Final Finesse

by Karna Small Bodman

  “Not a thing,” Samantha replied. “I can’t keep bugging GeoGlobal. They’re up to here with disasters. We do have DHS all over it as well as folks from Transportation. They’ve got staffers in all the states that have been affected. And the FBI … well … the FBI is doing whatever the FBI does in these cases. Trouble is, it’s hard to get everyone to coordinate, share reports. Well, you know how it goes better than anyone.”

  “Copy that,” Evan said. “It’s supposed to be our job to coordinate policy within the agencies and present it to the president. Talk about a bureaucratic nightmare.”

  “Hey, guys, since we don’t have any good news to report tonight, how about we check out the buffet in the State Dining Room?” Angela said. “At least we should be able to enjoy ourselves for a few minutes, in contrast to our usual days around this place.”

  “So you’ve having a rough time of it too?” Evan asked as they ambled to the Cross Hall where the Marine Band, clad in red jackets with brass buttons and epaulets was playing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

  “Everyone is having a rough time these days, trying to wrap up things before the end of the year,” Angela said. “I was just talking to Pam Turner over in Legislative Affairs. Before Congress adjourns for the holidays, they’re trying to get some agreement on an appropriation the president wants for upgraded missile defense systems. We’ve all heard his concerns about North Korea. But now even though Congress says they’re going to stop the practice of adding earmarks, they’re still trying to load that up on the defense bill along with a bunch of other nonsense. I mean talk about a Christmas tree.”

  “What else do they want this time,” Samantha asked.

  “Let’s see. Pam says that the top three are the New York goose control program, a North Carolina teapot museum and a Seattle sculpture garden.”

  “Tacked onto a defense bill? Jeez!” Samantha exclaimed with a shake of her head. “Oh look, there’s Greg over by the bar. And it looks like he’s alone tonight. I wonder where his wife is?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me if he just worked late, changed at the office, came straight over here and left her at home. A lot of people have to do that, you know,” Angela said. “Not many of us have the luxury of living as close to the White House as you do, my friend. You can go home and change. The rest of us always schlep our stuff in and change in the ladies’ room.”

  “I do that too sometimes,” Samantha said.

  Evan walked over to join the crowd at the buffet table where mounds of fresh shrimp, crab claws and miniature lamb chops were piled on shiny silver platters. “Now that Evan’s gone,” Angela said in a low tone, “do you want to tell me more about Tripp? I just feel so awful about this. I know how you feel about the guy.”

  “Do you?” Samantha said, glancing up with troubled eyes.

  “Are you kidding? As soon as you had that first dinner with him, you changed pronouns.”

  “I changed pronouns?” Samantha asked, furrowing her brow. “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “You use to say ‘I’ or ‘me’ but then it was ‘we’ or ‘us’.”

  Samantha thought about that for a moment. The image of Tripp Adams reaching across a dinner table to take her hand or stroke her cheek came flooding into her mind’s eye. “Okay, Miss perceptive. You win. I’m mad about him. But I’m also mad at the whole frigging government. I can’t find anybody who can give me a glimmer of hope that we can find him, rescue him, get him out of there. Wherever there is.”

  “Good evening, Samantha … Angela … nice party tonight, but I need to talk to you for a moment,” Greg said waving his cocktail glass at Samantha.

  Is he drunk, or what? Samantha wondered as Greg sidled up to the two of them. She knew he liked his martinis, but after all, this was the White House. You didn’t put on a display in this place. Maybe he and his wife had a fight. Maybe that’s why she wasn’t here tonight. Or maybe he was just drowning his sorrows because everyone was coming down on their directorate over the latest sabotage on the pipelines, in addition to reports they just received about new drug shipments being offloaded in the Thousand Islands off southwest Florida among other issues. He certainly looked like he was teetering on his Gucci loafers.

  “Uh, sure.”

  “Merry Christmas, Greg,” Angela said. “I’ll leave you two. Talk to me later, Samantha, I may have an idea for you.” And with that, she sashayed across the room to grab some shrimp.

