On the forty-eighth floor of a glistening tower on the southern tip of Manhattan, Mitch McDeere stood alone in his office and gazed out the window at Battery Park and the busy waters beyond. Boats of all shapes and sizes crisscrossed the harbor. Massive cargo ships laden with containers waited almost motionless. The Staten Island Ferry inched past Ellis Island. A cruise ship packed with tourists headed out to sea. A mega yacht was making a splendid entrance into the city. A brave soul on a fifteen-foot catamaran zigzagged about, dodging everything. A thousand feet above the water no fewer than five helicopters buzzed about like angry hornets. In the far distance, trucks on the Verrazano Bridge stood still, bumper to bumper. Lady Liberty watched it all from her majestic perch. It was a spectacular view that Mitch tried to appreciate at least once each day. Occasionally he succeeded, but most days were too hectic to allow time for such loafing. He was on the clock, his life was ruled by it, just like the hundreds of other lawyers in the building. Scully & Pershing had over two thousand scattered around the world and vainly considered itself to be the premier international firm on the planet. Its New York partners, and Mitch was one, rewarded themselves with larger offices in the heart of the financial district. The firm was now a hundred years old and reeked of prestige, power, and money.

He glanced at his watch and the sightseeing came to an end. A pair of associates knocked and entered for another meeting. They met around a small table as a secretary offered coffee. They declined and she left. Their client was a Finnish shipping company having problems in South Africa. The authorities there had embargoed a freighter packed with electronics from Taiwan. Empty, the ship was worth about a hundred million. Fully loaded, it was worth twice that, and the South Africans were upset over some tariff issues. Mitch had been to Capetown twice in the past year and was not keen to return. After half an hour, he dismissed the associates with a list of instructions, and welcomed another pair.

At 5 P.M. sharp he checked in with his secretary, who was leaving, and walked past the elevators to the stairs. For short rides up and down he avoided the elevators to escape the mindless chitchat of lawyers he knew and didn�t know. He had many friends in the firm and only a handful of known enemies, and there was always a new wave of fresh associates and eager junior partners with faces and names he was supposed to recognize. Often he did not, nor did he have time to pore over the firm directory and try to memorize them. So many would be gone before he knew their names.

Taking the stairs worked his legs and lungs and always reminded him that he was no longer in college, no longer playing football and intramural basketball and able to do so for hours. He was forty-one and still in decent shape because he watched his diet and skipped lunch at least three times a week while he worked out in the firm�s gym. Another perk for partners only.

He left the stairwell on the forty-second floor and hustled to the office of Willie Backstrom, another partner, but one with the luxury of not billing by the hour. Willie had the enviable position of running the firm�s pro bono programs, and though he kept up with his hours he did not send bills. There was no one to pay them. The lawyers at Scully made plenty of money, especially the partners, and the firm was notorious for its commitment to pro bono work. It volunteered for difficult cases around the world. Every lawyer was required to donate at least 10 percent of his or her time to various causes, all approved by Willie.

There was an even split down the middle of the firm on the issue of pro bono work. Half the lawyers enjoyed it because it was a welcome break from the stressful grind of representing high-pressure corporate clients. For a few hours a month, a lawyer could represent a real person or a struggling nonprofit and not worry about sending bills and getting paid. The other half paid lip service to the lofty notion of giving back but considered it wasteful. Those 250 hours a year could be better spent making money and improving one�s standing with the various committees that determined who got promoted, who made partner, and who eventually got the boot.

Willie Backstrom kept the peace, which wasn�t really that difficult because no lawyer, regardless of his or her ambition, would ever criticize the firm�s aggressive pro bono programs. Scully even gave annual awards to its lawyers who went beyond the call of duty in service to the less fortunate.

Mitch was currently spending four hours a week working with a homeless shelter in the Bronx and representing clients who were fighting evictions. It was safe, clean office work, which was just what he wanted. Seven months earlier he had watched a death row client in Alabama utter his last words before being executed. He�d spent eight hundred hours over six years trying in vain to save the guy, and watching him die was heartbreaking, the ultimate failure.

