The Abduction

Part 5

48

Harley entered the observation room without knocking. On reflex, Allison stuffed her cellular phone back in her purse. From the look on his face, she could see the interrogation had gone as far as it was going to go. She sucked back her emotions, struggling to make her own face a little less revealing.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.
Her eyes were moist. She knew she had to say something to explain her distraught appearance—something short of the truth, since she’d just promised Tanya she’d exclude the FBI. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said as she dabbed her eye with a tissue. “I guess I’m starting to feel a little sorry for myself. That’s all.”
He closed the door and leveled a suspicious look. “I don’t buy it. Allison Leahy doesn’t sit around weeping, feeling sorry for herself. What’s wrong?”
She checked her runny mascara in her pocket mirror. “Wrong? Nothing. A botched ransom delivery. A dead seventeen-year-old on the subway. All in a day’s work.”
“Look, we all feel lousy. But it’s not like these punks were innocent bystanders.”
“Those kids had no idea the guy who hired them was Kristen Howe’s kidnapper. They were set up, just like we were.”
“That’s probably true. The kidnapper was smart enough to know that whoever went into the subway to get that suitcase wasn’t going to walk out with a million dollars. He knew you would disobey his orders and have FBI protection—at least on the first run. These punks didn’t know it, but they weren’t hired to retrieve a suitcase. They were hired to walk into a trap and teach you a lesson: next time, leave the FBI at home.”
Harley paused, expecting a response. Allison didn’t even seem to be listening. Something other than the subway had to be bothering her.
He glanced at the open cellular phone sitting at the top of her open purse. “Who were you talking to on the phone?”
She looked down. The power was still on. The flip cover was open. No use denying it. “None of your business. That’s who.”
“Is that what upset you?”
“Damn it, Harley. I said it was none of your business.”
Her tone forced him back a step. “I’m sorry. I’m just concerned, that’s all.”
“We’re all concerned. It’s a miracle Kristen is still alive.” She kicked herself, realizing what she’d just given away.
Harley pounced on it. “So you have heard from Tanya. You know about the photo and the message on the back.”
She grimaced. A slip like that wasn’t like her, but after eight years of hoping and waiting, she was still shaking from the news about Emily. “Yes, yes. I just spoke to Tanya, if you must know.”
“Did she tell you what was in that second envelope—the one the kidnapper addressed to you?”
“Yes. And that’s between me, Tanya, and the kidnappers.”
He shook his head. “I guess I can understand that reaction from Tanya. But I’m not sure I understand it from you.”
“I’m totally committed to getting Kristen back alive.”
“So am I. But that doesn’t mean I’m willing to cut myself off from the FBI and take marching orders from the kidnappers.”
“Maybe I don’t have a choice.”
“Or maybe you’re reacting more like a mother than an attorney general.”
“Kristen is not my child.”
“No. But Emily is.”
Allison glared. “What do you know about Emily?”
“Nothing. But I do know you. The tears. The sudden willingness to shut out the FBI. You wouldn’t be acting this way if your own personal stake hadn’t risen.”
“You think I’m that self-centered?
“No. It’s just human nature. There’s a limit to what we’ll do for someone else’s child. There’s no limit to what we’ll do for our own.” He stepped closer and leaned across the table, looking her in the eye. “There was something in that envelope about Emily, wasn’t there?”
She stared for a moment, then looked away. “I really can’t discuss that now,” she said as she rose and gathered her purse.
Harley touched her forearm, stopping her. “I want you to know something, Allison. If you were to share any information with me in total confidence, it wouldn’t leave this room. You have my word on it.”
She gave him an assessing look. He seemed sincere, but she saw no reason to commit now. “Why don’t you keep the ransom money here in the vault. I’ll be in touch.” She started for the door.
He stopped her again. “Allison, please. Don’t take this guy on alone. The kidnappers may have seemed a little disorganized at first, but all that’s changed. Even the voice on the phone has changed. It’s as if somebody new has taken charge. He beat us in Nashville. He beat us again this morning. He’s not winning because the FBI is stupid. He’s winning because he’s one smart son of a bitch.”
She looked him in the eye. “Then I guess I’ll just have to be smarter.” She opened the door and hurried out, leaving Harley alone in the room.


