Free My Gal Sunday by Mary Higgins Clark Page B

a police escort waiting.”
    Twenty minutes later, still accompanied by Marvin Klein and Jack Collins, Henry was at the door of the Oval Office. Des Ogilvey was seated at his desk, the presidential seal on the wall behind him. The secretary of the treasury, the attorney general, and the heads of the FBI and the CIA sat in a semicircle around the president. They all jumped to their feet when Henry came in.
    It was twenty past six. “There’s been another communication, Henry,” the president said. “Apparently the kidnappers enjoy toying with us. They called Rather back and said they had decided they wanted him to air their demands. They furnished proof of their sincerity.”
    For an instant he glanced away from Henry. Then looking directly into his eyes, he said, “Sunday’s wallet and a lock of her hair in a sealed plastic envelope were left on the Delta ticket counter at National.” Desmond Ogilvey’s tone lowered. “Henry, the hair in the envelope was soaked in seawater.”
     * * * 
    When Sunday felt the hood being lifted off her head, she had first taken a deep breath and then opened her eyes, hoping to get a good look at her captor. The room was dimly lit, however, and she had trouble making out much of anything. He was wearing a monastic type robe with a hood that fell forward, obscuring much of his face.
    He removed the ropes that had held her to the chair. Then, leaving her feet still tied loosely together, he pulled her up to a standing position. Her boots were off, and the concrete floor felt cold to her feet. He was three or four inches taller than she, Sunday noticed. That would make him about six feet. His dark gray eyes, narrow and sunken, had a crafty, malevolent expression, the more frightening because they burned with intelligence. She could feel the strength in his hands and arms as he turned her and said, “I assume you would like to use the facilities.”
    As she stumbled forward, she struggled mentally to assess her situation. Clearly she was in a basement of some kind. It was desperately cold and filled with the kind of dank smell that airless, sunless basements seem to acquire and retain. The floor was cracked, uneven concrete. The only furniture other than the chair was a portable television set, the rabbit-ear antenna angling from the top.
    He held her arm firmly as he led her across the dark room. Sunday winced when a particularly sharp edge of broken cement pierced the sole of her foot. He guided her into a narrow vestibule that led to a staircase; they stopped at a cubicle behind it. The door was open, and inside she could see a toilet and sink.
    “You can have your privacy, but don’t try anything,” he said. “I’ll be right outside, holding the door. I searched you, of course, when I brought you in here. I know that women sometimes conceal a weapon or even Mace on their person.”
    “I’m not carrying anything,” she told him.
    “Oh, I know that,” he said, his tone even. “Maybe you haven’t noticed yet that I’ve relieved you of your jewelry. I must tell you I’m rather surprised that except for a solid gold wedding band, your jewelry is remarkably unexceptional. I would have thought our wealthy former president would have been more generous with his lovely young wife.”
    Sunday thought fleetingly of the generations of Britland family gems that were now hers. “Neither my husband nor I believe in ostentation or in conspicuous consumption,” she replied, encouraged to realize that, beyond cramped limbs and the heartsick worry over Henry and what he must be going through, her temper was steadily rising.
    Alone in the tiny lavatory, she splashed water on her face. The hot-water spigot yielded only a sputtering spray, but she was grateful to feel it against her skin. A single bulb that dangled from the ceiling — it couldn’t be more than twenty-five watts, she thought — gave just enough glow for her to see in the peeling, film-covered mirror over the sink just