Mitch wasn�t sure what Willie wanted, but the fact that he�d been called in was an ominous sign.

Willie was the only lawyer at Scully with a ponytail, and a bad one at that. It was gray and matched his beard, and just a few years before someone higher up would have told him to shave and get a haircut. But the firm was working hard to shed its fossilized image as a white-collar club filled with white men in dark suits. One of its radical changes was the ditching of a dress code. Willie grew hair and whiskers and went about his work in jeans.

Mitch, still in a dark suit but with no tie, sat across the desk as they went through the small talk. Willie finally got around to it with �Say, Mitch, there�s a case down south I want you to take a look at.�

�Please don�t tell me the guy is on death row.�

�The guy is on death row.�

�I can�t do it, Willie. Please. I�ve had two of those in the past five years and both got the needle. My track record is not very good.�

�You did great work, Mitch. No one could have saved those two.�

�I can�t take another one.�

�Will you at least listen?�

Mitch conceded and shrugged. Willie�s fondness for death row cases was legendary and few lawyers at Scully could say no to him. �Okay, I�ll listen.�

�His name is Tad Kearny and he�s got ninety days. A month ago he made the strange decision to fire his lawyers, all of them, and he had quite a team.�

�Sounds crazy.�

�Oh, he is. Off-the-charts crazy, probably legally insane, but Tennessee is pushing hard nonetheless. Ten years ago he shot and killed three undercover narcotics officers in a drug bust that went haywire. Bodies everywhere, total of five died at the scene. Tad almost died, but they managed to save him so they could execute him later.�

Mitch laughed in frustration and said, �And I�m supposed to ride in on a white horse and save the guy? Come on, Willie. Give me something to work with.�

�There�s virtually nothing to work with, except insanity. The problem is that he probably won�t agree to see you.�

�Then why bother?�

�Because we have to try, Mitch, and I think you�re our best bet.�

�I�m still listening.�

�Well, he reminds me a lot of you.�

�Gee thanks.�

�No, seriously. He�s white, your age, and from Dane County, Kentucky.�

For a second Mitch couldn�t respond, then managed to say, �Great. We�re probably cousins.�

�I don�t think so, but his father worked in the coal mines, same as yours. And both died there.�

�My family is off-limits.�

�Sorry. You caught a lucky break and had the brains to get out. Tad did not and before long was involved with drugs, both as a user and a dealer. He and some pals were making a big delivery near Memphis when they were ambushed by narcotics officers. Everybody died but Tad. Looks like his luck has finally run out.�

�No question about his guilt?�

�Certainly not for the jury. The issue is not guilt but insanity. The idea is to have him evaluated by some specialists, our doctors, and file a last-minute Hail Mary. First, though, someone has to go in and talk to the man. Right now he�s not accepting visitors.�

�And you think we�ll bond?�

�It�s a long shot, but why not give it a try?�

Mitch took a deep breath and tried to think of another way out. To pass the time he asked, �Who�s got the case?�

�Well, technically, no one. Tad has become quite the jailhouse lawyer and he filed the necessary papers to terminate his attorneys. Amos Patrick represented him for a long time, one of the best down there. You know Amos?�

�I met him once at a conference. Quite the character.�

�Most death row lawyers are real characters.�

�Look, Willie, I have no desire to become known as a death row lawyer. I�ve been there twice and that�s enough. These cases eat at you and become all-consuming. How many of your clients have you watched die?�

Willie closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Mitch whispered, �Sorry.�

�Too many, Mitch. Let�s just say I�ve been there. Look, I�ve talked to Amos, and talked and talked, and he likes the idea. He�ll drive you to the prison, and who knows, maybe Tad will find you interesting enough to have a chat.�

�Sounds like a dead end.�

�In ninety days it will certainly be a dead end, but at least we will have tried.�

Mitch stood and walked to a window. Willie�s view was westward, over the Hudson. �Amos is in Memphis, right?�

