38

THEY SAT AROUND the table cluttered with the remains of the computer monitor. The President's wife, her energies spent, brooded with bowed head as she sat. The Padre had no stomach to punish her. Besides, his concentration was elsewhere.

He glanced at the clock on the buffet and, as before, checked it against his own watch. The message of the Saudi and Syrian youngsters had its work. Angelo was crafty and clever. An image of him loomed in his mind. The pale face and sliver of black mustache. His face would be offering a rare smile. Once again he had shown his talent as an impresario.

Of all his men, the little Pencil and he were the most simpatico. He had achieved everything, including the transmission of his own private signals to the Padre. It had been a brilliant idea to change the signature of death. In his mind, the Padre embraced him.

They still had the sick Arab youngster as a bargaining chip. For their cooperation the Sicilian boys would demand their pound of flesh. They were entitled. Angelo would have made whatever deals were necessary. The crucial question now: Would the Arab's feelings of fatherhood prevail? He did not like to be at the mercy of another man's private sense of ritual.

If the Arab hurt Maria in any way, then his own boy would die. Indeed, he contemplated ordering the boy killed whatever the deal, as a message to others. And if his grandson were killed—again he faltered at imagining such a fate for this child—then, as he had promised, the President and his wife would be blown up. Himself included. The others as well. They, too, had given their word.

Suddenly their attention was arrested by the television. They watched as the commentator looked at the bulletin before him. "A Beirut newspaper has reported it has just received a telephone call from the man still holding Maria and Joseph Michaels." The Padre sucked in a deep breath. Everyone in the room was instantly alert.

The commentator continued, "This man, Ahmed Safari, has indicated that he will adhere to the deadline previously given if his son is not immediately released unharmed. He has, however, agreed to negotiate that deadline, providing this negotiation is carried out directly with the President of the United States. Further, the President must be visible on television during the negotiation."

There it was, the ritual. The Padre took no satisfaction in his own prediction, although he saw it as a hopeful sign. It will seal the bargain, he thought. Harkins, too, let out an unmistakable sigh of relief.

"I told you. All bluff. All we have to do is figure out the mechanics of it. That's merely a technical detail." He looked at his watch.

The Padre distrusted Harkins' self-congratulatory note. He did not traffic in victories, only in necessities. He dared not allow himself to think that his daughter and grandson's freedom was imminent. He looked toward the President and, for some reason, did not find the assurance he needed.

"Shall I get cracking?" Harkins asked. "One phone call will do it. We'll need a minicam sent up and we can easily clear the satellite time. Our net will pick up the call and switch it right into that phone."

"Not yet," the President said.

"All the man wants is this last show," Harkins said. "They don't like to walk away when they have everybody's attention. He'll capitulate. No question about it."

"I have conditions," the President said calmly. The Padre saw his eyes. There was no mistaking his resolve.

"You must untie me and remove the liquid explosives from this room," the President said after a brief pause.

The Padre looked at the clock and nodded at his men. As one, they began to unbutton their clothes as they left the room.

"At least let me send for the minicam and make arrangements," Harkins pleaded.

The President ignored him. He looked directly into the Padre's eyes.

"You as well," the President said.

There was a long silence between them.

"I am sorry, Mr. President. I cannot do that."

"You've come all this way..." the President began. "If I don't answer that phone, he will kill your daughter."

"If you don't answer that phone, none of us will live, Mr. President," the Padre said. The President looked toward his wife. For the Padre it was impossible to know what passed between them.

"All right," the President said, turning to Harkins.

Harkins spoke hurriedly into the phone. In a matter of minutes the minicam was at the door of the sitting room. Harkins brought it into the dining room. He plugged it in and focused the lens on the President. The President sat at the head of the table in front of the console.

The men had filed back into the dining room and stood near the doorway. The Padre moved closer to the President, just out of range of the camera. They had shut off the television monitor.

For the first time since they had come into this room, there was complete silence. The Padre continued to watch the President. In a moment the President would be beyond his control. If the President betrayed him, the Padre vowed to himself, he would act.

At precisely the time arranged, a single blinking light went on in the console. The President hesitated, waited. The Padre watched him. Their eyes met. The President nodded. A red light began to blink below the lens of the minicam.

"Is this the President of the United States?" a voice said over the speaker-phone.

"It is," the President said. He lifted his eyes and looked around the room. One hand slipped into his pocket.

The President, his voice calm and firm, began, "Under no circumstances, whatever the consequences, will the President of the United States ever negotiate with terrorists."

Then an arm shot out toward the Padre. He saw it coming, tried to deflect it. He was surprised it made no impact, no sound.

His body felt suddenly moist. Instead of moving toward the President, he forced himself to rise, then ran toward the wall, hitting it directly with the full impact of his body.

He fell to the floor, stunned, fighting for breath. Suddenly he heard a vaguely familiar sound, a staccato thudding. Despite the filter of distance, and the muffling effect of the speaker-phone, he recognized it. Machine guns. My Maria, he cried within himself. A sob bubbled up from his chest.