The abduction, p.37
The Abduction, page 37
He stopped at Room 205 and removed the DO NOT DISTURB sign. He checked the hall. Seeing no one, he inserted the magnetic key-card and stepped inside.
The room was exactly the way he had left it twenty-four hours ago. A king-size bed, neatly made. Full-length draperies, drawn shut. Extra towels and linens on the couch. Four suitcases resting at the foot of the bed.
He knelt down beside the largest suitcase and unlocked it with his key. Inside were a dozen plastic jugs, exactly the way he had packed them. He removed one of the jugs, unscrewed the cap, and poured the contents onto the bed. It soaked the mattress. He put his nose to the wet spot and inhaled.
He smirked. Wood alcohol. Virtually odorless—but highly flammable.
He opened another jug, then another, dousing the couch, draperies, furniture, and finally the carpet. It took only a few minutes to soak the entire room. When he’d finished, the empty jugs and suitcases lay scattered on the floor. He unlocked the door, opened it slowly, and checked the hallway. No one. He stepped out and closed the door. He checked to make sure it was locked, then reattached the DO NOT DISTURB sign to the knob.
He continued down the hall at normal walking speed. His hand slipped into his pocket, fishing for the key to the next room on the floor, the next target on his list. Just three more to go.
And then Kristen Howe’s room.
The money arrived at the field operations center at 8:30, locked in a large metal briefcase. Allison’s disguise was complete. Her short blond hair was now shoulder length and brown. Contact lenses turned her hazel eyes brown. Makeup darkened her fair complexion. She wore designer jeans and a short-waisted jacket for a younger, less businesslike look. A silk scarf and leather gloves covered the neck and hands—the two spots that, short of cosmetic surgery, would give away anyone’s age.
“Has anybody seen Allison?” asked Harley.
“Very funny.”
“Quick picture,” said Harley. “We need a photo ID.”
“For what?”
“The kidnapper said the room at the Hyatt is registered in the name of Emily Smith. We need to make you Emily Smith so you can pick up the room key. We got a Maryland driver’s license all ready for you. Just need a picture.”
“Smile,” said the photographer. The flash blinded her. He yanked out the film and handed it to another agent. In thirty seconds, she had a driver’s license.
“I wish it had been this easy when I was sixteen,” she said as she tucked it into her wallet.
Harley smiled, then turned more serious. “Remember. I’ll be in radio contact at all times. Hit the panic button the instant you see something you don’t like. We have agents posted everywhere along the route and in the hotel. Help will never be more than two or three seconds away.”
“Got it,” she said. “Where’s the cash?”
Another agent presented a black leather bag.
Allison grimaced. “The instructions were specific. He wants it in a Spartan 2000 large metal security briefcase.”
Harley said, “It’s inside the bag. The metal briefcase didn’t mesh very well with your disguise. This is far less conspicuous.”
Allison slung the bag over her shoulder, then took a deep breath. “What about a gun?”
“You didn’t say anything before, but I brought a SIG Sauer P-228, if you want it.”
“Just because I’m for gun control doesn’t mean I don’t believe in self-defense. I’m trained to use a gun. If ever I was going to arm myself, this seems like the time.”
Harley unzipped the leather bag and tucked the gun into a side pocket. “That’s a good place for it. Leave it there, unless you absolutely need it.”
She nodded. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Harley walked her to the rear exit, stopping her at the open door. “Don’t be a hero, you hear?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be a pain in the ass. You hear?”
He forced a smile. She gave him a look that said don’t worry, then started down the alley toward the street.
The rain had stopped, but the streets and the sidewalks were still wet, and the fog had yet to lift. It was too warm for her breath to steam, but the dampness made it feel colder than it was. She walked at a steady pace, oblivious to the noise of passing cars or the sight of the homeless curling into doorways for the night. Traffic was heavy on H Street, which came as a relief. Carrying a million dollars, she somehow felt safer around pedestrians than she would have felt on a totally isolated street.
