So why did he find it so hard to forgive them? And to actually like them? Because they had never apologized for their slights and transgressions of twenty years ago, and, frankly, Mitch had stopped waiting. The last thing he wanted now was an awkward forced hug with a tearful “We’re sorry.” His therapist had almost convinced him that carrying such a heavy grudge for so long was hindering his growth as a mature person. It had become his problem, not theirs. He was the one being damaged. The therapist’s mantra was: Just let it go.
Over lunch, common ground was soon found with fly-fishing. Barry had shucked the 80-hour workweeks years earlier and found solace in mountain streams all over the country. Harold had begun as a child and knew every creek in Appalachia. As the fish got bigger and bigger, Mitch found himself drifting away. He chatted with Maxine off and on. It was obvious they were concerned and wanted details.
Tanner appeared and suggested another boat ride. The boys beat him down to the dock. Mr. Barry retired into the depths of Wicklow to watch the Yankees game, a daily ritual.
Mitch led his in-laws into the library, closed the door, and explained to them why they were there. He gave only the barest of details, but it was enough to frighten them. The fact that terrorists were following their daughter and grandsons around Manhattan, and taking photos, was shocking.
They would hide in Maine with the boys for a month if necessary.
Chapter 26
The runway at Islesboro’s small airport was only 2,500 feet long, too short for a jet. Early Sunday morning, Mitch and Cory took off in a King Air 200, a turboprop with small field capacity.
They left Alvin and one other guard behind at Wicklow. Mitch was convinced the boys were safely tucked away where no one could find them and he told himself to stop worrying. The day would be complicated enough without thinking of them. But there was no way not to.
An hour later they landed at Westchester, drove into the city, and by 10 A.M. were in a large suite on the fifteenth floor of the Everett Hotel, with a view of the Wollman ice rink in Central Park. Darian was there from Crueggal, along with Jack. Over coffee, Mitch gave Jack a full report on his brother and all the gossip around Wicklow, which wasn’t much. Jack planned to retire July 31 and spend the month of August at Islesboro fishing with his brother.
The weather was cool and clear and Central Park was crowded. In the distance, they could see skaters circling the rink, but they were too far away to distinguish anyone. At 10:20, Mitch was certain he saw his wife walking down Fifth Avenue, on the park side. She was wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a brown barn coat she’d had for years. And a faded blue Mets cap.
“There she is,” he said with a knot in his stomach. She disappeared into the park and they lost sight of her. Cory and Darian had argued over placing someone near the entrance of the rink to watch Abby, but decided not to. Cory thought there was nothing to gain by doing so.
At 10:30 she walked to the counter of an ice-cream vendor near the rink’s main entrance. From behind large, dark sunglasses, she watched everyone while trying to appear nonchalant. It wasn’t working; she was a wreck. The Jakl vibrated in her pocket and she pulled it out. “This is Abby.”
“This is Noura. Leave the ice rink and walk to the Mall. Go past the statue of Shakespeare and to your left you’ll see the one of Robert Burns, then a long row of benches. Stay to the left, walk about a hundred feet, and find a spot on a bench.”
Minutes later, she passed the statue of Shakespeare and turned right onto the Mall, a long promenade lined with stately elms. She had made the walk countless times, and flashed back to their first winter in the city when she and Mitch had shuffled along, arm in arm, in a foot of snow with more falling. They had spent many long Sunday afternoons, in all seasons, sitting in the shade of the elms and watching the endless parade of New Yorkers outside for the day. When the twins arrived, they put them in a tandem stroller and pushed them up and down the Mall and all over Central Park.
Today, though, there was no time for nostalgia.
Hundreds of people were strolling along the Mall. Vendors sold hot and cold drinks. Loud carousel music echoed from speakers in the distance. As Abby walked she counted thirty steps, found an empty bench, and sat down as nonchalantly as possible.
Five minutes, ten. She clutched the Jakl in her pocket and tried not to look at everyone who passed. She was looking for a Muslim woman in full robes and a hijab, but saw no one of that description. A woman in a navy jogging suit pushing a baby stroller eased beside her. “Abby,” she said, barely loud enough to be heard.
Both were wearing large sunglasses, but somehow they made eye contact. Abby nodded. She assumed it was Noura, though she could not identify her. Same height and build but that was all. The bill of an oversized cap sat low and covered her forehead.
“Over here,” she said, nodding to her right.
Abby stood and said, “Noura?”
“Yes.”
They walked together. If there was a baby in the stroller it wasn’t visible. Noura turned right onto a sidewalk and they left the Mall. When they were away from everyone, she stopped and said, “Stare at the buildings. Don’t look at me.”
Abby gazed at the skyline of Central Park West.
Noura took her time and said, “The safe return of Giovanna will cost one hundred million dollars. The price is not negotiable. And it must be paid ten days from today. May twenty-fifth at five P.M. Eastern is the deadline. Yes?”
Abby nodded and said, “I understand.”
“If you go to the police, or the FBI, or involve your government in any way, there will be no safe return. She will be executed. Yes?”
“Understood.”
“Good. In fifteen minutes a video will be sent to your phone. It is a message from Giovanna.” She turned the stroller and walked away. Abby watched her for a second — stylish Adidas jogging suit, red and white sneakers with no brand visible, goofy cap. She had seen only a portion of her face and would never be able to identify her.
Abby went the other direction and zigzagged northeast to Seventy-Second Street, then followed it east to Fifth Avenue. She entered the Everett Hotel, walked to the dining room, and asked for the table she had reserved earlier that morning. A table for three. She was meeting a couple of friends for brunch. When her coffee was served, she left the table and took the elevator to the fifteenth floor.
Darian connected the Jakl to a laptop with an eighteen-inch screen and they waited. And while they waited, each silently pondered the rather formidable task of somehow finding a hundred million dollars. As the shock began to wear off, it became evident that no one in the room had a clue.
The screen was blank for a few seconds, then there she was: Giovanna in a dark room wearing a dark robe or dress with a black hijab covering her head. She looked frail, even frightened, though she tapped her teeth together and tried to appear brave. A small candle burned on a table next to her. Her hands were not visible. She said, without smiling, “I am Giovanna Sandroni of the law firm of Scully and Pershing. I am healthy and well fed and I have not been harmed. Noura has now delivered the news. The price of my safe return is one hundred million U.S. dollars. This is not negotiable and if it is not paid by May twenty-fifth, I will be executed. Today is Sunday, May fifteenth. Please, I beg you, pay the money.”
She was gone; the screen was blank again. Abby took the Jakl, placed it in the bottom of her shoulder bag and took it to the bathroom. Mitch stood at a window and looked at Central Park. Darian was still staring at the screen. Cory studied his shoes. Jack sat at a breakfast table and sipped coffee. No one seemed capable of speaking.