The crowd outside the FBI headquarters grew larger every minute. The onslaught had begun just as soon as television coverage showed Allison’s caravan disappearing into the FBI garage. First on the scene was the pack of reporters who had been waiting outside the Justice Building, unaware until the broadcast that Allison had sneaked out of her office through the Marilyn Monroe escape route. They simply moved their traveling ambush across Pennsylvania Avenue, from Justice to FBI. Hordes of others were just minutes behind the initial wave of media—hapless latecomers in an industry that increasingly operated on real time.
Cameras were trained on every known exit to the building. Allison knew the FBI could still get her out undetected, but she didn’t want another stealth exit. The whole world knew she was inside. If she didn’t face the cameras, she’d be branded a coward. After a year of campaigning, “coward” was a label she couldn’t accept, not even in a campaign that may have already made the move from bleak to hopeless.
Her team of FBI escorts met her in the lobby of the employee entrance. Roberto, the one who’d served her the longest, spoke for the group. “Mr. Abrams said you might not want us anymore. At least let us get you out of the building. You’ll be mauled without protection.”
She glanced through the window. The sidewalks were packed. Members of the media stood shoulder to shoulder along both sides of Pennsylvania Avenue. Mounted police and barricades kept pedestrians from spilling into the street. Police officers argued with media van drivers whose illegally parked vehicles were blocking traffic. It looked like the parade route on inauguration day, only everyone was a journalist.
Allison shrugged helplessly. Tanya might well see her on television surrounded by FBI escorts, and she might infer that Allison had broken her promise to cut out the FBI. But she would just have to understand. “Okay,” she told her escorts. “Get me out of here.”


Vincent Gambrelli stood calmly behind the yellow barricade, unfazed by the media hoopla around him. Reporters rudely shoved from both sides. Cameras poked him in the back. His feet didn’t budge from the sidewalk.
He wore a long wool coat and rubber-soled shoes that resembled a businessman’s wing tips. A convincing brown wig covered his bald head. His eyesight was perfect, but the tortoiseshell eyeglasses with plain glass enhanced the disguise. Tinted contact lenses turned his blue eyes brown. Stage makeup added fleshiness to his nose. He had staked out a prime spot facing the ground-floor Pennsylvania Avenue entrance for employees and guests. The small lobby looked out on a brick courtyard with a fountain, park benches, and a bronze plaque in honor of J. Edgar Hoover.
“That’s her!” someone shouted.
Gambrelli peered through the lobby windows, all the way inside to the elevators. His gaze fixed on the blond woman moving toward the door, coming briskly toward the crowd. His right hand slipped casually into his coat pocket, a split second away from his Glock-17 pistol.
So easy, he thought. It would be so damn easy.
The door swung open. Out stepped Allison Leahy.
The crowd surged forward. One of the crowd-control barricades toppled over. A cameraman went down hard on the sidewalk. He and his equipment were promptly stampeded.
Gambrelli stood fast as the frenzy intensified. Leahy was barely out the door before the mob stopped her progress. Microphones were thrust into her face. Reporters nearly leaped over one another for the lead position. Boom microphones swung in from overhead. She was surrounded in confusion—hysterical strangers just inches away from her unprotected head and torso. It was impossible to discern which hand was connected to which body, which microphone belonged to which reporter.
Too easy, he thought. Where’s the challenge? Even his nephew could have pulled this off—Tony the f*ckup who was barely qualified to hang back at the house and baby-sit Kristen Howe while his uncle went out.
Leahy was talking now, issuing a short statement to the media, fielding a few questions. Her expression was serious. Smart. Attractive. A very impressive package. A most attractive target.
Gambrelli’s smirk faded. The fantasy was over. As appealing as it might seem, he reminded himself this was not a hit. Not today, anyhow.
He watched as she waved off any further questions. Her brief statement was over. Four men in dark suits were clearing a path for her. She and her escorts inched across the sidewalk, nearing the curb. They were FBI, it was plain. Four FBI agents surrounding the attorney general—despite his warning.
His face flushed with anger. Hadn’t she received his message? Was she ignoring his instructions?
He watched, furious, as her entourage crossed the street and headed toward the Justice Building. Open defiance. That’s what it was. There was no other explanation. He’d warned her to keep the FBI out of this. The setup in the subway should have made it clear that he wouldn’t tolerate disobedience. Her response was a veritable parade across Pennsylvania Avenue with an FBI escort. Did she still think he was bluffing? Was she betting that he lacked the guts to act on his threats?
Arrogant bitch.
He hurried away from the crowd. Simply unacceptable. It was time to make it clear that he meant what he’d said.