The Abduction

19

Harley Abrams was whisked by helicopter from Philadelphia to Washington for an emergency meeting at FBI headquarters. At 4:35 P.M. he reached Director O’Doud’s office suite, an impressive ensemble of offices and conference rooms known as “mahogany row” because of the richly paneled walls. The rest of the building sported stark charcoal doors and beige walls unrelieved by artwork, making the director’s suite something of an oasis in a building ridiculed for its architecturally appalling exterior walls of pockmarked concrete. Entry into the suite was tightly restricted, requiring advance clearance by the security programs manager. Harley’s lapel bore the necessary photo ID with blue background that allowed him to reach the director’s receptionist, who then let him inside. Two Secret Service agents waited outside the suite, somewhat out of their jurisdiction at the FBI headquarters, but at this stage of the game they accompanied Lincoln Howe everywhere.

O’Doud was seated behind his antique mahogany desk. Lincoln Howe occupied the armchair facing him. Harley noticed that Howe was wearing a photo ID with a gold background, indicating the highest level of security clearance, a level usually reserved for FBI assistant directors and above. An unusual if not irregular courtesy, thought Harley, considering the general was still only a civilian, albeit a candidate for the presidency.
Harley greeted both men respectfully. In an ordinary kidnapping, a supervisory special agent from the CASKU would no more report directly to the FBI director than to the Prince of Wales, but nothing about this case was ordinary.
Director O’Doud handed him a faxed copy of the ransom demand. Harley examined it, taking a seat on the striped couch by the window.
Howe said, “My wife received it in Nashville this afternoon. It was sent Federal Express to my daughter’s home, but it was addressed to Natalie and me.”
Harley looked up. “It wouldn’t have made much sense to address it to your daughter. Even the kidnappers must know it would be easier for you than your daughter to raise a million dollars.”
O’Doud said, “Another interesting thing. It came from Knoxville, not Nashville.”
“I had assumed they’d left Nashville. This confirms they headed east, which lends credence to our theory that the murder in Philadelphia is related.”
Howe asked, “But why would they send a package that can pinpoint their location? Why not just make a quick phone call?”
“They probably were afraid a phone call could be traced, or their voices could be identified, or maybe you’d want to talk to Kristen and they’d have to risk bringing her to a pay phone—lots of reasons. So they just dropped this in the overnight box on their way to wherever they were going. By the time it reached your daughter’s house in Nashville I’m sure they were long gone from Knoxville.”
O’Doud asked, “How does the ransom demand affect your thinking, Harley? Does it change anything?”
“It’s definitely a breakthrough. Any time you have a ransom demand the case gets much easier to solve, since the kidnappers have to contact the family. But as far as the investigation goes, I don’t think we should drop everything and say we’re looking for financially motivated kidnappers.”
“Why not?” Howe asked with a grimace.
“Because I believe the other profiles we’ve worked out at CASKU are still viable. A financial motive is certainly plausible. But we could still be dealing with a glory-seeking psychopath who targeted a high-profile victim like Kristen Howe just for the thrill and notoriety of it. Look again at the ransom message,” he said, reading from the photocopy: “A million dollars by Friday, instructions to follow. It’s almost as if ransom were an afterthought. The kidnapper hasn’t even figured out how to get the money yet. At this stage, we simply can’t rule out other possibilities, including the theory that this is the rare and maybe even unprecedented case where the real purpose of the kidnapping is to throw a political election.”
Howe recoiled, as if uncomfortable with any discussion of political ramifications. “But the ransom demand has to blow that theory, doesn’t it? I mean, even though Ms. Leahy has obviously tried to exploit the kidnapping for her own political gain, the ransom demand confirms that the kidnappers’ motivations are financial, not political.”
Harley said, “I would disagree on two levels. One, if the kidnappers are politically motivated, a bogus ransom demand would certainly be a clever way to throw the FBI off the trail. And two, I wouldn’t say that Ms. Leahy’s supporters are the only ones who have exploited the kidnapping for political gain.”
The general swelled with indignation. “Are you suggesting I’m playing politics?”
Harley met his stare, wondering if now was the time to question both the candidate and the director about the politically transparent capital punishment speech that O’Doud had delivered at this morning’s press conference. He decided not. “I would never suggest that, General. Not without more evidence.” He glanced at the faxed ransom note. “What I’d really like is to see the original of this.”
“It’s being flown here as we speak,” said O’Doud. “It will have to be analyzed, which is in part the reason for this meeting.”
General Howe interrupted, taking control. “I’m sure you noticed the handwritten message on the back—the warning that if we tell the police about the ransom demand, they’ll kill the hostage. So far, the only person my wife and I have told about it is our daughter, some close friends who might help us raise the money, and of course Director O’Doud. The director has naturally brought some higher-ranking officials into the loop. The assistant director of the criminal division, the CASKU chief, some very select members of the Hostage Rescue Team, and as of now, you. Obviously you’ll need to tell more—laboratory agents who analyze the message and the packaging, a handwriting expert who will analyze the handwritten portion of the message, and so on. As for this support level, I’m counting on you to identify the smallest group possible that needs to know about this. And then I want you to hand-pick those people who can be absolutely trusted to keep this confidential. We have to assume that the kidnappers will act on their threat. We cannot afford a break in security.”
“It’s always hard to guarantee no leaks, but I will certainly put together a list of those agents I would trust. Just to come at this from another direction, is there anyone you absolutely don’t want on the access list?”
The general and Director O’Doud exchanged glances. “Only one person I can think of,” said Howe, his eyes narrowing. “Allison Leahy.”


