We Are Holding the President Hostage

by Warren Adler

  She shrugged and rubbed her toe against his shin.

  “On my desk,” he said, “I have these option papers. We got these highly trained shoot-em-up hit teams. They go in, tear the place apart, bring home the people dead or alive. One option is to send them in. We know approximately where most of the hostages are being kept. Might get between twenty and thirty percent out alive. The Defense and Intelligence boys are big on risk analysis, kill ratios, stuff like that. Then there’s the political boys. They say thirty percent is too low. Got to be at least double that, ideally ninety percent. They want both a victory parade and a funeral. Joy and sorrow. Stir the emotions.”

  “That’s disgusting,” Amy said, removing her feet from the railing.

  “Then there’s Harkins’ way. Sneak in and kick ass.”

  “Whose?”

  “Anybody around. Take hostages. Ten to one if necessary. Then kill them. Afterwards, deny it all with a wink.”

  “When mad enough, kick the dog,” Amy said.

  “Maybe so. But you know what I’ve been doing out here?” He turned and watched her, expecting no response. “I’m actually considering it, the Harkins way.”

  She turned, looked at him archly, then reached out with her hand, stopping just short of his head.

  “Don’t know if I could live with a man who orders things like that.” She wondered, in the final analysis, if her objections would really matter.

  “Things keep up this way, I may have to. Preempt, like the Israelis.”

  He looked out over the railing. From where they sat they could see the exquisitely lit Mall, the Washington Monument, the Capitol dome, the tinsel ripple of the Potomac. Following his gaze, she noted that a number of cars slowly meandered in the street behind the rear gate and she could make out dark human figures on foot, some stationary, some moving.

  “I like this house,” he said softly. “And I’d like to renew the lease.” He swung his legs back to the deck and stood up, pressing his body against the railing.

  “Mr. President . . .”

  It was the voice of the Secret Service man who had been standing just inside the door. The edge of the Truman balcony had become a security hole. Standing up so close to the railing presented his body to a would-be assassin. He moved back into the shadows.

  “Well, that’s one compensation,” the President said.

  “What is that?” Amy asked.

  “We’re safe in here.”

  14

  THEY HAD COCKTAILS brought to the yellow Oval Room. Not wishing to crease her gown, she stood by the marble mantel and sipped a white wine while her husband fingered the bronze jousting knights on the gold-inlaid table.

  Miss Hartford arrived at the door. She wore a simple black gown with straps. As always, it was perfect for her role as social secretary.

  “They’ll arrive in exactly five minutes.”

  The President nodded. Amy stood in front of him, inspecting.

  “Last-minute check,” she said, patting an errant lock of his hair and kissing him lightly on the cheek. “Come on now,” she whispered. “Buck up. You’re Paul Bernard starring in State Dinner and featuring the King and Queen of Spain.”

  “Let the cameras roll,” he said, flashing his best politician’s smile. He bent slightly, offering his arm. She took it. Moving out of the Oval Room to the center hall, they were joined by the Secret Service men who surreptitiously fell into position.

  They walked past the octagonal partners’ desk, the antique lamps, tables, and chairs, and the lovely painting of the woman and her two children by Mary Cassatt. A young boy and girl. She loved that picture. It reminded her of herself and her two children when they were young. She wondered whether she would look back on this White House experience as a happy time. The question irritated her and she put it out of her mind. Silly, she told herself. Isn’t this, after all, the top of the mountain?

  They walked slowly down the red-carpeted steps, hands sliding along the gold banisters. At the landing they continued through the marbled foyer, past the gauntlet of resplendent young Marines in full-dress uniforms.

  Amy glanced at her husband. He was wearing his public smile now, the one that reflected unbounded joy, showing off his handsome angled face. They came out of the front entrance into the glare of the light and descended the steps, covered by the red ceremonial carpet. The cameras flashed. The King and Queen drove up in a spit-polished limousine and the Chief of Protocol darted out of the front seat. He waited until the King and Queen were clear and the door to the car had slammed shut.

