My Gal Sunday

by Mary Higgins Clark

  There was a tap on the door. “I would suggest you hurry, Congresswoman. There’s a broadcast coming up in just a minute that I’m sure you will find interesting.”

  She pushed against the battered door and it opened. Her monklike captor took her arm in an almost courteous gesture of support. “I wouldn’t want you to fall,” he said.

  As she shuffled awkwardly across the basement, Sunday thought she caught a trace of the scent of bacon cooking. Was there someone upstairs? How many people were involved in this operation? When they reached the chair, the pressure of his palm on her shoulder indicated that she was to sit down.

  With quick, deft movements, he again bound her against the chair back, only this time leaving her arms free. “It’s 6:30,” he said. “You must be getting hungry. But first I want you to see Dan Rather’s broadcast. I do hope that for your sake he followed instructions.”

  The CBS Evening News began. A grim-faced Rather reported the breaking story: “Congresswoman Sandra O’Brien Britland of New Jersey, better known as ‘Sunday,’ the wife of former President Henry Parker Britland, has been kidnapped. Her captor, or captors, are demanding that the international terrorist-assassin Claudus Jovunet be put aboard the new American SST to be flown to some as yet undetermined location. Instructions stipulate that the only other persons allowed on the plane are to be two pilots. If these conditions are not met, the captors say that the congresswoman will be thrown into the Atlantic Ocean. I have spoken with former President Henry Britland, who is in the Oval Office with his successor, Desmond Ogilvey. He assured me that the terms will be met and the government is in full cooperation with the need to ensure his wife’s safety.”

  Sunday’s captor smiled. “I’m sure there’ll be a lot more about you. I’ll just leave it on while I get your dinner. Enjoy the program.”

  Sunday focused on the TV as Rather was saying, “We’re switching live to the White House, where the former president will make a personal plea to his wife’s abductors.”

  A few seconds later, Sunday stared helplessly at the fear and grief in her husband’s face. The sound seemed to have changed, and she had to try to lean forward to hear what he was saying.

  Then Henry’s impassioned plea was drowned out by the sound of singing. There seemed to be two voices, a man’s and that perhaps of an old woman. Sunday could barely make out the words. “. . . mice . . .” she heard, and then she understood: “Three blind mice . . . see how they run . . .”

  “They all ran after the farmer’s wife,” she continued mentally.

  But that was not what she was heating. The voices were louder now, and closer, approaching from the staircase.

  “. . . they all ran after the president’s wife, but she’d been drowned for the fish to bite . . .”

  The song stopped abruptly. She heard her captor’s voice say, “ That was very nice. Now go upstairs.”

  A moment later he was standing before her, holding a small tray.

  “Hungry?” he asked pleasantly. “Mother’s not much of a cook, but she tries.”

  Blinking back tears, Henry Britland turned away from the camera. The normally boisterous press room was unnaturally quiet. The eyes of the people gathered there reflected their sympathy.

  Looking at him compassionately, Jack Collins mused that if there was one single thought that everyone in the room must be sharing, it was that Henry Parker Britland IV might be one of the nicest, smartest, wealthiest, most charismatic men in the universe, but that everything would be meaningless to him if he lost Sunday.

  “I never saw a guy as crazy about his wife,” Collins overheard a young White House aide whisper to a young woman at his side. You’re so right, Jack thought, so very right. God help him get through this.

  President Ogilvey had joined Henry. “Let’s go into the Cabinet Room,” he said, taking the younger man by the arm.

  Impatiently, Henry brushed the last trace of moisture from his eyes. I have to get hold of myself, he thought. I need to concentrate, use my head to get Sunday back. If I don’t, I’ll have the rest of my life to mourn.

  In the Cabinet Room, they sat around the long table as he and Des had done on numerous occasions during his eight years in office. The entire cabinet had joined them now, along with the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the FBI and CIA directors.

  President Ogilvey deferred to Henry: “We all know why we are here, Henry. You take over.”

