Chapter 34
Mitch had learned years earlier that jet lag was best shaken off with a long run through Central Park. He couldn’t sleep it off, especially not with a clock ticking and his boys in hiding and his wife increasingly anxious. Abby joined him at dawn as they entered the park at Seventy-Second Street and fell in behind a crowd of early runners. They rarely talked as they ran, preferring instead to soak in the first rays of the sun and enjoy the coolness of New York in the spring. As the boys got older and life marched on, the long runs they cherished were becoming less frequent.
Back in their Cortona days, before children and careers and such, they ran every morning, through farms and vineyards and villages. They would often stop and chat with a farmer to see if they could understand his accented Italian, or stop at a sidewalk café in a village for a glass of water or a shot of espresso. Their favorite character was the owner of a small winery who often flagged them down to inquire about the odd American habit of voluntarily running down a road, in a sweat, going nowhere in particular. Several times he invited them into his small courtyard where his wife poured glasses of cold rosé and insisted they try slices of buccellato, a sugary cake with raisins and aniseed. Such mid-workout stops usually drifted into longer wine tastings and the joggers forgot about their mileage. After a few detours, Abby insisted they alter their route.
They circled the reservoir and headed home. The streets were coming to life with morning traffic. Another busy day in the city. They had no plans to be there after dark.
At 11 A.M., they took a cab to the Citibank office on Lexington Avenue near Forty-Fourth, and went up twenty-six floors to the office of Ms. Philippa Melendez, a VP of some variety and an expert on moving money. She led them to a conference room where Cory and Darian were having coffee. Within minutes Jack arrived, and the firm’s ultimate authority was ready to sign. Philippa confirmed that the $10 million was on hand. All they had to do was wait for Noura.
She called at 11:30 and asked if Abby had her laptop. She had been told to bring it. The email arrived quickly with the wiring instructions. Cory’s team of hackers would track the sending address to a cyber café in Newark, but the sender was long gone. Jack Ruch signed an authorization on behalf of the firm. All $10 million would go to a numbered bank account in Panama.
“Ready?” Philippa asked Jack. He nodded gravely, and Scully said goodbye to the money.
“Impossible to track?” Abby asked as they stared at her laptop screen.
Philippa shrugged and said, “Not impossible, but not practical either. It’s going to a shell company in Panama, and there are thousands of them. The money is gone.”
They waited eight minutes before the Jakl rattled again. Noura said, “The money has arrived.”
The larceny had been quick, efficient, almost painless. They all took deep breaths and tried to adjust to the reality that a lot of money had just evaporated, with nothing, at the moment, to show for it. They said quiet goodbyes and left the office.
On the street, Abby and Cory got into a black SUV and headed uptown to the apartment. Mitch and Darian took another one and headed south to the financial district.
Abby’s overnight bag was packed and waiting. At the kitchen table, she sent a text on the Jakl informing Noura that she would be away from the phone until noon Sunday. She left it, along with her cell phone, hidden in her closet. She slipped out of the apartment through a basement entrance and returned to the same SUV, where Cory was waiting. The driver left the city over the George Washington Bridge and disappeared into northern New Jersey. Cory was certain they had not been followed. In the town of Paramus they stopped at a small airport, boarded a King Air, and took off. Ninety minutes later, they landed on Islesboro, where Carter and Clark were waiting at the airfield to see their mom. It had been a week.
At 12:30, Jack called the management committee to order for the fifth straight day. All nine were present. The mood was tense and gloomy. The firm had just lost ten million dollars.
He brought them up to date on the morning’s activities then opened the door. Mitch walked in and said hello. They were pleased to see him and had plenty of questions. He briefed them on Luca’s condition, gave an update on the Lannak claim in Geneva, and passed along the latest rumors out of Tripoli.
On the ransom front, there was little progress. The governments of Italy and Great Britain were still stonewalling and hoping the crisis would pass, or just go away. Since they were not involved with the negotiations and had no idea exactly who in hell they were dealing with, they were understandably reluctant to commit cash for the ransom.
Now that the kidnappers had collected a nice deposit, Mitch planned to ask them for more time. The deadline, as everyone well knew, was the following Wednesday, May 25. His gut told him this would be fruitless since they had shown no interest in negotiating.
After carefully painting the grim picture, Mitch moved on to more unpleasant business. As he paced back and forth in front of a large blank screen, he finally cut to the heart of the matter. They knew it was coming.
“It is imperative that this law firm commit its full resources to the safe return of Giovanna Sandroni. To do so will be to guarantee that the demands of her kidnappers are met in full, whatever the ultimate terms may be. As of now, it’s ninety million dollars.”
As senior partners, their average gross earnings the previous year were $2.2 million, third on the list of national rankings. They lived well, spent well, some saved more than others. Almost all were financially conservative, but a few were rumored to spend as much as they took home. On paper they were all millionaires, and in the not too distant past, maybe twenty years or so, they would have been considered the rich boys of Wall Street. Now, though, their incomes were dwarfed by the money runners — hedge funders, private equity guys, venture capitalists, currency speculators, bond boys — the new kings of the street.
The first comment came from Ollie LaForge, who oddly enough found some humor in the moment. He smiled as he chuckled and said, “You gotta be kidding.”
Mitch knew better than to respond. He’d said enough and the ensuing conversation was for the committee members. He sat down, not at the table, but against a wall.
Sheldon Morlock said, “I am not going to risk everything I’ve worked for and the financial security of my family by guaranteeing a bank loan in the amount of ninety million dollars. It’s out of the question.” He would not look at Mitch.
Piper Redgrave said, “I’m sure we all feel the same way, Sheldon, but no one will ever expect you to fork over that much money. The firm will own the debt, and I’m sure that with some belt-tightening here and there, and some sacrifice, we can muddle through it. Bart, what would the terms of the loan look like?”
Muddle through, Mitch said to himself. As if Scully’s partners might skip a weekend in the Hamptons or even miss a Michelin star meal.
Bart Ambrose said, “Well, for now, it would be a line of credit for ninety million, three percent interest, something like that. If we go all in, we can convert it to a long-term note.”
Bennett McCue said, “It won’t be ninety mil, Sheldon. We’ll have a nasty lawsuit with the insurance company but in the end they’ll pay. That’s twenty-five mil right there.”