The Exchange: After The Firm

Chapter 26

The runway at Islesboro’s small airport was only 2,500 feet long, too short for a jet. Early Sunday morning, Mitch and Cory took off in a King Air 200, a turboprop with small field capacity.

They left Alvin and one other guard behind at Wicklow. Mitch was convinced the boys were safely tucked away where no one could find them and he told himself to stop worrying. The day would be complicated enough without thinking of them. But there was no way not to.

An hour later they landed at Westchester, drove into the city, and by 10 A.M. were in a large suite on the fifteenth floor of the Everett Hotel, with a view of the Wollman ice rink in Central Park. Darian was there from Crueggal, along with Jack. Over coffee, Mitch gave Jack a full report on his brother and all the gossip around Wicklow, which wasn’t much. Jack planned to retire July 31 and spend the month of August at Islesboro fishing with his brother.

The weather was cool and clear and Central Park was crowded. In the distance, they could see skaters circling the rink, but they were too far away to distinguish anyone. At 10:20, Mitch was certain he saw his wife walking down Fifth Avenue, on the park side. She was wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a brown barn coat she’d had for years. And a faded blue Mets cap.

“There she is,” he said with a knot in his stomach. She disappeared into the park and they lost sight of her. Cory and Darian had argued over placing someone near the entrance of the rink to watch Abby, but decided not to. Cory thought there was nothing to gain by doing so.

At 10:30 she walked to the counter of an ice-cream vendor near the rink’s main entrance. From behind large, dark sunglasses, she watched everyone while trying to appear nonchalant. It wasn’t working; she was a wreck. The Jakl vibrated in her pocket and she pulled it out. “This is Abby.”

“This is Noura. Leave the ice rink and walk to the Mall. Go past the statue of Shakespeare and to your left you’ll see the one of Robert Burns, then a long row of benches. Stay to the left, walk about a hundred feet, and find a spot on a bench.”

Minutes later, she passed the statue of Shakespeare and turned right onto the Mall, a long promenade lined with stately elms. She had made the walk countless times, and flashed back to their first winter in the city when she and Mitch had shuffled along, arm in arm, in a foot of snow with more falling. They had spent many long Sunday afternoons, in all seasons, sitting in the shade of the elms and watching the endless parade of New Yorkers outside for the day. When the twins arrived, they put them in a tandem stroller and pushed them up and down the Mall and all over Central Park.

Today, though, there was no time for nostalgia.

Hundreds of people were strolling along the Mall. Vendors sold hot and cold drinks. Loud carousel music echoed from speakers in the distance. As Abby walked she counted thirty steps, found an empty bench, and sat down as nonchalantly as possible.

Five minutes, ten. She clutched the Jakl in her pocket and tried not to look at everyone who passed. She was looking for a Muslim woman in full robes and a hijab, but saw no one of that description. A woman in a navy jogging suit pushing a baby stroller eased beside her. “Abby,” she said, barely loud enough to be heard.

Both were wearing large sunglasses, but somehow they made eye contact. Abby nodded. She assumed it was Noura, though she could not identify her. Same height and build but that was all. The bill of an oversized cap sat low and covered her forehead.

“Over here,” she said, nodding to her right.

Abby stood and said, “Noura?”

“Yes.”

They walked together. If there was a baby in the stroller it wasn’t visible. Noura turned right onto a sidewalk and they left the Mall. When they were away from everyone, she stopped and said, “Stare at the buildings. Don’t look at me.”

Abby gazed at the skyline of Central Park West.

Noura took her time and said, “The safe return of Giovanna will cost one hundred million dollars. The price is not negotiable. And it must be paid ten days from today. May twenty-fifth at five P.M. Eastern is the deadline. Yes?”

Abby nodded and said, “I understand.”

“If you go to the police, or the FBI, or involve your government in any way, there will be no safe return. She will be executed. Yes?”

“Understood.”

“Good. In fifteen minutes a video will be sent to your phone. It is a message from Giovanna.” She turned the stroller and walked away. Abby watched her for a second — stylish Adidas jogging suit, red and white sneakers with no brand visible, goofy cap. She had seen only a portion of her face and would never be able to identify her.

Abby went the other direction and zigzagged northeast to Seventy-Second Street, then followed it east to Fifth Avenue. She entered the Everett Hotel, walked to the dining room, and asked for the table she had reserved earlier that morning. A table for three. She was meeting a couple of friends for brunch. When her coffee was served, she left the table and took the elevator to the fifteenth floor.

Darian connected the Jakl to a laptop with an eighteen-inch screen and they waited. And while they waited, each silently pondered the rather formidable task of somehow finding a hundred million dollars. As the shock began to wear off, it became evident that no one in the room had a clue.

