“It could take years,” Morlock shot back. “And winning is not a sure thing.”
Ollie LaForge said, “Look, I hate debt, you know that. I have none, never have. My father went bankrupt when I was twelve years old and we lost everything. I hate banks and you’ve all heard this speech before. Count me out.” He still lived in a bungalow in Queens and took the train to work. And because of his tightfistedness he undoubtedly saved more money than anyone in the room.
Mavis Chisenhall was another tightwad. She looked at Mitch and asked, “Would you sign a personal guarantee, Mitch?”
The perfect question. One he was begging for. He got to his feet, pulled out a folded sheet of paper, tossed it to the center of the table, and said, “I’ve already signed it. There it is.”
As they stared at it, he pulled out another, tossed it too on the table, and said, “And here’s one from Luca. We’re all in.”
He studied their faces, though most were looking at their notepads. While he had the floor, he decided to try and close the deal. “Here’s why this is important. There is a chance we might collect monies from other sources, but nothing is certain. We might get promises, but not in time. We need certainty, and the only way to have certainty at this point is to have the money in the bank. Only Scully can put it there. I’m leaving Sunday for London, then Rome, then who knows where else. I’m passing the hat, begging on street corners, whatever it takes. But if I fail, at least we’ll have the money in the bank. All of it. I don’t know if they’ll give us more time. I don’t know if they’ll cut the ransom, settle for less. It’s impossible to predict the next five days. But, it is possible to know we can pay the ransom.”
When he finished, Jack nodded at the door and they stepped outside. He whispered, “Nice job. You should probably leave now. This may take some time.”
“Okay. I’m off to your brother Barry’s to see my kids.”
“Hug the boys for me. I’ll give you a call.”
The driver took the Brooklyn Bridge and the traffic barely moved. It was a Friday afternoon in late May and half of Manhattan was headed for somewhere on Long Island. An hour later they arrived at Republic Airport, a small general aviation field outside the town of Farmingdale. Mitch thanked the driver, and as he drove away he realized he had not bothered to check the traffic behind him. What a lousy spy. He was so fed up with looking over his shoulder.
A pilot who appeared to be no more than fifteen took his bag, led him to a twin-engine Beech Baron, and helped him inside. It was snug but comfortable, a far cry from the Falcons and Gulfstreams and Lears that Scully often leased. Mitch didn’t care. He was taking twenty-four hours off and about to spend time with his boys. The pilot pointed to a small cooler and Mitch thought why not. The weekend was starting. He popped a top and had a cold beer. As they taxied, Mitch called Roberto in Rome for an update. Luca was awake and griping about this and that. The nurses liked him better when he wasn’t awake.
For almost two hours they flew at 8,000 feet. The weather was perfectly clear. As they descended along coastal Maine, Mitch gazed from above and was touched by the beauty of the ocean, the rocky shores, the quiet coves, and the quaint fishing villages. Thousands of small sailboats bounced across the azure water. They buzzed the picturesque town of Camden with its busy harbor, then aimed for Islesboro. At five hundred feet, Mitch saw a row of mansions on the water and picked out Wicklow. Clark and Carter were on the dock with Abby, and they waved as the Baron flew over. Half an hour later, Mitch was sitting by the pool watching the boys swim and chatting with his wife and her parents.
The week had been summer camp for the boys. Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland admitted they had been somewhat less than diligent with the lessons and homework. Bedtime, too, had been rather flexible, and with Miss Emma at their service in the kitchen the meals had been total kid food. Mitch and Abby could not have cared less. Given the stress they were under, any help from the grandparents was more than welcome.
Over drinks — white wine for Mitch and Abby, lemonade for the Sutherlands — they gently inquired as to how much longer they would be needed so far from home. This irritated Mitch, it didn’t take much, because the safety of the boys was far more important than anything the Sutherlands might be missing back in Danesboro, Kentucky. He held his words and said maybe, perhaps, just a few more days.
May 25, to be exact.
They watched as Tanner walked to the end of the pier and met a lobster boat that had pulled alongside the dock for a home delivery.
“More lobster,” said Mr. Sutherland. “We’re eating it three times a day.”
Maxine, a thoroughly humorless woman, added, “Lobster quiche in the morning. Lobster rolls for lunch. Baked lobster tails for dinner.”
At the edge of the pool Carter was listening and added, “And don’t forget lobster mac and cheese, my favorite.”
Harold said, “Lobster bisque, lobster fritters, New England lobster dip.”
“Sounds delicious,” Abby said.
Maxine was happy not to be cooking every meal. “Miss Emma is wonderful, really.”
Clark said, “Mom, you should do a lobster cookbook. Put Miss Emma on the cover.”
“I like that,” Abby said, trying to recall the dozens of seafood cookbooks she had already collected.
Barry Ruch appeared in shorts and deck shoes, a long cigar in one hand and a Scotch in the other. He had managed to stay away from Wicklow all week, and Mitch assumed he wanted no part of the babysitting. Or the grandparents. He smiled at Mitch and said, “Jack’s looking for you.”
Holding the green phone, Mitch walked along the pier and called Jack. When he answered it was clear the news was not good. It was almost six-thirty on Friday evening, and they had started their long day together at Citibank’s offices, watching ten million evaporate.
Jack said, “We met for almost five hours, Mitch, and it was without a doubt my worst experience in forty years at Scully. Four of us voted to borrow the money, say to hell with it, save Giovanna, and worry about the future starting next week. The other five would not budge. Not surprisingly, Morlock became their mouthpiece. I have never been so disgusted. I lost some friends today, Mitch.”
Mitch stopped walking and watched the lobster boat disappear. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Retirement’s looking better.”
“How many times did you vote?”
“I don’t know. Several. But the bottom line is the same. I’m not giving names here, Mitch. In fact, this is all confidential. You’re not supposed to know what happened in the executive session.”
“I know, I know. I’m just, you know, stunned.”
“You did your best, Mitch.”
“And there’s no way around the management committee?”
“You know our by-laws. Every partner does. You could force a recall, fire the committee, and so on, elect new members if you could find anyone willing to serve. Believe me, Mitch, with this issue on the table not a single lawyer at Scully would want to serve.”
“So what happens next week if they murder Giovanna and video the whole damned thing for the world to see?”
“The usual. Point fingers, blame everyone else. The terrorists, the Libyans, the Turks, the foreign services. No one will ever know that we had the chance to ransom our way out of this mess. That will not be publicized. And with time I’m sure our colleagues will get over our loss and move on. Lots of eager young lawyers out there, Mitch. Giovanna was just another associate. They can all be replaced.”
“That’s pretty sick.”
“I know. I’m pretty disgusted with this firm.”
“I guess you should call Luca.”
“That’s for you, Mitch. You’re closer to him than anyone else.”