The Deadliest Game Read online

  TOY EXECUTIVE AVERTS DISASTER.

  Blair crunched the paper against his chest. Anger seared the wall of his stomach. This sort of publicity was the last thing he needed. Especially with his daughter’s life hanging in the balance.

  Reluctantly, he unfolded the paper. He skipped some of the words but managed the gist of it. The article described Cyber-tech’s would-be launch and what could have happened had Blair not stopped it.

  He threw the paper to the floor.

  By the end of the week he was growing restless. Blair asked the doctor when he could be released.

  Olah Marketa was a petite brunette in her late thirties. She had a no-nonsense way about her. In response to his inquiry, she said, “We need to do more tests. Your weight is still far below normal.”

  “So, how long, Doc?” he asked.

  “Today is what? Friday? Another week should do it.”

  “Another week? I don’t think so.”

  The doctor smiled. “You know,” she said, “after the ordeal you’ve been through, I would think you’d embrace the chance to recuperate.” She approached the bed, and touched his forehead. “Is your dizziness gone?” she asked.

  “All gone,” Blair said.

  “And the nausea?”

  “That, too.”

  She took his blood pressure, opened his pajama top, and listened to his heart. “You’re a bad liar,” Dr. Marketa said.

  CHAPTER 69

  When Lisa Brandt came to visit, Blair had to hide his emotions. There was so much he wanted to say. But it would have to wait. There were two FBI agents accompanying her.

  “Mr. Mulligan,” one of the agents took the lead. “Do you remember speaking with us? My name is Bill Prendergast. And this is my colleague—Jim Eathorne.”

  Blair decided they could be Siamese twins. Young and athletic-looking, but too severe, as if smiling would diminish their stature. He found it ironic that both men would have the same psoriasis problem, their faces dotted with pockmarks. “Is there any word about my daughter?” he asked.

  “We want to review what you told us earlier,” Jim Eathorne said, ignoring his question. “Can you recall our conversation?”

  Blair shrugged and told himself to be patient. He didn’t like the man’s voice, reminding him the way it did of his history teacher in high school, too solemn by half. “Honestly,” he said, “I don’t remember much of anything.”

  “You told us what happened. You mentioned the people involved. Especially Khalid Yassin. We’ll want you to spend some time with our sketch artist. Once you are feeling better, that is.”

  “I feel better now,” Blair said, practicing his alibi for a quick release from the hospital.

  Bill Prendergast referred to his notepad. “Let me see if I have this right,” he said. “A man enters your office back in April and introduces himself as John Dalton, an agent with the bogus BIS. He asks you to go to Israel and convince your colleague, Jeremy Samson, to switch DVD production from one manufacturer to another. You refuse. He starts making threats. You go to Israel but it doesn’t do any good. On your second try, after your daughter is kidnapped and Dalton’s murder is faked, you are successful. But the promise to release Sandra is a lie. You go in search of the house where you believe your daughter is being held. Instead of gaining her release, you are captured yourself. John Dalton proves to be an Arab living a double life. Worse, your electronic gaming system has been sabotaged. You are given an option, approve the release of the product or Sandra will be killed. On August 17th you arrive at your distribution center where you fake your approval and ask your associate to call the police. You return to the car and the driver tries to shoot you, but you shoot him instead.

  “This is what you told us,” he concluded, then paused. “I mean, other than a car threat in Montreal and a bombing in Tel Aviv thrown in for good measure.”

  Blair remained quiet. Having the details of his experience repeated in such a cold, bloodless manner made it seem inconsequential. “Very accurate synopsis,” he said caustically. “Now, tell me where Sandra is.”

  “We have nothing definitive to report at this time,” the other agent advised. “With Ms. Brandt’s help,” He turned toward her, “we have determined that your daughter was most likely transported out of the country.”

  “Out of the country?”

  “Yes, that’s right. We are waiting for confirmation.”

  The next was difficult for Blair. “Is she okay? Does anyone know?”

  “We believe she’s alive.”

  “That doesn’t sound positive.”

  “Blair,” Lisa jumped in. “Jeremy is on top of it. Has been for a while. He’ll be calling me in an hour or so. I’ll let you know what he has to say.”

  He was about to speak, caught her expression, and clamped his mouth shut instead.

  CHAPTER 70

  The following morning, Blair earned Dr. Marketa’s wrath by advising her that he was signing himself out of the hospital. Per their rules, he was transported in a wheelchair. Accompanying him was Andrew Sciascia.

  No sooner did they come through the main door of the hospital, however, than a throng of reporters surrounded them. Microphones and cameras battled for position.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Any word on your daughter, Mr. Mulligan?”

  “What will you do now?”

  “Can you tell us where Sandra is being held?”

  Speaking on his behalf, Andrew let them know that Blair would have no comment at this time.

  “When can we interview him?” a voice called out as if he wasn’t standing there.

  “Is it true he’s already signed a deal for a book?” another wanted to know.

  Blair asked to be taken back inside.

