The Exchange: After The Firm

Chapter 30

The 5 P.M. meeting with Second Secretary Madam Sara Hanrahan began at 5:21 and ended ten minutes later. She complained of a long day, looked frazzled, and really wanted to go home. In Mitch’s opinion, which he shared with no one, she had the watery eyes of a drinker and they were probably intruding on her happy hour. She had been briefed by the Third Secretary, and felt strongly that “her government” could not possibly get involved in a ransom scheme when it had no role in the negotiations. She claimed to be an expert on Libya and knew all that was knowable about the abduction of Giovanna Sandroni. Her department was briefed every morning and had grave concerns.

For Mitch and Riley, the only successful part of the otherwise useless meeting was a promise by Madam Hanrahan to push the matter upward and to do so with haste.

Leaving her office, in the rear seat of a shiny black Jaguar with a trusted Scully driver at the wheel, Riley yanked out his phone, looked at the message, and mumbled, “This should be fun.” He listened for a moment, grunted a few times, rang off, then said to the driver, “The Connaught Hotel.”

“Seems we’re having tea with Sir Simon. He’s found an old friend.”

The Connaught was a legendary London hotel in the heart of Mayfair. Mitch had never stayed there because he couldn’t afford it and Scully wouldn’t expense it. Its elegant bars offered the priciest drinks in town. Its restaurant had three Michelin stars. Its staff was a study in tradition and precision.

Sir Simon looked right at home in the main tea room, with a platter of fancy sandwiches on the table and a pot of tea ready to pour. He was with a friend, a dapper little man at least his age or older. He introduced him as Phinney Gibb.

Riley knew him and was immediately suspicious. As Sir Simon explained to Mitch, Phinney had been a deputy minister of some variety back in the Thatcher years and was still connected. One look at the old guy, though, and it was hard to believe he was connected to anything but his pearl-handled cane.

Mitch went silent as Sir Simon laid out a plan. Phinney could still work the back channels and had contacts in the prime minister’s office. He also knew a ranking secretary in the Foreign Office. Mitch and Riley exchanged glances. They’d had a full day with important secretaries. And, on top of that, Phinney knew Libya’s ambassador to the U.K.

Phinney was confident he could arrange a meeting with the prime minister’s office. The goal, of course, was to convince the PM that the government should pay some of the ransom to rescue a British citizen.

Mitch listened hard, sipped tea that he had never learned to enjoy, nibbled on a cucumber sandwich, and worried once again that too many people were getting involved. And the more they met and the more they listened, the more time was being wasted. It was Tuesday evening. Six thirty-five. Two days down, eight to go, and the ransom pot was still empty, except for Luca’s commitment.

Phinney prattled on about what a fine fellow the Libyan ambassador was. Riley asked if he could arrange a meeting the following day. Phinney would certainly try, but there was a good chance the ambassador was not in London.

Inviting Samir Jamblad to Rome was a calculated risk. Under the guise of an old friendship, Luca asked him to come for a visit and he implied that it might be their last. Thirty years earlier they had often worked together and had enjoyed many long dinners together in Tripoli, Benghazi, and Rome. Luca had known back then that Samir was a government informant, as were many professionals and businessmen in Libya, and he had always been careful with his words. Now, desperate for information about his daughter, he hoped Samir might know something Crueggal and the others did not.

Samir arrived in time for dinner. Roberto Maggi met him at the door, introduced him to Bella, and escorted him to the veranda where Luca sat on a leather stool, his wheelchair nowhere to be seen. They greeted each other like old friends and got through the necessary chatter about the beautiful weather and so forth. Samir expected to find Luca pale and gaunt and he was not surprised. A server brought a tray with three small glasses of white wine. They sat on the table, untouched.

Luca nodded off. Samir glanced at Roberto, who frowned and kept talking about Italian football. A few minutes passed and Luca was still asleep.

“I’m sorry,” Roberto whispered. He waved Bella over and said to her, “He needs to rest. We’ll have dinner in the kitchen.”

When Luca was gone, Roberto and Samir picked up their wineglasses and took a sip. Roberto said, “I’m sorry, Samir, but he’s very ill. His doctors think he has less than ninety days.”

Samir shook his head as he gazed across the rooftops of Rome.

“Of course, the stress of Giovanna’s abduction is not helping things.”

“I wish I could do something,” Samir said.

The nagging question was: Should the Libyans know that the terrorists had contacted Scully? It had been debated back and forth between Luca, Mitch, Roberto, Jack, Cory, and Darian until there was no way to reach an agreement. Those who thought so argued that the Libyan government, or simply Gaddafi, could help facilitate a release and make himself look good in the process. Those who disagreed did so out of utter distrust of the Libyans. Who could possibly know what Gaddafi would do if he knew the kidnappers were demanding ransom in his own kingdom?

Compounding the issue was the apparent plan by Gaddafi to destroy Barakat and his forces, regardless of cost or casualties. If Giovanna got caught in the crossfire, then so be it.

Mitch had made the decision.

“Can you tell us anything new?” Roberto asked.

“I’m afraid not, Roberto. From what I gather, the military is convinced it’s the work of Adheem Barakat, a nasty character with a growing army. But there’s been no contact, as far as I know. As always, in Libya information is tightly controlled.”

