Everyone was exercised about the theft of the pigs and maps, and the company was trying to figure out ways to divert enough gas to keep their customers from freezing to death. Power was slowly coming back to some areas, but thousands were still scouting for warm places to sleep.
In the midst of it all, the price of natural gas had skyrocketed, and it was followed by a similar spike in the price of oil with every news organization speculating that if the gas pipelines were vulnerable, so were the oil pipelines. And to add to the misery, the Dow had taken a huge hit the day before, along with the auto companies, airlines, FEDEX, UPS, and any other company dependent on gas and oil supplies.
Samantha put the jeep in gear and moved up the driveway closer to the white 19th Century house overlooking Massachusetts Avenue. She knew that it had been the official residence of vice presidents for decades now. But it wasn’t always that way. It was originally built back in the 1890’s for the head of the United States Naval Observatory. But the house was so nice that higher officials kept kicking out various lower level types so they could live there themselves.
It wasn’t until President Ford’s day that Congress decided to turn it into the vice president’s home. Ford never got to live there because he became president before it was ready. Nelson Rockefeller only used it for parties, but after that, every vice president had called it home, at least for four years at a time.
A secret service agent motioned her to move forward. She rolled down her window, flashed her White House ID badge as well as her invitation. He nodded and pointed to where she should park.
As Samantha walked up to the front door, she noted a series of lanterns lighting up the walk way. Once inside, she saw that the entry hall was lined with large red poinsettias, and she could see a huge Christmas tree in the main living room with twinkling white lights and ornaments that looked like they might represent industries in different states.
A series of lovely oil paintings ringed the walls. They all had small brass plates at the bottom identifying the artist and which museum had loaned the original for display in this historic house.
She gave her coat and scarf to an attendant in a gray uniform and joined the crowd in the main room. A pianist was playing “Jingle Bell Rock” on a Steinway in the corner, and waiters in black ties were passing sterling silver trays of champagne, white and red wine, and Perrier. She grabbed a glass of Chardonnay and scanned the room.
She saw a friend who headed up the Scandinavian Section of the State Department and went over to say hello. “How did the meeting with the Icelanders turn out?”
“Let’s just say we had to figure out whether to call it a frank discussion or a candid discussion,” the assistant secretary said in a serious tone.
“Okay. So that’s diplo-speak meaning the meetings produced either a difference of opinion or a hostile disagreement, right?” Samantha asked with a slight grin.
“Well, yeah,” he admitted. “Trouble is we need those folks on the terrorism front, the energy front. All sorts of fronts.”
“Considering all the other visits we have coming up, I’m sure the whole State Department is swamped with all of this.”
“You can say that again. We’ve got Madagascar, the Maldives, Monrovia, and Malawi on our list for the next three months.”
“Flag guys must be going nuts,” Samantha remarked, taking a sip of her wine.
“Yeah. I wouldn’t want that job of keeping flags from every country in the world and hauling them out every time some new dude comes to town. I mean, get a letter or two out of order and you’ve pissed off an entire country.”
“I know. We’ve got hundreds of those flags stored in the basement of the OEOB. Then again, you have your own supply too.”
“Speaking of supply, our supply of oil and gas is getting pretty tight. Aren’t you working on all of those pipeline problems?” he asked.
“Sure am,” she said
“I hate to ruin a nice party by bringing it up,” he said, looking around the room. “Then again, what else do we talk about at these events? Oh, excuse me, but there’s Senator Jenkins over there. I’m going to see if I can bend her ear a little bit on a couple of energy issues.”
“No problem,” Samantha said. “Go ahead and work the room.” Another waiter came by offering a platter of crab cakes with a remoulade sauce. Samantha was glad to have one. She had missed lunch and was starved. She started to move toward the dining room where she hoped there would be some sort of buffet.
“Excuse me, it’s Miss Reid, right?”
“Oh, Senator Walker. Nice to see you this evening. Lovely party,” she said.
“Yes. Yes. So many Christmas things going on, it’s hard to keep up,” he said, taking a swig from his cocktail. “There’s a full bar over there in case you want something stronger than wine.”
“Oh, this is just fine,” she said. “By the way, I hear you’re planning some congressional hearings on energy issues pretty soon, right?”
“I’ve been trying to get Cassidy Jenkins to delay them even longer. Too much going on right now. Can’t expect the CEO’s to fly in here and be at our beck and call just when we’ve got pipelines exploding right and left, prices going sky high and all the rest, now can we?”
“I would hope not. On the other hand, isn’t that what Congress usually does?” Samantha said.
“Oh, you mean, Congress likes to get in on the press coverage? Of course we do, my dear. Name of the game. Keep the name in the forefront. But right now I’m damn worried about all of this sabotage. Started in my state. Well, you know that. Aren’t you the one working that issue at the White House?”
“Yes, sir, I certainly am. And I’m worried sick about all of it too.”
“Is there anything new?” the senator asked.
“I guess you’ve been briefed on the fact that the explosions happened inside the lines and that equipment and maps have been stolen from GeoGlobal’s facilities.”
