The Abduction

by James Grippando

  “No, wait!”

  The line clicked, and she heard only the dial tone.

  26

  Lincoln Howe summoned the key decision makers for a campaign strategy meeting that afternoon. Howe and his campaign director, Buck LaBelle, shared a limo to Washington National Airport. Some were flying in and others would be flying out, so the airport was a logical meeting spot. The refurbished 727 jet was at the gate when they arrived, its clean white fuselage emblazoned with the bright red and blue campaign message: HOWE-ENDICOTT 2000.

  Dwight Endicott was the first person Howe saw as he boarded the airplane. The vice presidential candidate had just flown in from Cleveland after two full days of campaigning in the key state of Ohio. Endicott had never served in the military, but he had the broad shoulders, imposing stature, and no-nonsense expression of an ex-Marine. He’d made his mark as the high-profile head of the Drug Enforcement Agency. A best-selling book and several years on the profitable lecture circuit had helped spin his anti-drug message into a larger theme of renewed morality. His campaign trademark was the flash of the V sign, like Churchill or FDR-only Endicott’s V stood not for victory but values. He was the right-wing component of the Republican ticket, an appeasement to the fundamentalists and pro-life advocates who were concerned, if not alarmed, by General Howe’s moderate positions on social issues.

  “Did you have a good trip?” Howe asked his running mate.

  “Ohio’s in the bag,” Endicott said with a smile.

  The candidates moved to the working area of the airplane, a small room just forward of the galley. Bolted-down couches, leather chairs, and a Formica worktable replaced the usual rows of airline seats. Howe and Endicott sat on the couch with their backs to the portal windows. Buck LaBelle sat across the table with John Eaton, a brilliant but sometimes absent-minded pollster who could work miracles with a notebook computer, provided he hadn’t inadvertently left it behind in the airport men’s room. Seated beside him was Evan Fitzgerald, the media consultant Endicott had insisted be in charge of developing and testing all television ads. Howe respected Fitzgerald’s work, even though he was one of those self-important Ivy League snobs whom Howe hated, the kind of guy who would never come right out and tell you he was a Harvard man, but who somehow managed to weave into every conversation a sentence that began with “When I lived in Cambridge…”

  The plane wasn’t scheduled to leave Washington for an hour, and it would be at least thirty minutes before the crew, the campaign staffers, and the traveling media would board. For the moment, the brain trust had the desired privacy. Howe took the opening few minutes telling them about his Oval Office meeting with President Sires.

  “The bottom line,” he concluded, “is that the president doesn’t want me to say another word about calling out the troops to fight child abductors. If I don’t put a lid on it, we’ll have to contend with a nasty White House leak to the effect that the FBI’s investigation is now focusing on someone from my own campaign staff who orchestrated Kristen’s abduction to swing the election.”

  “I say let them leak it.” It was Eaton, the pollster, speaking with the open computer in his lap. “My numbers show that people just won’t buy it. Men, women, black, white, old, young. It doesn’t matter. Ninety percent of the American public believes that your speech last night was made purely out of love for your granddaughter. The mere suggestion that you or anyone around you is behind the kidnapping will be Leahy’s political death knell.”

  LaBelle chomped on his unlit cigar. “I agree with Eaton, but let’s take it a step further. First rule of politics: If you’ve got bad news, out it yourself. Let’s not wait for the White House to leak it. Let’s do it ourselves, up front. Call a press conference and tell the American people that it’s come to our attention that the FBI is focusing on Howe’s campaign, and that it’s politically motivated propaganda orchestrated by the attorney general’s office.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Endicott. The vice presidential candidate extended his arms like a preacher on his pulpit, reeling in everyone. “First of all, do we know for a fact that it isn’t one of our supporters who’s behind the kidnapping?”

  An uncomfortable silence shrouded the group. Endicott waited, but no one spoke. “Second of all,” he continued, “who said Attorney General Leahy is behind the FBI’s investigation of our campaign? Do we know that to be true?”

  The silence thickened. The men exchanged glances, saying nothing. Finally Howe spoke.

  “It’s true,” he said, harking back to his conversation with the president, “because it can’t be proven false.”

  LaBelle smiled wryly. “Well, General, I see you’ve transitioned very well from the rules of war to the rules of politics.”

  “This is war,” he said somberly.

  Allison reached her home in Georgetown within twenty minutes of her phone call with Harley Abrams, having left the Federal Triangle just before rush hour. With Peter’s help, she pulled down more than a dozen dust-covered boxes from the attic.

  She flipped through several boxes at random, and chills went down her spine. Inside were yellowed newspaper clippings, a copy of the police report, cards and letters from friends and strangers alike, videotapes of television coverage, flyers and posters offering rewards, and reams of other materials-some relevant, some not so relevant to Emily’s abduction. The boxes made it all seem so organized, deceptively so. Much of it was a blur to her, not because of the passage of time, but because at the time it all happened her senses were numb. She knew that she’d attended the Crime Stopper meetings, that she’d personally thanked the hundreds of volunteers who searched the neighborhood. Yet she had little memory of it. The notes of phone calls were definitely hers. She logged every phone call. Reporters who wanted the personal touch to their stories. Well-meaning strangers and their false sightings. The false confessors-sickos who just wanted attention, and the genuinely depraved who had hurt someone else’s child and cleansed themselves by confessing to crimes they hadn’t committed. There was even a business card from the psychic she’d turned to in utter desperation, an old gypsy woman who held Emily’s blanket and picked Allison’s wallet, sending her on fruitless and frantic searches in places as far away as Canada.

