At the same time that Michaela fell unconscious, Lizzie had a conversation on her laptop in her locked bedroom, while Charles the family butler answered the front door. No one listened outside Lizzie's bedroom door, but if they had they would've heard a surprising exchange.

Lizzie said, “All things considered, he took it well. I think it's likely that I'll have positive results to report very soon. I still have to give him the third proof. We were interrupted this evening before I could present it.”

The voice on the laptop replied, “Good. I don't have to tell you the importance of all this to us. There must be no slip ups.”

Lizzie paused a moment. “I'm still not sure about this. He's going to be very hurt.”

“But you know it's necessary,” came the response.

“Yes, I know.” Lizzie sighed as she said it. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” said the voice on the laptop. “Keep in touch.”

Downstairs, Charles escorted Justin's guest into the living room.

“Mr. Ward Porter, sir, from the bank's security department.”

Justin saw a short, very muscular man in his forties, wearing a mid-priced business suit. The suit expanded to its limit, and the man moved awkwardly, unaccustomed to wearing such clothing. His face showed kindness but had an unmistakably hard edge to it. Justin half expected the man to reach up to his neck with his index finger in an attempt to loosen the collar pressed tightly around his neck. His hair fell, a bit scraggly, above his eyes and mono-brow.

“Thank you, Charles. Please, have a seat, sir. So, you work for my uncle. What does he want from me this evening?”

Mr. Porter regarded the beautifully appointed living room with a certain degree of awe. It reminded him of something out of the Todd Oldham collection, but vastly more opulent. He sat nervously on the chair offered him. Amazing! It literally formed itself to your body's shape. Porter couldn't ever remember sitting in a more comfortable chair. Then he remembered his mission and pulled himself together, determined not to screw up this very important meeting.

Very quietly, he said, “Actually, I work for the bank's security chief, Nevio Roone. It has come to our attention that you possess a certain video that is bank property. We want it back.”

Justin's attitude changed dramatically as he stared piercingly back at his guest.

“What did you just say?”

“I said we want it back.”

“To what video do you refer?”

Porter warmed to the exchange.

“Don't play games. We're quite serious. That video is bank property, and we want it back now.”

“And what makes you think that I have such a video?”

“We know that you played it on your laptop in your study this afternoon. Don't make the mistake of treating me like a fool.”

Justin felt quite heated now.

“Are you telling me that you bugged my private study? I am Vice-President of Operations at the bank. By whose authority did you place a listening device in my home?”

“Well, we didn't bug it. Not exactly. But we did find out about it. We acted on your uncle's authority, of course.”

Justin's eyes widened. Incredible! He felt very angry now. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his Blackberry, and quickly made a call.

“Hello, who is this? Yes, I want to speak to my Uncle David. This is Justin Knight.” After a brief pause, he said, “No, I want to speak my uncle…Yes, I know the hour. Please put him on the line...What do you mean, no?”

The voice at the other end spoke for another few seconds, then hung up.

Justin stared at the Blackberry, which showed the time as 8:08 p.m. He then put it in his pocket and gazed with renewed interest at his visitor. His face turned red, and he pursed his lips.

“Who do you think you are? What do you think you're doing?”

“I think I work for your uncle, and I think you know that, too,” his guest said, with a sneer.

“Do not adopt that tone with me!” Justin remonstrated, but then added, “I do not have the video.”

“Mr. Knight, we have your daughter. I respectfully advise you to turn that video over to me right away.”

“WHAT!!!??”

“Yes, a member of our team broke into your house while you answered your door, and they safely spirited her away to a secure location,” Porter replied. He felt much more relaxed about this conversation now. Clearly, he surprised his host, which meant that everything had proceeded like clockwork.

Justin's anger peaked as he said, “Well, we will just see about that. I am going to call the police.”

Porter interrupted him and said gently, “I wouldn't do that, sir. You see, we contacted the police and reported that video missing and that you might be a suspect. It wouldn't surprise me if you heard from them. We also contacted the Department of Homeland Security. They know your intentions. They plan to investigate you as a possible threat to national security. I'm sure you understand how that works.”

Justin stared back in stunned amazement.

“Outrageous!” he exclaimed.

Porter now spoke in a soothing voice: “You don't need to be so melodramatic, Mr. Knight. We need that video, and you want your daughter back. We can make a straightforward trade.”

Livid, but experienced with difficult negotiators trying to overpower him in his role as a bank officer, Justin sat back for a moment to give himself time to appraise the situation.

Finally, he said, “Uncle David would never harm my Michaela.”

A determined look came over Porter's face as he said, “I don't think you fully appreciate your position, Mr. Knight. That video you possess would cause harm in the wrong hands, and we won't let anything happen to it. You know as well as we do that if that video got into the hands of, say, the New York Times, the consequences could be disastrous for the bank, for the country, and for the entire world economy. You saw what it contains. Do you really believe your uncle wouldn't sacrifice his grandniece if he thought it would keep that video secret?”

Justin felt the jaws of the trap closing around him, yet still he took his time. A minute passed in silence. He allowed yet another minute to pass.

Then, very slowly, he said, “No, I do not think he will harm her.”

This time his visitor paused. Porter's face showed some surprise.

He said, “You are a very brave man, but in the end I think you'll find that you are mistaken.”

Then Porter stood up abruptly and walked quickly out of the room to the front door. He pulled the door open and walked out, slamming it behind him. Immediately, Justin jumped up and ran upstairs. He raced to his daughter's bedroom and threw open the door. Finding no sign of her, he walked quickly to the next door and knocked.

“Ms. Kohn, open the door!”

Within seconds, he heard the sound of the lock turning, and the door opened.

“Ms. Kohn, have you seen my daughter?”

“Why

yes, I looked in on her about 10 minutes ago. Why, what's wrong?” Lizzie replied.

“She has disappeared. I just checked her room to be sure!” Justin said, fear racing through him like electricity.

Lizzie glanced quickly around at her room, checked the hall, and, seeing no one there, pulled him toward the room.

“I have to call the police,” he said, shaking his arm loose.

“Wait!” she cried urgently. “I'm sure I know why they took her. Come inside so we can talk privately.”

He hesitated, stared at her for a moment, and then stepped in. She closed the door.

“Who abducted her? How do you know she didn't just wander away somewhere?” she asked.

“Never mind how I know; I just do.”

“You've had a visitor. Perhaps asking about the video?”

He stared at her, wide-eyed. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Come now, we both know what's on that video. It's no surprise to me that someone else knows too. Someone connected with the bank, perhaps?”