“Yes. Yes. We know all about that. Damn mess, I’d say. Costing that company a ton of money for repairs to say nothing about trying to get heat to their customers, the factories and hospitals. In some places, they’ve had to bring in stocks of firewood for God’s sake.”
“In terms of an economic hit,” Samantha said, “I figure they have insurance for the pipelines.”
“Maybe they had it, but with all of these attacks, I doubt if Geico would write them a policy now.” Senator Walker took her arm and led her into the dining room. “Come this way. We might as well enjoy some of those vittles over there while we’re discussing national security.”
She grabbed a white plate rimmed in gold with the vice president’s seal in the center and got into the buffet line. “Senator, we’ve been trying to figure out other ways we can police the pipelines and try to catch these guys. Whoever they are,” Samantha said.
“Yes. I got a briefing by Ken Cosgrove on using our domestic satellites. Even though there are some on the intelligence committees who are screaming about that, I say let’s go for it. Trouble is, it’ll probably take a while to get all the necessary permits. Too many rules in place, if you ask me. Wish we could use the Army too, but I know we can’t. Posse Comitatus Act and all of that,” he said as he moved forward to spike a large slice of ham and add a few chunks of pineapple to his plate.
“I hear the Iceland guy doesn’t think pineapple like this belongs on a pizza,” Walker said with a short laugh. “With all that’s going on in the world, that idiot gets headlines about pizza.”
Samantha simply shook her head and moved along the table.
“Good evening, Samantha. Welcome to my home,” a deep voice intoned. Jayson Keller smiled at her and held out his hand to Senator Walker. “Good to see you too, Harry. You found the bar too, I hope.”
“Wouldn’t miss a chance to try your Hiram Walker, you know,” the senator said with a smile. “Almost my namesake.”
“Well, good to have you both here tonight,” the vice president said.
> “Didn’t you just get back into town from that funeral in Macedonia?” Samantha asked.
“Got in just a few hours ago. You know the motto of the vice president when some head of state passes. ‘You die, we fly’.”
Samantha had to stifle a laugh. “Yes, I’ve heard that a few times. Well, we’re glad you’re back safely, sir.”
“Right. Now I have to get around and see everyone, but you folks enjoy the buffet. Oh, and Merry Christmas.”
Merry Christmas? Would it be a Merry Christmas season without Tripp? Samantha thought about that. Would he be home in time for the senior staff party in the East Room next week? She doubted it. But hopefully he’d make it before Christmas Eve. And then after Christmas, maybe they really could take a couple of days and head down to Naples.
The idea that he would want to take her there, introduce her to his folks, be with her over the entire holiday was the one thing that was keeping her sane while everything around her seemed to be falling apart. Or blowing apart.
She saw her boss coming into the dining room with his wife. “Hi Greg, Mrs. Barnes. Christmas greetings,” Samantha said.
“Hello again,” Greg said. “Long day of meetings. Glad we could take a break.” He turned to his wife. “See if you can fill up a plate for me, I’m heading to the bar for a refill.” The woman nodded meekly and got into line.
Samantha watched them both move in different directions. I’m not surprised he’s heading to the bar. That man drinks more than Harry Walker.
Samantha had filled her plate and was holding onto her wine glass as she looked around for someplace to sit down. No such luck. In a crowd like this, you had to be a juggler and try to balance the wineglass on your plate while you picked at the food, or else find a coffee table or breakfront to set down your glass while you tried to eat something. Then a waiter would invariably come and whisk the glass away when you weren’t looking. She could see why her father used to complain about going to big cocktail parties, calling them “just another stand-around.”
She meandered through the crowd and into the study. She finally found a ledge where she could put down her glass. She knew she shouldn’t be looking at her cell, but she was back in a corner and was able to put the plate down next to the glass, fish in her purse and steal a glance.
She discreetly turned it on and waited to check for any new texts or emails. There were several from members of her staff, two from her inter-agency team. She’d read them as soon as she left the party. She scanned down the list, wishing, hoping for some word from Tripp. In the dim light of the corner, she stared at the tiny screen and realized that there was … nothing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
EL AVILA–SATURDAY NIGHT
They had taken the blindfold off. Tripp looked around his spartan surroundings. A cabin of some sort or rather a little casita with adobe walls, a small fireplace in the corner filled with cold ashes, a rusted wrought iron lamp sitting on top of a scratched wooden table next to the single bed where his leg was chained to the metal footboard.
At least it was a long chain. It looked like it would allow him to hobble to a nearby bathroom, but that was about it. There were two windows where he could see a bit of the evening sky through a tangle of trees and bushes. Two black spiders were crawling across one window sill. Sorry guys, we’re all trapped in this hellhole.
He lay on the hard mattress, rubbing his head where one of the kidnappers had whacked him. He remembered coming to on the floor of some sort of vehicle. Must have been a truck. They had thrown a tarp over him, tied his hands behind him and put a blindfold over his eyes while he was knocked out. When he woke up he had trouble breathing. But he had managed to inch over and nose up a corner of the tarp to get some air without provoking his captor who he sensed was sitting on the other side of the truck bed.
