Chapter 21

KIDNAPPED

The bedside clock read 11:20 p.m. James Parker, better known as Jim or Houdini, was lying in bed on his back, fully clothed, hands clasped under his head, reflecting on the day’s events. What should have been a smoothly executed operation had become a complicated one. He could blame it all on Rocky for mishandling Mr. T, but what was the use of laying blame at this point?

Houdini remembered the meeting less than one week ago in Dr. Trench’s office. Dr. Trench had then stressed the importance of the operation for the members of the Order, who had long been waiting with anticipation for the moment they would be united with their Master reincarnate. Recently, after a search that had lasted many years, it had been established beyond the shadow of a doubt that their Master had reincarnated as Norton Thorp, a famous mathematician presently living in New York.

But Dr. Thorp was not aware of his true identity, Dr. Trench had explained to them, or of his destiny as a spiritual leader. However, if they, Houdini and Rocky, succeeded in bringing him to the Temple, the evidence that would be presented to him coupled with the heartfelt devotion of his followers would eventually win him over and persuade him to become their Master and guide.

“Dr. Thorp should be treated at all times with the respect due to a sacred person,” Dr. Trench had told them. And, looking Rocky straight in the eyes, as if the recommendation were addressed particularly to him, he had added: “Persuasion is the key, with coercion to be used as a last resort and applied only with extreme restraint.” Then he had handed them a letter for Thorp, explaining the situation and inviting him to the Temple to meet his future disciples.

Houdini then recalled the events leading to their current predicament.

Very early that morning, they had parked their minivan across the street from the Manhattan apartment building where Thorp lived. When he had come out of the building around noon, they had crossed the street and approached him.

Houdini was now playing back the scene in his head, and how he had described it afterwards to Trench on the phone:

“That was when Rocky made his first mistake, by grabbing Dr. Thorp’s arm while I was talking him into coming with us nice and quiet. Of course the guy panicked; he thought it was a mugging attempt and didn’t listen to a word I was saying.

“Things only got worse when Rocky applied an arm hold and lifted him off the ground, all this in plain view of the doorman, who by then was calling the police on his cell phone. We had no choice but to get the hell out of there in a hurry. Rocky dragged Dr. Thorp and shoved him inside the car, his big hand pressed against the poor fellow’s mouth and nose so tight he almost suffocated to death. Once inside we put tape over his mouth and tied him up. By this time passersby had begun gathering around the vehicle. Luckily they couldn’t see what was going on inside thanks to the tinted windows.

“I drove away as fast as I could, merging into the traffic. I was thinking: we’ve got to get rid of the minivan; the police must’ve gotten a pretty good description of it from the doorman.”

They had then driven across the Hudson River to New Jersey and checked into an out-of-the-way motel off Interstate 80, near Paterson. Rocky had stayed in the van with Thorp while Houdini had asked for a double room with two beds at the back—“to cut down the noise from the traffic”—and had paid in advance for the night.

The one bright spot in their difficult situation was Thorp’s change of behavior: after his initial resistance, he had calmed down as if accepting his fate, at least temporarily, and had obediently gotten out of the van and in the room. Whether this was a result of Houdini reassuring him that they meant no harm and that he was actually their guest was hard to tell.

After checking in, they had parked the minivan in front of their room. Rocky had carried Thorp in his arms, but once inside he had untied him to allow him to use the washroom, warning him not to lock the door or remove the tape from his mouth.

When Thorp came back into the room, Houdini had signaled him to sit down and handed him the letter from Trench. After Thorp had finished reading, Houdini had asked, in a hopeful tone: “You understand now? Are you ready to come with us quietly?”

Thorp had reached for a pen and a sheet of paper lying on the night table and had scribbled down his answer: “I think you’re completely crazy. Let me go now and I won’t press any charges.”

Houdini hadn’t been annoyed by Thorp’s response. “Sorry, man, no deal. We’re just following orders. You discuss that with Dr. Trench,” he had said with indifference, but the way he had crumpled the piece of paper and buried it in his pocket betrayed a certain frustration.

At 5:15, Houdini had phoned Trench. He had waited until then, hoping for some scrap of good news to report, but he couldn’t put off the call any longer.

Trench was obviously not very happy with the situation but had kept his cool. He had listened patiently, making no comments while Houdini spoke. “I’ll call you back,” he had said, laconically, putting an end to the conversation. “In the meantime, make sure there are no compromising traces left in the minivan.”

Thorp’s “captors” had removed the tape from his mouth but had tied him to his chair. He hadn’t said a word, and kept looking at them with a mixture of amusement and contempt.