He couldn't help but stare at her a few more seconds before finally blustering again, “I have to go call the police!”

She grabbed his arm, backed him up against the closed door and shook her head adamantly.

“Surely you must realize that if you do, you will place your daughter in mortal peril. In fact, it would greatly surprise me if they haven't already warned you against such a step. The people after that video are deadly serious, and they have excellent connections. They will do anything to protect themselves. I'm certain they have covered all their bases very carefully.”

He threw her grasp from his arm, stepped to the side toward the far end of the room and declared, “I must protect my daughter!” He took out his Blackberry and dialed 911.

“Hello, Justin Knight here, on Evergreen Drive. Someone abducted my daughter, Michaela, from our home within the past 10 minutes....No, I did not see her taken, but I had an unwelcome visitor at the time who told me it happened, and when I checked her room after he left, I found no sign of her…Thank you.”

He hung up. “They said they will dispatch someone to come over right away.” His phone rang. “Hello? Yes, Justin Knight here. What?...What do you mean, the FBI took over the case? How could that be? I just reported the incident! Special Agent Regan, you say? Do you have a number where I can reach him? Okay, her then…Look, someone took my daughter. When will someone come over here to start investigating?”

The voice at the end said something else, and then he heard a click.

“I do not believe it,” Justin gasped. “The FBI already knew about the case, and they took it over. Some woman named Special Agent Regan will call me, but they will not even tell me when. Incredible!”

Lizzie's eyes widened for a brief moment, and then she said quietly, “We both know the world. The affairs of government and high level finance often trump the affairs of people. Sometimes governments take actions they don't want the general public to know about. You know as well as I do that your uncle will do whatever he feels he must, no matter how much it pains him to do it. You also know that the top levels of our government will back him every step of the way. From their point of view, they believe they have no choice.”

“What do you mean?” Justin demanded.

Lizzie patiently replied, “I mean that they'll cover it up.”

“Then I must give them that video,” declared Justin.

“I don't think that will matter,” Lizzie replied, with more intensity in her voice. “How do they know that we haven't made a copy of it? And now that they know that you know the importance of that video, what makes you think that they'll just give you your daughter back and leave you alone for good? You don't want to underestimate them. They'll hang onto your daughter until they have verified 100% that they have all copies in their possession. It's even money that they'll kill her before they return her to you. They also won't likely release her unless they believe they have some hold over you to keep you quiet forever. You must act carefully, or you may never see your daughter alive again, even if you give them the video now.”

“Damn it, I must make a call,” he said, nearing hysteria.

“Who will you call?” countered Lizzie. “You can't call the police or the FBI. You know as well as I do that the bank already reached them, and you already know the results of your call. You can't call your uncle. Obviously, you can't call your bank's security department either. So, who will you call?”

“I do not know. Somebody...” He stopped, deflated.

“You have no one you can call, except perhaps your family attorney. You will need a lot of legal help putting your social position and wealth to its best use. Beyond that, though, no one else you know can help you, but I know people who can. Let me help,” she offered boldly.

“You? Do not be absurd. Who could you possibly know?” he blustered.

“I think it should be obvious to you by now that I know quite a bit more about this situation than a simple private tutor could reasonably know.”

“No kidding!” he said loudly. “In fact it occurs to me that you know far too much about all this. First you show me all these 'proofs' about the 'bad, bad banking industry,' including a video of my uncle, the Fed chairman, and the Secretary of the Treasury which you probably obtained illegally. Later the same evening my daughter gets kidnapped! You know far more about this than you should.”

He glared at her now. She sighed, glanced around as if searching for something. “Yes, I suppose you could interpret it that way. But do you really think I would tell you all I have told you this evening to try to deceive you?”

He stared at her intently. Her eyes gazed at him resolutely. Could those possibly be the beginning of tears in the corners of her eyes? He certainly couldn't think of anyone to call. He didn't know what to think. Could she possibly know someone useful, someone who could really help him? At this point he felt prepared to try almost anything.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“I'll make a call of my own,” she replied without hesitation. “Meanwhile, go find your manager of security and ask him how they managed to get past his security measures. Say nothing to him about my role in this. Tell him nothing about my call.”

Justin paused, appraised her almost imperceptibly, then nodded his head and strode from the room.

As he walked down the hall, he pulled his Blackberry from his pocket, pressed a button, and shouted, “Donahue, come to my study right now!”

A moment later, he sat at the desk in his study. A knock on the door preceded its opening, and Haven Donahue entered immediately afterward. He affected a relaxed pose, but Justin sensed that the man stood across from his desk like a tightly wound spring, ready to leap into action at the slightest stimulus. A dark, angry undertone emanated from the man, accentuated by his chiseled military build and crew cut.

“Someone kidnapped my daughter a little while ago. Where the hell were you?” Justin barked.

Donahue's eyes widened slightly, and he said, “Kidnapped? Are you sure? I'll phone the police immediately, sir.”

“No, I have already done that, and they transferred the case to the FBI! The bank's security department grabbed her. Apparently they already have that avenue covered. I have taken steps. I want to know from you how the hell they got in here!”

“Bank security? Steps? What steps? What are you talking about, sir?” Donahue asked, with military precision in his voice.

“I said how the hell did they get in here?” Justin shouted at him.

“I have no idea, but I will check the security tapes,” Donahue answered, ignoring Justin's anger.

“Do that! God knows I pay you enough.”

Donahue tried a final time: “You mentioned something about steps you took, sir. What are they?”

“You just go check those tapes. I expect a full report from you in 20 minutes. I will worry about those steps. Now move!” Justin's forceful voice caused Donahue to flinch.

“Yes, sir.” He left the room in high gear.

Taking the back stairs to his office in the basement, Donahue worried about what his boss had just said. He pulled out his cell phone and made a quick call.

“He says he took steps.... I don't know; he wouldn't say. He already called the police and deduced that he's not going to get much help that way…Yes, of course I'll watch him....I'll report back when I know something.”

He disconnected the call.

He didn't bother to check the security tapes. He knew they showed nothing, and he already had his excuse prepared. Someone disabled two security cameras; he planned to report that fact to Knight. Justin's unexpected reaction and his quick conclusions regarding the police troubled Donahue, as did his insistence that he already “took steps”.

