Chapter 4
When Justine had filled three cups of coffee, Sam said, “Okay, listen, I know this is your least favorite topic, but while we wait we have no choice but to talk about money. How liquid are you?”
It was no secret that orthopedic surgeons, especially those who specialized in replacement joints, were among the highest-grossing doctors in the country.
The surgical clinic Lowell and two partners founded a decade earlier was a cash cow, highly regarded and in great demand.
As parents, he and Justine had been generous with their children but had not spoiled them.
And they had been too busy, and too skittish, to talk about estate planning, taxation, gifts, and other unpleasantries.
Their kids knew they were loaded, but it was never discussed.
Lowell said, “There’s no mortgage on this house. We have just the usual small debts, but nothing significant. If you’re wondering about paying the money, that will be no problem. We have brokerage accounts, savings, the usual. I can sell some stocks in the morning and have the cash instantly.”
“And this will not draw attention?” Sam asked.
“I don’t see how. I know our financial advisor well. If I tell him to sell and wire the money, he’ll do so. He may be curious but he won’t ask.”
“Okay. I’ll start checking flights to Paris.”
As time crept by, the horror settled in.
Justine went to the den and stretched out on a sofa.
She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and searched in vain for something peaceful to dwell on.
Her mind, though, was fixed on the image of her daughter—captive and threatened.
The endless questions wasted so much energy: Who are they?
Why Chelsea? Where was Paul? How did they take them?
Wouldn’t it be wiser to call the FBI? What if they don’t release her?
Her cell buzzed at 9:40. It was Linzy Tanner, just checking in and curious because they had heard nothing from Paul, and there had been no sign of Chelsea on social media in over twelve hours.
Lowell and Sam huddled around her phone and listened intently.
Sam shook his head as if to say: Not a word.
Justine managed to sound upbeat and was certain Chelsea would start posting in the morning. She rang off with a comforting laugh, then wept again after the call.
—
The little black cell grew colder as the hours passed.
Chelsea had no idea what time it was. She had napped off and on, sleeping against her will but unable to stay awake.
The drugs had worn off and her mind was sharper.
The headaches had relented. She rubbed her wrists and ankles because they were sore, but at least they were no longer bound.
She sat up because she was tired of lying down.
She found the bottle of water and took a sip, careful not to drink too much.
It might be important later to save some now.
She ate two grapes and realized how hungry she was.
There was a noise at the door and it opened. Bright lights flooded the cell. Two men in masks were on her, one pulling a hood over her face. One said, “Over here,” and they lifted her by her arms and sat her at the table.
One said, “It is ten p.m. Thursday in the U.S., the twenty-eighth of April. You have been given food and water. Do you understand?”
She said, “Yes.”
“Louder! Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Seconds passed. The one behind her lifted the hood and she was blinded by a light that burned her eyes and forced her to look away.
One asked, “What is your name?”
“Chelsea Tanner.”
“What is today’s date?”
“April twenty-nine.”
“Do you have food and water?”
“Yes.”
The hood fell into place and all was black.
—
Sam watched the video in muted fascination and horror with his mother at his right shoulder, his father at his left.
When it ended, after nine seconds, he tried to replay it, but it was gone.
He tried to retrieve it with no luck. They waited, breathless and rigid with fear, then a document was on the screen. The words were typed in all caps:
YOU HAVE NOT CONTACTED THE POLICE OR FBI.
IF YOU DO SO SHE WILL DIE DO NOT CONTACT THE FAMILY OF PAUL TANNER TOMORROW MORNING, MAKE YOUR FINANCIAL ARRANGEMENTS DR. CLAYBURN MUST BE IN PARIS BY SATURDAY AFTERNOON.
BOOK THE HOTEL MERCURE NEAR THE GARE DE LYON TRAIN STATION.
WE WILL CONTACT YOU TOMORROW AT 10AM EASTERN
They stared at the screen and waited for more contact, more clues, more evidence that Chelsea was okay. But it went blank and they finally breathed.
Sam found a can of beer that had been shoved to the rear of the fridge. He looked at the label, saw an expiration date from last year, and popped the top.