  “So, what do you need?” Samantha asked her boss. Whenever he cornered her, it was usually because he wanted to give her another assignment. Couldn’t he do that in the office?

  “I just had a call. They want me on Good Morning America tomorrow. First segment as usual. So can you whip up a few talking points and email them to me tonight? Just give me a few good quotes on the drug shipments and, of course, on the pipelines, the efforts we’re all making, how the agencies are working together. You know the drill. Now, I’ve got to go chat with the chief of staff. Excuse me.”

  Samantha stood there, wondering what in God’s name she could say about the agencies working together. There wasn’t cooperation. It was more like a Civil War. As she moved toward the bar to get a glass of wine, she saw the portrait of a brooding Abraham Lincoln staring down from the wall. My mood precisely.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  THE WHITE HOUSE–WEDNESDAY NIGHT

  Gregory Barnes took the stairs down from the State Dining Room to the first floor and headed out to the colonnade along the Rose Garden. He was going back to the West Wing to grab his coat and a few papers from his office before driving home. He didn’t feel like going home to face his wife. She would want to know why she couldn’t go to the senior staff Christmas party. She had gone last year, but this time he had made an excuse that he had to work late and was just going to stop in for a few minutes.

  It was almost the truth. He did work late and then he did change in the office and head to the party. The fact was he just didn’t feel like driving home to pick her up and deal with her usual litany of complaints about his work load and late hours. He got enough grief at the office. He didn’t need it at home. Besides, he had some other ideas about how to top off the evening.

  He nodded to the agent standing by the door, collected his things and went back down to the West Wing basement and out to West Exec where his Lexus GS F was parked. He stumbled on the pavement, caught the door handle and eased inside. Guess I should have skipped that last martini. He started the car and cranked the heater up to full blast. Or maybe I should have had a few more lamb chops or coffee or something. Well, what the hell. He put the car in gear and slowly drove out the Southwest Gate and up to E Street.

  He turned toward the Whitehurst Freeway and thought about Samantha. He knew she lived around here some place. With this nice relaxed feeling, he wished he could just drop by her place, wherever it was, and talk her into a little private time. She sure had the looks and the body. It was only a fleeting thought, and he quickly pushed it aside. He hadn’t messed with women around the White House. Too much going on. Too many people watching and too many busy, high-powered women who wouldn’t be in the market for play time with a married man anyway.

  He had tried to make a bit of a connection with one of the analysts over at Energy, but she had wanted a lot more than an occasional hookup, so he dropped her after their first fling.

  Tonight he decided to stop by his latest conquest, the legislative aide who worked on the Hill. After all, she was young, impressionable and probably figured she could weasel her way into a White House job of some sort. He wasn’t about to recommend her for anything on his home turf, but he could string her along and enjoy her company once in a while.

  The Lexus swerved and almost hit the guard rail along the freeway as Greg reached into his pocket for his cell. Better give her a call and be sure she’s alone tonight, he thought as he tried to dial her number while negotiating a turn toward Georgetown. Before he could hit all the digits, he fumbled, drop
ped the phone and had to lean down to pick it up. The car swerved again. He pulled the steering wheel back just in time.

  He knew it was against the law to talk on cell phones in the District, but it was pretty late and also pretty dark. Besides, he didn’t see any cops around. He turned right on M Street and left onto 33rd. Might as well aim for her place, just in case. Damn frigid out there tonight. Sure hope she’s home and in the mood. I could stand a bit of warming up.

  He started to dial again but his right front tire hit a patch of ice and the car skidded toward the curb. He was looking down at his cell, checking the number when the car hit something. Jerking his head up, he slammed on his brakes and came to stop. Jesus! What was that? He couldn’t see anything out of the windshield. He reached for the door handle and scrambled out onto the pavement. He raced around to the front of the car. There in the gutter was the body of a man.

  Oh Christ! I don’t believe this. He went over to see if the guy was hurt. He wasn’t moving. Greg knelt down. In the light from a street lamp half a block down, he saw that the man was wearing a thread-bare jacket, black pants with holes in them, a pair of old tennis shoes caked with mud, and he had a stubbly beard.