  “May I present His Majesty Don Carlos and Her Majesty the Queen, Mr. President.”

  The President put out his hand. Cameras flashed and the two couples exchanged pleasantries. They walked in together and took their places on the receiving line.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this visit for a long time,” the King said.

  “I hope we won’t disappoint you, Your Highness,” Amy responded.

  15

  ABOVE ALL, THE PADRE KNEW, however carefully one planned, one could always expect an unforeseen problem. Carmine’s uniform had presented a formidable obstacle. It had been intended that the four men would carry the liquid explosives on their bodies in long plastic flaps. Because of the extreme sensitivity of the liquid, it could be detonated by impact. They had tested exactly how hard this impact might be by dropping a tiny bag of it from a height of six feet. It had exploded with a surprising thunderclap. It could also be exploded by a sharp blow from a metal hammer.

  The Pencil had found the best boom-boom man on the East Coast, a safecracker who was a fanatic on the subject and who eagerly lectured them on “the exciting new advances in explosive technology.” He was tall, with long hair. He wore little round glasses and affected what seemed like a slight lisping British accent.

  “It’s the latest trend,” the man told them. “In my business, you have to keep up.”

  “And you are certain it will pass through all known detectors?” the Padre inquired.

  “Like your own skin. But every new idea spawns an evasive action and the technology to detect it is coming fast. At the moment it’s clear sailing. Me, I prefer the plastic for my line of work. Not as unstable. But you can’t disguise it like the liquid. And some of the new detectors can pick up the plastic explosives. Then there’s the detonators. No matter how small they are, there is always the risk of detection. But not the liquid. That’s why I will never fly again. Some asshole will carry it on board disguised as cough syrup or booze.”

  They had actually sent someone through the airport detectors to test his assertion and it was confirmed.

  “The only problem,” the man began, “is convincing other people that this stuff is really dangerous. Not too many people know what it can really do. Looks innocent. Like water. But it can do a nasty job on flesh and bones.”

  “How much force would be required to set it off?” the Padre had asked.

  “Depends on how the substance is contained,” the boom-boom man said authoritatively. “The less air, the less evaporation. And, of course, the greater the density, the less impact required.”

  “What would happen if it were carried in plastic bags?”

  The boom-boom man thought for a moment. According to the Pencil, he had an uncanny record of cracking safes, although he had spent a decade of his life in various prisons on two continents.

  “Plastic bags?” The man rubbed his chin, and the Padre studied him as he thought. “Soft?”

  “Yes.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed behind his round glasses, although he tactfully avoided any special study of the Padre’s face. He had gotten the message.

  “Like a fall?”

  “Depends on how high and how hard. Also on the surface.” The man sucked in a deep breath. “And the density. How thick?”

  “You tell me,” the Padre said. It was a command and the man knew it.

  “About as high as the seat of a chair from a standing position to a
hard uncarpeted floor with a two-inch density. Change the variables and you got a different result.” He scratched his head. “Man wants to make a weapon out of himself, this is it.” He looked at the floor. “Never thought of it like that,” he said innocently. “Thing is, though, if the bag leaks, or is sliced open, you get nothing but wet pants.” He laughed.

  The Pencil had paid the man and had urged him to take a long ocean cruise.

  The uniform Carlotti had provided for the Canary was too small to be worn over the flaps of explosive. By then it was too late for changes. Carmine would have to go in without it.

  Luigi had given them a cram course in basic table service. It was, of course, less than adequate, since Luigi’s knowledge of fancy service was sparse. It had come mostly from working as a busboy on four crossings of the old Queen Mary.

  They had taken turns in being the server and the served. The Padre had never realized how clumsy he was, how little he had noticed when other people served him. Luckily, Benjy had some experience in bartending. He was also the only one who looked presentable in his uniform.

