Chapter 3
Her awakening was at half speed. Her mind was numb, her thoughts slow, her movements confined.
Seconds, maybe minutes passed before she realized that her wrists were bound and her ankles were wrapped together.
She could not see. Everything was black and the thick hood or veil over her face was coarse like burlap and smelled of old laundry.
Breathing was slow and labored as she practically gasped for air.
She was forced to inhale the heavy, pungent air with her mouth open.
As the fog cleared, she wondered how long she had been unconscious.
That was the first question. The second was where in the world was she?
Then, where’s Paul? What was the last thing she remembered?
They were in the rear seat of the car and leaving the village, after lunch.
Paul was yelling, hitting the window. Then nothing.
The more she remembered, the clearer her thoughts, and the more terrified she became.
But the fear made her breathing more labored, the hood even warmer. She tried to calm herself and slow down her breathing. Calm? Who was she kidding?
She became aware of the numbness in her hands and feet and moved them gently. She heard a sound and froze. There was someone else in the room, someone very close. “Who are you?” she tried to say, but her mouth was as coarse as sandpaper. “Who are you?”
No answer but a short quiet cough, as if to confirm his presence. Or was it a woman?
“Where am I?”
“Ridiculous questions,” he said. Male voice, accented English.
She managed to swing her legs over the side of the bed or cot or whatever it was and sit up. “Why am I here? What do you want? Where is my husband?”
“More ridiculous questions. Would you like some water?”
“I guess, yes. Water would be good.” Her mouth felt like it was full of sand.
“Okay. Here’s what we’ll do. You’re in a room with no windows, only one door that is locked and guarded from the other side.
There is a bucket of water in a corner, your toilet.
I will remove the cuffs and leave. There is some fruit and water on the table.
Once I am gone, you may remove the hood and have a look.
But there is little to see. If you cooperate, you will be with Paul soon enough.
Otherwise, you will not. Hold up your wrists. ”
He unsnapped the cuffs on her wrists and ankles and left the room.
The door clicked loudly when it closed and locked.
She pulled off the hood and took a deep breath, then another.
Her eyes adjusted easily because the room was pitch-black.
There was nothing to see, nothing to focus on.
She found a plastic bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a drink, hoping it was cold water.
Lukewarm, but welcome. Both of her temples were pounding from the hangover from whatever they drugged her with.
In a bowl she found some grapes and ate them.
She stood and stretched herself, fighting off the pain, then felt her way around the narrow space until she touched the metal bucket.
She managed to relieve herself. She was in a narrow, cramped closet that was nothing more than a third-world prison cell.
She sat on the edge of the bed and held the bowl.
She was ravenous and ate the grapes and plums. Slowly her eyes began to detect forms and outlines.
The door, the table that held the water and fruit.
She was barefoot. Where had they taken her shoes?
Which pair? Then she remembered the sandals she had bought two days earlier at a shop on Rue Jacob in the 6th arrondissement.
Paris. Where was it now? Today was Thursday, the trip to Normandy.
The wedding had been last Saturday, at the Yacht Club in Annapolis with all their friends and family members.
She drank more water, then reclined on the cot and rubbed her temples.
Thoughts of the wedding made her smile and she drifted away again.
The door opened with a loud click and a light was in her eyes. “Get up,” someone commanded. As she tried to sit up another thick hood went over her head and all was black again. Strong hands lifted her and guided her to a chair. “Sit here and place your hands on the table,” he said.
“What do you want?” she asked, terrified.
“Shut up. We have your phone. What is the access code?”
“Why?” she asked, but only because she had to.
“No more questions. If you want to see your husband again, just do as I say. What is the access code?”
“Eight-eight-two-two-fourteen.”
“Sit here and don’t move.”
The door clicked again as he left. There were possibly two of them.
She sat rigid, too frightened to move. A minute passed before the door opened again.
He said, “We’re going to make a little video for your parents.
We have their phone numbers, email, address, everything.
When I lift the hood you are to look into the light and do nothing but answer my questions. Do you understand?”
Perfect English, slight accent. Same guy as before.
Someone stood behind her and lifted the hood. She stared into the glare of a flashlight and could not see the face of the person holding it.
“What is your name?”
“Chelsea Tanner.”
“And what is the date?”
“It’s Thursday, I think. I was married last Saturday, April twenty-third.”
—
The text came at 8:04 p.m., the exact moment never to be forgotten. Justine was in the basement on a yoga mat, lengthening her thighs and listening to soft meditative music. Finally, word from Paris, though it was 2 a.m. over there.
She screamed and ran up the stairs yelling, “Lowell! Lowell! It’s Chelsea! Oh my God! Lowell!”
He met her in the kitchen and took her phone as she thrust it at him. The message read: Go to GTV4672@. Chelsea is in our custody. Check your email for instructions. Do it now!
Her laptop was on the kitchen counter. She clicked on an open email with the subject line Chelsea and Paul, and then on a link that warned it would be deleted after opening.
They stared at a blank screen with numbers counting down, 4-3-2-1, then the stark image that shattered their world.
A woman with long blond hair, partially visible under a black hood, sitting in a dark room, her hands on the table in front of her.