�Yes.�

�I really don�t want to go back to Memphis. Too much history.�

�Ancient history, Mitch. Fifteen years ago. You picked the wrong firm and had to leave.�

�Had to leave? Hell, they were trying to kill me down there. People were dying, Willie, and the whole firm went to prison. Along with their clients.�

�They all deserved prison, didn�t they?�

�I suppose, but I got the blame.�

�And they�re all gone now, Mitch. Scattered.�

Mitch returned to his chair and smiled at his friend. �Just curious, Willie. Do people around here talk about me and what happened in Memphis?�

�No, it�s never mentioned. We know the story but no one has the time to gossip about it. You did the right thing, got away, and started over. You�re one of our stars, Mitch, and that�s all that matters at Scully.�

�I don�t want to go back to Memphis.�

�You need the hours. You�re kinda light this year.�

�I�ll catch up. Why can�t you find me some nice little foundation in need of pro bono counsel? Maybe an outfit that feeds hungry kids or delivers clean water to Haiti?�

�You�d be miserable. You prefer action, drama, the ticking clock.�

�Been there, done that.�

�Please. I�m asking for a favor. There�s really no one else. And there�s an excellent chance you won�t get in the prison door.�

�I really don�t want to go back to Memphis.�

�Man up. There�s a direct flight tomorrow at one-thirty out of LaGuardia. Amos is expecting you. If nothing else, you�ll enjoy his company.�

Mitch smiled in defeat. As he stood, he mumbled, �Okay, okay,� and headed to the door. �You know, I think I do remember some Kearnys in Dane County.�

�Attaboy. Go visit Tad. You�re right. He might be a distant cousin.�

�Not distant enough.�

Most Scully partners, along with many of their rivals in Big Law, as well as countless money runners on Wall Street, scurried from the tall buildings around 6 P.M. and hopped into black sedans driven by professionals. The more important hedge fund stars sat in the spacious rear seats of long European cars they actually owned and were driven by chauffeurs on their payroll. The truly essential masters of the universe had fled the city altogether and lived and worked quietly in Connecticut.

Though he could afford a car service Mitch took the subway, one of his many concessions to frugality and his humble past. He caught the 6:10 train at South Ferry, found a seat on a crowded bench, and, as always, buried his face behind a newspaper. Eye contact was to be avoided. The car was packed with other well-heeled professionals headed north, none of whom had any interest in chatting. There was nothing wrong with riding the subway. It was quick, easy, cheap, and, for the most part, safe. The rub was that the other passengers were, in some fashion, Wall Streeters, and as such were either making plenty of money or on the verge of it. Private sedans were almost within reach. Their subway days were almost over.

Mitch had no time for such nonsense. He flipped through the newspaper, patiently squeezed even closer to other passengers as the car took on more riders, and allowed his mind to drift away to Memphis. He had never said he would never return. Between him and Abby, that promise did not have to be expressed. Getting away from the place had been so frightening that they could not imagine going back for any reason. However, the more he thought about it, the more intrigued he became. It was a quick trip that would probably lead nowhere. He was doing Willie a huge favor, one that would undoubtedly lead to a nice payback.

After twenty-two minutes, he emerged from underground at the Columbus Circle station and began the daily walk to his apartment. It was a splendid April evening, with pleasant skies and temperature, one of those postcard moments when half the city�s population seemed to be outdoors. Mitch, though, hurried home.

Their building was on Sixty-Ninth Street at Columbus Avenue, in the heart of the Upper West Side. Mitch spoke to the doorman, collected the daily mail, and rode the elevator to the fourteenth floor. Clark opened the door and reached up for a hug. At the age of eight, he was still a little boy and unashamed to show his father some affection. Carter, his twin, was slightly more mature and already outgrowing the rituals of physical contact with his father. Mitch would have hugged and kissed Abby and asked about her day, but she had guests in the kitchen. A delicious aroma filled the apartment. Some serious food was being prepared and dinner would be another delight.