The earpiece buzzed. “Testing,” said Harley. “Pain in the ass calling hero.”
She spoke in a normal voice, as instructed. The microphone was clipped inside her jacket collar. “Go ahead, pain in the ass.”
“Everything seems to be working just fine. I’ll be listening. Let me know when you reach the room.”
She stopped at the traffic light at Tenth Street. The Grand Hyatt was straight ahead—her meeting place. She crossed the street, passing under the carport. Valet attendants hustled past her. Bellboys helped arriving guests with their bags. Allison walked right past them, straight into the lobby.
She did a double take as she entered. It was a modern hotel, but entering the lobby was like stepping onto a 1930s movie-musical set. Rooms were arranged like a Mediterranean hillside village rising around a courtyard. A gazebo, curved lounge, and dining areas encircled a blue lagoon fed by waterfalls. In the center lay a small island on which a pianist in black tuxedo played Cole Porter tunes on a white grand piano.
She scanned the crowd, then turned her focus toward the long registration counter. A battery of clerks in red uniforms were busily checking in guests. Allison made a beeline for the young guy with the confused expression on his face. He looked new, clueless—the least likely to give her a hard time.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I locked myself out of my room. Could you please give me another key. Emily Smith is the name.”
He tucked the telephone under his chin, seemingly overwhelmed. “Could I see some identification, please?”
She presented her phony driver’s license.
He glanced at it, then checked the computer. The name EMILY SMITH flashed on the screen. He handed over the key. “Here you are, ma’am.”
She turned away quickly, relieved that the disguise was actually working—at least among idiots under the age of twenty. The key-card didn’t have a room number on it, but the little pouch that held it did—Room 511. She boarded the elevator and rode to the fifth floor. The sign on the wall directed her to the right. She followed the arrows down the near hallway and stopped in front of her door.
“I’m here,” she said softly into the microphone.
Harley responded, “Stand to one side when you insert the key and open the door. If it’s rigged, I don’t want you in the direct line of fire. And once you’re inside don’t say anything to me, even if I speak to you. He may have the place bugged, and I don’t want him to hear your voice and figure out that you’re wired. Good luck. And be careful.”
She checked the hallway. All was clear, save for the room service waiter a few doors down. It was reassuring to know he was actually an FBI agent. She stepped to one side of the door, then inserted the key. The tiny light on the electronic lock changed from red to green. She paused, gathering her nerves. With a gentle push, the door swung open. She cringed and waited.
Nothing. No explosion, no trip wires. She moved into the doorway. Harley’s voice was in her ear once more.
“Don’t turn on any more lights than you have to,” he said. “They could be booby-trapped.”
She almost spoke, then caught herself, remembering his warning that the room could be bugged. She reached around the door frame and switched on the main light. The room brightened—but nothing else happened. She sighed with relief and stepped inside.
Harley spoke again. “Leave the door open, if you can.”
The door started to swing closed automatically. She grabbed a towel from the bathroom and stuck it in the doorway to keep it ajar, then stepped further inside. It was a standard hotel room. Dark wood furniture. Two double beds. A fox hunt portrait hanging over the dresser.
Allison checked her watch. Exactly nine o’clock. The telephone on the nightstand rang.
Harley could hear it over the microphone. “Answer it,” he said.
She lifted the receiver. “Hello.”
The voice on the line was familiar but disguised. “Take a cab to the St. George Hotel. Go to the Independence Bar on the second-floor lobby. Sit down at one of the little round tables closest to the brass railing and wait.”
The line clicked. Allison dropped the phone and hurried from the room. She spoke to Harley as she walked toward the elevator. “You heard?”
“Yes. I don’t like it, Allison. We’ve scoured the Hyatt and everything around it. But the St. George is almost twenty blocks away. It wasn’t within our prescreening perimeter. We won’t know what you’re walking into.”
“Are you telling me not to go?”
“I’m telling you it’s dangerous. More dangerous than I’d hoped.”
“I have two words for you, Harley.”
“What?”
