The Abduction (30 page)

From the small observation tank adjacent to the FBI interrogation room, Allison watched in solitude as Harley Abrams and another agent debriefed the two surviving gang members. The audio was fed to her through a small speaker. A one-way mirror allowed her to see all without being seen.

Harley had been working hard on the younger one—the one who had seemed most determined to steal Allison’s suitcase. The teenager was seated in a folding chair, slouching irreverently in the center of the yellow room. Harley stood directly in front of him, firing questions. The other agent sat at the small table against the wall. When they’d first brought him in, the kid wouldn’t talk. His tune quickly changed when Harley made it plain that he’d better start explaining if he didn’t want to be the number-one suspect in the Kristen Howe kidnapping.

Allison had watched his reaction carefully. He’d seemed genuinely shocked—as if Harley’s accusation was the first he’d ever heard of a possible link to a larger conspiracy. Twenty-five minutes later, the kid was still babbling.

He rolled back his head in response to another question, seemingly bored by the repetition. “Man, I told you five times already. I don’t know nothing about no kidnapping. All I know is that
some dude paid Jessie a thousand bucks for us to follow the bitch in the blue coat onto the Metro at Judiciary Square.”

“And then what?”

“I
told
you.”

“Tell me again,” he said, pressing for inconsistencies in his statement. So far, there were none.

“We was just supposed to wait. If the bitch was still on the train between Sandy Springs and Forest Glen, the deal was we’d grab the suitcase. We’d get another five grand if we get him the suitcase.”

“Get it for who?”

“I dunno. Jessie know who.”

“Jessie’s dead.”

“That’s
your
fucking problem, isn’t it?”

Allison lowered her head. Harley had been over this same line of questioning several times. The answers were always the same. She could tell the kid wasn’t lying. They were just punks—sacrificial lambs sent by a kidnapper who
knew
the FBI was waiting in the wings. The only thing she disputed was the part about Jessie’s death. It wasn’t Harley’s problem. It was
hers
.

The phone rang in her purse—the private phone that only a handful of people ever rang. She answered quickly.

It was Tanya Howe.

“I’m sorry, Tanya. I promised I wouldn’t let you down, and I did. I’m still trying to figure out what went wrong.”

“The FBI—
that’s
what went wrong. Somehow the kidnappers know when they’re involved. I don’t know if they’re tipped off, or if the kidnappers are just savvy enough to sense when law enforcement is around. Either way, if I don’t keep
the FBI out of it, Kristen’s going to die. That’s their final word.”

“Have you heard something?”

“Yes. I got a package this morning—after your disaster. A picture of Kristen. We think she’s still alive. A warning, too. No more FBI.”

“Tanya, this may be hard for you to swallow in light of everything that’s happened. But I personally don’t believe that you’re better off without the FBI. Trust me. You need them.”

“Forget it! It’s my call now. You can come with me or stay behind. But leave your army at home.”

“I don’t know what to say. Let’s assume the kidnapper gives us another chance. Let’s say Kristen’s alive, and they want me, personally, to deliver the ransom—just like before. I can’t say I’m eager to do it without the protection of the FBI.”

“Well, maybe you won’t have to do it.”

“Time will tell.”

“It may not take as much time as you think. I have a package here for you, too. It came with mine.”

“What’s in it?”

“I haven’t opened it. It simply says that I’m to deliver it to you. Where do you want to meet?”

“We don’t have time to meet. Just get the FBI to open it.”

“No.”

“Tanya,” she said sternly. “It’s my package. Do as I say.”

“It’s my
daughter,
” she said in a shrill, shaky voice. “It’s time
somebody
does what
I
say. So listen to me. Your package came inside my package, and my package said to keep the FBI out of this. I’m keeping the FBI out. Period.”

Allison sensed it was futile to try to change
Tanya’s mind—and part of her sensed that maybe Tanya was right. “Okay, Tanya. We’ll do it your way. But we don’t have time to meet. Somebody has to open that package and tell me what’s inside.”

“I’ll open it.”

“Too dangerous,” said Allison. “Could be booby-trapped.”

“The FBI scanned it already, when they scanned mine. It’s clear.”

“All right,” said Allison. “Then you open it. But be careful not to get your fingers all over it. I know you don’t want the FBI involved, but someday we may want the lab to analyze it.”

“I watched the FBI agent open my package. I’ll be just as careful.”

Over the phone, Allison could hear the envelope tearing open. She held her breath and waited.

“It’s open,” said Tanya. “It’s a photograph. A young girl. Blond hair. Fair complexion. She’s wearing a plaid jumper, like a school uniform.”

“How old does she look?”

“I don’t know. Maybe eight or nine.”

Her excitement swelled. “Where is she?”

“Can’t really tell. Looks like there may be a school in the background. Like somebody took the picture from across the street while she was on the playground. She’s definitely not posing for the picture. It looks more like somebody took it without her even knowing it. There’s another photograph here, too.”

“What is it?”

“It’s another picture of the same girl, only a lot more close up. It really zeroes in on the side of her face. Not her cheek, but the part that’s closer to
the ear. Like where a man would have sideburns.”

Allison swallowed hard. “What do you see?”

“Just her profile. Same happy expression, just like the other picture.”

“Which side of her face is it?”

“The left.”

“Do you notice anything? Birthmarks, moles, anything like that?”

