My Gal Sunday by Mary Higgins Clark Page B

this; time was running out.
    Henry was finishing up his conversation with the queen. “I am most grateful, Your Majesty, for your expression of concern, and, yes, I promise that one day soon Sunday and I will have the honor of dining with you again.”
    When he handed the phone back to an aide, Henry looked directly at his successor. “Des, I know what I have to do. I’m leaving immediately to talk to Jovunet. Then we’ll fly him here from the prison at Marion. He is the key to all this. Maybe I’ll even be able to get some hint as to who is behind it all.”
    “A very wise idea,” the director of the FBI said solemnly. “As I well remember, sir, your negotiating skills are unparalleled.” Then, realizing that — particularly in this room — comparisons are considered odious, he covered his mouth and coughed.
    The bacon was fried to a fare-thee-well, just short of being totally cremated. The toast, cold and brittle, reminded Sunday of her grandmother’s less-than-sterling culinary skills. Granny had always insisted on using an old-fashioned toaster, and she always waited until clouds of smoke signaled that it was time to flip the bread over. Then, when that side had been properly burned, she would scrape the blackened surface into the sink and cheerfully serve the remnants.
    But Sunday was hungry, and miserable though the food was, it was at least filling. On the plus side, the tea was very strong, just as she liked it. With its help, her head had begun to clear. The sense of unreality was passing, and now it was beginning to sink in just how very precarious her situation was. This was neither a nightmare nor a bad joke. The man in the monk’s garb, either alone or with accomplices, had somehow managed to tamper with her car, which spent virtually all of its idle time parked in a secure area, to disable her very experienced Secret Service agents, and to kidnap her. He — or they — were both daring and very smart.
    It must have been shortly after three o’clock when it happened, she thought. Dan Rather came on at 6:30, so it’s just a little past seven by now, she decided. That means I’ve been conscious for less than an hour. So how long have I been here? And how far did we have to travel to get here? Fitting it all together, Sunday decided that she must still be relatively close to the Washington area. Given the weather conditions, her captor could have traveled only so far in spiriting her away from the city.
    But where am I? And what is this place? Could this be his home? Possible, she decided. And how many are involved in this operation? So far she had seen only the man in the monk’s outfit, and she had heard the voice of what sounded to be an older woman. But that didn’t mean that there couldn’t be others. It was unlikely though possible that he could have carried out the kidnapping without assistance; this guy was clearly very strong and could easily have maneuvered her body out of her car and into his by himself.
    And then the most important question of all registered in her still-foggy mind: What are they going to do with me?
    She looked down at the tray with its cup and plate; she was still holding it on her lap. She wished she could reach down and place it on the floor. The dull ache in her shoulder was getting worse, aggravated no doubt by being trussed up with clothesline in a cold, damp cellar. Clearly, though, this was more than a bruise she had suffered. She wished she had let Henry take her for an X ray after she fell off Appleby. Maybe she did have a hairline fracture after all . . .
    Wait! I’m crazy, she thought. Here I am worrying about a hairline fracture when I may not be alive long enough for it to mend! They won’t release me until that terrorist Jovunet has reached wherever it is he is going. And even when he is safe, what’s to guarantee they’ll turn me loose?
    “Congresswoman.”
    She spun her head sharply to the side. Her captor was standing in the doorway of the