“I’m going,” she said as she stepped into the elevator.
58
The freight elevator opened to the second floor of the St. George Hotel. Tony Delgado wheeled out his dolly and carpet cleaning machine. Five buckets—twenty-five gallons—were stacked on the dolly. It was his third trip, and his “cleaning” job was nearly finished.
He pulled the dolly into the storage room at the end of the hall. He opened the tank to the carpet cleaning machine and poured from the bucket. It was supposed to hold five gallons of nonflammable cleaning solvent. Tonight it held wood alcohol.
Delgado wheeled the cleaning machine back into the hall, plugged it in, and switched on the power. The cleaning brushes turned quietly in a circular motion, working the alcohol deep into the carpet. He looked down the hall, then checked the room number on the nearest door. He couldn’t remember exactly where he had left off before going down to the van for more alcohol. He shrugged. Didn’t matter, he figured, so long as he laid a flammable path connecting each of the rooms on his uncle’s list.
He pushed the machine forward a few more feet, then stopped. Someone was coming out of Room 235. A silver-haired man wearing an expensive pinstripe suit. Looked like a distinguished congressman. The disguise fooled him at first, but he soon recognized his uncle.
“Evening, Senator,” he said with a smirk as they passed in the hall.
“Evening,” Gambrelli replied.
Overstated elegance described the decor at the historical St. George Hotel. Fluted columns of green Brazilian marble rose three stories in a lobby as spacious as a Broadway theater. Leather couches, oriental rugs, and plenty of brass and mahogany accents gave sitting areas the look of old English men’s clubs. Glittering chandeliers hung like clouds from the mirrored ceiling.
Still, the hotel was past its prime, in a state of decline. Paint was peeling from some of the crown moldings. The silk wall coverings were beginning to yellow. Allison was reminded of Venice as she crossed the lobby—beautiful from a distance, but don’t scrutinize the canals.
Allison didn’t feel all that out of place in her casual clothing. Some guests were sharply dressed, many of them addressed by name by the courteous staff. Others were obviously here to take advantage of the discount rooms that hadn’t been refurbished since Truman was president. The mix covered the spectrum, and it made for a lively and bustling lobby.
Allison headed straight for the grand staircase. She climbed to the mezzanine level, where the Independence Bar overlooked the main lobby. The bar wasn’t a room per se. It was more like a terrace area that had been separated from the traffic lanes by a row of potted plants and velvet rope hanging from brass poles. A long mahogany bar stretched across the far end. Small cocktail tables dotted the seating area. Two Japanese businessmen were smoking cigars and sipping wine. An old couple was staring into space and munching on mixed nuts, nothing left to talk about. Allison spotted the small round table closest to the brass railing—the one the caller had mentioned. It had a reserved sign on it.
Allison approached the bartender. “Excuse me, can I have that reserved table over there?”
“Are you Emily Smith?”
She caught herself, remembering her alias. “Yes.”
“It’s reserved for you.”
“Who reserved it?”
He gave her a funny look, as if she should have known. “White-haired guy in a suit. Gave me twenty bucks to hold the table for Emily Smith. Didn’t catch his name.”
She wanted to press for details, but Harley’s voice was in her earpiece. “Don’t push it, Allison. You’ll raise suspicions. Just take the table.”
The bartender asked, “Can I bring you a drink?”
“No, I’ll wait,” she said, then saw herself to the table.
It was a choice table, as far as bar tables went. It was right against the polished brass railing, like sitting on a balcony. She could see the entire main-floor lobby below, the staircase, the elevators. At the mezzanine level, she could see down the hall to the restaurant and to the double doors that led to the second-floor guest rooms. The table was more secluded than most, surrounded on three sides by leafy green plants in huge floor pots. Allison sat in the leather chair with her back to the bar. Her eyes shifted from the lobby to the staircase, back and forth.
The bartender brought a telephone to her table. “For you, miss,” he said.
She waited for him to get back behind the bar, then answered. “Yes?”
