Authors: James Grippando
She almost spoke, then caught herself, remembering his warning that the room could be bugged. She reached around the door frame and switched on the main light. The room brightened—but nothing else happened. She sighed with relief and stepped inside.
Harley spoke again. “Leave the door open, if you can.”
The door started to swing closed automatically. She grabbed a towel from the bathroom and stuck it in the doorway to keep it ajar, then stepped further inside. It was a standard hotel room. Dark wood furniture. Two double beds. A fox hunt portrait hanging over the dresser.
Allison checked her watch. Exactly nine o’clock. The telephone on the nightstand rang.
Harley could hear it over the microphone. “Answer it,” he said.
She lifted the receiver. “Hello.”
The voice on the line was familiar but disguised. “Take a cab to the St. George Hotel. Go to the
Independence Bar on the second-floor lobby. Sit down at one of the little round tables closest to the brass railing and wait.”
The line clicked. Allison dropped the phone and hurried from the room. She spoke to Harley as she walked toward the elevator. “You heard?”
“Yes. I don’t like it, Allison. We’ve scoured the Hyatt and everything around it. But the St. George is almost twenty blocks away. It wasn’t within our prescreening perimeter. We won’t know what you’re walking into.”
“Are you telling me not to go?”
“I’m telling you it’s dangerous. More dangerous than I’d hoped.”
“I have two words for you, Harley.”
“What?”
“I’m going,” she said as she stepped into the elevator.
The freight elevator opened to the second floor of the St. George Hotel. Tony Delgado wheeled out his dolly and carpet cleaning machine. Five buckets—twenty-five gallons—were stacked on the dolly. It was his third trip, and his “cleaning” job was nearly finished.
He pulled the dolly into the storage room at the end of the hall. He opened the tank to the carpet cleaning machine and poured from the bucket. It was supposed to hold five gallons of nonflammable cleaning solvent. Tonight it held wood alcohol.
Delgado wheeled the cleaning machine back into the hall, plugged it in, and switched on the power. The cleaning brushes turned quietly in a circular motion, working the alcohol deep into the carpet. He looked down the hall, then checked the room number on the nearest door. He couldn’t remember exactly where he had left off before going down to the van for more alcohol. He shrugged. Didn’t matter, he figured, so long as he laid a flammable path connecting each of the rooms on his uncle’s list.
He pushed the machine forward a few more feet, then stopped. Someone was coming out of Room 235. A silver-haired man wearing an expensive pinstripe suit. Looked like a distinguished
congressman. The disguise fooled him at first, but he soon recognized his uncle.
“Evening, Senator,” he said with a smirk as they passed in the hall.
“Evening,” Gambrelli replied.
Overstated elegance described the decor at the historical St. George Hotel. Fluted columns of green Brazilian marble rose three stories in a lobby as spacious as a Broadway theater. Leather couches, oriental rugs, and plenty of brass and mahogany accents gave sitting areas the look of old English men’s clubs. Glittering chandeliers hung like clouds from the mirrored ceiling.
Still, the hotel was past its prime, in a state of decline. Paint was peeling from some of the crown moldings. The silk wall coverings were beginning to yellow. Allison was reminded of Venice as she crossed the lobby—beautiful from a distance, but don’t scrutinize the canals.
Allison didn’t feel all that out of place in her casual clothing. Some guests were sharply dressed, many of them addressed by name by the courteous staff. Others were obviously here to take advantage of the discount rooms that hadn’t been refurbished since Truman was president. The mix covered the spectrum, and it made for a lively and bustling lobby.
Allison headed straight for the grand staircase. She climbed to the mezzanine level, where the Independence Bar overlooked the main lobby. The bar wasn’t a room per se. It was more like a terrace area that had been separated from the traffic lanes by a row of potted plants and velvet rope hanging from brass poles. A long mahogany bar stretched across the far end. Small cocktail tables
dotted the seating area. Two Japanese businessmen were smoking cigars and sipping wine. An old couple was staring into space and munching on mixed nuts, nothing left to talk about. Allison spotted the small round table closest to the brass railing—the one the caller had mentioned. It had a reserved sign on it.
Allison approached the bartender. “Excuse me, can I have that reserved table over there?”
“Are you Emily Smith?”
She caught herself, remembering her alias. “Yes.”
“It’s reserved for you.”
“Who reserved it?”
He gave her a funny look, as if she should have known. “White-haired guy in a suit. Gave me twenty bucks to hold the table for Emily Smith. Didn’t catch his name.”
She wanted to press for details, but Harley’s voice was in her earpiece. “Don’t push it, Allison. You’ll raise suspicions. Just take the table.”
The bartender asked, “Can I bring you a drink?”
“No, I’ll wait,” she said, then saw herself to the table.