Donahue walked out of his office to fix the two disabled cameras, one in the bushes, the other by the back door. He plugged in each of them while pondering this little mystery. Could he have called a private detective? Possibly, but Donahue thought it unlikely. So who did that leave? Let's see. Knight never served in the military, so it couldn't be an old army buddy. A bank client with a security or military background, perhaps? Possibly. Or perhaps he called the family's attorney...yes, a distinct possibility. I must check into that. Glancing at his watch, he saw that 18 minutes had passed. He walked quickly back toward Knight's study.

He walked in to find Justin in conversation with the girl's tutor. Someone needed to do something about her. She obviously knew more than she let on.

Justin looked up. “Ah, Donahue. So what do you have to report?”

“Unfortunately, sir, the miscreants managed to defeat two of our security cameras. Nothing on any of the other tapes showed any kind of intruder.”

“How the hell did they manage to disable the security cameras? I thought that our surveillance recorder would record anyone who tried.”

“It should have been impossible, but they did it somehow, sir,” Donahue dutifully replied.

“Honestly, Donahue, why the hell do I pay you all this money? This is ridiculous. You had better figure out how to tighten up our security, or you will need a new job,” said Justin, his voice rising.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, do you want an engraved invitation? Someone breached this estate's security tonight, and you just stand there. Get cracking, man!” Justin commanded imperiously.

“Yes, sir,” replied Donahue with a troubled face, and he left at once.

Lizzie signaled Justin silently with her head to join her in the hall. Once there, she whispered to him, “They might have bugged your office, perhaps this hall too. Come into my room again. You can call your attorney from there and have him deal with the police and the FBI directly.”

She walked down the hall toward her room, and he followed her. Once they entered her room, she closed and locked the door, turning to him.

She considered him for a moment. “Check your pockets. See if you find anything in there you don't recognize.”

He gave her a quizzical glance, and she answered it by saying, “They might have bugged your person. It could be anything, as small as a tiny dot. Check everything on you carefully.”

He did as she asked, confirming he had nothing unusual on him. She went to her bedside table and picked up what looked like a plastic hair-curling wand. It plugged into her laptop, which she carried under her arm over to the foot of the bed. She ran the wand over him like a guard at an airport security checkpoint and read the readout on her laptop.

“Well, I can't find anything on you other than your Blackberry. Bring that out for a moment,” she said.

He did as she asked, and she ran the wand over the phone.

She said, “I don't think they put a bug on you, although I can't be certain. Perhaps my equipment can't detect it, but I doubt it.”

As a final precaution, she ran the wand over herself in the same way. The readouts on the laptop didn't change. All this activity impressed and surprised Justin.

He glanced around the room. Like his daughter's room, Lizzie's room bore an unmistakably feminine touch without being flowery or showy. A spring green comforter lined by pastel green and yellow pillows covered a queen-size bed. The walls displayed very little, except for a beautiful landscape on the wall opposite the bed. A lounge chair sat in one corner, and a very comfortable couch lay against the adjacent wall. Except for the laptop, he saw very few personal belongings. The relative starkness of the room contrasted with the opulence of other more elegant rooms in the house, yet it evoked a distinct feeling of warmth and comfort.

She paused a moment. “You will need to move very carefully, now that we know that your security manager joined the plot against you.”

“What do you mean?” he demanded, bewildered.

“Do you really think that the intruder could have gotten in without Donahue's assistance? I've seen the security you have around here. No one could have reached the security cameras without the recording system capturing them, unless someone turned the recording system or the cameras off. So only one other alternative possibility remains.”

“What?”

“Donahue disabled the system.”

This caught Justin by surprise.

“Donahue? Ridiculous! The man came here more than three years ago. He's ex-army and ex-CIA. His security qualifications surpassed even your academic qualifications. How could you possibly suspect him?”

“Where did you find Donahue, anyway?” Lizzie persisted.

Justin paused a moment to remember. Then it came to him.

“He came highly recommended by Nevio Roone who runs the security department at the bank. He has top credentials. He...” Justin stopped as it dawned on him what he had just said. Roone introduced and recommended Donahue to him. Roone's department acted under his uncle's orders this evening!

The dawning truth knocked Justin off his mental balance for a moment. Roone planted Donahue at the Knight estate three years ago! By the time Justin recovered, he realized this hard, cold fact meant that his uncle didn't trust him and quite possibly intended to harm him or Michaela...or both.

It also suggested what the video he saw earlier this afternoon confirmed: a long-term plan executed inexorably in the background. Unseen hands set it in motion many years before. The conspiracy theory so newly introduced in his mind earlier in the day thus transformed into a conspiracy fact.

For the first time since the day's events unfolded, Justin realized to his astonishment that he felt fear. He feared for himself, and he feared even more for his daughter. He hadn't felt this way for a very long time. Yet, to his surprise, he also felt something else, something unexpected. He felt hope.

“Have you called your family attorney yet?” she asked, breaking his reverie.

“No, not yet.”

“Do it now. We need as much legal firepower working for us as we can get. Say as little as possible over the phone. Someone might easily have tapped such an unsecured channel.”

Justin's eyes widened as he stood and pulled out his Blackberry again, pressed a button, and held it to his ear. He soon heard a familiar voice.

“Tom, Justin Knight here,” he said. “I am fine, Tom, but I need your help right away. Someone abducted Michaela this evening.... I do not dare say much over an open phone line. Will you please come over right away? No, do not call the police. I called them...No, just come over right away...Thanks, Tom,” he said, then disconnected the call and started for the door.

“Now,” said Lizzie, grabbing his arm, “we must finish our earlier discussion.” She indicated the couch for Justin to sit down.

“Are you crazy?” he burst out, pulling his arm from her grasp. “They kidnapped my daughter, and you want to talk about a doctoral thesis?”

“No, I want to talk about my third proof. You must learn about this final piece of evidence. It will make clear to you exactly what you face,” she stated firmly, gesturing to the couch. He hesitated, and then sat down.

She slowly paced the room as she spoke, not willing to meet Justin's eyes as she told her story.

“As you know,” she began, “I enrolled at Harvard University 19 years ago as an undergraduate. What you don't know is that I met someone my first day at college destined to heavily influence my life from that day forward. Like other freshmen, they assigned me a roommate. Roommates, of course, don't always hit it off, but this particular roommate and I became best friends almost instantly. I called her Amy, mostly to tease her because she really hated that name. She preferred the formal version of her name: Amanda Radcliffe,” Lizzie said. She stopped a moment and regarded Justin, whose mouth hung wide open.

“You knew my wife in college?” he asked in stunned amazement.