Behind her was a figure so fierce he would frighten the devil himself: solid black uniform, black mask with thick black goggles, no eyes or skin, bandoliers draped over both shoulders with plenty of ammo, an assault weapon in his left hand, pointing at the ceiling, ready.
Hours earlier, the soldier had begun the day as the reckless bike rider in Bayeux, then quickly became Laurent, the nattily attired chauffeur who replaced Malik. Now he was a heavily armed warrior in charge of the prize.
With his right hand, he yanked off the hood, and there she was, their beautiful daughter. The lights blinded her and she squinted for a few seconds as she caught her breath.
“What is your name?” a man barked off-screen.
The light was too bright so she turned her head to her right and said, “Chelsea Tanner.”
“And what is the date?”
“It’s Thursday, I think. I was married last Saturday, April twenty-third.”
The video went blank.
Justine and Lowell stared at it for seconds, unable to speak or think, hardly able to breathe.
A message appeared:
If you want to see your daughter again, you will do exactly as you are told. If you call the police, FBI, CIA, or any other American or French law enforcement you will never see her. She is safe for now and will be released at 5 p.m. Monday, France time. The price is $2 million American dollars.
Wiring instructions to follow. This is an encrypted email account that can be used only by you.
We have your cell numbers, email addresses, and physical address.
We know where you are and we have a presence close by.
We will contact you again in two hours, at exactly 10:10 eastern.
Paul is safe. Do not contact his family.
Justine wiped her eyes with a workout towel. Lowell kept staring at the screen and mumbling almost incoherently, “No, no, no.” The nightmare was so horrible, so unimaginable, that they had no idea what to say. They looked at the laptop as if it might divulge something else, something helpful.
An image appeared on the screen. It was from his orthopedic clinic, a screenshot of that day’s schedule of appointments and surgeries. He mumbled, “They’ve hacked the office.” The image disappeared.
Too stunned to say much, they backed into chairs and sat at the table, touching hands and trying to maintain composure, trying to comprehend a moment in time when their lives changed dramatically. They had awakened in a pleasant, safe world with their family intact. Would that ever happen again?
Justine was crying but not yet hysterical. Almost gasping, she said, “She looked so scared.”
“With good reason.”
Nothing was said for a moment. Justine put her face in her hands and wept. Lowell stood and began pacing around the table as he tried to arrange his thoughts in some sensible manner. He said, “Should we contact the Tanners?”
Justine just shook her head, unable to say anything.
He said, “Let’s wait. They could be listening. But they know we have to use the phones to arrange the money, right?”
“I guess.”
“We can’t do anything without using the phones, right?”
“I don’t know, Lowell.” Justine wiped her cheeks with a towel and took a sip of water.
“So, maybe we should use the landline.”
“Call Sam.”
“Right, Sam will know what to do. Where is he tonight?”
“I don’t know. Just call him.”
Dr. Clayburn walked to a phone on the wall and punched in numbers.
Sam was six years younger than Chelsea and studying architecture, part-time, at American University.
He lived with two other students in a third-floor walkup near Dupont Circle and spent most nights mixing drinks in a busy sports bar three blocks from his apartment.
His parents were slowly beginning to believe that Sam enjoyed tending bar more than going to class. The call went to voicemail.
Lowell sat down next to his wife, patted her knee, and said, “I guess he’s at the bar.”
“He’ll call back. He always does.”
“This is real, right? I mean, is there a chance it could be a prank or a hoax or something other than what it appears to be?”
Justine shook her head as she bit her lip.
The phone on the wall rang and startled them.
—
An hour passed before Sam arrived home. His one stop had been at an all-night pharmacy where he purchased two burner phones with thirty-day SIM cards, which he programmed in the parking lot. It would have taken Lowell an hour, but then his father would have never thought of it in the first place.
His parents met him at the front door and one look at their faces told the story. They were pale, bewildered, sleepwalking through a nightmare that was just beginning. He hugged Justine and they went to the kitchen and sat at the table. Her laptop was closed, waiting.
He said, “I doubt they’re listening to your cell phones, but who knows. Now, describe what you saw in the video.”
Justine went first with her brief description. Lowell helped fill in the blanks. As horrible as the image was, it only lasted for seconds. They tried to recall verbatim the message and its details.
Sam adored his older sister and had been honored to be a groomsman in her wedding.
He had partied as hard as the other young people and even fell into a pool sometime early last Sunday morning.
He was as shocked and frightened as his parents but was determined not to show it.
Decisions made with emotions could prove disastrous.
As a whole, the family was rather stoic.
“And the text message came from her cell phone?” he asked.
“Yes,” his mother said. “It’s gone. It instructed me to go to my email, where I found the video of Chelsea.”
“That’s odd,” Sam said. “Why would they use her cell phone when it can so easily be traced?”
Asking such questions of his parents was not productive. Justine and Lowell were dizzy with confusion.
Lowell asked, “Is there a way to track their emails?”
“I doubt it. A professional hacker might be able to do so, but it would take some time. The FBI could probably do it, but not always.”
“But we can’t call the FBI, right?” Justine asked.
“As of right now, no. Let’s see what happens at ten o’clock.”