  Looks like some homeless guy who ought to be in a shelter on a night like this. Greg tried to turn him over. That’s when he saw the blood. Blood coming from the man’s mouth. Oh my God! I hit him, and he’s not breathing.

  He felt in the man’s pockets for any kind of wallet or ID. Nothing. Only a few quarters and a coupon from the local Safeway. I think he’s dead. Did I kill him or was he already pretty wasted? Greg could smell liquor on the man’s clothes.

  He didn’t know what to do. He thought about calling the police but he had been drinking too. He’d never pass a sobriety test. He worked at the White House as one of the president’s top advisors. He’d be pilloried in the press. They’d be after him, his wife, his family. It would never end. He’d never get another job. He could even go to jail.

  Greg felt a sense of panic rising in his chest. What the hell was he supposed to do? This guy was a nobody. No ID, a drunk, a homeless nobody. Who would care? The city didn’t take care of these guys anyway. Greg looked at the man’s body again, crouched down and pushed him back against the curb, next to a parked car.

  When they find him, maybe they’ll think that he was just so drunk he fell and hit his head or something. Yes, that’s what they’ll think. Gotta get out of here. He looked around furtively. It was late. There weren’t any lights on in the small carriage-type houses along this block. And there were cars parked all along the street that obstructed a view of the body.

  He stood up, quickly walked back to his car, closed the door as quietly as he could and slowly drove away. His cell was on the floor. He’d pick it up later. Just as well that I didn’t put that call through, and I sure as hell don’t want to see her now. I don’t want to see anybody.

  As he turned the corner, he never realized that somebody else just happened to be watching.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  WASHINGTON, D.C.–THURSDAY MORNING

  “Hey Roy, it’s them!” Godfrey shouted as he rushed into Tripp’s old office. Roy Foss had decided to stay in town a few days after the hearing to pick up the slack in Tripp’s absence. He had papers spread out all over the desk. A half empty coffee mug and the remains of a cinnamon bun were sitting on top of a scrunched-up Dunkin’ Donuts paper bag.

  “Roy jumped up from the desk, “What? Who’s them?”

  Godfrey waved his cell. “It’s right here. A ransom demand. Can you believe this?”

  Roy grabbed the phone and read the message. “Ten million US dollars will be put in the following bank account in Caymans or you will never see your man again.” He then read off a series of numbers and wiring instructions. “Jesus Christ! How the hell did they know how to contact you?”

  “They must have gotten Tripp’s cell and checked his contacts”

  “Can we trace it? Their location, I mean?” Roy asked.

  “Don’t know what kind of equipment they have in Caracas, or wherever the hell they are now. But I’ll get to Victor right away.”

  Roy turned and reached for the desk telephone. “Okay, you get to Aguilar, I’m calling headquarters. I’ll also call State.”

  Godfrey turned to go back toward his office. “And I’ll get to the White House.”

  “Oh good. Samantha Reid is your contact there, right?”

  Godfrey stopped at the door and nodded. “Yes. She’s been awfully anxious about any kind of news about Tripp. Besides getting the agencies involved to try and find him, my sense is that it’s personal too.”

  “Got it,” Roy said. “So she’ll be glad we’ve at least heard from the kidnappers. It means he’s alive.”

  “How can you be sure? They didn’t say anything about his being alive. They didn’t send any proof. You saw that. They just said to send the money. How are we supposed to know that he’s OK? How are we supposed to get him back?”

  “Beats the hell out of me,” Roy said. “Let me get to our CEO and see how they want us to answer that text.”

  Godfrey hustled back to his office, sat down at his desk and dialed a number.

  “Samantha Reid, please. Godfrey Nims of GeoGlobal is calling.”

  “Yes, Mr. Nims,” Joan said. “I’ll put her right on.”

  “Godfrey? Thank heavens you called,” Samantha said. “I haven’t wanted to bother you with the latest attack and all, but have you heard anything about Tripp?” she asked in a pleading tone of voice.

  “That’s what I’m calling about. I just got a text from the kidnappers. They must have found my number on Tripp’s cell.”

