"Mr. President," the voice said, "have you made your decision yet?"
John Hansen felt his anger growing. The voice on the other end of the
phone exuded the self-assurance of a man who was holding something
unspeakably horrible over your head. Either he could bluff with the
best of them, or he knew exactly what he was doing. Which was it?
He looked over at Theodore Brock, who had been at his desk, just down
from the Oval Office, early, arranging for the wire transfers of the
funds to Geneva. The eight hundred million dollars had been placed in a
numbered account in a branch of the Union Bank of Switzerland, just in
case. The objective, however, was never to take the final step and
transfer it into the accounts the terrorist had designated in Banco
Ambrosiano. Brock now sat on the couch across, fiddling with his
glasses. A cup of coffee sat next to him, untouched.
"We've accepted your proposal, in principle," Hansen replied, nervously
drumming his fingertips on the desk. He scarcely could believe the
words were emerging from his mouth. "We have some conditions of our
own, concerning the hostages, but I think it's possible to come to
terms, given time. Arrangements are being made concerning the money."
"According to the procedures I faxed you?" the voice asked.
"Not entirely," Hansen went on, beginning what was going to be his own
gamble. "The funds will have to be handled through our embassy in
Switzerland. It may take a few days."
There was a moment of silence on the other end, then,
"You don't have a few days, Mr. President. Time has run out. You have
to make a decision. Either you honor our demands or you must be
prepared to accept the consequences. And I assure you they are
terrible. Which will it be?"
"It is going to be neither," Hansen replied coolly, sensing he still
had leverage. "It is in both our interests to satisfy our objectives.
Including the safety of the hostages on the island. If we have to work
together to accomplish that, then we should. It's the logical, rational
way to proceed."
"Mr. President, this world is neither logical nor rational," came back
the voice, now noticeably harder. "The timetable does not allow
latitude for delays. You--"
"Let me put it like this," Hansen interjected, trying to catch him off
balance. "You have the choice of doing it the way it can be done, or
not doing it at all. Which do you want it to be?"
"I've given you an ultimatum," the voice replied tersely, its sense of
control returning. "The only question left is whether or not you intend
to honor it."
Hansen stole a glance at his wristwatch, thinking. He needed to stall
for time, but clearly it wasn't going to be so easy. The Special Forces
had reached Souda Bay, but they would not be in position to begin an
assault for several more hours.
"I told you I'm working on it," he said finally. "These things take--"
"The funds can be wire-transferred in minutes to the Geneva accounts I
listed for you." The voice was growing cocky. "There's no need for
brown paper bags and unmarked bills."
Hansen suddenly felt his anger boil, his composure going. Sometimes it
was better to go with your gut than with your head. Then the scenario
could be played out on your own terms. The hell with this bastard. Why
not just call his bluff? He wasn't going to use the weapon, or weapons,
even if he had them. He would gain nothing by that. The threat of using
a bomb was his only bargaining chip.
"You know," he said, "I'm thinking maybe I don't want to play your game
at all."
"That is a serious error in judgment, Mr. President. I am not playing
games."
"As far as I'm concerned, you are." Hansen looked up to see Alicia
ushering Ed Briggs into the office. God, he thought, do I look as
haggard as he does?
"I'm offering you a deal." His attention snapped back to the phone and
he continued. "Give me another day to arrange for the money. Another
twenty-four hours. That's the best you're going to get."
"We both know that is a lie," came back the voice. "If you expect me to
accept that, you are an even bigger fool than I imagined. Since you
don't appear to believe my seriousness, the time has come for a
demonstration."
"I'm waiting. The chances of you delivering a nuke, which is what I
assume you have, are about the same as Washington being hit by a
meteorite. The odds are a lot better that you'll just blow yourself up.
Criminals like you are long on tough talk and short on technology."
"This conversation is getting us nowhere. So just to make sure we
understand each other, let me repeat the terms once again. The eight
hundred million must be wired to the accounts I listed at the Geneva
branch of Banco Ambrosiano within the next five hours. If it is not,
the consequences will be more terrible than I hope you are capable of
imagining. The loss of life and property will be staggering."
"Keep him talking," Briggs whispered across. "Keep a line open.
Dialogue the fucker till--"
Hansen cleared his throat and nodded. "Look, if you'll just hold off a
few more hours, maybe something can be done about the problems with the
money. You have to try and understand it's not that easy . . ." His
voice trailed into silence and he looked up. "The bastard cut the line,
Ed. He's gone." He cradled the hand piece. "Shit."
Will the son of a bitch be ruthless enough to use one of those nukes?
he was wondering. You can't really know, he answered himself. With a
lunatic, you damned well never know.