by Warren Adler
“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.
37
THEY HAD MOVED ON FOOT in the dusk. Most people had already locked themselves into their shabby tenements in this part of West Beirut. A few could be seen sitting on windowsills silently watching the sparse traffic on the mean streets.
The night was thick with the smell of cooking oil and sesame. A cacophony of shouting children, the squawk of human anger, plaintive Arab music mixed with ear-splitting rock ‘n’ roll filled the air.
One gloomy street looked the same as any other. Maria held Joey’s hand and Ahmed clutched her firmly under the arm. When people approached, Safari dragged them into an alley or into a doorway.
In the open streets she was more afraid than she had been in a closed room. Safari had about him an air of desperation that, she sensed, made him more dangerous, more savage. His grip hurt her arm but she said nothing, struggling to keep the pace. Only when they moved too fast did she resist.
“The boy. He can’t keep up.” He slowed down.
Earlier her mind had tried to contemplate avenues of escape. She was too tired to imagine them now. She felt like a bit of flotsam on a choppy river, at the mercy of the flow.
At one point he had stopped at the entrance of an apartment house. It was a broken-down tenement, but he was apparently familiar with it. He walked through the entrance. A pay phone hung from a cinder-block wall. He signaled her with the muzzle of his gun to squat on the floor against the opposite wall. She obeyed, welcoming the opportunity to rest, giving permission for Joey to urinate against the wall.
She barely listened as he whispered into the phone in Arabic. Although she did understand a few words, she could not put them in any logical context.
When he had finished he banged the receiver down and said in English, “They will know who they are dealing with now.” He glared at her for a long moment, as if he expected some comment from her. She said nothing. It was safer, she decided, to be silent.
“You think all this is a pointless exercise?” he snapped.
Still she would not answer.
“He will negotiate with me directly.”
“Who?” she asked timidly, as if it were a line in a play.
“The President of the United States.”
She had been wrong to respond. He spoke between clenched teeth, his words hissing. “They will have to take notice. He will give me back my boy without conditions. Only then . . .” He reached out and roughly lifted Maria to her feet. She could smell his sour breath. Her eyes could barely focus. A frightened Joey buried his face in the folds of her galabia.
“I will make him do it,” he said angrily. He was hurting her arm, but she would not acknowledge it.
Finally he dragged them outside the tenement and they walked a few more blocks. He ducked into another building, pushing her and the boy ahead of him. He led them through a darkened corridor to a door. Fishing a key out of his pocket, he opened it.
He flicked on the wall switch and the light revealed a reasonably comfortable basement studio apartment. There was a double bed, a television set, a desk on which was a telephone and framed photograph of a dark boy with sad eyes. To one side was a small Pullman kitchen containing a sink. Of all the places she had been kept, this one seemed lived in. She suspected it was his own.
He rummaged in a cupboard and found a bottle of scotch. Opening it, he took a deep drag, then looked at his watch. Maria and Joey slowly sank to the floor, their backs against a far wall. They were exhausted. The end of the line, she thought.
“Your son?” she whispered, tilting her chin toward the picture on the desk.
His response was to take another deep pull on the bottle. She looked up into his face. His eyes glared with intensity, his nostrils quivered.
“Soon,” he said. Again he looked at his watch.
Turning, he switched on the television set. Light from the images on the screen flickered in the darkened room. She turned toward it, forcing her concentration.
The images seemed garbled, disconnected. Voices speaking different languages seemed to compete with each other for attention. Did these words and images concern her? she wondered. The voices spoke of death. The Saudi prince and the daughter of the Syrian President had been killed. Then a picture flashed on the screen of the same boy whose photograph rested on the desk. So it is, she thought. The voices droned on, speaking of anger and death.
Then came news of her father. He still held the President hostage in the White House. “Daddy, hurry,” she whispered, tightening her hold on the boy.
Suddenly she saw smiling faces. Hostages released. Tears of joy and reunion.
“Filthy cowards,” Safari cried. “Death to you all.” He pointed the gun in the direction of the screen but did not pull the trigger.
She heard her own name being spoken and saw her picture again. The commentator spoke in Arabic. She could catch only bits and pieces. Then her image was gone, replaced by moving pictures of the President and his wife. They were laughing, holding hands. She heard the commentator mention Ahmed Safari. Then she saw his photograph.
Finally, she pieced it together. Safari was going to make the President negotiate for her life. By doing so, the President would admit his participation, his collusion. Moreover, he would be acknowledging their existence, their struggle. The commentator was highly biased. He reveled in the possibility.
Safari had given the President a deadline. If the President did not consent to this plan, he would kill her. Despite the sudden stab of fear, she thought only of her son. She crushed him to her. He started to whimper and she kissed away his tears.
She tried to force her optimism, but the fear continued. No President had ever agreed to negotiate with any terrorist. Was it possible that her father’s bold act could actually change the unalterable policy of the United States?
And yet, if he failed to do so, she and her son would die.
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 b
e 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.
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.
