Henry felt the solid hand of Jack Collins touch his arm with deliberate force. It was the first time Collins had ever done that. He’s telling me to cool it, Henry thought. He’s right.
“I am a master pilot and checked out on the SST. I and I alone will pilot you to your destination. You will not disembark until my wife has been released and is safely in the hands of our people. If she is not released both safe and well, the plane will be blown up with both of us on it. Is that clear?”
Jovunet sat in silence for a moment, seemingly absorbing all that he had just heard. “Ah, the power of love!” he said finally, slowly shaking his head.
Henry stared at the man in front of him and realized that the corners of his lips were twitching. Incredulously, he realized that Jovunet was laughing at him. And all that I can do is stand here like a beggar and hope that he will agree, he thought. He saw with loathing that Jovunet’s face was glistening with perspiration, even though the small room was cool.
Where was Sunday being held? he wondered. Was it in a cell-like room such as this? It had been a bitterly cold day. Was she warm enough?
Henry forced himself to concentrate on the man in front of him. At least Jovunet was considering the terms he had just outlined. Henry could tell that by his narrowed eyes.
“There is one other consideration,” Jovunet said slowly.
Henry waited.
“Like you, I would not want to see anything happen to your wife. I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting her, of course, but like everyone else in this fair country, I have followed your storybook courtship and marriage. From everything I have heard of her, I would have to say that she is quite admirable. However, as you are aware, given these circumstances, one in my position has only so much control. May I inquire as to the exact time we will be taking off?”
Henry knew that everything hinged on Jovunet believing his answer. “Before my wife was abducted this afternoon, the Washington Post reported that a number of mechanical adjustments must be made before the SST’s scheduled inaugural flight, set for Friday morning. It will take all day tomorrow to finish them. In place of that intended inaugural flight, you and I will depart on the SST on Friday morning at 10 A.M.”
Jovunet looked at him indulgently. “Just think how many cameras and listening devices and satellite chips you’ll be installing while you make those mechanical adjustments,” he said, sighing. “Ah, well, it won’t matter, will it?” His smile relaxed, then disappeared. “I insist on being transferred to the Washington area immediately. And I know you have a number of safe houses around there, so I want to be taken to one of those and not to some correctional facility. I’ve had enough of this kind of place, thank you.”
“That is precisely the plan,” Henry said coldly. “You are going to be videotaped while at the safe house, your message to be a warning to your cohorts that my wife must not be harmed. And they must provide us with a videotape of her, showing that she is well; the deadline for that will be 3 P.M. tomorrow.”
Jovunet nodded distractedly, then looked down with disdain at his prison uniform. “There is one other small thing. As you undoubtedly know, I rather cherish fine clothing. Since all of my carefully chosen apparel has long since disappeared, and since where I am going is, shall we say, not exactly known for its attention to designer salons, I shall require a complete new wardrobe. I’m particularly partial to Calvin Klein and Giorgio Armani. I want a full and complete wardrobe of their latest fashions, and I will need the presence of several master tailors who will be able to alter them to my specifications by mid-morning Friday. Before we leave, I will have the warden’s office supply you with my complete physical dimensions. My new wardrobe is to be transported to the plane in a Vuitton trunk and matching luggage.” He paused, then looked steadily at Henry, a slight smile curling his lips. “Do I make myself clear?”
Before Henry could bring himself to respond, Jovunet smiled again, more broadly this time. “Surely none of this should surprise you. Have you forgotten the circumstances of my final arrest? The Calvin Klein fashion show?” He laughed in amusement. “So embarrassing, and it wasn’t even a good show. All that underwear! Sometimes I think that dear Calvin is losing it.”
Henry knew that he had to get out of there. He could not be in the same room with this man for even ten seconds longer. “I’ll see you in Washington tomorrow,” he said. He could feel Collins’s breath on his neck as they exited. He’s afraid I’ll kill him, Henry thought. And he’s right. As the steel door was closing behind them, Henry heard Jovunet call out one last demand: “Oh, and don’t forget the Dom Pérignon and the caviar, Mr. President. Lots of caviar. Even on a supersonic transport, it will be a long flight.”
