The abduction, p.5
The Abduction, page 5
He looked up from his empty glass, alarmed by the somber expression on her face. “Something wrong?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I guess I suddenly felt funny about you and me sitting here laughing about a kidnapping.”
Their eyes joined. A stillness fell over their table, as if the sounds of the sea in the background were suddenly more audible. Allison looked away.
Mitch turned very serious. “You blamed me for Emily, didn’t you?”
Her mouth opened, but she said nothing for a moment. The question seemed out of the blue—but then again, it didn’t. “I don’t think blame is the right word, Mitch. I did associate it with you. Maybe that’s not fair, but I can’t get it out of my mind that I was on the phone with you when it happened.”
He glanced at the swimming pool, then back at Allison. “Do you think we would have gotten back together? I mean, if that had never happened.”
“No.”
He fell back in his chair. “Whoa. Didn’t even have to think about that one, did you.”
She sighed. “Mitch, none of this matters. I’m married now. I have a wonderful husband.”
“Yeah, and after seven years he still works in New York and visits you on weekends.”
“How do you know that?”
“You’re a public figure, Allison.”
She shifted uncomfortably. “What else do you know?”
“I know he spent over a million dollars of his own money trying to help you find Emily. I’m truly sorry you never found her.”
“Thank you.”
He leaned forward, cupping his empty glass with both hands. “I’m also sorry that you rewarded his generosity by promising to marry him.”
Allison looked him straight in the eye. Her mouth was suddenly dry.
Mitch didn’t blink. His stare only tightened.
“I really think I should go now.” She rose quickly, digging in her purse for a ten-dollar bill. She dropped it on the table.
He frowned at the money. “You won’t even let me buy you a drink?”
“Good-bye, Mitch.” She turned and started away. Her FBI escort rose from his discreet post by the door, ready to take her to her room.
“Allison,” Mitch called.
She stopped, then turned around reluctantly. It was the eyes. He snared her again with those eyes.
“It’s definitely not your fault,” he said, speaking softly enough so that no one could overhear. “But somebody still loves you.”
She blinked hard, barely comprehending. She turned away nervously and headed for the hotel.
The alarm clock sounded on the nightstand, rousing her from her memories. Her heart skipped a beat as she lunged for the snooze button.
Peter stirred and rubbed his eyes, then rolled toward her. He had the beaming face of a kid cutting school. “Good morning,” he said, looking up from his pillow.
Allison wiped a bead of sweat from her upper lip. “Yes,” she said with a troubled smile. “It’s going to be a very good morning.”
6
Early Monday morning, David Wilcox entered the White House through the tunnel that connected a subbasement in the East Wing to the basement of the Treasury Building. It was an alternative entrance for recognizable visitors who didn’t want their arrival noted by the press. Wilcox had insisted on using it, fearing that a highly visible, personal visit with the president might be seen as an act of desperation by the Leahy campaign.
Two Secret Service agents led the underground journey. One flanked Wilcox. The other watched Eric Helmers, the popular governor of Georgia whom Allison had selected as her vice presidential running mate. Helmers brought balance to the ticket in more ways than one. Aside from being a handsome and well-spoken southern man, he was a decorated Vietnam War veteran who had lost half of his left foot to a land mine. His lifelong work on behalf of the physically challenged had earned him national acclaim, and his well-publicized participation in the Boston Marathon each year was a genuine inspiration to everyone. Wilcox and the Secret Service agents were struggling to keep pace with him, short of breath and sweating at the brow by the time they emerged from the White House basement.
The meeting was scheduled for seven-thirty in the Oval Office. As usual, President Sires was late. Wilcox and Helmers sat in silence in the first-floor lobby of the West Wing, sipping White House coffee beneath a framed antique map of Colorado, the president’s home state. At eight-fifteen the president’s executive secretary led them to the Oval Office. Barbara Killian, the stoic chief of staff, greeted them at the door.
