33

IN THE DINING ROOM, the Padre sat in his creased and now spotted waiter's uniform, his back to the draperies. His features were immobile. His beard had become sprouts of gray patches. Sacks of mottled chicken skin hung below his eyes. He had not slept. The television set was on, but playing only silent images. The antique clock on the buffet registered the time. Ahmed Safari's deadline was now only three hours away.

"My wife?" the President asked.

"She is comfortable," the Padre said. "Carmine has given me reports. She is resting in her dressing room."

The President nodded, annoyed at his sudden feeling of gratitude. Harkins was still seated in front of his computer terminal. He was animated now, still plugged in to his covert jungle. When the President had come into the room, he and the Padre had exchanged their usual conspiratorial glances. Private transactions that did not include him seemed to pass between them.

The telephone console on the table had a shut-off switch for all incoming calls, with the exception of the so-called hot line. Throughout the crisis it had remained remarkably silent. The Soviets, he knew through his brief discussions with Foreman, were exceedingly edgy, but apparently not anxious enough to communicate with him directly. A wise course for them, he knew. They would not wish to be overtly involved.

He flicked the switch and the incoming buttons lit up immediately. He looked at the buttons with disinterest. He had no stomach to talk to anyone. Another fraudulent feather to put in his hat. He no longer governed. The country was spinning on its own.

He studied the faces of Harkins and the Padre. Lie down with dogs, he sighed, too filled with self-disgust to finish the homily. Inserting his hand in his pocket, he felt the thin blade, oddly cold to the touch. He drew his hand out of his pocket.

"Anything I should know?" he asked.

"Can't find Safari's hideout," Harkins said with obvious reluctance. "Clever bastard. He knows how to use the rabbit warrens of West Beirut. Our people are searching for him." He paused. "So is everybody else."

"And our hostages?" the President asked.

Harkins looked toward the Padre for assistance.

"We have them," the Padre said hoarsely. It was obvious to him that they were holding something back.

"The Saudis." Harkins coughed, clearing his throat. It was a blatant attempt to sidetrack the conversation. The President said nothing, knowing the value of measured silences. He must gather his concentration.

"They've threatened to pull out all their dollars from the States, our people in Riyadh have confirmed." Harkins looked toward the flashing lights of the telephone console. "I expect one of those calls to be the bearer of the news."

"Can't blame them," the President said pointedly to the Padre, who remained impassive. "There's a lot more to this than your own interests, Padre."

"Not for me," the Padre said.

"That's because you're not responsible for the general welfare and protection of anyone outside your group. The Saudi King has his own people to worry about, and I've got to think about two hundred and thirty million Americans," the President said.

"The Syrians are missing in front of the Golan Heights," Harkins interjected without looking up from his screen.

"Hear that, Padre?" the President said. "What about the Iranians?"

"All they can mount are hit teams. No big military or economic threat. They're all tied up with Iraq."

"And the Libyans?"

"They've got planes, guns, and bombs. Not overly efficient, but from their perspective they might see this action as the straw that broke their camel's back."

The President looked at the Padre. "You know," he said, clearing his throat, "you reach a point when your own life means shit to you."

"I know."

At that moment Amy came into the room, followed by Benjy. He looked at her and shook his head.

"So you see," the old man said, "everything one does is in relationship to one's fear of death." The Padre got up from his chair. He was surprisingly agile for a man who had hardly moved a muscle for some time. He began pacing the room, then he stopped and looked at Harkins, "Tell him."

Harkins seemed to tremble. His eyes blinked nervously.

"He's got Safari's son," he said to the President.

"You let him?"

"I suppose I did," Harkins said. For the first time since he had met the man Harkins looked shaken.

"How?"

"Friends in Italy."

"That's why you had him delivered there," the President said.

"I didn't know the boy was that sick." Harkins protested. "My people were very careful. When they saw he was having an attack they took him to a hospital in Rome. That's why it took so long for them to report in. They had a safe house prepared, but they wouldn't chance it. I—" he looked helplessly at the Padre "—I sent word to his people where he was."

"Why?"

"He asked me to."

"Gave you an order you couldn't refuse?"

"Sometimes you have to cast your bread upon the waters."

"You gave no orders, Mr. President. Nor did I," Harkins said. So the pattern was revealed. Once again, he had reacted to future accountability. The President let it pass.

"These postmortems are not important, Mr. President," the Padre said. "It is out of your hands. This man Safari must know that we have his son. He must know that we will kill the boy if he harms my daughter or my grandson."

"Only the boy?" the President asked.

The Padre lowered his eyes but said nothing. He did not have to.

"It is a devil's bargain," the President said.

"A father's bargain," the Padre whispered.

The President looked at the console's flashing buttons, then at the television set showing images without sound. He glanced at Amy who stared uncomprehendingly. As if in self-defense, he picked up the phone and punched in a button.

"A moment please, Mr. President," an operator's voice said. He listened briefly to the statical sounds of an empty line.

"Go ahead please, Mr. Halloran."

Halloran! The President was confused. He had expected Chalmers. Not the head of the FBI.

"Mr. President."

"Yes, Halloran."

The Padre had moved back to the table and sat down. The telephone conversation echoed over the speaker-phone.

"Are you all right?" Halloran asked, his voice strained and hoarse.

"Yes," the President answered.

"We have a problem." His voice fell to a whisper. "I know we're being taped and the speaker-phone is on. But this one is the hottest potato of all, and frankly I need some direction on this. No one knows yet. Of course, after this conversation, they'll all know." The man sighed. "I'm not suggesting a cover-up."

"What the hell are you talking about, Halloran?"

"We think we found the Saudi boy," he blurted.

The President felt a freezing sensation in his stomach. The implication of Halloran's tone was quite clear. He looked swiftly at the Padre, who was impassive.

"Where?" the President asked.

"In the front seat of a car in the middle of Union Square in San Francisco. Body is badly riddled with bullets, barely recognizable. We have his wallet, all his credit cards, and wads of dough from the pockets. Nothing was touched. The message seems clear as hell. Just in case, we've sent for dental records and rushed the body to autopsy." Halloran had talked fast. Now he hesitated, then spoke again, more slowly. "Point is, Mr. President, I could try to stonewall it."

The President held down a wave of nausea.

"Stonewall it," the President said vaguely, as if his mind had not fully absorbed the information. Again he looked at the Padre. So this was what they had kept hidden. This was the message. Ruthless, devious, cold-blooded bastards. He sucked in deep breaths. Hold on, he urged himself.

"I could try, Mr. President," Halloran said tentatively. "After all, the ID is not totally confirmed. And the MO, well it's not ritual gangland. Usually one bullet in the back of the head. Might use that as a hook. Flimsy, though. The facts are too obvious. And the damned news people are crawling all over us. These local cops leak like hell. Mostly, I'm worried about all the Americans at risk in Saudi Arabia. I thought, even if this is not in my jurisdiction, I did not want to make the situation worse."

The President did not respond. He looked at the Padre, then at Harkins. Both showed no expression.

"No cover-ups, Halloran," the President said, clearing his throat.

"I just thought—"

"The buck stops here," the President said.