  They had driven down from Manhattan and checked into a motel on the Virginia side of the Potomac, where Carlotti met them. He brought with him plates, silverware, large serving trays, and implements, even chunks of food as props for further instruction. Understandably, the man was nervous. His hands shook when he demonstrated how the food was scooped and served.

  The Canary, with his big clumsy fingers, proved the worst. The Padre and Vinnie were barely passable. For a moment he was almost tempted to call Robert, who had protested to the last. But the Padre had been adamant.

  “We will stay in touch through Angelo,” the Padre had assured him.

  But the matter of Carmine’s clumsiness nagged at him.

  “We’ll put him in the Red Room,” Carlotti suggested. He was still fantasizing about his professional standards. The Padre did not tell him it was highly unlikely that the meal would reach the main course.

  Carlotti informed them they would be serving trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres during the cocktail hour while the President and his party stood on the receiving line. It was, the Padre knew, a crucial time. If they blew it then, the entire enterprise could fail.

  They arrived, as Carlotti had instructed, at the East Gate of the White House at precisely 6 P.M. along with others among the serving help, many of whom eyed them curiously.

  The Padre had reluctantly shaved and carefully groomed his hair. He hoped that no one would recognize him. Actually, he had not been photographed for years, and the only pictures ever taken of him showed him with a three-day growth of beard and mussed-up hair. Above all, he had taken great pains never to look like a greaseball. Looking in the mirror now, he felt, for the first time in his life, that he resembled one. Good, he decided. An excellent disguise.

  “You work this place before?” a man asked the Padre as they stood on line waiting to get through the first checkpoint, manned by the White House police.

  “First time,” the Padre muttered.

  “What happened to Harry and Joe?” the man persisted.

  “Other commitments,” the Padre answered patiently.

  Carlotti had, a week earlier, given their new social security numbers to the security people along with the dates of birth of the cardholders. They were guaranteed numbers with matching IDs, Maryland licenses, and credit cards. The names were authentic and fresh, of bona fide living men, all of them clean under scrutiny, guaranteed to pass muster except under the most scrupulous investigation. Best of all, they were carefully matched.

  Later, the men who were being impersonated would be shocked by the allegation, although they would be cleared as genuinely innocent, which they were. The organization understood the reliance of investigative agencies on computers and had adapted to the new technology with a few tricks of their own. Yet, no matter how advanced the technology, all of it was people-dependent. And people represented the vulnerable soft underbelly of all technology. People had flaws, made mistakes, could be compromised.

  As they moved forward the man who had asked the questions frowned and shook his head.

  “Just surprised to see so many new faces,” he said.

  “A job’s a job,” the Padre responded. Beads of sweat had already sprouted on his forehead. The flaps of explosives were heavy under his uniform.

  Benjy was ahead of him on the line. The Padre watched as the man in uniform looked at his ID, then checked his list on a clipboard and waved him through. They had memorized their new names and birth dates. The Padre was pleased. He had no anxiety about the numbers. Providing IDs was a highly efficient operation of the organization.

  Ahead, he could see the frame of the metal detector. It was manned by three uniformed men, with two others in civilian clothes observing. From the little buttons in their ears, the Padre could tell that they were Secret Service.

  He came through the first checkpoint without incident and watched as Benjy moved through the detector. The uniformed men were intense about their job. They watched the monitor with deep concentration, and the Secret Service men’s eyes seemed to bore through everyone as they passed through. The Padre could not deny his anxiety. Suppose he was stopped and searched? The flaps were hanging from a harness that hung from his shoulders and reached down front and back. He was literally encased in it. Even the most cursory hand pat would detect them.

  It surprised him to move through the detector so easily. He was also, inexplicably, annoyed. They were supposed to be protecting the President of the United States, for chrissakes. The uniformed men smiled at him and he returned the pleasantry. Even the Secret Service men seemed less grim. He patted his side pocket where he had put the typewritten note. Four copies had been made. Each man carried one.