  “Oh no! What did they say? Is he all right? Where is he? Did they ask for money?”

  “Slow down. Let me tell you.” He read off the cursory message. “So now our executive vice president, Roy Foss, is here in the office calling our CEO, and I’m about to call our head man in Caracas.”

  “Yes, I saw Roy giving that testimony. But wait, you say he’s talking to your CEO. What are they going to do? Are they going to pay the ransom?”

  “I don’t know. We have K and R insurance, of course.”

  “Kidnap and Ransom insurance?” she asked.

  “Of course. We all do.”

  “So will they pay it right away? We’ve got to get him back. He might be injured or sick or something.”

  “At this point, I don’t know what they’re going to do. They’ll have to get the insurance negotiator in. They always do that.”

  “Insurance negotiator? You’ve got to be kidding. They’re going to bring in some guy to negotiate? Kidnappers don’t negotiate. They either get what they want or kill whoever they have,” she practically cried into the phone.

  “I hear you. Believe me, I hear you. We want to get him back as much as you do. But first we need proof of life.”

  She paused. “Oh God! They didn’t attach a photo or anything?”

  “No. Look, I’ve got to get on the horn to our Caracas office. We’ll be having conference calls on this. Meanwhile, have you been able to find anything out on your end about who these guys might be?”

  He heard an audible sigh. “Not yet. I’ve got some contacts working on it.”

  “Well let me know what you hear. We need to work together. And as soon as Roy talks to headquarters and I coordinate with Caracas, we’ll get you back in the loop, okay?”

  “Sure. Sure.” She hesitated and added, “I know you’re working on it. I didn’t mean …”

  “It’s okay, really. We’re all feeling the stress of this whole thing. Tripp, the lines, the whole God-damn ball of wax. Now I gotta go. Take care.”

  “I’ll try.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  EL AVILA–FRIDAY MORNING

  “They must not care about you, amigo, we hear nothing yet.”

  Tripp didn’t answer Eyeshade. He sat up on the bed and rubbed his eyes. At least these guys spoke some English. This s
o-called Eyeshade character was obviously the brains behind the whole exercise. He appeared to have brushed off Tripp’s feeble attack. At least he hadn’t talked about it recently. Then again, when you’ve got the guns, you feel like you’ve got the power, and Eyeshade was going about his usual authoritative act.

  “Coffee and bread. You eat,” Eyeshade said, putting a chipped plate and a mug on the bedside table.

  “Can I shave?” Tripp said, scratching his beard.

  “What? You think if I had a razor I would give it to you?” Eyeshade threw his head back and laughed. “You’re a stupid Americano.” With that, the man drifted back into the living room and flipped on the TV again.

  Tripp dragged the chain into the bathroom. He looked up at the small round mirror hanging on the wall. He stared at his face, covered with a week’s growth of beard. I look like some crazy Moslem. I just hope I can get out of here in one piece. I don’t really care to meet up with seventy-two virgins in heaven. What a crock. Then again, these guys aren’t worshipping Mecca or praying. Just common street thugs. That’s for sure.

  As he went through the ritual of splashing water on his face, he once again thought about Samantha. He wondered how she was, how she was reacting to this whole mess, what she was doing about it. If she really knew about the kidnapping, he figured she was bugging the State Department and the agencies on an hourly basis asking for information. He doubted if they had any though. What would our embassy or our ambassador know about a bunch of low-lifes who pluck people off the street for money? Probably not much. Even their station chief undoubtedly wouldn’t have these kinds of contacts. Their CIA man embedded in the embassy would be working on bigger fish, the narco-terrorist crowd, big-time plots against the US. Things like that.

  No, he doubted if anybody would be looking for him in the right place. Of course, GeoGlobal would be having a fit and would be trying to figure it out. He knew that Eyeshade had sent a message to Godfrey. He had heard them talking about the numbers. They were asking for ten million bucks to be put in some offshore account. These guys were more sophisticated than he first thought. They had their ducks in order, even a fancy bank account all lined up just waiting for a big fat deposit.