The chefs were the Rosario brothers, Marco and Marcello, also twins. They were from a small village in Lombardia in northern Italy, and two years earlier had opened a trattoria near Lincoln Center. It was a hit from day one and was soon awarded two stars by the Times. Reservations were hard to get; the current waiting time was four months for a table. Mitch and Abby had discovered the place and ate there often, anytime they wanted. Abby had the clout to get a table because she was editing the Rosarios� first cookbook. She also encouraged them to use her modern kitchen to experiment with new recipes, and at least once a week they descended upon the McDeere apartment with bags of ingredients and a near riotous approach to cooking. Abby was right in the middle of it, rattling away in perfect Italian as Carter and Clark watched from the safety of their stools near a counter. Marco and Marcello loved performing for the kids and explained their preparations in thickly accented English. They also chided the boys into repeating Italian words and phrases.

Mitch chuckled at the scene as he tossed his briefcase, took off his jacket, and poured a glass of Chianti. He asked the boys about their homework and received the standard assurances that it was all finished. Marco presented a small platter of bruschetta, placed it on the counter in front of the boys, and informed Mitch that he should not worry about homework and such because the boys were doing important work as taste-testers. Mitch pretended to be sufficiently chastised. He would check the homework later.

The name of their restaurant was, not surprisingly, Rosario�s, and it was embroidered in bold letters across red aprons worn by the chefs. Marcello offered one to Mitch, who, as always, declined on the grounds that he could not cook. When they were alone in the kitchen, Abby allowed him to peel and chop vegetables, measure spices under her watchful eye, set the table, and handle the garbage, all grunt work she deemed acceptable for his talents. He had once elevated himself to the position of sous chef but was rather harshly demoted when he burned a baguette.

She asked for a small glass of wine. Marco and Marcello declined, as usual. Mitch had learned years earlier that Italians, in spite of their prodigious production of wine and the presence of it at virtually every meal, actually drank little. A carafe of their favorite local red or white would satisfy a large family over a long dinner.

Due to her knowledge of Italian food and wine, Abby was a senior editor at Epicurean, a small but busy press in the city. The company specialized in cookbooks and published about fifty of them a year, almost all of them thick, handsome editions loaded with recipes from around the world. Because she knew many chefs and restaurant owners, she and Mitch dined out often and seldom bothered with reservations. Their apartment was a favorite laboratory for young chefs dreaming of success in a city crowded with fine restaurants and serious gourmands. Most of the meals prepared there were extraordinary, but since the chefs were free to experiment, there was the occasional dud. Carter and Clark were easy guinea pigs and were being raised in a world of cutting-edge recipes. If the chefs couldn�t please them, their dishes were probably in trouble. The boys were encouraged to pan any dish they didn�t like. Their parents often joked quietly about raising a couple of food snobs.

Tonight there would be no complaints. The bruschetta was followed by a small truffle pizza. Abby announced that the appetizers were over and directed her family to the dining table. Marco served the first course, a spiced fish soup called cacciucco, as Marcello found a seat. All six took a small bite, savored the flavors, and thought about their reactions. It was slow eating and this often bothered the kids. The pasta course was cappelletti, small ravioli in beef broth. Carter in particular loved pasta and declared it delicious. Abby wasn�t so sure. Marco served a second pasta course of risotto with saffron. Since they were conducting research in a lab, a third pasta course of spaghetti in clam sauce was next. The servings were small, only a few bites, and they joked about pacing themselves. The Rosarios bickered back and forth about the ingredients, the variations of the recipes, and so on. Mitch and Abby offered their own opinions, often with the adults all talking at the same time. After the fish course the boys were getting bored. They were soon excused from the table and went upstairs to watch television. They missed the meat course, braised rabbit, and the dessert of panforte, a dense chocolate cake with almonds.

Over coffee, the McDeeres and Rosarios debated which recipes should be included in the cookbook and which needed more work. It was months away from completion, so there were many dinners to follow.

