The Abduction

by James Grippando

  “With as little fanfare as possible. We’ll do a press release, no press conference. I want to get this behind us without making a major protracted news event out of it. The timing is perfect. A simple press release on Saturday night should dilute the impact.”

  “You mean a press release from the White House or from the Department of Justice?”

  “Both. My staff has already prepared them. Would you like to see the one from Justice?”

  He offered, but she didn’t reach for it. “I’m sure it’s just perfect,” she said in a voice laden with sarcasm. “I mean, what better way to run the Department of Justice than to have the White House drafting its press releases? It’s like I always say, a president doesn’t need a pesky attorney general looking over his shoulder anyway. In fact, you don’t even need an attorney general. Why don’t I just do the honorable thing and go back to my office right now and fall on my sword? Except-aw shoot,” she said, grimacing in mock frustration, “I don’t have a sword. I know! Let’s call Lincoln Howe. I’ll bet he can lend us one.”

  “You’re making a grave mistake by not taking this seriously.”

  “I’m taking this very seriously. That’s why I’m not stepping aside from the investigation. So unless you plan to suspend me, I should be leaving now. I have a meeting to attend at FBI headquarters.” She rose and started for the door, hoping for a clean getaway.

  “Allison,” he said harshly, stopping her in her tracks.

  She turned to catch his eye, saying nothing.

  “Skip the meeting,” he said. “I’ve made my decision. You’re off the investigation. That’s final.”

  “You’re suspending me?”

  “Come on,” he said, “you leave me no choice. You know I hate to do this to you just two days before the election, but look at the polls. You’re losing ground by the hour. Politically you’re a lost cause. If I don’t take you out of this investigation right now, Lincoln Howe will keep on attacking until your negative ratings spill over into every congressional race in the country. It’s bad enough the party is losing the White House. But I’m seriously worried that we’re going to lose control of the House and Senate, too.”

  She looked at him with disbelief, her eyes burning. “Silly me, Mr. President. I was worried about finding a twelve-year-old girl.”

  Her glare tightened, and the president looked away. She turned and let herself out, never looking back as she walked briskly down the hall, knowing in all likelihood that she’d just paid her last visit ever to the Oval Office.

  38

  Vincent Gambrelli woke at sunrise, five minutes before the alarm would have sounded. He’d risen the same time every morning for more than thirty years, since his first night as a Green Beret in the jungles in Vietnam. He’d never really needed an alarm clock, and he’d only started setting one in the last few months, as he neared the half-century mark. It was a kind of competition for him, man against machine. The day his body no longer knew it was time to get up was the day he would no longer trust it.

  His six-foot frame was covered in his usual sleepwear, dark green sweat pants and a camouflage T-shirt. He dropped to the carpet and lay on his back, knees up, bracing his ankles beneath the bed frame. He breathed audibly, inhaling and exhaling at regular intervals as he ripped off two hundred sit-ups. He rolled onto his chest, facedown with his hands planted firmly in the push-up position. His back was rigid as a steel rod for the first set of fifty. Up on his fingertips for fifty more. Another twenty-five using just his right arm, then twenty-five more using only the left.

  He sprung to his feet, pumped with energy. He swung his arms across his body, stimulating the circulation as he crossed the room and entered the bathroom. Stripped of the T-shirt, he checked himself in the mirror. The red glow of the heat lamp gave him an evil cast, which he rather liked. Thick purple veins bulged from his forearms and biceps. His clean-shaven head glistened with tiny beads of sweat. He turned for a look at his profile. Lean. Nothing he didn’t need. Not an extra gram of body fat. Not an extraneous hair on his head. Not a hint of compassion in the cold, dark eyes.

  He showered and dressed quickly. Hunger pangs gripped his belly, but that would have to wait.

  He pulled a duffel bag from the closet, laid it on the floor, and unlocked the zipper. He smoothed out the bedspread and pulled on a pair of thin rubber surgical gloves. Gloves were a must when handling the equipment. No prints.

