The Exchange: After The Firm

Chapter 21

Epicurean Press occupied the bottom three floors of a turn-of-the-century brownstone on Seventy-Fourth Street, near Madison Avenue, on the Upper East Side. Above it, on floors four and five, the owner, an eccentric recluse who was pushing ninety, lived alone with her cats and her opera. She played records all day long, and as she aged and lost even more of her hearing, she gradually turned up the volume. No one complained because she owned the building, and also the ones on both sides. The editors on the third floor could sometimes hear the music, but it was never a problem. The brownstones of that era were built with thick walls and floors. She charged modest rent because, number one, she didn’t need the money, and, number two, she enjoyed having nice tenants below her.

A perfect morning for Abby began with clear skies, a fifteen-minute walk with Clark and Carter to school, then a thirty-minute walk across Central Park to her office at Epicurean. As a senior editor, she was on the first floor and thus far away from the opera but close enough to the kitchen. The offices were small but efficient. Space was cramped, like most of Manhattan, but also because valuable footage had been given to the kitchen, a large, modern, fully equipped facility designed to accommodate visiting chefs working on their cookbooks. One showed up almost every day, and the air was perpetually filled with delicious aromas of dishes from around the world.

Giovanna had been abducted twenty-seven days earlier.

As always, Abby ducked into a trendy coffee shop on Seventy-Third for her favorite latte. She was waiting in line at about nine-fifteen, her mind on the day ahead, her boys at school, her husband forty-eight floors up and hard at work, and her eyes on her phone. The person behind her gently tapped her on the arm. She turned around and looked into the face of a young Muslim woman in a long brown robe with a matching hijab with a veil that covered everything but her eyes.

“You’re Abby, right?”

She was startled and could not remember the last time, nor the first time, she had talked to a woman so completely covered. But it was, after all, New York City, home to plenty of Muslims. She offered a polite smile and said, “Yes, and you are?”

The man behind the Muslim woman was reading a folded newspaper. The nearest barista was loading a display case with croissants and quiches. No one was paying attention to anyone else.

She said, in perfect English with only a slight Middle Eastern accent, “I have news from Giovanna.”

The eyes were dark, young, heavily made-up, and Abby looked at them in disbelief as her knees wobbled, her heart skipped, and her mouth was almost too dry to speak. “I beg your pardon,” she managed to say, though she knew exactly what she had heard.

From somewhere inside her robe the woman pulled out an envelope and handed it to Abby. Five-by-seven, too heavy for only a letter. “I suggest you do as you’re told, Mrs. McDeere.”

Abby took the envelope, though something told her not to. The woman turned quickly and was at the door before Abby could say anything. The man with the folded newspaper glanced up. Abby turned around as if nothing had happened. The barista said, “What would you like?”

With difficulty, she said, “A double latte with cinnamon.”

She found a chair, sat down, and told herself to breathe deeply. She was embarrassed when she realized there were beads of sweat on her forehead. With a paper napkin from the table she wiped them off as she glanced around. The envelope was still in her left hand. More deep breaths. She placed it in her large shoulder bag and decided to open it at the office.

She should call Mitch, but something told her to wait a few minutes. Wait until she opened the envelope because whatever was in there would involve him too. When her latte was ready, she took it from the counter and left the shop. Outdoors, on the sidewalk, she managed a few steps before stopping cold. Someone was, or someone had been, watching, waiting, following her. Someone knew her name, her husband’s name, her husband’s business, her walking route to work, her favorite coffee shop. That someone had not gone away, but was nearby.

Keep moving, she told herself, and act as if nothing is wrong.

The nightmare was back. The horror of trying to live normally while knowing someone was watching and listening. Fifteen years had passed since the Bendini mess in Memphis, and it had taken a long time to relax and stop looking over her shoulder. Now, as she dodged pedestrians along Madison Avenue, she wanted desperately to turn around and see who was watching her.

Five minutes later she opened the unmarked door of Epicurean Press on Seventy-Fourth, spoke to the usual lineup of friends and colleagues, and hustled to her office. Her assistant wasn’t in yet. She closed her door, locked it quietly, sat at her desk, took another deep breath, and opened the envelope. In it was a phone and a sheet of typing paper.

Abby put down the sheet of paper and picked up the phone. Unmarked and about the same size as other cell phones, there was nothing distinctive or suspicious about it. She tapped 871 and a menu appeared. She tapped PHOTOS, and was instantly nauseous. The photo was of her, Clark, and Carter, less than an hour earlier, as they said goodbye on the sidewalk outside of River Latin School, four blocks from their apartment. She took another deep breath and reached for a bottle of water, not the coffee. She unscrewed the top, took a sip, and spilled water on her blouse. She closed her eyes for a moment, then slowly scrolled left. The next photo was an exterior shot of the brownstone in which she was now sitting. The next photo was an exterior shot of their apartment building, taken from Sixty-Ninth and Columbus Avenue. The next photo was a long-distance one of 110 Broad, where Scully & Pershing was headquartered. The last photo was of Giovanna, sitting in a dark room, wearing a black veil, holding a spoon, and looking into a bowl of what appeared to be soup.

