My Gal Sunday

  Was it still Thursday night or was it Friday morning? Sunday couldn’t be sure. She was dozing when she felt her hands being untied.

  “I was just watching CNN,” Wexler Klint whispered. “They did a big story on you. I didn’t know you’d been a lifeguard when you were in high school. Who knows? Maybe that will be useful to you soon.” He paused, tying her hands again, but this time in front of her. “Or maybe not. Anyway, we’re going for a ride now.”

  As he spoke, he lifted the hood from her head. Sunday felt a cloth being pulled around her mouth. Her angry protest was first muffled, then silenced. The hood dropped back over her face. Next she felt Klint cut through the ropes that bound her to the chair. As he did it, the knife grazed her right leg, and she felt a trickle of warm blood. Deliberately she rubbed her leg against the chair rung. “Kilroy was here,” she thought, remembering the story her father used to tell about how GIs, during the Second World War, would write that message in battle areas.

  Hysterical laughter gathered in her throat. You’re losing it, she told herself. Calm down.

  But what was he going to do with her? she wondered.

  She was being lifted, then she felt herself being laid flat on the rough concrete floor. The smell Of stale dampness was almost overwhelming, even through the fabric of the heavy hood. Then she was being wrapped in something, probably the blanket Klint had thrown over her earlier. When had that been? she wondered. Hours ago? Days? Perhaps she could piece it together, but she realized with dismay that she felt almost totally disoriented. She had to get control of herself if she had any hope of surviving this ordeal.

  Suddenly she felt herself being lifted, then carried. She was right; he was very strong. He held her in his arms as though she weighed nothing. Her feet brushed against the chair, then against what felt to be a wall. Was he taking her upstairs?

  But he turned right, not left. She heard him fumbling at a latch. Then an icy blast of air whipped through the thin blanket. They were going outside. She could hear an engine running.

  “I’m afraid the trunk isn’t very comfortable,” Klint told her, “but we’ll just have to make do. Of course, prison cells aren’t very comfortable either. I’m afraid that with the road conditions as bad as they are, it will take us at least five hours to get where we’re going. But don’t worry, we’ll be there in plenty of time to witness the drama at National Airport.”

  Sunday braced her body as she felt herself being dumped into the trunk of the car. He maneuvered her body until she was lying curled up. When she tried to straighten her legs, her feet encountered solid resistance. She felt the blanket being pulled from around her and rearranged until it covered her entire body. The cloth hood flattened against her nostrils, and the knot in the back of the tight gag pressed into the base of her skull. Her shoulder radiated frantic waves of pain. If she had ever been more miserably uncomfortable, she couldn’t remember it.

  Then she felt things being laid over her. From the sound and feel of it, she guessed that Klint was arranging the contents of the trunk so that she was mostly covered. But he was doing it carefully and quietly, as though he was afraid of being overheard. Where were they? Sunday wondered. Maybe a neighborhood where someone might be standing at a window, watching? From somewhere nearby she could hear a dog bark. Please, God, she prayed, let eyes be on this car now.

  Almost silently the trunk was closed. A moment later a jarring lurch was agonizing proof to Sunday that the next phase of her kidnapping had begun.

  “Sir, as you know, the Milano sneaker which you wear is an exclusive brand of footwear and priced well beyond the means of the average man.” At 5 A.M. on Friday morning, Conrad White, the top-priority CIA analyst was giving Henry Britland an update on their efforts to determine the significance of Sunday’s distinctly erroneous reference to the shoes Henry had been wearing the first time he brought her to Drumdoe. As Henry listened, his irritation grew. White somehow managed to convey the impression of delivering a step-by-step lecture to a slow student: Here is the problem; here are the questions; here are the possible solutions.

  Only you are dead wrong, Henry thought as he listened scornfully. He blinked slowly, trying to reduce the annoying burning in his eyes.

  Conrad White noticed: “If I may suggest, sir, even a few hours’ sleep would be advantageous before you undertake what will surely be a long journey.”

  “You may not ‘suggest,’ ” Henry snapped, turning to face the man. “Make your point. I believe what you’re trying to tell me is that I was not wearing English loafers and that Milano-brand sneakers are, obviously, Italian made. Therefore your feeling is that my wife’s reference is that we are to look to Italy for our abductors.”

  “Or to one of the troubling sects currently plaguing our Italian friends,” White corrected. “Possibly the Mafia. Indeed, probably the Mafia. They have a long-standing history of kidnapping and murder. Oh, sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to imply . . .”

  But he had lost his audience. Henry had turned toward Jack Collins and Marvin Klein. “The East Room,” he said abruptly.

  He led the way up the staircase from the newly created command center to the main floor, then turned left into the magnificent room, where portraits of George and Martha Washington looked benevolently down on him. Why had he chosen this room? he asked himself as he settled in the chair that had been his favorite when he was the principal resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Obviously some instinct was propelling him to it.

  Was it because of the wonderful party Des and Roberta had thrown for him and Sunday a few weeks after they were married? he wondered. Cocktails in this room, followed by dinner in the State Dining Room, and then back here for a short concert. Henry thought back to that evening. Sunday had worn a long-sleeved ice-blue satin sheath and the diamond necklace his great-grandfather had bought from a maharajah. She had looked especially beautiful that evening.

  Henry almost smiled at the memory of how people had repeatedly said what a pity it was that he hadn’t met and married Sunday eight years earlier, since she would have made such a marvelous first lady.