It was a choice table, as far as bar tables went. It was right against the polished brass railing, like sitting on a balcony. She could see the entire main-floor lobby below, the staircase, the elevators. At the mezzanine level, she could see down the hall to the restaurant and to the double doors that led to the second-floor guest rooms. The table was more secluded than most, surrounded on three sides by leafy green plants in huge floor pots. Allison sat in the leather chair with her back to the bar. Her eyes shifted from the lobby to the staircase, back and forth.
The bartender brought a telephone to her table. “For you, miss,” he said.
She waited for him to get back behind the bar, then answered. “Yes?”
“Check the potted plant closest to the rail. There’s a thirty-six-inch cable bicycle lock.”
She turned around discreetly and checked. “Yes, I see it.”
“Take it out. Wrap it around the briefcase and, through the handle. But don’t lock it.”
She did it. The cable fit neatly around the briefcase. “Okay, done.”
“Now put the briefcase at your feet under the table and lock it to the railing.”
“I’m not leaving a million dollars here in the bar.”
“Lock it. No one can open or remove it but me.”
“How do I know you won’t take it away before I get the girls?”
“Because you’re not going anywhere. You’re going to sit right there and watch it. Now stop stalling. Lock it to the rail.”
Chills went down her spine. What was his plan—to sit down across the table from her?
She lowered the briefcase below the table, slipped the loose end of the cable around the rail and snapped the lock shut. “Okay. It’s secure. Now when do I get the girls?”
“One at a time. Kristen first.”
“What about Emily?” she asked, her voice hardening.
“Kristen will tell you how to find Emily.”
“Where is she?”
“Sit tight,” he said, “And watch the staircase.”
Tony Delgado clutched the silent beeper in his hand.
Really
clutched it. Timing was crucial. He had to react the instant the beeper started to vibrate—the moment his uncle gave the signal.
He stood at an intersection in the second-floor hallway near the elevators and stairway. The cleaning machine rested at his side. One eye was on the door to the stairwell. The other peered down the hallway. The silent beeper suddenly pulsated in his hand—the signal.
He struck a match and dropped it.
Blue and yellow flames raced across the alcohol-soaked carpeting like wind over a wheat field, scorching a path down the hall to the detonation rooms. It hit Room 205 first, then 217, then 235—each one quietly erupting in flames like a fiery game of dominoes. Delgado watched with an arsonist’s curiosity, impressed by his own work. In seconds, the heat was unbearable. More fire than he’d anticipated, moving faster than he’d expected. Too much alcohol.
The hallways were laid out like a square doughnut, all interconnecting, with rooms on the outside facing the streets and an open courtyard in the center. The flame zipped down one hall, turned left, down another, turned left, down the third leg, turned left.
Delgado suddenly felt heat at his back. He turned. The wall of flame had come full circle. He hadn’t been
that
careless. In a split second, he knew: His own uncle had toasted him.
“Oh, shit!”
His eyes widened as the flames overtook him. His machine exploded, propelling him down the hall in a massive fireball.
Allison leaped from her seat. The explosion shook the entire building. The lights flickered, then went out. Emergency lighting switched on as the fire alarm sounded. Panicked guests screamed and ran in every direction. Thick smoke poured from the second-floor hallways and was filling the lobby.
Allison tugged at the briefcase. The cable lock was secure, leaving no way to free it. She tried opening it to take the money, but the cable was wrapped too tightly around it. That was no accident, she realized, since the kidnapper had selected the briefcase and supplied the cable. The pungent smoke thickened and choked her lungs. Her eyes were burning. She’d just have to leave it. She grabbed a cloth napkin from the table to cover her nose and mouth. Her leather bag was empty save for the gun. She tucked the pistol inside her jacket and left the bag.
Harley’s voice was in her ear. “Allison, what’s going on!”
“Fire!” she said. “They’ve started a fire.”
“Get out.”
“Not without the girls.”
“Allison, just get
out
!”
Allison ignored him. She leaned over the railing to check the lobby. The emergency lighting
was spotty and getting worse with the smoke. An emergency sprinkler was soaking a corner of the lobby near the entrance, but most weren’t activated. The second floor was completely dry.
“They must have vandalized the sprinklers,” she told Harley. “Only a few are working.”
Below, excited mobs were fighting to squeeze through the revolving doors, slipping in the darkness on the wet marble floors. Others tumbled down the stairs in the race to safety. Two men jumped over the mezzanine railing to avoid the traffic jam. In the midst of the confusion, Allison saw one person moving
up
the staircase, fighting against the flow. It was a young girl. Even in the dim lighting, she knew that face.
“Kristen!”
she shouted.
The girl looked up, kept coming.
“Kristen, come this way!”