  Andrew went to get his car and pulled up in front. With the help of hospital security, a pathway was cleared and they were able to make their escape.

  The next day he came out of his condo, only to be met once more by reporters. He jogged past them, and kept going until he found an empty cab. An even larger press contingent was waiting for him at his office.

  Blair was relieved to make it into the elevator and upstairs. He motioned to his secretary. Andrea Victor followed him into his office, took a seat opposite his desk, and immediately apologized.

  “What in the world for?” he asked.

  “For not getting it. I went back over your e-mails as soon as the story came out. I could tell something was wrong. That you weren’t yourself. I … should have done something.” She was on the verge of tears.

  “Listen,” he said, “they were reading every e-mail I received or sent out. I racked my brain for a word or phrase I could use to tip you off. I couldn’t find anything that would work. This isn’t your fault. You did nothing wrong.”

  “Are you positive?”

  He forced his smile to reassure her. “I am more than positive,” he said.

  Alone, Blair paced his office, thinking only of Sandra.

  Al-Qaeda had her. And he knew all too well how merciless they were.

  He didn’t want his daughter to die.

  “Sandra,” he whispered aloud.

  It helped just to say her name, as if that in itself would bring her closer.

  “Jeremy Samson on line one,” his secretary advised just after eleven-thirty.

  He picked up the receiver and said hello.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Fine,” he said quietly.

  “That bad, huh? Look, I wanted to give you an update on your daughter’s whereabouts. My contacts here in the Middle East have been put on high alert. If this is where they are bringing her, we will find out. Okay?”

  He sighed. “I hear you, Jeremy. Thank you.”

  “Thanks. Shmanks. Don’t be so formal. We’ll find her, Blair. You just have to give it time.”

  “Time? I read somewhere that the first twenty-four hours in any disappearance are critical.”

  “Yeah. Under normal circumstance
s. This ain’t normal.”

  “I want you to call me the minute you hear something. I’ll be booking an open-ended ticket to Tel Aviv. One phone call from you and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Uh-uh. That wouldn’t be wise, Blair.”

  “Why not?”

  “You should know better than most what these people are like.”

  “Then, what should I do?” Mucus caught in Blair’s throat and he began to cough.

  “You do nothing,” Jeremy said. “Wait until you hear from me. By the way,” he changed the subject, “the press in Israel has already married the story about what you did in New York to how you saved that girl’s life over here.”

  “Oh, yeah? How would they connect both incidents to me?”

  “Moira, the restaurant lady. She noticed your picture in the newspaper. No one knew your identity. Now, people are discussing you by name, talking about your bravery.”

  Blair tuned him out, embarrassed. “All I care about is finding my daughter. Nothing else matters to me.”

  “I know that.”

  “Will you help me, then? I can’t go on without Sandra.”

  “I’ll find her,” Jeremy said. “I promise.”

  CHAPTER 71

  At home, Blair stripped down to a T-shirt and pair of sweats. He began to mope around his condo, opening and closing drawers, searching for mementos of his daughter, the odd photo, drawings she had made for him at school.

  As darkness fell, he left the lights off. He stood in front of the window in the den, staring off into space.

  He knew he should have listened to the doctor and remained in the hospital for at least another week. He had a constant headache. Tylenol 3 didn’t do a bit of good.

  His stomach rumbled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten.

  When the phone rang, he checked caller ID and noticed a familiar Montreal number. He almost let it go to voicemail. But what if it was news about his mother? He picked up on the fourth ring and said, “Cyn, how are you?”

  “My God, Blair, it’s good to hear your voice. You’ve been all over the news.”

  “How’s Mom doing?”

  “I knew something was wrong. I just knew it! Goddammit, I’m your sister. You can’t hold something like this back.” Her tone softened. “Is there any word about Sandra? Where is she? What did they do to her?”

  “Whoa! That’s too many questions.”

  “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. How are you feeling?”

  “Cynthia, I’m fine. Just a bit tired, that’s all.” He raised a hand to his throbbing head. “How’s our mother doing?”

  “Aren’t you going to talk to me?”

  “Not now.”

  “When, then?”

  “When this is over. When Sandra is back safe and sound.”

  “Mom is not doing well,” Cynthia said. “The doctor believes it’s a matter of a month or two.”

  It may have been inevitable, but the news still stung. “Is there anything I can do?” Blair asked.

  “Nothing. There’s nothing anyone can do.”

  “Can you handle things, Cyn? I mean, just for the time being?”

  “Blair, you don’t have to ask. Of course, I can handle things. But keep me in the loop. Okay? Let me know as soon as you hear something.”

  “I will. Goodbye…”

  “Wait. Before you hang up, I want you to know how sorry I am.”

  “For what?”

  “For nagging you the way I did.”

  “Hey, you can’t be blamed. You knew something was wrong.”

  “I still feel badly. And I apologize.”

  “Don’t. Please, Cyn. You are one person in my life who never has to apologize.”

  “You mean that?”

  “I do. Honest.”

  “I love you, Blair.”

