No one held back. Opinions rose up swiftly, then dissipated. Some of the facts got blurred. Tempers flared and cooled, but no insults were hurled. They were too professional for that and most of them had been close for decades. At one time or another every member of the committee thought of Giovanna and silently asked the question What if that was me? More than once, Bart Ambrose said, aloud, “She’s one of us.”
When, in Jack’s opinion, the discussion had run its course, he moved the conversation to the issue of security. The executive session was adjourned and Cory re-entered the boardroom. He passed out copies of the preliminary report from the crime scene in Barcelona, complete with graphic photos of the firm’s fire-gutted offices.
One benefit of being a player in Big Law was unlimited travel. A senior partner could go almost anywhere in the world, or at least anywhere a person of stature would want to go, and call it work, and with deductions galore. Stop by the Scully office, take a partner to lunch or dinner, maybe see an opera or a soccer match, and write off the whole trip. If there was business to discuss, then double-bill the client and stick him for the tickets as well. Barcelona had always been a favorite, and every member of the management committee had visited the stylish offices there. Seeing the place in charred ruins was difficult to absorb.
Cory outlined their emergency plans to beef up security and surveillance at every office. In his opinion, the terrorists, still unidentified, had hit Athens and Barcelona because the offices were soft targets. Not too secure, easy to get into, unsuspecting. For a bloodthirsty bunch, they were careful not to harm anyone. The fires were meant as warnings.
Where were the other soft targets? He mentioned Cairo, Cape Town, and Rio, but made it clear he was only guessing. This led to a meandering chat about which offices were safe and which weren’t, all bordering on speculation. One partner had been impressed with the security in their Munich office. Another had just returned from Mexico City and was surprised by the lack of surveillance cameras. And so on. They were successful lawyers, proud of their intelligence, and felt compelled to share their thoughts.
Jack knew them well. After an exhausting two-hour marathon, he could filter what had been said and gauge what had not been said. And he knew that in the end Scully would come through. The question was — How much?
Roberto picked up Mitch at the airport in Rome and drove him to Luca’s. During the forty-five-minute drive they covered a lot of territory. Luca was doing okay physically, or at least his condition was somewhat stable, and the news that the kidnappers had made contact and wanted a ransom lifted his spirits considerably. He didn’t happen to have $100 million in his bank accounts, but he was confident that with some good negotiations the figure would come down. He was already working on the Italian politicians.
During the drive, Mitch played the video of Giovanna on his cell phone. Roberto’s eyes instantly watered and he had to look away. He said she was like a little sister, and he hadn’t slept well in a month. He wasn’t sure if Luca should see the video. They agreed to discuss it later.
Luca was on the veranda, in the shade and on the phone. He looked even thinner but he was put-together as always. His light gray tailored suit hung loose. He managed to hug Mitch as he kept talking on the phone. His voice was stronger. Later, over coffee, he replayed his recent conversations. He was not a fan of the current prime minister but knew one of his deputy ministers. The goal was to convince the Italian government to come to the rescue of an Italian citizen. With cash. One of the more immediate problems was that Italy had a law on the books that forbade the government from negotiating with terrorists and paying ransom. Its rationale was simple: big checks paid to criminals only encouraged the kidnapping of more Italians. The British and the Americans had similar policies. Luca said they meant almost nothing. The prime ministers and presidents could pound the podium, denounce terrorists, and promise no ransom, but through back channels deals could be made.
The more pressing issue was confidentiality. How could Scully expect help from the Brits and Italians when their governments knew nothing about the demand for ransom?
The three — Luca, Mitch, and Roberto — had talked at length about amending the Lannak complaint against the Libyan government and asking for more damages. Lannak had lost four valuable employees. Giovanna had been held for a month now. The defendant, the Republic of Libya, had implicitly agreed to provide safety for foreign workers.
The arbitration claim Luca had filed the previous October demanded $410 million in unpaid bills, plus $52 million in interest that had accrued over the past three years. Mitch believed strongly that they should amend the claim, pile on more damages for the bloodshed and kidnapping, and press hard for a settlement. When Luca and Roberto finally agreed, Mitch called Stephen Stodghill, his associate, who was still in New York, and who happened to be asleep at 4 A.M. on a Monday, and instructed him to amend the complaint in Geneva, then meet him in London.
At eleven o’clock Luca retired from the veranda for a quick nap. Mitch went for a stroll around the piazza and called Omar Celik in Istanbul. He was on an airplane somewhere near Japan. Mitch talked to his son, Adem, and informed him of their plans to increase the amount of damages. He did not mention the contact with the kidnappers or the ransom, but that would happen soon enough.
At noon, 6 A.M. in New York, Mitch called Abby and said good morning. Things were fine there. She had talked to her parents at least three times on Sunday and everyone was having a splendid time in Maine. They were not being missed by the boys. No word from Noura.
Luca had an appointment with his doctors at noon and was not available for lunch. Mitch and Roberto walked to a café on a side street away from the tourists. Roberto knew the owner and at least two of the waitresses. With deep frowns and in low voices they inquired about Luca’s health. Roberto passed along the more optimistic version.
