to wait. It was five hours to New York City and we needed to be in midtown Manhattan by eight. If we drove fast, we'd just make it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
WE NEEDN'Thave rushed. Martin's black limo didn't pull up to the front entrance of the Society for International Affairs building until 10:00A .M. Martin, it seemed, worked banker's hours.
He stepped out of the limo carrying a five-hundred-dollar leather briefcase, wearing his Burberry raincoat, that prominent nose of his the first thing to emerge. He turned around and stuck his face back into the car, told the driver what time to pick him up, then spun around to head confidently up the short stairs and into the building: Mr. Establishment arriving for another day at the money mill.
At that moment, the guy who'd been casually leaning against the building's wall shoved off and began to walk past him. Martin looked vaguely at the guy but took no particular notice, and in any case wouldn't have recognized me with my dyed blond hair and glasses, wearing jeans and a bulky parka.
The trick to kidnapping is speed. Shock value counts for everything: You have to dumbfound your victims, traumatize them, make them too senseless to react, too passive to resist.
At the instant we passed, the fingers of my right hand drove directly into his throat. He wasn't expecting it, but it came too fast for him to put up a defense anyway. One second he was walking upright to the entrance, and the next his throat felt like it was on fire and he couldn't breathe.
He lurched over and, like a Good Samaritan, I swiftly bent down and slipped an arm around his shoulder to help him. It was New York so a few pedestrians were passing by, barely paying attention. Katrina had been parked down the street in our rental; she came screeching up to the unloading zone in front of the building.
She wore a blond wig, and a fake mustache, and big black-rimmed glasses, and looked goofy as hell, but it was a great disguise. I'd also taken the precaution of stealing a license plate from a parked car, in case anyone saw us and was inclined to report the kidnapping to the police.
Martin was desperately trying to struggle away from me, and I was loudly saying, "There, there, buddy, you're going to be okay. You probably just got a piece of gum stuck in there. Here, I'll give you a ride to the hospital," as I maneuvered him toward the car. Katrina leaned back and flung open the rear door. I shoved Martin inside, banging his head against the door frame, which sent his glasses spilling into the gutter and made him howl.
I piled in, and Katrina pulled out into the street. While Martin was fighting to force some air down his bruised windpipe, I pulled some rope from my pocket and tried to grab his hands. He tried shoving me away, slapping at my face like a little girl, so I popped him hard on the nose, an easy target because the damned thing was so huge.
His hands flew up to his schnozz and he was whimpering and trying to keep the flow of blood from spilling all over his Burberry, while I began using the rope to tie his hands together. He tried protesting, and I screamed, "Shut up or I'll kill you!"
Once I got his hands tied, I pulled out the hunting knife I'd bought at Tysons Corner, held it to his throat, and threatened, "One wrong move and I'll cut you, asshole."
I yanked a ski mask over my head, while he stared at my face, trying to place me, trying to fight his fear, trying to figure out how he got into this nightmare.
He started to talk, and I told him to shut up or I'd slice open his throat. This also was part of the treatment. I wanted him so scared he'd pee in his pants. Katrina headed uptown for the George Washington Bridge, which would compound our crime by taking us across state lines. But hey, once you've just assaulted and kidnapped the most powerful former Assistant Secretary of State in history, why sweat the small stuff?
About every five minutes I reached over and slapped or punched Martin, sometimes in the face, sometimes in the stomach, not because I'm a cruel bastard but to keep him terrified. He needed to know I was pitiless. He needed to feel pain. The more helpless he felt, the quicker