  Carefully, almost lovingly, he reached inside the bag and removed a sleek and lightweight AR-7 rifle, laying it on the bed. The barrel was already broken down for storage inside the stock with the clip, and the serial number just above the clip port had been completely drilled out. Beside it, he laid the three-to-six-powered rifle scope, powerful enough to ensure deadly accuracy up to sixty-five yards. That was far more scope than he’d needed last night. From across the street, Repo had been easy prey.

  With a small screwdriver he methodically disassembled the rifle. He ran a wire cleaning brush down the bore, then used a rattail file to alter the barrel, shell chamber, loading ramp, firing pin, and ejector pin-all the parts that created ballistic markings. It seemed like overkill in a way, going to all this trouble to thwart an unlikely attempt by police to match the bullets in Repo’s body to the ballistic markings on Gambrelli’s weapons. Even if the cops could find Gambrelli-good luck-no one was likely to find Repo’s body in the smoldering ashes, let alone the bullets. A generous sprinkling of wood alcohol and a single match had taken care of the crime scene. The police would likely surmise that some crack-addicted vagrant in search of shelter had broken into a vacant house and forgotten to open the flue before lighting the fireplace, setting the place ablaze and toasting himself in the process.

  Still, it was good practice-if not just an ingrained Gambrelli habit-either to dump the weapons or change the ballistic markings after every kill. With General Howe’s granddaughter in the next room, this wasn’t the time to be out shopping for a new gun. That left only one choice.

  A knock on the door broke his concentration. On impulse, he grabbed his pistol from the duffel bag.

  “It’s me,” came the voice from behind the door. “Tony.”

  Gambrelli looked up from his disassembled rifle. “Come in.”

  The door opened. Tony Delgado stood in the doorway. His eyes were slits, still crusted with sleep. “You want me to feed the kid?”

  Gambrelli was deadpan. “Did I tell you to feed the kid?”

  “No.”

  “Then don’t feed the kid. Don’t blow your nose, don’t wipe your ass. From now on, don’t do anything unless I tell you to do it.”

  Delgado lowered his head like a chided boy. “You know, nobody feels worse about what happened to Johnny than I do.”

  Gambrelli shook his head, the disapproving uncle. “Siddown,” he said, pointing to the chair in the corner.

  He moved without a sound, slow but obedient.

  Gambrelli said, “Johnny was family, but he was a fuckup. Too damn cocky for his own good. Somebody was gonna do him, sooner or later.”

  Delgado made a face. “That’s it? C’est la vie?”

  “Shut up, Tony. I’m talking here.”

  A lump swelled in the younger man’s throat, visible from across the room.

  Gambrelli narrowed his eyes. “Let me explain something to you, Tony. Your brother was how old, twenty?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “When I was his age, I had one concern. Kill the Viet Cong before they killed me. One mistake, you were dead. You can see it in my eyes-I lived because I killed. Take a good look at me, then look at somebody like your little brother. Johnny and every kid born after him is part of an entire generation of whiny little brats who think the whole damn world is a video game. You screw up, you put another quarter in the slot. And Mommy never lets you run out of quarters. That’s why boys like Johnny never grow up to be men. Their idea of fighting for their own survival is going on TV talk shows to bitch about having to put on a condom before
they fuck their fifteen-year-old girlfriend. Useless. An entire generation. Utterly useless.”

  “Are you saying Johnny deserved to die?”

  “I’m saying that with one less Johnny or Repo or Kristen Howe, for that matter, the world is no worse off. It’s better off.”

  “What about me?”

  “You’re older,” Gambrelli said with a shrug. “I thought maybe you were different. I trusted you with this job, Tony. It was just my bad fucking luck that after twenty years in the business, my biggest job ever comes after I’m married and retired. My old lady’s not cool, you know what I’m saying? I can’t tell her I’m taking the week off to go kidnap General Howe’s granddaughter. But this job was too big to pass up. So I figured, hey, Tony can handle this. He’s got guts. Got some brains. I figure I’ll be like a general myself, in the background, you know, giving orders. So I cut the deal, I get everything lined up. All you gotta do is stick to the plan. Next thing I know, Johnny’s dead on the kitchen floor with a knife in his chest, you’re hung over from too much tequila, and the girl’s fucking gone-she’s flying down the highway with some amateur named Repo, like a twelve-year-old Bonnie and a shit-for-brains Clyde.”