Tripp’s first thought was about his original driver, Manny, and Steve, the bodyguard who had been killed by these maniacs. They had spared Victor. At least he thought Victor was still alive when they had dragged him from the limo. Maybe they had wanted Victor to live. Maybe they had it all planned so that Victor would get back to GeoGlobal and tell everyone about the kidnapping so they would know these guys were serious. Serious enough to commit murder in cold blood. And what about the security team in the back-up car? Had they been shot too? Had they all been killed because of him? Because he had come to Caracas to negotiate with the government?
These guys, whoever they were, might be operating on their own. He figured the government wasn’t directly involved in kidnapping businessmen, although with all of the recent harassment, he couldn’t be sure of anything. Those goons did have police uniforms on. And the government’s human rights record, as the politicians dubbed it, had headed way south with the arrests and indefinite jailing of opposition leaders, rebellious students and anybody else who happened to disagree with their policies. Tripp thought about all of this and then had tried to concentrate on where the hell they were taking him.
They had been driving on a smooth road at first, but then they had made a number of sharp turns as the road got rough. At one point, he almost rolled over as the truck began a rather steep climb. The road got even steeper as they made their way up some sort of hill or mountain. Tripp had tried to pay attention to his surroundings, listening for any clue as to where he was or where they were going.
At first, he had heard city noises, horns honking, brakes squealing, people talking and shouting off in the distance. Then it got quieter as the road got bumpy.
He started to hear birds. He knew they had left the city and were somewhere up in the hills. The steep climb was strange. Back and forth over terrain that didn’t even feel like a road, but more like a gnarled path of some sort.
They had finally come to a stop. The driver had opened the back of the truck. When they pulled the tarp off, the two men hauled him out and carried him into the casita. Tripp had feigned unconsciousness as he heard them arguing in Spanish. “We take him into the bedroom. We chain him to the bed.”
Tripp thought about trying to take on the two of them at some point, but he was in no position to fight back. Not yet anyway. He still felt weak from the blow to his head, he had no weapon, and his hands were tied. He hated the feeling of helplessness. He’d have to wait a while. Wait and watch for his chance. He listened carefully as the two men argued in Spanish. Tripp was relieved to realize he could understand every word.
“No, Eyeshade. Maybe we should chain him to the chair here by the kitchen. Then we can watch him.”
“We don’t need to watch him if he’s chained. He can’t get away. Come on, Rafael. Help me. He’s a heavy bastard.”
They had finally dumped him on the bed and started going through his pockets.
“Look, Eyeshade,” Rafael said as he held up the cell, “We can use this, no?”
“Let me see that.” The man called Eyeshade had the phone and pushed a few buttons. “This could be even better than our original plan.”
“You mean we could use it to send our messages? You think?”
“Why not? He’s got a list of company contacts in here and a lot of other stuff. We’ll figure it out. It’ll be a lot better and safer than sending a courier.”
“But can’t they trace where messages come from and find us here?”
“Not if I go somewhere else to send them.”
“Good thinking. Besides, we have plenty of time to figure out what contacts to use. Let them sit for a day or two and wonder what happened to their important man. Let them get upset and worry that he may be dead like the others. If they worry, they will be willing to pay. Well, you’re the money man, you know.”
“That’s right.” Eyeshade grabbed hold of the chain and opened the lock. “Here. Fasten this chain. When he comes to, he can use the bathroom and get water. We can feed him later. We’ve got to keep him alive or he’s no good to us.”
They had shuffled off into another room, leaving the bedroom door open. Tripp could hear them turn
on a television set. He heard them switch through several channels until they got to what sounded like a soccer tournament. After a few minutes it was interrupted by a news broadcast. He then heard the man called Eyeshade complaining about how the government announcers always interrupted their games.
The man named Rafael had come into the bedroom sometime during the afternoon and said in broken English, “I see you awake. You get water in there. We get food. No try to escape.” He pointed to the chain around Tripp’s ankle. “Because you can’t.” And then he burst out laughing and walked back to the TV.
Tripp tried to sit up. His head was killing him. He pulled himself up and dragged the chain to the bathroom. He splashed some rusty colored water on his face, found a ragged towel on a hook, put it under the cold water faucet and then held it against the back of his head where a large bruise was swelling up.
Okay, so you’ve been in worse shape than this. Tough it out. Just think about all the times you were in deep shit with Joe Campiello at Greyfield. You got out of it okay, didn’t you? Then again, you and Joe were more or less in charge. This time, you’ve got no control at all. These idiots are in charge. They’ll probably ask for some sort of ransom. The company will try to get the State Department involved. But they’ll be clueless. The company will then call in their negotiator, and he’ll screw it up and they’ll end up paying some enormous amount of money to save my sorry ass.
Tripp knew the drill. He had heard about other businessmen being taken off the streets in Colombia by the FARC crowd and then it happened several times in Venezuela. But the more he thought about it, he remembered that two other GeoGlobal employees had been held hostage in Nigeria some time ago. The trouble was, at that time Nigeria was a tougher act than Venezuela, and those two never made it out.
When the company had tried to negotiate, those kidnappers had first cut off a few fingers of their captives and sent them to the company, but then they lost patience and simply killed the guys. Tripp shuddered at the memory.
Final Finesse Page 14
