"Mr. President." It was the voice of Alicia on the intercom. 'There's a
call holding on line three. It's Dr. Mannheim."
He glanced up, distracted. In the interest of more space, the operation
had moved from the Oval Office to the Cabinet Room, where Stuart's
wooden-jawed portrait of George Washington gazed down on the papers
strewn around the eight-sided table. Seated there with him were his
chief of staff, Morton Davies; the special assistant for national
security affairs, Theodore Brock; head of the Joint Chiefs, Ed Briggs;
as well as the head of the CIA and the secretary of defense. The Vice
President was giving a speech at a California fund-raiser, but his
contribution was not particularly desired, or missed. Let him make
speeches and wave the flag.
He reached over and picked up the handset. "Tell him I'll get back to
him. Is he at home?"
"He's calling from somewhere in Greece. The SatCom--"
"Damn. Can't I call him back? I really don't have time--"
"I think you might want to take this, sir." Her voice was crisp and
neutral as always, but he knew what the edge in her intonation meant.
This is priority.
"SatCom?" Suddenly it clicked. He had been too distracted for the name
to register at first.
"He's almost babbling. Something about a helicopter. He's--"
"Put him on. And have the damned thing traced." He hit the speaker
button.
"Isaac. What's--"
"Johan, he's got a gun at my head." The voice was unmistakable. It had
made students quake for forty years. It had made _him _quake. Now it
was quivering. He had never heard his old professor in such a state.
Very, very unlike Isaac.
"Dr. Mannheim?"
"They made me call this number. I know I'm not supposed--"
"Who's they?" The connection was intermittent, but he still could make
it out.
"The . . ." He paused, then seemed to be reading. "The Resistance Front
for a Free Europe. They've taken over the SatCom facility here,
everybody. They shot down my helicopter. They killed--"
"What did you say? Helicopter?" Hansen's pulse quickened. Was Isaac
talking about the Israeli Hind that had attacked the Glover? And what
was this Resistance Front--for something or other . . . "Free Europe?"
Europe was already free. Maybe too damned free, given all the ethnic
turmoil.
The connection chattered, then another voice sounded. Hansen noted a
trace of an accent, but he couldn't identify it. "Johan Hansen, this is
to inform you that all the American engineers here are safe at the
moment. We have no desire to harm anyone. We merely want our demand
addressed."
Hansen glanced at Brock, who nodded, then pushed a button next to the
phone that allowed him to record both sides of the conversation.
"This had better not be a prank."
"It's no prank. The staff of SatCom is now hostage."
"Listen, whoever you are, the United States of America doesn't
negotiate with hostage takers. We never have before and we're not about
to start now."
"I'm afraid the rules of the past no longer apply. In fact, I have no
desire to negotiate either. There is nothing to negotiate. We have a
very simple demand. And you have no alternative."
"You've got that backwards, whoever you are. You have no alternatives.
You can release whatever hostages you have and get the hell out of
there. That's your one option."
"We would be delighted to comply. As I said to you, we merely have a
small nonnegotiable demand. I assume we are being recorded, but you may
wish to take notes nonetheless. In case you have any questions."
"If you're talking about ransom, I can tell you now it's absolutely
unthinkable."
"That kind of intransigence will get us nowhere." He sighed, a faint
hiss over the line, and then continued. "You may consider our demand as
merely a small repayment to the Muslim peoples, large portions of whose
homeland America has seen fit to devastate. That payment will be eight
hundred million dollars, to be delivered according to conditions that
will be specified by fax. I assume you will wish some time to make the
arrangements. You have twenty-four hours."
"You're out of your mind," Hansen said firmly. "You've got a hell of a
nerve even--"
"Don't make me repeat myself. I will fax you the bank information. As I
said, you have twenty-four hours. If you have not wire-transferred the
funds by that time, an American military installation in Europe will be
incinerated. And without your frigate Glover, sent to spy on the
Islamic peoples of the region, you will have no inkling where that
installation will be."
"Just what do you think you're going to do?"
"The same thing America once did to Japan. Only this time with a little
help from one of your so-called 'non-nuclear' allies."
Hansen pulled up short. Was this the nightmare every U.S. President had
feared--a nuclear device in the hands of terrorists. No, this took it
one step further; the terrorists had just seized the means to deliver
the device. It was that nightmare compounded.
He glanced at Ed Briggs, whose face had just turned ashen. They both
were thinking the same thing: What kind of military action was
possible? The answer was not going to be simple. Then he turned back to
the phone.
"Listen, I want . . ." He paused, because the line had gone dead.