Shortly after eight, the brothers were ready to pack up and leave. They needed to hustle back to their restaurant and check on the crowd. After a quick cleanup and the usual round of hugs, they left with serious promises to return next week.

When the apartment was quiet, Mitch and Abby returned to the kitchen. As always, it was still a mess. They finished loading the dishwasher, stacked some pots and pans by the sink, and turned off the light. The housekeeper would be there in the morning.

The first time Mitch had stepped into the ornate lobby of the Peabody hotel in downtown Memphis, he was two months shy of his twenty-fifth birthday. He was a third-year student at Harvard Law and would graduate the following spring number four in his class. In his pocket he had three splendid job offers from mega firms, two in New York and one in Chicago. None of his friends could understand why he would waste a trip to visit a firm in Memphis, which was not exactly in the major leagues of Big Law. Abby was also skeptical.

He�d been driven by greed. Though the Bendini firm was small, only forty lawyers, it was offering more money and perks and a faster track to a partnership. But he had rationalized the greed, even managed to deny it, and convinced himself that a small-town kid would feel more at home in a smaller city. The firm had a family feel to it, and no one ever left. Not alive anyway. He should have known that an offer too good to be true came with serious strings and baggage. He and Abby lasted only seven months and were lucky to escape.

Back then they had walked through the lobby, holding hands and gawking at the rich furnishings, oriental rugs, art, and the fabulous fountain in the center with ducks swimming in circles.

They were still swimming and he wondered if they were the same ducks. He got a diet soda at the bar and fell into a thick chair near the fountain. The memories came in a torrent: the giddiness of being heavily recruited; the relief that law school was almost over; the unbounded certainty of a bright future; a new career, new home, fancy car, fat salary. He and Abby had even talked of starting a family. Sure, he�d had some doubts, but they had begun to dissipate the moment he entered the Peabody.

How could he have been so foolish? Had it really been fifteen years? They were just kids back then, and so naive.

He finished his drink and walked to the desk to check in. He had reserved a room for one night in the name of Mitchell Y. McDeere, and as he waited for the receptionist to find his reservation, he had the fleeting thought that someone might remember him. The receptionist did not, nor would anyone else. Too much time had passed and the conspirators who�d chased him were long gone. He went to his room, changed into jeans, and left the hotel for a walk.

Three blocks away, on Front Street, he stood and stared at a five-story edifice once known as the Bendini Building. He almost shuddered at the memories of his brief but complicated time there. He recalled names and saw old faces, all of them gone now, either dead or living quiet lives elsewhere. The building had been renovated, renamed, and was now packed with condos advertising views of the river. He walked on and found Lansky�s Deli, an old Memphis tradition that had not changed. He went in, took a seat on a stool at the counter, and asked for coffee. To his right was a row of booths, all empty in the late afternoon. The third one was exactly where he�d been sitting when an FBI agent appeared out of nowhere and began quizzing him about his firm. It had been the beginning of the end, the first clear signal that things were not as they seemed. Mitch closed his eyes and replayed the entire conversation, word for word. Wayne Tarrance was the agent�s name, one he would never forget regardless of how hard he tried.

When the coffee was gone, he paid for it and left and walked to Main Street where he caught a trolley for a short ride. Some of the buildings were different, some looked the same. Many of them reminded him of events he had struggled to erase from his mind. He got off at a park, found a seat on a bench under a tree, and called the office to see what chaos he was missing. He called Abby and checked on the boys. All was well at home. No, he was not being followed. No one remembered him.

At dusk he wandered back to the Peabody and took the elevator to the top. The bar on the roof was a popular spot to watch the sunset over the river and have drinks with friends, usually on Friday afternoon after a hard week. During his first visit, his recruiting trip, he and Abby had been entertained there by younger members of the firm and their spouses. Everyone had a spouse. All the lawyers were men. Those were the unwritten rules at Bendini back then. Later, when they were alone, they had a quiet drink on the roof and made the calamitous decision to take the job.

