27

TO THE PADRE there was no novelty in defying governmental authority. It was a solemn duty. His values demanded it. The government represented repression, rigid conduct, straitjacketed ideas. Governments were created to force order, to demand adherence to a system of law that inhibited man's natural state of freedom. Its so-called much-vaunted ethical system favored the few who manipulated the many. If the system failed the needs of the leadership, then the leadership had to change the system to meet its needs.

This, to the Padre, was the heart of the government's corruption. Until now he had never realized how truly corrupt it was. His lifelong antagonist, the government, had stolen some of the methods of his organization to further its own corruption.

An entire operation was devoted to this pursuit. They actually had set up and financed an entity that could deal in murder, intimidation, theft, and kidnapping. This entity acted under orders from the President.

Talk about injustice, the Padre thought. Might just as well have licensed his organization or others like it to do the same job. Wouldn't have to waste energy fighting the system. He would be able to operate inside it.

He had thought it would be difficult to coerce the authorities into following his advice. It turned out to be easier than he had believed. They were ready. It was like lighting a match to dry tinder.

Harkins sat at one end of the table tapping out instructions on his keyboard, receiving reports on his monitor. The President sat at the other end of the table near the telephone console. Occasionally their eyes would drift toward the images on the television set, which kept them remarkably informed about events happening outside the White House.

Apparently those officials charged by law to take action in the event the President was unfit to perform his official duties had accepted his assertion that he was, in fact, willing and able to govern. They had tested this assertion all day and he had patiently responded with ideas, orders, and approvals. The presidency, the Padre had discovered, was a job similar to his own. Put out fires, settle or compromise disputes, perform rituals, make decisions, exercise leadership.

He felt remarkably compatible with the President. The man, after a little tap dance of opposition and disapproval, had an affinity for his ideas. Despite his protestations, he knew the hidden meaning of power and manipulation.

But the woman was a problem. He had taken her to apply more pressure on the President. Now he wasn't so sure it was a good idea. Yet he would be a fool to release her now.

Women baffled him. He often wondered whether he had ever truly known his beloved Rosa. Rosa, too, had been reluctant to give his business her blanket blessing, but she had never resisted him, had understood her role.

This Harkins was a superb organizer. He had even devised a way to get confidential information to the Pencil. By hand-delivered message, no less. He punched out info, then one of their covert operatives passed the word directly.

All the Pencil needed was names and places. The Saudi's favorite son was a student at Berkeley, the daughter of the Syrian President a student at Amherst. The Pencil would know what to do with that kind of information. Those operations under his control did not worry the Padre. It was the government that worried him. Above all, they had better not fail in Jordan. This Safari boy must be taken. He was the key to the operation.

The Padre's eyes drifted toward the television set. He had lowered the sound. Besides, the images themselves had become too tiresome and repetitive.

"Our Iranian operation is completed," Harkins said, looking at the monitor.

"The Libyan?"

"In progress."

"And Jordan?" the Padre asked.

"No word yet."

The President looked up. He had been talking on the telephone and making notes on a pad. He looked toward the television set, then returned to his conversation. The Padre had listened to the conversation with half an ear. The President was talking import quotas with someone. He had heard the beginning of the conversation. The President had said:

"Pretend all things are normal. Let's just stick to the issues."

Remarkable, the Padre thought. The man had the kind of discipline required for the job. The government was functioning. The idea had begun to take hold. It was all grist for the television mill.

Nevertheless, a task force continued to operate from its headquarters in the basement of the Executive Office Building. Vice President Chalmers, as the heir apparent to the presidency, was the man in charge. Congress had been summoned to return and would soon meet to debate the question of accession.

The miracles of satellite communication allowed everyone to have their say. Television had reported the views of the Soviets, the Syrians, the Israelis, the Libyans, the Egyptians, and on and on.

The foreigners were confused as to why the President had not been superseded by the Vice President. This situation had been explained from every conceivable vantage point. The President himself had been pressed to appear on television, but the Padre had vetoed that idea. He did not yet wish to relinquish any control he might have over him. He knew that the President's phone conversations were being recorded, but they were not being publicly aired.

Harkins' fingers bounced endlessly on the keyboard. He had assured the Padre that the computer was foolproof. It could not be tapped by anyone who was not authorized. The CIA had commissioned computer experts to attempt to infiltrate the covert data base, and these included teenage hackers. Some had actually broken in, but the method was swiftly analyzed and the system debugged to prevent it.

Suddenly something flashed across the computer screen that startled Harkins.

