by Warren Adler
“So what sort of a brew do you propose for our great Satan to drink?” the Iranian said, a thin handsome man with a mustache. Although he was dressed neatly in Western-style clothes, Ahmed suspected him of being a mullah.
Ahmed deliberately took his time before continuing, studying each man’s face, bracing for their reaction. He felt tingles in his crotch and a radiant warmth crawl up his spine.
“I throw this gathering open for your suggestions,” he said. He needed to draw them in.
“We ask for the release of every Palestinian from every jail in the world,” one of the Palestinians said, a fierce man with eyes that glowed like burning charcoal.
“Not all,” the Syrian said.
“That is very shortsighted,” another of the Palestinians said. “We are all brothers.”
“Some are only half brothers,” the Syrian shot back.
“But our general goals are the same,” the third Palestinian said.
“Not completely,” the Iranian said, obviously injecting a religious note. The meeting seemed to be heading for contention.
“My friends. Please. The suggestion of our esteemed brother, while heartfelt, is still far from the mark. Considering what we have, it is still not enough,” Ahmed said.
“Not enough?” the Palestinian shouted, his voice high-pitched, strident.
“I have a better idea,” the Libyan said, slapping the table. “A delicious idea.” He looked around the table before speaking again. Then his tongue licked his heavy lower lip, wetting it until it glistened. “We ask for an atomic bomb.”
“Thank you,” the Syrian said, chuckling derisively. “Why not ask them to give up Texas?”
“Maybe not the latest version,” the Libyan continued, surprised at the derision. “But one with just enough power to effectively render harmless a small country of three million people.”
He heard a loud chuckle come from one of the Palestinians, then silence.
“But you know that will never happen,” the Syrian said.
“But think of the fear we will sow by the demand alone. Our point has always been the same. We have a respectable bargaining chip now. Why settle for bodies? This is the ultimate fear of our enemies.”
“It will goad them to some massive retaliation,” the Iranian said. “We can’t discount their armaments.”
“And the Israelis?” the Syrian asked.
“We will freeze their bowels with fear,” the Libyan said. “But we will give them no real justification for retaliation.” He smiled. “It is a splendid opportunity. After all, we have the President of the United States.”
“We don’t have the President,” the Syrian corrected. “We have a surrogate. There is also another problem.”
“And what is that?” Ahmed asked.
The Syrian had a pleasant face and smiled easily, which, to Ahmed, meant he was very dangerous. “Whatever is negotiated is best done through us. Only we maintain relations with the United States.”
Their narrow view amazed Ahmed. They were doomed to petty fighting, constant jabbering among themselves. They lacked vision, imagination.
“And what will you negotiate?” Ahmed asked.
The Syrian waved his arm in a sweeping gesture.
“Whatever we decide. Aren’t we, after all, the Islamic Jihad?”
It was so pleasantly put that it disarmed them all. Except for Ahmed. Vipers, he told himself. They would come out of this affair as the great white knights. Whatever private concessions they would get from the Americans would be valueless to Ahmed. He didn’t want settlements. His business was chaos. His objective was the sweet heady joy of power and celebrity. Did they think they would manipulate him? Lily-livered swine.
“There is only one resolution,” Ahmed said. It was, of course, the heart stopper, and he listened with pleasure to the silence. “The Mafia has given us a great prize. They boast of their honor. Well, we should allow them the opportunity to show it. After all, gentlemen, I have lit the fuse.”
“You mean force them to blow up the American President,” the Syrian said, unable to contain himself. He suddenly looked upset. “Madness.”
“No,” Ahmed responded. “It is a logical step, the ultimate act of terrorism. We have acquired the means to assassinate the President of the United States. We will never have this opportunity again.”
“And what will it achieve for our cause?” the Syrian asked.
“Once and for all, it will validate that we are people to be reckoned with, a force that cannot be ignored,” Ahmed continued. “We will slay the beast in his own den.”
The Palestinians had been remarkably silent. Although the three groups and their adherents hated each other, the commonality of interest, their mutual hate for the enemy, held them together.
“It would be wise to keep us anonymous in this affair,” one of them said. He was the representative of the PLO, a shadowy figure whose name, Ahmed was certain, was a pseudonym. “Although we will cooperate fully behind the scenes.” He cleared his throat. “As always.”
“So you intend the Libyans and the Shiites to take the brunt, as usual,” the Libyan declared.
“Are you frightened?” Ahmed asked. It was always the ultimate question to these macho-oriented types, sure to get them riled.
“None of us at this table have to present our credentials of courage.”
Suddenly the discipline within the group broke down. They all began to talk at once.
“Friends. My brothers,” Ahmed cried, slamming his fist down on the table. “I am not here to divide us. I am here to unite us. Believe me, I am happy to take all the credit myself. Let it be my contribution to the cause. Think of what it will do. It will make the world sit up and take notice. It is a boldness beyond anything that we have ever concocted. I ask only for your trust and support. No need for anyone to reveal themselves. I can handle this myself.”
