My Gal Sunday (13 page)

Henry was scarcely inside the room in which Claudus Jovunet was loudly snoring before he began yelling, “Wake up, you bloody assassin. We’re through playing games. You’ve got to talk to us and you’ve got to talk now!”

Jovunet opened one eye and instinctively reached under his pillow.

“There’s no gun there,” Jack Collins muttered through clenched teeth. “Those days are over, you jerk.” He yanked Jovunet out of bed and pushed him up against the wall. “We want answers. Now!”

Jovunet blinked and wearily smoothed down the sides of his striped Calvin Klein pajamas. “So you’ve guessed,” he said, sighing. “Ah well, I’m sure John Gotti would have done anything to have enjoyed this wonderful day.”

Marvin Klein turned on the overhead light. “Talk,” he ordered. “Where were you supposed to be taken in the SST?”

Jovunet rubbed his chin, then looked at each of the three men and shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Henry pushed Collins aside. “Who kidnapped my wife?” he demanded.

Jovunet stared at him.

“Who kidnapped my wife?” Henry shouted.

Jovunet sank down and sat on the side of the bed, rubbing his forehead. “The brandy was definitely a mistake,” he said, sighing. “But then I never could resist Rémy Martin VSOP. And the waiter was so very generous with it last night.” He looked into Henry’s eyes and his expression suddenly became alert. “You know as well as I that no one would give a penny to get me out of prison,” he said emphatically. “Over the past thirty-five years there hasn’t been a nation or a political group too insignificant for me to double-cross. I’m not especially proud of it. It was just what I did for a living.” He paused and looked at the other two men, then back to Henry. “I might as well tell you that had we gone through with it, Mr. President, when you and I got on that plane tomorrow, I wouldn’t have known what to tell you. There’s nobody out there who wants me. I don’t know what kind of game someone is playing with you, but I do know that I have nowhere to go from here. Except back to prison, of course. I’m fully aware of the fact that I’m considerably better off as a permanent resident in Marion, Ohio, than I would be anywhere else in the world. This little day of freedom was a great lark — especially the caviar, which was unbelievable! — and I took full advantage of it because I knew it had to end. I knew you would find me out, and now you have.”

Henry stared at the man before him. He isn’t lying, he thought, his heart sinking. “Okay, Jovunet, what does the name Sneakers Klint mean to you?”

“Sneakers Klint?” Jovunet looked genuinely confused. “Absolutely nothing. Should it?”

“We have reason to believe that he may be involved in the kidnapping of my wife, or more likely that his older brother, Wexler Klint, may be involved. Sneakers Klint is currently serving time in prison. His brother has never been convicted of anything, but we think he may have a grudge against my wife.”

Jovunet shook his head. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen. I’ve known many unsavory characters in my time, but unfortunately your Mr. Sneakers Klint and his brother are not among them.”

A couple of hours later, as the morning sun struggled to penetrate the somber clouds that seemed determined never to go away, the atmosphere inside the command center at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue crackled with electricity.

The president, dressed in his favorite casual clothing, jeans and a Fred Imus Auto-Body Express denim workshirt, had just emerged from his private quarters two floors above and was standing next to Henry, who had taken an alternating sizzling-hot and ice-cold shower in an effort to clear his head. One of the Secret Service entourage had gone to the former president’s Watergate apartment and returned with aviation gear as well as a turtleneck sweater and slacks. Henry had also shaved, for the first time in two days. The shave and fresh clothes were concessions he made only because he kept telling himself that today they were going to find Sunday, and he didn’t want to be so grungy when he was reunited with her.

Another CIA analyst had joined Agent Conrad White, who had earlier advanced the Mafia theory to explain Sunday’s kidnapping. The two men were arguing quietly about the modus operandi to be followed, when they noted the former president approaching.

