James Grippando - The Abduction

He continued down the hall at normal walking speed. His hand slipped into his pocket, fishing for the key to the next room on the floor, the next target on his list. Just three more to go.

And then Kristen Howe’s room.

The money arrived at the field operations center at 8:30, locked in a large metal briefcase. Allison’s disguise was complete. Her short blond hair was now shoulder length and brown. Contact lenses turned her hazel eyes brown. Makeup darkened her fair complexion. She wore designer jeans and a short-waisted jacket for a younger, less businesslike look. A silk scarf and leather gloves covered the neck and hands-the two spots that, short of cosmetic surgery, would give away anyone’s age.

“Has anybody seen Allison?” asked Harley.

“Very funny.”

“Quick picture,” said Harley. “We need a photo ID.”

“For what?”

“The kidnapper said the room at the Hyatt is registered in the name of Emily Smith. We need to make you Emily Smith so you can pick up the room key. We got a Maryland driver’s license all ready for you. Just need a picture.”

“Smile,” said the photographer. The flash blinded her. He yanked out the film and handed it to another agent. In thirty seconds, she had a driver’s license.

“I wish it had been this easy when I was sixteen,” she said as she tucked it into her wallet.

Harley smiled, then turned more serious. “Remember. I’ll be in radio contact at all times. Hit the panic button the instant you see something you don’t like. We have agents posted everywhere along the route and in the hotel. Help will never be more than two or three seconds away.”

“Got it,” she said. “Where’s the cash?”

Another agent presented a black leather bag.

Allison grimaced. “The instructions were specific. He wants it in a Spartan 2000 large metal security briefcase.”

Harley said, “It’s inside the bag. The metal briefcase didn’t mesh very well with your disguise. This is far less conspicuous.”

Allison slung the bag over her shoulder, then took a deep breath. “What about a gun?”

“You didn’t say anything before, but I brought a SIG Sauer P-228, if you want it.”

“Just because I’m for gun control doesn’t mean I don’t believe in self-defense. I’m trained to use a gun. If ever I was going to arm myself, this seems like the time.”

Harley unzipped the leather bag and tucked the gun into a side pocket. “That’s a good place for it. Leave it there, unless you absolutely need it.”

She nodded. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Harley walked her to the rear exit, stopping her at the open door. “Don’t be a hero, you hear?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be a pain in the ass. You hear?”

He forced a smile. She gave him a look that said don’t worry, then started down the alley toward the street.

The rain had stopped, but the streets and the sidewalks were still wet, and the fog had yet to lift. It was too warm for her breath to steam, but the dampness made it feel colder than it was. She walked at a steady pace, oblivious to the noise of passing cars or the sight of the homeless curling into doorways for the night. Traffic was heavy on H Street, which came as a relief. Carrying a million dollars, she somehow felt safer around pedestrians than she would have felt on a totally isolated street.

The earpiece buzzed. “Testing,” said Harley. “Pain in the ass calling hero.”

She spoke in a normal voice, as instructed. The microphone was clipped inside her jacket collar. “Go ahead, pain in the ass.”

“Everything seems to be working just fine. I’ll be listening. Let me know when you reach the room.”

She stopped at the traffic light at Tenth Street. The Grand Hyatt was straight ahead-her meeting place. She crossed the street, passing under the carport. Valet attendants hustled past her. Bellboys helped arriving guests with their bags. Allison walked right past them, straight into the lobby.

She did a double take as she entered. It was a modern hotel, but entering the lobby was like stepping onto a 1930s movie-musical set. Rooms were arranged like a Mediterranean hillside village rising around a courtyard. A gazebo, curved lounge, and dining areas encircled a blue lagoon fed by waterfalls. In the center lay a small island on which a pianist in black tuxedo played Cole Porter tunes on a white grand piano.

She scanned the crowd, then turned her focus toward the long registration counter. A battery of clerks in red uniforms were busily checking in guests. Allison made a beeline for the young guy with the confused expression on his face. He looked new, clueless-the least likely to give her a hard time.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I locked myself out of my room. Could you please give me another key. Emily Smith is the name.”

He tucked the telephone under his chin, seemingly overwhelmed. “Could I see some identification, please?”

She presented her phony driver’s license.

He glanced at it, then checked the computer. The name EMILY SMITH flashed on the screen. He handed over the key. “Here you are, ma’am.”

She turned away quickly, relieved that the disguise was actually working-at least among idiots under the age of twenty. The key-card didn’t have a room number on it, but the little pouch that held it did-Room 511. She boarded the elevator and rode to the fifth floor. The sign on the wall directed her to the right. She followed the arrows down the near hallway and stopped in front of her door.

“I’m here,” she said softly into the microphone.

Harley responded, “Stand to one side when you insert the key and open the door. If it’s rigged, I don’t want you in the direct line of fire. And once you’re inside don’t say anything to me, even if I speak to you. He may have the place bugged, and I don’t want him to hear your voice and figure out that you’re wired. Good luck. And be careful.”

She checked the hallway. All was clear, save for the room service waiter a few doors down. It was reassuring to know he was actually an FBI agent. She stepped to one side of the door, then inserted the key. The tiny light on the electronic lock changed from red to green. She paused, gathering her nerves. With a gentle push, the door swung open. She cringed and waited.

Nothing. No explosion, no trip wires. She moved into the doorway. Harley’s voice was in her ear once more.

“Don’t turn on any more lights than you have to,” he said. “They could be booby-trapped.”

She almost spoke, then caught herself, remembering his warning that the room could be bugged. She reached around the door frame and switched on the main light. The room brightened-but nothing else happened. She sighed with relief and stepped inside.

Harley spoke again. “Leave the door open, if you can.”

The door started to swing closed automatically. She grabbed a towel from the bathroom and stuck it in the doorway to keep it ajar, then stepped further inside. It was a standard hotel room. Dark wood furniture. Two double beds. A fox hunt portrait hanging over the dresser.

Allison checked her watch. Exactly nine o’clock. The telephone on the nightstand rang.

Harley could hear it over the microphone. “Answer it,” he said.

She lifted the receiver. “Hello.”

The voice on the line was familiar but disguised. “Take a cab to the St. George Hotel. Go to the Independence Bar on the second-floor lobby. Sit down at one of the little round tables closest to the brass railing and wait.”

The line clicked. Allison dropped the phone and hurried from the room. She spoke to Harley as she walked toward the elevator. “You heard?”

“Yes. I don’t like it, Allison. We’ve scoured the Hyatt and everything around it. But the St. George is almost twenty blocks away. It wasn’t within our prescreening perimeter. We won’t know what you’re walking into.”