It had to be morning. She realized she was hungry. Was he going to feed her? He’d said something about making an audiotape. When was that going to happen?
The footsteps shuffled against the cement floor. Sunday felt the hood being lifted from her head. The robed figure was standing over her. He reached up and turned on the dangling lightbulb, and for several seconds Sunday was once again blinded by the light. When her vision readjusted she stared again at her captor, strutting to get any hint of his features. His face was still in shadow, but she continued staring at it, demanding of her subconscious that she recall if she’d seen it before. Sunken eyes, bony facial structure. Probably in his fifties. “Mother should have done a better job,” he said angrily. “She left the milk out on the counter overnight and now it’s sour. I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for dry cereal and black coffee. But first, I’ll assist you to the lavatory.” He walked around the chair and began to untie the knots.
Mother should have done a better job. . . .
That voice. That tone. I’ve heard it before. He talked like that to me once, Sunday thought. He said I should have done a better job.
Like a developing picture, the memory of it came into focus. It had happened in court, while she was defending Wallace “Sneakers” Klint, just one in the parade of losers she had represented in those early years. Sunday had chosen to be a public defender because she was a staunch supporter of the concept that everyone deserved his day in court. That meant, of course, that everyone deserved full legal representation. The Klint case had been one of her least favorites. Although he was charged with murder, she had succeeded in convincing the jury to find him guilty of the lesser charge of manslaughter, which meant that in twenty years, when he was sixty years old, he would get out of prison.
The trial had not been a particularly long one, in part, she suspected, because the prosecution knew it did not have a very strong case. She remembered that Klint’s older brother showed up for a few days of the trial. She looked up again at her captor. No wonder I didn’t recognize him, she thought, trying not to let any emotion register on her face. Back then Klint’s brother had had long, stringy hair and a beard, and had looked very much like an aging hippie. That’s right, he had been very much a part of the “counterculture,” something she remembered because there had been some discussion of calling him as a witness, but she had felt that he would probably do more to hurt Sneaker’s case than to help it.
Sunday forced herself to think back to the day that he had spoken to her. She had left the courtroom, and he had come up behind her as she was walking down the hall toward the elevators. He had put his hand on her shoulder. She remembered how the ring he was wearing had robbed against her neck, and that she had yanked his hand away. That was when she noticed the ring’s distinctive design.
He had said that the verdict meant a death sentence for their mother, that she’d never live long enough to see Sneakers in her home again. And that was when he told me I should have done a better job, she thought.
At the time it hadn’t sounded like a threat. In fact, Sunday thought the guy was a jerk; he should have been kissing her feet for keeping his punk brother out of the death chamber. Thanks to her, Sneakers was now making license plates for the state of New Jersey.
So this man was the older brother. And the woman upstairs had to be the elderly mother. Don’t let him know you suspect, Sunday cautioned herself.
But as she tried to fit together the pieces of what she had learned she couldn’t make sense of it. What has Sneakers Klint’s brother got to do with international terrorism? she kept asking herself. Her kidnapping had seemed so professional, but this guy in front of her seemed more like a lone wacko.
Her arms were finally free. Eagerly she hugged them against her body and tried to massage them.
Her captor was untying the ropes around her legs. When she stood up, she stumbled. Again she searched her memory. His name. What was it? It had been in the court papers. An unusual first name. It began with W.
Warfield . . . Woolsey . . . Wexler? That’s it! she realized suddenly.
Wexler Klint. She stifled a small smile of victory.
“Here, I’ll help you,” Wexler Klint said as he put his arm around her waist. She tried not to react when it settled on her hip. Once again he led her to and from the lavatory, then repeated the ritual of tying her to the chair, leaving her hands free until she’d finished what he called breakfast — dry cereal and black coffee.
He stood impassively, watching her as she ate. When she was done, he took the tray with the dishes and spoon, then methodically retied her hands behind her. As he turned to leave he turned on the TV. “Television will make the time pass faster,” he said quietly. “Jovunet does his act at eleven.” He smiled slightly. “You’re still the breaking story, you know. And I suspect you’ll continue to be the center of attention for some time to come. Just think, you’ve now been assured a place in history, and you have me to thank for it.”
Sunday did not respond. She was too busy watching Henry being rushed to a waiting helicopter on the White House lawn.
An announcer was saying, “The distraught former president is rumored to be going to the Secret Service facility where Claudus Jovunet is being held. We are told that there has been a change in plans. Instead of a taped message, Jovunet will be seen making his statement on live television. This is to assure Congresswoman Britland’s captors that full cooperation with their demands is being given.”
Sunday watched as Henry reached the helicopter. He ascended the steps, but before he entered the cabin, he turned to face the cameras. He was handed a microphone. “Pray for her,” he said.
Sunday’s captor sighed. “Such a nice thought. But it won’t do any good, you know.”
“Mr. Jovunet, we simply must mike you,” Sydney Green, executive media producer for the White House, said impatiently.
They were in Arlington, Virginia, just outside Washington. The charming Federal-style house nestled on acres of gated property was ostensibly the home of a reclusive Mideastern potentate. In actuality it was a safe house for political defectors of significant rank.