This time Jack Collins had to physically restrain Henry to keep him from rushing back into the visitor’s room. Fortunately the door clicked shut, closing off the sight and sound of Claudus Jovunet. “Mr. President,” Collins said urgently. “If anything were to go wrong, I swear to you that I’ll get him before he has a chance to crawl back here.”
Henry wasn’t listening, however. “Caviar?” he said aloud. “Something is going on here that has to do with caviar. Any word yet on what country we think is going to be his refuge?”
During the night, Sunday was awakened from an uneasy sleep by a sudden flash of light so bright that it managed to penetrate the thick cloth that still covered her head.
“Just taking your picture,” her captor said softly. “You look terribly uncomfortable and forlorn. Perfect. I’m sure your husband’s heart will be broken when he has a visual understanding of your predicament.”
He lifted the hood from her head. “Now for one more, and then you can go back to sleep.”
Sunday blinked in an effort to erase the white spots that blinded her after the second flash. She realized that sometime in the past hours the dim overhead bulb had been turned off; now, as he turned it back on, even that soft glow was painful to her eyes. Her resolve to appear stoically calm shattered. She glared at her captor. “Let me tell you that when I get out of here, if I get out of here, you’d better make sure you’re on the plane with your assassin friend. And if you are caught, I will go to any lengths to make sure that you are locked away in the most horrible, uncomfortable prison we can find.”
Another blinding flash made Sunday blink again.
“Sorry. I hadn’t planned that one, but it won’t hurt to have your husband see just how upset you are,” he said.
No, you are wrong, Sunday thought. I’m not upset, just plain mad. Henry had recently seen her fury at full force when she lectured him on the inhumanity of fox hunting. When she got her Irish up, as he had referred to it, she could be a dynamo.
If that last picture gets to Henry, he will know that I’m not falling apart, Sunday reassured herself.
“It would seem that your husband is moving heaven and earth to secure your safety,” her abductor told her. “All the radio and television stations are constantly broadcasting assurances that Claudus Jovunet is being moved to the Washington area, and that a videotape showing him there will be broadcast at 11 A.M. this morning. They have also announced that a videotaped message from you is being demanded. They want to be sure that you are all right.”
He studied the Polaroid pictures. “Very good. These plus an audiotape should convince your husband and indeed the entire government of the fact that you are both alive and well, although in less than comfortable circumtances.”
He dropped the hood over her head again. This time, even though she shut her eyes against the scratchy surface of the cloth, Sunday was keenly alert. She was sure that if she ever hoped to see Henry again she would have to find a way to help herself. She had the strange sense that this guy was playing a deadly cat-and-mouse game with her, and with Henry too. He seemed totally nonpolitical. There had been none of the usual declarations of hatred against the government for imagined crimes, no attempts to justify the actions that had been taken against her in his effort to free Jovunet. Yes, this wa
s like cat and mouse, and Sunday did not like playing the mouse.
But what could she do? Being tied down and kept literally in the dark left her few options. Perhaps physically there was nothing she could do, but her mind could still roam freely. She thought back to the ring she had noticed on her captor’s finger. She was positive she had seen it before. But where? And when? Was it on this man’s finger, or had it belonged to someone else?
Inch by mental inch she began to consider everyone who might have been that man with the ring. Congressional staff? Ridiculous. Besides the memory seemed to go back further in time. Delivery people? Any of the help at the New Jersey house? No. I’ve only known Henry less than a year, Sunday thought. And everyone who works for him has been with him forever.
Then who was it?
I’ll figure it out eventually, she vowed.
You’d better hurry up, an interior voice cautioned. You’re running out of time.
