At 9:15, Cory called, on the green phone, and told Mitch that the surveillance had noticed no one trailing Abby and the boys. Mitch went to Jack’s to debrief. At 10:00, he hopped in the rear of an SUV at the corner of Pine and Nassau. Cory was waiting. As they sped away, he couldn’t help but nod off. Mitch smiled at the guy and felt sorry for him. He was also happy with the silence. He closed his eyes, took deep breaths, and tried to walk slowly through the events of the past twenty-four hours. Before coffee with Abby yesterday morning, no one in his world had ever heard of Noura.
At 11:10, Mitch emerged from the school with Clark and Carter. A gray sedan was waiting, with another driver. Forty minutes later, they stopped at the gate of the general aviation terminal at Westchester County Airport. A guard waved them through and they drove across the tarmac to a waiting Lear 55. The boys were wide-eyed and couldn’t wait to take it up for a spin. Clark said, “Wow, Dad, is that our plane?”
“No, we’re just borrowing it,” Mitch said.
Cory was waiting outside the Lear, glancing at his watch. He welcomed the boys with a big smile and helped them aboard. He introduced them to the two pilots and strapped them into the thick, leather seats. Mitch and Cory sat facing the boys in club-style seating. A fifth passenger, Alvin, sat in the back. As they began to taxi, Cory fetched coffee for Mitch and cookies for the boys, but they were too busy gawking out the windows to take a bite. At 20,000 feet, Cory unlatched Carter from his seatbelt and led him to the cockpit for a quick visit with the pilots. The colorful display of switches, buttons, screens, and instruments was overwhelming. Carter had at least a hundred questions but the pilots were adjusting dials and talking on the radio and couldn’t say much. After a few minutes, it was Clark’s turn.
The excitement of flying on a fancy little jet made the trip seem even shorter, and before long they were descending. When it taxied and stopped at the small private terminal, a black SUV pulled alongside to collect the passengers and their luggage. The boys reluctantly climbed down and got in the SUV. For the next two days they would talk of nothing but flying airplanes when they grew up.
The date was May 13, a Friday, and coastal Maine was thawing out from another long winter. The picturesque town of Camden was coming to life and brushing aside the remnants of the spring’s last snowfall. Its scenic harbor was already busy with fishermen, sailors, and a few summer residents eager to get to the islands and open their second homes.
One of Cory’s men was holding a table at a restaurant on the water. When they arrived he disappeared, and Mitch wanted to ask how many were on the team. Sitting at the table and taking in the magnificent view of the harbor, the distant hills, and Penobscot Bay, Mitch could almost forget why they were there.
Away from their mother, and on some sort of vacation, Clark and Carter did not hesitate to order burgers, fries, and milkshakes. Mitch had a salad. Cory ate like one of the kids. Service was slow, or maybe they were on Maine time now, but they were in no hurry. The big city was far away and they would get back to it soon enough. It was Friday afternoon, and Mitch wanted a beer. Cory, though, was on duty and declined. Never one to drink alone, Mitch fought the temptation.
Twice during lunch Cory excused himself to take calls. When he returned each time Mitch was tempted to grill him for the latest news, but managed to control his curiosity. He assumed Corey was dealing with his team somewhere in the vicinity and probably not getting calls from Tripoli.
The ferry to Islesboro ran five times a day and took twenty minutes. At 2:30, Cory said, “We should get in line.”
The island was fourteen miles long and almost three miles wide in places. Its eastern end jutted into the Atlantic, with beautiful views from the rocky coast. Mitch and the boys were on the ferry’s upper deck admiring the other islands as they passed. Cory walked over, pointed, and said, “That’s Islesboro coming into view ahead.”
Mitch smiled and said, “We are remote, aren’t we?”
“I told you. It’s a perfect place to hide for a few days.”
“Hide from who?”
“I’m not sure, probably no one. But we’re not taking any chances.”
As they drew closer they began to see the mansions dotting the shoreline. There were dozens of them, most dating back a hundred years to the glory days of “summering” by the rich. Families from New York, Boston, and Philadelphia built fine homes to avoid the heat and humidity, and of course they needed plenty of bedrooms and lots of staff to take care of their friends, who often stayed for weeks at a time. The homes were still in use, still splendid, and a few had even attracted celebrities. The permanent population of Islesboro was five hundred, and most of the adults either worked “in the houses” or trapped lobsters.
They drove off the ferry and were soon on the only highway that ran the length of the island. Within ten minutes, they turned onto a narrow asphalt drive and passed a sign reading Wicklow.
Mitch asked Cory, “Any idea where ‘Wicklow’ comes from?”
“It’s the county in Ireland where the first owner was born. He got rich bootlegging Irish whiskey during prohibition, built this place, then died young.”
“Cirrhosis?”
“No idea. It’s been bought and sold several times and everyone kept the name. Mr. Ruch picked it up at an auction about fifteen years ago and did a renovation. Whacked off ten bedrooms on a different wing, according to Jack.”
“So he’s down to eighteen.”
“Only eighteen.”
They were soon arriving at a circular drive in front of a sprawling old house that belonged in a travel magazine. It was classic Cape Cod architecture: two levels with steep roofs and side gables, a wide centered front entry, weathered shingle siding painted a pale blue, gabled dormers, and four centralized chimneys. Beyond it was nothing but miles of the Atlantic Ocean.
Mr. Barry Ruch himself came through the front door and practically bear-hugged Mitch as if they were dear friends. They were not, at least not yet. Mitch had met him a few years earlier at a birthday party for his younger brother Jack. There had been at least fifty other guests and Mitch and Barry had barely spoken to each other. He was known as a quiet billionaire who loathed attention. According to an old Forbes story, Barry had made his money speculating in Latin American currencies.
Whatever the hell that meant.
Everybody shook hands and said hello. As trained, Carter and Clark stood as tall as possible and said, “Nice to meet you.” Their father was proud of them.
Barry swept the whole group into the house through the front door and into the main foyer where they met Tanner, the butler-porter-driver-handyman and boat captain. He was also a part-time lobsterman who would always seem ill at ease in his navy jacket and white shirt. Thankfully, Mr. Ruch allowed him to wear khaki britches.
Tanner handled the luggage and room assignments while Barry showed the McDeeres to the den where a fire was roaring. He laughed about the last snowfall just two nights ago and promised there would be no more of the white stuff until October. Maybe November.
As the men talked about the weather and how Jack was doing as he neared retirement, Carter and Clark admired the massive stuffed moose head looking down upon them from the stone fireplace.
Barry noticed this and said, “I didn’t kill him, boys, wasn’t me. He came with the house. Tanner thinks he’s been here for about thirty years. Probably from the mainland.”