“As I said,” Lizzie answered simply, continuing her pacing, “she became my roommate and my best friend. She teased me right back by calling me Lizzie. I can't tell you how much it shocked me when your daughter called me Lizzie the first time I met her when I interviewed for the tutoring job. She even sounded like Amy when she said it.”

She stopped pacing and smiled briefly, “By the way, you may be interested to know that Amy talked about you a lot. You had a profound effect on her, perhaps more than you knew. I already knew your appearance because of the picture she kept of you on her desk. It didn't surprise me at all when she told me at graduation that she’d accepted your proposal of marriage.”

She continued pacing.

“At any rate, Amy and I shared everything, even our academic interests. I majored in economics, and she majored in political science. We sometimes had the same classes together. Even then I had a bit of a radical streak. I tested my views and ideas on her. She had a brilliant, incisive mind, and I used her as a devil's advocate to poke holes in my theories. She planned to go to law school, of course, if she hadn't married you instead,” she said, stopping her pacing to consider him.

Justin's attention riveted upon Lizzie's eyes as she talked. He nodded in acknowledgement but said nothing.

Lizzie nodded back. “Our friendship went way beyond academics, though. We were inseparable. If either of us had homosexual tendencies, we probably would have become lovers, but we were both too boy crazy for that,” she said, with a sheepish grin.

Justin smiled slightly, shaking his head.

“Why did she never tell me about you?” he asked. “I cannot believe she never said anything...Wait a minute!” he said suddenly, “I remember something about her best friend in college, come to think of it. Her name was not Lizzie, it was...”

“Flakes,” Lizzie finished for him.

Justin reeled.

“You were Flakes?” he almost shouted, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head.

“Yeah, strange nickname, huh?”

“Why Flakes?” Justin asked, still astonished.

“It was just one of those stupid college things,” Lizzie explained, shaking her head dismissively, with a wry grimace. “One day we walked to class together, and it started snowing. So the two of us started laughing and carrying on about snowflakes. I threatened to start calling her Snow, because she snowed me so easily. You know how much she loved to debate, and she really learned how to improvise, shall we say? Anyway, she countered that she'd call me Flakes for being so flaky. The names stuck. From that day forward, I called her Snow, and she called me Flakes. We only called each other Amy and Lizzie when talking with a classmate or friend.”

Justin laughed and said, “So you are Flakes! Unbelievable! But one thing I do not understand. Amanda adamantly refused to invite you to our wedding. I thought it pretty strange, you being her best friend and all, but she steadfastly refused and would not change her mind. She never explained or gave a reason. Why did she not want to invite you?”

Lizzie, folded her arms tightly around herself and stared at the floor.

“Because I asked her not to, and I told her I wouldn't come even if she asked. I was very radical at the time, particularly in economics. I'm sure you figured that out by reading my doctoral thesis. One form my rebellion took entailed a complete and utter rejection of everything establishment. I didn't like the fact that she planned to marry a rich kid banker. She thought I was just being stupid. So we drifted apart after graduation. She went home to marry you, and I went to graduate school.”

Lizzie resumed her pacing.

“We stayed out of touch until my last year at Columbia. She, of course, had a family and worked with you at the bank. Nine years passed, and it surprised me when she called. It was good to hear her voice, but I could tell something was worrying her. She said she wanted to meet, that she needed to talk, and there was urgency in her voice. I couldn't imagine what could possibly be so urgent, but I longed to see my old friend again, so we agreed to meet for coffee at my apartment on the upper West Side. Let me tell you the story....”

A younger Lizzie went to get the door with a bit of trepidation. Turning the handle, she pulled the door open and saw her old friend standing on the doorstep. Her surprisingly lined and sad eyes looked at Lizzie as if dazed. Lizzie didn't notice at first as she greeted her friend happily.

“Snow!” she cried with enthusiasm.

Her friend focused on her and lit up, quietly answering, “Hi Flakes,” with a big smile. The two women hugged. A second later Amy's smile disappeared.

Now Lizzie began to notice the change in her friend as she invited her into the small apartment. In addition to the lined face, she saw shadows under Amy's eyes. She no longer saw the quietly mischievous gleam in those eyes. The youthful spirit no longer resided there; it was replaced by...it couldn't be...fear?

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked uncertainly.

Amy shook her head no but said nothing. Lizzie noticed that Amy's hands shook as she held her bag.

“What's wrong, Snow?” she asked her.

Amy peered quickly around the small living room as if she expected something or someone to grab her at any moment. The familiarity of Lizzie’s multitudes of house plants, on the floor, on table tops, and hanging from the ceilings, brought her some comfort. The heavenly fragrance of an assortment of flowers that now filled her head hadn’t changed. But Amy had.

Lizzie walked carefully over to her friend, took her hand, and guided her to a nearby love seat where she sat down. Lizzie sat across from her in an armchair and didn't relinquish her friend's hand. “What is it?”

Amy smiled quickly but the smile faded just as rapidly. Her nerves began to affect Lizzie too. “Flakes, I think I'm into something way over my head.”

“What happened?” Lizzie asked her. Amy couldn't speak.

Finally, Lizzie got up and said, “Let me go get you a glass of water. You can take a moment to collect your thoughts.”

Amy nodded, but she just sat there, shaking slightly, her gaze fixed on an indeterminate spot on the far wall. While reluctant to leave her friend even for a second, Lizzie finally walked quickly into the galley kitchen, grabbed a glass, filled it with water, then returned to the living room. She sat down in front of her friend and grabbed her hand to place the glass there. After a moment, Amy regained enough of her awareness to grasp the glass, and she took a big gulp of water.

The cold January air seemed to penetrate the little apartment despite the warmth of the radiator in the living room. Most New Yorkers still suffered the after-effects of 9/11, which had occurred just four months previously, but the city had settled back into a kind of routine. Most people steered clear of where the towers once stood. The wound in the ground mirrored the wound inside everyone, and no one liked its reminder. Still, avoidance didn't ease the fear that gripped the city. Lizzie wondered if this still bothered her friend, causing her current frazzled state.

“Is this about 9/11 or something?”

Amy smiled half-heartedly and said, “Sort of.'“ After a long moment, she began to talk. “After Justin and I married, I worked mostly on one account at the bank–the Holloway account.”

Lizzie raised her eyebrows. Holloway, Inc. appeared in the papers every other day about some new defense contract or whatever. The latest news focused on their involvement in the upcoming military incursion in Afghanistan.

Amy noticed and said, “Yes, Holloway, believe it or not. In fact, my husband landed the account for the bank in the first place. He helped John Holloway with his IPO. It launched Justin's career. His uncle made him a vice-president last month.”

