Free My Gal Sunday by Mary Higgins Clark

the White House. He had to be guided by reason, not simply galvanized by emotion. He had to be like a surgeon, analytical and clearheaded.
    But then, in a surge of misery, Henry reminded himself that except in cases of dire emergency, no surgeon would ever operate on his own wife, for fear that his emotions would cloud his judgment.
    A scrap of poetry ran through his mind: “These mortal hands because of love have lain like music on your throat. But the music of the soul is delicate, remote . . .” He had no idea of the source of the line but knew that for some reason, at this moment, it was pertinent.
    He thought of Sunday, of how easily she fell asleep, while he liked to read, sometimes for hours, after going to bed. Occasionally she would doze off while he was reading to her, or perhaps critiquing out loud something he found especially wrongheaded in one of the many newspapers he read daily.
    He remembered that just last Sunday night he had wanted to share something with her but realized that she had fallen asleep. Still, he had brushed her neck with his fingers, hoping she wasn’t so deeply asleep that she wouldn’t wake up to listen.
    She had sighed, and in her sleep had turned away from him, her hands pillowing her face, her blond hair spread around her. She had looked so lovely, he had just sat and watched her for at least half an hour, mesmerized.
    They had had an early breakfast the next morning before she flew back to Washington. Henry reflected on how he had teased her about rejecting him. She had laughed and said that she had always been a sound sleeper, and that was because she had such a clear conscience. So what was his problem? she had asked with a sly smile.
    And he had replied that it was all her fault, that he was so crazy about her that sleeping when he was with her seemed like a waste of time. And she had smiled and said, “Don’t worry, we have all the time in the world.”
    He shook his head, struck by the irony of her words.
Oh, Sunday, will I ever see you again?
he thought, giving in to a rare moment of emotional weakness.
    Stop it! he admonished himself. You won’t get her back by wasting your time. He pressed the buzzer on his arm-rest. In a matter of seconds, Marvin and Jack were seated opposite him.
    He had wanted to leave Marvin Klein in New Jersey, just in case there was any direct contact from the kidnappers, but Marvin had begged to come and Henry had relented. “I have to be with you, sir,” Marvin had argued. “Sims will monitor the phones here. He’ll keep a line open to us.”
    Sims, the butler at Drumdoe since Henry’s tenth birthday, thirty-four years ago, had said, “You know you can rely on me, sir.” He had spoken with his usual calm, even though tears had glinted in his eyes. Henry knew the fondness Sims felt for Sunday.
    Now he realized he was glad that he had brought Marvin with him. He had just the kind of analytical, clearheaded approach to problems that Henry so needed at the moment. It was the very trait that, when Henry had been elected to the Senate nearly fifteen years ago, had caused him to elevate the young man from the rank of volunteer.
    Without waiting to be asked, Klein said, “No more contact, sir. The operator at the Treasury who took the call was smart enough to go straight to the top, so word of the kidnapping has been contained. So far there has been no hint of a leak.”
    Jack Collins, Henry’s senior Secret Service agent, could have passed for a linebacker on a pro football team. He was a disciplined solid wall of a man, but he too had a definite soft spot when it came to Sunday. The underlying anger and indignation was apparent in his voice when he briefed Henry on what they knew of events so far.
    “No one saw the actual kidnapping, sir. Apparently Sunday’s . . . I mean Mrs. Britland’s car and the follow-up car had somehow been rigged with an explosive device attached to a canister of nerve gas of some sort. It may well have been detonated