The Abduction

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.
“Please, don’t hurt my daughter. You can have whatever you want. Just let her go.”
The words pierced Allison’s heart. The angst, the desperation in her voice. She closed her eyes and braced herself for the mechanical-sounding response.
“I told you what I want. A million dollars. By tomorrow morning. And no cops.”
Her eyes opened, but the room was suddenly spinning. It was any parent’s worst nightmare—or was it? All those nights she rushed to the phone hoping for a call about Emily. Nothing ever came, just a few false sightings and some cruel cranks. She’d never talked to anyone who’d actually seen Emily, who knew exactly where she was and had the power to return her. She felt sick to her stomach, selfishly sick, listening to another poor woman agonize over her lost child, yet thinking all the while that Tanya was the lucky one, that she would cut off her arm just for the chance to get Emily back for the mere payment of money.
“Allison?” asked Harley. “Is it the same voice?”
The tape had finished. Allison was ashen. “It’s the same voice,” she said. “Same disguise, I should say.”
Harley sighed, looking her in the eye. “Then you were right. We really do have a new ball game.”
Allison looked past him as he spoke. Her attention had shifted to the front door. Peter was standing in the foyer, next to an FBI agent. He seemed flustered. She excused herself from Harley, then met her husband alone in the living room, away from the commotion.
“What the heck is going on?” he asked her.
Allison wasn’t sure where to begin. “That phone call I took right before you left. It was Kristen Howe’s kidnappers. They want us—you and me—to pay the ransom.”
His mouth opened, but words didn’t come.
She said, “It blew me away, too. But before we deal with that, I think you got the wrong idea about me and Mitch. When I said I had seen Mitch, that’s all I meant. There was nothing romantic between us. There’s never been anything romantic with anyone. Not since I met you.”
He gave her a funny look.
“That didn’t come out right. I mean, there hasn’t been anything romantic with anyone else since I met you.”
He lowered his eyes, then sighed. “I’m sorry I ran out before you could explain.”
“It’s okay. But maybe now you know why I didn’t tell you Mitch had contacted me, even though there was nothing to it.”
“I know,” he said with a sheepish smile. “It’s that curse of being married to a beautiful woman. It can make you crazy jealous.”
She kissed him, but she knew he wasn’t just being sweet. Peter was not exactly a looker, and having such a beautiful wife sometimes played to that insecurity.
Two FBI agents whisked past them on their way to the kitchen. Peter grimaced, as if overwhelmed by the sudden intrusion of law enforcement. He looked back at Allison, seemingly annoyed. “What a way to live. FBI, Secret Service all over the place.” He peered through the window, grimacing at the technical agents wiring the outdoor surveillance cameras. “Guess I better get used to it, huh?”
“Peter, let’s be fair. Even before I got back into politics, you had your own corporate security. Some of those guys were just as intrusive.”
“I know. But I trusted them.”
“I can’t change what I am, Peter. And this is not forever.”
He nodded, as if to concede. Then he refocused. “What did you tell the kidnappers about the ransom?”
“I didn’t really tell them anything.”
“How much do they want?”
“A million dollars. By Monday.”
His eyebrows rose. “That’s a big pot of money.”
“I know. But if we don’t pay it, they’ll kill Kristen.”
“And you’ll lose the election.”
“That’s really secondary.”
“Is it?” he said, raising a doubt.
“Yes,” she said firmly. “It is.”
He gave her an assessing look. “Do you want to pay the money?”
“I think you and I need to decide that together.”
“I’m asking you. Do you want to pay the money?”
She snagged her lip with her teeth, thinking. “If it were Emily’s life on the line, could we come up with a million dollars by Monday?”
“Absolutely.”
She looked away, then back at him. “Then the answer is yes. If that’s what it’s going to take to get Kristen back safely, we should pay it.”
“If that’s what you want to do.”
“That’s what I want,” she said with conviction.
“I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry about the money. You do whatever it is you have to do.”
She embraced him tightly, her eyes welling with emotion. “Thank you, Peter.”
He held her for a moment, then asked, “What are you going to do now?”
She stepped out of his embrace and looked him in the eye. “I think it’s time I had a talk with Tanya Howe.”