  “Thank you all for coming,” Henry said briskly. “Please realize that I understand your feelings as I know you understand mine. Now to the plan of action. I want to say how touched I am that the president has agreed to exchange Jovunet for my wife, and I also understand that we have to make sure that immediately after we get her back we recapture Jovunet. This government cannot be put in the position of caving in to terrorists and hostage situations.”

  An aide tiptoed unobtrusively into the conference room and whispered in the president’s ear. Ogilvey raised his eyes. “Henry, the British prime minister is on the phone. He has expressed his deep regrets and offers any kind of assistance that we feel he could render.”

  Henry nodded. For a moment his mind flashed back to when he and Sunday were in London. They had stayed at Claridge’s. The queen had invited them to a dinner at Windsor Castle. He had been so proud of Sunday. She was the most charming, the most beautiful woman there. They had been so happy . . .

  Henry realized with a start that Des was still speaking to him. “ Henry, Her Majesty wants to speak to you personally. The prime minister tells us she is deeply concerned. She told him that what they need in her family is a girl just like Sunday.”

  Henry took the phone that was offered to him, and a moment later he heard the familiar voice of the sovereign of Great Britain.

  “Your Majesty . . .” he began.

  Another aide was whispering to President Ogilvey. “Sir, we’ve promised that you would return the calls of the presidents of Egypt and Syria. Both insist that they are unaware of any terrorist organizations within their countries that had anything to do with the kidnapping, and both offer the use of their most elite special task forces in assisting with the congresswoman’s safe recovery. Even Saddam Hussein has called to express his outrage and assure us that he knows nothing of who might be behind this incident. He has even promised that if Jovunet is landed in Iraq and Sunday is not safely surrendered, then he will personally see the man beheaded on the spot.

  “We’ve had calls from many other heads of state, sir,” the aide continued. “President Rafsanjani even called to say that despite what conclusions anyone might jump to because of what Jovunet said about ’leaving off the caviar,’ Iran is in no way involved in this disgraceful episode. So far, Jovunet appears to be a man without a country. Whoever is behind this whole affair has yet to come forward and indicate a willingness to play host to him.”

  Ogilvey glanced at Henry. They had to get on with this; time was running out.

  Henry was finishing up his conversation with the queen. “I am most grateful, Your Majesty, for your expression of concern, and, yes, I promise that one day soon Sunday and I will have the honor of dining with you again.”

  When he handed the phone back to an aide, Henry looked directly at his successor. “Des, I know what I have to do. I’m leaving immediately to talk to Jovunet. Then we’ll fly him here from the prison at Marion. He is the key to all this. Maybe I’ll even be able to get some hint as to who is behind it all.”

  “A very wise idea,” the director of the FBI said solemnly. “As I well remember, sir, your negotiating skills are unparalleled.” Then, realizing that — particularly in this room — comparisons are considered odious, he covered his mouth and coughed.

  The bacon was fried to a fare-thee-well, just short of being totally cremated. The toast, cold and brittle, reminded Sunday of her grandmother’s less-than-sterling culinary skills. Granny had always insisted on using an old-fashioned toaster, and she always waited until clouds of smoke signaled that it was
time to flip the bread over. Then, when that side had been properly burned, she would scrape the blackened surface into the sink and cheerfully serve the remnants.

  But Sunday was hungry, and miserable though the food was, it was at least filling. On the plus side, the tea was very strong, just as she liked it. With its help, her head had begun to clear. The sense of unreality was passing, and now it was beginning to sink in just how very precarious her situation was. This was neither a nightmare nor a bad joke. The man in the monk’s garb, either alone or with accomplices, had somehow managed to tamper with her car, which spent virtually all of its idle time parked in a secure area, to disable her very experienced Secret Service agents, and to kidnap her. He — or they — were both daring and very smart.

