The Pinocchio Syndrome

by David Zeman

  He nodded grudgingly. “Yeah, she seemed normal enough. Except for that look in her eyes.”

  “That was probably just nervousness over signing the lease,” Karen said. “She’s very stable, really.”

  “Uh-huh.” The realtor pulled a piece of scratch paper from a stack on his desk. “Here’s the address. It’s right down the block from the 7-Eleven. You can’t miss it. There’s a Subway on the corner.”

  With a last significant look he handed the address to Karen, who left in a flurry of enthusiastic thanks.

  Once outside she got into her Honda, which was already hot under the spring sun. A harbinger of the torrid summer to come, she mused as she turned on the air-conditioning and opened the windows.

  The radio was on, tuned to the all-news station.

  “Senator Campbell was not available for comment,”said a reporter.“Few begrudged him his privacy at this painful time. The suicide of his only sister while his wife remains in the hands of her captors was a painful blow, the more so since many in the law enforcement community doubt that Susan Campbell is still alive.”

  Karen reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. She fished out Joe Kraig’s office number and dialed it.

  “Federal agents, may I help you?”

  “Yes, I’d like to speak to Agent Joe Kraig, please.”

  “Who is calling, please?”

  “Karen Embry.”

  “One moment.”

  Karen lit a Newport and sat watching the traffic go by.Come on , she thought. The excitement of being so close to the target made her fingers tremble. She did not want to be alone with this information. She needed one friend she could trust.

  Ingrid Campbell, she thought. An untimely death that brought back memories. Howard Hunt’s wife, dead in a plane crash in 1972. Jack Ruby, dead in his jail cell. Lee Oswald, shot in a police station. All of them silenced.

  Karen was trained to trust no one, to suspect everything. There was more to Ingrid Campbell’s death than met the eye.

  “Agent Kraig is out of the office. Is there a number where you can be reached?”

  “He knows the number. Would you tell him it’s urgent, please?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Thank you.”

  Karen hung up. She thought of waiting for Kraig to call. Then, shaking her head, she closed the car windows and drove off. There was no time.

  77

  —————

  Washington

  JOSEPH KRAIG sat in an underground room at FBI headquarters, listening to the tape of the telephone demand made by Susan Campbell’s abductor.

  In the room were two senior FBI agents, the technician who was in charge of the tape-recording analysis, and one representative each from the DIA, the CIA, and Kraig’s office.

  The voice of Susan Campbell’s captor rang out through the oversized speakers.

  “Michael Campbell must immediately withdraw his name from consideration as vice president. When Campbell has withdrawn and another person has been selected, Mrs. Campbell will be released. If there is a delay in complying with this request, Mrs. Campbell will die.”

  The technician stopped the tape. “She’s been around,” he said. “Deep South, definitely. Also urban South, maybe Atlanta. And somewhere else on the upper Seaboard, possibly Connecticut. But she’s originally from Massachusetts. That’s obvious in the vowels.”

  He rewound the tape and played the voice again. Joe Kraig sat listening. His thoughts were on Karen Embry and her Boston theory. He should not have underestimated the reporter.

  “You didn’t bring us down here for that, did you?” asked the DIA man. “We’ve had men on the voice for two weeks. It’s a dead end.”

  The engineer shook his head. “No, I didn’t bring you here for that. Now, listen to the background.”

  He rewound the tape and played it through twice more.

  “You hear the planes,” he said. The others nodded. The roar of large planes taking off interfered with the clarity of the voice.

  He touched a dial to enhance the sound of the engines, then played the tape through again from the beginning, including Susan’s voice and that of the female captor.

  “The planes are military,” he said. “They’re transports at Bolling Air Force Base. You can’t miss the sound, they’re not like any commercial jet.”

  He played the tape through again. The agents were thoughtful.

  “Now compare the sound of the planes in Mrs. Campbell’s section to the sound in the kidnapper’s section,” he said.

  He played the tape through. Kraig noticed a slight difference in the sound of the planes, but could not put his finger on it.

  “This voice was recorded at a different time,” the technician said. “I talked to the controllers at Bolling. The schedules are very strict over there. The kidnapper’s tape was made in the late afternoon.”

  The CIA man shrugged. “What does that tell us?”

  “In itself, not much,” the technician said. “But now listen to the final part of the tape, which is Mrs. Campbell again.”

  Susan’s voice rang out through the huge speakers, sending a chill down Kraig’s spine.“Michael, please do what they say right away,” Susan said.“I’ve talked to them. They mean business. They know what they’re doing. Michael, I love you . . .”

  The voice had a new ring to it, forlorn and even tragic, now that Kraig knew that Michael had refused to heed the plea in his wife’s voice.

  A loud bang was heard just after the wordbusiness and before Susan began her final sentence,They know what they’re doing . The technician rewound the tape.

  “Okay, you hear that bang,” he said.

  “Sonic boom?” the CIA man asked.

  “No way.” The technician shook his head. “The government won’t allow sonic booms anywhere over the city during working hours. Anyway, this sound is completely different. Listen again closely.”