“Yes, actually. She has four little moles right in front of her ear. Fairly distinctive. If you took a pencil and connected the dots they’d form a perfect little square box—like the markings on a pair of dice.”

Allison went cold. Her eyes welled with tears as she brought a hand to her mouth. She could barely speak. “Dear God in heaven. It’s Emily.”

Harley entered the observation room without knocking. On reflex, Allison stuffed her cellular phone back in her purse. From the look on his face, she could see the interrogation had gone as far as it was going to go. She sucked back her emotions, struggling to make her own face a little less revealing.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.

Her eyes were moist. She knew she had to say something to explain her distraught appearance—something short of the truth, since she’d just promised Tanya she’d exclude the FBI. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said as she dabbed her eye with a tissue. “I guess I’m starting to feel a little sorry for myself. That’s all.”

He closed the door and leveled a suspicious look. “I don’t buy it. Allison Leahy doesn’t sit around weeping, feeling sorry for herself. What’s wrong?”

She checked her runny mascara in her pocket mirror. “Wrong? Nothing. A botched ransom delivery. A dead seventeen-year-old on the subway. All in a day’s work.”

“Look, we all feel lousy. But it’s not like these punks were innocent bystanders.”

“Those kids had no idea the guy who hired them was Kristen Howe’s kidnapper. They were set up, just like we were.”

“That’s probably true. The kidnapper was smart enough to know that
whoever
went into the subway to get that suitcase wasn’t going to walk out with a million dollars. He knew you would disobey his orders and have FBI protection—at least on the first run. These punks didn’t know it, but they weren’t hired to retrieve a suitcase. They were hired to walk into a trap and teach you a lesson: next time, leave the FBI at home.”

Harley paused, expecting a response. Allison didn’t even seem to be listening. Something other than the subway had to be bothering her.

He glanced at the open cellular phone sitting at the top of her open purse. “Who were you talking to on the phone?”

She looked down. The power was still on. The flip cover was open. No use denying it. “None of your business. That’s who.”

“Is that what upset you?”

“Damn it, Harley. I said it was none of your business.”

Her tone forced him back a step. “I’m sorry. I’m just concerned, that’s all.”

“We’re all concerned. It’s a miracle Kristen is still alive.” She kicked herself, realizing what she’d just given away.

Harley pounced on it. “So you
have
heard from Tanya. You know about the photo and the message on the back.”

She grimaced. A slip like that wasn’t like her, but after eight years of hoping and waiting, she was still shaking from the news about Emily. “Yes, yes. I just spoke to Tanya, if you must know.”

“Did she tell you what was in that second envelope—the one the kidnapper addressed to you?”

“Yes. And that’s between me, Tanya, and the kidnappers.”

He shook his head. “I guess I can understand that reaction from Tanya. But I’m not sure I understand it from you.”

“I’m totally committed to getting Kristen back alive.”

“So am I. But that doesn’t mean I’m willing to cut myself off from the FBI and take marching orders from the kidnappers.”

“Maybe I don’t have a choice.”

“Or maybe you’re reacting more like a mother than an attorney general.”

“Kristen is not my child.”

“No. But Emily is.”

Allison glared. “What do you know about Emily?”

“Nothing. But I do know you. The tears. The sudden willingness to shut out the FBI. You wouldn’t be acting this way if your own personal stake hadn’t risen.”

“You think I’m that self-centered?

“No. It’s just human nature. There’s a limit to what we’ll do for someone else’s child. There’s no limit to what we’ll do for our own.” He stepped closer and leaned across the table, looking her in the eye. “There was something in that envelope about Emily, wasn’t there?”

She stared for a moment, then looked away. “I really can’t discuss that now,” she said as she rose and gathered her purse.

Harley touched her forearm, stopping her. “I want you to know something, Allison. If you were to share any information with me in total confidence, it wouldn’t leave this room. You have my word on it.”

She gave him an assessing look. He seemed sincere, but she saw no reason to commit now. “Why don’t you keep the ransom money here in the vault. I’ll be in touch.” She started for the door.

He stopped her again. “Allison, please. Don’t take this guy on alone. The kidnappers may have seemed a little disorganized at first, but all that’s changed. Even the voice on the phone has changed. It’s as if somebody new has taken charge. He beat us in Nashville. He beat us again this morning. He’s not winning because the FBI is stupid. He’s winning because he’s one smart son of a bitch.”

She looked him in the eye. “Then I guess I’ll just have to be smarter.” She opened the door and hurried out, leaving Harley alone in the room.

The crowd outside the FBI headquarters grew larger every minute. The onslaught had begun just as soon as television coverage showed Allison’s caravan disappearing into the FBI garage. First on the scene was the pack of reporters who had been waiting outside the Justice Building, unaware until the broadcast that Allison had sneaked out of her office through the Marilyn Monroe escape route. They simply moved their traveling ambush across Pennsylvania Avenue, from Justice to FBI. Hordes of others were just minutes behind the initial wave of media—hapless latecomers in an industry that increasingly operated on real time.

Cameras were trained on every known exit to the building. Allison knew the FBI could still get her out undetected, but she didn’t want another stealth exit. The whole world knew she was inside. If she didn’t face the cameras, she’d be branded a coward. After a year of campaigning, “coward” was a label she couldn’t accept, not
even in a campaign that may have already made the move from bleak to hopeless.

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 state
ment 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.