  Allison stepped back from the table, overwhelmed by the memories. In hindsight, it all seemed like a huge hole in her life. The size of the hole was measured in boxes, each bearing a printed date on the outside, starting with March 1992. Allison had never really focused on it before, but at first she’d filled a box a week, then a box a month, then a box a year. The last one had almost nothing in it, as if the boxes themselves were a sign of a lost trail and fading hope.

  The boxes were stacked on the dining room table, end to end, in a mound that nearly reached the chandelier. Allison shuddered as she returned to the first box for a more careful review. At worst, it was like opening a grave, but she hated that thought. At best, it was opening old wounds.

  “What exactly prompted all this?” asked Peter.

  He was standing in the doorway between the dining and living rooms, wiping the attic dust from his trousers. Allison looked up from her seat at the head of the dining room table, peering over the box.

  “It’s kind of a long story.” Her voice strained with dread at the thought of having to tell him about Mitch O’Brien.

  “Maybe I can help,” he said as he pulled up a chair beside her. “I was there for you then. Why shut me out now?”

  “I’m not shutting you out, Peter. Believe it or not, it’s even more complicated now than it was eight years ago.”

  “It can’t be that complicated. Just tell me.”

  She hesitated, then resigned herself and faced him. “Harley Abrams thinks there’s a possible connection between this kidnapping and Emily’s abduction.”

  “Why?”

  “Lots of reasons. But I think he’s suddenly very suspicious of my ex-fiancé, Mitch O’Brien.”

  Peter winced. “O’Brien? What does he have to do
with this?”

  “I don’t know. But to be honest, in the back of my mind I’ve sometimes wondered about Mitch. Was it purely coincidence that I happened to be talking on the phone with him when someone sneaked into my house and stole Emily from right under my nose? Or was Mitch purposely distracting me?”

  His eyes widened, as if surprised by the accusation. “But what does that have to do with Kristen Howe’s kidnapping?”

  “Nothing. But we just found out today that Mitch is missing. Has been missing since some time before the kidnapping.”

  “You think he’s in hiding?”

  “I don’t know. But there’s more. He’d been acting strange a few months before the kidnapping. Before he disappeared.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I saw him a couple of months ago. A couple of times, actually.”

  Peter went rigid, then swallowed with trepidation. “What are you telling me?”

  The phone rang. Allison paused, as if waiting for Peter to say it was okay to answer. He didn’t flinch.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “That could be Abrams. I really should get it.” She grabbed the phone.

  “Hello,” she answered.

  “Howe won’t pay.”

  Allison bristled. It was a garbled, mechanically disguised voice. “Who is this?”

  “Kristen’s guardian angel.”

  Her pulse quickened. “What do you want?”

  “I want my money. But like I said, Lincoln Howe won’t pay.”

  “That’s his decision.”

  “Maybe. But what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You saw the general’s speech last night. Howe says you’re rich, you and your husband. You want to let the girl die and watch your hopes of becoming president die right along with her? Or you want to save the day, hotshot?”

  The words caught in her throat. “You’re getting in way over your head. This is a very dangerous game.”

  “It’s just simple economics. Supply and demand. I supply the girl. Now here’s my demand. A million bucks, cash. By Monday. Pay it, or the girl dies. Be by the phone at eight A.M. We’ll talk.”

  The line clicked.

  Allison lowered the phone, momentarily stunned. This was a turn she hadn’t seen coming. She turned to face Peter, but his chair was empty.

  “Peter?” she called out.

  The front door slammed. She ran to the foyer and peered out the window. He was already in his Jaguar. She blinked with confusion, then realized that the telephone interruption must have left him with the wrong idea about her and Mitch O’Brien. When she said she’d seen Mitch a couple of times, Peter must have thought she’d seen him. She flung open the door and ran outside.

  “Peter!” she shouted, but it was too late. The car squealed away. Peter was gone.

  She felt an impulse to give chase, but there was something even more pressing. She hurried back inside and picked up the telephone, then punched out the number.

  “Harley,” she said, completely out of breath. “They just called. It’s a whole new ball game.”

  Part 3

  27

  The quick response surprised even Allison. Ninety seconds after she hit the emergency call button, the first team of FBI agents were at her front door. Secret Service was right behind. Within minutes, the entire block surrounding her townhouse was secured, and checkpoints were posted on every street corner leading in or out of Georgetown. Agents patrolled the neighborhood, searching for any suspicious activity or abandoned vehicles. Police recorded all license tags, which would be run through the National Crime Information Center. Trained dogs sniffed bushes and trash receptacles on the sidewalks and alleys for possible explosive devices.