“Really?” Lizzie asked in a distracted way, hardly listening past her own concern over her friend's apparent state of mind. Then she realized what her friend said about her husband's promotion and added, “Congratulations!”

“Thanks,” Amy replied with a brief smile before sinking into her moodiness once again. “I handle most of Holloway's international transactions. About two weeks ago, an unusual wire transfer crossed my desk for processing, for $50 million, designated for some company I never heard of in Pakistan. I handle wire transfers every day, but I rarely saw one anywhere near as large as this one. Transfers that large usually get reserved for buying out another company or something big like that.”

Relieved that Amy finally started talking, Lizzie just nodded and sat mute, unwilling to interrupt.

“I started entering the transfer in my computer. While I did the work, I noticed the description of the transfer. It merely said, 'OBL-AQ-22' and nothing else.”

“What does that mean?”

Amy shook her head and said, “I don't know. Descriptions on wire transfers often contained simple codes and such, but this one caught my attention. I could sense something familiar about it, but I couldn't identify what! I had a pile of other work on my desk and didn't have time to study the description, so I made a photocopy of it, threw it in my desk drawer for later study, and finished putting the transfer through. Then I promptly forgot about it as I plowed through the rest of the work on my desk.”

Lizzie nodded but said nothing.

“Today, during a lull in the work flow, I came across the photocopy I made that day. I pulled it out of the desk drawer and stared at it for awhile. You see, I never saw a code like it before! While I mused it over, my eyes went to the headline on today's copy of The Daily News that sat on the corner of my desk. It mentioned Osama Bin Laden. I made the connection. Could OBL mean Osama Bin Laden? And AQ...that could be Al-Qaeda. I scoffed as soon as I thought it. It didn't make sense. Hasn't the government already frozen all of Bin Laden's known assets?”

“Well, they claim they have,” Lizzie acknowledged.

“I thought so too, but I couldn't buy the coincidence. So I ran a computer query. It came back with a security warning. The computer wouldn't let me access it! I didn't know what to do. So I put the photocopy in my briefcase. Within seconds, I got a phone call from bank security, demanding to know why I performed that particular query. I said I was doing some research, that there might be something that we should report to the FBI.”

“What did he say to that?” Lizzie asked.

“He got really angry! He said I should never perform that search again, or I'd get in a lot of trouble. He also specifically told me not to call the FBI or anyone else about it. Then he hung up.”

Now her shaking resumed in earnest.

“It really shook me up. I decided to leave work for the day, and as I headed to my car, I called you on my cell phone. You know the rest.”

“May I see the photocopy?”

Amy pulled it out and handed it to her. Lizzie examined it carefully. Then she excused herself for a minute, got up, and went into her bedroom where she had a small copy machine. She made a copy of it and went back into the living room where Amy still sat shaking, her head now in her hands. Lizzie studied the photocopy for a moment, verifying the code: 'OBL-AQ-22'. Then she handed it back to Amy.

Lizzie asked her, “Have you told your husband about this yet?”

Amy shook her head no. “The phone call shook me up too much. I guess I couldn't think clearly.”

“Are you afraid of how he would react?”

Amy laughed. “Of course not. Don't be silly!”

Still, the whole thing made her nervous, and she continued to shake as she sat there.

“Why don't I go with you to your house? It'll be a chance for me to meet your family, and I can sit with you while you tell your husband what happened.”

Amy looked at her wide-eyed. “You'd do that for me...after everything?”

“You're still my best friend, even if I haven't seen you in eight years!”

“Thank you!” Amy sniffed. Lizzie moved over to the love seat to sit next to her friend, and within seconds they hugged each other.

“I really missed you,” Amy said.

“Me too, Snow,” Lizzie answered her with a smile, her right arm still around the shoulders of her old friend, their foreheads touching. “Me too.”

Lizzie paused, remembering that day. Then she resumed her narrative.

“In the end, I agreed to follow her back home, to be with her and give her moral support as she told you what happened. She said it would also be a chance for you and I to meet for the first time.”

Justin didn't like where he sensed this story might lead. He swallowed with difficulty and shifted again on the couch, trying to find a more comfortable position.

Lizzie resumed her story.

The two women left the apartment together.

“Where are you parked?” Lizzie asked.

“I'm down by the corner,” Amy replied.

“My car's in the garage. Give me a minute to drive it up to street level, and I'll meet you at the corner.”

Amy smiled her agreement. “Thanks for doing this, Flakes.”

“What are friends for?” Lizzie asked with a smile.

While Amy walked cautiously down the street to her car, Lizzie took the steps down to the basement where she could feel the bite of January cold. She let herself into the small parking area with her key, smelling the oil stains she knew were on the floor, and pushed a button to open the ramp door, got in her car, then drove up to street level, turned right, and moved down to the corner just before her friend's car.

Amy pulled out, and she led her friend over to the ramp toward the West Side Highway. Lizzie followed her through the streets until they got on the FDR Drive, and followed her as she maneuvered her way onto the Long Island Expressway. The light traffic allowed them to make good progress on the highway. As they passed the exit for East Meadow, suddenly a black sedan pulled alongside Amy's car in the lane to the left of her, practically out of nowhere. The sedan alarmed Lizzie as he followed because the driver drove rather wildly. She half expected the car to go crashing out of control into the guard rail.

She saw two men in the car. The one in the passenger seat rolled down the window and...Lizzie gasped...he pointed a gun through the car window at Amy's car....and fired twice!

The sudden sharp noise startled Lizzie. She watched in horror as Amy's car went careening off the road, slammed into a guard rail, and flipped over a few times, while the black sedan sped up and took off.

Lizzie screamed, “NO!” She slammed on the brakes and pulled over to the right side of the road in an instant. She threw off her seat belt and jumped out of the car, running back to where Amy's car lay twisted and smoking acridly in a heap by the side of the road.

“NO!” she screamed again, unable to fathom the events she just saw.

She ran over to peer in the driver's side window. Amy lay in a twisted, broken position inside the crushed interior of the car. Lizzie saw blood and glass everywhere, and she knew her friend must be dead. Then she saw the smashed-in side of Amy’s head. Lizzie lurched over to the side of the road and hurled out the contents of her stomach over and over again. Other people stopped, and a kind man came over and tried to calm her down as she knelt on the ground on all fours shaking from the shock while vomit poured out of her mouth spasmodically.

Between heaves, she screamed repeatedly, “NO! NOOOOO!”

The man helped her sit up and asked her, “Are you all right? Do you know the driver?”

