“So I’ve heard. Does he shoot his lawyers?”
“Let’s hope not.” Adem glanced at his wristwatch and scratched his jaw. “My father is three hours ahead of us, in Jakarta. He’ll be home late tonight. I’ll have to get his approval to discount our claim.”
“Perhaps both of us should talk to him.”
“I’ll go first. I don’t foresee a problem.”
When traveling alone in an unfamiliar city, and with a few hours to kill, Mitch often hired a car and driver to at least catch a glimpse of landmarks and famous places, sort of hitting the high spots on the tourist maps. During his flight to Istanbul he had read travel guides on Turkey and was fascinated by the country. He told Abby it definitely deserved another look, a place on their wish list.
But sightseeing was not possible. Wasting time seemed frivolous. In his hotel room he made a desk on a coffee table and worked his phones. Abby again, just to check in. Jack Ruch for the same. Roberto in Rome broke the news that Luca had been hospitalized with a fever, dehydration, and probably other symptoms and ailments. He was resting fitfully and being watched closely. Samir was in town and they had spent a few hours together. Diego Antonelli had called with little to report. He was obviously finding it difficult to find an ear inside the prime minister’s circle. Cory was in New York and had just finished speaking to Darian, one of their daily updates. Nothing much to report from Libya except snippets regarding the latest commando raid that went badly. The government was still stonewalling the story. There were rumors that the Barakat gang had captured three Libyan soldiers. As always, there was no sign of Giovanna. In London, Riley Casey was still slogging his way up the endless ladder of the Foreign Service in search of someone with real authority. Sir Simon Croome was having lunch as they spoke with a bona fide Libyan, a businessman who’d been in the U.K. for decades and had made a mint. There was a chance this old friend and client could twist an arm or two and prod Tripoli into paying his bills and settling the Lannak claim. Mitch found the idea silly. The two old goats would probably drink their lunches, take long naps, then forget whatever they talked about.
After two fruitless hours on the phone, Mitch was deflated and fell asleep.
He rallied in time for dinner. Adem suggested a table at 10 P.M. in an Asian fusion place with a Michelin star, and Mitch was tempted only because his wife routinely expected him to bring back menus and notes from new restaurants. Not surprisingly, she knew a Turkish chef in Queens and they were discussing a cookbook. However, Mitch preferred to eat no later than eight and did not want a late night. Instead, they met in the Brasserie of the St. Regis Hotel, where he was staying. Adem had hinted that his wife might join them, and Mitch was relieved when she did not.
Over whiskey sours, Adem relayed a conversation he’d had with his father late that afternoon. Omar wanted blood from the Libyans, and he certainly wanted every dime he was due for the bridge, but he was a pragmatist. Four hundred million dollars in today’s money might seem like a great deal years down the road. If Mitch could deliver that much, then anything above it was his to bargain with for Giovanna’s return.
They shook hands, though both knew that a settlement was unlikely.
Chapter 32
At 11:55 Wednesday night, Abby was still awake and reading magazines in bed. She was tired of the quiet apartment and tired of living alone. She wanted to hug her twins, crawl in bed with her husband, and say farewell to all the horrible drama she had not asked for. Someone else could play the spy game.
The Jakl buzzed on the nightstand and startled her. It had not made a sound since Sunday morning. She picked it up and walked to a small table near the den where she placed it next to her cell phone. She tapped both phones. An app on hers would record the conversation without the Jakl knowing it, according to Darian.
“Hello.”
“This is Noura. Are you alone?”
Don’t you know the answer? Aren’t you people watching us? “Yes.”
“Do you have the money?”
“Well, no, but we’re working on it.”
“Is there a problem?”
Who knew how many people were listening on the other end? Be careful, measure every word. There is a language difference here and something might be misunderstood or taken the wrong way.
“Not a problem, just the challenge of finding that much money.”
“That should be easy, I would think.” A definite British lilt in the last phrase.
“Why would you think that?” Keep her talking.
“Rich lawyers, largest law firm in the world, offices everywhere. It’s all right there on the website. Billings last year of over two billion.”
Oh, the frustration of lawyers pounding their own chests. Abby said, “The firm has lost a couple of offices lately, in case you haven’t heard.”
“That’s unfortunate, but it will continue until we have the money.”
“I thought the money was for Giovanna’s release.”
“It is. Deliver the money and everything will be fine.”
“Look, I’m not a member of the firm and I don’t know what they’re doing. I know my husband is in Europe right now trying to raise the money, but I don’t know what’s going on. I’m a book editor, you know?”
“Yes. There has been a change in plans.” A pause. Say something, Abby.
“Okay, what kind of change?”
“There shall be a deposit, to show good faith.” Another pause.
“I’m listening.”
“Ten million dollars by noon Friday, sent from a bank here in New York.”
Abby exhaled and said, “Okay. All I can do is relay this to my husband. I have no control over anything.”
“Noon Friday. I will send instructions. I will also send a new video of Giovanna to prove she is in good hands.”
Good hands? Same hands that held the chain saw?
Jack Ruch finally yielded to the grumbling. It was irritating enough that the management committee had to meet daily for the crisis update, but to meet at 7 A.M. was too much. Jack pushed it back to 9:30 on Thursday, and called the executive session to order for the fourth day in a row. By then most of the members were secretly wondering if it was really necessary to meet every day, but it was a crisis like no other. No one had yet found the spine to question Jack. All nine were present.
He began with, “There’s a new development. Our dear Noura made contact late last night with Abby, and informed her that a good-faith deposit is now part of the deal. Ten million by noon tomorrow, Friday.”
The news settled heavily around the room. All eyes were on the table.
Jack cleared his throat and continued, “I spoke with Mitch an hour ago. He’s leaving Istanbul and going to Rome, where Luca has been hospitalized.”
Ollie LaForge asked, “And we still don’t know who we’re talking to, right? We’re supposed to fork over ten million up front and hope for the best?”
“You got a better idea?” Jack shot back.
“Has Mitch had any luck since yesterday?” asked Mavis Chisenhall.
“If you’re asking me whether Mitch has obtained any commitments for money, then the answer is no. But he’s trying. That’s all I can say.”
Month in and month out, the firm kept about $15 million in extra cash on hand for emergencies and other contingencies. There was a larger reserve for the sacred year-end bonuses, but that money could not be touched.
Sheldon Morlock, one of the more influential partners on the committee, said, “There must be a way to negotiate with these people. What they’re asking is outrageous and beyond our capacity. And, you can’t convince me they’ll walk away if they don’t get every dime. Say we somehow scrape together only half the money. Are they going to say no?”