  He replayed the tape. Kraig heard a sharp cracking sound, but even when enhanced it meant nothing to him.

  “It’s a car accident happening right while she’s talking,” the technician said. “Listen to the enhancement.” He removed the tape and inserted a different one. As the new tape was played Kraig could just make out a fleeting sound of screeching brakes.

  “Right,” he said. “So there was an accident somewhere near the hideout.”

  The tech nodded. “I’ve been on the phone with the D.C. traffic bureau and the city cops since early this morning. They know every accident that took place in the city during the time frame when this message was recorded. We can narrow it down by the sound of the jets at Bolling. We can narrow it further by enhancing all the ambient sounds digitally for distance and direction. Using the computer we can almost map the whole acoustic field around the voice. The technique was developed when they were trying to figure the Kennedy assassination from the radio of one of the motorcycle cops.”

  Those present nodded. Two of the federal agents exchanged a glance.

  The senior FBI man called up a map of southeast Washington and zoomed to the streets within a half-mile radius of the air force base.

  “There were seven accidents in that general area within the time frame we’re talking about,” he said. “Three were fender benders that wouldn’t have made the kind of noise we hear on the tape. Two were multicar pileups, which obviously made multiple crash noises. That leaves one. A head-on collision between a sedan and a delivery van, at the corner of 2nd and Galveston.”

  Using a dial on the console, he zoomed to an intersection in a seedy business district east of the air base.

  “There are no more than two square blocks in which the sound of the accident could have been that loud in comparison with the noise of the planes from the base,” he said. “It’s an old-fashioned district, old row houses and apartment buildings with dry cleaners on the ground floor, that kind of thing.”

  The agents didn’t need to hear any more. This was the first significant clue the
y had had since Susan Campbell’s disappearance.

  “Let’s cordon it off,” Kraig said. “We’ll take four-man teams and blanket the area.”

  “The D.C. police are standing by for the cordon,” said the FBI agent. “We’ll use our own people for the search. Unmarked cars. Remember, there are orders from the top on this.”

  “Let’s move.” It was the CIA agent who said this.

  Kraig was the first one out of the office. Within minutes he was with an assault team, donning a bulletproof vest and trying out his hand-held radio.

  He did not receive the message from his office about Karen Embry’s urgent phone call. He would not learn of the message until it was all over.

  78

  —————

  COLIN GOSS was in the soundproofed office kept for his private use at his D.C. campaign headquarters. He had flown here to be nearer the center of things at this crucial hour. He was on the telephone.

  “When did they find this out?” he asked.

  “This morning,” said the caller, a Goss operative with direct links to the intelligence agencies.

  “And they’re on their way now?”

  “They’re cordoning off the area. They’ll go door to door with SWAT teams.”

  “Do they have the exact address?” Goss asked.

  “No. Just a two- or three-block radius.”

  “Can you get in there ahead of them?” Goss asked.

  “We’re trying. I have men a few blocks away. I don’t know if we can beat them to it. It will be a near thing.”

  “What if you don’t?” Goss asked.

  “We have a man on the front lines. He knows what to do.”

  Goss sighed. The work of twenty years hinged on the events of the next few hours. Not even his own unlimited supply of cash could buy complete certainty about the outcome.

  “All right,” he said. “Just make sure no one comes out of there alive. I’ll take care of your man afterward.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the voice. “We’ll do our best.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ll do your best,” Goss shouted. “Get it done!”

  He slammed down the phone.

  ————

  2:23P .M.

  KAREN DID not know this part of the city well.

  She had to stop and look at a street map twice. She pulled into an Exxon station, filled up the Honda’s tank, and asked the cashier for directions.

  She lit one Newport from another as she drove. Her hands were frozen around the wheel. A queer fluttery feeling was in her stomach, the result of sleeplessness, lack of food, and excitement.

  Suddenly a small dog ran into the street from between the parked cars. Karen slammed on the brakes. The Honda screeched to a stop just as a little boy rushed obliviously into the street after the dog. The boy looked up at Karen in surprise. Then he stooped to reach for the puppy, which slipped away playfully and bounded back onto the sidewalk.

  “Jesus!” she cursed under her breath. A boy one second from violent death, and almost completely indifferent to the danger.

  The boy casually gave Karen the finger as he turned to follow the dog.

  The Honda had stalled. Karen turned the key in the ignition and gunned the motor. She resolved to proceed more carefully. Her excitement was running away with her. The search she had been pursuing for nearly a month had finally ended.

  She was on her way to Justine at last. And to Susan Campbell.

  And, unlike anyone else involved in the search for Susan, Karen knew the answers. She knew thewhy of everything that had happened. This made her all the more anxious to get to her destination.

  She only hoped they were still at the little house toward which she was heading. They might have left, especially after the events of recent days. Justine must realize that her hideout could not remain secret forever. By sending the authorities an audiotape she had given them a clue. They were not stupid; they would find her eventually.