He got a beer, leaned on a railing, and watched the Mississippi River wind its way past Memphis on its eternal voyage to New Orleans. Massive barges loaded with soybeans inched along under the bridge to Arkansas as the sun finally set beyond the endless flat farm fields. Nostalgia failed him. The days of such promise had vanished within weeks as their lives became an unbelievable nightmare.

There was only one choice for dinner. He crossed Union Avenue, entered an alley, and could smell the ribs. The Rendezvous was by far the most famous restaurant in town, and he had eaten there many times, as often as possible. On occasion, Abby had met him after work for their famous dry smoked ribs and ice-cold beer. It was Tuesday, and though always busy it was nothing like the weekends when it was not unusual to wait an hour for a table. Reservations were out of the question. A waiter pointed to a table in one of the many cramped dining rooms and Mitch took a seat with a view of the main bar. Menus were unnecessary. Another waiter walked by and asked, �You know what you want?�

�A full order, small cheese plate, tall beer.� The waiter never stopped walking.

He had noticed many changes in the city, but there would always be one constant: the Rendezvous would always be the same. The walls were plastered with photos of famous guests, Liberty Bowl programs, neon signs for beer and soft drinks, sketches of old Memphis, and more photos, many from decades earlier. One tradition was to tack a business card to the wall before leaving, and there must have been a million of them. He had done so himself and wondered if there were any left from the lawyers at Bendini, Lambert & Locke. Since it was evident that no one ever bothered to remove a card, he suspected they were still there.

Ten minutes later the waiter presented a platter of ribs, cheddar cheese, and a side of slaw. The beer was as cold as he remembered. He ripped off a rib, took a large bite, savored it, and had his first pleasant memory of Memphis.

In his rental car, Mitch called his secretary and asked her to change his travel plans. He�d missed the morning nonstop to LaGuardia. Connecting flights would take hours and send him crisscrossing most of the country. There was a direct from Nashville at 5:20 and she got him a ticket. Getting to the airport would dovetail nicely with an idea he�d been kicking around.

The traffic thinned and Memphis was behind him before an unexpected wave of exhilaration hit hard. He had just dodged an awful experience, and the rogue DEA subplot was enough to give a lawyer ulcers, at best. He had taken one for the team, notched a huge favor with Willie Backstrom, and was fleeing Memphis again, this time without threats and other baggage.

With plenty of time, he stayed on the two-lane highways and enjoyed a peaceful drive. He ignored some calls from New York, checked in with Abby, and loafed at fifty miles an hour. The town of Sumrall was two hours east of Memphis, one hour west of Nashville. It was the county seat and had a population of 18,000, a big number for that part of the rural South. Mitch followed the signs and soon found himself on Main Street, which was one side of the town square. A well-preserved nineteenth-century courthouse sat in the center of the square with statues, gazebos, monuments, and benches scattered about, all protected by the shade of massive oak trees.

Mitch parked in front of a dress shop and walked around the square. As always, there was no shortage of lawyers and small firms. Again he wondered why his old friend would choose such a life.

It was almost midnight when Mitch stepped off the elevator and entered his apartment. The return trip was finally over and nothing had gone as scheduled. Delays ruled the evening: boarding, taxiing, taking off, even the cold dinner was served late. It took half an hour to get a cab at LaGuardia, and a wreck on the Queensboro Bridge wasted another forty minutes. His day had begun on time with a quiet breakfast at the Peabody. After that, nothing had gone as planned.

But he was home and little else mattered. The twins had been sleeping for hours. Normally, Abby would have been too, but she was on the sofa reading and waiting. He kissed her and asked, �Why are you still up?�

�Because I want to hear all about your trip.�

He had called with the welcome news that the latest death row case had not materialized, and for that they were both relieved. He had not mentioned the detour to see Lamar Quin. She poured him a glass of wine and they talked for an hour. He assured her more than once that there was no nostalgia for the old days. They had left nothing in Memphis.

