how much I owed them.”
“He wasn’t much of a talker,” said Jack.
“Even less now,” said Demetri.
“Like Chloe and Paulette Sparks.”
Demetri stopped pacing, his expression sour. “Now why’d you have to go and mention them already? That’s like killing off Jack Bauer in the second episode of the season. You gotta build up to these things. Where the fuck is-oops, sorry. Network television. Where the hell is your sense of drama, Swyteck?”
“The whole world knows what you did,” said Jack. “You’re just kidding yourself here. I have it figured out, the FBI has it figured out. I bet if you turn on CNN, they’ve even got the scoop. It’s all on the table. You don’t have any secrets left.”
Demetri fell silent, but that ember of anger that seemed to burn continuously inside him was about to burst into flames. He took a deep breath and swallowed his rage.
“That’s where you’re wrong. I got one left. The big one.”
Demetri turned away from Jack and spoke to the camera.
“I’m talking to you, big man. That’s right.
He checked the clock on the wall.
“It’s going on one o’clock. I’ll give you till seven A.M. That’s more than enough time. Don’t you think, Swyteck?”
Jack didn’t answer.
“You’re right,” said Demetri, again making that extra effort to speak clearly for his American audience. “We’re dealing with a very powerful man here. He can make things happen fast. Five hundred thousand in cash delivered right here to the studio by six A.M., not a minute later. Stay glued to those television sets, folks. I’m going to count it live and on the air. And if it’s not here by six,” he said, taking a step closer to his hostages, “then one of our lucky guests here will take a bullet to the head. I might even let you call in and vote on which one should get it. The pretty blond anchor woman, or the greedy lawyer whose father is a slick politician? Hmmm. Tough choice. But if I’m a betting man, Swyteck, I’d say you’re toast.”
He stepped even closer to the camera, his face filling the screen.
“I told you it was gonna get good.”
Chapter 44
Harry Swyteck had been sound asleep in his Washington hotel room when the president called. He’d switched on the television to see the Miami broadcast of the hostage standoff, which had been picked up nationally. A split second was all it had taken for Harry to realize that he needed to be back in Miami. It took even less time for him to accept the president’s offer to take him there ASAP. By 1:00 A.M. they were in the executive suite of Air Force One, just forty minutes away from Miami. The president sat behind his desk, and Harry was in a leather chair facing the flat-screen TV.
“More coffee, sir?” the flight attendant asked.
“None for me, thank you,” said Harry.
“You have to try this one,” said the president. “I have these beans shipped to me every day from a little coffee shop called the Flying Goat in Healdsburg, north of San Francisco. I drank it every day I campaigned in California, and it definitely brought me luck.”
“We could all use some luck,” said Harry.
The flight attendant filled his mug, and then she put down the pot and cupped her hands. It confused Harry at first, but then he noticed the remnants of a napkin that he’d nervously and methodically torn to shreds. He gathered up the mess and gave it to her.
“Sorry,” said Harry, as he glanced toward the television screen. “This is a really stressful time for me.”
“I understand, sir.”
Harry had missed not a single frame of the live broadcast since boarding the plane, but absolutely nothing had happened since Demetri’s on-the-air demand for $500,000. The camera was locked onto Jack and the anchor woman seated side by side on the floor in front of the news desk, their hands tied behind their backs. Stress had a way of playing with the mind, and staring at an image that virtually never changed had Harry thinking all the way back to Jack’s college graduation, when Harry had rested the old VHS recorder on the floor and forgot to switch off the RECORD button. Ninety minutes of Agnes’s shoes on videotape.
“You all right?” said the president.
“I’m not sure.”
“I feel for you. It’s every politician’s worst nightmare. Just the thought of something like this happening to one of your children is terrifying. It doesn’t seem to make much difference that they’re not kids anymore.”
Harry looked at him. On some level, he appreciated the words. But he didn’t have time for this.
“I need to ask you a question, Mr. President.”
Sensing the gravity in Harry’s tone, Keyes stepped out from behind his desk and sat in the chair facing Harry.
“Sure,” said the president, “what is it that you want to know?”
“Who was he talking to?”
“What?”
“This Demetri character. When he demanded the half million dollars, he was obviously speaking directly to someone he chose not to name on television-someone he couldn’t just pick up the telephone and call, so he chose to speak to him over the television airwaves. Who is it?”
“What makes you think I would know?”
Harry drilled him with his stare. “Is it you?”
Keyes stared right back.
Harry said, “Am I to take silence as a ‘yes’?”
The president rose and walked to the window. He was staring into a vast blackness above the clouds, millions of stars in the distance. Worry was staring right back at him in his reflection in the glass. The president seemed oddly fixated on his receding hairline, checking it with his fingers.
“I’m getting old, Harry.”
“We all are, sir.”
The president turned away from the oval window and placed his hand atop his head, slicking his hair back to show Harry just how far it had receded. The large and distinctive birthmark on his scalp, normally hidden in part by his comb-over, was fully exposed.
“I look more and more like Mikhail Gorbachev every day, don’t I?”
Harry wasn’t sure how to answer.
The president lowered his hand and let his hair fall back into place. He returned to the chair facing Harry.
“My question,” said Harry. “I’d like an answer.”
The president drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I suppose you have a right to know.”
“My son is being held hostage in a newsroom with a gun to his head. I have
The president nodded, then took another deep breath, as if not sure where to begin. “The answer to your question is yes,” said the president. “Demetri was indeed talking to me when he demanded that half million dollars.”
“Why would he look to you for the ransom?”
