it.”
Henry knew that he had to get out of there. He could not be in the same room with this man for even ten seconds longer. “I’ll see you in Washington tomorrow,” he said. He could feel Collins’s breath on his neck as they exited. He’s afraid I’ll kill him, Henry thought. And he’s right. As the steel door was closing behind them, Henry heard Jovunet call out one last demand: “Oh, and don’t forget the Dom Pérignon and the caviar, Mr. President. Lots of caviar. Even on a supersonic transport, it will be a long flight.”
This time Jack Collins had to physically restrain Henry to keep him from rushing back into the visitor’s room. Fortunately the door clicked shut, closing off the sight and sound of Claudus Jovunet. “Mr. President,” Collins said urgently. “If anything were to go wrong, I swear to you that I’ll get him before he has a chance to crawl back here.”
Henry wasn’t listening, however. “Caviar?” he said aloud. “Something is going on here that has to do with caviar. Any word yet on what country we think is going to be his refuge?”
During the night, Sunday was awakened from an uneasy sleep by a sudden flash of light so bright that it managed to penetrate the thick cloth that still covered her head.
“Just taking your picture,” her captor said softly. “You look terribly uncomfortable and forlorn. Perfect. I’m sure your husband’s heart will be broken when he has a visual understanding of your predicament.”
He lifted the hood from her head. “Now for one more, and then you can go back to sleep.”
Sunday blinked in an effort to erase the white spots that blinded her after the second flash. She realized that sometime in the past hours the dim overhead bulb had been turned off; now, as he turned it back on, even that soft glow was painful to her eyes. Her resolve to appear stoically calm shattered. She glared at her captor. “Let me tell you that when I get out of here,
if
I get out of here, you’d better make sure you’re on the plane with your assassin friend. And if you are caught, I will go to any lengths to make sure that you are locked away in the most horrible, uncomfortable prison we can find.”
Another blinding flash made Sunday blink again.
“Sorry. I hadn’t planned that one, but it won’t hurt to have your husband see just how upset you are,” he said.
No, you are wrong, Sunday thought. I’m not upset, just plain mad. Henry had recently seen her fury at full force when she lectured him on the inhumanity of fox hunting. When she got her Irish up, as he had referred to it, she could be a dynamo.
If that last picture gets to Henry, he will know that I’m not falling apart, Sunday reassured herself.
“It would seem that your husband is moving heaven and earth to secure your safety,” her abductor told her. “All the radio and television stations are constantly broadcasting assurances that Claudus Jovunet is being moved to the Washington area, and that a videotape showing him there will be broadcast at 11 A.M. this morning. They have also announced that a videotaped message from you is being demanded. They want to be sure that you are all right.”
He studied the Polaroid pictures. “Very good. These plus an audiotape should convince your husband and indeed the entire government of the fact that you are both alive and well, although in less than comfortable circumtances.”
He dropped the hood over her head again. This time, even though she shut her eyes against the scratchy surface of the cloth, Sunday was keenly alert. She was sure that if she ever hoped to see Henry again she would have to find a way to help herself. She had the strange sense that this guy was playing a deadly cat-and-mouse game with her, and with Henry too. He seemed totally nonpolitical. There had been none of the usual declarations of hatred against the government for imagined crimes, no attempts to justify the actions that had been taken against her in his effort to
Henry knew that he had to get out of there. He could not be in the same room with this man for even ten seconds longer. “I’ll see you in Washington tomorrow,” he said. He could feel Collins’s breath on his neck as they exited. He’s afraid I’ll kill him, Henry thought. And he’s right. As the steel door was closing behind them, Henry heard Jovunet call out one last demand: “Oh, and don’t forget the Dom Pérignon and the caviar, Mr. President. Lots of caviar. Even on a supersonic transport, it will be a long flight.”
This time Jack Collins had to physically restrain Henry to keep him from rushing back into the visitor’s room. Fortunately the door clicked shut, closing off the sight and sound of Claudus Jovunet. “Mr. President,” Collins said urgently. “If anything were to go wrong, I swear to you that I’ll get him before he has a chance to crawl back here.”
Henry wasn’t listening, however. “Caviar?” he said aloud. “Something is going on here that has to do with caviar. Any word yet on what country we think is going to be his refuge?”
During the night, Sunday was awakened from an uneasy sleep by a sudden flash of light so bright that it managed to penetrate the thick cloth that still covered her head.
“Just taking your picture,” her captor said softly. “You look terribly uncomfortable and forlorn. Perfect. I’m sure your husband’s heart will be broken when he has a visual understanding of your predicament.”
He lifted the hood from her head. “Now for one more, and then you can go back to sleep.”
Sunday blinked in an effort to erase the white spots that blinded her after the second flash. She realized that sometime in the past hours the dim overhead bulb had been turned off; now, as he turned it back on, even that soft glow was painful to her eyes. Her resolve to appear stoically calm shattered. She glared at her captor. “Let me tell you that when I get out of here,
if
I get out of here, you’d better make sure you’re on the plane with your assassin friend. And if you are caught, I will go to any lengths to make sure that you are locked away in the most horrible, uncomfortable prison we can find.”
Another blinding flash made Sunday blink again.
“Sorry. I hadn’t planned that one, but it won’t hurt to have your husband see just how upset you are,” he said.
No, you are wrong, Sunday thought. I’m not upset, just plain mad. Henry had recently seen her fury at full force when she lectured him on the inhumanity of fox hunting. When she got her Irish up, as he had referred to it, she could be a dynamo.
If that last picture gets to Henry, he will know that I’m not falling apart, Sunday reassured herself.
“It would seem that your husband is moving heaven and earth to secure your safety,” her abductor told her. “All the radio and television stations are constantly broadcasting assurances that Claudus Jovunet is being moved to the Washington area, and that a videotape showing him there will be broadcast at 11 A.M. this morning. They have also announced that a videotaped message from you is being demanded. They want to be sure that you are all right.”
He studied the Polaroid pictures. “Very good. These plus an audiotape should convince your husband and indeed the entire government of the fact that you are both alive and well, although in less than comfortable circumtances.”
He dropped the hood over her head again. This time, even though she shut her eyes against the scratchy surface of the cloth, Sunday was keenly alert. She was sure that if she ever hoped to see Henry again she would have to find a way to help herself. She had the strange sense that this guy was playing a deadly cat-and-mouse game with her, and with Henry too. He seemed totally nonpolitical. There had been none of the usual declarations of hatred against the government for imagined crimes, no attempts to justify the actions that had been taken against her in his effort to
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