My Gal Sunday (9 page)

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 in 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?”

Henry felt the solid hand of Jack Collins touch his arm with deliberate force. It was the first time Collins had ever done that. He’s telling me to cool it, Henry thought. He’s right.

“I am a master pilot and checked out on the SST. I and I alone will pilot you to your destination. You will not disembark until my wife has been released and is safely in the hands of our people. If she is not released both safe and well, the plane will be blown up with both of us on it. Is that clear?”

Jovunet sat in silence for a moment, seemingly absorbing all that he had just heard. “Ah, the power of love!” he said finally, slowly shaking his head.

Henry stared at the man in front of him and realized that the corners of his lips were twitching. Incredulously, he realized that Jovunet was laughing at him. And all that I can do is stand here like a beggar and hope that he will agree, he thought. He saw with loathing that Jovunet’s face was glistening with perspiration, even though the small room was cool.

Where was Sunday being held? he wondered. Was it in a cell-like room such as this? It had been a bitterly cold day. Was she warm enough?

Henry forced himself to concentrate on the man in front of him. At least Jovunet was considering the terms he had just outlined. Henry could tell that by his narrowed eyes.

“There is one other consideration,” Jovunet said slowly.

Henry waited.

“Like you, I would not want to see anything happen to your wife. I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting her, of course, but like everyone else in this fair country, I have followed your storybook courtship and marriage. From everything I have heard of her, I would have to say that she is quite admirable. However, as you are aware, given these circumstances, one in my position has only so much control. May I inquire as to the exact time we will be taking off?”

Henry knew that everything hinged on Jovunet believing his answer. “Before my wife was abducted this afternoon, the
Washington Post
reported that a number of mechanical adjustments must be made before the SST’s scheduled inaugural flight, set for Friday morning. It will take all day tomorrow to finish them. In place of that intended inaugural flight, you and I will depart on the SST on Friday morning at 10
A.M.
”

Jovunet looked at him indulgently. “Just think how many cameras and listening devices and satellite chips you’ll be installing while you make those mechanical adjustments,” he said, sighing. “Ah, well, it won’t matter, will it?” His smile relaxed, then disappeared. “I insist on being transferred to the Washington area immediately. And I know you have a number of safe houses around there, so I want to be taken to one of those and not to some correctional facility. I’ve had enough of this kind of place, thank you.”

“That is precisely the plan,” Henry said coldly. “You are going to be videotaped while at the safe house, your message to be a warning to your cohorts that my wife must not be harmed. And they must provide us with a videotape of her, showing that she is well; the deadline for that will be 3
P.M.
tomorrow.”

Jovunet nodded distractedly, then looked down with disdain at his prison uniform. “There is one other small thing. As you undoubtedly know, I rather cherish fine clothing. Since all of my carefully chosen apparel has long since disappeared, and since where I am going is, shall we say, not exactly known for its attention to designer salons, I shall require a complete new wardrobe. I’m particularly partial to Calvin Klein and Giorgio Armani. I want a full and complete wardrobe of their latest fashions, and I will need the presence of several master tailors who will be able to alter them to my specifications by mid-morning Friday. Before we leave, I will have the warden’s office supply you with my complete physical dimensions. My new wardrobe is to be transported to the plane in a Vuitton trunk and matching luggage.” He paused, then looked steadily at Henry, a slight smile curling his lips. “Do I make myself clear?”

Before Henry could bring himself to respond, Jovunet smiled again, more broadly this time. “Surely none of this should surprise you. Have you forgotten the circumstances of my final arrest? The Calvin Klein fashion show?” He laughed in amusement. “So embarrassing, and it wasn’t even a good show. All that underwear! Sometimes I think that dear Calvin is losing 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 free Jovunet. Yes, this was like cat and mouse, and Sunday did not like playing the mouse.

But what could she do? Being tied down and kept literally in the dark left her few options. Perhaps physically there was nothing she could do, but her mind could still roam freely. She thought back to the ring she had noticed on her captor’s finger. She was positive she had seen it before. But where? And when? Was it on this man’s finger, or had it belonged to someone else?