Captive-in-Chief (23 page)

Joe walked out of Penn Station at eight p.m. The New York buzz hit him as it had over thirty years earlier, during his one and only previous trip to Manhattan. The streets bustled with a nervous energy as people walked at a pace and intensity not seen in any other American city. Smiles were few and far between, with the exception of those with a map and camera in hand.

He checked his map; Central Park was almost thirty blocks north. Clara’s apartment overlooked Central Park. Her husband was a partner at one of the city’s larger hedge funds. His wealth had been speculated as the reason for her kidnapping and his picture and details were plastered across the media. It also meant that in all likelihood the FBI, among other law enforcement agencies, would be watching, or if not, with him at all times. Joe considered stepping back into Penn Station and taking the subway but reminded himself that exercise was his new addiction. He set out at a pace just shy of the natives’ and soon had a sweat building. The blocks looked much smaller on the map, undeterred he plowed on, wishing he had opted for the subway after twenty blocks. Finally, he crossed into the park.

He walked across towards the East Side and spotted the building they had shown many times on the news broadcasts when discussing the kidnapping of the lawyer and wife of the multi-millionaire hedge fund partner. How different it would have been if the truth were known.
‘President’s daughter kidnapped’
would have been the headline leading every news bulletin, perhaps only toppled by the day the Capitol was destroyed. He kept the building at a distance. Two burly security men stood on each side of the entrance doors, and a police cruiser was parked at the curbside.

Joe needed another way in. The front door was most definitely out. He needed to remain anonymous. He walked on, cutting across the street a block north and walking further east for another block, working his way around and behind the building. As he had hoped, the fire exit stairs at the rear were unmanned. The security at the front was all show for the wealthy owners. Joe pushed a large trashcan underneath the metal staircase and climbed up, jumping from the top of the trashcan and pulling himself up onto the stairs. Removing his shoes, he walked as quietly as he could up the fifteen flights, which took some time since he had to avoid being spotted as he passed each of the fourteen floors of windows. He pulled himself up and onto the terrace of the top floor penthouse and crouched behind a number of bushes that decorated the large terrace.

The penthouse was in darkness. It was 9.15 pm and nobody was home.

Strange,
thought Joe.
If my wife were kidnapped, I’d be home waiting for a call
.

He had another hour to understand where Clara’s husband had been. At 10.22 p.m., a light flicked on, catching Joe off guard. He pulled back behind the bushes. Fortunately, the lights were in front of him pointing back towards the apartment, so he remained in darkness and hidden from view. Voices rose as the glass wall that looked onto the terrace slid open to reveal an apartment not dissimilar from his own back in D.C., minimalist and very unhomely. A young woman giggled her way onto the terrace, pulling off her high heels as she teetered across the surface with a glass of champagne in her hand.

“Shhh!” Clara’s husband hissed. “I’m supposed to be missing my wife!” He laughed drunkenly.

Joe restrained himself from snapping the guy’s neck there and then because he knew it wouldn’t save Clara.

The young woman stopped giggling and walked towards him seductively. “I can help you stop missing her.”

Much to Joe’s surprise, he rejected her advances, pulling away. “Seriously, my wife’s been kidnapped, perhaps we should call it a night.”

“Yes, boss,” the young woman tittered, accepting the rejection far better than Joe expected she would. Perhaps he had simply witnessed a genuine drunken flirtation, she had called him boss. A few minutes later the apartment was quiet, she had been sent home. Joe wondered if it was his secretary or PA or some special assistant. Whoever she was, she had been very attractive and to Clara’s husband’s credit he had rejected her out of hand. With a glass of whisky in his hand, the husband lay on a lounger, staring up into the night sky. Joe couldn’t imagine the pain the guy must have been feeling.

A phone rang. The husband’s phone was lying on the kitchen counter inside the house. That wasn’t where the noise was coming from. The ring wasn’t from inside the apartment at all, it was coming from the husband.

The multi-millionaire pulled a cheap looking cell from his pocket.

“What?”

After a short pause, the husband responded to whatever the caller had said to him. “It was my PA, I sent her packing,” he replied, irritated. “Are you keeping tabs on me?”

