The Exchange: After The Firm

Chapter 34

Mitch had learned years earlier that jet lag was best shaken off with a long run through Central Park. He couldn’t sleep it off, especially not with a clock ticking and his boys in hiding and his wife increasingly anxious. Abby joined him at dawn as they entered the park at Seventy-Second Street and fell in behind a crowd of early runners. They rarely talked as they ran, preferring instead to soak in the first rays of the sun and enjoy the coolness of New York in the spring. As the boys got older and life marched on, the long runs they cherished were becoming less frequent.

Back in their Cortona days, before children and careers and such, they ran every morning, through farms and vineyards and villages. They would often stop and chat with a farmer to see if they could understand his accented Italian, or stop at a sidewalk café in a village for a glass of water or a shot of espresso. Their favorite character was the owner of a small winery who often flagged them down to inquire about the odd American habit of voluntarily running down a road, in a sweat, going nowhere in particular. Several times he invited them into his small courtyard where his wife poured glasses of cold rosé and insisted they try slices of buccellato, a sugary cake with raisins and aniseed. Such mid-workout stops usually drifted into longer wine tastings and the joggers forgot about their mileage. After a few detours, Abby insisted they alter their route.

They circled the reservoir and headed home. The streets were coming to life with morning traffic. Another busy day in the city. They had no plans to be there after dark.

At 11 A.M., they took a cab to the Citibank office on Lexington Avenue near Forty-Fourth, and went up twenty-six floors to the office of Ms. Philippa Melendez, a VP of some variety and an expert on moving money. She led them to a conference room where Cory and Darian were having coffee. Within minutes Jack arrived, and the firm’s ultimate authority was ready to sign. Philippa confirmed that the $10 million was on hand. All they had to do was wait for Noura.

She called at 11:30 and asked if Abby had her laptop. She had been told to bring it. The email arrived quickly with the wiring instructions. Cory’s team of hackers would track the sending address to a cyber café in Newark, but the sender was long gone. Jack Ruch signed an authorization on behalf of the firm. All $10 million would go to a numbered bank account in Panama.

“Ready?” Philippa asked Jack. He nodded gravely, and Scully said goodbye to the money.

“Impossible to track?” Abby asked as they stared at her laptop screen.

Philippa shrugged and said, “Not impossible, but not practical either. It’s going to a shell company in Panama, and there are thousands of them. The money is gone.”

They waited eight minutes before the Jakl rattled again. Noura said, “The money has arrived.”

The larceny had been quick, efficient, almost painless. They all took deep breaths and tried to adjust to the reality that a lot of money had just evaporated, with nothing, at the moment, to show for it. They said quiet goodbyes and left the office.

On the street, Abby and Cory got into a black SUV and headed uptown to the apartment. Mitch and Darian took another one and headed south to the financial district.

Abby’s overnight bag was packed and waiting. At the kitchen table, she sent a text on the Jakl informing Noura that she would be away from the phone until noon Sunday. She left it, along with her cell phone, hidden in her closet. She slipped out of the apartment through a basement entrance and returned to the same SUV, where Cory was waiting. The driver left the city over the George Washington Bridge and disappeared into northern New Jersey. Cory was certain they had not been followed. In the town of Paramus they stopped at a small airport, boarded a King Air, and took off. Ninety minutes later, they landed on Islesboro, where Carter and Clark were waiting at the airfield to see their mom. It had been a week.

At 12:30, Jack called the management committee to order for the fifth straight day. All nine were present. The mood was tense and gloomy. The firm had just lost ten million dollars.

He brought them up to date on the morning’s activities then opened the door. Mitch walked in and said hello. They were pleased to see him and had plenty of questions. He briefed them on Luca’s condition, gave an update on the Lannak claim in Geneva, and passed along the latest rumors out of Tripoli.

On the ransom front, there was little progress. The governments of Italy and Great Britain were still stonewalling and hoping the crisis would pass, or just go away. Since they were not involved with the negotiations and had no idea exactly who in hell they were dealing with, they were understandably reluctant to commit cash for the ransom.

Now that the kidnappers had collected a nice deposit, Mitch planned to ask them for more time. The deadline, as everyone well knew, was the following Wednesday, May 25. His gut told him this would be fruitless since they had shown no interest in negotiating.

After carefully painting the grim picture, Mitch moved on to more unpleasant business. As he paced back and forth in front of a large blank screen, he finally cut to the heart of the matter. They knew it was coming.

