When Sam arrived in New York, he went straight to the Plaza, where Bill Ford was waiting. Bill had heard about the change in plans from Molly and called while Sam was still in the air, asking him to stop by.
“I need to get home,” Sam had told him.
“Come by here first.”
Bill was in the penthouse suite, sitting with his feet up, a platter of fruit on the table beside him, Rush Limbaugh on the TV calling Nancy Pelosi a liar over something. Bill wore wrinkled cotton pants and a golf shirt. Sam entered and looked around. Bill read his mind, not a tough chore in this case.
“There’s booze over there.” He turned the TV off. “If you need it.”
Sam poured himself a healthy slug of single malt and came over to sit down. Taking a drink, he looked around. The place was massive, with twelve foot-ceilings and a view of the park. The furniture was chocolate brown, the carpet beige.
“That’s tough news about your daughter,” Bill said.
Sam had a drink and nodded. He was looking at a painting on the wall, a print of a Native American sitting on his pony on the plains somewhere. It might have been Wyoming. The man was looking off in the distance, where a locomotive was crossing the prairie, a long plume of white smoke trailing from the engine. The painting was meant to be allegorical, Sam supposed.
“What’s the thinking on it?” Bill asked.
“If some sexual deviant grabbed her, the outlook is not good,” Sam said, still considering the painting. “That’s pretty much a given in these cases. But if it’s about money, they’ll keep her alive.”
“What if it’s neither?”
Now Sam turned to him. “What do you mean?”
“You have to look at the timing of this thing. You’ve just announced, and now this.”
Sam took a moment. “You’re saying it’s political?”
Bill shrugged and put a piece of melon in his mouth.
“To what end?” Sam asked.
“To get you to suspend your campaign,” Bill said. “You are going to suspend your campaign?”
“I have to.”
“Of course.”
Sam drank, watching the older man over the rim of the glass. “Are you saying I shouldn’t?”
“Of course not. This is your daughter.” Bill shrugged. “Besides, I doubt that somebody has done this in order to scare you out of the race. You don’t strike me as a man who runs away from things.”
“I’m not.” Sam took another drink and realized he’d been practically gulping the whiskey. “Do you really think they’re capable of something like this?”
“Who?”
“The other side.”
“Depends who you’re talking about when you say the other side,” Bill said. “If you mean the man you’re running against, I would say no. If you mean certain people who have an interest in his winning, well, that’s another story. Politics is a dirty game. I hope that’s not news to you.”
Sam got to his feet and walked to the bar. After he poured, he turned back to Bill Ford. “Are you capable of this?”
“If you’re asking me if I had your daughter kidnapped to draw attention to your campaign, the answer is no,” Bill said. “But somebody kidnapped her, and it will draw attention to your campaign. Not necessarily in a negative way either. I’ll be frank with you—we’ve done some early polling and your numbers stink. The whole parachute issue is proving to be a bigger obstacle than we anticipated. We need to change the dialogue and we haven’t found a way to do that. Until now.”
“You’re saying I should use the fact that my daughter’s been abducted.”
“Our first concern is your daughter,” Bill said. “You need to do everything in your power to get her back safe and sound. However, if you were to decide to stay in the race, the added publicity might make it less likely that the people holding her will hurt her. And the increased visibility might even help in finding her.”
Sam considered this.
Bill continued. “Not only that, but this might give you an opportunity to show people who you really are. Voters will empathize with a father in your position. Especially a father who’s willing to stand up to these thugs. And while that’s happening, the other side is going to be less eager to attack you, given the circumstances. Do you see what I mean?”
“Yeah,” Sam said, downing the scotch. “I see what you mean.”
When Doug Ryder got home, the kids were already in bed. Nancy was waiting dinner for him, although it was somewhat overcooked. He’d been in the city longer than he’d counted on and when he got back to Philly and gone to pick up the car at the dealership, it wasn’t ready yet. Something about the brakes needing new rotors, which had to be sent over from another dealer. That’s what they told him anyway. Doug knew nothing about cars and often suspected he was being taken advantage of. The Kia had less than thirty thousand miles on it. Why would it need new brakes?
He and Nancy ate together in the kitchen, tough roast beef and reheated potatoes and corn. He told her about his two days in New York, about the meetings he’d had. It had been worth the trip. He’d picked up two new accounts, which would mean that his year was already set. So much for his old partners who’d told him that he couldn’t run a consulting business out of Seven Valleys, Pennsylvania. These days you could run anything out of anywhere. The house in Seven Valleys had cost them just two hundred and twelve thousand. The same place in Philly, the neighborhood they’d moved from eighteen months ago, would be at least twice that.
After dinner, they drank coffee while Nancy told him about Emily’s soccer game that afternoon. She’d scored her first goal. She wanted to stay up to tell her dad about it but it had gotten too late. School tomorrow. Nancy suggested that Doug make a big deal about it in the morning.
The agents hit both doors, front and rear, at the same time, using some sort of battering device to smash them open, hinges ripping from the jams, glass shattering. Nancy screamed as the men barged into the kitchen, bulky guys in black flak jackets and heavy jackboots. They wore headgear too, with shields, FBI stenciled on the helmets. They held assault weapons and they were yelling for Doug and Nancy to get on the floor while they swept the house, waking the kids and causing all manner of panic.
Doug’s overnight bag was inside the front door, where he’d dropped it coming in. The agents eventually found the phone they were looking for in a side compartment. Doug told them he had no idea how it got there and, after twelve hours detention and interrogation and background checks at an FBI office in Philadelphia, they finally seemed to believe him. One of the agents drove him home around noon the next day. When Doug asked why they’d been following the phone, the agent told him it was none of his business. The guy seemed a little pissed that he’d been chosen to drive Doug back to Seven Valleys. Doug wanted to tell the guy that he was a little pissed himself, with his front and back door smashed to pieces and his kids scared half to death, being dragged out of bed by strangers in riot gear. Not to mention the all-night grilling that followed. He decided to keep quiet though. He doubted there was an upside to aggravating the FBI.