Speaker Blaine was determined. He had spent the day steeling himself for what he had to do. What Stone Barrington said made good sense: he had to demand proof of life. He had to know one way or another whether his daughter was alive. By rights she had to be. If she wasn’t, they got nothing. They had to prove she was.
His cell phone rang. He jumped at the sound. He had left it out on the table so he wouldn’t have to fumble for it in his pocket. The ring echoed loudly in the silence. He snatched it up, clicked it on.
“Yes?” he said breathlessly.
It was the voice he’d come to dread. “You must not care about your daughter.”
The demands he had been forming died in his throat. “What?” he stammered.
“You clearly don’t care if she lives or dies, or you wouldn’t be doing what you’re doing.”
“What am I doing?”
“Everyone knows you’re making bipartisan overtures to the President. But you haven’t made a statement. You haven’t been explicit. You need to go on TV and come out in favor of the veterans aid bill.”
Speaker Blaine was horrified. “I can’t do that.”
“Oh, I think you can,” Abdul-Hakim said.
And the line went dead.
The congressman stared at the phone in horror. What had he done? He hadn’t demanded proof of life, and he’d refused their demands. And there was no way to reach them, to make things better, to straighten this out. Even if he did what they demanded, went on TV, created a political firestorm, it would take time, and they wouldn’t know he was going to do it.
What would they do to his daughter?