The following morning, Blair earned Dr. Marketa’s wrath by advising her that he was signing himself out of the hospital. Per their rules, he was transported in a wheelchair. Accompanying him was Andrew Sciascia.
No sooner did they come through the main door of the hospital, however, than a throng of reporters surrounded them. Microphones and cameras battled for position.
“How are you feeling?”
“Any word on your daughter, Mr. Mulligan?”
“What will you do now?”
“Can you tell us where Sandra is being held?”
Speaking on his behalf, Andrew let them know that Blair would have no comment at this time.
“When can we interview him?” a voice called out as if he wasn’t standing there.
“Is it true he’s already signed a deal for a book?” another wanted to know.
Blair asked to be taken back inside.
Andrew went to get his car and pulled up in front. With the help of hospital security, a pathway was cleared and they were able to make their escape.
The next day he came out of his condo, only to be met once more by reporters. He jogged past them, and kept going until he found an empty cab. An even larger press contingent was waiting for him at his office.
Blair was relieved to make it into the elevator and upstairs. He motioned to his secretary. Andrea Victor followed him into his office, took a seat opposite his desk, and immediately apologized.
“What in the world for?” he asked.
“For not getting it. I went back over your e-mails as soon as the story came out. I could tell something was wrong. That you weren’t yourself. I … should have done something.” She was on the verge of tears.
“Listen,” he said, “they were reading every e-mail I received or sent out. I racked my brain for a word or phrase I could use to tip you off. I couldn’t find anything that would work. This isn’t your fault. You did nothing wrong.”
“Are you positive?”
He forced his smile to reassure her. “I am more than positive,” he said.
Alone, Blair paced his office, thinking only of Sandra.
Al-Qaeda had her. And he knew all too well how merciless they were.
He didn’t want his daughter to die.
“Sandra,” he whispered aloud.
It helped just to say her name, as if that in itself would bring her closer.
“Jeremy Samson on line one,” his secretary advised just after eleven-thirty.
He picked up the receiver and said hello.
“How are you doing?”
“Fine,” he said quietly.
“That bad, huh? Look, I wanted to give you an update on your daughter’s whereabouts. My contacts here in the Middle East have been put on high alert. If this is where they are bringing her, we will find out. Okay?”
He sighed. “I hear you, Jeremy. Thank you.”
“Thanks. Shmanks. Don’t be so formal. We’ll find her, Blair. You just have to give it time.”
“Time? I read somewhere that the first twenty-four hours in any disappearance are critical.”
“Yeah. Under normal circumstances. This ain’t normal.”
“I want you to call me the minute you hear something. I’ll be booking an open-ended ticket to Tel Aviv. One phone call from you and I’ll be on my way.”
“Uh-uh. That wouldn’t be wise, Blair.”
“Why not?”
“You should know better than most what these people are like.”
“Then, what should I do?” Mucus caught in Blair’s throat and he began to cough.
“You do nothing,” Jeremy said. “Wait until you hear from me. By the way,” he changed the subject, “the press in Israel has already married the story about what you did in New York to how you saved that girl’s life over here.”
“Oh, yeah? How would they connect both incidents to me?”
“Moira, the restaurant lady. She noticed your picture in the newspaper. No one knew your identity. Now, people are discussing you by name, talking about your bravery.”
Blair tuned him out, embarrassed. “All I care about is finding my daughter. Nothing else matters to me.”
“I know that.”
“Will you help me, then? I can’t go on without Sandra.”
“I’ll find her,” Jeremy said. “I promise.”