Will I ever get out of here alive? she asked herself. Will I ever see Henry again? For a long minute Sunday was shaken to the core of her being. She yearned to be home at Drumdoe with Henry. She had found a wonderful new recipe for garlic chicken in a Provençal cookbook and had intended to try it over the weekend. Working her way through Fordham as a short-order cook had taught her to really love preparing food. She had studied gourmet cooking at the Culinary Institute. Now at least one night of the weekend Henry’s longtime cordon bleu chef took off and she took over.
She was supposed to be in the House committee meeting this morning. The bill on health benefits for illegal immigrant kids was being discussed again. It drove her crazy that the guy who was leading the fight to deny them benefits was always showing off pictures of his own grandchildren. She had planned to sail into him about that.
But first she had to get out of here, or at least help to get herself out! The Lord helps those who help themselves, she told herself. That had been her father’s favorite adage.
And God help those who are caught doing it! That was what I used to think when I was trying to get my defendants off, Sunday thought. Then she inhaled sharply.
That’s it, she thought excitedly. I didn’t see that ring around Drumdoe or Washington. It does go back further than that. It was when I was a public defender. One of the guys I defended was wearing it.
But which one? Which of the hundreds and hundreds of cases she had tried in those seven years had been the one in which the accused was wearing a thick signet-type ring with a hole in the center?
She was wide awake now, as she thought back over all the cases she had handled. As the last of her mental Rolodex cards flipped over, she shook her head. She was absolutely positive that she had never defended her captor. But she was certain about the ring. Although maybe it wasn’t the exact ring. Could it be a symbol of a terrorist group? I know I never had a case that involved a terrorist, Sunday thought, and again she reflected on just how nonpolitical this guy seemed. Okay, so he is not a terrorist, and he was never one of my “clients.” So who is this guy?
Where was Sunday last night? Henry asked himself as he entered the Cabinet Room of the White House at eleven o’clock the following morning. He realized immediately that if anything the mood was even grimmer than it had been at the meeting the previous day. He saw that in addition to Des Ogilvey, the full cabinet, and the heads of the CIA and FBI, two newcomers were present: the Senate Majority Leader and the Speaker of the House. Always looking for a photo opportunity, he thought. Neither man was particularly high on his list.
It had snowed lightly during the night, and the weather forecast was for a major storm to hit sometime before the weekend, probably on Friday. Please God, don’t let us be grounded, Henry prayed. The longer Sunday is left in their hands, the more likely the chances of something going wrong.
He thought back to the meeting the night before, with the odious Jovunet. Why the contradiction about the caviar? he wondered once more. It was a small thing, but it had the ring of something significant. Henry had come to the Cabinet Room directly from the safe house where Jovunet, surrounded by tailors, was cheerfully guzzling champagne and beluga caviar. It just didn’t make sense that Sunday’s kidnappers had made a point of instructing them to eliminate the caviar. Unless, of course, there was some hidden meaning in their message. He shook his head. Despite his years of experience, these games were new to him. Clearly there were no real rules, and anything was possible.
Henry realized that he was standing in front of his designated chair and that everyone was looking at him expectantly. “Mr. President,” he said, “I apologize for keeping you waiting.”
Desmond Ogilvey, that monument of patience, the president most often compared to “Cool” Calvin Coolidge, said crisply, “Henry, I say this in the hearing of those who will swiftly leak it to the press . . .” He paused to glare at the Speaker of the House. “. . . Don’t pull that formal stuff on me unless you’re joking, I was born with the highest respect for the government and for statesmanship. But you taught me what the presidency is all about.”
And Sunday taught me what happiness is all about, Henry thought.
Desmond Ogilvey folded his hands on the conference table in the exact position the nation’s political cartoonists loved to caricature. “I think we are all up to date on the situation,” he began. “The SST is being fitted with the most sophisticated equipment in our arsenal. The goal, obviously, is to allow us to monitor Jovunet, so that his future movements will be precisely available to us. If all goes according to plan, as of Friday, if Jovunet is in the jungle, we’ll know what tree he’s in and even on which branch. Location should not be a problem.”
