39

HE HAD TIED THEM BOTH to pipes in the Pullman kitchen. Thankfully, he did not blindfold them. Maria suspected what he had meant by that. He could not resist having them watch his performance. The television set was on. A commentator was making remarks in Arabic. From his tone, she knew he was preparing his audience for something momentous.

Yet there was an air of uncertainty in the commentator's voice, as if he, too, were not completely convinced that the President had agreed to this so-called negotiation.

In her heart, as an American, she hoped he wouldn't. If Ahmed Safari got away with it, others would follow. She rebuked herself for having such thoughts. Above all, she wanted to live, although she felt fully prepared to die. After all, she told herself, one died only once.

But the sense of bravado was quickly drowned by a wave of uncontrollable panic. By straining at her bonds, she was able to touch Joey's shoulder with her hip.

"Don't be afraid, sweets," she whispered. But her fear for him was overwhelming, palpable. My baby, she cried to herself. You mustn't hurt my baby. Please Daddy. Save Joey. "Please," she said aloud.

"Quiet," Ahmed said urgently. Looking toward them, he pointed his gun. "Not a word. You understand."

She nodded, swallowing hard to keep down the back-wash of salt tears. She was helpless, beyond despair, at the outer limits of hysteria. She pressed against her son, feeling the bonds cut into her wrists, ignoring the pain.

Safari picked up the phone. He held the instrument delicately, reverently. This was going to be his moment. Slowly, he put the instrument against his ear. As he waited, he turned toward her again and smiled. Look at me, his smile said. I have done it. She tried to close her eyes, but the effort eluded her. She was paralyzed, her body inert.

"Yes, it is I, Ahmed Safari. You say the connection is going through."

He glanced toward her again, smug, contemptuous, his eyes glistening with malevolent pride. She watched as he wet his lips and began to speak into the phone. Her eyes jumped to the television screen. She saw President Bernard. He was sitting at a table, a telephone console in front of him. He had not yet picked up the phone. She wondered, where is my father?

Apparently the connection had been made, but the President was refusing to pick up the telephone. Please, she begged him. She wanted to scream out her encouragement. She whipped her head from side to side in frustration.

"You must," she screamed.

He covered the receiver with the palm of the same hand in which he held the gun.

"I'll kill you now," he said.

"No," she whispered, straining to press against her son. "It's all right," she told Joey.

Safari turned away to watch the television. Still the President held back.

"His choice." Safari glanced toward her. His skin glistened with sweat. Again he pointed the gun directly at her. Its shaking belied his attempt to appear calm.

Then she saw the President reach out to grab at the phone. Her heart leapt with relief.

"Is this the President of the United States?" It was Safari's voice, unfamiliar in tone. She heard its echo on television. Then other words which seemed garbled, confused. She forced herself to concentrate, her eyes darting from the television set to Ahmed. She heard the President's voice.

"Under no circumstances," he began. Her comprehension seemed to dissolve. From somewhere deep inside herself she heard her cry of pain, as she struggled hopelessly against her bonds.

"You..." It was Safari's voice filing the room as his eyes sought hers. His stare was cruel as he leveled the muzzle of the gun directly at her forehead. Her own scream was drowned in the sounds of heavy footsteps and smashing wood. Then she saw bursts of flame and heard ear-splitting thumps of sound, like a hundred hammers at work simultaneously.

Is this how death comes? she wondered, on the cusp of sound and fury. Then she saw Safari jump in his chair like a puppet operated by a nervous hand. It took a moment for her to comprehend the situation. Safari slumped in his chair like a piece of bloody discarded meat. But her own fear for herself and her son made it impossible to dwell on Safari's fate. The men had turned their guns on her and Joey. There was no mistaking the intention in their eyes. She fought the urge to close her eyes.

The men were hesitating, looking toward another man who apparently was their leader. He barked at them in words she did not understand. He held up his hand, then concentrated on what was happening on the television. The men stood frozen in their poses, their guns continuing to point at her and Joey.

On the screen, she saw a close-up of her father's face. He looked old, defeated. The camera seemed to mock him, emphasize his frustration.

Suddenly, for a reason she could not immediately understand, her father flung himself against a wall, then slumped to the floor. She had closed her eyes briefly, expecting an explosion, or at the least a burst of gunfire. None came. The camera sought him out. He lay on the floor. His eyes were closed.

The leader, who had observed this event, picked up the telephone, which dangled by its cord over the desk.

"I bring you greetings from the Soviet Union," the man said in accented English. He barked another order to his men. Slowly, they lowered their guns.