Rush-hour traffic was streaming down Pennsylvania Avenue, a grand and in many ways metaphorical divide between the Justice Building and FBI headquarters between Ninth and Tenth streets. Allison crossed at the crosswalk with her Secret Service bodyguards at her side.
After lunch with Peter, Allison had reached the conclusion that she needed a one-on-one, face-to-face meeting with the point man on the investigation. His unexpected return to Washington presented the perfect opportunity. She thought about summoning him to her own office, but since it was literally a matter of crossing the street, she preferred meeting him on his own turf—sort of a polite ambush.
Allison entered the relatively modern J. Edgar Hoover Building through the employee entrance on Pennsylvania Avenue. An escort directed her to an interior office near the lab, the visiting agent’s office that Harley Abrams used when away from his home base in Quantico. She found the stark surroundings about as aesthetically pleasing as the old CASKU offices in the underground facilities back at the academy. Beige walls with no artwork. A potted plant in the corner that had seen better days. Abrams was busy behind the basic government-issue metal desk with wood veneer top.
“I need five minutes of your time,” she announced, standing in the doorway.
Abrams looked up from his desk, surprised. He rose, then offered the only chair with a wave of his hand. “Please, come in.”
Allison entered alone and closed the door, leaving her escort in the hall. Abrams discreetly slid the list he was preparing—the list of those who would be privy to the ransom demand—into the top desk drawer.
“Afraid I might see something?” she asked.
He smiled awkwardly as he closed the drawer. “Oh, this? Just, uh—personal.”
“Yeah, I’ve been catching up with all my letter writing in the past twenty-four hours, too.”
“Touché,” he said, his smile fading.
“Look, I recognize you’re in a tough spot. You work for an FBI director who, even though he technically reports to me, has determined that the attorney general should be excluded from this investigation.”
He raised his hands. “Please, if this is a power struggle, I really wish you would have this conversation with Director O’Doud.”
“This is not about power. It’s about a twelve-year-old girl. Tragically, that fact has been lost in all the political maneuvering over the past thirty-six hours.”
“Which is exactly the reason Director O’Doud thinks you should stand aside and let the FBI do its job.”
She nodded wearily, as if tired of the party line. Part of her wanted to stand up and scream, The FBI works for me, damn it! But Abrams was the right man for the job, and she needed his respect, not his resignation. She dug in her purse and removed a small cassette player. “I’d like you to hear something. It’ll just take a minute.”
She laid the cassette player on the desk and hit the PLAY button.
Abrams stared at the machine, never making eye contact. A cooing sound came from the small speaker. Gurgling, broken sounds. It lasted about fifteen seconds before Allison hit the STOP button.
As it ended, their eyes met.
Her lip quivered as she struggled with her emotions. “That was my four-month-old daughter, Emily. She was abducted from my house eight years ago.”
He nodded with some difficulty. “I’d heard about that.”
“This is the tape her abductor put in her crib. It played over the baby monitor, so I wouldn’t know she was gone. Until it was too late.”
“I don’t know what to say,” he said. “What happened to you in the past is terrible. But your conflict of interest stems not from your past, but from your present status as a presidential candidate.”
Her tone sharpened. “My alleged conflict of interest stems from the assumption that I would use Kristen Howe’s abduction to my own political advantage. After hearing that tape, do you honestly believe I would ever exploit the abduction of any child for any purpose?”
His expression answered for him. “What are you asking me to do?”
“I’m asking you to look at reality, not the rhetoric. When Emily was abducted eight years ago, people told me exactly what Lincoln Howe and Director O’Doud are telling me now. ‘Step aside,’ they said. ‘You can’t be objective. Leave it to the experts.’ Like an idiot, I listened to them. It hurt like hell, but for the good of the investigation I stood on the sidelines and let them do their jobs. And you know what?”
Abrams shook his head slightly.
“They never found my daughter,” she said in a hushed voice. “They never came close to finding my daughter. No leads, no motive, no suspects. Vanished.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. But I didn’t come for sympathy. I came to state my case. I would no more divulge the details of this investigation than would Tanya Howe. As the attorney general I feel a moral responsibility to make sure everything that can possibly be done is being done to save Kristen Howe. And as a woman I bring something of value to the process. Experience. Personal experience.”
She rose, then stopped and looked him in the eye. “There’s one other thing you should know, Inspector.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s killing me to be made into a bystander all over again.” She turned and opened the door, never looking back as she headed for the elevator.