  It was past 9:00 PM when someone rang from downstairs. He buzzed in the caller and then turned on a few lights. Moving to the door, he caught his reflection in the hallway mirror. The worry in his eyes gave him the look of someone haunted or possessed.

  He opened the door.

  When Lisa came out of the elevator, he became self-conscious of his appearance. “Sorry,” he said as she neared. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

  She stepped inside the condo and closed the door behind her. “If you did expect me, you would have done what?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Her brow creased. “I thought you were feeling better?”

  “I feel fine.”

  “Sure you do. When’s the last time you’ve eaten?” She turned for the kitchen and he followed. She was wearing a plain white top and form-fitting pants. Blair realized she’d look good no matter what she had on.

  She opened the door to the fridge and sighed. Then she checked the empty pantry. “My God, this is ridiculous.” She retraced her steps. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll be right back,” she said, and was gone.

  Blair hurried into the bathroom and ran a comb through his hair. Then he undressed, and changed into a pair of black trousers. He was so used to wearing suits and ties that it took a while to find the right sport shirt.

  Finally, he told himself to relax. As soon as Lisa returned he could come clean with her, talk to her about his feelings, and admit how much he cared about her.

  But when she rang from downstairs he grew apprehensive. He buzzed her in, waited until she knocked on the door, and then opened it but remained silent. Every approach he had considered now seemed wrong.

  She took one look at him and smiled. “You changed clothes,” she said. “I liked you better in your sweats.”

  “Huh?”

  “Just kidding.”

  He watched her from a seat at the kitchen table as she took charge, turning on the stove, concentrating on his meal.

  When she placed the bowl in front of him, she proudly announced: “Chicken soup, just like my mother used to make for me.”

  He examined its contents. The soup contained not only broth but a variety of vegetables and thick chunks of chicken. He made the effort, slowly swallowing a spoonful at a time. “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked.

  “I’ve had my dinner,” she said. “But a glass of wine would be nice.”

  “I don’t think I have any.”

  “You do now.” She brought a bag over to the table. She removed a plastic corkscrew and a bottle of Merlot, which she opened and poured. “Want some?” she asked as she took a seat opposite.

  He thought about it. “I better not.”

  “I read the FBI report,” Lisa said.

  “And?” he asked, already putting down his spoon.

  “You held an awful lot back.”

  He admired her sagacity. “Nothing was held back,” he said.

  “Oh? There wasn’t much in there about the way your daughter was treated.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You tell me.”

  He didn’t know where to begin. So he sat, mute, hardly touching the soup. Until Lisa prodded him again.

  Blair said: “Yassin believed I might not obey his every command. He said he feared I wouldn’t follow his order to approve the release of Cyber-tech in the appropriate manner, said he had to teach me a lesson.” He paused. “They made me watch as one of the men grabbed Sandra’s hand. I think it was her left one. I don’t remember.” He paused again. “Isn’t that awful? Why can’t I remember?” His voice rose. “What the hell’s the matter with me?”

  “Blair—”

  He was finding it vitally important that he jar the memory loose. “It was her left,” he said. “I’m sure that it was. The man attached something like a dentist’s pliers to my daughter’s fingernail. He twisted those pliers as if he were prying a staple loose. A vicious pull and Sandra’s nail was gone. Just like that.”

  The scene was too lifelike. Blair found a tremor developing, and was unable to stop it.

  Lisa came around the table and held him for a momen
t.

  He realized how much he needed her, wanted her.

  She pulled back and began to clear the dishes.

  “Leave them,” he said. “I’ll do it later.”

  Lisa went to gather her purse. She took out a pen and scribbled on a piece of paper. “This is my private number,” she said, handing it to him. “I’m going to be tied up for a while. But if you need to talk, call me.”

  He took the slip of paper from her.

  She hesitated, then said she’d better be going.

  Blair sensed her reluctance.

  Ask her to stay, a voice encouraged him.

  He remained seated, keeping his silence, not moving until he heard the door close.

  It was a decision he would regret for the rest of his life.

  CHAPTER 72

  The following week he found himself in the New York office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He had just taken a seat at a square table in a small room that didn’t have much to recommend it. Dull, army-green paint. Four chairs. It reminded Blair of the office he had been forced to use while being held captive. And it immediately made him feel uncomfortable.

  The sketch artist walked in and introduced himself. He was a man in his late forties, with a narrow face and long, straight hair. He was pallid-looking, as if he hadn’t seen daylight in a while.

  Were it not for the hair, Blair was thinking, the man could be from the Middle East. And that thought segued into another thought. And another. Until paranoia convinced him that this office was a rogue, not unlike the office of BIS.

  He abruptly stood.

  “Is something wrong?” the man asked.

  Blair could swear he detected an Arabic accent. He glanced at the door, seriously thinking of making a run for it.

  “Mr. Mulligan?”

  It took an effort to let reason prevail. The agents who had welcomed him here today were the same ones who had visited him at the hospital. Eathorne and Prendergast. Lisa Brandt vouched for them just by their mutual association.