Ogilvey thumped his clenched hands on the conference table. “Here, however, is the problem. Despite some significant ‘boo-boos’ — as my mother used to call them — our two supersleuth agencies are thankfully once again on the ball and in step. All our intelligence agents report unequivocally that no nation, including both our closest allies and our outright enemies, has come forward to offer Jovunet a haven. In fact, virtually everyone has indicated that they would rather see the plane blown up than to see him set foot on their soil. Unfortunately one conclusion we can draw from this situation is that right now, in some country where we don’t expect it, a revolution is brewing that will overthrow the existing government and may well present a very real threat to international peace.”
Henry listened with a sinking heart. It was as though he were watching Sunday trying to swim in a raging current, and that he was helpless to save her.
“Therefore,” Desmond Ogilvey continued, “we must conclude that there is a national emergency pending, that a nation whose warning signals have been ignored is about to erupt.” His glance at the director of the CIA caused that unfortunate dignitary to pale. Then the president looked across the table at his predecessor and announced, “I don’t know how to say this, but it would seem that your wife, the esteemed congresswoman from New Jersey, is in the hands of an unrecognized foe. I am afraid until they reveal themselves, there is little we can do but wait.”
Abruptly Henry stood up. “Des, I’ve got to revise the statement Jovunet is about to videotape.”
He turned to leave the room but was stopped momentarily by the embrace of reassuring arms. “Henry,” Desmond Ogilvey vowed, “we’re going to get her back. Every facility we can employ is committed to making that happen.”
No, Des, Henry thought. We’ve got to play the game this way, but my gut is telling me that what we’re doing is somehow all wrong.
He was becoming unhinged. Sunday could sense the subtle change in her captor’s manner. From above the stairwell she had heard him yelling at the woman he referred to as “Mother.” Was that woman really his mother, or was that just another part of their ruse? Like the monk’s robe, she thought. That disguise looks as though he rented it for a costume party.
The noise from upstairs had awakened her; now she wondered what time it was. It must be hours since he took those pictures, she thought
. Would Henry have seen them yet? Would he see the anger in her face and know that she was still fighting to get free? That she was nowhere close to giving up?
She willed herself to ignore the now dreadful pain in her upper arm and shoulder. Why couldn’t they be numb like her legs, which she could no longer feel at all. Circulation zero, she thought. If Henry were here, he would . . .
She shook her head. She couldn’t think of that. The image of Henry cutting these ropes, lifting her up, gently kneading the circulation back into her tortured limbs — it was too wonderful to consider, and to allow herself the luxury might undo her. She had to be strong. This was a fight, and she wasn’t going down without somehow drawing blood.
In her mental review of all the cases she had handled in her seven years as a public defender, she was up to the fourth year. All the significant cases, she corrected herself. Dumb kids who punched a bouncer in a penny-ante bar fight were not included in her review.
I’m blessed with a terrific memory, Sunday reassured herself as she shook her head and tried to disengage the rough hood that kept sticking to her forehead. Mom always said I was like her Aunt Kate. “Very observant, never missed anything,” Mom explained to Henry when she was filling him in about the relatives. “And nosy. I’ll never forget when Kate asked me if I had ‘news’ for her, clearly asking if I were in a delicate condition. Dear God, I don’t think I was expecting Sunday a week, and I had no intention of telling anyone about it yet. I happen to think — ”
Sunday had finished the sentence for her. “You happen to think that it’s more genteel for a woman to be in her fourth month before she announces it to the world. Maybe your Aunt Kate had a dirty mind. I hear it runs in the family.”
But I am like old Kate, Sunday promised herself. I’m an observant, detail-oriented person, and that ring is definitely a detail I noticed in court.
Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Sunday felt a nervous quiver go through her body. She wasn’t sure what was worse: when her captor crept silently down or when he announced his approach with heavy, deliberate steps.
My Gal Sunday Page 8
