James Grippando - The Abduction

Her team of FBI escorts met her in the lobby of the employee entrance. Roberto, the one who’d served her the longest, spoke for the group. “Mr. Abrams said you might not want us anymore. At least let us get you out of the building. You’ll be mauled without protection.”

She glanced through the window. The sidewalks were packed. Members of the media stood shoulder to shoulder along both sides of Pennsylvania Avenue. Mounted police and barricades kept pedestrians from spilling into the street. Police officers argued with media van drivers whose illegally parked vehicles were blocking traffic. It looked like the parade route on inauguration day, only everyone was a journalist.

Allison shrugged helplessly. Tanya might well see her on television surrounded by FBI escorts, and she might infer that Allison had broken her promise to cut out the FBI. But she would just have to understand. “Okay,” she told her escorts. “Get me out of here.”

Vincent Gambrelli stood calmly behind the yellow barricade, unfazed by the media hoopla around him. Reporters rudely shoved from both sides. Cameras poked him in the back. His feet didn’t budge from the sidewalk.

He wore a long wool coat and rubber-soled shoes that resembled a businessman’s wing tips. A convincing brown wig covered his bald head. His eyesight was perfect, but the tortoiseshell eyeglasses with plain glass enhanced the disguise. Tinted contact lenses turned his blue eyes brown. Stage makeup added fleshiness to his nose. He had staked out a prime spot facing the ground-floor Pennsylvania Avenue entrance for employees and guests. The small lobby looked out on a brick courtyard with a fountain, park benches, and a bronze plaque in honor of J. Edgar Hoover.

“That’s her!” someone shouted.

Gambrelli peered through the lobby windows, all the way inside to the elevators. His gaze fixed on the blond woman moving toward the door, coming briskly toward the crowd. His right hand slipped casually into his coat pocket, a split second away from his Glock-17 pistol.

So easy, he thought. It would be so damn easy.

The door swung open. Out stepped Allison Leahy.

The crowd surged forward. One of the crowd-control barricades toppled over. A cameraman went down hard on the sidewalk. He and his equipment were promptly stampeded.

Gambrelli stood fast as the frenzy intensified. Leahy was barely out the door before the mob stopped her progress. Microphones were thrust into her face. Reporters nearly leaped over one another for the lead position. Boom microphones swung in from overhead. She was surrounded in confusion-hysterical strangers just inches away from her unprotected head and torso. It was impossible to discern which hand was connected to which body, which microphone belonged to which reporter.

Too easy, he thought. Where’s the challenge? Even his nephew could have pulled this off-Tony the fuckup who was barely qualified to hang back at the house and baby-sit Kristen Howe while his uncle went out.

Leahy was talking now, issuing a short statement to the media, fielding a few questions. Her expression was serious. Smart. Attractive. A very impressive package. A most attractive target.

Gambrelli’s smirk faded. The fantasy was over. As appealing as it might seem, he reminded himself this was not a hit. Not today, anyhow.

He watched as she waved off any further questions. Her brief statement was over. Four men in dark suits were clearing a path for her. She and her escorts inched across the sidewalk, nearing the curb. They were FBI, it was plain. Four FBI agents surrounding the attorney general-despite his warning.

His face flushed with anger. Hadn’t she received his message? Was she ignoring his instructions?

He watched, furious, as her entourage crossed the street and headed toward the Justice Building. Open defiance. That’s what it was. There was no other explanation. He’d warned her to keep the FBI out of this. The setup in the subway should have made it clear that he wouldn’t tolerate disobedience. Her response was a veritable parade across Pennsylvania Avenue with an FBI escort. Did she still think he was bluffing? Was she betting that he lacked the guts to act on his threats?

Arrogant bitch.

He hurried away from the crowd. Simply unacceptable. It was time to make it clear that he meant what he’d said.

Allison didn’t have time to rush off to Nashville in response to Tanya’s call. With a little cajoling, however, Tanya had agreed to scan Emily’s photograph on her home computer and send it over the Internet via e-mail. Although scanning could possibly smear any latent fingerprints the kidnapper might have left behind, Allison was striking a balance. On the one hand, it didn’t seem likely that the kidnapper would be so careless as to leave any prints. On the other, her heart would surely burst if she didn’t see her little girl immediately.

Allison could barely stand still as the old Justice Building elevator carried her up five floors. Barring a technological glitch, she knew Emily’s picture was waiting on her computer in her office suite. She felt a mild tinge of guilt, knowing that Peter was still waiting for her in the basement, abiding by her instructions. Surely he’d understand.

The elevator doors opened to her suite. She rushed to her private office and leaped into her desk chair in a dead run. It rolled across the plastic carpet protector, landing her in front of her credenza, facing the computer terminal. She switched on the power, watching nervously as it booted.

“You’ve got mail,” the computer-generated voice announced.

She clicked her mouse on the mail-center icon. Scores of unanswered messages were waiting. For each, the mailbox listed the date and time delivered, and the screen name of the sender. She scrolled down to the most recent one.

It was from Tanya Howe.

Allison clicked on the electronic envelope for the “THowe” listing. The text of Tanya’s message appeared on the screen. DEAR ALLISON. I HOPE THIS IS WHAT YOU THINK IT IS. I PRAY WE’LL BOTH HAVE SOMETHING TO SMILE ABOUT. GOOD LUCK. TANYA.

The postscript read, PHOTO ATTACHED.

Allison’s heart was in her throat as she clicked with her mouse. The screen flickered. The attached photographs were downloading to her hard drive. She clicked her mouse again. Slowly, from top to bottom, the photograph was coming into focus on her computer screen.

She could see sky at the very top. It was blue-the photo was in color. The bottom nine-tenths was still a blur. A few more lines came into focus. A redbrick building emerged in the background-the school Tanya had described on the phone.

Her heart skipped a beat. She could see the crown of a little girl’s head. Blond hair. Just a little more and she’d be able to see the face.

Her body shivered. The eyebrows-the eyes! Children never think they look anything like their baby pictures, but their mothers can always see it. Allison grabbed the photo of Emily she kept on her credenza. She was just four months old. It had been a long eight years, but the resemblance was plain. The curve of the eyebrows, the shape of the eyes.

More came into focus. Her whole face was visible. The nose was a little different, more grown up. But the pouty lower lip was most definitely Emily.

Tears were clouding Allison’s vision. She brushed them from her cheek and clicked on the second attachment-the close-up photograph of the telltale markings on the left side of Emily’s face. The four little moles that formed a perfect square were the distinctive markings she had mentioned to the police to help identify her baby. She watched in disbelief as the image filled the screen. Too much to bear. She closed her eyes. Excited. Frightened. Overwhelmed.