight gray curls, thick moist lips, and hooded brown eyes. In this group he had spread Qaddafi's money around in great buttery gobs, which, he felt, gave him the right to wear the mantle of spokesman.

"That's the point. We have to make the kind of demand that will force them all to take notice."

"So then," the Libyan said. He did not look at the others for approval. "I agree that we might ask for something larger. But the ultimate humiliation for the U.S. would be to get them to negotiate with us. That would be a victory in itself."

"A victory, yes. But not a route."

"I don't understand."

Ahmed had their attention. He must be cautious, he told himself.

"Up to now we have been delivering gnat bites to the rump of the horse. Annoying, yes. But nothing has occurred to bring our cause one step closer to fruition." He was deliberately vague here, since they all harbored variations of the cause.

"What we need to do now is to deliver a hammer blow, to get the horse to go berserk, to scare the shit out of the whole world. Only then will they realize that we mean business." He felt a sudden surge of the old fanaticism.

"So what sort of a brew do you propose for our great Satan to drink?" the Iranian said, a thin handsome man with a mustache. Although he was dressed neatly in Western-style clothes, Ahmed suspected him of being a mullah.

Ahmed deliberately took his time before continuing, studying each man's face, bracing for their reaction. He felt tingles in his crotch and a radiant warmth crawl up his spine.

"I throw this gathering open for your suggestions," he said. He needed to draw them in.

"We ask for the release of every Palestinian from every jail in the world," one of the Palestinians said, a fierce man with eyes that glowed like burning charcoal.

"Not all," the Syrian said.

"That is very shortsighted," another of the Palestinians said. "We are all brothers."

"Some are only half brothers," the Syrian shot back.

"But our general goals are the same," the third Palestinian said.

"Not completely," the Iranian said, obviously injecting a religious note. The meeting seemed to be heading for contention.

"My friends. Please. The suggestion of our esteemed brother, while heartfelt, is still far from the mark. Considering what we have, it is still not enough," Ahmed said.

"Not enough?" the Palestinian shouted, his voice high-pitched, strident.

"I have a better idea," the Libyan said, slapping the table. "A delicious idea." He looked around the table before speaking again. Then his tongue licked his heavy lower lip, wetting it until it glistened. "We ask for an atomic bomb."

"Thank you," the Syrian said, chuckling derisively. "Why not ask them to give up Texas?"

"Maybe not the latest version," the Libyan continued, surprised at the derision. "But one with just enough power to effectively render harmless a small country of three million people."

He heard a loud chuckle come from one of the Palestinians, then silence.

"But you know that will never happen," the Syrian said.

"But think of the fear we will sow by the demand alone. Our point has always been the same. We have a respectable bargaining chip now. Why settle for bodies? This is the ultimate fear of our enemies."

"It will goad them to some massive retaliation," the Iranian said. "We can't discount their armaments."

"And the Israelis?" the Syrian asked.

"We will freeze their bowels with fear," the Libyan said. "But we will give them no real justification for retaliation." He smiled. "It is a splendid opportunity. After all, we have the President of the United States."

"We don't have the President," the Syrian corrected. "We have a surrogate. There is also another problem."

"And what is that?" Ahmed asked.

The Syrian had a pleasant face and smiled easily, which, to Ahmed, meant he was very dangerous. "Whatever is negotiated is best done through us. Only we maintain relations with the United States."

Their narrow view amazed Ahmed. They were doomed to petty fighting, constant jabbering among themselves. They lacked vision, imagination.

"And what will you negotiate?" Ahmed asked.

The Syrian waved his arm in a sweeping gesture.

"Whatever we decide. Aren't we, after all, the Islamic Jihad?"

It was so pleasantly put that it disarmed them all. Except for Ahmed. Vipers, he told himself. They would come out of this affair as the great white knights. Whatever private concessions they would get from the Americans would be valueless to Ahmed. He didn't want settlements. His business was chaos. His objective was the sweet heady joy of power and celebrity. Did they think they would manipulate him? Lily-livered swine.

"There is only one resolution," Ahmed said. It was, of course, the heart stopper, and he listened with pleasure to the silence. "The Mafia has given us a great prize. They boast of their honor. Well, we should allow them the opportunity to show it. After all, gentlemen, I have lit the fuse."

"You mean force them to blow up the American President," the Syrian said, unable to contain himself. He suddenly looked upset. "Madness."

"No," Ahmed responded. "It is a logical step, the ultimate act of terrorism. We have acquired the means to assassinate the President of the United States. We will never have this opportunity again."

"And what will it achieve for our cause?" the Syrian asked.

"Once and for all, it will validate that we are people to be reckoned with, a force that cannot be ignored," Ahmed continued. "We will slay the beast in his own den."

The Palestinians had been remarkably silent. Although the three groups and their adherents hated each other, the commonality of interest, their mutual hate for the enemy, held them together.

"It would be wise to keep us anonymous in this affair," one of them said. He was the representative of the PLO, a shadowy figure whose name, Ahmed was certain, was a pseudonym. "Although we will cooperate fully behind the scenes." He cleared his throat. "As always."

"So you intend the Libyans and the Shiites to take the brunt, as usual," the Libyan declared.

"Are you frightened?" Ahmed asked. It was always the ultimate question to these macho-oriented types, sure to get them riled.

"None of us at this table have to present our credentials of courage."

Suddenly the discipline within the group broke down. They all began to talk at once.

"Friends. My brothers," Ahmed cried, slamming his fist down on the table. "I am not here to divide us. I am here to unite us. Believe me, I am happy to take all the credit myself. Let it be my contribution to the cause. Think of what it will do. It will make the world sit up and take notice. It is a boldness beyond anything that we have ever concocted. I ask only for your trust and support. No need for anyone to reveal themselves. I can handle this myself."

His words drifted away. He had called this meeting to test the water, confirm his power.

"You realize that we will have to publicly disassociate ourselves from you," the Syrian said.

"Of course."

The Libyan nodded concurrence.

"I am aware of that," Ahmed said.

Ahmed looked at the men around the table. Without a word being exchanged, he knew that consensus had passed between them.

"Then tell us, Ahmed, what can we do to help?" the Syrian asked.