  It must have been shortly after three o’clock when it happened, she thought. Dan Rather came on at 6:30, so it’s just a little past seven by now, she decided. That means I’ve been conscious for less than an hour. So how long have I been here? And how far did we have to travel to get here? Fitting it all together, Sunday decided that she must still be relatively close to the Washington area. Given the weather conditions, her captor could have traveled only so far in spiriting her away from the city.

  But where am I? And what is this place? Could this be his home? Possible, she decided. And how many are involved in this operation? So far she had seen only the man in the monk’s outfit, and she had heard the voice of what sounded to be an older woman. But that didn’t mean that there couldn’t be others. It was unlikely though possible that he could have carried out the kidnapping without assistance; this guy was clearly very strong and could easily have maneuvered her body out of her car and into his by himself.

  And then the most important question of all registered in her still-foggy mind: What are they going to do with me?

  She looked down at the tray with its cup and plate; she was still holding it on her lap. She wished she could reach down and place it on the floor. The dull ache in her shoulder was getting worse, aggravated no doubt by being trussed up with clothesline in a cold, damp cellar. Clearly, though, this was more than a bruise she had suffered. She wished she had let Henry take her for an X ray after she fell off Appleby. Maybe she did have a hairline fracture after all . . .

  Wait! I’m crazy, she thought. Here I am worrying about a hairline fracture when I may not be alive long enough for it to mend! They won’t release me until that terrorist Jovunet has reached wherever it is he is going. And even when he is safe, what’s to guarantee they’ll turn me loose?

  “Congresswoman.”

  She spun her head sharply to the side. Her captor was standing in the doorway of the vestibule. I didn’t hear him coming down the stairs, she thought. How long has he been watching me?

  His voice had an amused tone as he said, “A little food does wonders, doesn’t it? Particularly given the drug I had to use on you. I’m afraid you may be experiencing a bit of a headache, but don’t worry, it won’t be lasting too much longer.”

  He approached her. Instinctively, Sunday tried to pull away as he placed his hands on her shoulders. She cringed as she felt them linger, again almost caressing. “Your hair is really very pretty,” he said. “I just hope I don’t have to cut too much more of it before I convince that husband of yours and all his associates just how deadly serious I am. Now let me relieve you of that tray.”

  He took it from Sunday’s lap and placed it on the television set. “Put your hands behind you,” he commanded.

  There was nothing she could do but obey.

  “I’ll try not to make these knots too tight,” he said. “And do tell me if your legs start feeling numb. When our man is safely at his destination, it would be quite unfortunate if I had to drag you to your drop-off location, wouldn’t it?”

  “Wait a minute before you tie my arms behind me,” Sunday said quickly. “You have my jacket. It’s too cold down here. Let me put it on.”

  It was as though he hadn’t heard her. He continued to pull her arms back. Cords dug into her wrists, sealing her palms together. Sunday gritted her teeth at the sharp flash of pain that cascaded from her right shoulder.

  It was obvious that, even in the dim and shadowy light, her captor had seen or felt her reaction. “I don’t mean to cause you undue pain,” he told her. “I’ll ease these ropes a little. And you’re right, I know it’s quite chilly down here. I’m going to put a blanket around you.”

  Then he leaned over to pick up something off the floor. Sunday turned her head and bit back a protest. It was the grimy hood she’d been wearing when she awakened in this place. He was being oddly solicitous of her, but she didn’t trust him. Something was wrong. She had the sinking feeling that he was just toying with her, that something truly horrible was waiting for her. The thought of that suffocating hood over her again almost made her scream, but she resisted the urge to cry out. She wouldn’t give this man the satisfaction of begging.

  Instead she asked in the most controlled voice she could muster, “ Why do I need that? There isn’t much of a view to shut out, and I certainly can’t be signaling to any passersby.”

  Her words seemed to delight her captor. He smiled — a grim, depressing effect — revealing strong but uneven teeth. “Maybe I just enjoy having you disoriented,” he said teasingly. “Blindfolds do that, you know.”