"What?" he cried.

The Padre felt a cold, pinching sensation in his guts. The President, once again, turned from the conversation and looked at both men.

"What is it?" the President asked.

Harkins looked up at the television screen.

"We always get it first," he said. The pride did not erase the sense of dread. The Jordan operation, the Padre thought. If that failed ... ?

At that moment the First Lady, followed by Benjy, came into the dining room from the pantry.

"A call to a Beirut newspaper. Soon it will be released to every corner of the world. A demand from our friend Ahmed on behalf of the Islamic Jihad."

"What is it they want?" the President asked.

"You won't believe this," Harkins said.

"Try me."

"An atomic bomb," Harkins said. He looked toward the Padre. "In return for the delivery of your daughter and grandson."

"Quite an idea," the President said.

Of course they would raise the ante. A perfectly logical expectation, the Padre thought. In an odd way, he was relieved. Although he had not admitted it to himself, the absence of any reaction from the kidnappers was cause for worry. Now he could assume that Maria and Joey were still alive.

"Why not?" Harkins said rhetorically.

"It's impossible," the President said.

"They know that, Mr. President," Harkins said.

"Then why demand it?"

"To tell us how much leverage they have." He turned toward the Padre. "They must have something else up their sleeves."

The President's wife, who had been uncharacteristically silent, suddenly spoke:

"He's unleashed the beast, that's what," she said with disdain. The woman had not been taken into their confidence. If she knew what was happening, the Padre thought, she would be even more excited.

The Padre signaled with his eyes, and Benjy turned up the sound on the television set.

"There," Harkins said, looking up at the television screen. "It's moving now." He looked at his watch. "Beat the bastards by five," he said. He got up from the chair and turned up the sound. A correspondent in Beirut was providing the information that Harkins had just imparted along with various speculations and a picture of Ahmed Safari.

"Next thing we can expect is an interview with your daughter and grandson," Amy said. "And now, direct from the cell of Maria and Joey Michaels—"

"Amy, for crying out loud," the President said.

"They know it's impossible to grant," Harkins said.

"But it serves their purposes to frighten the hell out of all of us," the President roared. "And remind us of the ultimate nightmare, the big bomb in the hands of some crazy." He paused to concentrate on what the commentator was saying.

"Even the size of the bomb was specified. Something to knock out a nation of three million people." The commentator's face had turned ashen.

"What of the Jordan operation?" the Padre asked calmly.

"It has gone forward," Harkins said. "We would not get word until the boy is safely in our hands."

"What boy?" the President's wife asked. She looked at her husband. The President turned to the Padre, who shrugged. Her reaction is immaterial, he thought. No harm in telling her.

"This man, Ahmed Safari. We are referring to his own son," the Padre said.

She did not need any further explanation. Her lips trembled, her nostrils flared. She turned to the President.

"So you've sold out to them," she said.

"Not quite," the President said.

Before she could reply, the commentator was offering another bulletin. A Saudi prince, grandson of the King, had disappeared from Berkeley.

"My God," the First Lady exclaimed.

"No one has been harmed," the President began.

"You've authorized kidnapping," she said.

The Padre signaled to Benjy, who grabbed the woman from behind, lifted her out of the chair, and moved her, kicking and screaming, out of the room. The President paled and stood up. The tautness of the connecting cord brought back the reality of his situation.

"If you hurt her..."

"Of course we won't, but we can't deal with a hysterical woman. Benjy will be careful, I assure you," the Padre said.

The voice of the commentator compelled them to silence again. He explained that there were no clues to the disappearance of the Saudi prince. Someone in the apartment complex in which he lived saw three men, but he wasn't sure.

"We are handling our end. What about yours?" the Padre pressed.

Harkins tapped away on the keyboard.

"No word yet."

"Perhaps the CIA should take a lesson from the Mafia," the President said. The color had come back into his face. The Canary, who had been in the other room, poked his head into the dining room.

"She is in the bedroom," he said. "She is all right."

"She had better be," the President said, but he seemed relieved.

The President's telephone lights began to blink. He picked up the instrument. The Vice President spoke:

"You've got to give it up, Mr. President," he said. "We've got a worldwide panic on our hands."

"Don't exaggerate, Martin."

"All you have to do is say the word."

"I am governing," the President said. "Stop letting a bunch of tinhorn terrorists make you crazy."

"Make me crazy? You're the hostage. You realize that this is a totally irresponsible act on your part."

"Do you think for one moment that I would entertain such a request?"

