James Grippando - The Abduction

“By the way,” she said. “Thank you for the fuzzy slippers. And the little note.”

“Oh, that was nothing. Just thought it would lift your spirits.”

“It did.” She waited for him to look back, and their eyes met again. “You’re a very sweet guy, Harley. Handsome, too. Not your typical FBI, hard-edged ex-Marine. I think you could make a woman very happy.”

He shrugged modestly. “Well, maybe.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I hope you find one who isn’t already married.”

The elevator stopped. Harley froze, like a man punched in the chest.

She said, “I’m not being mean. That’s just the way it is.”

The doors opened, and Allison stepped out. The color drained from Harley’s cheeks as the attorney general went straight to her husband and gave him a kiss.

Harley took a deep breath, shaking off the exchange. As he stepped from the elevator, he noted the small metal suitcase at Peter’s feet. “Is the money all here?” he asked in his most businesslike tone.

“All here,” said Peter, still holding his wife’s hand. “You want to count it, Mr. Abrams?”

Harley bristled at the edge to Peter’s voice. He’d spat out the words, as if talking to someone he disliked. And he’d almost clutched Allison’s hand as he spoke-a possessive thing, very territorial. Maybe he’d seen the slippers and the card, which would explain Allison’s put-down in the elevator. Maybe he just didn’t like how much time Harley had been spending with his wife, or the way Harley might have looked at her. Maybe you’re just paranoid. “No,” said Harley. “I don’t need to count it.”

Peter said, “I hear General Howe has finally offered to pay a ransom. Does that mean Allison and I will be reimbursed?”

“Probably,” said Harley. “But if all goes well, that won’t be an issue. Our primary objective is to save Kristen, but we hope to catch a kidnapper in the process.”

“Which means we get our money back.”

“Yeah,” said Harley. “Not to mention Allison’s safe return.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean, Mr. Abrams? You think I take my wife’s safety for granted? Well, I don’t, pal. Not when she’s in the hands of some Keystone Kop who invades the wrong house in Nashville.”

“Peter, please,” said Allison.

“It’s okay,” said Harley. “I think maybe I deserved that.”

Allison touched her husband on the forearm, calming him. “Harley, could you excuse us for a second?”

Harley hesitated. Time was short, but he knew she really wasn’t asking permission. “I’ll wait by the door. If you don’t mind, why don’t you step into the bathroom over there and get your husband to help you with the Kevlar vest. I don’t want you going into this unprotected.”

The other agent handed her the vest. “This is the kind you wear underneath your clothes,” he said.

“I know. I’ve worn one before.” She took it, then led Peter to the bathroom and closed the door. She spoke as she undressed.

“Are you with me on this or not, Peter?” she asked as she handed him her blouse.

“Of course. I’m always with you.”

“Yes, in words. ” She stuck her arms through the vest, cinched up the Velcro straps on the side, and tucked the flaps into her pants. She looked him in the eye. “You always say the right thing. Tell me what you’re feeling. Do you think I’m crazy for doing this?”

He looked away, sighing. “Look, we both know that the only chance Allison Leahy has at being elected president is if the American people are convinced that she’s done everything possible to save Kristen Howe. That requires nothing short of meeting the kidnappers’ demand to deliver the ransom. No, I don’t think you’re crazy.”

She winced. “It’s more than politics, Peter.”

“I know. Sorry.”

She buttoned her blouse over the vest. It was snug, but it fit.

Harley was knocking at the door. “Hate to interrupt,” he said. “But we really have to go.”

She looked at Peter. “Wish me luck?”

He nodded, then handed her the suitcase full of cash. She touched his hand as she took it, then winked. “I’ll be sure to send you a postcard from Switzerland.”

That got a smile.

She opened the door and stepped out quickly, breezing by Harley without making eye contact. Harley followed her to the fire exit, which led to the stairs that would take them up to the alley.

Harley handed her a stylish winter hat. “Wear this at all times,” he said. “There’s a two-way radio in the earpiece. We’ll be able to track your steps across town, and we’ll be in constant radio contact. It’s encrypted, of course, so the frequency can’t be intercepted. Just talk in a normal voice, we’ll hear you.”

She made a face. “How normal can it look for a woman to go around talking to herself?”

“Hey, we’re in D.C. Everyone’s just a pink slip away from becoming a bag lady.”

“Good point.”

He handed her a blue overcoat that looked nothing like the one she’d worn into the building-unlike anything she owned, for that matter. A matching scarf around her neck and big dark sunglasses completed the ensemble. “The idea,” said Harley, “is to disguise your appearance without making it look like an obvious disguise. We want the kidnappers to recognize you. But anyone who doesn’t know you’re supposed to be there shouldn’t be able to tell it’s you.”

She put on her outfit, then looked at Peter. “What do you think?”

“I’d walk right by you, stranger.”

“Good,” said Harley. He checked his watch. Nine-thirty. “Okay. Time to go.”

Allison glanced at Peter. His smile was a little nervous, but so was hers. They said good-bye without words.

Harley opened the door. They ducked outside, leaving Peter behind. They walked quickly up the cement steps to the car waiting in the alley. The rear door swung open. Allison jumped in back, followed by Harley. The windows were tinted, making it impossible for anyone to see inside. The sedan rolled slowly down the alley so as not to draw attention. They turned onto Ninth Street and crossed Pennsylvania Avenue. Allison glanced to her left. The media was still swarming outside the main entrance to the building, waiting for her to come out.

She looked away, focusing on her mission.

“We’ll drop you off at F Street,” said Harley, “just in case the kidnappers are staking out the drop site. You’ll walk alone on F Street, four blocks up to Fifth Street. The Pension Building is right there. Be sure to follow the kidnapper’s instructions to the letter. We have agents positioned all along the route, inside and outside the building.”

“Where will you be?” she asked.

“I’ll be in radio contact from headquarters, the Op Center. At least six field agents will have you in their sight at any point in time-dozens, most of the time. You’ll never know they’re there. The minute anything hits you as strange or risky, bail out. Your only job is to drop the money and get out safely. We’ll do the rest.”

The car stopped at the traffic light on Ninth and F streets.

“Good luck,” said Harley.

She grabbed the suitcase and nodded, then opened the door and stepped out.

A steady stream of cars cruised through the intersection. Pedestrians jammed the sidewalks. Briefcase-toting businesspeople charged along with purpose. Camera-snapping tourists meandered toward the sights. The city noises were a reminder that life as usual went on all around her. She knew the FBI was watching her. Maybe even the kidnappers were watching. The whole world could have been watching, and it wouldn’t have changed the sensation.

She felt eerily alone upon taking that first step toward the drop point.