Chapter 6
On a warm Friday afternoon in April, there was little chance Linzy Tanner would be seen on campus.
In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she had taught a class on a Friday.
It was lunch day for her and some friends, and they enjoyed a long light meal, referred to as a “wine lunch,” at the same little bistro on Wisconsin Avenue.
There was some chatter about the wedding, though Linzy had had enough of it.
When asked, she said the lovebirds were roaming the streets of Paris and having a grand time.
What she did not say was that she and Fritz were somewhat concerned because Paul’s phone seemed to be out of order.
Not to mention that Chelsea had suddenly stopped the flood of photos.
After lunch, as she was returning to Alexandria, Fritz called and said he was already home; said he wasn’t feeling well and left the office early.
Odd, because he had not complained that morning.
He met her at the front door and one look conveyed nothing but fear.
“Have a seat,” he said, motioning to the sofa in the den.
“What’s the matter, Fritz?” she demanded as she sat down.
“Paul and Chelsea have been kidnapped.”
She took a deep breath and almost asked him to repeat what he had just said, but she heard it all. “Okay, I don’t know what to ask, so just keep talking.”
He unloaded everything that had happened in the past ninety minutes: the surprise visit from Sam, the shocking news, the video, the demand, the burner phones, the conversation with Lowell.
She listened with eyes closed and both hands over her mouth. When she opened her eyes they were wet, but she was too stunned to become emotional. She looked at him and nodded as if to say, Keep going. What’s next?
Fritz said, “Lowell and Sam are adamant that we do not call the FBI. They think these thugs might be watching our phones. They’ve already hacked into Lowell’s office system.
He said that calling the FBI could get both of them killed.
It’s all about money and the quicker we can deliver it, the quicker we see our kids. ”
“I can’t believe this,” she mumbled.
“I know, I know.”
“But they’re on their honeymoon, in Paris.”
“Not anymore.”
“Two million from us?”
“Two million from the Clayburns. They haven’t called and given us a number yet.”
“We don’t have two million.”
“I know. Lowell leaves for Paris at seven tonight, from Dulles. They’ve given him instructions to check into a certain hotel. Who knows what happens after that.”
“So we sit and wait.”
“We sit and wait. There’s a video.” He pulled the burner from his pants pocket and said, “They sent this to the Clayburns at ten this morning.” He pressed a key and held it up for her.
A lone figure in a dark room, the removal of the black hood, their beautiful daughter-in-law, the three questions, then nothing.
Linzy covered her face again and began sobbing.
—
When Paul was awake he knew he was suffocating.
The thick hood over his head was tied around his neck and each breath sent more carbon dioxide into the heavy air he was forced to breathe again and again.
Did the fools know they were killing him?
Did they care? Was that their goal, a slow excruciating death by suffocation?
When he awoke from fits of sleep he didn’t know if he had drifted off or passed out from the carbon dioxide.
His hair and neck were wet with sweat. His heart and lungs labored as he tried mightily to slow them down.
The pain from his hands, arms, legs and feet didn’t help.
His entire body was numb from hours of being bound.
His wrists were tied tight behind him, so his shoulders and elbows burned with pain.
His ankles were pinned so tightly together the bones could feel each other.
Since he had no idea of the time, he had no idea how long he’d been in a world so dark and black he thought he might already be dead.
It had been hours since he tasted water.
He was hungry but the hunger pains were nothing compared to the flames in his joints.
Every single joint. He was lying on his right side and unable to shift to his left.
The cuffs around his ankles were tied to the ones around his wrists.
He had urinated at least once and his crotch was still moist. He tried to calm himself but immediately thought of Chelsea.
The first noise he had heard in hours was the loud snap at the door, wherever it was. Tough hands grabbed him, rolled him over, and released some of the rope binding his wrists to his ankles. “Sit up,” someone growled as he yanked Paul’s feet off the cot onto the floor.
“Where’s my wife?” he said, with a voice so dry he didn’t recognize it.
“Shut up. Sit here. Look at the light. It’s a camera and you’re talking to your parents, Fritz and Linzy Tanner, 274 East Norwich Drive, Alexandria.” Obviously a male voice, slight accent. Tough, agitated.
The heavy hood came off and the light blinded him. He turned away and sucked in as much air as possible.
“What is your name?” another voice demanded.
“Where is my wife?”
He never saw the blow. The back of a thick hand landed across his face and knocked him dizzy. He gasped for air as he said “Shit!” and braced for another one. He was practically sitting on his hands.
“Just answer the questions. What is your name?”
“What’s your name?” He spat out the words and tasted blood.
The second blow was a shot to the head, to his left eye.
Since he could see nothing he was just a punching bag with no means of defense.
He had been trained in the basics of martial arts in the navy and could survive any fight. This, though, was not a fight.