  “I’m sorry, I-”

  “Shut up, Tony.” He gnawed his lower lip in anger, glaring at his nephew. “I don’t like doing it this way, me being directly involved. This is one of those jobs where the triggerman should never know his client, and the client should never know the triggerman. Too much publicity in this case, too much risk of people talking. When people talk, they start pointing fingers. But if the middleman does his job, the client can’t finger the triggerman, and the triggerman can’t finger the client. Ever. Which makes it real tough for the cops to prove a conspiracy. Thanks to you, asshole, I’m not the middleman anymore. Now there’s a direct link between the client and triggerman. That’s why I’m pissed at you, Tony.”

  Tony sank in his chair. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything. Just don’t screw up. Ever again.”

  He lowered his head. “I won’t.”

  Gambrelli took a deep breath, cooling his anger. The kid was appropriately contrite, remorseful. If he weren’t family, he’d be dead. But like it or not, he was family. If Gambrelli had to keep him around, he had to lift his spirits. A partner with no self-confidence was a dangerous liability. He reached across the bed and grabbed a white spiral binder from the nightstand, which he’d been reading last night before going to sleep. “Here,” he said as he tossed it to him.

  He caught it and checked the title: Missing and Abducted Children: A Law Enforcement Guide to Case Investigation and Program Management.

  Gambrelli said, “It’s published by the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. The bible for cops who chase child abductors. The bible for men like us who elude them.”

  “You want me to read this whole thing?”

  “I want you to absorb it. You have to start thinking like the FBI. That book, right there, it’s written by an FBI special agent named Harley Abrams. If you read this, you know exactly how he thinks-very analytical, step-by-step. Last night I was rereading the part where he lays out all the possible motives for child abductions. Sexual savagery, ransom, sale of children for profit, a few others. He comes up with a total of seven most likely motives. At the end, he theorizes that an eighth possible motive is political gain. But this is very interesting. He says that never in the history of the United States has there been a documented case of a child abduction for political purposes. What do you think of that, Tony?”

  His eyes widened, like the kid in class who hated to be called on. “I don’t know. Guess it means there are easier ways to screw up an election than to kidnap a child.”

  “Smart boy,” he said with approval. “Very smart boy. I suppose the FBI could be thinking that. What else could they be thinking?”

  He made a face, thinking. “That there’s a first time for everything.”

  Gambrelli smiled thinly. “Sometimes I think you’re too ugly to be my sister’s kid. But you just might be smart enough.”

  He cracked a thin smile.

  Gambrelli winked. Mission accomplished. His confidence was building; the boy was back on the team. He pulled a Polaroid camera from his duffel bag, then popped open the film compartment and loaded it. “You just go on and read that book, okay? Study hard. I have to go shoot some pictures.”

  “Pictures? What kind of pictures?”

  Gambrelli looked up. All traces of a smile had fallen from his face. “You’ll see. Just one good shot is all I’m after. The kind of shot that drains mothers of emotion. And families of their bank accounts.”

  39

  Allison tugged the bedroom drapes aside no more than an inch, just far enough to peek inconspicuously at the quaint Georgetown street below. The neighborhood was normally peaceful on Sundays at sunrise. From her upstairs window, however, she could see the media camped outside her townhouse. Some were sleeping inside parked cars and vans, staying warm. Others huddled in chatty circles along the old brick sidewalk, their faces indistinguishable in the eerie predawn glow from the decorative old street lamps. Dressed in wool hats and bulky winter jackets, they shifted their weight from one foot to the other in a dancelike ritual, fighting off the morning chill. Heads occasionally rolled back in laughter as they cavorted over steamy paper cups of coffee. She wondered what they jabbered about to pass the time. Football? Basketball? Or maybe the beloved blood sport of Washington, the ultimate spectator thrill-watching yet another presidential hopeful tumble off the high wire and splatter onto Pennsylvania Avenue.