Another pause.

“I appreciate how it looks, that’s why I sent her away.” The irritation had gone, replaced by concern.

Another pause.

“Yes, I understand how important it is and I’m sorry I won’t bring her back here again.”

Pause.

“Yes, it was stupid of me and I appreciate the danger of—”

Another pause. His drunkenness had vanished and panic was etched across his face.

“There’s no need to do that, I’ve done all you asked,” he pleaded.

Another pause.

“You’ll ruin my fund!” The look of panic was complete on his face.

Joe was apoplectic with rage. He had thought the husband had been concerned for Clara, instead they were threatening his hedge fund not his wife.

“I’m sorry, I’ll be more careful.” He ended the call and breathed a huge sigh of relief, closing his eyes. When he opened them, Joe stood above him, rage etched across his face.

“You’re going to tell me every single detail you know, and you won’t hold anything back. I know this because the man that taught me all I know was the most evil, sadistic son of a bitch to ever breathe.”

When the husband tried to make a move, Joe pushed him back onto the lounger and grabbed both his wrists with a vice like grip and pushed his face into his. “Everything. You’ll go hoarse from telling me everything you don’t want me to know.”

Joe dragged him into the apartment. The man tried to put up a fight but Joe was in no mood, he punched him once, hard and brutally in the stomach, instantly killing any fight he had. With a pair of socks stuffed in his mouth, Joe stripped him naked and tied him to a chair. Placing the husband in full view of his preparations, Joe systematically searched the kitchen, placing a number of instruments and utensils on the table nearest the husband. The temperature probe with its long spike seemed to cause one of the more uncomfortable reactions as it was set down in front of him.

In reality, it took less than ten minutes for the man to plead with all his life for Joe to believe everything he was saying. Joe unfortunately did. The man was a common conman, he had conned Clara into believing he loved her. He had married her, receiving the hedge fund as reward. He didn’t love Clara, she was a job. He had no idea why she was so important, he was just told to keep an eye on her and that at some time in the near future he’d be released from the burden of the marriage and left to enjoy his fortune.

Joe hadn’t even touched the guy. The mere thought of what he was going to do had been enough to make the man talk.

“So where is she?”

“I don’t know,” he cried, tears flowing from his eyes.

Joe walked forward, the temperature probe in his hand. He could see the husband was desperately trying to think of something to say.

“Oh, wait, the fund owns a run down hotel upstate, really remote, on a lake. Somebody rented it recently. We didn’t think anyone knew we even owned it!”

“What lake?” Joe looked towards the man’s manhood.

“It’s in Rosendale, Williams Lake Hotel or something like that,” he blurted as quickly as his mouth would let him.

Joe stuffed the pair of socks back in his mouth.

“Can I trust you?” asked Joe.

The guy nodded emphatically, and Joe walked out of sight, his face deep with despair. There wasn’t a chance in hell he could trust him and the stakes were far too high.

Joe left the apartment shortly after the husband. Joe took the longer more circuitous route, back down the fire escape, ensuring he remained unseen. When he reached the ground, he kept walking east, away from the apartment. Three blocks later he hit Lexington and then walked south, working his way west every few blocks. He walked straight to the Port Authority bus station on 8
th
between 40
th
and 41
st
street. He checked the timetables: Rosendale, 11.30pm, only twenty minutes to wait. He paid cash, picked up his ticket, and sat in the lounge. The TV screen was showing the local news. He recognized the image, Clara’s husband’s apartment block. A number of paramedics and police cruisers, their lights flashing, were visible behind the reporter. There was no volume, instead text was displayed:
“Kidnapped lawyer’s husband commits suicide. Jumps naked from penthouse.”

Joe popped a Librium and drank a bottle of water.

Next stop Rosendale.

With everything else that had happened that week, the evening was a welcome break. A sense of normality amidst the chaos.

Clay climbed into bed next to Val. “Thanks for asking them over for the weekend,” he said.

