We Are Holding the President Hostage Read Free Page B

and the boy emerging.
They started down the stairs. She was holding the boy's hand and he was jumping
beside her one step at a time, a laborious process in which she indulged him
with motherly patience.
    Suddenly Ahmed realized that she had waylaid his attention.
His concentration had strayed. Precious seconds had been lost. The phalanx had
come out of the museum and was already moving swiftly down the stairs. But the
boy beside his ice-cream cart had been alert. The bomb was placed.
    "Now," Ahmed cried, punching the driver's upper
arm. In miniseconds the car moved forward, the rear doors opened, and the
AK47's were sending their lethal message simultaneously with the blast. The
lead car of the limousine caravan rose like a feather in the wind, bursting
into flames.
    Unfortunately, their split second of hesitation pushed the
schedule awry. As expected, Bigelow was flung to the ground in a reflex action
by one of his guards. But unexpectedly, he had the presence of mind to roll
toward the site of the blast instead of away from it, causing the two men who
were to pick him up and throw him into the rear of their car to hesitate
another split second. This was just enough time for one of the dying guards to
get off a round of his automatic pistol. It caught Jaber's companion in the
head, spilling his brains on Jaber's shirt.
    Jaber struggled for a moment trying to get a good grip on
Bigelow, but Bigelow was not cooperating. And with good reason. He had been
caught in the cross fire. Another man stepped forward to help Jaber, but he,
too, was cut down by the guns of a surviving guard. When the last man attempted
to grab Bigelow, he was blown away.
    A botch, Ahmed knew almost from the first. He looked at
Jaber, still struggling to bring Bigelow into their car. Suddenly the boy
looked up. It was futile. Briefly their eyes met. Ahmed saw the panic and knew
what it meant. Jaber, if he was not killed, would break under interrogation.
Ahmed lifted the muzzle of his automatic pistol and raked the boy across the
chest.
    "Go," he shouted to his driver, jabbing the
pistol muzzle in his ribs. The driver jammed his foot on the accelerator and
the car shot forward. Then it stalled. The driver reached for the ignition key,
turned it. The motor coughed hesitantly, sputtered, but did not catch. It was
in that interval that Ahmed once again saw the woman and the boy. The stalled
car had apparently cut off their flight to another part of the parking lot.
They stood, apparently rooted to the ground by fear.
    "Hello, my lovelies," Ahmed said calmly as he
jumped out of the car. At that moment the sweating driver started the motor.
Ahmed grabbed the woman and the boy and pulled them into the rear seat. Then
calmly, as if this exhibition of his courage was necessary, he stepped slowly
into the seat beside the driver. As the car disappeared around the corner, he
turned to the woman and shrugged.
    "An American is an American," he said.
    The woman looked at him coldly. She had, he noted,
recovered her arrogance.
    "You won't get away with this," the woman hissed
as her arm shot out. Her fist glanced off the side of his head. Calmly, he
directed the pistol toward the boy's crotch.
    "He'd be such a pretty little soprano," Ahmed
said, watching the woman as the blood drained from her face. After a moment,
she expelled a word. It sounded very much like "Daddy."
    "Daddy," he said with a chuckle. "No Daddy
can help you now."

3
    AS HE HAD DONE with religious punctuality for more than a
quarter of a century, Salvatore Padronelli, the Padre as he was called, planted
his black Thom McAn shoes beneath the table of the private back room of Luigi's
Trattoria on Mulberry Street. It was located one block from his modest
two-story house in which he had resided for forty years. As always, the table
was covered with a crisp checkered tablecloth. On it was the usual basketed
bottle of Chianti, a container of standing breadsticks, and a half dozen small
tumblers. The table was