James Grippando - The Abduction

“So you’re delivering the ransom.” It was less a question, more reluctant resignation.

“What do you think?”

“I think I’ll need clearance from headquarters. Probably the director himself.”

“Then get it,” she said.

At nine o’clock, Allison was slipping on her overcoat, ready to go. She had already left messages for her running mate and campaign strategists, explaining that the number-one woman on the ticket was unable to campaign today, at least until the afternoon. She knew it was lame to leave messages, but she couldn’t tell them why she was canceling her morning appearances, so she purposely avoided a direct conversation.

Her cellular phone rang in her purse as she reached for the doorknob. She did a double take. It was a number the kidnapper couldn’t have gotten. Only a select few had it. She answered tentatively.

It was her campaign strategist. “What’s this bullshit about cancellations?” Wilcox blurted.

Her stomach did a flip-flop. Somehow, she knew he’d find her. “I’m sorry, David. I have some personal matters to take care of this morning.”

“Personal! The election is tomorrow. This is no time to go get your teeth cleaned.”

“David, unless you want your clock cleaned, I suggest you change your tone.”

“We’re all getting our clock cleaned. One of my aides just faxed me a summary of an AP story. Listen to this.” Papers shuffled as he read from the fax. “‘Washington-With every major poll showing General Howe at least five points ahead, an anonymous White House source reports that Attorney General Leahy has privately conceded defeat. Democratic leaders are concerned that any further public appearances by Leahy in swing states might actually hurt Democratic congressional candidates. In what insiders are calling an unprecedented acknowledgment of the accuracy of modern pre-election polling, voters may actually see a presidential candidate assume a low profile on the eve of the election.’”

Allison grimaced. “It’s Howe. I know it’s him. It’s no White House source.”

“I don’t care if it’s the president’s golden retriever. The point is, if you cancel any more engagements, you’re just substantiating this nonsense. People are going to think you’ve thrown in the towel.”

“I can’t help that, David. I’m out of pocket for the rest of the morning. I’ll be back this afternoon.”

“Allison!”

“Clear the decks until one o’clock. That’s the best I can do. I’ll call you.” She hit the cancel button in the midst of his screaming, then quickly dialed Harley Abrams.

He answered directly. “What is it?”

Her tone was angry, though she didn’t really blame Harley. “Did you get approval from your superiors for me to deliver the ransom?”

“Yes, I told you I would.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“Director O’Doud, himself.”

“Any chance he contacted Lincoln Howe?”

“I suppose so. I don’t know. Why?”

“They’re frying me. They knew I’d have to cancel my morning campaign appearances to deliver the ransom. Now, a supposed White House source is saying that I’m deliberately making myself scarce so I can’t take any congressional candidates down with me.”

“Why would the White House say that?”

“It’s not the White House, Harley. It’s Lincoln Howe.”

“You think even Lincoln Howe is dirty enough to let you deliver the ransom and then make political hay out of the fact that you’re not out there campaigning?”

“Who else ?”

His pause only confirmed the lack of other suspects. “I’m sorry, Allison. I’m not the one playing politics. I’m just following FBI procedure. I didn’t feel I could send you in with the ransom without approval.”

“I know, it’s not your fault.”

“Are you changing your mind about the delivery?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Do you want to make it public? I mean, if Lincoln Howe knows you’re delivering the ransom, maybe we don’t have to keep your role a secret anymore.”

“Too risky,” she said. “If I go public, the kidnappers might think I’m using the ransom delivery purely as a political stunt. That could get Kristen killed in a heartbeat.”

“You’re right. But are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“Yes, damn it. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.” She switched off the phone and tucked it back into her purse, then braced herself as she opened the front door.

The cacophony hit her as quickly as the cold morning air. Her FBI escort met her on the front steps. He opened the iron gate and pushed the media aside, clearing a short path across the width of the sidewalk. Her limo was at the curb with the motor running. Another agent inside pushed the rear door open. Allison hurried through the narrow opening in the mob and slid into the backseat. A boom microphone clobbered her FBI escort in the head, but no one but the agent even seemed to notice. Without interruption, the steady roar of reporters continued even after the limo door had shut.

“Ms. Leahy!” they shouted. “Is it true you’ve stopped campaigning?”

Allison ignored it. Her limo pulled away, and the media vans were on her tail before they reached the stop sign at the corner. The driver headed directly for the Federal Triangle at regular speed, the normal route, giving no indication that he was trying to ditch the media. He stopped at the curb on Pennsylvania Avenue. Another mob of reporters was waiting on the Justice Building steps, as if the entire camp had been magically transported from her home to work. They flocked to her car with instinctive determination, like blind puppies stumbling over each other on their way to mother’s milk.

The car door opened. The agent led the way across the packed sidewalk. Allison kept a hand on his back as they forged toward the entrance. The heavy brass and glass doors opened, and the media pushed its way inside, right on their heels. Allison and her escorts whisked through the security checkpoint. The federal marshals and metal detectors put the stop on the charging media. Another marshal held the elevator for the attorney general. Allison left her escorts behind and keyed the elevator for her fifth-floor suite. The door closed in what seemed like slow motion, as the building was more than half a century old and so were its elevators. The doors opened on the fifth floor. Harley was waiting in the lobby.

“Jeez,” she said. “It was like the Beatles at Shea Stadium out there.”

“McCartney played for the Mets?” he kidded.

“Watch it, Abrams. I’m not that much older than you.”

He smirked as he pulled on his leather jacket, then turned serious. “Ready?”

Allison nodded and led the way to the private elevator-the so-called Marilyn Monroe elevator that led from the attorney general’s suite to the basement of the Justice Building. Allison hit the CALL button, and the doors opened. She entered first, then Harley, and the doors closed behind them. The motor hummed as they descended down the shaft. They stood side by side, staring up at the numbered lights over the door.

“You know,” said Harley, “I heard JFK and Marilyn Monroe used to take this elevator up to the loft when his brother was attorney general.”

She smiled faintly. “Yes, I’ve heard that.”

“I guess if the president and the world’s most famous sex symbol could get in and out of this building without anybody noticing, so can we.”

“Theoretically, I could still be president.” She shot him a mischievous look. “Guess that makes you the sex symbol.”

He fought the surge inside, but she had him blushing again. He blinked and looked away.