James Grippando - The Abduction

“I say, it’s not enough for the attorney general simply to say she takes full responsibility. Those who assume positions of responsibility must answer not with words, but with accountability.”

“General, are you calling for Ms. Leahy to resign?”

He paused to choose his words. “If Ms. Leahy will not step aside from this investigation, then I’m calling on the president to order her to do so.”

A barrage of questions followed. The general simply waved and nodded as he ducked into the backseat. The door slammed, and the limousine whisked away, headed for the airport.

Allison’s flight landed at Washington National Airport just after 10:00 P.M. A limousine was waiting for her, but it wasn’t her usual car and driver. President Sires had phoned her in mid-flight and summoned her to an emergency meeting. She made the trip from the airport to Pennsylvania Avenue in record time, thanks to the use of traffic-stopping White House wheels. Secret Service took her directly to the Oval Office, which struck her as odd. Given the hour, she would have expected they’d meet in the residential side of the White House. He obviously wanted his most powerful setting.

President Sires was staring out the window, his back to her as she entered. His weight-of-the-world posture reminded her of that famous photograph of a slump-shouldered John Kennedy staring out the Oval Office window as he pondered the Cuban missile crisis. But the president’s Saturday-evening cardigan sweater looked more like Jimmy Carter during his fireside chat.

Allison seated herself in the silk-covered armchair facing his desk. The president still hadn’t looked at her, was still looking out the window. Finally he faced her and said, “I want you off the Kristen Howe investigation.”

“May I ask why?”

His jaw cocked, as if she’d hit him with a left hook. “Because there’s no other option. You did a commendable thing tonight. You went on record taking full responsibility for today’s mishap. But Lincoln Howe has a point. It means nothing to take responsibility if you don’t also take the consequences.”

“Are you firing me as attorney general?”

“Of course not.”

“Are you suspending me?”

“All I’m asking is that you step aside from this investigation-voluntarily.”

She looked away for a moment, then looked him in the eye. “Respectfully, sir, I won’t step aside.”

“Allison, it’s just one case. It won’t kill you to give in.”

“And if I don’t?”

He moved toward his desk and eased into his chair. His shoulders squared as he laid his folded hands atop the inlaid leather. “Please don’t make me force you.”

She nodded, biting her tongue. The anger was boiling inside, rising, until a bitterness lodged in her throat. “How do you plan to handle the announcement?”

“With as little fanfare as possible. We’ll do a press release, no press conference. I want to get this behind us without making a major protracted news event out of it. The timing is perfect. A simple press release on Saturday night should dilute the impact.”

“You mean a press release from the White House or from the Department of Justice?”

“Both. My staff has already prepared them. Would you like to see the one from Justice?”

He offered, but she didn’t reach for it. “I’m sure it’s just perfect,” she said in a voice laden with sarcasm. “I mean, what better way to run the Department of Justice than to have the White House drafting its press releases? It’s like I always say, a president doesn’t need a pesky attorney general looking over his shoulder anyway. In fact, you don’t even need an attorney general. Why don’t I just do the honorable thing and go back to my office right now and fall on my sword? Except-aw shoot,” she said, grimacing in mock frustration, “I don’t have a sword. I know! Let’s call Lincoln Howe. I’ll bet he can lend us one.”

“You’re making a grave mistake by not taking this seriously.”

“I’m taking this very seriously. That’s why I’m not stepping aside from the investigation. So unless you plan to suspend me, I should be leaving now. I have a meeting to attend at FBI headquarters.” She rose and started for the door, hoping for a clean getaway.

“Allison,” he said harshly, stopping her in her tracks.

She turned to catch his eye, saying nothing.

“Skip the meeting,” he said. “I’ve made my decision. You’re off the investigation. That’s final.”

“You’re suspending me?”

“Come on,” he said, “you leave me no choice. You know I hate to do this to you just two days before the election, but look at the polls. You’re losing ground by the hour. Politically you’re a lost cause. If I don’t take you out of this investigation right now, Lincoln Howe will keep on attacking until your negative ratings spill over into every congressional race in the country. It’s bad enough the party is losing the White House. But I’m seriously worried that we’re going to lose control of the House and Senate, too.”

She looked at him with disbelief, her eyes burning. “Silly me, Mr. President. I was worried about finding a twelve-year-old girl.”

Her glare tightened, and the president looked away. She turned and let herself out, never looking back as she walked briskly down the hall, knowing in all likelihood that she’d just paid her last visit ever to the Oval Office.

Vincent Gambrelli woke at sunrise, five minutes before the alarm would have sounded. He’d risen the same time every morning for more than thirty years, since his first night as a Green Beret in the jungles in Vietnam. He’d never really needed an alarm clock, and he’d only started setting one in the last few months, as he neared the half-century mark. It was a kind of competition for him, man against machine. The day his body no longer knew it was time to get up was the day he would no longer trust it.

His six-foot frame was covered in his usual sleepwear, dark green sweat pants and a camouflage T-shirt. He dropped to the carpet and lay on his back, knees up, bracing his ankles beneath the bed frame. He breathed audibly, inhaling and exhaling at regular intervals as he ripped off two hundred sit-ups. He rolled onto his chest, facedown with his hands planted firmly in the push-up position. His back was rigid as a steel rod for the first set of fifty. Up on his fingertips for fifty more. Another twenty-five using just his right arm, then twenty-five more using only the left.

He sprung to his feet, pumped with energy. He swung his arms across his body, stimulating the circulation as he crossed the room and entered the bathroom. Stripped of the T-shirt, he checked himself in the mirror. The red glow of the heat lamp gave him an evil cast, which he rather liked. Thick purple veins bulged from his forearms and biceps. His clean-shaven head glistened with tiny beads of sweat. He turned for a look at his profile. Lean. Nothing he didn’t need. Not an extra gram of body fat. Not an extraneous hair on his head. Not a hint of compassion in the cold, dark eyes.

He showered and dressed quickly. Hunger pangs gripped his belly, but that would have to wait.

He pulled a duffel bag from the closet, laid it on the floor, and unlocked the zipper. He smoothed out the bedspread and pulled on a pair of thin rubber surgical gloves. Gloves were a must when handling the equipment. No prints.

Carefully, almost lovingly, he reached inside the bag and removed a sleek and lightweight AR-7 rifle, laying it on the bed. The barrel was already broken down for storage inside the stock with the clip, and the serial number just above the clip port had been completely drilled out. Beside it, he laid the three-to-six-powered rifle scope, powerful enough to ensure deadly accuracy up to sixty-five yards. That was far more scope than he’d needed last night. From across the street, Repo had been easy prey.