Chapter 5
They slept in the den, with the lights dimmed, in various positions and different places: the long leather sofa, the shorter daybed, Lowell’s cherished recliner, even a wingback antique chair that was the most uncomfortable of all.
At one point Sam was curled up on the floor, his head on a Redskins pillow.
They tossed and rolled and at times went to the kitchen for water or the bathroom for relief.
At no time were all three actually asleep at the same moment.
Lowell once snored for a few minutes, before the nightmare returned. It was the worst night of their lives.
At the first hint of dawn, Justine went to the kitchen, sneaked another Valium, and quietly brewed a pot of coffee.
The noise beckoned her husband and son, both complaining of hunger.
She found a carton of eggs, scrambled them, toasted wheat bread, and they ate at the counter and watched morning cable, as if the world might soon learn of their plight and someone would come to the rescue.
Mercifully, there was no mention of the disappearance of Chelsea Tanner.
Out of habit, Justine and Sam studied their laptops and realized that Chelsea had posted nothing in almost twenty-four hours, a personal record for her. From Sunday through Wednesday she had bombarded her social media with breathless updates from her honeymoon. Then silence. Crickets.
Sam closed his laptop and said, “May I start another conversation that will probably go nowhere?”
“Please do,” Lowell said. “We need to hear something.”
“It’s safe to assume that these thugs also have Paul, and before long the Tanners will get curious, if they are not already asking questions.
Mrs. Tanner will probably call this morning when she realizes Chelsea is still silent.
They might panic and call somebody—the authorities.
So the cops get involved, which is the last thing we want, right?
So it makes sense that these guys will contact the Tanners, if they haven’t already done so, and lay out the deal.
Cash, ransom, safe return, not a word to the cops, total silence. Does this make sense?”
Justine said, “It does. Where is this going?”
“I don’t know. But it seems as though we should contact the Tanners and compare notes. If they panic, call the cops, make noise, then it could ramp up the risks for Chelsea and Paul.”
Justine said, “I want to call the FBI. They’ll know what to do. We’re just guessing and I don’t trust our instincts right now.”
Lowell said, “I understand and you may be right. But let’s wait a bit longer and see what happens.”
Sam said, “It’s a mistake. The only way to save Chelsea is a quick deal for cash, in and out.
We’ll run to the cops later and let them investigate, but catching the bad boys is not a priority.
Saving Chelsea is all that matters. If we can pay the ransom and wire the money on Monday, maybe, just maybe, she’ll be released.
Dealing with the FBI, and who knows who else on the other side of the ocean, will only delay the deal and probably screw it up. ”
Lowell said, “I think you’re right.”
On her way out of the kitchen, Justine said, “I’m taking a long hot bath.”
—
Malik was tired of the cops. He had spent hours with them, the bulk of the time in the rear seat of an unmarked car as they drove him from Bayeux to Paris and peppered him with questions at every mile.
They dropped him off at his apartment building in the grungy suburb of Barbès, northeast of the city, and said goodbye.
He thanked them for the ride and hustled inside to see his wife and kids, happy that a very unpleasant day was over.
At nine Friday morning, he reported for work at his car service, minus, of course, the shiny black Peugeot.
Isabelle, his boss, chatted with him for an hour and he told the same story he’d told the police at least three times.
There were plenty of uncertainties and not many facts.
Together, they took the métro into central Paris, exited at the Odéon station, and walked four blocks to the hotel where he had picked up Mr. and Mrs. Paul Tanner at precisely 7 a.m. the day before.
To Malik, it seemed as if a week had passed.
Francois, the general manager of the hotel, led them to the small restaurant near reception and offered them coffee and water.
He explained that the hotel had heard nothing from the Tanners.
He personally had inspected their room and everything appeared to be there: clothing, shoes, toothbrushes, etc.
Malik said they had nothing with them but her rather bulky purse, and, having chatted with them for almost three hours on the way to Normandy, he was certain they planned to return to Paris with him and continue their sightseeing the following day.
There was not one word about a sudden desire to visit London.
Nothing made sense: Malik’s sudden collapse as he ate lunch; the stolen Peugeot; the Tanners’ change in itinerary and their absence at the hotel, where they were still paying nine hundred euros a day for a bridal suite.
The issue was whether to notify the authorities. The locals in Bayeux were investigating the simple matter of a stolen car, but what about missing persons? That was far more serious and would involve the national police.
The general feeling was, typically, laissez-faire.
Leave them alone. They were newlyweds, and if they wanted to bounce around Europe, who would question them?
Americans were known to make odd, whimsical decisions when traveling.
As the meeting ended, Isabelle and Francois agreed to keep it quiet and wait to see if the Tanners returned to Paris. They would chat the next day by phone.
—
Ten a.m. Friday, April 29.
All freshly bathed but haggard and frightened, the three Clayburns sat shoulder to shoulder at the kitchen table and stared at the laptop.
Justine had the keyboard as Sam held the burner phone with the camera.
An email pinged; the sender was the address they were expecting—GTV4672@.
The message read: Chelsea is in our custody.
Click to view the evidence. The link will be deleted after you open it.
A secure message link was given. Justine clicked on it, and there was Chelsea again, in what appeared to be the same chair at the same table with the same or similar guard hovering with an AK-47.
Sam was recording the video with his burner.
“What is your name?”
“Chelsea Tanner.”
“What is today’s date?”
“April twenty-nine.”
“Do you have food and water?”
“Yes.”
The video ended, the screen went blank, and a chatbot appeared. Then the live message: Do you have the money?
