The Abduction (27 page)

At nine o’clock, Allison was slipping on her overcoat, ready to go. She had already left messages for her running mate and campaign strategists, explaining that the number-one woman on the ticket was unable to campaign today, at least until the afternoon. She knew it was lame to leave messages, but she couldn’t tell them
why
she was canceling her morning appearances, so she purposely avoided a direct conversation.

Her cellular phone rang in her purse as she reached for the doorknob. She did a double take. It was a number the kidnapper couldn’t have gotten. Only a select few had it. She answered tentatively.

It was her campaign strategist. “What’s this bullshit about cancellations?” Wilcox blurted.

Her stomach did a flip-flop. Somehow, she knew he’d find her. “I’m sorry, David. I have some personal matters to take care of this morning.”

“Personal! The election is
tomorrow.
This is no time to go get your teeth cleaned.”

“David, unless you want your
clock
cleaned, I suggest you change your tone.”

“We’re all getting our clock cleaned. One of my aides just faxed me a summary of an AP story. Listen to this.” Papers shuffled as he read from the fax. “‘Washington—With every major poll showing General Howe at least five points ahead, an
anonymous White House source reports that Attorney General Leahy has privately conceded defeat. Democratic leaders are concerned that any further public appearances by Leahy in swing states might actually hurt Democratic congressional candidates. In what insiders are calling an unprecedented acknowledgment of the accuracy of modern pre-election polling, voters may actually see a presidential candidate assume a low profile on the eve of the election.’”

Allison grimaced. “It’s Howe. I know it’s him. It’s no White House source.”

“I don’t care if it’s the president’s golden retriever. The point is, if you cancel any more engagements, you’re just substantiating this nonsense. People are going to think you’ve thrown in the towel.”

“I can’t help that, David. I’m out of pocket for the rest of the morning. I’ll be back this afternoon.”

“Allison!”

“Clear the decks until one o’clock. That’s the best I can do. I’ll call you.” She hit the cancel button in the midst of his screaming, then quickly dialed Harley Abrams.

He answered directly. “What is it?”

Her tone was angry, though she didn’t really blame Harley. “Did you get approval from your superiors for me to deliver the ransom?”

“Yes, I told you I would.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“Director O’Doud, himself.”

“Any chance he contacted Lincoln Howe?”

“I suppose so. I don’t know. Why?”

“They’re frying me. They knew I’d have to cancel my morning campaign appearances to deliver the ransom. Now, a supposed White House source is saying that I’m deliberately making myself
scarce so I can’t take any congressional candidates down with me.”

“Why would the White House say that?”

“It’s
not
the White House, Harley. It’s Lincoln Howe.”

“You think even Lincoln Howe is dirty enough to let you deliver the ransom and then make political hay out of the fact that you’re not out there campaigning?”

“Who
else
?”

His pause only confirmed the lack of other suspects. “I’m sorry, Allison. I’m not the one playing politics. I’m just following FBI procedure. I didn’t feel I could send you in with the ransom without approval.”

“I know, it’s not your fault.”

“Are you changing your mind about the delivery?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Do you want to make it public? I mean, if Lincoln Howe knows you’re delivering the ransom, maybe we don’t have to keep your role a secret anymore.”

“Too risky,” she said. “If I go public, the kidnappers might think I’m using the ransom delivery purely as a political stunt. That could get Kristen killed in a heartbeat.”

“You’re right. But are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“Yes, damn it. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.” She switched off the phone and tucked it back into her purse, then braced herself as she opened the front door.

The cacophony hit her as quickly as the cold morning air. Her FBI escort met her on the front steps. He opened the iron gate and pushed the
media aside, clearing a short path across the width of the sidewalk. Her limo was at the curb with the motor running. Another agent inside pushed the rear door open. Allison hurried through the narrow opening in the mob and slid into the backseat. A boom microphone clobbered her FBI escort in the head, but no one but the agent even seemed to notice. Without interruption, the steady roar of reporters continued even after the limo door had shut.

“Ms. Leahy!” they shouted. “Is it true you’ve stopped campaigning?”

Allison ignored it. Her limo pulled away, and the media vans were on her tail before they reached the stop sign at the corner. The driver headed directly for the Federal Triangle at regular speed, the normal route, giving no indication that he was trying to ditch the media. He stopped at the curb on Pennsylvania Avenue. Another mob of reporters was waiting on the Justice Building steps, as if the entire camp had been magically transported from her home to work. They flocked to her car with instinctive determination, like blind puppies stumbling over each other on their way to mother’s milk.

The car door opened. The agent led the way across the packed sidewalk. Allison kept a hand on his back as they forged toward the entrance. The heavy brass and glass doors opened, and the media pushed its way inside, right on their heels. Allison and her escorts whisked through the security checkpoint. The federal marshals and metal detectors put the stop on the charging media. Another marshal held the elevator for the attorney general. Allison left her escorts behind and keyed the elevator for her fifth-floor suite. The door
closed in what seemed like slow motion, as the building was more than half a century old and so were its elevators. The doors opened on the fifth floor. Harley was waiting in the lobby.

“Jeez,” she said. “It was like the Beatles at Shea Stadium out there.”

“McCartney played for the Mets?” he kidded.

“Watch it, Abrams. I’m not
that
much older than you.”

He smirked as he pulled on his leather jacket, then turned serious. “Ready?”

Allison nodded and led the way to the private elevator—the so-called Marilyn Monroe elevator that led from the attorney general’s suite to the basement of the Justice Building. Allison hit the CALL button, and the doors opened. She entered first, then Harley, and the doors closed behind them. The motor hummed as they descended down the shaft. They stood side by side, staring up at the numbered lights over the door.

“You know,” said Harley, “I heard JFK and Marilyn Monroe used to take this elevator up to the loft when his brother was attorney general.”

She smiled faintly. “Yes, I’ve heard that.”

“I guess if the president and the world’s most famous sex symbol could get in and out of this building without anybody noticing, so can we.”

“Theoretically, I could still be president.” She shot him a mischievous look. “Guess that makes you the sex symbol.”

He fought the surge inside, but she had him blushing again. He blinked and looked away.

“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.”