“Check the potted plant closest to the rail. There’s a thirty-six-inch cable bicycle lock.”
She turned around discreetly and checked. “Yes, I see it.”
“Take it out. Wrap it around the briefcase and, through the handle. But don’t lock it.”
She did it. The cable fit neatly around the briefcase. “Okay, done.”
“Now put the briefcase at your feet under the table and lock it to the railing.”
“I’m not leaving a million dollars here in the bar.”
“Lock it. No one can open or remove it but me.”
“How do I know you won’t take it away before I get the girls?”
“Because you’re not going anywhere. You’re going to sit right there and watch it. Now stop stalling. Lock it to the rail.”
Chills went down her spine. What was his plan—to sit down across the table from her?
She lowered the briefcase below the table, slipped the loose end of the cable around the rail and snapped the lock shut. “Okay. It’s secure. Now when do I get the girls?”
“One at a time. Kristen first.”
“What about Emily?” she asked, her voice hardening.
“Kristen will tell you how to find Emily.”
“Where is she?”
“Sit tight,” he said, “And watch the staircase.”
59
Tony Delgado clutched the silent beeper in his hand. Really clutched it. Timing was crucial. He had to react the instant the beeper started to vibrate—the moment his uncle gave the signal.
He stood at an intersection in the second-floor hallway near the elevators and stairway. The cleaning machine rested at his side. One eye was on the door to the stairwell. The other peered down the hallway. The silent beeper suddenly pulsated in his hand—the signal.
He struck a match and dropped it.
Blue and yellow flames raced across the alcohol-soaked carpeting like wind over a wheat field, scorching a path down the hall to the detonation rooms. It hit Room 205 first, then 217, then 235—each one quietly erupting in flames like a fiery game of dominoes. Delgado watched with an arsonist’s curiosity, impressed by his own work. In seconds, the heat was unbearable. More fire than he’d anticipated, moving faster than he’d expected. Too much alcohol.
The hallways were laid out like a square doughnut, all interconnecting, with rooms on the outside facing the streets and an open courtyard in the center. The flame zipped down one hall, turned left, down another, turned left, down the third leg, turned left.
Delgado suddenly felt heat at his back. He turned. The wall of flame had come full circle. He hadn’t been that careless. In a split second, he knew: His own uncle had toasted him.
“Oh, shit!”
His eyes widened as the flames overtook him. His machine exploded, propelling him down the hall in a massive fireball.
Allison leaped from her seat. The explosion shook the entire building. The lights flickered, then went out. Emergency lighting switched on as the fire alarm sounded. Panicked guests screamed and ran in every direction. Thick smoke poured from the second-floor hallways and was filling the lobby.
Allison tugged at the briefcase. The cable lock was secure, leaving no way to free it. She tried opening it to take the money, but the cable was wrapped too tightly around it. That was no accident, she realized, since the kidnapper had selected the briefcase and supplied the cable. The pungent smoke thickened and choked her lungs. Her eyes were burning. She’d just have to leave it. She grabbed a cloth napkin from the table to cover her nose and mouth. Her leather bag was empty save for the gun. She tucked the pistol inside her jacket and left the bag.
Harley’s voice was in her ear. “Allison, what’s going on!”
“Fire!” she said. “They’ve started a fire.”
“Get out.”
“Not without the girls.”
“Allison, just get out!”
Allison ignored him. She leaned over the railing to check the lobby. The emergency lighting was spotty and getting worse with the smoke. An emergency sprinkler was soaking a corner of the lobby near the entrance, but most weren’t activated. The second floor was completely dry.
“They must have vandalized the sprinklers,” she told Harley. “Only a few are working.”
Below, excited mobs were fighting to squeeze through the revolving doors, slipping in the darkness on the wet marble floors. Others tumbled down the stairs in the race to safety. Two men jumped over the mezzanine railing to avoid the traffic jam. In the midst of the confusion, Allison saw one person moving up the staircase, fighting against the flow. It was a young girl. Even in the dim lighting, she knew that face.