His words drifted away. He had called this meeting to test the water, confirm his power.
“You realize that we will have to publicly disassociate ourselves from you,” the Syrian said.
“Of course.”
The Libyan nodded concurrence.
“I am aware of that,” Ahmed said.
Ahmed looked at the men around the table. Without a word being exchanged, he knew that consensus had passed between them.
“Then tell us, Ahmed, what can we do to help?” the Syrian asked.
27
TO THE PADRE there was no novelty in defying governmental authority. It was a solemn duty. His values demanded it. The government represented repression, rigid conduct, straitjacketed ideas. Governments were created to force order, to demand adherence to a system of law that inhibited man’s natural state of freedom. Its so-called much-vaunted ethical system favored the few who manipulated the many. If the system failed the needs of the leadership, then the leadership had to change the system to meet its needs.
This, to the Padre, was the heart of the government’s corruption. Until now he had never realized how truly corrupt it was. His lifelong antagonist, the government, had stolen some of the methods of his organization to further its own corruption.
An entire operation was devoted to this pursuit. They actually had set up and financed an entity that could deal in murder, intimidation, theft, and kidnapping. This entity acted under orders from the President.
Talk about injustice, the Padre thought. Might just as well have licensed his organization or others like it to do the same job. Wouldn’t have to waste energy fighting the system. He would be able to operate inside it.
He had thought it would be difficult to coerce the authorities into following his advice. It turned out to be easier than he had believed. They were ready. It was like lighting a match to dry tinder.
Harkins sat at one end of the table tapping out instructions on his keyboard, receiving reports on his monitor. The President sat at the other end of the table near the telephone console. Occasionally their eyes would drift toward the images
on the television set, which kept them remarkably informed about events happening outside the White House.
Apparently those officials charged by law to take action in the event the President was unfit to perform his official duties had accepted his assertion that he was, in fact, willing and able to govern. They had tested this assertion all day and he had patiently responded with ideas, orders, and approvals. The presidency, the Padre had discovered, was a job similar to his own. Put out fires, settle or compromise disputes, perform rituals, make decisions, exercise leadership.
He felt remarkably compatible with the President. The man, after a little tap dance of opposition and disapproval, had an affinity for his ideas. Despite his protestations, he knew the hidden meaning of power and manipulation.
But the woman was a problem. He had taken her to apply more pressure on the President. Now he wasn’t so sure it was a good idea. Yet he would be a fool to release her now.
Women baffled him. He often wondered whether he had ever truly known his beloved Rosa. Rosa, too, had been reluctant to give his business her blanket blessing, but she had never resisted him, had understood her role.
This Harkins was a superb organizer. He had even devised a way to get confidential information to the Pencil. By hand-delivered message, no less. He punched out info, then one of their covert operatives passed the word directly.
All the Pencil needed was names and places. The Saudi’s favorite son was a student at Berkeley, the daughter of the Syrian President a student at Amherst. The Pencil would know what to do with that kind of information. Those operations under his control did not worry the Padre. It was the government that worried him. Above all, they had better not fail in Jordan. This Safari boy must be taken. He was the key to the operation.
The Padre’s eyes drifted toward the television set. He had lowered the sound. Besides, the images themselves had become too tiresome and repetitive.
“Our Iranian operation is completed,” Harkins said, looking at the monitor.
“The Libyan?”
“In progress.”
“And Jordan?” the Padre asked.
“No word yet.”
The President looked up. He had been talking on the telephone and making notes on a pad. He looked toward the television set, then returned to his conversation. The Padre had listened to the conversation with half an ear. The President was talking import quotas with someone. He had heard the beginning of the conversation. The President had said:
“Pretend all things are normal. Let’s just stick to the issues.”
Remarkable, the Padre thought. The man had the kind of discipline required for the job. The government was functioning. The idea had begun to take hold. It was all grist for the television mill.
Nevertheless, a task force continued to operate from its headquarters in the basement of the Executive Office Building. Vice President Chalmers, as the heir apparent to the presidency, was the man in charge. Congress had been summoned to return and would soon meet to debate the question of accession.
The miracles of satellite communication allowed everyone to have their say. Television had reported the views of the Soviets, the Syrians, the Israelis, the Libyans, the Egyptians, and on and on.
The foreigners were confused as to why the President had not been superseded by the Vice President. This situation had been explained from every conceivable vantage point. The President himself had been pressed to appear on television, but the Padre had vetoed that idea. He did not yet wish to relinquish any control he might have over him. He knew that the President’s phone conversations were being recorded, but they were not being publicly aired.
Harkins’ fingers bounced endlessly on the keyboard. He had assured the Padre that the computer was foolproof. It could not be tapped by anyone who was not authorized. The CIA had commissioned computer experts to attempt to infiltrate the covert data base, and these included teenage hackers. Some had actually broken in, but the method was swiftly analyzed and the system debugged to prevent it.
Suddenly something flashed across the computer screen that startled Harkins.