—
From the moment Dr. Lowell Clayburn stepped into the main terminal at Dulles International, he could almost feel eyes watching him.
He knew someone was there, someone in contact with the criminals who had his daughter and son-in-law.
And the last thing he wanted at that awful time was to make eye contact, so he kept his sunglasses on, his Red Sox cap pulled low, and tried his best not to look around.
And what was he supposed to do if he spotted someone suspicious?
It was a ridiculous thought. Whoever was watching him was trained to watch and follow and keep to the shadows, and he or she knew the rules, the game.
Lowell was nothing more than a pawn, just a simple surgeon who replaced aging joints and had no idea what to expect in France.
The only fact of which he was reasonably certain was that he was about to part with $2 million.
He would soon wire it away, never to be retrieved, with the shaky promise that it would deliver Chelsea.
If her rescue could be guaranteed, he would happily give them everything. Every cent.
He checked in with no luggage, only a small carry-on, endured the indignities of security, rode the train to Concourse A, killed an hour over a chef salad he couldn’t choke down, and finally presented his ticket at the gate.
One-way. “Ah, yes, off to Paris and not coming back, huh?” the agent said with a smile, as if the cute little remark was original.
Doesn’t everyone want to stay in Paris forever?
“Maybe not,” Lowell replied and returned the smile. If the guy only knew the circumstances. It was impossible to book a return flight with so many unknowns.
He settled into a comfortable seat in business class, closed his eyes, and listened to the flight attendants welcome their guests in French and English.
When all seats were taken, they appeared with trays of tall, thin glasses filled with champagne, and Lowell said “Why not?” The first sip was delicious and he closed his eyes again.
This would be his second trip to Paris. Justine had dragged him over years ago for a birthday week of the usual tourist stops.
His idea of a vacation was not sitting for hours at a sidewalk café and watching other tourists, or sleepwalking through museums, or, the worst part, suffering through three-hour dinners that cost well over a thousand bucks, wine included.
He did not share his wife’s love for the place and had managed to find excuses to vacation elsewhere.
His idea of fun was fishing in mountain streams with friends, boys only, and several trips each summer with Sam to watch the Red Sox.
A fifteen-minute delay was announced in both languages.
Lowell called Justine for an update. She was holding her phone, waiting for a call, any call that was related to Chelsea.
Sam had gone to his apartment to get some clothes and she desperately wanted him to return.
The house was too quiet. The clocks had stopped.
Nothing was normal and she needed someone to talk to about Chelsea.
Lowell promised to call her in eight hours when he landed in Paris, told her he loved her and things were going to work out okay, but both knew he hadn’t a clue.
He finally clicked off and put his phone away.
Without trying he dozed off, only to wake up moments later when a flight attendant was refilling his glass. He made no effort to stop her.
In his fifty-eight years he could think of only one similar crisis, a moment of horror that once begun seemed to last forever.
When Sam was seventeen he was a passenger in a car driven by a buddy who was under the influence and speeding.
They were drinking beer and smoking pot.
The car flipped on an icy bridge and both were severely injured.
For days, Lowell and Justine paced the halls outside the ICU waiting room as the surgeons worked in shifts and delivered grim news.
Sam was not expected to survive. Then, he would probably live but with paralysis in all limbs.
Then, with luck, he might regain the use of his arms and hands.
They lost track of time, of days and nights, of routines and office hours and meetings that had once seemed so important.
They got lucky. After thirty-one days, Sam walked out of the hospital without a cane and attacked physical therapy with a determination that surprised everyone.
A year after the accident, he was as sound physically as any high school athlete.
As self-made, successful people they were accustomed to being in control.
Sam’s ordeal humbled them and taught them the hard lesson that not everything can be controlled by their to-do lists and daily planners.
With Sam, though, they understood what had happened: two drunk teenagers behaving badly.
Not exactly a wild streak that was unheard of.
And throughout the nightmare they at least knew where he was, they could see him most of the time.
They monitored his progress, talked to his medical team, prayed with their minister, and held hands as a family and with friends.
They celebrated the small victories that piled up and became a miracle.
Now, with Chelsea, there was no game plan or playbook, no expert to call for advice, no friends to lean on, nothing but the desperate hope that if they followed orders given by phantoms they might one day soon get lucky again.
When the second glass was almost empty, a flight attendant took it with a smile and said they were pushing back from the gate and ready to taxi.
Lowell closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
With so many unknowns waiting in France it was easy to become overwhelmed.
He went through his mental list: get off the plane at Charles de Gaulle and call Justine; clear customs and get a cab; check in at the Hotel Mercure; recharge both his cell phone and the burner; then wait.
Surely by then the Tanners will have been contacted.
As the Airbus climbed into the night, Lowell pushed back his seat and thought about watching a movie, but fatigue and worry, along with the champagne, conspired against him. He began to nod off again. His body desperately needed sleep.