“Gentlemen,” she said ominously.
The president stood at the center of the room, dressed in a madras shirt and khaki slacks, crouched over a little white ball in a somewhat awkward putting stance. A long, thin strip of synthetic putting green stretched across the presidential seal woven into the oval office carpet. A half-dozen golf balls surrounded the plastic cup at the other end of the greenery, each engraved with the slogan “Fore More Years.”
He took a smooth stroke, sending the ball eighteen feet straight into the cup. “Yesssss!”
“Good shot, Mr. President,” said the chief of staff.
He flashed a boyish grin. “They don’t call me Lucky Chucky for nothing.” He laid his putter aside and greeted his guests, directing them to the armchairs facing his desk. No introductions were necessary.
“Thank you for taking the time to meet with us, Mr. President,” said Wilcox.
The president returned to his leather chair, flashing his trademark smile. “Hey, we lame ducks have all the time in the world.”
Then why the hell did you keep us waiting for forty-five minutes? thought Wilcox. “Not to be disrespectful, sir, but with just eight days to the election, time is running out for Allison Leahy. She is going to lose this election if she doesn’t get her head out of the sand and flat out deny that she has ever cheated on her husband. I’ve told her that. Eric has told her that. The polls are telling her that.”
“Shoot, David. You can’t put that much stock in polls. If I actually believed my public approval rating was as high as the pollsters say it is, I’d be out there dating again.”
Wilcox grimaced.
“That was a joke,” said the president.
The chief of staff chuckled dutifully. Wilcox forced a smile, then turned serious. “Someone needs to talk to her, sir. You’re still her boss. It should come from you.”
The president leaned back in his chair, framed by the American flags behind him. “Allison is a woman of strong principles. That’s why I named her attorney general. It’s not my place to tell her what to say on matters relating to her own personal integrity.”
“Sir, I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it weren’t crunch time.”
President Sires folded his hands atop the desk. The smile was gone. He was suddenly presidential. “Let’s be frank. The whole world knows that Allison Leahy wasn’t my first choice for the Democratic nomination. To this day, I believe there was no stronger successor to the Sires administration than my own vice president.”
Wilcox bristled. “So you’re saying you want Allison to lose?”
“Of course not. Personal feelings aside, I realize that a lot of senators, congressmen, governors, and everyone else on down the line could get hurt bad by a presidential candidate with no coattails. So I support Allison. But I’m not going to micromanage her campaign.”
“This is not micromanagement. This is the difference between winning and losing.”
The chief of staff checked her watch, catching the president’s eye.
He rose from behind his desk, taking the cue. “Just one more thing before we break, gentlemen. Although I didn’t support Allison for the nomination, I respect her position on this issue. I have no doubt in my mind that she could truthfully deny she’s ever cheated on her husband. But if she answers that question, she’s setting a precedent that will haunt every woman who ever runs for president in the future. Now, I won’t stand here and pretend that an unfaithful husband has never been elected president of the United States. But as a matter of political reality, I’m not sure voters would be so forgiving of an unfaithful wife who seeks this office. I’m not saying that’s fair. It’s just a fact. And I can say one thing about Allison Leahy: She knows the facts.”
He shook hands, first with Wilcox, then Helmers. The pumping motion seemed to reengage the friendly smile, as if it were one reflex. “Thanks for stoppin’ by, boys. Y’all come fly fishin’ with me after January twentieth, ya hear?”
“Thank you, sir,” they said in unison. Wilcox wanted to push it, but the good ol’ boy accent and hollow invitations were a sure sign that presidential business was over. The chief of staff saw them to the door. Wilcox gave her a smile that was, at best, polite, then exited the Oval Office with Governor Helmers at his side. They took the longer route back to the lobby, past the president’s study. Wilcox eyed the adjacent office, small but coveted. For White House staff, a windowless closet near the president was preferable to an entire floor in the old Executive Office Building across the street. This one, thought Wilcox, might someday be his.
