The Abduction (31 page)

Allison didn’t have time to rush off to Nashville in response to Tanya’s call. With a little cajoling, however, Tanya had agreed to scan Emily’s photograph on her home computer and send it over the Internet via e-mail. Although scanning could possibly smear any latent fingerprints the kidnapper might have left behind, Allison was striking a balance. On the one hand, it didn’t seem likely that the kidnapper would be so careless as to leave any prints. On the other, her heart would surely burst if she didn’t see her little girl immediately.

Allison could barely stand still as the old Justice Building elevator carried her up five floors. Barring a technological glitch, she knew Emily’s picture was waiting on her computer in her office suite. She felt a mild tinge of guilt, knowing that Peter was still waiting for her in the basement, abiding by her instructions. Surely he’d understand.

The elevator doors opened to her suite. She rushed to her private office and leaped into her desk chair in a dead run. It rolled across the plastic carpet protector, landing her in front of her credenza, facing the computer terminal. She switched on the power, watching nervously as it booted.

“You’ve got mail,” the computer-generated voice announced.

She clicked her mouse on the mail-center icon. Scores of unanswered messages were waiting. For each, the mailbox listed the date and time delivered, and the screen name of the sender. She scrolled down to the most recent one.

It was from Tanya Howe.

Allison clicked on the electronic envelope for the “THowe” listing. The text of Tanya’s message appeared on the screen.
DEAR ALLISON. I HOPE THIS IS WHAT YOU THINK IT IS. I PRAY WE’LL BOTH HAVE SOMETHING TO SMILE ABOUT. GOOD LUCK. TANYA
.

The postscript read,
PHOTO ATTACHED
.

Allison’s heart was in her throat as she clicked with her mouse. The screen flickered. The attached photographs were downloading to her hard drive. She clicked her mouse again. Slowly, from top to bottom, the photograph was coming into focus on her computer screen.

She could see sky at the very top. It was blue—the photo was in color. The bottom nine-tenths was still a blur. A few more lines came into focus. A redbrick building emerged in the background—the school Tanya had described on the phone.

Her heart skipped a beat. She could see the crown of a little girl’s head. Blond hair. Just a little more and she’d be able to see the face.

Her body shivered. The eyebrows—the eyes! Children never think they look anything like their baby pictures, but their mothers can always see it. Allison grabbed the photo of Emily she kept on her credenza. She was just four months old. It had been a long eight years, but the resemblance was plain. The curve of the eyebrows, the shape of the eyes.

More came into focus. Her whole face was visible. The nose was a little different, more grown up. But the pouty lower lip was most definitely Emily.

Tears were clouding Allison’s vision. She brushed them from her cheek and clicked on the second attachment—the close-up photograph of the telltale markings on the left side of Emily’s face. The four little moles that formed a perfect square were the distinctive markings she had mentioned to the police to help identify her baby. She watched in disbelief as the image filled the screen. Too much to bear. She closed her eyes. Excited. Frightened. Overwhelmed.

“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.”

Peter shot her a look. “Is that true?”

“Peter,” she groaned. “Later, okay?”

Harley gave her a sobering look. “There is no
later,
Allison. If he told you something, you should tell me. If he gave you something, we should have the lab analyzing it right now.”

She paused. His latter point about the lab made sense. Reluctantly, she dug in her purse for the photos and handed them to Harley. “The kidnapper sent these to Tanya to pass along to me. These are reproductions from my computer. I’m ninety-nine percent certain it’s Emily. The birthmarks on her cheek are the clincher. Still, it might not hurt to have one of the FBI face-agers examine it, just to verify.”

Harley examined them. “This makes me more convinced than ever of a connection between Kristen and Emily. And as I was explaining to Peter, the more this connection becomes apparent, the less likely it is that General Howe is involved.”

“Why?” asked Peter.

“Because eight years ago, when Emily disappeared, General Howe probably didn’t even know who Allison Leahy was. And even if he did, he had absolutely no reason to steal her baby.”

Peter asked, “So who does that leave as your suspect?”

He glanced at Allison. “Mitch O’Brien. I know he’s a sore subject between you two, but it’s time we all addressed it.”

“Mitch?” she said. “Kidnapping? I don’t think so.”

“You’re defending him now?” Peter snapped.

“I’m not defending him. I’m just testing the theory. He
was
pretty upset when I broke our engagement. And he did get pretty weird when he showed up two months ago.”

“And now we can’t find him,” added Harley. “Nobody can find him.”

“You think he’s bitter?” asked Peter.

“Bitter eight years ago because Allison broke their engagement. Bitter today because she rejected his efforts at reunion.” He looked at Allison. “He could be a sick puppy who’s out to destroy you.”

Peter sighed, as if blown away. “Fine. O’Brien. What does this mean? What should Allison and I do?”

“I already know what I’m going to do,” said Allison.

“Here’s what I’d
like
you to do,” said Harley. “I’d like you to go back to those files you have on Emily’s abduction. If I’m right about the connection between Kristen and Emily, I’d like you to review whatever videotapes you have of the crime scenes, tapes of news coverage, anything like that. Mitch would have had to hire someone to kidnap Emily, since he was talking on the phone when it happened. Or maybe I’m missing something and Mitch has nothing at all to do with this. Either way, it’s fairly common for abductors to insinuate themselves into the investigation. They sometimes even help with the search for the child, just so they can keep tabs on how close the police are to solving the crime. You should study those tapes very carefully. Look at every single person standing in the background. See if you recognize anyone. Try to recall if you’ve seen any of those people recently—
say, in the last six months. Maybe they showed up at a political fund-raiser or a rally. Maybe they even work on your campaign staff. If you find that person, I’d
love
to talk to him.”