  Inside, Allison’s home was becoming a fortress. Agents stood guard at the front and back doors. Forensic teams searched for any signs of an attempted break-in. Harley Abrams arrived with a team of crack technical agents who were eager to take her house high-tech. He was standing in her kitchen, leaning against her refrigerator with a pencil tucked behind his ear, reviewing a checklist on his clipboard.

  “Security still needs to come up a notch,” he said.

  Allison was polite, but firm. “I don’t want the FBI moving into my living room.”

  “There’s a townhouse for rent across the street. We’re leasing it to set up a satellite command center. A team will be on call twenty-four hours a day. They’ll patrol the street on foot, blending right into the neighborhood. Even the homeless guy at the bus stop will actually be one of our agents. If anything happens here, the response time will be virtually instantaneous.”

  “That’s good enough.”

  “We’ll also install additional security cameras, which will feed back to the command center. Our techies are putting up at least eight more to cover every angle of the outside of your townhouse. They’ll be hidden in the lamppost, bushes, cars parked on the street. That kind of thing. No one will even notice them. It’s your call as to whether you want indoor surveillance.”

  “Sorry, but I stopped posing naked in front of cameras years ago.”

  Harley cracked a smile but remained professional. “I would at least recommend phone surveillance.”

  “I need a private line. Not that I don’t trust you, but, well, I don’t trust anybody.”

  “We can install a manual activation switch. Just answer the phone as you normally would. If it’s something you want us to hear, just hit the star key and punch eight. An agent will be on the line to record and trace the call.”

  “That’s acceptable.”

  Harley glanced at the telephone, which was resting on the counter that separated the kitchen from the family room. One of the technical agents was unscrewing the casing, busily rewiring it. “It would have been nice to have the phone monitor in place before this afternoon’s call. Although I’m not sure how he got your home number anyway.”

  “It leaks out. I’ve always had to change it every few weeks. People hound the attorney general on all kinds of issues-abortion, gun control, capital punishment. You wouldn’t believe the number of organizations that pass out my address and phone number to their members.”

  He nodded, not surprised.

  She asked, “Any information yet on the source of the call?”

  “He used a cellular phone, and with today’s roaming capabilities it could have been placed from Honolulu, for all we know. The phone is a clone-some number he stole from a real estate agent in New York. The phone company picked that up immediately. Their computers are designed to recognize a call on a cloned phone and disconnect it immediately, which protects their legitimate customers from having their numbers pirated. Our kidnappers have obviously figured out a way to override the system. My guess is that every call we get will be on a different clone, each with its own unique frequency and a different roaming pattern.”

  “So we’re not dealing with total dummies.”

  “At least not technological dummies. We’re installing the software to trace any future calls from cellular phones, but naturally it’s a little more difficult to pinpoint an exact location when you’re trying to measure signal strength and intersecting radio frequencies. I’m sure that’s why they’re using cellular.”

  Allison looked away, thinking.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Harley.

  “All this talk about intersecting radio frequencies just got me to thinking about how Emily was abducted. Baby monitors like the one I had operate on radio frequencies. We figured somebody must have eavesdropped on the baby monitor from outside the house to tape-record her noises. That’s how they made the tape they left in her crib.”

  “Allison, just because somebody knows how to clone a cellular phone with an ESN detector they bought at some spy shop doesn’t mean he’s the same guy who camped outside your house listening to your baby monitor. When I said we’re not dealing with technological dummies, I didn’t mean to imply there are only five or six people on the planet who know how
to do this. Hell, there are probably five or six people sitting at DuPont Circle doing it right now.”

  “I know,” she said, shaking off the thought. “What else do we need to cover?”

  “I faxed your notes back to Quantico for our profilers to analyze. Is there anything else you remember about the phone call? Anything you might have left out?”

  She shook her head. “I did exactly what you said. As soon as I got off the phone with you, I wrote down everything I could remember, word for word.”

  “We’re obviously treating this call as the real thing. But I didn’t read anything in your notes that would confirm one way or the other if this was legitimate, or if it was just some nut pulling a prank. You’re the only one who heard his voice, so I need you to listen to something. Just to give us a voice confirmation.”

  “You have the kidnapper’s voice on tape?”

  “Yes. They called Tanya Howe this afternoon, before you got your call.”

  “I know that. What I didn’t know is that you had it on tape. I thought she kicked the FBI out of her house.”

  “She taped it herself. I guess she didn’t know it was a felony to tape-record a conversation without a court order or the other person’s consent. The manufacturers of these phones always print legal warnings in the instruction manuals, but nobody ever reads them. I trust she won’t be prosecuted.”

  “I think the state attorney in Nashville might see his way around this one. We’ll definitely have a problem with an illegal recording if this case goes to trial, but I’ll worry about that later.”

  Harley pulled a cassette tape from his pocket. “Do you have a cassette player?”

  “In the family room.” She led him from the kitchen to the adjacent entertainment center, near the big screen television.

  Harley switched on the amplifier, dropped the tape into the cassette player, and then hit the PLAY button. The speakers hissed. He adjusted the volume to minimize the distortion. Allison leaned forward, listening intently. It began with Tanya’s voice, in the middle of the conversation, where she had started taping.