James Grippando - The Abduction

“Emily,” she said in a soft, lonely whisper.

She stared at the image, her thoughts whirling. The resemblance couldn’t possibly have been any stronger. Emily was prettier than she’d ever imagined. And she was out there somewhere- alive and totally happy! Totally unaware of how much Allison Leahy loved her. Totally oblivious to the man hiding in the car or the bushes who had followed her to school and secretly snapped her picture.

The thought suddenly sickened her.

It took all her remaining strength just to click with her mouse one last time. She hit the print button for hard copies of the photos. She fell back in her chair, emotionally exhausted, as the color printer cranked out the images.

Her phone rang in her purse, stealing her moment of catharsis.

Tanya again? she wondered. Or perhaps Peter wanted to know where the hell she’s been. “This is Allison,” she answered.

“One last chance,” came the angry reply. The voice was muffled, as if the caller were speaking through a handkerchief for a makeshift disguise.

She was suddenly erect in her chair. “Who is this?”

“I told you to lose the FBI. You didn’t. You defied me.”

“I had to get across the street.”

“The only thing you have to do is listen to me.”

“Okay. I’m listening.”

“The subway was purely a test. You flunked. The FBI was all over the place. That stunt is going to cost you.”

“Please, just don’t take it out on the girl.”

“I won’t, so long as you don’t double-cross me again. When I say no FBI, I mean no FBI. ”

“All right, we’ll do it your way. What do you want?”

“The newspaper says your campaign has a big party scheduled tonight at the Renaissance Hotel, and that you’re going to be there.”

“That’s right.”

“Do whatever is necessary to make people think that’s where you’ll be. Have someone get a room in your name, send your husband there, whatever it takes.”

“Where do you really want me to go?”

“The Grand Hyatt. There’s a room in the name of Emily Smith. Go there, but do not be detected. Wear a disguise if you have to. Pick up the key from the front desk. I’ll contact you in the room at nine o’clock.”

“How do you expect me to walk into a hotel and pick up a key for someone named Emily Smith?”

“How about a wig and some phony identification, genius?”

“That would be a whole lot easier to come by if you’d let me use the FBI.”

“Bullshit. In this city, the only thing easier to buy than a fake ID is a United States congressman. You don’t need the FBI. Stop stalling.”

“I presume I should bring the money.”

“Put it in a Spartan 2000 large metal security briefcase. You can buy it in any spy shop on Connecticut Avenue. It easily holds two million dollars.”

“Two million? You mean one million.”

“I mean two million. The price has gone up. A million for Kristen. A million for Emily.”

She gasped at the mention of Emily’s name. “Where is Emily?”

“She’s fine. You’ll never find her without my help.”

“You bastard. Do you have her?”

“I can have her anytime I want. I know exactly where she lives. You don’t even know her name anymore. There’s absolutely nothing you can do to protect her-except follow my orders.”

“Don’t you dare hurt her.”

“That’s up to you. All you got to do is pay the money.”

Her throat tightened with emotion. “If I pay, you have to tell me where Emily lives. I have to find her. I just have to.”

He snickered, mocking her. “It’s only natural.”

“That you’ll tell me?”

“No,” he said coldly. “That you need to know.”

She slumped, then shot up from her chair, emboldened by her anger. “Don’t taunt me, you creep. If you deal with me, you deal in good faith. If I give up the FBI, you give me Emily. And I can’t get you another million dollars by nine o’clock. So here’s the deal. Kristen and Emily. One million dollars. No FBI. That’s it. ”

The line was silent, but she could tell he was still there.

She pressed, “Do we have a deal. Or don’t we?”

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “We got a deal. But if I see just one FBI agent at the hotel, Emily is the first to go. Slowly. Painfully. Then Kristen. Understood?”

“Yes. Understood.”

The line went dead in her ear. The caller was gone.

She closed her eyes, collecting herself. She knew she was right to play hardball-to make sure that if she gave up something she got something in return. But being right didn’t loosen the knot in her stomach.

The printer cranked out the second photograph. She took one more look-the first look in eight years at the daughter she’d lost. She grabbed her attaché from beside the desk, stuffed the photocopies inside, and rushed to the elevator.

“It’s suicide,” said Harley. “By shutting out the FBI, your wife is committing suicide.” He watched Peter carefully, gauging his reaction.

Allison’s traffic-stopping exit had given Harley the diversion he’d needed. He’d left headquarters through a side exit and reentered the Justice Building through the back entrance, then down into the basement. Peter and the other FBI agent were still there, waiting for Allison. It took him only a few minutes to bring Peter up to speed. Harley knew any husband would have been worried sick. He was hoping to enlist Peter to talk some sense into his wife.

“Funny,” said Peter. He seemed detached, philosophical. “That’s exactly what I told her a year ago, when she said she wanted to run for president. It’s suicide.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

His eyes turned accusatory. “It’s General Howe, isn’t it? I’ll bet Howe hired those punks to snatch the ransom away from her and screw everything up. I saw him on television this morning, criticizing Allison, expressing his sympathies to the families of those juvenile delinquents. He wants Allison to fail.”

“He may want her to fail,” said Harley, “but I don’t think he thwarted the plan. I doubt he has anything to do with the kidnapping at all, actually.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Nobody knew that the kidnapper was going to send Allison into the subway until that last phone call. From that point on, things were moving too fast for anyone but an insider to thwart the plan. Those punks had to be hired by someone who knew she was going down in the subway before she was actually down in the subway.”

“Which only confirms it. General Howe knew she was going down in the subway because he sent her there.”

“That’s certainly where that line of thinking takes you. But I’m not so sure that’s the right theory.”

“What other theory is there?”

The elevator door opened, breaking their conversation. Allison stepped out. She looked first at Peter, then at Harley.

“What are you doing here?” she asked Harley.

Peter said, “Mr. Abrams was just explaining his latest theory of the case.”

She glared at Harley. “Mr. Abrams should know that if the FBI can’t talk to me, they can’t talk to my husband.”

Harley said, “Just because you’re cutting yourself off from the FBI doesn’t mean the FBI has to cut itself off from you. One way or another, I’m going to let you know what I’m thinking and doing. Otherwise, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“He’s right,” said Peter. “Let’s hear what he has to say. Continue, Detective.”

He was about to say he was a special agent, not a detective, but so long as Peter was on his side and enjoying his role as Sherlock Holmes, why alienate him? “Allison won’t confirm this,” said Harley, “but I’m quite certain that the kidnapper’s latest contact conveyed some information about Emily’s whereabouts.”