Chapter 8
For all involved, sleep was fitful Friday night.
It was certainly a challenge for Dr. Clayburn, who hated long flights to begin with and had a secret fear of pulmonary embolisms, the little blood clots that form primarily in the legs and begin moving upward until they lodge in the lungs where they are often fatal.
Such clots had killed about a hundred travelers in the past thirty years, a microscopic fraction of the millions who had flown internationally, but enough to cause Lowell to worry.
It was also a convenient excuse for someone who preferred domestic travel.
He landed on schedule at Charles de Gaulle Airport Saturday morning.
As he waited in line at passport control, he was curious about the phone coverage with his cheap little flip phone.
He called home. Sam and Justine were six hours behind and probably asleep, but in a crisis old routines meant nothing.
Justine answered and said she had not even thought about going to bed until he called. She told him that the Tanners had been contacted by the same group with the same demands and threats. They sent a ten-second video that was, evidently, fairly graphic and terrifying. Paul had been beaten.
She’d spoken to Fritz and Linzy twice Friday night, and it was oddly comforting to hear their voices and fears.
They were in the same sinking boat, for the moment anyway.
The troubling news was that they wanted to immediately contact the FBI.
The two families could not have more different plans.
The Tanners had agreed to wait until sunrise Saturday and speak to Lowell when he was in Paris.
Despite the throng, he moved without too much delay through security with his carry-on and stood in a long line for taxis. It was a beautiful morning in Paris with sunny skies and light, crisp air. He hardly noticed.
The Hotel Mercure was a forty-room refuge hidden on a narrow street ten minutes by foot from the Gare de Lyon, the busy station for trains headed south.
The taxi dropped Lowell on the sidewalk by the front door.
He walked inside, into the cramped lobby, and was greeted by a smiling gentleman at the desk.
He confirmed his reservation for three nights—he had no idea how long he would be staying—and was informed that the room was occupied and would not be ready until after lunch.
It was almost 10 a.m. The clerk recommended a café around the corner where breakfast was still being served.
Since the thugs had chosen the hotel, Lowell knew it was safe to assume that they were watching. And why? He almost smiled at the question. When they watched him they’d see a frightened American father who was their ticket to a $2 million payoff. And they would be correct on all fronts.
He found a seat at the sidewalk café, ordered a double espresso, and watched the people and the traffic.
The sun and perfect weather were calling and the streets were busy.
A police car rolled by, the gendarme, and he felt the urge to stop it and yell to the cops that his daughter had been kidnapped and he needed help.
He had to ignore such urges. They would only make matters worse.
In a guidebook he located the hotel where Chelsea and Paul were staying, or, rather, where they had checked in the previous Monday morning.
A waiter asked about breakfast, and Lowell remembered the ridiculous shot of an omelet his daughter had posted only days earlier. He had shaken his head at the silliness. So he ordered an omelet with goat cheese and a baguette.
Their hotel was across the river in the Saint-Germain quarter, in the 6th arrondissement, near the Luxembourg Gardens.
Lowell estimated the walk would take half an hour, but what else did he have to do?
Why go there? There was no compelling reason to, but he was haunted by the thoughts of their empty room, just waiting for their return.
Clothes in the closet. Toiletries scattered about the bathroom.
Shoes piled in a corner. On the phone, Chelsea had joked with her mother about the coziness of Parisian hotel rooms, but they had shared those jokes before.
Chelsea would sleep on a park bench if the park was in Paris.
It was a bad idea. If he found the hotel, what would he do then? Sit in the lobby and wait for people who were not coming back, not to that place anyway. And those who were watching him would be confused, maybe even feel threatened.
He sipped another espresso and tried to enjoy his omelet, but nothing would taste good at that moment.
After an hour, he paid the check and drifted toward the Gare de Lyon.
He went inside and marveled at the frenzy of the place: the locals hurrying to catch their rides; tourists gawking at departure boards; frightened immigrants huddled together clutching their cheap bags.
A dozen tracks began and ended there and the trains were coming and going.
To kill more time, Lowell bought a diet soda and found a spot on a bench with a good view of the trains. His burner vibrated and he grabbed it, flipped it open, punched a button, and said, “Good morning, Fritz, I thought you might be sleeping.”
Fritz forced a chuckle and said, “Not quite. I’m not sure when we’ll ever sleep again. Where are you?”
“In Paris, waiting for my hotel room to get cleaned. I’m sitting in a train station killing time, waiting on marching orders.”
“Have you talked to Justine?”
“Yes, she’s not sleeping either. I’m so sorry about Paul, Fritz. Can you believe this crap?” Of course not. It was beyond belief.
“We don’t know what to do, Lowell. There’s no guidebook for this. On the one hand we want to get help from the FBI, I have a pretty good contact there, but on the other hand we don’t want to misfire when we don’t have to.”
“I know, Fritz. We had the same conversations. There are no rules. The only thing for certain is that these guys are dead serious and they’re miles ahead of us. Calling the FBI at this point could easily turn into a disaster, and the FBI is a long way from Paris.”
“I understand, Lowell, or at least I think I do. Look, we’re supposed to hear from them at noon our time. Let’s hold off until then and see what happens.”
“I agree. And Fritz, we gotta stay together on this, right? Move in the same direction and keep each other on the phone. Right?”
“Sure. Right now I need to get busy and find some money. Might be a bit of a climb on a Saturday morning.”
“I’ll let you know if I hear something.”
“Same here, Lowell. Play it safe.”
Lowell clicked off, shut his phone, and put it away. He glanced around at the crowd, most of them moving to the trains or either to the front entrance, but dozens were sitting like him, waiting. Every face looked suspicious.
Through the planning of the wedding, it had become clear that the Clayburns had a lot more money than the Tanners, who had paid their share and stepped up when expected to.
The bride and groom spent their savings as well.
Over drinks during one of the endless pregame parties, Fritz had cracked, more than once, that he knew he was getting off light, as the father of the groom.
His daughter’s wedding, still far away, would probably bankrupt him.
Chelsea was close to her in-laws and knew they had strained to avoid student debt.
Lowell had the liquidity to loan the Tanners the ransom money, and he would do so in an instant if they asked.
No one knew if it would come to that. But he knew Fritz and Linzy were too proud to ask for help.
They would sell everything to save their son.
So would the Clayburns. Hell, it was just money, and Lowell could get it back in a few years replacing worn-out knees and hips.
When he was tired of sitting, Lowell left the station and went for a walk.
Sam called at 12:30 to check on him, said Justine was holding up.
He said he had talked to a friend who worked for an international security firm and knew the gadgets and technology.
Under the guise of working on a novel, Sam poked around with questions about tracking phone calls.
His friend was of the opinion that the FBI would contact the French police and they would find both phones in short order.
However, it was probably a waste of time.
If the bad guys had brains, they would dispose of Chelsea’s and Paul’s phones soon after the initial contacts.
He said Interpol might get involved to speed up the tracking, but that would complicate matters and take time.
Sam thanked his friend and ended the call without raising suspicions.
They were probably following the safest course by doing exactly as they were told.
Lowell ducked into a bookstore with large windows. Flipping through magazines, he watched the street for fifteen minutes and noticed no one who appeared to be interested in him.
His hotel room was ready at 1:15 and he unpacked his small bag. He showered and lay down to rest. Once again, sleep was impossible. An hour later his cell phone rattled with a text from a stranger: Welcome to Paris. Stand by.