The Abduction (35 page)

Allison and Harley reached the surveillance post in less than twenty minutes. It did look like a vacant storefront, just as Harley had promised. The front windows were whitewashed and covered with signs that said,
THIS SPACE FOR RENT
. A padlocked security gate made the main entrance impassable. Harley brought her around to the rear entrance off the alley.

Inside, three thousand square feet of open retail space had been converted into a miniature operations center. Power cables snaked across the floor and dangled from the ceiling, each leading to a different piece of computer or electronic surveillance equipment. A dozen clocks hung on the wall. At least two dozen agents were stationed around the room, monitoring equipment, sipping coffee, or splicing wires. An entire wall of television screens made the joint look a little like a discount appliance warehouse.

Harley explained, “This was the advantage I was telling you about, Allison. The fact that the kidnapper told you in advance to meet at the Hyatt has given our technical agents time to set up. Each of those television screens will give us a different view of the hotel, inside and out. Some are connected to hotel’s regular surveillance cameras, some are fed by the additional cameras we
installed today. So long as you’re in a public place, we’ll be watching you.”

“That makes me feel a little better.”

“Come on. Let’s get you wired up and into your disguise.” He led her to a back room. Two female agents were inside, one about Allison’s age, the other much younger. Harley made the introductions. “This is Agent Scofield,” he said of the older, “and Agent Parker. Scofield will suit you up with a Kevlar vest that should stop anything the kidnappers might fire at you. She’ll also hook you with a two-way radio so I can communicate with you.”

The younger one stepped forward with a wig in each hand and a voice filled with attitude. “And I’m the lucky female agent who gets to play the all-important role of hair stylist and makeup artist. Redhead or brunette?”

Allison lowered her voice, as if sharing a secret, though she knew the others could overhear. “If I have any authority at all as attorney general after this is over, I promise to get you off the makeup detail.”

“Thanks a lot,” she said.

Allison glanced at Harley. “Before we get started, can I have a minute to make one more phone call?”

“Sure,” he said as he led the other two agents out. “We’ll be right out here.”

Allison closed the door and dialed David Wilcox.

“I’m so sorry about Peter,” he said.

“Thank you. I didn’t realize you knew yet.”

“Everyone knows. No confirmation from anyone yet, but all the networks are reporting it. I’ve been calling all night, but you haven’t returned my calls.”

“Sorry. I haven’t been taking anyone’s calls.”

“I presume you want to cancel the party at the Renaissance. Doesn’t seem appropriate to be celebrating tonight.”

She paused, recalling the kidnapper’s instructions not to change a thing. “Don’t say anything about the party. Just leave everything as it is.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Just do as I say. I’ll explain later. I have to go now.” She hung up and looked through the rectangular window on the door. Harley was on the phone across the room. He hung up and came toward her. Allison let him in. His face was solemn as the door closed behind him.

“Got the lab results on that blood on Mitch O’Brien’s boat.”

“And?”

“Definitely his.”

“Any chance he lived through the attack?”

Harley shook his head. “From what I understand, there was blood all over. It wasn’t a clean hit, like a gunshot to the back of the head. Looks like the attacker may have tortured him, possibly trying to extract some information before killing him.”

“Like whether he’d recently slept with Allison Leahy?” she suggested.

“That would seem consistent with what Peter told you in the park.”

She looked away, speaking through the lump in her throat. “Peter did it, you suppose?”

“He wouldn’t be the first jealous husband to kill the man he thought was sleeping with his wife. But I think it’s more likely he hired someone to do it.”

“The same guy he hired to kidnap Kristen?”

“And to kidnap Emily,” said Harley. “I doubt your husband had more than one contact in this business. It’s not like you just look them up in the Yellow Pages.”

She sighed, thinking. “Peter had lots of different bodyguards over the years. They followed him like Secret Service on business trips to countries where Americans aren’t well thought of. He always used reputable corporate security firms. Mostly retired cops, former FBI. Still, I felt like some of these guys had acquaintances I wouldn’t want to meet.”

“That could easily be the way he found his hit man. But it wasn’t a hired gun who put these ideas in his head. This was Peter’s plan. His need to control you.”

She slumped in the desk chair, shaking her head in amazement. “Mitch O’Brien, the drunken stalker. Peter Tunnello, the jealous psychopath. Guess my taste in men could use a little work, huh?”

“Work is good. Just don’t give up on all of us.”

She looked up, finding comfort in his eyes. He didn’t look away.

“So what do
you
think?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“About what?”

She grabbed the wigs laying on the table, putting on the exaggerated and affected voice of a ditz. “Should I be a brunette,” she joked as she held out the red wig, “or a redhead?” she said, holding up the brown one.

He could see the pain behind her smile. Humor was certainly one way of dealing with a husband’s ultimate betrayal. “Surprise me,” he said, then left the room, burdened with the thought that today was only the second worst day of Allison’s life.

Brass chandeliers brightened the long majestic hallway of the St. George Hotel, the old granite landmark across the street from the Grand Hyatt. Antique oil paintings in gold-leaf frames brightened the silk-covered walls. Ninety of the grand old hotel’s five hundred rooms were on the second floor. As usual, all seven floors were filled to capacity.

Vincent Gambrelli walked with eyes dead ahead, his footsteps cushioned in the rich red carpeting. He dug into his coat pocket for his stack of room key-cards. Five altogether, for five different rooms. He’d rented them over the past two days, each time using a new name, a new disguise, and a different clerk at the reception desk. Four bags went to each room. They all contained the same thing. None, as yet, had been unpacked. They were waiting for him now in the respective rooms, all on the second floor, according to plan.

He stopped at Room 205 and removed the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign. He checked the hall. Seeing no one, he inserted the magnetic key-card and stepped inside.

The room was exactly the way he had left it twenty-four hours ago. A king-size bed, neatly made. Full-length draperies, drawn shut. Extra towels and linens on the couch. Four suitcases resting at the foot of the bed.

He knelt down beside the largest suitcase and unlocked it with his key. Inside were a dozen plastic jugs, exactly the way he had packed them. He removed one of the jugs, unscrewed the cap, and poured the contents onto the bed. It soaked the mattress. He put his nose to the wet spot and inhaled.

He smirked. Wood alcohol. Virtually odorless—but highly flammable.

He opened another jug, then another, dousing the couch, draperies, furniture, and finally the carpet. It took only a few minutes to soak the entire room. When he’d finished, the empty jugs and suitcases lay scattered on the floor. He unlocked the door, opened it slowly, and checked the hallway. No one. He stepped out and closed the door. He checked to make sure it was locked, then reattached the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign to the knob.

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.”