“What now?” asked Helmers. He had a pained expression, the look of man who’d already lost his bid for vice president.
“Plan B,” said Wilcox.
“What’s Plan B?”
They stopped at the foot of the stairs before reaching the lobby and their Secret Service escorts. Wilcox spoke quietly so no one could overhear. “General Howe may be a whiz at conventional warfare. Let’s see how he fares at nuclear politics.”
By 9:00 A.M., Buck LaBelle was on his sixth cup of coffee. The waitress brought him three fried eggs and five slices of bacon, which he devoured in three-and-a-half minutes. He’d have to do without his usual mound of cheese grits. He was, after all, in Cincinnati.
LaBelle spent the better part of the breakfast hour trying to persuade the president and vice president of the National Fraternal Order of Police that, as the debates had made clear, the nation’s largest law enforcement organization had thrown the weight of its 300,000 members behind the wrong candidate. By 10:30 they’d heard enough. LaBelle returned to his hotel room and phoned General Howe.
“They won’t pull the endorsement,” said LaBelle.
“Son of a bitch!” his voice erupted over the line. “We’ve been hearing the same damn thing all weekend from everyone—teachers, labor, police. This character horseshit you cooked up just isn’t going to carry me through the election. Especially now that Leahy has her loving husband campaigning at her side.”
“Be patient. We’re spinning some new commercials.”
“That’s not enough. Bottom line, Buck, is that we’ve milked this adultery cow for all it’s worth. It eroded Leahy’s soft support, and it pulled us even in the polls. But we need to jab her in the eye with a sharper stick if we want to snare some of her core supporters.”
LaBelle sighed. “If we just stick to the game plan—”
“I need a battle plan. No more games. Now, I’m on stage in ninety seconds, so let’s talk this afternoon. But I’m telling you up front: One thing I learned after forty years in the army is that keeping the wrong man on the job gets other men killed. You understand me, Buck?”
LaBelle bristled. No one had ever threatened to fire him. “Sounds like you’re looking for something drastic.”
“Drastic, yes. Desperate, no. You understand the difference?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. We’ll talk later.” The line clicked.
LaBelle wondered if the general’s cryptic distinction between “drastic” and “desperate” was his subtle way of drawing some ethical line that his staff shouldn’t cross. Not likely. In fact, he was certain they were on the same Machiavellian wavelength—and that whatever plan he devised would be judged only in hindsight.
If it worked, it was drastic; if it failed, it was desperate.
7
From her hotel suite in Los Angeles, Allison watched as much of the Monday evening news as she could while getting cleaned up and dressed for the evening schedule. She was combing through tangled, wet hair when an in-depth report on ABC caught her attention. A smart-looking female reporter was standing before a huge colored map, pointing out eight key states that used to be Allison’s but were now “undecided.”
“Without question,” said the correspondent, “Ms. Leahy’s recent public appearances with her husband at her side have been effective damage-control measures. Yet insiders say that morale is at an all-time low among the rank and file in the Leahy campaign. Many are angry that Ms. Leahy ducked the adultery question in the first place. Others are incensed that this election may be determined by what they view as a bogus character issue.
“The bright spot for the Democrats is that even some of General Howe’s supporters are quietly beginning to wonder if the debates will have a lasting impact. With less than eight days remaining until voters head for the polls, the experts seem to agree on just one thing: The first presidential election of the twenty-first century could well be the closest in American history.”
Allison switched off the set. Interesting, she thought. The minute a politician acts on principle the immediate assumption is that she has something to hide. Then again, there was something inherently suspect about a politician acting on principle.
She combed through the last of the knots, then stopped and shot herself an assessing look in the mirror. Who are you kidding?
Sure, her refusal to answer was based in part on principle. She vividly recalled her reaction to the late Senator John Tower’s confession of adultery on national television in 1988—how embarrassing it was for everyone, how little it contributed to meaningful political discourse. But no decision—even one based on principle—was made in a vacuum. The simple fact was, there were recent ambiguities she’d really rather not explain.