“It is imperative that this law firm commit its full resources to the safe return of Giovanna Sandroni. To do so will be to guarantee that the demands of her kidnappers are met in full, whatever the ultimate terms may be. As of now, it’s ninety million dollars.”

As senior partners, their average gross earnings the previous year were $2.2 million, third on the list of national rankings. They lived well, spent well, some saved more than others. Almost all were financially conservative, but a few were rumored to spend as much as they took home. On paper they were all millionaires, and in the not too distant past, maybe twenty years or so, they would have been considered the rich boys of Wall Street. Now, though, their incomes were dwarfed by the money runners — hedge funders, private equity guys, venture capitalists, currency speculators, bond boys — the new kings of the street.

The first comment came from Ollie LaForge, who oddly enough found some humor in the moment. He smiled as he chuckled and said, “You gotta be kidding.”

Mitch knew better than to respond. He’d said enough and the ensuing conversation was for the committee members. He sat down, not at the table, but against a wall.

Sheldon Morlock said, “I am not going to risk everything I’ve worked for and the financial security of my family by guaranteeing a bank loan in the amount of ninety million dollars. It’s out of the question.” He would not look at Mitch.

Piper Redgrave said, “I’m sure we all feel the same way, Sheldon, but no one will ever expect you to fork over that much money. The firm will own the debt, and I’m sure that with some belt-tightening here and there, and some sacrifice, we can muddle through it. Bart, what would the terms of the loan look like?”

Muddle through, Mitch said to himself. As if Scully’s partners might skip a weekend in the Hamptons or even miss a Michelin star meal.

Bart Ambrose said, “Well, for now, it would be a line of credit for ninety million, three percent interest, something like that. If we go all in, we can convert it to a long-term note.”

Bennett McCue said, “It won’t be ninety mil, Sheldon. We’ll have a nasty lawsuit with the insurance company but in the end they’ll pay. That’s twenty-five mil right there.”

“It could take years,” Morlock shot back. “And winning is not a sure thing.”

Ollie LaForge said, “Look, I hate debt, you know that. I have none, never have. My father went bankrupt when I was twelve years old and we lost everything. I hate banks and you’ve all heard this speech before. Count me out.” He still lived in a bungalow in Queens and took the train to work. And because of his tightfistedness he undoubtedly saved more money than anyone in the room.

Mavis Chisenhall was another tightwad. She looked at Mitch and asked, “Would you sign a personal guarantee, Mitch?”

The perfect question. One he was begging for. He got to his feet, pulled out a folded sheet of paper, tossed it to the center of the table, and said, “I’ve already signed it. There it is.”

As they stared at it, he pulled out another, tossed it too on the table, and said, “And here’s one from Luca. We’re all in.”

He studied their faces, though most were looking at their notepads. While he had the floor, he decided to try and close the deal. “Here’s why this is important. There is a chance we might collect monies from other sources, but nothing is certain. We might get promises, but not in time. We need certainty, and the only way to have certainty at this point is to have the money in the bank. Only Scully can put it there. I’m leaving Sunday for London, then Rome, then who knows where else. I’m passing the hat, begging on street corners, whatever it takes. But if I fail, at least we’ll have the money in the bank. All of it. I don’t know if they’ll give us more time. I don’t know if they’ll cut the ransom, settle for less. It’s impossible to predict the next five days. But, it is possible to know we can pay the ransom.”

When he finished, Jack nodded at the door and they stepped outside. He whispered, “Nice job. You should probably leave now. This may take some time.”

“Okay. I’m off to your brother Barry’s to see my kids.”

“Hug the boys for me. I’ll give you a call.”

The driver took the Brooklyn Bridge and the traffic barely moved. It was a Friday afternoon in late May and half of Manhattan was headed for somewhere on Long Island. An hour later they arrived at Republic Airport, a small general aviation field outside the town of Farmingdale. Mitch thanked the driver, and as he drove away he realized he had not bothered to check the traffic behind him. What a lousy spy. He was so fed up with looking over his shoulder.

A pilot who appeared to be no more than fifteen took his bag, led him to a twin-engine Beech Baron, and helped him inside. It was snug but comfortable, a far cry from the Falcons and Gulfstreams and Lears that Scully often leased. Mitch didn’t care. He was taking twenty-four hours off and about to spend time with his boys. The pilot pointed to a small cooler and Mitch thought why not. The weekend was starting. He popped a top and had a cold beer. As they taxied, Mitch called Roberto in Rome for an update. Luca was awake and griping about this and that. The nurses liked him better when he wasn’t awake.

