James Grippando - The Abduction

Her head was pounding with the horrible possibilities. It didn’t make total sense to her, but this O’Brien character seemed like a logical fit somewhere into the adultery scandal and scarlet letter photograph Allison had briefly explained to her on the telephone.

In all the confusion whirling in her mind, one thing that stood out was the last warning from Harley Abrams. He had pushed her to spy on her father. It was possible, he’d explained, that if Kristen’s taking was politically motivated, the kidnappers might now be content to let the election simply run its course, never following up on their demand for a ransom. That was Kristen’s most dangerous scenario. That made it imperative to do more than just sit around and wait. They needed some offense-something to draw the kidnappers out of hiding.

Her eyes drifted to the photograph on her dresser. The two of them, her and Kristen. The last picture of them together.

She wiped away the tears and rose to her feet. Anger filled her veins, but in anger she found strength. She put on her robe and stepped into the hall.

A crack of light shone from beneath the bathroom door at the other end of the house. Her poor mother and her peanut-sized bladder were undoubtedly making one of the four or five trips she seemed to make each night. Tanya hurried down the hall, taking extra care to be quiet as she passed the FBI agent sitting in the kitchen. She stopped at the bathroom door. She heard the turning of a magazine page. Definitely her mother.

She continued down the hall, past Kristen’s room. The door was closed; her room had been secured like a crime scene. She stopped at the door beside it, the room her mother and father were using. Quietly she opened the door.

The bedroom was dark, save for the glowing face of the alarm clock on the dresser and the horizontal shafts of moonlight that cut through the miniblinds covering the window. Her father lay on the bed by the window, a hulk of man beneath the heavy blanket. She stepped quietly toward him, stopping near the foot of the bed to look at his face. He was deeply asleep.

She moved closer, then knelt right beside him. He was lying on his side, his cheek on the pillow. She crouched down until they were eye to eye and stared into his face. She could feel him breathing. Finally he seemed to sense her presence. His eyes blinked open.

“Don’t move,” she said in a cold, harsh whisper.

He froze, as if she’d put a gun to his head. “What is it, Tanya?” he asked with concern.

“I heard your conversation with Buck LaBelle.”

His eyes became wider. The whites were huge in the darkness. He said nothing.

She whispered, “I think you would stop at nothing to get elected. I think you would kidnap your own granddaughter to get elected. And if Kristen isn’t home before the polls open on Tuesday morning, I’m going on national television to tell the voters what I think.”

“Tanya,” he gulped, “you’re making a horrible mistake.”

“Be still. Those are my terms.”

The door opened. Natalie stepped a foot inside, then stopped. “Tanya?”

She rose slowly, her expression pleasant. “Dad and I were just talking.”

Natalie came to them and sat on the edge of the bed. “That’s a good thing. You two should talk more.”

Tanya glanced at her mother, then back at her father. “Something tells me we will. It seems we have lots to talk about.”

“Wonderful,” said Natalie. “I knew this was a good idea.”

“It was a great idea, Mom.” She kissed her on the cheek, then crossed the room without a sound, stopping in the doorway. “Good night, Father.”

The general nearly bit his tongue, careful not to say anything in front of his wife. “Good night, Tanya.”

The door creaked open, and then she was gone.

The telephone rang at precisely eight o’clock Monday morning. Allison was dressed and standing beside the phone, waiting and hoping for-if not expecting-the call. The shrill ring still startled her. She snatched up the receiver.

“This is Allison.”

A shaky, high-pitched voice came on the line. “This is Kristen Howe.”

Allison immediately hit the button on the phone that triggered the FBI intercept. “Kristen, where are you?”

A pause, followed by that disguised, mechanical voice-Kristen was gone. “Between a rock and a hard place. Same as you. Do you have the money?”

She checked the clock on the wall. Fourteen seconds. It sounded like another cellular phone, which meant that she needed to stall if the FBI was going to trace it. “Yes, I have it. But I want to talk to Kristen.”

“Go to the old Pension Building at ten A.M. Enter on Fifth Street. Go through the atrium, and exit on F Street.”

Allison bristled at the tone. The voice was disguised, like before, but it didn’t sound like Friday’s caller or the caller on Saturday. It sounded altogether different. “Put Kristen back on the line,” she said. “Just so I know for sure she’s alive.”

“Wait on the sidewalk outside the building on F Street. And bring the money.”

She grimaced. Whoever he was, the caller was no fool-no wasted words. “You want me to deliver the money?”

“Yes, you. Personally. Alone. No FBI.”

“I don’t think I can get out undetected.”

“Sure you can. A suspended attorney general doesn’t need an FBI escort.”

Smart-ass, she thought. “It’s not the FBI I’m worried about. The press is camped outside my door.”

“And Kristen Howe has a gun to her head. You think you got problems? Beat the media. Be there. Ten A.M. You’re late, she’s dead.”

She started to say something-anything-to keep him talking, but the line clicked. She checked the clock. Less than forty seconds. “Damn,” she muttered, knowing it probably wasn’t enough time for a trace on a wireless. She disconnected with her finger and speed-dialed Harley Abrams.

He answered immediately, having heard the entire conversation through the intercept.

“You heard?” asked Allison.

“Yeah,” he said. “You really got the money?”

“Not on me. Peter called his banker at home this morning. It’s at the bank.”

“Can you trust the bank to keep it confidential? A cash withdrawal as big as this isn’t exactly an everyday occurrence.”

“It’s structured to be not so obvious. Peter has been wire-transferring it in small installments over the past couple of days from several banks-some offshore-to nine different accounts held in the names of nine different companies he controls. Nobody but Peter’s banker will really know the money is going to us personally. I told Peter this has to be confidential.”

“You trust his banker?”

“Peter says he does.”

Harley paused. “You don’t have to pay it, you know.”

“We’ve already made our decision.”

“There’s a wrinkle,” said Harley.

“What kind of wrinkle?”

“I got a call from Lincoln Howe about twenty minutes ago.”

“And?” she asked urgently.

“Seems he’s had a change of heart. He told me that if the kidnappers make a ransom demand, he and his wife have decided to pay it.”

Allison froze. “Did he say why?”

“Just that some wealthy friends offered him the money, and he changed his mind. He’s not making it public. Nothing more than that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Allison, I’m being as straight as I possibly can. Howe told me not to tell you, and Director O’Doud gave me a direct order to abide by his wishes. If the kidnappers hadn’t renewed their demand, there wouldn’t have been any need for you to know. I’m telling you now because it affects you directly. You and Peter don’t have to pay.”