At six-thirty Wednesday evening Harley Abrams was at a table by himself in the FBI cafeteria, gobbling down a tuna fish sandwich as he revised his written profile of the kidnappers in light of the day’s events. A television set in the corner was tuned to the evening news, but Harley was only half listening.
“Good evening,” said the evening news anchorman. His shoulders squared to the camera, filling television screens across America with his handsome face. “In a late-breaking story, ABC News has obtained confirmation through an exclusive source that Kristen Howe’s kidnappers have presented a ransom demand of one million dollars.”
Harley coughed, nearly choking on his sandwich.
“Details are scarce,” said the anchorman. “But the one-page, typewritten note is the first communication from the kidnappers since the twelve-year-old granddaughter of presidential hopeful Lincoln Howe disappeared yesterday morning on her way to school. With more on the story from Washington is—”
Harley’s cellular phone rang, but his focus was on the television until he heard Director O’Doud’s voice on the line.
“Have you seen tonight’s lead story?” snapped O’Doud.
“Yes, sir.”
“You told Leahy, didn’t you.”
Harley grimaced. “No, sir.”
“I know you two met this afternoon.”
“I met with her, yes. But I didn’t tell her anything.”
“It had to be Leahy, or someone in her camp. They must have cut a deal—give up the exclusive today for some favorable press coverage tomorrow. I’ll bet my right arm that by tomorrow morning we’ll see some hogwash story showing Allison Leahy on top of every phase of the investigation.”
“Sir, I didn’t breathe a word of it to anyone. Unless—”
“Unless what?”
“I suppose she could have seen something on my desk. But I don’t think so.”
“Well, if it wasn’t Leahy, then who in the hell was it?”
“Probably the same people who have been playing politics with the kidnapping all along.”
“And who would that be?”
“I’ll say this much,” said Harley. “The list of suspects is narrowing.”