Her eyes shifted toward the king-sized bed, where tonight’s evening gown lay beside her handbag. She’d worn it once before, just two months ago. Wearing it again would probably keep her from repeating as one of People magazine’s annual “Best Dressed”—oh, horror of horrors. But Peter liked it and had picked it out specially, so to hell with the fashion police. Of all the dresses in her closet, however, his fancy for this one was terribly ironic. The last time she’d worn it was just a week after her poolside reunion in Miami Beach with Mitch O’Brien. She and Peter were at a gala in Washington—where Mitch had made a surprise reappearance.
Her gaze lingered, until the hundreds of tiny beads and sequins on the gown began to blur and move about, the way the stars began to swirl if you lay on your back in a field of grass and stared into outer space. The tiny points of light distorted her vision, yet they sharpened her mind’s eye in hypnotic fashion. She felt oddly detached, trancelike, as her memory drifted back to that crowded ballroom at the Capitol Hilton, where things with Mitch really started to get strange…
“Excuse me,” said the eighty-six-year-old senator from South Carolina. In one false step, he’d crushed Allison’s foot and spilled champagne down her dress.
Allison dabbed the stain with a cocktail napkin. “That’s okay, Senator. But usually I don’t bathe in champagne until after the party.” She tantalized him with a wink. The old bigot was her biggest detractor on the Hill, though his ringing endorsement of Lincoln Howe had been somewhat neutralized after a reporter overheard him tell his aide he’d vote for the Little Rascals’ Buckwheat before putting a woman in the White House.
He apologized nervously, then forged through the crowd.
Beyond being the world’s most prestigious black-tie gathering of influential Italians and Italian Americans, the annual gala for the National Italian American Federation was one of those see-and-be-seen events for Washington heavyweights, Italian and non-Italian alike. Since Allison had become attorney general, it was the one annual event that Peter actually looked forward to. This year, as usual, Allison found herself mingling alone in the political circles while Peter went off with his Sinatra-esque rat pack, working his way through the other three thousand guests who wanted to rub elbows with the likes of Nicolas Cage and John Travolta.
“Damn it,” she muttered as the cold champagne soaked through to her skin. She checked for the nearest exit to the rest rooms, then suddenly did a double take.
Mitch was standing alone by the bar when Allison spotted him, staring right at her, cocktail in hand. He was as handsome as ever in classic black tie, but she immediately recognized the glazed look in his eyes. Allison answered his smile with a cold stare. With a subtle jerk of her head she directed him to the double doors leading to an isolated hallway near the kitchen. Mitch took the hint and started for the exit. Allison waited a few moments, then excused herself from her circle of conversation. A Secret Service agent met her at the door.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said politely. She clutched her evening bag, indicating that she was carrying her panic button. “I’ll beep you if I need you.”
He nodded, allowing her to pass through the doors alone.
The west hallways leading to the Grand Ballroom were part of a secured area, so they were virtually deserted. Mitch was waiting around the corner in a dimly lit alcove. He leaned against the wall, smirking in the glow of a crystal wall sconce.
“What are you doing here?” Her tone was harsh, but she kept her voice low.
He slapped his forehead in an exaggerated, comedic fashion. “Jeez, I forgot. My last name doesn’t end in a vowel. It begins with one. Ah, no problem,” he said, grabbing his crotch and laying on the accent, “I can tawk Italian.”
“You’re drunk.”
He shrugged, dismissing it. “I’m Irish.”
“You’re obnoxious. You were always obnoxious when you drank. How many times did I have to tell you that?”
His smile faded. “About as many times as I had to ask you when we were getting married. Why didn’t you just pick a date, Allison? Any date. Why mess with a guy’s mind and tell him you’ll marry him if you won’t say when?”