When he began to nod off, she ushered him to the bed-room.

Scully & Pershing was known for its lavish offices wherever it ventured. Now in thirty-one cities on five continents and counting, because for Scully the numbers were important, it leased prime space in the most prestigious addresses, usually taller and newer towers designed by the trendiest of architects. It sent in its own team of decorators who filled each suite with art, fabrics, furnishings, and lighting indigenous to the locale. Enter any Scully office and your senses were touched by the look, feel, and expensive taste. Its clients expected as much. For the hourly rates they paid, they wanted to see success.

In his eleven years with the firm, Mitch had visited about a dozen of its offices, mainly in the United States and Europe, and, truthfully, the shine was wearing off. Each was different but all were similar, and he had reached the point of not slowing down long enough to appreciate the serious money on the walls and floors. After a while, they were beginning to blur together. But he reminded himself that the opulence was not for his benefit. It was all a show for others: well-heeled clients, prospective associates, and visiting lawyers. He caught himself mumbling like the other partners about the expense of maintaining such a facade. Much of that money could have trickled down to the partners� pockets.

Things were different in Rome. There, the offices, as well as every other aspect of the practice, were under the thumb of Luca Sandroni, the founder. For over thirty years he had slowly built a firm that was housed in a four-story stone building with no elevators and limited views. It was tucked away on Via della Paglia near the Piazza Santa Maria, in the Trastevere neighborhood of old Rome. All of the buildings around it were four-storied stucco with red-tiled roofs, and tastefully showed the wear and tear of being built centuries earlier. Romans, new and old, never cared much for tall buildings.

Mitch had been there many times and loved the place. It was a step back in time and a welcome break from the relentlessly modern image of the rest of Scully. No other office in the firm had such history, nor did they dare say �slow down� when you entered. Luca and his team worked hard and enjoyed the prestige and money, but they were Italians and refused to succumb to the workaholism expected by the Americans.

Mitch stopped in the alley and admired the massive double doors. An old sign beside them read: Sandroni Studio Legale. The merger with Luca allowed him to keep his firm�s name, a point he would not concede. For a moment, Mitch thought of the law offices he�d seen that week, from his own shiny tower in Manhattan, to the grungy Pontiac place in Memphis, to Lamar Quin�s sleepy little suite upstairs above the town square, and now this.

He stepped through the doors and into a narrow foyer, where Mia was always sitting. She smiled, jumped to her feet, and greeted Mitch with the obligatory dramatic peck on both cheeks, a ritual that still made him a bit uncomfortable. They spoke in Italian and covered the basics: his flight, Abby, the boys, the weather. He sat across from her, sipped espresso that always tasted better in Rome, and finally got around to Luca. She frowned slightly but revealed nothing. Her phone kept ringing.

Luca was waiting in his office, the same one he�d had for decades. It was small by Scully standards, at least for a managing partner, but he could not have cared less. He welcomed Mitch with more hugs and kisses and the usual greetings. If he was sick, it wasn�t apparent. He waved at a small coffee table in a corner, his favorite meeting place, as his secretary inquired about drinks and pastries.

�How is the beautiful Abby?� Luca asked, in perfect English with only a trace of an accent. His second law degree was from Stanford. He also spoke French and Spanish, and years earlier could handle Arabic, but had lost it through neglect.

As they caught up on the McDeere family front, Mitch began to notice a weaker voice, but only slightly. When he lit a cigarette, Mitch said, �Still smoking, I see.�

Luca shrugged as if the smoking couldn�t possibly be related to a health issue. A double window was open and the smoke made its way through it. Piazza Santa Maria was below and the sounds of the busy street life emanated upward. Mia brought coffee on a silver tray and poured it for them.

Mitch tiptoed through the minefield of Luca�s family. He had been married and divorced twice and it was never clear if his current companion had lasting potential; not that Mitch or anyone else for that matter would dare to ask. He had two adult children with his first wife, a woman Mitch had never met, and a teenager with his second. A hot young paralegal broke up the first marriage, then ruined the second by cracking up and fleeing with their love child to Spain.