The screen was blank for a few seconds, then there she was: Giovanna in a dark room wearing a dark robe or dress with a black hijab covering her head. She looked frail, even frightened, though she tapped her teeth together and tried to appear brave. A small candle burned on a table next to her. Her hands were not visible. She said, without smiling, “I am Giovanna Sandroni of the law firm of Scully and Pershing. I am healthy and well fed and I have not been harmed. Noura has now delivered the news. The price of my safe return is one hundred million U.S. dollars. This is not negotiable and if it is not paid by May twenty-fifth, I will be executed. Today is Sunday, May fifteenth. Please, I beg you, pay the money.”

She was gone; the screen was blank again. Abby took the Jakl, placed it in the bottom of her shoulder bag and took it to the bathroom. Mitch stood at a window and looked at Central Park. Darian was still staring at the screen. Cory studied his shoes. Jack sat at a breakfast table and sipped coffee. No one seemed capable of speaking.

Scully & Pershing was a law firm, not a hedge fund. Sure, its lawyers made plenty of money and the veteran partners were millionaires, at least on paper, but they were far from billionaires. Not even close. They had nice apartments in the city and pleasant weekend cottages in the country, but they didn’t buy yachts and islands. The private airplanes they used were leased not owned, and every trip was billed to a client. The previous year the firm grossed just over $2 billion, and after the bills were paid and the profits were split, there was almost nothing left over. It was not uncommon for the firm to tap into its line of credit for extra cash during the slow months. Virtually every firm in Big Law did so.

Cory finally said, “We’ve asked ourselves if this is a hoax, if Noura is for real. This removes any doubt. She’s part of a pretty slick operation over there with plenty of contacts here.”

“Mitch, you’re sure that’s Giovanna?” Darian asked.

Mitch snorted as if the question was ridiculous. “No doubt.”

Darian appeared ready to take charge, but Mitch would have none of it. It was a Scully matter and its partners would make the hard decisions. He turned from the window and said, “It’s clear that our line of communication is rather limited. It’s Noura and no one else, and I doubt she has the authority to negotiate. So, if we can’t negotiate we’re stuck with a nine-figure ransom that seems impossible. But we do not have the option of giving up. Does anyone doubt that in ten days these thugs will execute Giovanna in some spectacular fashion?” He glared at Jack, Cory, Darian, and he nodded at Abby. Everyone agreed.

“She has dual citizenship, British and Italian. What are the chances of asking those two governments to contribute to a ransom fund?”

Darian was shaking his head. “Slim. They don’t negotiate with terrorists and they don’t pay them ransom. Officially, at least.”

“No one is negotiating, Darian. That’s part of the problem. They’re using Noura to deliver messages to Abby. Let’s make it clear to both governments that in ten days there is a good chance that one of their citizens, one with a high profile, could be murdered, probably in front of a camera.”

Jack asked Darian, “What do you mean ‘officially’?”

He nodded and said, “The Italians made a large payment a few years ago to rescue a tourist in Yemen. They kept it quiet and still deny it.”

“And you were involved?” Mitch asked.

He nodded but said nothing.

“So there is wiggle room with the governments,” Mitch said and waited for a response. Darian shrugged but said nothing. He looked at Jack and asked, “When does the management committee meet?”

“Early in the morning. Emergency session.”

“Great. I’m off to Rome. I have to tell Luca that they’ve made contact and are demanding ransom. I’ll show him the video and try to allay his fears. Knowing Luca, he’ll have ideas about where to find some cash.”

To emphasize the urgency of the matter, and to prod the world’s largest law firm into action, the terrorists firebombed another Scully office. The timing was perfect: exactly 11 A.M. Eastern Standard Time, half an hour after Noura met Abby.

It was another basic package bomb: reinforced cardboard holding tubes of highly combustible fluids, probably ammonium nitrate and fuel oil, though the authorities would never be certain because of the extensive damage. It was similar to the one used in Athens and was not designed to knock down walls, blow out windows, or kill people. Its purpose was to set off a roaring fire on a Sunday when no one would be in the shipping room of the Barcelona office. It was on the fifth floor of a new building with plenty of sprinklers. They kicked in immediately and minimized the blaze until the fire crews showed up. The Scully & Pershing suites were either fire-gutted or soaked with water, but there was little damage in the rest of the building.

Mitch was in a cab headed to JFK for the flight to Rome when Cory called with the latest. “Crazy bastards,” he mumbled in disbelief.

Cory said, “No doubt, and we’re easy targets, Mitch. Just look at our beautiful website. Offices in every major city and some minor ones as well. World’s biggest firm, blah, blah, blah. It practically invites trouble.”

“And now we’ll spend a fortune on security.”

“We’re already spending a fortune on security. How am I supposed to protect two thousand lawyers in thirty-one offices?”

“Make that twenty-nine.”

“Ha, ha, very funny.”