  The light from the dim overhead bulb shone on his hands. Just before the hood slipped over her head, blotting out her vision, Sunday saw the ring he was wearing, a wide gold signet-type design. It looked like many others, except there was a small hole in the center of the ring, as though a stone were missing.

  She resisted the urge to take huge gulps of air and forced herself to breathe slowly as the hood settled on her shoulders. As a college freshman, she had gone into therapy aimed at helping her overcome the touch of claustrophobia that she had inherited from her father.

  She tried to remember those sessions, but unfortunately the lessons weren’t doing her any good now. She could not concentrate on them. The only thing she could focus on at the moment was that ring.

  She had seen it somewhere before. But where?

  It was 9:30 that evening when Henry, accompanied by Jack Collins and preceded and flanked by guards, walked down the long, dreary corridor that led to the small visitor’s room reserved for personal contact with the most dangerous criminals in the prison at Marion.

  Marion had the reputation of being the toughest of the federal prisons, and Henry had the eerie feeling that it was not so much the screams of the prisoners as of their victims that seemed to permeate these thick, unyielding walls.

  Sunday is Claudus Jovunet’s victim, Henry thought. And I am his victim, too. The guards ahead of him stopped in front of a steel door. One of them punched in a combination that opened it.

  Jovunet was seated at a metal table to the side of the room. Henry recognized him from the pictures that had run in the paper at the time of his capture, and from the interview he had given on 60 Minutes, a fifteen-minute diatribe of self-aggrandizing arrogance, fortunately balanced by the acerbic wit of Lesley Stahl, who punctured Jovunet’s ego balloons every time he tried to float one. Dressed today in a drab prison uniform, a far cry from the dandy attire he had affected when he was still free, and manacled at the waist, hands, and feet, Jovunet nevertheless somehow managed to convey the effect of being at ease and totally comfortable. In an odd way, he also seemed to be totally in control.

  His cherubic face showed the beginnings of jowls, his light blue eyes were warm to the point of being merry, his thin, choirboy lips were pink and turned up at the corners, as though trained by constant smiles. To Henry, it was an altogether loathsome visage.

  In the plane on the way to Ohio, Henry had read a brief on Jovunet’s considerable background. Nobody really was sure of his origin. Now fifty-six, he claimed to have been born in Yugoslavia. He spoke five languages fluently, had begun his career as a teenager running guns in Africa, had been a paid assassin for the highest bidder i
n a dozen countries, was trusted by no one, and had the ability to radically change his appearance. There were pictures of him that showed him to be easily fifty pounds heavier than he appeared in other photos; there were pictures that showed him looking like a soldier, others like a farm worker, while in yet others he appeared to be an aristocrat.

  The one thing that he had not been able to disguise in any of his various personas was his love for designer clothing. It was no small irony that his capture had come while he was attending a Calvin Klein fashion show.

  Now as Henry faced him, Jovunet’s eyes widened. “Mr. President!” he exclaimed, bowing grandly, leaning forward as much as the restraints would allow. “What a delightful surprise. Forgive me for not standing, but present circumstances do not permit that gesture of respect.”

  “Shut up,” Henry said evenly. His hands were knotted into fists. He wanted only to smash the grin off Jovunet’s face; he wanted to throttle him; he wanted to wrap his hands around his neck and choke him until he blurted out where Sunday was being kept.

  Jovunet sighed. “And here I was all prepared to help you. Okay, I give up. What is it you want to know? I realize that many of my past activities are still hidden from the eyes of even your obstreperous media. Clearly this is not a social visit, so obviously you are here because you need me. Perhaps I can be of some assistance. But what do I get in exchange if I help you now?”

  “You get exactly what you demanded. Safe passage on our new SST to wherever it is you want to go. We are prepared to make whatever arrangements you require. But you must adhere to our terms in effecting the exchange.”

  A look of confusion crossed Jovunet’s face. “Are you joking?” he asked. Then his expression became reflective. “Very well, Mr. President. Exactly what are your terms?”