“Why can’t the army liquidate Barakat?”

Samir smiled and lit a cigarette. “It’s not that easy, Roberto. My country is a vast desert with many hiding places. Its borders are porous, its neighbors are rarely friendly and often treacherous. There are many warlords, tribes, gangs, terrorists, and thieves, and they’ve roamed the desert for centuries. It’s impossible for anyone, including a violent dictator like Gaddafi, to exercise a firm grip.”

“And the first commando raid was not a success.”

“Not really, in spite of what was reported. Sounds like nothing went as planned.”

“Was the goal to rescue Giovanna?”

“That’s the rumor, but then most of the rumors started by the military are not reliable.” Samir spoke like a disinterested man on the street, not a career informant.

“What happened in the second raid?”

“The second?” Samir asked with raised eyebrows, a lame effort to feign ignorance.

“The one last night, near the town of Ghat, on the Algerian border. Surely you heard about it, though evidently it’s being buried by the government. Looks like the army walked into another trap and things went badly. No mention of Giovanna.”

“Your intelligence is better than mine, Roberto.”

“Sometimes. We pay a small fortune for it.”

“I know only what I read in the newspaper, which is rarely accurate.”

Roberto nodded along as if he believed him. “Here’s the danger, Samir. The army doesn’t know where she is and they still don’t know who has her. They’ve tried two commando raids to rescue her and have nothing to show but casualties and embarrassment. They’re desperate. Gaddafi could lose his mind and turn this into a full-scale war. If that happens then a lot of people will die. Including Giovanna.”

Samir nodded along, agreeing with the logic. He said, “He loses his mind all the time. Sort of a habit.”

Roberto lit his own cigarette, sipped his wine, and let a moment pass. “There’s a confidential matter, Samir. Of utmost importance and it has to be handled carefully.”

“I’m at your service.”

And the Colonel’s as well. “Contact has been made. Not here, not with the family, but in New York, through the law firm.”

Samir could not suppress a look of disbelief. He inhaled quickly as his head twitched slightly to the right, then he collected himself. “By the terrorists?”

“Yes. With a demand for ransom and a deadline for an execution. We have eight more days.”

“Who are they?”

“We don’t know. The communications are coming from a mysterious contact in New York. Quite brilliant, actually.”

“How much ransom?”

“I can’t say. A lot. More than Luca and our law firm can scrape together. I know you have contacts everywhere in Libya, Samir. Can you get a message to the right people?”

“And who are the right people?”

“The ones who make the final decisions about everything in Libya.”

“Gaddafi himself?”

“If you say so.”

“No, I have no link to the man, nor do I want one.”

“But you can make it happen, Samir. The message is twofold. First, leave the terrorists alone until Giovanna is safe. Second, settle the Lannak lawsuit as soon as possible and on our terms.”

Bella eased behind them and said, in Italian, “Gentlemen, dinner is served.” Roberto acknowledged her but neither man moved.

“The lawsuit?” Samir asked.

“Yes. The government owes the money. It can pay now and close the matter, or it can spend a fortune in legal fees and pay the money three years from now. Settling the lawsuit now might possibly help to bring Giovanna home.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“The ransom, Samir. It’s all about the money. We’re trying to collect a lot of money and Lannak will be at the table.”

“You want the Libyan government to pay the ransom?”

“Of course not. We want the government to honor its contracts and pay the money it rightfully owes to settle the lawsuit.”

Samir stood and walked to the edge of the veranda. He lit another cigarette and for a long time stared into the distance, seeing nothing. After a few minutes, Roberto joined him. “We should have dinner, Samir.”

“Okay. Perhaps my connections are not as strong as you think, Roberto. I’m not sure where to go with this request.”

“We don’t know either. That’s why Luca wanted you here. He should feel better tomorrow.”

Mitch skipped dinner and went for a walk along Charlotte Street in Fitzrovia. He and Abby had lived in the upscale neighborhood back then and it was still their favorite part of London.

At the moment, though, he had no time to reminisce. The day had not been a complete waste but, so far, there seemed to be little to show for their efforts. There was no plan to meet the foreign minister or any of his senior advisers. Luca had made no progress on the same front in Rome. The Libyan ambassadors to both countries were either back home in Libya or globetrotting on official business. His law firm was supportive but seemed content to let him decide what to do. No one knew what to do. There was no guide or playbook. No lawyer at Scully had ever been down this road. Luca was quite ill and not emotionally stable, and for good reasons. Healthy and clearheaded, he was the one person who would know precisely the next five moves. Jack Ruch was a steady hand, but as the hours passed he was becoming more and more deferential to Mitch, as if he wanted some distance in case there was a bad outcome.

Mitch was making decisions with insufficient intelligence and no real clue as to their effectiveness. They could well be wrong. A bad ending was too awful to dwell on.

As always, when he was troubled he called his best friend and talked to Abby for half an hour. Clark and Carter had been fishing with Tanner. Her parents were finding it difficult to make the boys study, but having a grand time. It was like a vacation. Barry Ruch had left the island for a few days and they had the big house to themselves.