  The British ambassador said that to both of us, Henry mused. Then he said something else and Sunday answered him and we all laughed.

  You’ve got to remember, a voice in his subconscious whispered.

  Henry leaned forward and clasped his hands together. Maybe White was right; maybe he was tired. Maybe this was all his imagination. He shook his head. No, I know there’s something here, he said to himself. It’s vital that I remember that conversation. I just know that it has something to do with the message Sunday was trying to get across on that tape, he thought with a new surge of hope. That’s why all my instincts told me to come in here . . .

  He realized that Collins and Klein were standing at a respectful distance and waved them to chairs opposite him. “Kind of letting my mind wander, free association. Now it’s your turn. Stream of consciousness,” he demanded. It was a familiar drill, something the three of them had done together regularly when trying to work out a problem.

  Collins went first: “Sir, there’s something rotten in the state of Denmark.”

  Henry felt a surge of new energy burst through his veins. Instinctively he knew that this was going to lead somewhere. “Go on.”

  “The CIA guys are wasting their time; more importantly, they’re wasting our time. The Mafia is up to its ears in trouble now that the omerta code isn’t worth diddley-do. They would never take on the United States government by abducting the wife of a former president. Also, sir, there are absolutely no terrorist groups, either new or old, that aren’t willing to swear in blood that they’re not involved. Nobody ever heard of this Jovunet Defense and Rescue Squad. And also, sir, we can find no record of a terrorist group currently using the word defense in its name.”

  Defense . . . defend . . .

  Total recall suddenly struck Henry. It was here, right in this room, he thought, near the portraits of the Washingtons. After the British ambassador had
told Sunday how unfortunate it was that she and President Britland hadn’t met sooner, Sunday had said, “Back then, I don’t think Henry would have given me the time of day. When he was elected president for the first term, I was a second-year law student. Four years later, when he was reelected, I was a public defender, doing battle for my unfortunate clients, some of whom were very deserving, and others I’m afraid, who were not such upright citizens. . . .”

  Henry thought: And then I said that after the stories she’s told me about some of those cases, I promised to defend her from any disgruntled clients that she couldn’t get off.

  He stood up excitedly, his face flushed. “That’s what I’ve been groping for,” he said out loud. He turned to his two startled companions. “Sunday’s trying to tell me that somebody from one of her public-defender cases is in on this! Let’s go! We don’t have that much time.”

  Sunday knew that being able to fall asleep under virtually any circumstances was an enviable gift. She just hoped it wouldn’t work against her this time. However, the bumpy ride assaulted her shoulder so severely that after an hour or so she had utilized the yoga lessons she had taken years ago and forced herself to withdraw from awareness of the pain. Remarkably, she had then fallen asleep.

  But that meant she had also lost track of time. How long had they been driving? she wondered. And where were they going? Klint had mentioned National Airport, but since her instincts told her that the house she had been kept in was in the D.C. area, she knew that they would have reached there long before now. No, they were going far away from there.

  Even though she couldn’t see, she was conscious of the welcome sound of other cars. That meant at least that they had to be on a main road. Would it do any good to try to bang her feet against the top of the trunk? she wondered. No, not unless they stopped for gas or something. But if she was going to take advantage of such an opportunity, it meant that she would just have to endure the pain and stay awake and alert.

  In a very short time she sensed that the car was slowing down. Sunday twisted her body, trying to position herself to be able to kick the top of the trunk. They had barely come to a stop, however, before she felt the car start to move forward again.

  A toll booth, she thought. But on what highway? In what state? Where were they going?

  An hour later she had the answer. When Klint opened the trunk and lifted her out, even through the fabric of the hood and the blanket, she could detect the scent of the ocean.

  I didn’t know you’d been a lifeguard when you were in high school. Who knows? Maybe that will be useful to you soon. Klint had said that to her earlier. Now she knew: he was going to drown her.

  As Sunday was carried from the trunk, she began to pray silently: “ Forgive me for ever feeling cheated, Lord. Most people haven’t had even an hour of the kind of happiness I’ve known with Henry. Take care of him, please. And take care of Mom and Dad, too. No one could have been better to me.”

  She felt Klint shift her weight onto one arm, then she heard the jingle of a key. A door creaked open. Moments later she was being lowered into a chair.

  The continual stabs of pain in her shoulder hadn’t abated, but they had lost their importance. Nothing mattered right now other than the fact that she had been given a reprieve. Sunday changed her prayer: “Please, Lord,” she whispered inside her soul, “let that Renaissance man I married have the focus he needs to get the message I’ve tried to send him. Tell him, ’defend’ means ‘public defender.’ Tell him to exchange ’loafers’ for ’sneakers.’ And then give him the strength to make the leap from there to Sneakers Klint and his crazy brother.”

  It had taken more than an hour — precious time that they could not spare — to piece together the clues that Sunday had given Henry, but by calling on the combined resources of the CIA and the FBI to help in the search, they had been able to determine which of Sunday’s many less-than-sterling clients she might have been referring to with her carefully worded yet still frustratingly obtuse clues. Her use of the word “ defend” led them to check through all the many clients she had represented while serving as a public defender. It was her reference to Henry’s shoes that had taken the longest to figure out. Finally, by using reverse logic, he was able to deduce that when she spoke of his Gucci loafers, which he had not been wearing that day, she was in fact referring to the sneakers he had been wearing. It was this leap of comprehension that had finally enabled them to figure out which of her many clients she was referring to: Sneakers Klint.

  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 fl
oors 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 —”