Time passed but Abby was not aware of it. Her brain was a jumbled mess of rapid thoughts. Her heart pounded like a jackhammer. She closed her eyes again and rubbed her temples and became aware that someone was gently knocking on her door.

“In a minute,” she said and the knocking stopped.

She called Mitch.

They were frozen, too stiff to move as they looked at the wide screen and waited for Abby’s video to appear. And there it was: a close-up of the typed note to Abby from Noura. They read it quickly, then slower a second time. The camera moved to the mysterious phone on Abby’s desk, next to the envelope it came in. After twenty-two seconds the video was over.

Mitch finally breathed and exhaled and walked to the window of Jack’s office. Jack stared at his small conference table, too stunned to say anything. Cory, who had been operating under extreme duress since the bombing in Athens, stared at the blank screen and tried to think clearly. Without looking at Mitch he asked, “And there were five photographs on the phone?”

“That’s right,” Mitch answered without turning around.

“Tell her not to send the photos, okay?”

“Okay. What do I tell her?”

“Not sure yet. Let’s assume they are monitoring everything the phone does. Let’s assume the phone can be used to track Abby wherever she goes, whether or not it’s turned on. Let’s assume the phone hears and records everything said around it, whether it’s on or off.”

As if he heard nothing, Mitch said, “They took a photo of my kids going to school this morning.”

Cory shot a glance at Jack, who shook his head. The shock had not begun to wear off; indeed, they were still in the middle of the shock and everything was a blur.

Still speaking to the window, Mitch said, “My instinct is to walk out of this building right now, get a cab, go to the school, get my kids, take them somewhere safe and lock the doors.”

“Totally understand, Mitch,” Cory said. “Go if you must. We’re not stopping you. First, though, we need to see the phone. Is your cell phone secure?”

“I don’t know. You installed all that anti-viral stuff.”

“And Abby’s too?”

“Yes. We should be hack-proof, if anything is hack-proof these days.”

Jack said, “I have an idea. The Carlyle Hotel is on Seventy-Sixth, near Park, close to Abby’s office. Call Abby and tell her to meet you for lunch at the Carlyle. Bring the new phone. We’ll get a conference room and look it over while you have lunch.”

Cory said, “Great idea.”

Mitch turned around and said, “So it’s a go?”

“Yes.”

Mitch pulled out his phone, called Abby, talked as though others might be listening, and said he would be in the neighborhood for lunch. Meet him at the Carlyle at noon. They would discuss whether or not to do something at the school. When he finished he asked Cory, “Could they possibly hack our phones and email? Are they listening to us?”

“Highly unlikely, Mitch. Everything is possible these days but I doubt it.”

Jack asked, “And why would they? They don’t care what you’re doing for lunch or dinner. This is now all about money. If they were going to kill Giovanna it would’ve already happened, right Cory?”

“Probably, but who knows?”

“Look guys, the game has now changed. We’ve finally heard from the enemy and they want to talk. Talk means negotiation and that means money. What else can Giovanna do for them? Assassinate Gaddifi? Broker a Middle East peace deal? Find more oil in the desert? No. She has a price on her head and the question is how much?”

“It’s not quite that simple, Jack,” Mitch said. “There is also the question of how much damage we’re willing to absorb before we knuckle under. Setting aside for a moment the killings so far, and there are eleven dead bodies by my count, we also have an office bombed in Athens and now they’re right here in the city.”

Cory said, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’re not in charge. They are, and until Noura reappears we can’t do much.”

“Oh really? Well, I plan to protect my family.”

“Got it, Mitch. I don’t blame you. Any ideas?”

“You’re the security guy, right? What would you do?”

“I’m still thinking.”

“Please hurry.”

Jack said, “We should discuss Crueggal. Do they get involved?”

Mitch shrugged as if the question was not aimed at him. He returned to the window and looked at the streets below. Dozens of yellow cabs inched along in heavy traffic. In a few short minutes he planned to be in the backseat of one of them, barking instructions at the driver.

Jack asked, “Have you spoken to Darian lately?”

Cory replied, “Not since nine A.M. I begin every day with a fifteen-minute update from Darian in which he reveals nothing new. They’re digging, waiting, and digging. We have to tell him, and soon. The enemy has made contact, Jack, which is what we’ve all been waiting for. Crueggal knows far more about this game than we do.”

“And you trust them? I mean, their roster is loaded with ex-spies and CIA types. They pride themselves on having contacts in every cave around the world. What if someone has loose lips?”

“Not gonna happen. Darian’s in the city. I’ll call him and he’ll meet us at the Carlyle.”

“Mitch?”

“Until I know my kids are safe I won’t be worth much, okay? Abby’s a wreck.”

Jack said, “Understood. Go meet her for lunch. We’ll be there and make a plan.”