Justine typed, “Yes.” Which was not technically true but Lowell was making calls and stocks would be liquidated. The proceeds would be sitting in a money market account in a D.C. bank by the end of the day.
When does Lowell Clayburn arrive in Paris?
“Eight forty in the morning, Saturday, Air France flight two-four-two, from Washington Dulles.”
Do you have a room at the Mercure Hotel?
“Yes. Is Paul in your custody? Have you contacted his family?”
A pause. Your questions only cause trouble. Simply do as your instructed. Otherwise, you will never see your daughter again.
They read the last sentence and got kicked in the gut again. Justine typed, “Okay.”
10 p.m. tomorrow.
They watched the words until they disappeared. When the screen was blank and the little session was over, they exhaled in unison and got up from the table. Sam poured a cup of coffee and stepped outside onto the patio for fresh air. Justine went to her bedroom for a good cry.
Chelsea was still alive.
—
Lowell walked into his small study and sat at his desk.
He tapped his keyboard and watched his large desk monitor.
The home page of his financial advisory flashed up and he logged in with his password.
He pressed more keys and found his summary for the previous month, March 2016.
His portfolio was primarily common stocks with a few municipal bonds tossed in, and half a million in various cash accounts.
He had done well for himself and his family and now could easily show a liquid net worth of almost $5 million.
At that moment he would surrender every penny to hug his daughter.
Almost a decade earlier, some doctor pals had convinced him to invest in a small start-up that specialized in certain surgical procedures that would be enhanced by the use of robots.
Since he knew a lot about the basics, he chipped in $100,000.
By then he had already learned a few hard lessons about investing with doctors and had sworn off, but the new patents intrigued him.
The company had shown healthy profits for the past five years and sales were booming. His investment was worth $2.2 million.
An hour earlier, he had instructed his money guy to cash in. The ransom was now sitting and waiting in an account with a bank in Charlotte. Lowell reconfirmed his one-way ticket to Paris, with no idea when he might return. Would two seats be needed for that trip?
He bowed his head and prayed for Chelsea’s safety, and for his own courage to do whatever would be asked of him.
—
Sam left the house at 10:30. He stopped at a discount pharmacy, the same place he’d stopped the day before, and bought two more burners with international coverage.
His father had given him the cash. He installed the thirty-day SIM cards and added the Clayburns’ burner phone numbers to each phone’s contact list.
Fritz Tanner worked in one of the countless glass and steel high-rises in Pentagon City.
His company was a defense contractor that supplied all manner of goods to the U.S.
Army, one of a thousand companies just like it clustered around the Pentagon.
He had worked there for twelve years after two decades of active duty around the world.
Sam parked underground, found the right building, and from the sidewalk called Fritz’s office number.
A secretary answered and said that Mr. Tanner was in a meeting.
Of course he was. Sam explained that he was the brother of Mr. Tanner’s new daughter-in-law and he had a matter of urgent importance to discuss.
It could not wait. She put him on hold. After a moment, Fritz burst through the phone with “Sam, how are you? Helluva wedding, wasn’t it? A great time!”
Obviously, the Tanners had not been contacted.
There was no time to small talk. Sam said, “Look, Mr. Tanner, we need to talk right now and I’d rather do it out here, outside the building.”
“Okay. What’s going on? And call me Fritz.”
“Something terrible, Fritz. Please meet me at the food court in front of your building. And leave your cell phone in the office.”
The food court was deserted. Sam sat down at a table far away from the others and waited. Fritz appeared in minutes, minus his jacket. He sat down and said, “Okay. Let’s have it.”
“They’ve been kidnapped in France, Paul and Chelsea.”
It didn’t sink in. It couldn’t sink in. He opened his mouth but words failed him. He opened both hands as if to say, What the hell?
He managed to mumble, “Okay.”
“Here’s what we know.”
—
Sam talked for ten minutes while glancing around as if they were being watched. Fritz listened in shock and slid further down in his metal chair, shaking his head in disbelief.
Sam pulled out a burner phone and said, “This came across about two hours ago. I videoed it from a laptop during the last email chat.” He pressed a key, handed the phone to Fritz, who watched the small screen as the hood was removed from Chelsea’s head and she answered three questions in nine seconds as the gunman stood behind her.
Fritz handed the phone back and rubbed his temples. “Nothing about Paul?”
“No, just the warning not to contact you, which is kind of stupid because they have to know that we’d contact each other. That’s why I’m here, Fritz. My parents want you to know because they would certainly want to know. Besides, it’s just a matter of time before these guys call you.”
“Thanks. What about the FBI?”
“We’ve kicked it around for twenty-four hours and as of right now we think it’s too risky. The quickest and safest way to get them back is to pay the money as soon as possible. Then we can inform the FBI and let them deal with the French police.”
“I’m not sure I agree with that. We don’t know what the hell we’re doing. The FBI is trained for situations like this.”
“Agreed. But these guys might be tracking our calls.”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you talk to my father?”
Fritz ran his fingers through his thick hair as if he might yank out a handful. “I don’t know.”
“Talk to Dad.”
“Okay.”
Sam handed him another burner and said, “This is yours. It’s best to use these for now. Press Menu.”
Fritz flipped open the phone, pressed Menu, and saw the numbers of the other burners. He asked Sam, “You really think they’re listening?”
“No, but they’re probably tracking our cell calls. It’s not that difficult and these guys seem pretty sophisticated.”
Fritz frowned and spoke into the small burner. “Hello, Lowell. I’m here with Sam. A helluva mess, right?”