The elegantly furnished room was filled with stern-faced CIA agents and government media technicians. Cameras were trained on an as yet unoccupied chair.
Claudus Jovunet stood in an alcove off the main room. With an air of disdain, he dismissed the beckoning producer. “In a moment. As you can see, I am otherwise engaged.” He turned his attention to the tailor who was adjusting the sleeve of a dinner jacket. “I deplore the fact that even fine craftsmen such as yourself have not recognized that my left arm is one half of one inch longer than its counterpart.”
“I noticed it. My father and grandfather were master tailors, sir, as am I.” Despite the pins in the mouth of the hunched, kneeling clothier, he managed a frosty tone.
Jovunet nodded approvingly. “A man must be convinced of his expertise. I am confident being in your good hands.” He nodded to the waiter. Freshly chilled Dom Pérignon bubbled into his glass.
“Put that down and sit down, or I’ll personally strangle you,” Henry Britland said, his voice deadly quiet.
Jovunet shrugged. “As you wish.” He placed the glass on a table and spoke to the tailor. “I think in the interest of time, I must allow you to consider this the final fitting for the evening attire. The rest of the business and sports garments shouldn’t take more than a few hours to complete. Following that, we must carefully examine the appropriate haberdashery. I’m pleased to see that you have obtained a number of those marvelously amusing Belois neckties.”
Lovingly he picked one of them from the display on a long table and held it out to Henry. “Virtual finger painting, but so sophisticated.”
Noting the expression on Henry’s face, he returned the necktie to the table. “Yes, the interview!”
* * *
“We have to make our audiotape now. I would say th at your husband seems to be getting quite concerned, wouldn�
�t you?” Wexler Klint asked.
Sunday refused to allow herself to dwell on the pained expression in Henry’s eyes when with quiet force he had made a statement after Claudus Jovunet smilingly confirmed that he had the promise of the United States government that he would be transported to the destination of his choice, and that he would be flown there on the new SST, piloted by the former president. He would then be allowed to deplane as soon as the safety of Sandra O’Brien Britland had been established. Any misstep on the part of the kidnappers would be fatal for him.
Henry then made his statement saying, “I must emphasize that this trip to freedom for Claudus Jovunet will not begin unless I receive a videotape confirming that my wife is still alive and unharmed. If the trip is to proceed, we must have that tape by 3 P.M. today.”
Klint switched off the television and turned to Sunday. He was holding a microphone which was attached to an old tape recorder. He put the microphone almost against her lips and then smiled. “Say something personal that will convince your husband that you were able to watch him and Jovunet just now. Then urge him to cooperate; tell him that any attempt at a double cross will cost you your life. Think about what you want to say. I don’t want to have to do this over.”
Sunday had already given a lot of thought to what she would say, but that was before she had figured out who her captor was. While she still hadn’t been able to piece together just what kind of game Klint was playing, she was confident that he had no intention of keeping any promises to release her. Her mind moved with lightning speed. She took a deep breath. If you ever hope to see Henry again, you’d better make this good, she told herself.
She began to sob. “I don’t think I can do this,” she told Klint in a little-girl voice. “When I see my husband, I miss him so much. I don’t want to be here. I want to be with him.”
The dangling lightbulb was casting dark shadows around the gloomy basement, but she could see that the recorder was already turned on. She sighed with resignation. “Okay, you say that I should be sure to mention that I saw him on TV just now.” She stopped and sobbed again. She had just hit on the voice she would use, that of the crybaby in her class at St. Al’s, the one who had dissolved into tears about three times a day.
“Of course I saw him!” she wailed. “And, Henry, all I could think of was that you’d always promised to defend me. That’s why I know you won’t let anything happen to me now. You’re going to defend me, aren’t you, so that I can come home? And, Henry, when I saw you, I noticed that you were wearing the same black English loafers you had on the first time you showed me around Drumdoe. Remember, darling? Oh, there are so many memories. And I still feel so close to you. And I need you so much, I . . .” Her voice broke off in a string of sobs.
Shaking her head, she looked up at Klint. She had managed to squeeze a few tears from her eyes. “Okay, I’m better. Are you ready to start?”
He smiled at her. “No, actually we’re finished. You can rest now. I may be a while. Don’t go anywhere, now,” he said, chuckling as he dropped the hood back over her head.
“You are going to let me go once Jovunet has landed safely, aren’t you? I know Henry and the government will keep their promises to you.” Then she bit her tongue. She had stupidly used her normal voice.
Klint seemed not to have noticed the sudden shift, however. Instead of a direct answer, he sang, “Three blind mice; see how they run.” He adjusted the hood on her head, letting his fingers linger on her neck. Then he put his mouth close to her ear and whispered, “You know who the three blind mice are, don’t you? No? Then let me tell you. The first is your husband; the second is the entire U.S. government; the third is . . .” He paused. “The third is Claudus Jovunet.”