“What?” he cried.
The Padre felt a cold, pinching sensation in his guts. The President, once again, turned from the conversation and looked at both men.
“What is it?” the President asked.
Harkins looked up at the television screen.
“We always get it first,” he said. The pride did not erase the sense of dread. The Jordan operation, the Padre thought. If that failed . . .
At that moment the First Lady, followed by Benjy, came into the dining room from the pantry.
“A call to a Beirut newspaper. Soon it will be released to every corner of the world. A demand from our friend Ahmed on behalf of the Islamic Jihad.”
“What is it they want?” the President asked.
“You won’t believe this,” Harkins said.
“Try me.”
“An atomic bomb,” Harkins said. He looked toward the Padre. “In return for the delivery of your daughter and grandson.”
“Quite an idea,” the President said.
Of course they would raise the ante. A perfectly logical expectation, the Padre thought. In an odd way, he was relieved. Although he had not admitted it to himself, the absence of any reaction from the kidnappers was cause for worry. Now he could assume that Maria and Joey were still alive.
“Why not?” Harkins said rhetorically.
“It’s impossible,” the President said.
“They know that, Mr. President,” Harkins said.
“Then why demand it?”
“To tell us how much leverage they have.” He turned toward the Padre. “They must have something else up their sleeves.”
The President’s wife, who had been uncharacteristically silent, suddenly spoke:
“He’s unleashed the beast, that’s what,” she said with disdain. The woman had not been taken into their confidence. If she knew what was happening, the Padre thought, she would be even more excited.
The Padre signaled with his eyes, and Benjy turned up the sound on the television set.
“There,” Harkins said, looking up at the television screen. “It’s moving now.” He looked at his watch. “Beat the bastards by five,” he said. He got up from the chair and turned up the sound. A correspondent in Beirut was providing the information that Harkins had just imparted along with various speculations and a picture of Ahmed Safari.
“Next thing we can expect is an interview with your daughter and grandson,” Amy said. “And now, direct from the cell of Maria and Joey Michaels—”
“Amy, for crying out loud,” the President said.
“They know it’s impossible to grant,” Harkins said.
“But it serves their purposes to frighten the hell out of all of us,” the President roared. “And remind us of the ultimate nightmare, the big bomb in the hands of some crazy.” He paused to concentrate on what the commentator was saying.
“Even the size of the bomb was specified. Something to knock out a nation of three million people.” The commentator’s face had turned ashen.
“What of the Jordan operation?” the Padre asked calmly.
“It has gone forward,” Harkins said. “We would not get word until the boy is safely in our hands.”
“What boy?” the President’s wife asked. She looked at her husband. The President turned to the Padre, who shrugged. Her reaction is immaterial, he thought. No harm in telling her.
“This man, Ahmed Safari. We are referring to his own son,” the Padre said.
She did not need any further explanation. Her lips trembled, her nostrils flared. She turned to the President.
“So you’ve sold out to them,” she said.
“Not quite,” the President said.
Before she could reply, the commentator was offering another bulletin. A Saudi prince, grandson of the King, had disappeared from Berkeley.
“My God,” the First Lady exclaimed.
“No one has been harmed,” the President began.
“You’ve authorized kidnapping,” she said.
The Padre signaled to Benjy, who grabbed the woman from behind, lifted her out of the chair, and moved her, kicking and screaming, out of the room. The President paled and stood up. The tautness of the connecting cord brought back the reality of his situation.
“If you hurt her . . .”
“Of course we won’t, but we can’t deal with a hysterical woman. Benjy will be careful, I assure you,” the Padre said.
The voice of the commentator compelled them to silence again. He explained that there were no clues to the disappearance of the Saudi prince. Someone in the apartment complex in which he lived saw three men, but he wasn’t sure.
“We are handling our end. What about yours?” the Padre pressed.
Harkins tapped away on the keyboard.
“No word yet.”
“Perhaps the CIA should take a lesson from the Mafia,” the President said. The color had come back into his face. The Canary, who had been in the other room, poked his head into the dining room.
“She is in the bedroom,” he said. “She is all right.”
“She had better be,” the President said, but he seemed relieved.
The President’s telephone lights began to blink. He picked up the instrument. The Vice President spoke:
“You’ve got to give it up, Mr. President,” he said. “We’ve got a worldwide panic on our hands.”
“Don’t exaggerate, Martin.”
“All you have to do is say the word.”
“I am governing,” the President said. “Stop letting a bunch of tinhorn terrorists make you crazy.”
“Make me crazy? You’re the hostage. You realize that this is a totally irresponsible act on your part.”
“Do you think for one moment that I would entertain such a request?”
“No, I guess not,” the Vice President said, retreating from his earlier belligerence. “But this bomb business is unsettling.”
“It’s an absurd demand.”
“But if you stepped down, Mr. President. Got out of the line of fire.”
“Then what, Martin?” the President asked pointedly, letting the question hang ominously in the air.
