Mitch had been there many times, and on each visit he always stopped in the canyon-like lobby and smiled. He never wanted to forget the first time, eleven years earlier, when he walked through the doors and gazed upward. He and Abby had lived for three years in Cortona, Italy, then two years in London. They had made the decision to rejoin reality, stop drifting, put down some roots, and start a family. With considerable effort, he had managed to obtain a thirty-minute interview for an associate’s position, a mere courtesy that would not have been possible without the law degree from Harvard. Two longer interviews followed, and at the age of thirty he began his legal career for the second time.
The nostalgia came and went. He had more important matters at hand. He rode the elevator to the thirtieth floor, stepped off, and was immediately greeted by armed security guards who meant business. They demanded his briefcase, cell phone, and any other metallic items. He asked if he could keep his shoes and no one laughed. He explained that he was a partner in the firm and one of them said, “Yes sir, thank you sir, now move along.” He was scanned by a new machine that blocked the hallway, and when no weapons or bombs were found he was released without being frisked. Hustling away, he shrugged it off and knew that in all the remaining Scully offices around the world the lawyers, secretaries, paralegals, clerks, and couriers were being inspected. The firm could not afford another bombing.
He met Riley Casey, the managing partner, who led him to a small conference room where Sir Simon Croome was enjoying a splendid breakfast. He did not stand or say hello, nor did he stop eating. With his white linen napkin he sort of waved at the chairs across the table and said, “Please have a seat.”
Sir Simon had served in Parliament as a young man, spent thirty years on the bench at the High Court, advised a handful of prime ministers, and was a close friend to the current solicitor general. In his golden years he had been recruited by Scully to serve as “of counsel,” a title that gave him an impressive office, a secretary, an expense account, and only a client or two to fool with. The firm paid him a hundred thousand pounds a year for his name and connections and allowed him, at eighty-two, to hang around, primarily for breakfast and lunch.
Mitch declined the offer of food but said yes to strong coffee, which he drank as he and Riley waited for Sir Simon to finish chewing and swallow. Scrambled eggs, link sausage, dark toast, a cup of tea, and a small glass of what appeared to be champagne.
The life of a legend who knew the right people.
Mitch had not seen the old guy in at least five years and was sad to see he was aging badly. And he was quite plump.
“The way I see it, Mitch, is that you have a fine mess on your hands.” Simon thought himself funny and laughed too hard. Mitch and Riley were obliged to play along.
“I spoke with Jack Ruch last night, at length, and he filled in the blanks. Good chap.” He shoveled in another bite of sausage. Mitch and Riley nodded along, confirming that Jack Ruch was indeed a good chap.
“The way I see it, the key here is the Colonel. Sure, he’s unstable, always has been, but I do not believe for a moment he was involved in the abduction of Giovanna. I’m quite fond of her, you know, and I go back decades with her father. A real prince.”
More nods to confirm that Luca was indeed a real prince.
“The way I see it, Gaddafi desperately wants to deliver the hostage. He’ll be the hero, of course, something he craves as a megalomaniac. Keep in mind, though, Mitch, that we have something he doesn’t. We have contact with the terrorists. We don’t know who they are, and may never know, but they’ve come to us, not him.”
“So we lean on Gaddafi?” Mitch asked.
“No one leans on Gaddafi. No one gets near him, except for his family. He has some boys from different wives and the whole clan is always in a row, much like my family but for different reasons, but he really listens to no one. Take that damned bridge. His engineers and architects knew it was a bad idea. One poor chap, an architect I think, called it foolish, and the Colonel had him shot. That curtailed the dissension and everybody got in line. Halfway through the project the Colonel finally realized that they couldn’t find enough water to fill a bucket of piss and all the streams had dried up.”
Mitch was impressed that Sir Simon knew so much about his case. He was also reminded that he had the annoying habit of beginning almost every sentence with “The way I see it.”
“The way I see it, Mitch, is that we lean on the Libyan ambassador here and the one in Rome and ask them to get the damned lawsuit settled, and quick. They owe our client the money so hand it over. Have there been settlement negotiations?”
“None at all. We just amended our claim to add more damages. A trial is a year away.”
“And the Libyans still use the Reedmore bunch?”
“Yes, Jerry Robb.”
Sir Simon cringed at the thought of opposing counsel. “That’s unfortunate. Intractable as ever, I presume?”
“He’s certainly an unpleasant fellow, though we have not yet approached the stage of negotiating.”
“Go around him. He’ll do nothing but obstruct.” He ripped off a bite of toast and pondered his next thought. “The way I see it, Mitch, this is a diplomatic matter. We chat with our Foreign Office boys and send them over to the Libyans. Can we arrange this, Riley?”
Finally asked to speak, Riley said, “We’re on the phones now. We have a solid contact inside the Foreign Office and I have a call in to her. The prime minister is traveling in Asia, gone for a week. His office has been superb, calls almost every day for updates. Same for the Service. Giovanna has been a priority from day one, but there was no movement until now. Now we have a demand and a threat. But no one knows where it’s coming from.”
Mitch asked, “Can we expect money from the British government? We’re passing the hat here, Mr. Croome.”
“I understand. The way I see it, our government should come to the rescue. However, it would be expecting too much for the Foreign Office to chip in when they have no idea where the money is going. Our intelligence services are being shut out. We haven’t a clue who the bad guys are. We’re not even sure they exist. Could be an elaborate hoax for all we know.”
“It’s not a hoax,” Mitch said.
“I know that. But I can just hear the foreign minister raising objections. We have no choice, though. We have to ask him for money, and quickly.”
Riley said, “There is a law on the books that prevents these sort of maneuvers. Just to remind everybody.”
“The way I see it, that law is there for the terrorists to read. Officially, we don’t negotiate and we don’t pay. But we do, in certain circumstances. This, gentlemen, is an exceptional circumstance. You’ve seen the tabloids. If something awful happens to Giovanna we’ll all be sickened by it and never forgive ourselves. You cannot fail, Mitch.”
Mitch held his tongue and took a deep breath. Thanks for nothing. That’s the way I see it.
The best they could do in a pinch was a Third Secretary named Mona Branch. Her title placed her about halfway down the ladder at the Foreign Office and she was not the choice Riley had in mind. However, she was the first one willing to set aside thirty unscheduled minutes in a hectic day to have a chat with the two lawyers from Scully.
They arrived at the Foreign Office complex on King Charles Street at ten minutes before eleven, and waited twenty minutes in a cramped holding room as, they figured, Mona cleared her desk and made room for them. Or perhaps she and her colleagues were just having tea.