Lizzie couldn't say anything. She struggled to speak as she gasped for icy breath, but nothing came out. It was too terrible, too horrible! The man kept trying to calm her, trying to get her attention, but she could only focus on the fact that someone had just blown a hole in her best friend's head at 60 miles an hour.

She looked around wildly for any sign of the black sedan. She couldn't see it anywhere, and the terror she felt held her hostage. How had they found Amy? Had someone from bank security done this? Some terrorist group? Frantic thoughts coursed through her brain. The more she thought, the more petrified she became. No one could get a word out of her.

A short while later, an ambulance and a state trooper car with screaming sirens and skidding tires arrived. The witnesses told the trooper about Lizzie. He tried to get her to talk, but she clammed up, still shaking with fear.

While he tried to talk calmly to her, Lizzie came to a decision. She felt the risk to her own life too great to say anything. If those thugs could find her best friend so fast, imagine how fast they'd kill her if they knew her connection to Amy. Lizzie decided not to say anything to anyone.

The trooper asked her questions gently, and she finally spoke up.

“I was driving behind her, and I saw the car go flying off the road,” she told the trooper. “I stopped to see if I could help. I guess I freaked out when I saw...the body,” she said. “It was too horrible.”

“Did you know the victim?” he asked her.

Lizzie shook her head but didn't say anything else.

“OK, just give me your name and address, so we can contact you if we need more information,” the trooper said.

Justin sat there, shocked and distraught. All the gut-wrenching memories of that day six years before came rushing back. Tears streamed down his face, which he held tightly in his hands as he stared through his fingers. Blood pooled in his neck and chest. He'd gotten the phone call at the office. They wanted him to come identify her body. Long-blocked memories coursed through his mind again, unbidden. The unbearable pain, so fresh after all those years, returned.

After a long moment, he wiped his eyes, recomposed himself, turned to her and said with agony in his voice, “Why on earth did you tell me that?”

“Because you need to understand the huge, real and imminent threat to you and your daughter,” Lizzie replied in an uneven voice, her own eyes bloodshot, tears streaming down her cheeks as well.

“But it was just a terrible accident. She wasn't shot,” he argued feebly.

“YES, SHE WAS!” Lizzie shouted through her tears. “They murdered her! The bastards murdered her! I saw it happen, but I doubt that the police noticed the evidence of it. Like I said, the scene was pretty gruesome. Everyone thought the crash killed her. They saw nothing obvious to suggest otherwise, so they didn't include anything else in their report.”

Justin sat in total shock, unable to speak, breathing shallowly.

Lizzie took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then released it.

“After I got home, I remained dreadfully frightened. I didn't leave my apartment for three days, fearing what might be out there. Friends and fellow doctoral students called me and left messages asking for me, but I refused to take any calls. The painful image wouldn't go away. They murdered my best friend right in front of me!”

He still didn't say anything, so she faced him with determination and said, “I didn't come to live here in order to exploit the people she loved. I came here because I loved her. I came here because of her daughter. And I came here because...”

She couldn't finish the sentence. She turned away from him.

“Because what?” he demanded.

She stared fixedly at the floor as her face reddened.

“Well, never mind the third reason. But you must believe me, I didn't come here to hurt you. I came here to help.”

He remained silent, and when she glanced up at him, his eyes told her she had earned his trust.

She took a deep breath, then continued her story: “Eventually I regained my composure, and my brain started to work more clearly again. I had a friend on campus from my economics classes, sort of a fellow traveler, named AJ. He introduced me to the Austrian economists, like Murray Rothbard and Ludwig Von Mises, who rarely get included in the official curriculum. He also told me about a secret society he joined dedicated to promoting change in the monetary, banking, and corporate system. They call themselves the Agorist Underground. The word agora, as you may know, is an ancient Greek word that means ‘marketplace’. I knew that he would listen to my story sympathetically and might even help me find some understanding as to why it happened. So I called him.”

AJ didn't look forward to the trip to his friend's apartment, no matter how grateful he felt that she finally took his call a short while before. Still, someone had to do it. Better him than someone she didn't know.

When she answered his knock, he saw her blotchy red face and eyes peeking around the door, terror etched in her face. He never saw her like that before. “You gonna let me in?”

She nodded shakily and opened the door for her big friend just enough to let him through, then closed it quickly behind him, locking it three times. He looked at her curiously but said nothing. When she showed no signs of wanting to go anywhere, he took her hand and led her gently into her own foliage festooned sitting room and her dark-green sofa.

“What happened?” he asked, sitting down beside her.

She lurched through the story unevenly, leaving out parts, stopping to go back to fill in blanks as she went along.

Once he had the gist of the story, he asked her, “Why didn't you tell the state trooper?”

She looked at him in horror and said, “I told you! What if those thugs figured out that I knew her!”

He shook his head in dismay but didn't press the point. Instead, he changed the subject a bit, saying, “Where's that paper you mentioned?”

She picked up her copy from her scallop-edged, walnut coffee table and handed it to him for his inspection. He saw an official bank document. The amount of the transfer, the description, the fact that it came from the Holloway account all clearly showed on the form.

He turned the photocopy over to examine the other side, found nothing but a blank page. “I want to introduce you to someone I know...someone in the Agorist Underground.”

“I don't want to meet anyone right now.”

AJ nodded. “I know. Take your time. I won't try to force you, but I want to assure you this person can help you.”

Lizzie furrowed her brow and looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“You know I'm in the AU, right?”

Lizzie nodded. “I remember you telling me something about it one time.”

“I have tried to get you to join for months now. We both know that the fiat money system must collapse under its own weight one of these days. The AU plans to help us make the transition to hard money when it does.”

“AJ!” she protested, “my best friend got murdered in front of my eyes a few days ago. Now you want me to join a protest group? I thought you were my friend!”

“Of course I'm your friend. So hear me out! If anyone can help you, my friends in the AU can do it.”

“What can they possibly do?” Lizzie demanded incredulously.

“They can give you protection, and they can help you fight back against the thugs.”

“I don't want to fight them! I don't ever want to see them again! And I certainly don't want them to see me!” Lizzie shouted, outraged.

“Listen to me! Listen!” AJ said forcefully, grabbing her wrists. “You really want to live in fear of those bastards the rest of your life?”

That caught Lizzie's attention.

He said, “The AU commits itself to bringing down the current monetary system and replacing it with a precious metals system. We don't engage in non-violent protests or anything like that. Instead, we work our way into establishment circles, seeking potential recruits to join our ranks. We believe that the best way to change the public's mind about money and banking is to find spokespeople who work within the existing system to do the speaking and writing for us. The best way to change the system is to infiltrate it.”