Allison showed no reaction, but she didn’t refuse. “Okay. And while I’m at home with my videotapes having a Blockbuster afternoon, what are
you
going to do, Harley?”

He glanced at Peter, then back at Allison. “Find O’Brien.”

Lincoln Howe went straight from Washington National Airport to the Mayflower Hotel, where he and Buck LaBelle would hammer out the wording of his final pre-election statement on the kidnapping. Howe was certain it would be highly critical of Allison Leahy and her subway disaster, but he wanted to strike the right tone. Downtown was the proper setting, he was sure of it. Possibly on the steps of the Justice Building or the FBI headquarters. Maybe even in Lafayette Square with the White House in the background. The way time was flying, however, he feared he might end up delivering it right at the hotel.

Two Secret Service agents took him up the elevator to Suite 776. Howe knew the room number was no accident. LaBelle always stayed at the Mayflower in Suite 776, the room in which President Roosevelt had written: “We have nothing to fear but fear itself.” LaBelle had never said it, but it clearly tickled him to orchestrate a Republican campaign from the very room in which the greatest Democrat president had penned his most famous line.

“Come in, come in,” LaBelle said hurriedly.

The general left his Secret Service escorts wait
ing in the hall and stepped into the spacious suite. Early American antiques and carved walnut wainscoting gave the sitting area a dark but elegant feeling, though the crystal chandelier was cranked to full power for maximum lighting. Reams of papers and a bottle of Makers Mark bourbon rested on the floor beside the couch. Heavy silk draperies covered the windows—completely covered them, ensuring privacy.

LaBelle pushed the notebook computer aside, shuffling through scattered papers on the coffee table. “Here’s the latest quick and dirty poll, General. Not very scientific, given the immediate turnaround. But even with a huge margin of error, it looks as if Leahy’s screw-up in the subway may be the last straw. Even female white baby boomers are beginning to bail out on her.”

Howe leaned back in an armchair, examining the one-page summary. He seemed unimpressed. “What about Tanya’s threat?”

“What about it?”

“She made it pretty plain. If Kristen isn’t home by tomorrow morning, she’s going on television to tell the world that she thinks I’m responsible for the kidnapping. That could change everything.”

“We just have to brace ourselves,” said LaBelle. “Reinforce public opinion, and hope that her accusations come too late in the game to change anyone’s mind.”

He made a face. “A daughter is going to accuse her own father of kidnapping. How do you brace public opinion for
that
?”

“You make it impossible for them to swallow, that’s how. We’ve surveyed this.” He shuffled through another stack of papers, then handed up another summary.

Howe waved off the paper. “Just tell me what it says. I’m tired of reading this shit.”

“Yes, sir. Right now, only one in ten Americans think it’s even remotely possible that Lincoln Howe might have planned the kidnapping of his own granddaughter. Among that ten percent, eighty-five percent would be less inclined to believe that Lincoln Howe was behind the kidnapping if he were to reconsider his position on the payment of a ransom and meet the kidnappers’ demands.”

“I can’t reverse my position. I’ll look weak.”

“You’ve already done it privately, General. The FBI knows you’re willing to pay a ransom. Now it’s time to tell the American people that you’ve changed your mind.”

“The press will annihilate me. I’ll be labeled President Flip-Flop Howe before I’m even elected.”

“Ordinarily, I’d agree with you. But Leahy’s bumbling has given you the perfect excuse. You’re not changing your mind; it’s a change of heart. You have to do something to counteract her meddling and save your grandchild.”

“I don’t know,” he groaned.

“General, you have to go with this. It’s what the polls are telling us to do.”

Howe rose and walked away from the mess of papers. “All this polling and public opinion stuff. Can’t I ever just make an intelligent decision based on what
I
think?”

LaBelle looked up from his computer, his face deadpan. “Sir, every politician I’ve ever served has at some point lodged that same complaint. And after the election, they all told me I was right. If you’re going to be a successful president, you have to stop thinking like the hard-charging soldier and start operating like the tactical sailor. A good sailor
understands that if you want to sail across the bay, you can’t just go straight across. You have to see which way the wind is blowing. You tack to the left, then to the right—back and forth, until eventually you get across. Politics is the same. The wind is public opinion. You don’t just hoist your sail and go wherever it takes you. You don’t buck it, either, and end up crashing on the rocks. You study it and tack accordingly. Eventually you land wherever it is you want to go.”

“A flawed metaphor,” Howe quipped. “A sailor can’t create his own wind. But a president
can
shape public opinion.”

They looked at each other in silence. A thin smile crept onto LaBelle’s face. “You’re learning, sir. You are definitely learning.”

The general returned the smile, then turned serious. “All right. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll announce my so-called change of heart on the ransom. But before I do, you have to find that O’Brien character. It’s bad enough I may be blown out of the water by my own daughter. But I don’t want Mitch O’Brien coming back to haunt us, too. We can survive one hit. Not two.”

LaBelle shook his head, frustrated. “I’ve already put my best investigators on it. They can’t find the guy.”

“Then get better investigators.”

“I don’t don’t think it will make a difference.”

Howe moved closer, his voice booming. “That’s not what I want to hear, Buck.”

He nearly cowered. By this stage of the game, he knew when an order was not to be questioned. “Yes, sir. We’ll find him.”