The noise from the crowd and the pulsing alarm was deafening. She feared Kristen couldn’t hear her. She could barely even hear Harley’s voice, which was right in her ear.
“Do you see Kristen?” he asked—or she thought that was what he’d said.
“Yes. The staircase. They’ve released her!”
Allison ran for the staircase, but the crowd wouldn’t let her pass. Flames shot from the hallway behind her. Staff carried out guests who had been overcome by smoke. Allison kept her eye on Kristen. Strangely, the girl seemed to be heading up the stairs on her own initiative, not in response to Allison’s calls. It didn’t make sense, thought Allison—unless the kidnapper had promised Kristen that her mother would be waiting for her upstairs, a cruel ploy to send the child to a fiery death right before Allison’s eyes. Allison pushed
toward the lobby, forcing her way down the crowded staircase one slow step at a time.
She could see the top of the girl’s head, just a few steps below. “Kristen!” she shouted, but the words barely made it from her mouth. The smoke gagged her. She surged forward, forcing her way past the man blocking her way. Just a few steps and a few dozen bodies separated them. She reached as far as her arm would stretch but couldn’t quite get there. She made one final push, one last stretch, closing the gap—and she had her! She had her by the arm!
Their eyes met for an instant, then Kristen screamed and wiggled free—lost as quickly as she was found.
“Kristen!” she shouted. “It’s okay, come back!”
Kristen had turned in the opposite direction. She was moving with the flow down the stairs, away from Allison, frightened and confused—she’d obviously expected her mother or someone she knew.
Allison gave chase. “The disguise,” said Allison, not sure if Harley could even hear her anymore. “The whole world knows what I look like, but Kristen doesn’t recognize the disguise.”
Harley said something in reply, but it was just a painful screech in her ear. “Harley, I’m disconnecting. Too much static.” She pulled it from her ear and continued down the stairs. The smell of smoke filled the lobby. Allison could hear sirens blaring outside the hotel. Hysterical guests fled from the halls, restaurants, and bars—from every direction.
Frenzy,
she thought.
Total frenzy.
The crowd thinned at the base of the staircase. Kristen ran for the revolving door. Allison sprinted and caught her, wrapping her arms around her.
Kristen fought out of fear, but Allison held on, taking the blows.
“It’s all right. Your mother sent me. I’m Allison Leahy.”
Kristen froze. She examined the face, looking past the disguise. A glimmer of recognition came to her eyes, then her face scrunched with disapproval.
“What in the world did you do to your hair?”
Allison smiled cathartically and hugged her with all her strength. Then she whisked her away. “Come on.”
They slowed only for a moment at the bottleneck at the entrance. Together they spilled onto the sidewalk outside with the rest of the crowd, stepping over fire hoses that crisscrossed the wet sidewalks. Cool, fresh air cleared their lungs, causing them to cough. Fire trucks and firefighters were all over the street. Police officers and paramedics helped staggering guests into ambulances and emergency vehicles. Allison recognized an FBI agent at the curb between a police car and fire truck. She took Kristen to him.
“I’m Allison Leahy,” she shouted above the noise. “This is Kristen Howe. Get her in one of these ambulances!”
The agent took her hand, but Allison stopped her. She got down on a knee and looked Kristen right in the eye.
“Kristen, do you know where Emily is?”
“Who?”
“The other little girl. The kidnapper said you would know how to find her.”
“I don’t know anything about another girl.”
Her heart sank. She turned to the other agent. “Take her. I have to find Emily.”
The agent hesitated.
“Take her!” she shouted. She touched Kristen gently on the cheek. “It’s okay. Go with him.”
The agent lifted her off the ground and carried her to the ambulance. Allison put the receiver back in her ear and spoke into her microphone. “Harley, are you there?”
The response was pure static. She glanced at the squadron of emergency vehicles around her. Probably a thousand other radios were operating. Then she heard something, a broken response.
“Allison, one of our agents has Kristen.”
“You don’t say.”
Injured guests staggered by her. The swirl of emergency lights gave everything an orange and yellow cast. A hook and ladder moved noisily into position overhead. Firefighters were carrying stranded guests down from the higher floors.
Allison shouted into her microphone. “Harley, I spoke to Kristen already. She doesn’t know anything about Emily.”
Allison pressed the earpiece, straining to hear. After a brief pause, she heard his response. “I’m sorry, but don’t lose hope. We have agents working on those pictures the kidnapper sent. Maybe something will turn up.”
“Turn up?” she shouted. “In eight years nothing has turned up!”
Static crackled over the line. She couldn’t hear his voice. Her eyes welled as she stared back into the burning building. Kristen was safe, but that was only half the deal. A million dollars for Kristen
and
Emily.
That
was the deal.
And now the money was burning in a stupid building.