Lizzie shook her head in exasperation. “How the hell does that help me? You want me to turn that photocopy over to the New York Times or something?”

“No, they'll just bury it. As you know, ever since 9/11 the public has mostly accepted the official version of what happened, and the government's approach to combating the terrorists has received widespread acceptance and support. This included the President's order to freeze Bin Laden's accounts. So your evidence might make a big news story for a short time if the media found out about it, but America can't handle it yet. If we release it, the government will confiscate the photocopy, announce a new, tougher investigation of Bin Laden's financial reach and of American banking practices, and then they'll bury the matter. They have followed that pattern with most revelations that arose over the past four months. When anyone protests, particularly someone from the media, the government invokes 'national security' or 'executive privilege' or 'state secrets', and that ends it. This approach basically allows the government to pursue the same policies it wanted to pursue all along no matter what, while effectively fragmenting and silencing any opposition.”

“So what does all this have to do with me?”

“The AU plans to secretly build a case against the current system. I want you to help.”

“How? Why?”

“For now, just meet my friend.”

“And what about this protection you promised?”

“Just meet my friend,” he insisted. “She'll answer all your questions.”

Worn down by his determination, she agreed, and he left to set up the meeting.

The next day, he appeared at her door again.

“Are you ready?” he asked her.

“For what?” she said.

“To go to the meeting!”

“I don't know, AJ. I don't really want to leave my apartment, you know?”

He turned and pointed to a white, unmarked van parked on the street in front of her apartment.

“I've arranged transportation. We'll go to the meeting secretly, invisible to any prying eyes.”

A worried look crossed her brow. He took her hand.

“Come on, let me show you what's inside,” he said as he led her to the curb. They walked around to the back of the van, which he opened. Inside, she saw four very comfortable velvety, royal-blue armchairs arranged in a circle. She looked at him curiously.

“First class,” he said with a grin, a gold tooth showing. He offered his hand for support. Reluctantly, she took it and climbed inside. He climbed in after her and pulled the door shut. He waved her to a chair, and she sat down while he pounded twice on the front wall of the van. A very muffled engine started up, and she felt a gentle nudge under the floor. Apparently, the van had moved into traffic.

He buckled himself in. “Want a drink?”

“Where are we going?”

“That's a secret. Only TST knows the exact location.”

“TST?”

“An acronym...stands for The Security Team. They handle all security for the AU,” he explained. “What will you have?”

She spotted a small mini-bar next to his chair.

“What have you got?” she asked him.

“Anything from milk to whiskey.”

“How about a Sprite?”

“You got it.” He pushed a couple buttons. A door opened, and a medium-size glass of clear, sparkling liquid appeared. He handed it to her, and she tasted it, the fresh bubbles tickling her nose. Yup, Sprite.

The journey only took about 20 minutes. Presently, the van came to a stop, and a light came on, embedded in the door. AJ unbuckled himself and opened it.

Lizzie saw the inside of a small parking garage. She saw a large door with a sign above it which read, “Welcome to the Agorist Underground.” She started toward it, but he stopped her.

“Not that way. We get our own door.”

They walked over to a side door with no handle. He knocked twice. A security camera above the door scanned them, and the door opened. A middle-aged woman with light mocha skin, twice as light as AJ's, stood holding it open.

“Come on in,” she said. “I'm Janice.”

Lizzie took her hand and said, “Janice what?”

“Just Janice,” she replied with a smile.

She gestured to Lizzie to enter, who did so gingerly. They sat at a small high-polish, cherry wood conference table, which dominated the room with its pale, mocha-brown walls and dusty-rose carpeting. In the corner, a candelabra stand of lit candles, scented with lavender and vanilla, provided simple elegance designed to calm the nerves.

“So, AJ told me your story,” Janice began.

“I don't want to join anything.”

Janice laughed. “There's nothing to join. The AU is a loosely organized network of people who share a common goal. Individuals work together on common projects to whatever degree they choose on a case by case basis. It's all strictly voluntary.”

“It sounds pretty disorganized.”

“Yes, it does,” Janice agreed, “yet despite that fact the AU has a number of strengths going for it. The network has some very well-heeled participants. We have no hard numbers regarding membership, because no formal membership exists, but we estimate tens of thousands of people have involved themselves in one way or another. A large number of sub-groups have organized themselves in the network. One sub-group, TST, set up this meeting for us. They devote their efforts to creating secure communications, locations, and record-keeping for the AU.”

“And you think they can help me?”

“I'm sure of it. You can always tell which sub-groups include the wealthy members, because they run the successful, well-funded projects, like TST. Among other things, they've created a secure Internet-based communications protocol which enables AU participants to communicate securely with each other using channels that cannot be penetrated by unfriendly persons, including government agents. They developed and trained an intelligence and investigative team who pursue a variety of covert activities. And they maintain covert meeting places like this one.”

“How does that help me?”

“Let me finish,” Janice replied. “I'm a leader of TST. I'm here to recruit you. If you accept, we can give you all kinds of protection.”

“I thought you said there was nothing for me to join! Why me?”

Janice smiled. “Your academic qualifications, for one thing. Also, AJ tells me that philosophically you share the AU's overall goals. However, I must admit the major reason we want you is you knew Amy Knight.”

Lizzie looked daggers at AJ, who sat mute.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” Janice continued. “You can do something for your late friend that could also help the AU...and the rest of the world, for that matter.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Lizzie asked skeptically.

“AJ told me your story and what happened to Amy. While her death is obviously a horrible tragedy, there could also be a silver lining. Her husband seeks a tutor for their young daughter. We have worked for years to create relationships with top families of the banking establishment. We want to get you into their house as a member of their domestic staff. We want you to help us recruit Mr. Knight to our cause.”

Justin said hotly, “I cannot believe what I am hearing. They sent you to spy on me?”

Lizzie shook her head no and said, “The idea didn't appeal to me at all. I never wanted to be a secret agent or anything like that.”

Justin doubted this, but he said nothing as Lizzie continued, “Janice smiled and said she didn't expect me to just sign up on the spot. She asked that I keep an open mind and let them show me more of their operations. She wanted me to take a long time before I even considered joining. That's the way they work, she told me. They never recruit someone quickly. They do it slowly over time. Patience is a virtue in their eyes.”

“Yeah, I'll bet it is,” Justin replied unhappily, deep mistrust in his eyes.

