The Exchange: After The Firm

Chapter 39

It was beneficial to have a real Roman in the group. Roberto Maggi knew all the restaurants, especially the famous ones with starred reviews and staggering bills. But he also knew the neighborhood trattorias where the food was just as enjoyable. With the clock ticking, no one was in the mood for a three-hour dinner early on a Sunday evening. He chose a place called Due Ladroni, “Two Thieves” in Italian, and they enjoyed a fifteen-minute stroll along Via Condotti. Of course Roberto knew the owner, a jolly Irish woman, and she had no trouble rearranging tables to accommodate the six of them outdoors.

Mitch was working through the menu when his green phone vibrated. It was Abby.

“I need to take this,” he said as he stood. “It’s my wife.” He stepped around the corner, said hello, and absorbed the blow. She was expected in Morocco. She replayed her conversation with Noura, with all the details. It was almost 1 P.M. in New York. Her flight left JFK at 5:10. Should she go? What should she do? Would she be safe? His first reaction was to say hell no. It’s dangerous. Think about the boys. But he realized his judgment was clouded by his last visit to North Africa. Abby had already blitzed through the internet and was convinced the trip would be reasonably safe. It was, after all, British Airways. The hotel was expensive, highly rated by travel magazines and websites. The more she surfed, the more attractive Marrakech became, though she would always feel vulnerable. She would not be the typical tourist.

Her confidence settled his nerves, but he was still bothered by the question of what might happen to his wife if they could not deliver the money. The pot was still empty. They wouldn’t kidnap her, too. Not from a four-star hotel. And why would they? If Mitch and his team couldn’t raise the money for one hostage, why bother with a second?

As they spoke, he ventured back to the table and said to Roberto, “I’ll take the cioppino, fish stew.” It was his favorite, then he remembered the fish stew in Tripoli. “Big news,” he said to Jack and walked around the corner.

Abby had to go. No question. She had been chosen as the messenger from day one and it was her obligation to Giovanna to follow instructions. They agreed on the plan, and Mitch promised to call back in an hour. She began packing, though with no idea how long she might be away. The temperature was already above ninety in Morocco. Where were her summer clothes?

When Mitch returned to the table, the team was waiting. His report was stunning at first, then troubling. The idea that Abby was being directed to Morocco to facilitate an exchange was excellent news. What would she do, though, with no money?

Cory said little but was thinking it through. Mitch looked at him and asked, “What about security? For Abby?”

“Low to moderate risk. She’s in a nice hotel, plenty of tourists from Europe. If she’s asked to do something she’s not sure of, then she says no. And we’ll be there.” He looked at Darian and said, “I think I should go, take a plane and a nurse. Check into a hotel nearby. Make contact with Abby. Monitor her movements. You have people in Morocco, don’t you?”

“We do,” Darian said. “I’ll notify them.”

“A nurse?” Roberto asked.

Cory nodded and said, “We have no idea what condition Giovanna’s in.”

Darian added, “It’s always best to have a nurse, if possible. I’ll stay here with the team.”

“Of course.”

“Jack, can we use the jet?”

Jack was not anticipating the question and hesitated only slightly, as if he didn’t really want to let go of the airplane. “Sure. There are plenty available.”

Other ideas came and went as they tried to enjoy dinner. The optimism ebbed and flowed. One moment they were excited about Abby’s trip to Morocco, and the next moment they were once again fretting over the ransom.

After dark, and as they were strolling back toward the Hassler and trying to enjoy another beautiful Roman evening, Roberto’s phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Diego Antonelli. Roberto held back from the others and listened intently as Diego rattled away in Italian. There were rumblings out of Tripoli. Somewhere in the depths of the regime a senior diplomat had been contacted by their embassies in Rome, London, and Istanbul, all urging the same course of action. The senior diplomat had Gaddafi’s ear and an approval of the settlement was expected.

An hour later, Riley Casey called Mitch from London with similar news. Sir Simon Croome had received a call from an old friend in the Foreign Office. The rumor was that the Libyan ambassador to the U.K. had also been informed that his government had decided to settle the Lannak matter, all of it, and to do so promptly.

Mitch, Jack, and Roberto met in a dark corner of the Hassler bar to talk about their client. Assuming a settlement, and they were cautious enough to assume nothing, they needed a strategy to press Lannak into using the money for the ransom. Roberto, who knew them best because of their long history with Luca, thought it likely that the Celiks would go along, but only with some guarantee that they would eventually receive $400 million. All three lawyers knew that in litigation there were no guarantees. A lawyer who promised one was a fool.

Roberto wanted some answers. He asked Jack, “Can Scully be convinced to borrow the funds? I know you’ve tried, but can you try again?”

“Maybe, but I’m not optimistic about the firm right now.”

“This is disturbing. Luca is devastated and he feels betrayed.”

“With good reason,” Mitch said.

“Would the committee vote differently if she were the child of an American partner?”

“Great question,” Mitch mumbled.

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “But I doubt it. The majority are more concerned with protecting their own assets. Asking them to cosign and guarantee such a loan was just too frightening, I guess. I tried, Roberto.”

“Luca’s putting up ten million of his own money. He’s mortgaged everything. He was expecting more from the firm.”

“So was I. I’m very sorry.”

From the moment Abby entered the British Airways lounge at JFK, she was looking for whoever might be watching her. Not following, but “monitoring,” as Noura said. Seeing no one suspicious, and fully aware that anyone on her tail would appear not the least bit suspicious, she relaxed, ordered an espresso, and found a magazine.

She had always enjoyed British Air and was pleased that it would take her all the way to Marrakech. She remembered, with some amusement, Mitch’s circuitous route from New York to Tripoli only last month. It had taken thirty hours and three airlines. She would need only one and BA was a favorite. Business class was quite comfortable. The champagne was delicious. Dinner was edible, but then she had become such a food snob that nothing served on an airplane could ever be described as delicious.

She thought of her boys and the wonderful time they were having at Miss Emma’s table, eating precisely whatever they wanted and getting little or no pushback from their grandparents. How many kids get lobster every day?

The layover in London’s Gatwick Airport was three hours and twenty minutes. To kill time, she napped in a chair, watched the sunrise, read magazines, and worked on a Laotian cookbook. She noticed a North African gentleman wearing a white linen suit and blue espadrilles trying to hide most of his face under a straw fedora. The third time she caught him glancing at her she decided he was one of her “monitors.” She shrugged it off and figured there would be tenser moments ahead.