James Grippando - The Abduction

She swallowed the lump in her throat, then flipped the message over. Taped to the backside was Kristen Howe’s identification card from Wharton Middle School.

She shivered, realizing the demand was no hoax.

Across the bottom, someone had scrawled a handwritten message-almost as if it were written as a postscript. “If the cops see this, Kristen dies.”

Her hand shook uncontrollably.

The FBI agent stepped forward. “What is it, Mrs. Howe?”

She pressed the message to her bosom, shielding it from all eyes but her own. “I can’t tell you,” she said in a quaking voice. “Not until I speak to Lincoln.”

Harley Abrams was whisked by helicopter from Philadelphia to Washington for an emergency meeting at FBI headquarters. At 4:35 P.M. he reached Director O’Doud’s office suite, an impressive ensemble of offices and conference rooms known as “mahogany row” because of the richly paneled walls. The rest of the building sported stark charcoal doors and beige walls unrelieved by artwork, making the director’s suite something of an oasis in a building ridiculed for its architecturally appalling exterior walls of pockmarked concrete. Entry into the suite was tightly restricted, requiring advance clearance by the security programs manager. Harley’s lapel bore the necessary photo ID with blue background that allowed him to reach the director’s receptionist, who then let him inside. Two Secret Service agents waited outside the suite, somewhat out of their jurisdiction at the FBI headquarters, but at this stage of the game they accompanied Lincoln Howe everywhere.

O’Doud was seated behind his antique mahogany desk. Lincoln Howe occupied the armchair facing him. Harley noticed that Howe was wearing a photo ID with a gold background, indicating the highest level of security clearance, a level usually reserved for FBI assistant directors and above. An unusual if not irregular courtesy, thought Harley, considering the general was still only a civilian, albeit a candidate for the presidency.

Harley greeted both men respectfully. In an ordinary kidnapping, a supervisory special agent from the CASKU would no more report directly to the FBI director than to the Prince of Wales, but nothing about this case was ordinary.

Director O’Doud handed him a faxed copy of the ransom demand. Harley examined it, taking a seat on the striped couch by the window.

Howe said, “My wife received it in Nashville this afternoon. It was sent Federal Express to my daughter’s home, but it was addressed to Natalie and me.”

Harley looked up. “It wouldn’t have made much sense to address it to your daughter. Even the kidnappers must know it would be easier for you than your daughter to raise a million dollars.”

O’Doud said, “Another interesting thing. It came from Knoxville, not Nashville.”

“I had assumed they’d left Nashville. This confirms they headed east, which lends credence to our theory that the murder in Philadelphia is related.”

Howe asked, “But why would they send a package that can pinpoint their location? Why not just make a quick phone call?”

“They probably were afraid a phone call could be traced, or their voices could be identified, or maybe you’d want to talk to Kristen and they’d have to risk bringing her to a pay phone-lots of reasons. So they just dropped this in the overnight box on their way to wherever they were going. By the time it reached your daughter’s house in Nashville I’m sure they were long gone from Knoxville.”

O’Doud asked, “How does the ransom demand affect your thinking, Harley? Does it change anything?”

“It’s definitely a breakthrough. Any time you have a ransom demand the case gets much easier to solve, since the kidnappers have to contact the family. But as far as the investigation goes, I don’t think we should drop everything and say we’re looking for financially motivated kidnappers.”

“Why not?” Howe asked with a grimace.

“Because I believe the other profiles we’ve worked out at CASKU are still viable. A financial motive is certainly plausible. But we could still be dealing with a glory-seeking psychopath who targeted a high-profile victim like Kristen Howe just for the thrill and notoriety of it. Look again at the ransom message,” he said, reading from the photocopy: “A million dollars by Friday, instructions to follow. It’s almost as if ransom were an afterthought. The kidnapper hasn’t even figured out how to get the money yet. At this stage, we simply can’t rule out other possibilities, including the theory that this is the rare and maybe even unprecedented case where the real purpose of the kidnapping is to throw a political election.”

Howe recoiled, as if uncomfortable with any discussion of political ramifications. “But the ransom demand has to blow that theory, doesn’t it? I mean, even though Ms. Leahy has obviously tried to exploit the kidnapping for her own political gain, the ransom demand confirms that the kidnappers’ motivations are financial, not political.”

Harley said, “I would disagree on two levels. One, if the kidnappers are politically motivated, a bogus ransom demand would certainly be a clever way to throw the FBI off the trail. And two, I wouldn’t say that Ms. Leahy’s supporters are the only ones who have exploited the kidnapping for political gain.”

The general swelled with indignation. “Are you suggesting I’m playing politics?”

Harley met his stare, wondering if now was the time to question both the candidate and the director about the politically transparent capital punishment speech that O’Doud had delivered at this morning’s press conference. He decided not. “I would never suggest that, General. Not without more evidence.” He glanced at the faxed ransom note. “What I’d really like is to see the original of this.”

“It’s being flown here as we speak,” said O’Doud. “It will have to be analyzed, which is in part the reason for this meeting.”

General Howe interrupted, taking control. “I’m sure you noticed the handwritten message on the back-the warning that if we tell the police about the ransom demand, they’ll kill the hostage. So far, the only person my wife and I have told about it is our daughter, some close friends who might help us raise the money, and of course Director O’Doud. The director has naturally brought some higher-ranking officials into the loop. The assistant director of the criminal division, the CASKU chief, some very select members of the Hostage Rescue Team, and as of now, you. Obviously you’ll need to tell more-laboratory agents who analyze the message and the packaging, a handwriting expert who will analyze the handwritten portion of the message, and so on. As for this support level, I’m counting on you to identify the smallest group possible that needs to know about this. And then I want you to hand-pick those people who can be absolutely trusted to keep this confidential. We have to assume that the kidnappers will act on their threat. We cannot afford a break in security.”

“It’s always hard to guarantee no leaks, but I will certainly put together a list of those agents I would trust. Just to come at this from another direction, is there anyone you absolutely don’t want on the access list?”

The general and Director O’Doud exchanged glances. “Only one person I can think of,” said Howe, his eyes narrowing. “Allison Leahy.”

Rush-hour traffic was streaming down Pennsylvania Avenue, a grand and in many ways metaphorical divide between the Justice Building and FBI headquarters between Ninth and Tenth streets. Allison crossed at the crosswalk with her Secret Service bodyguards at her side.

After lunch with Peter, Allison had reached the conclusion that she needed a one-on-one, face-to-face meeting with the point man on the investigation. His unexpected return to Washington presented the perfect opportunity. She thought about summoning him to her own office, but since it was literally a matter of crossing the street, she preferred meeting him on his own turf-sort of a polite ambush.