Deadline by Campbell Armstrong Page A

prevent you?’
    I didn’t like the snide emphasis she gave the word ethics. ‘I haven’t seen her professionally in several years.’
    â€˜In your opinion, is she fit to hold high office?’
    I hesitated. I wanted to say Without doubt , but I couldn’t hurry the words from brain to mouth.
    Carrie Vasuu asked, ‘Well? Is she or isn’t she? I’m holding my breath.’
    Before I could answer, the telephone on my desk rang. I picked up the handset, glad of the interruption.
    The voice on the line wasn’t Jane’s. It was Sondra’s, and it was strident with panic. Her words ran together, a collision of sounds. I’d never heard her talk this way, and my heart lurched inside my chest like a great bird leaping suddenly upward. ‘I don’t know where I am, Jerry. Come get me. Can you come get me, please, oh please –’
    â€˜Sondra, what’s the problem? What’s happened? Where are you? Take your time, go slow, talk slow. Has there been an accident? Are you hurt? Is it the baby?’
    The line was dead.
    I dropped the handset on my desk and hurried into the reception area, shutting my office door behind me.
    Jane was staring at me. ‘She sounded in a bad way, Jerry. What’s wrong? Is she sick? Is there something I can do to help?’
    â€˜Did she say where she was calling from?’
    â€˜No –’
    One of the telephones on Jane’s desk rang and she picked it up, then handed the receiver to me. The voice I heard was that of a man I didn’t recognize. ‘You want to see your wife again, go outside, take a right, walk three blocks. Go inside a bar called The Punch Bowl. Got that? You’ll be contacted at eleven-thirty.’
    â€˜What is all this?’ I asked. ‘A joke –’
    â€˜A joke? What kind of world do you live in, Lomax? Just do what I tell you and skip the dumb questions. And one other thing – keep this to yourself. Remember, we’ve got your wife.’
    â€˜You’ve got my wife? What is that supposed to mean?’
    â€˜What does it sound like to you, Lomax? You open your mouth in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I can’t guarantee her safety. Clear?’
    â€˜Who the hell are you?’ The line was dead. I was railing at nothing, nobody.
    Jane wadded a Kleenex nervously in her fist. ‘What’s going on, Jerry? Has something happened to Sondra?’
    I looked at my watch. It was just after eleven. ‘Cancel my appointments for the day. Also my lunch with Harry Pushkas. Tell those White House goons I was called away. Emergency. I don’t care what.’
    â€˜Where are you going?’
    I didn’t answer. I moved out into the hallway, walked to the elevator, pressed the Call button. My mind was upside-down. It was a joke, it had to be, what else could it be? Old Harry Pushkas, practical joker, had dreamed it up: Let’s knock Jerry sideways, keep him from getting all smug and complacent and shrink-like. Play with his head a little. But I couldn’t see Sondra going along with a joke like this. It wasn’t her style.
    And yet it had been Sondra on the phone, different-sounding, sure, but Sondra all the same. Panicky, scared: Please oh please come find me.
    I tried to stay calm while I waited for the elevator, but then I realized from the light-panel that it was stuck way below on the second floor. I hurried to the stairs and took them two or three at a time, my feet clattering on stone; when I reached the foyer I was hyperventilating, and sick to the bottom of my heart with dread.

11.11 a.m.
    The man who came across the foyer towards me was about six feet tall and wore his hair thickly gelled and flattened back against his skull, a style that had been popular in the late ’80s and early ’90s, usually accompanied by a double-breasted linen suit.
    â€˜Dr Lomax?’ he asked, and introduced himself as Detective Petrosian of the