"No, I guess not," the Vice President said, retreating from his earlier belligerence. "But this bomb business is unsettling."

"It's an absurd demand."

"But if you stepped down, Mr. President. Got out of the line of fire."

"Then what, Martin?" the President asked pointedly, letting the question hang ominously in the air.

"This is irrational, there is the country to think about, the people."

"Stop it, Martin. Nobility does not become you."

There was a long pause.

"And in the meantime, Mr. President, what are we supposed to do?"

"Hang in there."

"I might if I knew what the hell was going on."

The President hung up.

Harkins continued to tap away at his keyboard, watching the monitor.

"The boy?" the Padre asked.

"No. But here's something. The Libyan. Right in their own backyard. In Tripoli. Now you've got to admit, Teheran, then Tripoli, that's something. That's one helluva coup. Damn, we're good."

He tapped the monitor. Then he looked at the President. "It's what I kept telling you, Mr. President. We've got the means. We've got the reach. And we can move these people out of the country."

"Like where?" the President asked.

Harkins smiled.

"The Libyan will be in Morocco in a few hours. The Iranian in Oman. All set up."

"And they will not be hurt?"

"Those kids will never have it so good. They'll come out loving the United States."

"And when they get out will they know who did this to them?"

"Mr. President," Harkins said. "This is a covert operation. And that's the way it will remain. I've been telling you this for months. We've got the greatest underused weapon in the world."

A braggart, the Padre thought. Yet there was something miraculous in the operation. A man directing a vast operation from a computer.

"Louder," the President said, pointing to the television screen. "What is that man saying?" Benjy turned up the sound.

"Sonya Rashid, the daughter of the Syrian President, has disappeared." The commentator's voice was high-pitched with excitement. His forehead glistened with sweat.

"We have an open line to our Boston correspondent," the commentator said. "Tell me, Bob, when was Miss Rashid last seen?"

"Last night," the correspondent said. "She said she was going out to a movie. She loves the movies. She never came back to the dorm."

"Was she alone?"

"She left alone."

"Is there any evidence of foul play?"

"None whatsoever. The police are combing the area. For Miss Rashid not to return to her dorm for curfew is very uncharacteristic conduct. The police have concluded, at least unofficially, that she is a missing person."

"Is it fair to speculate that she is another casualty of what is presently occurring, in other words, connected in some way to the hostage-taking of the President and the disappearance of the Saudi prince?" the correspondent asked.

"I would not want to speculate."

Then came the usual round of comments as the busy satellite bounced signals around the world. Most agreed that the disappearance of the Saudi prince and the daughter of the President of Syria was, indeed, connected to the current situation. The interviews became repetitive. Voices droned on. The Padre got up and lowered the sound.

"Can't understand it," Harkins said. "We should have had it first."

"Nobody's perfect," the President said, obviously enjoying the spectacle of Harkins' tiny defeat. Then he turned to the Padre. "I don't want those people hurt. Under any circumstances."

"Mr. President. This is not a government operation," Harkins said, glancing toward the Padre. "Not in our purview."

The Padre stiffened. All were accounted for now, except the boy in Jordan.

"Only a fool will believe that these actions are not connected to us," the President said.

"That's the point, Mr. President. They will, however, have to draw their own conclusions," Harkins said.

The Padre felt no remorse or pity for the hostages they had taken. As always, the Pencil had gotten the job done.

"The FBI is deeply involved," Harkins said, watching the monitor. "They've dispatched investigative teams to Berkeley and Amherst."

"You think I should talk to Joe Halloran, the head of our FBI?" the President asked tentatively.

"Why?" the Padre asked.

"I would advise that you keep your distance, Mr. President," Harkins said.

"But they'll think..."

"We want them to think that, Mr. President. It is the heart of the strategy."

"And say nothing," the Padre added.

"Then how will they know that these people are hostages?"

The Padre nodded to the television set.

"That will do our work for us."

"But they will blame us," the President said with mounting frustration. "Maybe..." He paused and bit his lip, as if trying to stop the words from coming. "Maybe we should put out a statement."

"If asked, we deny. Only deny," Harkins said.

"But suppose the FBI finds these people, the perpetrators as well? And they trace them back to here." He shook his head.

"You are looking at the dark side, Mr. President," the Padre said gently. What else is a politician if not an intriguer, the Padre thought. Of course he knew the consequences. For whose benefit was he making this speech? Perhaps his own.

"I hadn't bargained for all this," the President said.

"Yes you did, Mr. President," the Padre said curtly.