  She turned away from the window and crawled back into bed. Peter was sitting up with his back against the headboard, still in his pajamas, devouring the Washington Post. It was well before his normal Sunday waking hour, but they’d both been wide awake when the paper landed on the doorstep. The headline said it all: LEAHY SUSPENDED AS ATTORNEY GENERAL.

  President Sires had indeed kept his promise and issued the White House press release. His chief of staff was scheduled to appear later in the day on Meet the Press to explain the suspension. Allison’s running mate, Governor Helmers, was appearing at that very moment on another morning newscast, doing his best at damage control. Late last night, the Leahy/Helmers campaign strategists had agreed that Helmers, not Allison, should do the early morning shows. He could stand up for her without sounding defensive, and he could draw out some of the sting on the less popular early morning shows so that Allison would be better prepared when the sharpshooting TV journalists fired away on the prime-time shows between 9:00 A.M. and noon.

  Allison lay listlessly on the bed, her voice filled with dread. “I have to get ready.”

  Peter looked up from the newspaper. “You sound like you’re going to a funeral.”

  “I am, in a way. President Sires said it last night, and my own pollsters are saying the same thing. Statistically, I’m a lost cause.”

  He tossed the newspaper aside. “I don’t hear any fat lady singing. Helmers and Wilcox and the rest of those guys wouldn’t be scrambling the way. they are if they thought it was really over.”

  Allison shook her head. “At this point, everyone is just running on momentum, not enthusiasm. They’re not looking for me to pull off a come-from-behind miracle in the next two days. They’re just trying to keep my taint from spoiling Helmers’s shot at the White House in another four years.”

  “Does Wilcox or Helmers know anything about how you agreed to pay Kristen Howe’s ransom?”

  “No.”

  “What about the president? Did you tell him?”

  “No. I couldn’t. If any of those guys find out, they’ll exploit it. They’ll leak it to the press, try to portray me as a hero and swing the election back in my favor.”

  “What,” he scoffed, “you don’t want to win?”

  “Of course I want to win. But not at any cost. If word hits the street that you and I have agreed to pay the very ransom that
General Howe refused to pay, it would be disastrous. Howe could override his daughter and forbid us from paying. The publicity could make the kidnappers back off and kill Kristen. Any number of things could happen, none of them good.”

  “So-I’m confused. Are we paying the ransom or not?”

  “Yes, we are. If they still want it.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “The kidnappers are sending out some mixed signals. On Friday they demanded the money, then yesterday someone else called and said that Kristen is safe until the election is over. It sounds like they may be arguing among themselves, but we still have to be prepared to deliver the ransom if they call on Monday morning, like they said they would.”

  “Do you really think you’re going to be able to keep this quiet?”

  “We have to. I know it must be hard for you to understand, especially with headlines like today’s. But I promised Tanya Howe we’d keep this quiet because that’s the only way it will work. Bear that in mind when you’re finalizing the money. You might want to use several different banks, keeping each individual transfer and withdrawal small, so that no suspicions are aroused. Just do whatever you can to obscure the fact that we’re paying the ransom.”

  He made a face. “In essence, you want me to promise that I won’t try to capitalize on the one thing that could help you pull off the election.”

  “In a way, yes.” She shook her head, almost laughing at the absurdity. “I know it’s crazy. A year ago in this very room you begged me not to run for president. You said it would screw up our lives. Now look where we are. How ironic is this?”

  “If you could only imagine.”

  “Please, Peter. I don’t want anyone turning this ransom payment into a political football. Especially not you. Do you promise me that?”

  He fell quiet, as if his mind were in another place. Then his hand slid across the sheets and he touched her face, his mouth curling into a soft, reassuring smile. “Of course, darling. I promise.”