From the safe house in Arlington, Henry went directly to the newly established command center in the theater of the White House. The slight negative twist of the CIA director’s head told him that nothing new had developed. So far all efforts to trace the device used to disable the cars and the Secret Service agents had proved fruitless. And while they seemed convinced that Sunday was still in the general area, no one had come forward with any leads. The bad weather had limited the number of people out on the streets, and apparently no one had seen anything suspicious. The only thing they had to go on so far were a few footprints in the snow, near where Sunday’s car had come to a stop. There was no certainty to it, but indications were that they had been left by the kidnapper. Casts of the prints had been made and were currently being checked out.
At the White House, with Jack Collins and Marvin Klein in tow, Henry went to the Cabinet Room where for the fourth time he called Sunday’s father at the O’Briens’ two-family home in New Jersey.
When he hung up, he said tonelessly, “Sunday’s mother and all the aunts and uncles and cousins are in church. Her dad said that his little girl was too smart for even a horde of terrorists. And then he began to cry.”
“You’ve got to eat something, sir,” Klein said quietly as he pressed a bell under the table.
“Jovunet certainly hasn’t lost his appetite,” Collins said bitterly. “Guys tell me he’s gone through more champagne and caviar than any of the Russian defectors we’ve had the pleasure to entertain. They’ve even had to order more. And now they tell me he wants the chef from Le Lion d’Or to personally prepare his dinner.”
“I wonder why he needs to stuff himself now,” Henry said, the irritation clear in his voice. “I’m sure they’ll have a hero’s welcome ready for him, wherever it is he’s going.” He paused. “Any word yet on where that might be?”
“No, not yet,” Klein replied. “The Oval Office might be right — that there is a coup about to take place somewhere and some newly formed government will welcome him — but so far no one has come forward to offer him a new home. Whatever happens had better happen soon; we’re running out of time.”
Just before three o’clock the cabinet members and others began returning to the Cabinet Room. President Ogilvey and the secretary of state were the last to arrive. “No one, but no one, will admit to having engineered this escape for Jovunet,” the secretary said bitterly.
The three o’clock deadline that Henry had imposed came and went as the men sat in silence. At ten minutes past the hour, NBC News anchorman Tom Brokaw phoned the White House with an urgent request to speak to former President Britland. “Put him through,” Henry snapped. The Brokaws were frequent dinner guests at Drumdoe.
Brokaw did not waste time on amenities. “Sir, a few minutes ago I received a call purporting to be from a member of what he called the Jovunet Defense and Rescue Squad. At first I thought it was a prank, but the information I was given by our bureau in Washington seems to verify the call. A small package, wrapped in brown paper and addressed to you, was, as promised, found on the floor of the first pew at St. Matthew’s Cathedral. We all know how many try to get involved in this type of tragic situation, but this seems to be the real thing. They tell me that under your name on the package, a phone number is printed. Let me give it to you.”
“That’s the phone number of our villa in Provence,” Henry said. “Only a handful of people have it, but, of course, it would be in the book Sunday carries in her purse. Where is the package now?”
“I already instructed our security people to deliver it to you, just in case it might be legitimate,” Brokaw said. “It should be arriving at the White House any minute now.”
“Tom, you’re a true friend. Thank you for not opening it,” Henry said earnestly. He stood and handed the phone to Marvin Klein, who was standing right behind him.
“Mr. Brokaw,” Klein said, “you know that President Britland is deeply indebted to you. We will, of course, make sure that you are informed immediately of any developments in this terrible situation.”
Henry had moved to the door, where he waited impatiently for the package to arrive. At least they seem anxious to let us know that they are cooperating, he told himself hopefully.
“It’s an audiot
ape, sir,” Collins said as he entered the room. “But there is a picture with it as well.”
His impassive expression had served Henry well during summit meetings, but it failed him now as he looked at the picture. To see Sunday so cruelly bound to a chair in that miserable, shadowy hole was intolerable. Agonized, he noted how tightly her arms were yanked back behind her. Her shoulder had to be killing her, he thought.
But when he looked at her face, he felt almost cheered. He drew some comfort, of course, just from seeing her, just from knowing that she was still alive. There was something else, though, something in her expression that gave him hope. Sunday had to be miserably uncomfortable, but she still had some fight in her. Clearly she hadn’t given up. In this picture, she was as mad as Henry had ever seen her.
He looked up. “I want to hear the tape.”
Leaning forward on the table, his eyes closed, he listened to his wife’s sobbing voice as she pleaded with him to defend her.
When it was over, he said, “I want to hear it again.”
He listened through two more times, then glanced up at the moist-eyed men around him. “Don’t you see?” he said impatiently. “ Sunday’s trying to tell us something. The things she’s talking about are meant to point us somewhere. I remember clearly the first time I took her to Drumdoe. We were both dressed casually. I wasn’t wearing English loafers; I was in sneakers. She’s trying to give us a message.”
“But Henry,” the president said, “she’s obviously distraught.”
“That’s an act, Des,” Henry said decisively. “I know my gal. You could put thumbscrews on Sunday and she wouldn’t whine like that.” He gestured in frustration. “But what I don’t know is what she’s trying to tell us. It must be some kind of clue or a code or something. But what? What in God’s name is she trying to tell me?”
My Gal Sunday Page 9
