Chapter 36
It was only a matter of time before the rumors coalesced into a real story.
There were too many friends and colleagues asking too many questions and passing along too much gossip to corral the truth any longer.
Something had to give. Someone would pull the pieces together and whisper to this contact or that one, and a journalist of some variety would appear on the scene sniffing at a story too sensational to ignore.
And the families were tired of the lying.
What was obvious became even more so. Paul and Chelsea got married and went to Paris for a glorious honeymoon.
Both had promising careers in Washington.
Paul got sick and spent weeks in a hospital.
Chelsea came home without him. Now three months had passed and where was Paul?
What happened to him? Why had he not returned?
His cover story at the Department of Justice was falling apart and his colleagues wanted answers.
There was a rumor that Paul had met someone else and jilted his bride; hard to believe but something had happened over there! Chelsea refused to live with that lie.
For Fritz and Linzy Tanner, the nightmare continued day after day, and they were learning that it could not be downplayed until Paul came home.
By August, they had sold or given away most of their household items and clothing.
They moved some into storage. The remainder fit snugly into their rented one-bedroom condo on the fifth floor of a sprawling mess near Dulles Airport.
They avoided friends because every lunch or dinner or phone call was strained and stilted since Paul could not be mentioned.
And Paul was always the topic they danced around.
Rick Tanner dropped out of the bar review course because he couldn’t concentrate.
He asked his future employer in San Francisco for a one-year deferment and it was being considered.
He claimed some vague health issues were causing problems. Because there was no room in the new condo, not to mention its depressing atmosphere, he was living with some friends and sleeping on a sofa.
In part because they were not facing financial pressures, the Clayburns were doing better than the Tanners, but not by much.
They were also avoiding friends and difficult conversations.
They, too, were tired of lying and knew perfectly well that the lies weren’t working anymore.
Chelsea had confided in several friends and told the truth, but always with the urgency to keep everything quiet.
Those friends, of course, whispered to others.
The quiet was threatened by a reporter from the Washington Journal.
Her name was Amy Rowe and she had the experience and credibility to blow the cover.
She began asking questions of friends and colleagues in late summer and it wasn’t long before word filtered to Chelsea, who eventually called Agent Lon Dyer to inform him that there might be a problem.
The story had been leaked. The bloodhounds were on the trail.
Following protocol, Dyer worked his way up the communication ladder and handed it off to a supervisor, who finally called Dexter Maceas at the CIA.
This led to a meeting with the publisher of the Journal, a tough irascible newspaper guy named Jock Buchanan.
He had been banging heads with top government officials his entire career, and, as a general rule, didn’t care for them.
It was a simple reality of a free press that some stories should not be published.
National security issues could be in play.
The lives and careers of government operatives, security personnel, soldiers, even corporate executives could be ruined.
Hostages, prisoners, double agents, assets, and kidnap victims could disappear forever.
Jock refused to meet anywhere but his own office on M Street. He didn’t trust the spooks or cops and always assumed they were wired. Dexter Maceas arrived on a hot day in August when the AC unit was out of service. They sat on a small terrace in search of a breeze.
“Whatta you got?” Maceas asked.
“My reporter has a pretty strong story about the kidnapping of an American in Paris, a boy on his honeymoon.”
“Do you have his name?”
“We do. Paul Tanner, works at Justice.”
Maceas nodded as if this was news to him. It was not. The CIA knew what Amy Rowe knew.
“Is that all?” Maceas asked.
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Are we playing games?”
“Possibly. Why shouldn’t we run the story?”
“Tanner and his bride were snatched back in April. Her family paid two million bucks in ransom and she came home. Name is Chelsea Clayburn Tanner.”
“Got that.”
“The Tanners paid the same but did not get their son back. We believe he’s still alive and being held for reasons that remain unclear.”
Jock lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the clouds. “And the others?”
Maceas took a breath and said, “Two others. Do you have their names?”
“Yes. Amy Rowe has contacted both families, but didn’t get much. They seem to be pretty frightened.”
“And they should be. The kidnappers made it clear that any publicity would be very dangerous for the boys. That’s why we’re asking you to sit on it for a few more weeks.”
“And what might happen in a few more weeks?”
“I can’t say. But running the story now could endanger the lives of the hostages. We feel strongly that the story should wait.”
“For how long, Dexter? This is not going to stay buried, you know that. It’s too good and too many people know about it. I don’t want to get scooped.”
“Give us some time. We have something in the works.”
“Gee, never heard that before.” Another long drag, another blast of smoke. “How high does this go?”
“All the way to the top.”
“Okay. Off the record.”
“Everything is off the record.”
“Of course. Who are the bad guys?”
“We really don’t know. The only clue is that all three hostages were in the military before they hung up their uniforms.”
“My reporter knows that. She’s good and she likes to dig. She went to Paris and spent a week with a French journalist sniffing through hospital records. No sign of anyone named Paul Tanner. She’s got the goods, Dexter, and the story has got to run.”
Maceas doubted the story. The CIA knew there were more than forty hospitals of all shapes and sizes in Paris, and that it was virtually impossible to have a peek at their patients’ records.
The CIA had done so, but only with help from the highest levels of French security.
At the urging of Rae Claire Russo the French had been asked to plant a patient named Tanner.
That request was still pending. Now it was too late.
Jock nodded and puffed. “I was in the Marines, you know?”
“I know. Sit on it, Jock, and if you get wind of another reporter snooping around, let me know. I’ll do likewise.”
“If that happens we’re running the story.”
“Understood.”
—
Amy Rowe did not understand, nor did she particularly believe in following orders.
She finally found Chelsea at her new job as an online travel consultant for a major credit card company.
She spent eight hours a day in a cubbyhole, on the phone arranging flight, hotel, and tour details for well-heeled customers.
She wasn’t happy with the job but at least she didn’t know her coworkers. There was no one to whisper about Paul.
The building was a huge converted warehouse in Chevy Chase.
Amy talked her way past a lethargic security guard, then a receptionist who was on the phone with a boyfriend problem.
Pressing on through the first-floor cubicles, she passed several before she caught a glimpse of a person who looked like Chelsea Tanner.
Amy had some photos from Chelsea’s once-busy social media activities.
“Are you Chelsea Tanner?” she asked, practically attacking her small glass desk.
Chelsea, wearing headphones and a mike, was startled but said, “Who are you?”
Amy whipped out a business card. Chelsea had heard of her.
“Can we talk? I just need a minute?” Amy said.
A minute? It would take days to tell the story. Chelsea feigned hearing something in the earphones and waited a moment. She said, “Can’t you see I’m working? I can’t talk now. Please leave.”
“I won’t be but a moment.”
“I’m calling security.”
“Okay. There’s my number. Please give me a call.”
“I have nothing to say. I’ve called the guards.”
Amy backed away and disappeared. Chelsea waited five minutes, then called Agent Lon Dyer again. He again assured her the reporter was under control. The story would stay buried.