36

SITTING AROUND the dining-room table, they continued to watch the television monitor. The commentators were focusing now on the whereabouts of the Padre's daughter and grandson. They had finally gotten the message that what was happening, the release of the hostages and all the resultant hullabaloo, was peripheral to the real story. The President remained a hostage in his own White House and the Padre's daughter and grandson were not yet free.

The euphoria as reflected in the world of television was dying down. The talk turned more to deadlines and danger. And the atmosphere in the dining room grew increasingly downbeat.

The lights on the telephone console lit up. The President paid little attention. No point in doing anything until the woman and child were released. The Padre had stopped pacing and seated himself at the table. His three-day growth of beard made him look even older. Yet he seemed very much alert, waiting, watchful.

"How do you interpret this?" the President asked Harkins.

"He could be trying to strike a deal," Harkins answered. It seemed as good a stall as any.

"What kind of a deal?" the President asked.

"Perhaps the message wasn't loud enough," the Padre said, his face immobile.

"It got the point across to the Libyans, the Syrians, and the Iranians," Harkins said.

The capitulation of Syria, Libya, and Iran was, of course, a major geopolitical event. Whether these countries would permanently eschew terrorism in the future was debatable. At least the perpetrators would now understand that the tactic was a double-edged sword.

"There are limits," the President said, his voice barely a whisper. Harkins knew the mood. The President shook his head and rubbed his chin. Then he turned to Harkins.

"I want you to order your people to release the Libyan and the Iranian. Immediately. Do you understand that?"

Harkins nodded. He fought the desire to look toward the Padre for approval. The Padre said nothing and made no move to stop the order.

"And," the President said, addressing the Padre, "I would suggest you do the same to the people you hold. Perhaps the example will be enough for the man to act."

"I will order the boy released only after my daughter and grandson are safe," the Padre replied.

"You are an intelligent man," the President said. "Surely you have some sense of humanity. The fact is..." The President paused. Harkins knew he was digging deep inside himself, gathering all the residue of persuasive energy. "We've gone along." He looked at his wife. Acting or not, his expression conveyed a sense of futility, perhaps shame. He seemed to Harkins like a man throwing in his poker hand, faceup.

"You've had the benefit of..." His gaze met Harkins', then he pointed to the computer. "What more could possibly be done. You've even helped to accomplish something in the, forgive the political idiom, public good."

The Padre watched him impassively.

"What in the name of God will move you?"

He had scrupulously avoided the mention of pardon. Was it time now? He turned to Harkins. "Where are we heading?"

"He will release them," Harkins persisted.

"All right then," the President said to the Padre. "At the very least, there is no point in holding the Syrian girl."

"I will decide," the Padre said.

"Neither of us are God, Padre. You would be surprised how effective a gesture of goodwill can be."

"There is no goodwill for men like that. Only advantage."

Harkins watched the exchange for a moment, then turned toward the keyboard.

"Are you sure about this order, Mr. President?" he asked, knowing it was a message meant for the Padre. The Padre watched them without comment.

"Absolutely," the President said.

Harkins hesitated, his fingers poised on the keyboard. He wished he had more leeway to think it out.

"I can remove you instantly, Harkins," the President pressed. It seemed unrealistic. Without him, they would have no access to the computers.

Harkins had hardly finished tapping out the message when one of the networks announced yet another bulletin with the familiar words "This just in."

All eyes turned to the television set.

"Police in Amherst have found what appears to be the body of the twenty-one-year-old daughter of the Syrian President. The woman was apparently murdered by a burst of fire that has severely mutilated the body. Beside it police have found her pocketbook, which contained her license—"

"You bastards," the First Lady cried.

Her voice was shrill. When she stood up she toppled the chair. Harkins saw the object in her hand, a bit of flashing silver. She was holding a small pistol in firing position. She moved back a few steps, as if wishing to take in a wider range.

Benjy, who had been closest to her, started to move.

"No," the Padre barked. Benjy stopped in his tracks.

"Easy, Amy," the President said.

Although there was a slight tremor in her hand, she held the pistol firmly. Only her eyes betrayed her panic as she fought to keep herself under control. The men in the room froze, watching her.

"The choices are yours now, Mrs. Bernard," the Padre said.

"I'm not afraid," she said with effort.

"There's still time," Harkins said. He had not yet let go of the old assumptions. Perhaps now, with the Syrian's child gone, Safari would get the message. Odd, he thought, how he could not shut down his mind in the face of imminent death. He was, surprisingly, unafraid.

"You know it's wrong, Paul. These people are murderers. How can you deal with them?

"Amy, please. Whatever happens, you have your own children to think about."

"These people are vermin, Paul."

"There were no clear choices, Amy. Please put that gun down."

"There were for me."

"Dying is not a choice," the President said.

She looked at the Padre. The panic was draining out of her eyes. She had obviously assessed her position. She was, very definitely, in control.

"None of you seem interested in that condition for yourselves." she mocked, looking at the Padre. "But you're quick to dispense it for others."

"I told you," the Padre said coolly. "Everything is in direct relation to the fear of death."

"Then you fear it as much as we do," she said, her voice stronger but still shaky. "I would say there were hot times ahead for you."

"Please, Amy."

The President stood up, took a cautious step forward. It did not deter her from pointing the gun in his direction.

"This is Paul, Amy," he said.

"Then act like Paul."

He stopped. In the long pause that followed, the commentator's voice seemed to fill the room. He was still talking about the young Syrian girl. Then the scene shifted to the face of a man. He was the Syrian President. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. Although her attention, too, had been deflected to the screen, no one made a move to get to her.

"Was it really necessary?" she asked the Padre.

"The man is knee deep in other people's blood," the Padre responded. "He does not deserve your pity."

"And the girl?"

"Sins of the father." The Padre shrugged. "He does not cry for other people's losses."

"The girl was innocent."

She was becoming agitated again, losing control, waving the gun.

"Amy. One bullet in the wrong place will blow us all up."

"Paul," Amy said, the tremor returned to her voice. "You must resign. We can't have this on our consciences."

"You press that trigger, none of our consciences will exist," he said.

She was standing with her back to the closed draperies. She studied each of the men in the room. As she did so she pointed the gun at each of them in turn, as if making up her mind who should live and who should die.

When the blast came it startled no one. Barely a crackle. Then another. She continued to empty the magazine into the computer monitor until it was completely smashed. Then she calmly tossed the gun to the floor, where it fell with hardly a thud, muffled by the thick oriental carpet.