For almost two hours they flew at 8,000 feet. The weather was perfectly clear. As they descended along coastal Maine, Mitch gazed from above and was touched by the beauty of the ocean, the rocky shores, the quiet coves, and the quaint fishing villages. Thousands of small sailboats bounced across the azure water. They buzzed the picturesque town of Camden with its busy harbor, then aimed for Islesboro. At five hundred feet, Mitch saw a row of mansions on the water and picked out Wicklow. Clark and Carter were on the dock with Abby, and they waved as the Baron flew over. Half an hour later, Mitch was sitting by the pool watching the boys swim and chatting with his wife and her parents.

The week had been summer camp for the boys. Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland admitted they had been somewhat less than diligent with the lessons and homework. Bedtime, too, had been rather flexible, and with Miss Emma at their service in the kitchen the meals had been total kid food. Mitch and Abby could not have cared less. Given the stress they were under, any help from the grandparents was more than welcome.

Over drinks — white wine for Mitch and Abby, lemonade for the Sutherlands — they gently inquired as to how much longer they would be needed so far from home. This irritated Mitch, it didn’t take much, because the safety of the boys was far more important than anything the Sutherlands might be missing back in Danesboro, Kentucky. He held his words and said maybe, perhaps, just a few more days.

May 25, to be exact.

They watched as Tanner walked to the end of the pier and met a lobster boat that had pulled alongside the dock for a home delivery.

“More lobster,” said Mr. Sutherland. “We’re eating it three times a day.”

Maxine, a thoroughly humorless woman, added, “Lobster quiche in the morning. Lobster rolls for lunch. Baked lobster tails for dinner.”

At the edge of the pool Carter was listening and added, “And don’t forget lobster mac and cheese, my favorite.”

Harold said, “Lobster bisque, lobster fritters, New England lobster dip.”

“Sounds delicious,” Abby said.

Maxine was happy not to be cooking every meal. “Miss Emma is wonderful, really.”

Clark said, “Mom, you should do a lobster cookbook. Put Miss Emma on the cover.”

“I like that,” Abby said, trying to recall the dozens of seafood cookbooks she had already collected.

Barry Ruch appeared in shorts and deck shoes, a long cigar in one hand and a Scotch in the other. He had managed to stay away from Wicklow all week, and Mitch assumed he wanted no part of the babysitting. Or the grandparents. He smiled at Mitch and said, “Jack’s looking for you.”

Holding the green phone, Mitch walked along the pier and called Jack. When he answered it was clear the news was not good. It was almost six-thirty on Friday evening, and they had started their long day together at Citibank’s offices, watching ten million evaporate.

Jack said, “We met for almost five hours, Mitch, and it was without a doubt my worst experience in forty years at Scully. Four of us voted to borrow the money, say to hell with it, save Giovanna, and worry about the future starting next week. The other five would not budge. Not surprisingly, Morlock became their mouthpiece. I have never been so disgusted. I lost some friends today, Mitch.”

Mitch stopped walking and watched the lobster boat disappear. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Retirement’s looking better.”

“How many times did you vote?”

“I don’t know. Several. But the bottom line is the same. I’m not giving names here, Mitch. In fact, this is all confidential. You’re not supposed to know what happened in the executive session.”

“I know, I know. I’m just, you know, stunned.”

“You did your best, Mitch.”

“And there’s no way around the management committee?”

“You know our by-laws. Every partner does. You could force a recall, fire the committee, and so on, elect new members if you could find anyone willing to serve. Believe me, Mitch, with this issue on the table not a single lawyer at Scully would want to serve.”

“So what happens next week if they murder Giovanna and video the whole damned thing for the world to see?”

“The usual. Point fingers, blame everyone else. The terrorists, the Libyans, the Turks, the foreign services. No one will ever know that we had the chance to ransom our way out of this mess. That will not be publicized. And with time I’m sure our colleagues will get over our loss and move on. Lots of eager young lawyers out there, Mitch. Giovanna was just another associate. They can all be replaced.”

“That’s pretty sick.”

“I know. I’m pretty disgusted with this firm.”

“I guess you should call Luca.”

“That’s for you, Mitch. You’re closer to him than anyone else.”

“No, Jack, sorry. You’re the managing partner and it’s your committee. But call Roberto, not Luca.”

“I can’t do it, Mitch. Please.”