  Would they be convinced? The Padre hoped so, although he knew that none of them looked either suicidal or fanatic. He would settle for determined. Why then would they have put themselves in this position? If the others were bothered by the prospect, they did not voice any objections. None of them had families. The organization was their whole life. Loyalty was fundamental to their character.

  After passing through the machine, the Padre lingered in the corridor, pretending interest in the pictures displayed there, photographs of earlier days in the White House. From the corner of his eye he watched Vinnie move through without incident. He was concerned about the Canary. It hadn’t occurred to him, perhaps because he was so used to the man’s heavy features and bulky body, that Carmine was so different-looking, so bovine, so suspect.

  Now he glanced at him as he towered above the others on the line. The man was slavishly devoted, loyal beyond the shadow of a doubt. He would fall on a grenade if it endangered the Padre’s life. Indeed, the Padre’s well-being and safety were his only reasons for living. It would be unthinkable to be parted from Carmine. At that moment he wished he had not brought him.

  He could tell the Secret Service men were eyeing him with more than cursory curiosity. He passed through the first checkpoint without incident, but as he moved through the detector the Padre noted that one of the Secret Service men nodded. A White House policeman then whispered something to the Canary. The Padre watched as the policeman and Carmine, who towered above him, moved aside.

  Benjy and Vinnie had already disappeared beyond the corner of the corridor. They would proceed along the lower hall to the downstairs kitchen. There they would get their last-minute instructions and move up to the State Dining Room, where they would set out the beginning course. It would be waiting for the diners when they arrived.

  The Padre moved toward another picture display where he could get a better view of Carmine and the policeman. He watched as the Canary unbuttoned his uniform jacket. No way to save him, the Padre thought, until he realized that the Canary was not carrying any explosives. With clumsy fingers, Carmine was opening his shirt. He reached through the opening to draw out a huge St. Christopher medal, which obviously had been picked up by the sensiti
ve detector. He saw the policeman smile and lift the medal for the Secret Service man to see. The Secret Service man nodded and turned his gaze back to those men still coming through the detector.

  Then the Padre proceeded along the corridor, waiting for Carmine to catch up with him.

  “It works. He was looking out for me,” Carmine said.

  “Who?”

  “St. Christopher.”

  The Padre smiled and patted the Canary’s arm.

  In the kitchen, Carlotti scurried about giving last-minute instructions. He was obviously ignoring what had occurred, carrying on as if it were business as usual.

  “You, the new men,” he cried imperiously. This was his turf and he was not going to give the impression that he was under anyone’s domination. The Padre admired his courage. Good, he thought, confirming his view that Carlotti would not bend until the end. Then he would surrender completely.

  He assigned tables to the men, pointing to a large diagram on the wall. The Padre would be two tables from the President. Benjy would remain in the pantry mixing drinks. Vinnie was assigned to the table nearest the door and Carmine to the comparative Siberia of the Red Room.

  Then Carlotti led the serving crew up a staircase, through the pantry, where he stopped briefly to explain how the food would arrive in the large serving elevator. He warned them it must be dispensed with split-second efficiency. After the explanation, the crew filed out to the State Dining Room.

  The Padre was struck first with the profusion of roses—reds, pinks, yellows. There were two huge vases filled with them on the mantelpiece below the picture of Abraham Lincoln. In the center of the mantelpiece was another huge bouquet, which was replicated in a smaller version on each yellow tablecloth. The candle-shaped bulbs on the large gold-plated chandelier were lit as well as the sconces that hung between white, fluted bas-relief pillars. Lights were reflected on every piece of crystal and plate. It was, the Padre thought, a breathtakingly beautiful sight.

  For a brief moment he was mesmerized by it. It seemed so incongruous with the act he was about to perform. Finally, reality intruded, coming in the form of a question posed to himself. How was it possible that such festivity could be going on in the face of his own sadness? In an odd way, he felt foolish, out of step. Nevertheless, his instinct was confirmed. Nobody really cared. If tragedy did not strike you or yours, it simply did not exist.