The Exchange: After The Firm

Chapter 42

For morning coffee, Abby wore her white dress and no makeup. Hassan wore another fine linen suit of a soft olive color. Brilliant white shirt, no tie. They met at the same table, one she was already tired of. They ordered coffee and tea and told the waiter they would think about breakfast later.

Hassan, ever the charming pro, kept smiling until she said, “We need more time, an additional twenty-four hours.”

A sudden frown and a shake of the head. “I’m sorry. That’s not possible.”

“Then we can’t arrange the entire sum of ninety million.”

A deeper frown. “Then things get complicated.”

“Things are beyond complicated. We are collecting money from at least seven different sources and in multiple languages.”

“I see. A question. If you have twenty-four additional hours, how much more money can you scrape together?”

“I’m not sure.”

His small black eyes zeroed in like lasers. “Then, that says it all, Mrs. McDeere. If you can’t promise more money, then I can’t promise more time. How much do you have?”

“Seventy-five. Plus, of course, the deposit of ten.”

“Of course. And it is in hand and your husband will be prepared to wire it tomorrow?”

The waiter was back and he slowly set the tea and coffee in front of them. He inquired again about breakfast, but Hassan rudely waved him off.

He glanced around, saw no one, and said, “Very well. I shall speak to my client. This is not good news.”

“It’s the only news I have. I want to see Giovanna.”

“I doubt that’s possible.”

“Then there’s no deal. No seventy-five million. No wire transfer tomorrow. I want to see her today and I’m not leaving this hotel.”

“You’re asking too much, Mrs. McDeere. We’re not walking into a trap.”

“A trap? Do I look like a person who could set a trap? I’m a cookbook editor from New York.”

He was smiling again as he shook his head in amusement. “It’s not possible.”

“Figure it out.”

She abruptly stood, picked up her cup of coffee, and left the restaurant with it. Hassan waited a moment until she was out of sight and pulled out his phone.

Two hours later, Abby was working at the small table in her room when the Jakl vibrated. It was Hassan with the grim news that his client was quite disturbed by the news that its demands were not being met. The deal was off the table.

However, it would be wise for Mitch to continue with his plans on Grand Cayman. Establish a new account at Trinidad Trust, and wait for instructions. So, the deal was not off the table.

Mitch was somewhere in the clouds, and the jet’s cell service was out of range.

The Challenger touched down at Westchester at 7:10, almost exactly seven hours after leaving Rome. Two black sedans were waiting. One went north with Jack, who lived in Pound Ridge. Mitch took the other south into the city.

Moroccan time was four hours ahead of New York. He called Abby, who was holed up in her hotel room editing a cookbook. She replayed the morning coffee with Mr. Mansour and their subsequent conversation. Of course he was disappointed with the money, but then he had been prepared for such a development. He was coy, a real pro, and she could not read him. She had no idea if he would accept only $75 million more, but she had a hunch he had a bigger role in the negotiating than he let on.

An hour after landing, he entered his apartment on Sixty-Ninth, his home for the past seven years and a place he adored, and felt like a trespasser. Where was everybody? Scattered. For a moment, he longed for their old routines. The silence was haunting. But there was no time for melancholy. He showered and changed into casual clothes. He dumped dirty laundry from his bag and repacked it with clean clothes. He did not pack a jacket or tie. As he recalled, from fifteen years earlier, even the bankers down there avoided suits.

He called Abby again and reported that the apartment was still standing. They agreed that they both wanted their lives back.

The car was waiting on Sixty-Ninth Street. Mitch tossed his bag in the trunk and said, “Let’s go.” Driving against the traffic was easier and they were back at the Westchester airport in forty minutes. The Challenger was refueled and ready to go.

The waiting was beginning to grate. Four hours had passed since she had seen Hassan for coffee. Her room was getting smaller and now the housekeeper wanted to have it. She walked around the hotel and knew she was being watched. The clerk at the front desk, the concierge in his little nook, the uniformed bellman — everyone glanced at her nonchalantly, then did a quick second look. The small dark bar was empty at 2 P.M. and she took a table with her back to the door. The bartender smiled at her when she entered, then took his time easing over.

“White wine,” she said.

With no other customers, how long does it take to pour a glass of wine?

At least ten minutes. She stuck her nose in a magazine and waited impatiently.