  With this thought Karen felt a pulse of anxiety. Suppose she was not the only one who knew why all this was happening. There were others concerned, after all. Others who stood to gain or lose from what might happen. Others whose whole future might depend on how this situation resolved itself.

  Karen realized she had been very naive. She had thought she alone had eyes to see the truth with, because it was her business to make the truth known. There might be others even more acutely sensitive to that truth, because it was their business to bury it.

  She pressed the accelerator harder.

  ————

  THE CAR Joseph Kraig drove was unmarked. So were all the others converging on the two-block area where Susan Campbell was hidden.

  Kraig was assailed by the same doubts as Karen Embry. A long time had passed since the original demand made by Susan’s captors. If they were as smart as they seemed, they would have known that the tape they had played over the phone contained enough acoustic clues to lead the authorities to their hideout.

  Yet somehow it was not an empty hideout that Kraig feared. The abduction of Susan Campbell had been the last in a series of events that were beyond rational anticipation, events that flouted understanding as well as control. Events that came out of a nightmare and stood shining in the sunlight of day like monsters.

  And at the center of it all, helpless, innocent, Susan Campbell awaited her fate. Kraig had the sinister presentiment that the greatest danger to Susan was coming only now.

  Kraig heard the screech of tires somewhere ahead. Voices cackled on his radio. He put on his brakes. Agents were running toward the car.

  It was time.

  ————

  SUSAN SAT on the edge of the bed. She wore a skirt and blouse borrowed from Justine. The clothes fitted her surprisingly well. Even the cheap pair of discount house shoes Justine had apologetically given her was not uncomfortable.

  The two women were silent, like relatives at an airport passing their last moments together before parting, both at a loss for something to say.

  Susan sat primly, her feet crossed. At that moment, Justine thought, she looked like a little girl. Sad, brave, lonely.

  “You know what to do?” Justine asked.

  “Yes,” Susan said. “I know.”

  “You’ll be sequestered,” Justine said. “They’ll allow you one public statement, and perhaps an interview with your husband present. But they won’t let anyone see you alone.”

  Susan nodded.

  “There won’t be much time to work with,” Justine said. “A week, maybe two. After that you won’t be safe.”

  Susan nodded again. “I understand.”

  She studied Justine’s face.

  “How can you be so sure . . . ?” she asked.

  “Sure of what? That I won’t make it?”

  Susan nodded, her eyes downcast.

  “Remember what we said about the emperor’s new clothes?” Justine asked. “About the mother shushing the child?”

  “And then everyone goes on admiring the emperor’s new suit of clothes,” Susan said. “I remember.”

  “That’s the real world, Susan. The truth isn’t strong. It needs help sometimes. More help than I can give it alone.”

  Susan’s eyes misted. “I don’t like to think of you . . .”

  “Dead?” Justine smiled. “Let that be the least of your worries, Susan. It will be a deliverance.” She sat back in her chair and sighed. The cut marks on her wrists shone as she stretched her arms. “To close my eyes, to sleep without dreaming . . .”

  She looked at Susan. A sad smile curled her lips. “I found my way to you at last,” she said. “You can’t know how much that eases the pain. Thanks to you, I’m not alone now.”

  Her eyes grew more serious. “I’ve worked so hard, Susan, to bring us to this moment. It’s been my whole life. I need to feel . . . You won’t let me down, will you?”

  Susan gave her a firm nod. “I’m not much, but you can count on me. I won’t let you down.”

  The
re was a pause. Both women started to say something, then fell silent. They returned to their vigil. The planes droned overhead. Susan felt as though she were in a place of parting, a place of tears and new beginnings.

  ————

  IN THE Oval Office the president waited.

  He had ordered his secretary to hold all calls. The line to the FBI was open. Nothing would happen until the result of the assault was known.

  The president took a long look out the window at Pennsylvania Avenue. It was a beautiful day. Tourists waited in line to see the White House, the mothers holding their children’s hands. Their patience touched him. They wanted to see the seat of government. To see where the decisions were made that protected their freedoms.

  He turned to look at the walls of the office. The painting of Lincoln by Harkness was where he had ordered it hung when he first came here. Photos of past presidents who had touched his life personally were displayed, some shaking hands with him, others alone. He kept them here for moral support. They had occupied this office and endured the stresses it brought. If they could do it, he often told himself, so could he.

  “The buck stops here.” So ran the old maxim. He wondered about its truth. It might be more accurate to say,The end begins here . At least for certain presidents, for certain times. Rare was the president who got through eight years without at least once being swamped by events out of control. He himself had been under siege almost since the day of his inauguration.

  The phone rang. It was his secretary. The FBI director was on the line.

  “Put him through,” the president said.

  “Hello, Mr. President,” the director said. “I wanted you to know they’re making the assault. It won’t be long before we have all the answers.”

  “Tell your men to be careful,” the president said. “If Susan Campbell is alive in there, I don’t want her hurt.” The situation can still be saved, he thought. If no more bad luck happens, Michael Campbell might have his wife back, and the country might have a vice president again.