Dr. Lowell asked, “Do you really need that?”
“Yes, Dad, I do, thank you. I need several of these right now. A drink might do you some good.”
“I doubt that. I’d rather keep a clear head, for some reason.” Sam shot a look of disdain at his father. He did not ask for more advice.
Lowell had an occasional glass of wine on a Saturday, but never during the week.
Alcohol and surgical skills don’t mix. Justine had given up the sauce for health reasons years earlier and could be rather pious about her sobriety.
Sam, though, was still a college boy who spent plenty of time on both sides of the bar.
Justine said, “So they know we haven’t called the FBI. How might they know that, Sam?”
“They’ve hacked the phones, probably both of your cells. It’s not that difficult, really. I mean, the average person can’t do it, but these guys are pretty good. The encrypted email scheme says a lot. And if you’re into high-end kidnappings you gotta know how to play the game with the latest toys.”
“Are they listening to us?” Lowell asked.
“Let’s assume they are, the phones anyway. I seriously doubt they’ve bugged the house.”
“Thank you, Sam,” Justine said. “That’s nice to hear.”
There was a long heavy pause as they instinctively looked around the kitchen and den. Finally, Lowell said, “We should discuss the issue of calling the Tanners. I assume those cheap little phones cannot be traced.”
“That’s why I bought them, Dad.”
“Wouldn’t that be too dangerous?” Justine asked.
“Probably so, but we should at least think about it,” Lowell said. “Paul is their son, their kid, and they’re in the same miserable place as we are. Wouldn’t you want to know that your kid has been kidnapped?”
Sam said, “Sure, but don’t you think they, whoever in the hell they are, will contact the Tanners soon enough?
I mean, look, this is apparently all about money, ransom.
They think they have two rich American hostages who will net them a few million bucks.
They’ll check in with the Tanners in a matter of hours.
” He took a long swig of beer and added, “Plus, we need to assume they’ve hacked the Tanners’ phones as well. ”
Justine said, “I agree. For now, let’s just wait and do what they say. We can change our minds if we need to. Why do they want you in Paris?”
Sam and Lowell shook their heads, then Sam said, “They probably want a clean hand-off, with no cops around. Once we see Chelsea and know she’s okay, then we’ll release the money, probably to some shady bank offshore.
She walks free. But we have to eyeball her first. We grab her and take the next flight to the U.S.
If everything goes smooth, the police will not be involved and these thugs have pulled off the perfect crime. ”
Justine asked, “When do we tell the police? Never?”
“I don’t know, Mom, I’m new at this. Let’s worry about the cops when she’s back home and safe.”
They thought about that scenario for a long time, but none of the three had any confidence in what they were thinking. Their minds were too scrambled. The fear was numbing.
Sam went to scrounge for another beer and finding none joined his parents in the den where Justine was motionless on the sofa with her eyes closed and hands folded across her stomach.
There were almost eleven hours between then and ten the next morning, an eternity.
The idea of trying to sleep seemed ludicrous.
As the minutes dragged on they realized that they were doing precisely nothing to save Chelsea.
For people accustomed to getting things done, they were suddenly idle. And helpless.
Without opening her eyes, Justine said, “Can we at least talk about calling the FBI? We need help.”
Sam said, “Sure. Why not? We have to talk about something. Assuming we could make the call without someone listening, who might we choose to call? I don’t personally know anybody who works for the FBI.
It’s almost eleven p.m. on a Thursday night, and I doubt if they have a dispatcher at the front desk at the Hoover Building taking emergency calls.
And let’s say we manage to get through and a couple of agents show up here, for a house call, and we explain our situation. What happens then?”
Lowell said, “They have no jurisdiction, no authority. The crime, whatever it is, happened in another country. The FBI here would have to contact the French authorities and so on, and we would have no idea what’s happening. The State Department would get involved. Just too many people.”
She said, “But we’re doing nothing.”
Sam replied, “No, Mom, we’re doing exactly what we are told to do, and that might be the only way out. They’re in control and they have planned every move they’re about to make. We’re just pawns being played, but it’s our only hope.”
There was another long, heavy pause, one of many in a night that would never end.