They met in a small room in a warehouse half an hour from the hotel. Haskel pointed here and there on a large, colorful map that covered an entire wall. He’d been in Libya for four years, had been to the bridge and back dozens of times without incident, and was confident they were in for an uneventful day. They would leave the hotel at five the following morning in one vehicle, a customized delivery truck with plenty of axles and fuel and other “protections.” During lunch, Samir had let it slip that the Lannak executives often zipped off to the bridge project in a helicopter. Mitch thought of asking why one was not available for their legal team, but then thought better of it.
The truck driver would be Youssef, a trusted Lannak employee and a bona fide Libyan. There would be checkpoints and perhaps some minor harassment by local soldiers, but nothing Youssef couldn’t handle. They would carry plenty of food and water as it was best not to stop, unless of course nature called. The trip had been approved by the government and so, supposedly, their movements would not be monitored. Samir would tag along just in case, though he was obviously not looking forward to another trip to the bridge.
He left Mitch and Giovanna at the hotel after dark and went home. After greeting his wife and nosing around the kitchen, he went to his small office, locked the door, and called his handler with the Libyan military police. The debriefing lasted half an hour and covered everything from what Giovanna was wearing to the make of her cell phone, hotel room number, purchases at the market, and her dinner plans. She and Mitch had agreed to dine in the hotel at 8 P.M. and invited Samir to join them. He’d begged off.
In his opinion, the visit to the bridge was a waste of time, but typical of Western lawyers. Lannak was paying them by the hour, so why not do some traveling, have some fun, get out of the office, and see the eighth wonder of the world — a billion-dollar bridge over a dried-up river in the middle of the desert?
With so many Westerners in the hotel, Giovanna decided to ditch the local look and get dressed up. Her tight dress fell to her knees and did justice to her splendid figure. She wore a pair of dangling gold earrings, a necklace, and some bracelets. She was Italian, after all, and knew how to dress. She was meeting a handsome American partner in her law firm, and there could be some tension in the air. They were a long way from home.
Mitch wore a dark suit with no tie. He was pleasantly surprised by her makeover and told her she looked lovely. They met in the bar and ordered martinis. Alcohol was strictly forbidden on Muslim soil, but the rulers knew how important it was to Westerners. Long ago, the hotels had convinced Gaddafi that to stay in business and show profits they needed to offer full bars and wine lists.
They carried their drinks to a table by a large window and took in the view of the harbor. Since he was curious about her background and deemed her far more interesting than himself, Mitch gently kept the conversation on her side of the table. She had lived half of her thirty-two years in Italy, the other half abroad. She was feeling the urge to go home. Her father’s illness was a factor, and his death, heaven forbid, would leave a huge vacancy in Scully’s Rome office. Luca, of course, wanted her by his side these days, and she was serious about making the move. She loved London but was tired of the dreary weather.
When the martinis were gone, Mitch waved to the waiter. With such an early departure the following morning, they could not indulge in a three-hour dinner, nor did they want heavy dishes of meats and sauces. They agreed on a light seafood stew and Giovanna picked a bottle of pinot grigio.
“How old were you when you left Rome?” Mitch asked.
“Fifteen. I was in the American school there and had traveled a lot, for a kid. My parents were splitting up and things were unpleasant at home. I was sent to a boarding school in Switzerland, an obscenely expensive getaway for rich kids whose parents were too busy to raise them. Kids from all over the world, a lot of Arabs, Asians, South Americans. It was a great environment and I had far too much fun, though I worried constantly about my parents.”
“How often did you return to Rome?”
“Occasionally, but only for holidays. I took summer internships here and there to stay away from home. I blamed my father for the divorce, still do, but we’ve managed to work out a truce.”
“What happened to your mother?”
She shrugged and smiled and made it clear that her mother was off-limits. Fine with Mitch. They were not about to discuss his parents. He asked, “Why did you choose college in Dublin?”
The wine arrived and they went through the ritual of opening, sipping, approving. After the waiter poured two glasses and left, Giovanna continued, “I had partied a bit too much in boarding school and my application was rather bland. The Ivies were certainly not impressed and they all said no, as did Oxford and Cambridge. Luca pulled a string or two and I got admitted to Trinity in Dublin. I didn’t take rejection well and went off to school with a real chip on my shoulder. I studied hard and entered law school determined to turn the world upside down. I finished in two years, but at the age of twenty-three was not exactly ready to sit for the bar. Luca suggested I study in the States, and off I went to the University of Virginia for three delightful years. Enough about me. How’d you get into Harvard Law?”
Mitch smiled and took a sip. “You mean, how did a poor kid from a small town in Kentucky make it to the Ivies?”
“Something like that.”
“Brilliant scholar, charismatic leader, you name it.”
“No, seriously?”
“Seriously? I had a four-oh average as an undergraduate and a near-perfect score on the law school admissions test. I was also from the coal county of Kentucky, a huge factor. Harvard doesn’t get a lot of applications from that part of the world, and so the smart people in admissions thought I might be exotic enough. The truth is, I got lucky.”
“You make your own luck in life, Mitch. You did well at Harvard.”
“Like you, I had a chip on my shoulder, something to prove, so, yes, I worked hard.”
“Luca said you finished at the top of your class.”
Why would Luca want to repeat that? “No, not true. I was number four.”
“Out of?”
“Out of five hundred.”
It was almost nine o’clock and every table was filled with loud men talking at full throttle in more languages than Mitch cared to follow. A few wore robes and kaffiyehs but most were in expensive suits. In addition to plenty of alcohol going down, a lot of cigarettes were burning and the restaurant’s ventilation was inadequate. Oil drove Libya’s economy and Mitch caught snippets in English of markets, crude prices, and drilling. He tried to ignore it because he was dining with one of only two women in the room and his date deserved his attention. She was getting looks, seemed to know it, and seemed to accept them as if they were part of her world.
Giovanna wanted to talk about Abby and the twins and they did so for a long time as they toyed with the stew, which wasn’t very good, and sipped the wine, which was okay but would have tasted much better in Lombardia. When they had covered Mitch’s immediate family, Giovanna pushed her bowl away and said she needed some advice. She had been with Scully for five years, all in their London office, and she was determined to become a partner. Would her chances be better if she stayed in London? Or if she returned to Rome? And how long might it take? The average at Scully was the same as at the other major firms in Big Law, about eight years.
Mitch was tempted to go off the record and share the gossip he’d collected. She would probably make partner in average time if she maintained her current pace, and it didn’t matter where she was located. However, being the daughter of Luca Sandroni would certainly open more doors in Rome. She was bright and driven and had the pedigree. And, the firm was committed to diversity and needed more women at the top.