Even for an Italian, the ritual of lunch seemed like a waste of time. Who could relax and enjoy food? The two had no experience with hostage negotiations and felt helpless. And what would a professional do? The enemy was unseen, unknown. There was nothing to negotiate, no one to talk to. Noura was just a messenger with no authority. As lawyers they negotiated all the time, back and forth, give and take, as both sides grudgingly inched toward a solution neither really liked. Kidnapping, though, was a different monster because murder was in the equation. But how many professional negotiators had ever dealt with an enemy as savage and inhumane as this one? Chain saws? On video?
They barely touched their pasta.
After the table was cleared and they sipped espressos, Roberto said, “Luca is wealthy by any measure, Mitch, but most of it is old family money. His fine home here has been handed down. He owns the office building. The country home is near Tivoli.”
“I’ve been there,” Mitch said.
“He’s meeting with a banker this afternoon to arrange a mortgage on everything he owns. He thinks it’s around five million. He has liquid assets of roughly the same. He’s putting it all on the table, Mitch. If I had serious money, I would do the same.”
“Me too. But I hate for Luca to lose everything.”
“He can’t lose his daughter, Mitch. Nothing else matters.”
Chapter 28
By 2 P.M. Luca had knocked back two double espressos and was ready for action. He greeted an important visitor at the front door and escorted him to the veranda where he introduced him to Roberto and Mitch. His name was Diego Antonelli and, according to Roberto, he was a career diplomat in the foreign service and had known Luca for many years. Supposedly, he could be trusted with secrets and had contacts in the prime minister’s office.
Mr. Antonelli seemed ill at ease and Mitch got the impression he felt too important to make house calls. A light rain began so Luca invited everyone to his dining table where coffee and water were served. He thanked Mr. Antonelli for coming and said there had been a major development in the kidnapping.
Roberto took notes. Mitch listened as intently as possible. He always appreciated Luca’s Italian because it was slow and thoughtful, easier to follow. Mr. Antonelli, who no doubt spoke multiple languages, also spoke with perfect diction. Roberto, on the other hand, began each sentence in a mad dash to get to the end of it. Mercifully, he said little.
Luca told the story of the mysterious Noura and her contact with Abby McDeere in New York: the meetings, the photographs, the phones, and eventually the demand for ransom. The deadline was May 25, and, given their recent history, it was their belief that the terrorists would not hesitate to carry out the execution.
He made it clear that they had not contacted him or anyone else. They had chosen his law firm and had done so on American soil. In his opinion, it was not wise to involve the Italian police or intelligence services, nor those in Great Britain.
Antonelli took no notes, never touched his pen, nor his coffee. He absorbed every word as if filing away the details in perfect order. Occasionally, he glanced at Mitch with a mildly disdainful look, as if he really didn’t belong at the table.
Luca asked him to inform the foreign minister, who should then inform the prime minister.
“How do you know she’s still alive?” Antonelli asked.
Luca nodded at Roberto who slid a laptop into view, pressed a key, and there was Giovanna. When she finished and the screen went blank, Luca said, “That arrived yesterday in New York. It has been validated by our security.”
“A hundred million dollars,” Antonelli repeated but did not seem surprised. Nothing surprised him, and if something did no one would ever know it.
“The second question is, who are you negotiating with?” he said.
Luca touched his eyes with a tissue and took a deep breath. The image of his daughter had upset him for a moment. “Well, there are no negotiations. We don’t know who the terrorists are. But we do know they have my daughter, they are demanding ransom, and they will not hesitate to kill her. That is sufficient for the Italian government to get involved.”
“Involved? We have been expressly forbidden to interfere.”
“There is nothing you can do except help with the ransom. She is an Italian citizen, Diego, and right now she has a high profile. If the government does nothing, and she is sacrificed, can you imagine the backlash?”
“It’s against our law, Luca. You know the statute. It’s been on the books for over twenty years. We do not negotiate with terrorists and we do not pay ransom.”
“Yes, and the law has loopholes. I’ll be happy to point them out. There are ten ways around that law and I know every one of them. As of now, I’m asking you to speak to the foreign minister.”
“Of course, Luca. They are very concerned about Giovanna. All of us are concerned. But we’ve heard nothing until now.”
“Thank you.”
“May I ask if the British are involved?”
Luca was suddenly winded. He looked pale as his shoulders sagged. “Mitch.”
“I’m going to London tonight. We have a large office there and many of our partners have experience in the government. Tomorrow, we will meet with the British officials and tell them exactly what we have just told you. We will ask them to contribute to the ransom fund. Our firm has kidnapping and ransom insurance in the amount of twenty-five million dollars and we’ve put the insurance company on notice. Our firm will kick in an additional amount, but we cannot handle the entire ransom. We need help from both the Italian and British governments.”
In English, Antonelli said, “I understand. I will speak to the foreign minister this afternoon. That’s all I can do. I’m just the messenger.”
“Thank you.”
“Thanks, Diego,” Luca said softly. He suddenly needed another nap.