Lizzie frowned but ignored his comment and said, “Over the next few weeks, I received a number of invitations to some private meetings. I promised not to tell you the details of these meetings, because they are closely held secrets within TST. Yes, I did end up joining TST.”

“So you were sent to spy on me after all!” Justin exclaimed.

Lizzie shook her head and answered, “No! You started your search for a tutor for Michaela within weeks of your wife's death. This was the opportunity the AU waited for. They arranged for you to be contacted via Harvard's alumni association. I believe that's where you first heard of me?” Lizzie paused for Justin's reaction.

Yes, he remembered contacting his alma mater searching for someone with superior knowledge and breeding compared to the typical, run-of-the-mill, live-in tutor. His class president called him back to say he knew someone who might fill the bill and sent Lizzie's C.V. to him.

“I didn't want to go to the interview, but they assured me that I need not commit to anything. AJ said I should just go and see for myself if it interested me. So I went reluctantly.”

“Justin,” she said, the name sounding a bit shocking because she never called him by his first name, “you surprised me. It never occurred to me I would actually like you before I met you. You represented a segment of society to which I object completely. So it surprised me when you showed me your human side. I expected you to be professional, a bit snooty, somewhat aloof. You were all of those things, but then Michaela interrupted us, and you invited her into the room so I could meet her. I suppose you wanted to find out how well we might get along together. You surprised me the way you interacted with her. You didn't just treat her as a dutiful daughter to be patted on the rump and sent off to play. I saw for myself the love, warmth, and tenderness you displayed for her. While she was clearly top priority in your life, I also saw that she felt the same way about you. I didn't expect that. It impressed me.”

“Why?” asked Justin, clearly surprised.

Lizzie sat down in front of him, unconsciously touched his arm and answered, “It never occurred to me that you might behave as a real human being. It surprised me, that's all.” She felt blood rushing to her cheeks and suddenly realized what she'd done. She quickly removed her hand.

She paused for a moment to regain her composure. “I expect you remember that I took a long time deciding whether to accept the position. The opportunity both intrigued and alarmed me. It intrigued me because I had the opportunity to work for the very goal for which I'd studied all my college years. It alarmed me because I hadn't forgotten what happened to my best friend, and I didn't want it to happen to me too. In short, I reached a major crossroad in my life. I had to decide what to do with my life, whether or not to work for real change in the system. And also...well...”

She hesitated and visibly changed her mind in mid-pause, then said, “I almost decided against it. You won me over the way you interacted with Michaela. It made me want to get to know both of you better. So I decided to accept the position,” she finally concluded, “because I wanted to help.”

Justin scoffed, “To help your AU comrades you mean.”

“Not just them. I wanted to help you and Michaela.”

Justin pondered her story for a long moment before saying, “It still seems to me you came here as a spy.”

“Not as a spy, as a recruiter.”

“You have a strange method of recruiting. You wait until they kidnap my daughter, then you try to get me to join some underground movement? Pretty disgusting!” Justin said angrily.

“No, I'm not trying to get you to join now. It's much too soon for that. I'm trying to tell you that TST can help get your daughter back, and in case you haven't figured it out yet, I want to get her back too. I love your daughter very much. In six years I've never forgotten that she's Amy's daughter. Helping raise my best friend's daughter means more to me than anything else I've ever done. I can't bring my best friend back, but I can help her daughter grow up to be a happy and healthy young woman,” Lizzie finished intently.

Justin looked down at his hands for a moment, then looked up and said, “Thank you, but how can an underground movement get my daughter back?”

“TST has been quite successful over the years recruiting talent. The team includes trained military vets, ex-CIA operatives, former green berets, former secret service agents, an FBI agent or two, electronics and computer experts, defense experts, academics, scientists, engineers, financial experts, even an occasional politician. I don't know the exact numbers, but I gather that literally thousands of us joined. On the other hand, tens of thousands of AU participants have not joined TST.”

Now she turned and faced Justin even more intently than before, saying, “But for all the expertise we have, we operate very quietly in the shadows. We make it our top priority to never permit our operations to appear in newscasts. We never do anything splashy or provocative. Our successes and our failures never get publicity. I actually play a very minor role on the team, and I don't know very many team members personally. I just know the ones who work directly with me on my mission, but I can tell you this: these people can get your daughter back alive if they want to. I have no doubt about that.”

Justin said slowly, “I do not know. This sounds crazy.”

Lizzie ignored that and said, “I can think of something else you need. You need protection. If we try to get her back, they may try to kill you. I want to get you a bodyguard. I also want to get you a bullet-proof vest to wear until the danger passes. TST can provide one if I ask them.”

Justin shook his head and said, “I do not need a bullet-proof vest or a...”

Lizzie interrupted and shouted, “They kidnapped your daughter! They fear you might not give them that video! Of course they plan to kill you! Even if they don't actually choose to do it, they'll plan it, just in case. You must protect yourself. Please, Justin! Is wearing a bullet-proof vest such a big price to pay to keep your life?” Her eyes begged him.

Her pleading surprised him.

He got up and moved away from her, saying, “I cannot go around wearing something like that. I cannot show that I expect an attack.”

“We can get you one to wear under your shirt,” Lizzie implored. “Please Justin...we're talking about your life! Let me order one for you. TST will supply it. I know they will. A courier can have it here in no time.”

Flustered, Justin threw his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay,” he said. He set his jaw. He would wear the damn thing, but under protest.

“Good,” she said getting to her feet, “I will also ask for a bodyguard. That might take a little longer, but I don't doubt they will send one.”

“Now,” she continued, “let's talk about what to say to your attorney. I presume most of your personal financial assets are with your bank. You must send them to other financial institutions. If you have an off-shore account, make sure you move some of them there too. Your uncle will want to start freezing your assets if he thinks it might help his cause. Have your attorney move them quietly for you.”

“Yes, I already thought of that.”

“Good. You also need to file a lawsuit or two against the bank, get a court order, that sort of thing, demanding your daughter's release, just something quick that they have to respond to right away. Put legal pressure on them to officially deny that they have your daughter. Then respond with some more lawsuits to apply more pressure. We need to distract them from considering the idea that you might take a more direct approach like TST will come up with. I don't know the right legal steps to take, but your attorney undoubtedly does, right?”

“You are talking about a diversion.”

“Yes exactly. Now, we must get our stories straight for when the police or the FBI get here. We don't want to tell them everything.”

They continued planning as the hall’s grandfather clock chimed 9:00 p.m.

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