They sat at a small table in the corner and ordered glasses of Chianti. Roberto began with “The Carlotti deal is off the table.”
“That’s good to hear. What happened?”
“Carlotti got cold feet. His lawyers convinced him he was risking too much by trying to circumvent our laws. He wants to help Luca, of course, but he also wants to avoid trouble. Plus, the American wing of my law firm was skittish. There are some nasty federal prosecutors over there and they’d love to catch a big law firm getting its hands dirty.”
Diego nodded along, as if he completely understood the motivations of federal prosecutors in the United States. The wine arrived and they clinked glasses.
“There’s something else,” Roberto said.
“So you said.” Diego glanced at his watch. Ten minutes in and he was ready to go.
“Our client is Lannak, the Turkish contractor.”
“Yes, yes. I know the file. Arbitration. I talk to Luca.”
“We have a plan to settle the claim, in part only, and quickly. Some of the money will go to the ransom. We want your boss to meet with the Libyan ambassador as soon as possible and urge him to urge Tripoli to settle the claim.”
“A waste of time.”
“Maybe, but what if a settlement leads to the release of the hostage?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Money. We take some of it and add it to the pot.” Roberto removed a legal-sized manila envelope from his attaché case and handed it across the table. “Read it and you’ll understand.”
Diego took it without showing any interest. He sipped his wine and said, “I’ll give it to my boss.”
“The sooner the better. It’s rather urgent.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Chapter 37
It was after 3 A.M. Sunday morning when the two vans carrying the Scully team stopped in front of the Hassler Hotel in central Rome. The weary travelers wasted no time getting out, checking in, and heading up to their rooms. Mitch had stayed there before and knew the Spanish Steps were just outside the hotel’s front door. His room faced east, and before crashing he pulled back the curtains and smiled at the fountain and piazza far below at the foot of the famous stairway. He missed Abby and wished they could be enjoying the evening together.
The day promised to be long and stressful. Sleep could wait. The team met at nine for breakfast in a private dining room. Roberto Maggi joined them and reported that Luca was preparing to check himself out of the hospital and go home. It was unclear what his doctors thought of it. The good news of the morning was a phone call from Diego Antonelli an hour earlier in which he reported that the prime minister himself had spoken with the Libyan ambassador to Italy and pressed the need for a quick settlement of the lawsuit.
Over the weekend, Roberto had spent time on the phone with Denys Tullos, the chief legal adviser to the Celik family in Istanbul. Tullos passed along the encouraging news that Turkey’s deputy foreign minister had dined the previous evening with the Libyan ambassador to Turkey. The principal item on their agenda had been Lannak.
Thus, the Libyan ambassadors in Italy, Turkey, and Great Britain were getting squeezed in various ways to expedite the settlement. What that meant back in Tripoli was anybody’s guess. Roberto, with more experience in Libya than anyone else in the room, cautioned against even the slightest optimism.
Other than Mitch and Jack, no one else in the room knew how much, or how little, money had actually been committed to the ransom fund. Both had picked up the vibe from Cory and Darian that Scully wasn’t doing enough to help with its considerable resources. If they only knew, and of course they would never know. Over the Atlantic, in the back of the jet, Mitch had asked Jack if he thought it was even remotely possible to go back to the management committee and beg again. Jack said no. At least not now.
As Abby rode the elevator to her apartment she tried to dismiss her frustration with armed security, basement entries and exits, surveillance, black SUVs, and the whole silly espionage routine. She wanted her husband home and her kids back in school. She wanted normalcy.
And she wanted to take the Jakl phone and pitch it out the window onto Columbus Avenue where it would shatter into a hundred pieces and never be able to track her again. Instead, she placed it on the kitchen table as she made some coffee and tried to ignore it.
At 12:05, as Mitch predicted, Noura called, and for the first time tried to project a bit of warmth. “How was your trip?”
“Lovely.”
“It’s noon Sunday. The deadline is five P.M. Wednesday, Eastern Time.”
“If you say so. I’m in no position to argue.”
“Do you have the money?”
The answer had been rehearsed a dozen times. There was no way to logically explain the efforts underway to raise a hundred million dollars under such pressure. Noura and her fellow revolutionaries were probably naive enough to believe that a mammoth law firm like Scully could simply stroke a check and all would be well. They were right and they were wrong.
“Yes.”
A pause as if there was relief on the other end. On Abby’s end there was nothing but fear and dread.
“Good. Here are your instructions. Please listen carefully. You are to travel tonight to Marrakech in Morocco.”
Abby almost dropped the phone. Instead she just stared at it. She’d been home for an hour. Her family was scattered. Her job was being neglected. Everything in her world was upside down and the last thing she wanted was to spend the next day on a plane to North Africa. “Okay,” she mumbled. For the umpteenth time she asked herself, Why am I in the middle of this mess?
“British Air flight number 55 departs JFK this evening at five-ten. There are seats in business class but book one now. There is a three-hour layover at Gatwick in London, then eight hours nonstop to Marrakech. You will be monitored along the way but you will not be in danger. In Marrakech, take a taxi to La Maison Arabe Hotel. Once there you will await further instructions. Any questions?”
Only a thousand. “Well, yes, but give me a minute.”
“Have you been to Marrakech?”
“No.”
“I hear it’s lovely. So decadent, so popular with you people.”
Whoever “you people” were, it was obvious Noura did not approve of them. Westerners.
Two years earlier, Abby had tried to buy a cookbook by a Moroccan chef from Casablanca. He had a small restaurant on the Lower East Side and she and Mitch ate there twice. It was loud and rowdy, always full of Moroccans who loved to sit together at long tables and welcome strangers. They loved their country, culture, and food, and talked of being homesick. She and Mitch had discussed a vacation there. They read enough to know that Marrakech was filled with history and culture and attracted many tourists, primarily from Europe.
Abby said, “I’m sure this phone will work over there.”
“Yes, of course. Keep it with you at all times.”
“And I have to leave now?”
“Yes. The deadline is Wednesday.”
“So I’ve heard. Do I need a visa?”
“No. There is a room reserved for you at the hotel. Do not tell anyone but your husband. Understood?”