Chapter 50
Chelsea’s boss was fed up with the distractions.
Her coworkers were complaining about the harassment.
Their names were “out there,” in play, on the internet, and they were getting calls and emails at all hours from reporters, tabloids, cable TV crime shows, people claiming to be documentary filmmakers, and low-end literary agents.
Everybody had an angle, a pitch, an idea, a ploy to engage her.
Before he could fire her, she quit. She walked out without a word, got in her car, and drove away.
She convinced Sam to run away with her, to forget his classes and his bar for a week or so, and head for warmer weather.
At the last minute, though, he pulled out, said the bar was shorthanded and he couldn’t leave.
Lowell and Justine were worried about her.
Until the news broke, she had been a model of stability, the cheerleader for both her family and Paul’s.
But now that her face had appeared in the news and the story was viral, she was shutting down.
She was convinced the publicity would somehow inspire the kidnappers to harm her husband.
She was also surprised and saddened by the reactions from friends who felt betrayed by her lies.
She had tried to explain that the fiction they spun about Paul was not her idea.
The authorities, the people who were supposed to know what to do, had concocted the stories and practically ordered her and the families to hide behind them.
Now, through no fault of hers, it was blowing up.
The final straw was the appearance at the Clayburns’ front door of two men on two days, back to back.
They apparently did not know each other, though Justine gave neither much time to explain.
In wildly different narratives, they claimed to be ex-agents—one CIA and the other military intelligence—and tried to convince Justine, through the cracked door, that they could rescue Paul and the others.
For a nice fee, of course, though they never got the chance to say exactly how much.
The men were frightening and Justine had had enough.
The following day, she and Chelsea drove to Reagan National, parked in the long-term lot, and caught a nonstop to Bermuda.
They had offered Lowell a half-hearted invitation to join them, though they knew he would decline.
He was working harder than ever after parting with $2 million–plus months earlier.
Chelsea was nervous about flying anywhere, and getting into strange cars with strange drivers, but she managed to stay calm.
She kept her window down as they soaked in the tropical air and headed to the resort.
She stayed close to her mother, who was delighted to have Chelsea all to herself for a few days.
They checked in and quickly changed into swimsuits.
An hour after landing in Hamilton they were in the pool, soaking in the warm water and sipping tall fruity drinks.
“You think he’s coming home, Mom?” Chelsea asked. It was the question she kept asking, always in an innocent tone, like a little girl who expects whatever her mom says to come true.
“I do, even with the publicity. I still believe.”
Chelsea hid her eyes behind sunglasses and did not respond.
“Do you?” Justine asked.
“I think so, but I lose a little confidence each day. I’m just not as sure now.”
“We have no idea what our people are really doing, Chelsea. But you gotta believe they are trying everything to get Paul and the others back.”
“Our people?”
“What do you want to call them? The authorities? CIA? Pentagon? They are the best in the world and this is a priority. As they told us, Paul’s situation is being monitored at the White House. And, there is an operation being planned, right?”
“I guess. They say so, but how are we supposed to know?”
“We don’t know and that’s how it should be. These are highly classified matters, Chelsea, and they have to be protected.”
“I get that, but the truth is we don’t know anything.”
“Consider it a blessing. If we knew we wouldn’t be able to sleep at night.”
“I’m not sleeping anyway.”
“Look, we’re here for four days. Let’s enjoy the moment.”
“We’ll miss Thanksgiving for the first time.”
“Big deal. Your dad and Sam can eat cold turkey sandwiches and we’ll dine on lobster and crab.”
“Paul will miss it too.”
“I know. And you and Paul have many years ahead of you to enjoy the holidays.”
—
The families knew nothing of the ransom demand passed along by Cully Pratt.
Trevor Keefe and his brain trust at Langley had quickly said no to the idea of full disclosure.
It was too problematic. The families would howl and want instant capitulation.
The money was a drop in the bucket in the scheme of things.
And if the ransom wasn’t paid, and the hostages were harmed or killed, the fallout would be seismic. No sir. Just sit on the information until somebody else makes the decision.
That somebody worked in the White House, and he was still holding the hard line: This country does not negotiate with terrorists. If we start paying ransom, then no American citizen will be safe anywhere in the world.
A week after the first meeting in Dublin, Pratt called another, smaller one.
He summoned Pascal Goff from Paris, invited him to his office, made sure he was free of hidden wires and cameras, and met him in his office.
The quick conversation could have easily taken place by phone or internet, but Pratt did not trust any American operative or diplomat.
He did not want a recording, nor did he want others listening in the shadows.
Goff knew better than to beat around the bush with Pratt.
He said, “I’m just the messenger, right?
As of today, the ransom demand is still on the table, and that table is in the White House.
There is considerable support for paying it immediately and getting the boys, but there is also significant opposition to negotiating with the, uh, gang. ”
“Well, I too am just the messenger and I have no clout. But I think this will not be received as good news with my contact.”
His contact was the Egyptian ambassador to the U.K.
, a career diplomat greatly respected in the West. He, too, was simply acting as an intermediary, and had no idea where the hostages were being held or who had them.
He did not ask to be involved. The messages were coming to him through an old friend in Marseille.
Cully Pratt did not know the Americans now knew his contact, and it really didn’t matter.
Goff said, “Obviously, we need more time.”
Pratt rubbed his salt-and-pepper beard and studied the table. “I’ll relay this to my contact. I’m sure you people appreciate the danger involved here, and the kidnappers’ capacity for violence. They have the bargaining chips, Mr. Goff.”
“The Americans realize this. The situation is quite fluid and can change at any time.”
“It will probably change when the world sees a video of a hostage being executed, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I agree. Please ask for more time.”
“Certainly. But all I can do is ask.”