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Authors: Allan Topol
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Washington once he learned that Bobby's plane went down. He could have pressured Jimmy Grange and the president by telephone. They were no closer to Bobby in Washington than in Chicago.
Finally, around six o'clock in the morning, alone in her own bed, she had begun dozing off, sleeping fretfully, until the sound of Terry's voice woke her. He was on the phone barking orders to assistants in the private equity firm he had founded in Chicago. "Sell that interest... Buy that... Straighten out that company.... What am I paying you for...? We're not running a charity, for Christ's sake."
Even now, he was on the phone as she was splashing cold water on her wrinkled face. When the second line rang, Sarah raced across the room. It might be somebody with news about her Bobby.
"It's Jimmy Grange, Sarah."
She held her breath.
"There's been a development," Grange said. "I want to come over and brief you and Terry."
Her heart was pounding. "Good or bad?"
Grange hesitated. "We'd better talk in person."
"Don't do this to me, you bastard," she screamed. "Tell me whether it's good or bad."
Terry broke into the conversation from the phone in the living room. "Who is this?"
"It's Jimmy Grange. I want to come by and update you."
"Good or bad?" Sarah wailed hysterically.
"Come now," Terry told Grange.
The line went dead.
"Pull yourself together," Terry shouted from the living room. "Don't make an ass out of yourself."
She dressed in a black skirt and black blouse, prepared for mourning, and tried to comb her long brown hair. When that failed, she grabbed a rubber band from the living room desk that held Terry's business papers and tied it up in a ponytail, the way she had worn it when she was a student at Michigan. Thinking about Michigan depressed her even more. Terry had worn his hair in a ponytail then, too.
She was certain that her appearanceâand especially her hairâstartled Terry, but he didn't say a word to her about that or anything else. They sat on separate sides of the living room in plush chairs covered with burnt-orange velour. In silence he read the New York Times while she stared out of the window at M Street in Georgetown below, watching carefree tourists go in and out of little shops while she agonized over how much pain her Bobby was in now.
When the bell to the suite rang, she remained in her chair, grabbing the sides tightly with white knuckles, letting Terry answer it. She was bursting with anxiety to hear what this man she detested had to say. During the long presidential campaign two years ago, she had referred to Grange as the bagman. Terry raised money from wealthy people and corporate executives. Then he gave it to Grange, who periodically came to Chicago to collect the checks, hear about the contributors, and return to campaign headquarters in Washington.
"Okay. What do you have for me?" Terry said gruffly when the three of them were seated around a glass-topped coffee table with a vase of red roses in the center. Grange was on the sofa, Terry and Sarah at each side.
In the White House limousine on the way to the hotel, Grange had decided that he'd better mask the optimism he felt about Major Davis's rescue effort. The last thing he wanted was to build Terry up, only to have to deliver bad news if something happened to make the operation go south.
Grange began in a slow, hesitant voice. "We believe that a renegade unit of the Turkish military shot down Robert's plane. The Turkish government has failed to meet our deadline for dealing with the matter themselves. So we put a special-operations unit on the ground in the area where we think Robert went down. We believe that the rogue Turks are holding him in a small prison in the locale."
"How did you learn that?" Terry demanded.
"From an informer."
Sarah felt a sudden burst of excitement. This was the first confirmation they had that Bobby was alive.
Terry bored in on Grange. "How good's the informer?"
Grange shrugged. "Major Davis, who's in
Finally, around six o'clock in the morning, alone in her own bed, she had begun dozing off, sleeping fretfully, until the sound of Terry's voice woke her. He was on the phone barking orders to assistants in the private equity firm he had founded in Chicago. "Sell that interest... Buy that... Straighten out that company.... What am I paying you for...? We're not running a charity, for Christ's sake."
Even now, he was on the phone as she was splashing cold water on her wrinkled face. When the second line rang, Sarah raced across the room. It might be somebody with news about her Bobby.
"It's Jimmy Grange, Sarah."
She held her breath.
"There's been a development," Grange said. "I want to come over and brief you and Terry."
Her heart was pounding. "Good or bad?"
Grange hesitated. "We'd better talk in person."
"Don't do this to me, you bastard," she screamed. "Tell me whether it's good or bad."
Terry broke into the conversation from the phone in the living room. "Who is this?"
"It's Jimmy Grange. I want to come by and update you."
"Good or bad?" Sarah wailed hysterically.
"Come now," Terry told Grange.
The line went dead.
"Pull yourself together," Terry shouted from the living room. "Don't make an ass out of yourself."
She dressed in a black skirt and black blouse, prepared for mourning, and tried to comb her long brown hair. When that failed, she grabbed a rubber band from the living room desk that held Terry's business papers and tied it up in a ponytail, the way she had worn it when she was a student at Michigan. Thinking about Michigan depressed her even more. Terry had worn his hair in a ponytail then, too.
She was certain that her appearanceâand especially her hairâstartled Terry, but he didn't say a word to her about that or anything else. They sat on separate sides of the living room in plush chairs covered with burnt-orange velour. In silence he read the New York Times while she stared out of the window at M Street in Georgetown below, watching carefree tourists go in and out of little shops while she agonized over how much pain her Bobby was in now.
When the bell to the suite rang, she remained in her chair, grabbing the sides tightly with white knuckles, letting Terry answer it. She was bursting with anxiety to hear what this man she detested had to say. During the long presidential campaign two years ago, she had referred to Grange as the bagman. Terry raised money from wealthy people and corporate executives. Then he gave it to Grange, who periodically came to Chicago to collect the checks, hear about the contributors, and return to campaign headquarters in Washington.
"Okay. What do you have for me?" Terry said gruffly when the three of them were seated around a glass-topped coffee table with a vase of red roses in the center. Grange was on the sofa, Terry and Sarah at each side.
In the White House limousine on the way to the hotel, Grange had decided that he'd better mask the optimism he felt about Major Davis's rescue effort. The last thing he wanted was to build Terry up, only to have to deliver bad news if something happened to make the operation go south.
Grange began in a slow, hesitant voice. "We believe that a renegade unit of the Turkish military shot down Robert's plane. The Turkish government has failed to meet our deadline for dealing with the matter themselves. So we put a special-operations unit on the ground in the area where we think Robert went down. We believe that the rogue Turks are holding him in a small prison in the locale."
"How did you learn that?" Terry demanded.
"From an informer."
Sarah felt a sudden burst of excitement. This was the first confirmation they had that Bobby was alive.
Terry bored in on Grange. "How good's the informer?"
Grange shrugged. "Major Davis, who's in
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