White, who continued to advance his case for Mafia involvement, turned to Henry as he joined them. “Sir,” he said earnestly, “Sneakers Klint was always on the fringe of the mob, a small-time hood who frequently did jobs for them. I strongly feel that his brother may also have been in their employ. The probability is that they found Wexler Klint too much of a loose cannon. Your insistence that we retrieve Wexler’s juvenile records has proved very valuable. As a youth he was involved in many scrapes. He seems to have embraced the hippie culture of the late sixties and for a time was suspected of involvement with the more radical underground groups, although our impression is that his lack of association with any college at the time made him anathema to them, so he was never actually granted membership. The last item on his official record, however, is the most telling. It appears that someone claiming to belong to the SDL — one of the most violent of the campus groups — left a letter on the Pan Am ticket counter at Newark Airport, threatening to kidnap the mayor of Hackensack, New Jersey. Wexler Klint was one of the suspects, but the case was never solved.

“After that, except for the occasional traffic violation and a couple of disturbing-the-peace citations, Klint’s name disappears from the police records. We do know, however, that he held numerous jobs. His IQ is near genius. That, coupled with the fact that he once worked at a plant where he mixed chemicals in the manufacture of deodorant and later worked as an auto mechanic, we feel —”

“Why are you going on like this?” a clearly frustrated Henry Britland asked, his voice pitched at a dangerous level. “None of this matters. We know who our man is.”

“But sir,” White interrupted, “we have to — ”

“You have to help me find my wife. Once you do that you can analyze the situation all you want to. Do I make myself clear? I don’t want a psychological profile; I want a plan of action.” He paused, his face now only inches from the startled CIA man’s. “Now, have you two agreed on a common strategy?”

The analyst who had been silent during White’s explanation responded. “With all sympathy for the plight of Mrs. Britland and for your frustration, I’m afraid that all we can do is give you our best estimate of what we think Klint might be thinking and what he might respond to.” He paused, nodding toward White. “My colleague and I both feel that we should announce to the media that we know that the man we are looking for is Wexler Klint, and make part of that announcement the government’s promise that he will be given safe and careful treatment when he surrenders, and, of course, safely returns your wife.”

“You both agree on this?” Henry demanded.

White spoke up again. “Except I feel that there is obviously a strong family feeling between the Klint brothers, and that an added inducement to surrender peacefully might lie in our promise that the two brothers be given visitation fights to each other’s prisons.”

The suggestion hung in midair as Henry continued to stare at the man.

With a look that expressed both disgust and incredulity, he left the two men and crossed the room to where his successor was talking with several others. “Des, we’ve got to get going. I have a terrible sense that we don’t have a lot of time. We haven’t heard from this creep in hours. There is no telling where Sunday could be by now.” He turned to Marvin Klein. “Marv, isn’t there any word yet on where Klint may have been living?”

“Not yet, sir. Our people are grilling Sneakers in the state prison in Trenton, but he keeps insisting that he doesn’t know where his brother is. Says that he hasn’t seen or heard from him since that last day in court. Unfortunately, the men I spoke to there think that he may be telling the truth.”

Jack Collins spoke up. “What we do know is that the family no longer lives in Hoboken, where they were when Sneakers was convicted. We found that place. It would appear that gentrification caught up with them and they were forced out. Sneakers was able to tell us that his mother had an ailing sister in the D.C. area who had her own house, and he suspects his mother may have moved there. As for his brother, he said that he always had grandiose schemes about ‘getting even’ with the government for all sorts of wrongs he felt he had suffered, and of doing something that would get him into the history books. He said that their mother had always been a little nuts, and he thinks his brother may be that way too.” Collins shook his head. “ Anyway, we are checking out the D.C. lead, looking for some record of the sister and where she might live.”

From across the room there came a shout of exultation. “Sir, we’ve located the sister’s house. She apparently died recently, but we think the Klint brothers’ mother is there, and very probably Wexler Klint as well.”

“Let’s go!” Henry shouted. “I bet that’s where we’ll find Sunday.”