Val nodded absently, she was glued to the TV set, a political discussion was ensuing, and she nudged him to listen to the TV. “Congress, is holding a special session tomorrow.”

“First I’ve heard of it!”

The president of the NRA popped into Clay’s mind, together with his words about how supportive the surviving representatives and senators were being.

“Did you know Senator Baldwin is now the senior member for the majority of the Senate?”

“Haven’t had time to think about it,” said Clay.

“He’s called on his fellow senators and representatives to join him tomorrow at Federal Hall, New York, to elect a speaker of the House and pro tempore of the Senate. As tradition dictates, being senior member of the Senate, he’ll get the pro tempore slot and they think his son may well get the speaker position.”

Though Senator Victor Baldwin was a member of Clay’s own party, there was little they agreed on. His congressman son, Ed, was, Clay had discovered much to his surprise, even more unlikeable than his repugnant father.

“You realize what that means?” asked Val.

Clay nodded, he was speechless. He hadn’t had a moment to think about any of it, figuring it would be at the very earliest Monday before the surviving members of Congress would get around to meeting. He’d put aside Sunday to make some calls with regard to the speaker of the House. He had one congresswoman in mind and felt sure he’d be able to guide the vote that way.

Apparently others with less to do and more time to plot had already been making calls. The speaker was, of course, his greater concern. Without a vice president, the speaker was next in line should anything happen to Clay. Given recent events, that was something he most certainly could not rule out.

Clay listened to the debate and realized how outmaneuvered he had been. As far as the panel on the news show was concerned, the Baldwins had the votes signed and sealed. The following day’s vote was going to be a rubber stamp exercise.

If it was all part of the conspiracy, they had made their final move. They were in the driver’s seat. In the next twenty-four hours, the Baldwins would be in a position to be in control of the United States of America. Only a living, breathing president would be in their way. Old money, old ideals. It all made sense as Clay considered the events of the last week. Money, connections, influence. They had it all.

Two brothers, Ronald and Victor Baldwin. While the elder brother Ron had inherited the family’s real estate and wealth, Vic had turned to politics. The rise in power of both was dramatic over the decades. The Baldwin empire exploded under Ron’s management and Clay was sure that it was with the help of the ever more powerful Senator Vic Baldwin. Defense contractors, energy suppliers, oil producers—the Baldwin empire bought and cultivated them all.

Where other powerful families sought the limelight, the Baldwins remained in the shadows, quietly building an empire that few fully comprehended in terms of its size and reach. Nothing was in their name; even the company bore only a part of their name in an attempt to conceal their true power and influence. WIN Enterprises.

Clay thought he had understood the size and scale of their operation but he obviously had no idea how powerful the Baldwins had become. Vic’s son Edward, or Ed as he was known, had entered Congress quietly a few years earlier and had, as his father had taught him, and with his father’s help, had steadily worked his way onto the most powerful committees within Congress, a feat unheard of for his age or seniority. Vic was building his power base with his son. Defense, energy, oil, construction, agriculture, the list of the industries their family was involved in was endless, as were the endless committees the Baldwins served on in Congress and the Senate. Publicly, they had no stake in WIN Enterprises, though privately few doubted they were significant shareholders through cleverly constructed trusts.

Few of those industries were going to suffer in the new America. Military spending on equipment was going to increase. With less personnel required as a result of the drawback, more money could be invested in new and improved equipment. Abandoning allies would result in less favorable international trade agreements. Local produce and energy prices would increase as a result. There was little downside for the Baldwins.

Even the FPS. Clay would bet they were outfitted by a Baldwin owned company and the MRAPs probably converted, at significant cost, from military to urban use by a Baldwin company. The more he thought about it, the more connections he made. All in his head and without a shred of evidence, he didn’t doubt for a second he was right. He was sure WIN Enterprises would be behind the construction of the new border wall as well.

The Baldwins! Why had he not thought of them before? He mentally kicked himself. However, in reality, there were more dynasties like the Baldwins in the legislature, he just hadn’t realized they were the only ones who had survived.

“So what are you going to do?” asked Val as the news channel cut to commercials.

“Make sure I don’t die,” Clay replied.