Or was it?
she wondered.
She scanned the mayhem around her, and her sadness turned to anger. It was all a big diversion—that’s
all
it was. In any kidnapping, the exchange of the child for the money was always where the plan came unraveled—it was where kidnappers were so often captured. This was the perfect way to handle the exchange—mass hysteria. While everyone was rushing from the building, Emily’s kidnapper was happily making off with the money in a briefcase
he
had specifically requested and that was undoubtedly fireproof.
She tweaked her microphone. “Harley, I’m going back inside.”
“Allison, don’t!”
He said something more, but Allison couldn’t hear. She adjusted the microphone to improve the reception—then someone grabbed her arm.
It was a cop. “Lady, you can’t stand here.”
“Please, I’m the attorney general.”
“Yeah, and I’m the Duke of Earl.”
“Let go,” she said, wrestling free. Static rattled in her ear. She pressed her earpiece again. “Damn it, Harley, I don’t want to go inside without radio contact, but I can’t hear you!”
The cop grabbed her again. “You’re with the press, aren’t you?”
She ignored him. “Harley, are you there?”
“Damn media sharks,” the cop groaned. “Get your bony reporter’s ass behind the police tape.” He ripped the microphone from her ear. The radio went completely dead.
“You idiot!” she screamed.
He grabbed her with one hand. His walkie-talkie was in the other. It squawked, giving Allison an idea. She wrestled free and grabbed his walkie-talkie.
“Hey!” he shouted.
Allison ran off.
“Lady, stop!”
She kept going, disappearing into the crowd. She pushed against the flow and made it back into the lobby. The smoke was beginning to clear below, but it was still clouding from the second floor. She pushed the button on her walkie-talkie.
“I don’t know who I’m talking to, but this is Attorney General Allison Leahy. I need to reach Special Agent Harley Abrams of the FBI immediately.” She left it on, hoping for a response.
Firefighters in full gear had replaced the hysterical guests in the lobby. Black soot and cinders covered the walls and floor. The chandeliers were dark. Emergency spotlights were the only source of light. Traces of smoke irritated her eyes, even though the fire was under control and the smoke had diminished. Most of the firefighters were wearing masks, but it wasn’t absolutely necessary. Allison could breathe without one.
She hurried inside and stopped at the base of the stairwell. The lighting was spotty, but she could see up to the mezzanine and the charred Independence Bar. A lone fireman was crouched by the table where she’d left the money. He wore a complete set of firefighting gear, including a self-contained breathing apparatus, like a scuba diver. Dressed like that, he could walk through any cloud of smoke. And, she realized, he could walk right out of the building without being detected.
As he rose from his crouch, Allison could see it—he had the money in hand. Their eyes met briefly at a distance, him from above and her from below. The man froze. Allison didn’t flinch. His
face was barely visible behind the clear fireproof mask, but Allison could have sworn she saw him smile. In one swift motion, he snatched the briefcase and ran for the guest rooms.
Allison charged up the stairs, past the bar, heading at full speed toward the guest rooms. The smoke was thicker upstairs, though not impenetrable. The carpeting had completely burned away. The exposed floorboards were still hot from the flames.
Allison turned down the hall to the second-floor rooms. Glass crunched beneath her feet. The windows facing the inner courtyard had shattered in the explosion. Some interior walls had burned away completely. Others were charred but still standing. An emergency light shined through the smoke like a lone headlight beaming through fog. She was closing on the man in the fire suit. He was struggling beneath the weight of his gear.
He stopped suddenly, turned, and pointed his gun. On impulse, Allison ducked into an open room just as the bullet whizzed by her. She took her pistol from inside her jacket and peered out the doorway. He was running down the hall again. She ran after him.
He fired another shot on the run, but it was erratic. He seemed to be having trouble shooting with the thick fireproof gloves on his hands. Allison kept coming, though the floor was getting weaker. Some boards were completely burned away. She watched her step but refused to stop. She was just twenty feet behind him when the floor gave way beneath his feet.
Allison stopped as he plunged up to his waist in the fire-eaten floor. In his struggle to save the briefcase his gun fell through the opening in the
floor. Allison assumed the police stance and pointed her gun at him from behind.
“Freeze!” she shouted.
He kept struggling. He was like a man who’d fallen through the ice and couldn’t pull himself up. Each time he groped for a firm piece of flooring, it broke away beneath him. Flames from below were lapping at his heels. He was barely hanging on—but he was getting away.
“Freeze!” she said again.
He kept inching away from her, though the heavy equipment and air tank were clearly slowing his movement. Finally he reached firm flooring, leaving a gaping hole in the floor between him and Allison. He wobbled to his feet. He started to run, but he’d hurt his leg in the fall. He limped away with the money.