Twenty minutes later, a dejected Henry Britland stood in the basement of a rundown Georgetown house. In his hand he held Sunday’s jacket. The chair in which she had been photographed had the ends of ropes still tied to the rungs and back. He watched as the agent who had been photographing the area suddenly stopped and squatted down beside the chair.

“What is it?” Henry demanded.

The agent hesitated. “I’m afraid it’s blood, sir.”

Heartsick, Henry visualized what had happened. Carelessly cutting the ropes that held Sunday to the chair, her kidnapper had sliced her leg. His body shaking with rage, the former president turned away. I will kill him, Henry silently vowed. I will find him, and I will kill him.

Jack Collins examined the smear of blood. “Sir, I wouldn’t worry about this too much; given how little actual blood there is, I would suspect that the cut is superficial. It almost looks as though she may have intentionally smeared the blood here.” He straightened up. “Sir, it’s nine o’clock. What have you decided to do?”

Henry clenched and unclenched his hands on the tweed jacket that still held the faint hint of one of Sunday’s favorite scents. “I want to talk to the mother.”

“You won’t get much out of her, sir. She’s frightened and confused. All she seemed to be able to tell us is that her son brought a lady home, but that he wouldn’t let her go down to the basement to meet her.”

Henry found the elderly woman sitting on a dilapidated couch in the small living room of the narrow row house. Her face had a faraway, vaguely sad look to it, and she sat rocking as she hummed softly to herself.

He sat beside her and took her hand. Rich or poor, he thought, it’s all the same when your mind is going. His own grandmother had suffered from Alzheimer’s disease.

Remembering how he had spoken to his grandmother, he took Mrs. Klint’s frail hand in his. “That’s a nice song you’re humming,” he said. “
 
‘Three Blind Mice,’ isn’t it? Why are you singing that?”

She looked at him. “Everybody’s angry at me,” she said.

“No one’s angry at you,” Henry said, his voice comforting. He felt the tension in her hand begin to ease.

“I spoiled the milk. My son told me to sing along with him. But then he got angry with me. I spoiled the milk.”

“That’s not such a bad thing. He shouldn’t have gotten mad,” Henry told her. “Where is your son now?”

“He said he was taking his lady friend swimming.”

Henry felt his throat tighten with sudden fear. The envelope with Sunday’s hair soaked in seawater — of course, he should have made the connection. He managed to ask, “When did he take her swimming?”

“They’re going swimming when the plane takes off. I wanted to go too, but he said it was too far. Is New Jersey far away? I’m from there, you know.”

“New Jersey,” Henry said. “Do you know where?”

“I know where. But it’s too far.” She paused and looked at her hands. “Is Long Branch too far? I liked it there. I liked my house there better than the one we had in Hoboken. It was close to the ocean. After the plane goes away, they’re going swimming.” She closed her eyes and began to hum again.

Patting the woman’s hand, Henry stood up. “Be gentle with her,” he directed the agent at the doorway. “And for God’s sake, sit next to her, keep talking to her, and
listen
to her.”

 *  * * 

At ten minutes before ten o’clock, from a secure distance, television cameras recorded the procession of dozens of Secret Service agents escorting the former president of the United States, Henry Parker Britland, and terrorist Claudus Jovunet across the tarmac to the waiting SST.

When they reached the steps, the agents stood back and watched as Britland and Jovunet ascended the steps alone and then closed the plane’s door behind them.

“Jovunet has informed the government that he will not disclose his destination until he has been served brunch,” Dan Rather informed television viewers. “The menu he has demanded includes oysters on the half shell, a caviar omelet, chateaubriand with asparagus, and a selection of pastries, accompanied by suitable vintage wines, all to be followed by fine port. The chef from Le Lion d’Or boarded the plane earlier to make preparations and will, of course, deplane when service is complete. The former president will then file his flight plan and they will be off.

“We have been told of no further word from the captors holding Mr. Britland’s wife, Congresswoman Sandra O’Brien Britland, but our sources indicate that they expect her to be released only when the plane has landed at its yet-to-be-announced destination.