Chapter 9
The Tanners once again faced the issue of notifying their other two children.
Rick was in his last semester of law school and was not one to walk around with a phone in his pocket, nor did he spend time on social media.
Eva, though, lived on her devices. She had been a bridesmaid in the wedding and was following the honeymooners on Instagram.
It was only a matter of time before she called home from Emory with questions about the sudden silence from Paris.
They decided that, for the moment anyway, they had other things to worry about. When in doubt, it was easier to procrastinate, though there was little choice but to call Rick and Eva by the end of the day. And they wanted to. They needed to hear their voices and know they were okay.
As if on cue, Eva called around nine Saturday morning to ask whether something was wrong.
She had tried Chelsea’s cell several times with no luck.
Linzy chatted with her and feigned indifference, said they were probably too busy over there to be bothered.
Eva didn’t buy it and knew something was amiss.
Linzy managed to get her off the phone with promises to call later when she heard something.
She and Fritz decided to ignore their cell phones for the next few hours.
The more pressing problem was trying to find the money, and in a hurry.
With reluctance, Fritz called his brother, Hudson, who worked for a housing developer in Baltimore.
Standing on the patio, and using the burner, Fritz swore him to secrecy and told him the truth.
Hudson was eight years younger and the two had never been particularly close.
He was a widower, having lost his wife to cancer after a nightmarish struggle that ruined them financially.
She had always been sickly and they had never been able to have children.
This had caused an unspoken resentment over the years, especially as their niece and nephews excelled in academics and athletics.
When Hudson was in his early forties he flipped some commercial real estate and hit the jackpot, and his success led him and his wife to adopt a fancier lifestyle.
For a few years, they spent wildly and traveled the world, and were quick to let the rest of the family know they were in the fast lane.
Her illness slowed them considerably, some deals went sour, the property market tanked, and Hudson barely hung on.
He was now earning a good living working for another company, but the serious money was gone.
His wife’s illness and death changed him again and he battled depression.
Fritz confided in him because he could be trusted, and also because he understood real estate.
And, most importantly at the moment, he worked with some partners with access to investors.
Hudson was shocked at the news. He was quite fond of his nephew Paul, and couldn’t believe what was unfolding in Paris.
His initial thoughts were that procuring a hefty mortgage on their home would be easy, but it could not be done in five days.
The quickest money would come from a fire sale.
Hudson had been in their home in Old Town Alexandria many times and knew the area well.
Over the years, he and Fritz had joked about the brilliance of buying the house for $90,000 in 1988, just as the market bottomed.
Fritz said that the last tax assessment from the city was $1.
6 million. Off the cuff, Hudson thought the house would sell for around $2 million.
A quick sale for cash could be pulled off in forty-eight hours, and Hudson knew some prospective buyers, as well as the right attorney.
Listing the house with a realtor would probably slow things down.
He knew a property consultant in D.C. who charged a nice fee for matching buyers and sellers without the hassle of venturing into the open market.
Fritz and Linzy had almost $200,000 in their IRA accounts, which could be redeemed quickly, with penalties.
Hudson would start making calls and keep everything confidential, which would not be easy.
It was a Saturday, not the best time to work on a deal, but they had no choice.
He lived an hour away and would be there as soon as possible.
After the call, Linzy joined Fritz on the patio. They sat in lawn chairs near the grill and tried to comprehend what was happening. Losing their home would be painful. Losing their son was unimaginable.
—
Dr. Clayburn “stood by” for four hours until he could not stay in his cramped room any longer.
He left the hotel and began meandering through the maze of streets near the Marais quarter.
The sky suddenly turned dark and a spring shower came out of nowhere.
Of course, he had no umbrella and saw none for sale.
He did see an empty table in a small tea shop and ducked inside.
He never drank tea and stared at the board with at least fifty varieties until he found one he could pronounce.
Sitting in a corner and watching it rain while listening to the unfamiliar rapid-fire French of the friends around him, he asked himself again, Where am I and what am I doing here?
The answers were still vague. He examined his cell phone; nothing from the kidnappers.
He called home and talked to Sam, who said Justine was napping.
Thanks to another pill. He tried to get her out of the house for a quick lunch around the corner, but she refused to leave her laptop, which was by her side.
They chatted for a few minutes, primarily to hear each other’s voices, then rang off with promises to do it again in an hour or so.
—
At noon, Fritz, Linzy, and Hudson were seated at the kitchen table and staring at the laptop.
Phones were at the ready. The kidnappers chose Linzy’s again, and directed her to a different email address.
She typed in the passcode. Suddenly, there was the same grotesque image of a young man sitting in a dark room with a black hood over his head.
The terrorist, in full combat attire, yanked off the hood and Paul flinched at the light and closed his eyes. Linzy gasped and covered her mouth.
It was not possible to tell if Paul and been subjected to more beatings. His lips, left jaw, and eye were even more swollen. The blood had not been wiped from his face but allowed to dry and crust. Off camera a voice asked, “What is your name?”
“Paul Tanner.”
“And your message?”
“Uh, please do what they say.” His voice was strained and coarse. “They seem eager to kill me, so please do what they say.”
The image was gone in seconds. A cursor appeared, prompting, then the words: Do you have the money?
Linzy typed: “Almost. We are making arrangements. We are not wealthy.”
Not my concern. Deadline 10am Wed your time for wire transfer. Understood?
“Yes.”
Next contact, noon tomorrow. We are watching.
—
Paul remained at the table with the hood back in place. His captor said, “There is food and water in front of you. I will remove the wrist cuffs and the hood and you can eat. You have ten minutes.”
—
“Where is my wife?”
“She is close by and safe.”
“I want to talk to her! You understand? I want to talk to my wife.”
“And she wants to talk to you. The quickest way to have a little chat with her is to do exactly as we say and stop asking questions.”
“Who are you?”
“As if we’re going to answer. Again, Paul, stupid questions will only make matters worse. Did you learn nothing in captivity training?”
Paul couldn’t respond. His mind was still half numb from the drugs. His body was in shock from mistreatment. But the message was clear: They knew him. He had been chosen, somehow selected by a well-organized gang on French soil. Tough, smart operatives with accented English.
His plastic wrist cuffs were removed and he instinctively rubbed his hands together.
They ached from a lack of circulation. His hood was yanked off again and his guard was gone in an instant.
He was blind for a moment as his eyes tried mightily to adjust. Slowly, images came together.
He removed the cap from the water bottle and took a much needed drink.
What if they had added more drugs? He didn’t care.
They would juice him one way or the other.
There was a crack in a wall somewhere far above his head and a sliver of light made its way through.
He chewed on a piece of stale bread, old but delicious, and watched the images form.
His bed was a cheap cot with a thick, dusty quilt.
The door looked solid and was no doubt heavily secured.
Of course there were no windows. The bowl in front of him had four slices of bread, two apples, and a bunch of white grapes.
He ate them, slow but steady, because the clock was ticking.
If he could believe them, his bride was close by. He prayed she was safe and not getting knocked around. Maybe her room was nicer, her provisions better.
If they wanted money, the Clayburns could certainly be squeezed for more than the Tanners. He hated the thought of his parents getting yanked into this nightmare.
Hopefully, it was only about money.