They had fried chicken delivered to the motel and had eaten in almost total silence, watching TV. The kidnapping had made the evening news. A description of the minivan—a gray Ford Windstar—and of the two men—6 feet 6, 250 pounds, long brown hair, built like a wrestler; 5 feet 4, 150 pounds, crew cut, skinny—was given. According to one witness, the minivan had Alabama plates, but the number she gave to the police did not correspond to any vehicle registered in that state. Houdini smiled on hearing this—he had done the right thing in manufacturing phony license plates.

The cell phone had rung at 6:45.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” Trench had announced, getting quickly to the point. “Richter is flying to La Guardia first thing in the morning. He’ll rent a car at the airport and drive to the motel. There you’ll swap vehicles. You, Rocky, and your guest will drive over here in the rented car. Richter will bring the minivan back. If he’s intercepted by the police, he won’t match the description, and if the vehicle is searched, they won’t find anything incriminating inside—you better make sure of that, by the way.”

“Sure, boss, we already did. We even vacuumed the interior and threw away the filter,” Houdini had said proudly. And then he had added, knowing that it wasn’t quite true but eager to reassure Trench: “I don’t anticipate any more trouble. Mr. Thorp is behaving now, he really is.”

They had watched TV until eleven o’clock and then prepared for the night. Thorp, tied but not gagged, was to sleep in one of the two beds, while they would take turns keeping watch over him. Rocky would take the first shift. Houdini had then slumped into bed not really expecting to sleep, his mind too busy going over the events of the day.

The next morning, they had already checked out and were ready to leave when Richter knocked on the door shortly before noon. He avoided looking Thorp in the eye. A flash of guilt shot through him, but the feeling didn’t last. This isn’t really a kidnapping, he told himself; he’ll understand, once we have the chance to talk to him at the Temple.

They exchanged only a few words before getting in their respective vehicles. The rented car, a light blue Lincoln Continental with leather seats and tinted windows, left first. Rocky was sitting in the rear with Thorp, who had his hands tied in front of him and his mouth taped shut to prevent any unpleasant incident. The minivan would follow them some thirty minutes later, a gap between the two cars to be maintained throughout their trip back to Chicago. Houdini had switched the phony plates back to the vehicle’s original ones.

It was late in the afternoon, as they were driving through Pennsylvania, when Thorp saw the highway patrol car parked on the shoulder, some three hundred feet ahead of them on their side of the road. He had been waiting for an opportunity to make a move and quickly decided this was it; there was certainly a risk, but it was worth the chance of attracting the policeman’s attention. From where he was sitting, he could not have seen the tractor trailer in the fast lane approaching at full speed and getting ready to overtake them; otherwise, he might have reconsidered his decision.

Thorp had visualized the scene in his head, and now he was ready to play it. In a continuous motion, he slid down along the back of his seat, bent his knees together to a crouching position and then thrust both feet forward with all his strength against the headrest of the seat in front of him. The unexpected blow on the back of his head caused Houdini to momentarily lose control of the vehicle. While Rocky let out a “What the hell . . . ,” the startled driver instinctively swerved left and into the path of the oncoming eighteen-wheeler.

Speeding at more than seventy-five miles per hour, the fast-moving truck crashed into the side of the car with the force of a runaway train. The impact ruptured the fuel tank of the Lincoln and sent it spinning into the ditch, where it landed on its roof and immediately burst into flames.

The column of black smoke rising straight up in the still air could be seen from miles away. When Richter caught sight of it against the setting sun, he had a distressing premonition and immediately called Houdini on his cell phone. No answer. He felt a knot in his stomach.

As he approached the scene of the accident, traffic slowed to a crawl. He could see the blinking red lights of police cars and fire trucks in the distance, but it took him an eternity to get close enough to inquire about what had happened. Somebody told him. The words kept echoing in his head: “A blue car, New York plates,” “Three people inside,” “No survivors.”

He drove on past the charred remains of the Lincoln and stopped at the first service station he found. There was a small diner next to it. He went in, ordered a cup of coffee, and headed for the washroom. Throwing up helped him to regain his composure, but he was not ready to break the terrible news to Trench just yet.

Amid his distress at the tragedy, a practical matter popped up in his mind: the authorities would not be able to trace the rented car to him. The credit card and driver’s license he had used were fakes. They had been “cloned” by Houdini from information he had hacked from sites on the Internet. A certain John N. Lewis from Cleveland will have some explaining to do to the police, he thought.

After drinking his coffee he felt better, even hungry. He reached for his cell phone and called Trench.