Amidst that wreckage, the bright spot was his daughter, Giovanna, who was a Scully associate in London. Five years earlier, Luca had finessed the firm�s nepotism rules and quietly landed her a job. According to the firm gossip, she was as brilliant and driven as her father.

While his private life had been chaotic, his professional career was without a blemish. The Sandroni Studio Legale had been romanced by all the players in Big Law before Luca finally got the deal he wanted with Scully.

�I�m afraid I have a slight problem, Mitch,� he said sadly. With years of practice he had flattened out almost every wrinkle in his accent, but �Mitch� still sounded more like Meetch.

�The doctors have run tests for a month now, and they finally agree that I have a cancer. A bad one. In the pancreas.�

Mitch closed his eyes as his shoulders sagged. If there was a worse cancer he was not aware of it. �I�m so sorry,� he whispered.

�The prognosis is not good and I�m in for a bad time. I�m taking a leave of absence while the doctors do their work. Maybe I�ll get lucky.�

�I�m so sorry, Luca. This is awful.�

�It is, but my spirits are good and there are always miracles, or so my priest tells me. I�m spending more time with him these days.� He managed a chuckle.

�I don�t know what to say, Luca.�

�There�s nothing to say. It�s top secret, classified and all that. I don�t want my clients to know yet. If things deteriorate, then I�ll gradually inform them. I�m already handing off some of my cases to the partners here. That�s where you come in, Mitch.�

�I�m here, ready to help.�

�The most important matter on my desk right now involves Lannak, the Turkish contractor and a longtime client. An extremely valuable client, Mitch.�

�I worked on one of their cases a few years back.�

�Yes, I know, and your work was superb. Lannak is one of the largest construction companies in the Middle East and Asia. They�ve built airports, highways, bridges, canals, dams, power plants, skyscrapers, you name it. The company is family-owned and is superbly managed. It delivers on time and on budget and knows how to do business in a world where everyone, from a Saudi prince to a cab driver in Kenya, has his hand out looking for a kickback.�

Mitch nodded along and noticed Luca�s voice fading a little. On the flight to Rome he had read the firm�s internal client memos on Lannak. Headquarters in Istanbul; fourth-largest Turkish contractor with estimated annual revenues of $2.5 billion; large projects around the world but especially in India and North Africa; an estimated 25,000 employees; privately owned by the Celik family, who seemed to be as closemouthed as a bunch of Swiss bankers; family fortune thought to be in the billion-plus range, but one guess was as good as the next.

Luca lit another cigarette and half-heartedly blew smoke over his shoulder. �Are you familiar with the Great Man-Made River project in Libya?�

Mitch had read about it but only knew the basics. His knowledge, or lack thereof, didn�t matter, because Luca was in his storytelling mood. �Not really.�

Luca nodded at the correct response and said, �Goes back decades, but around 1975 Colonel Gaddafi decided to build an underground canal to pump water from under the Sahara to the cities along the coast in northern Libya. When the oil companies starting poking around for oil eighty years ago, they found some huge aquifers deep beneath the desert. The idea was to pump the water out and send it to Tripoli and Benghazi, but the cost was far too much. Until they discovered oil. Gaddafi gave the project the green light, but most experts thought it was impossible. It took thirty years and twenty billion dollars, but damned if the Libyans didn�t pull it off. It worked, and Gaddafi declared himself a genius, something he has a habit of doing. Since he then had dominion over nature, he decided to create a river. There is not a single one in the entire country. Instead they have seasonal riverbeds known as �wadis,� and these dry out in the summer. Gaddafi�s next breathtaking project would be to combine some of the larger wadis, reroute the flow of water, make a permanent river, and build a magnificent bridge over it.�

�A bridge in the desert.�

�Yes, Mitch, a bridge in the desert, with delusional plans to link one side of the desert to the other and somehow build cities. Build a bridge and the traffic will find it. Six years ago, in 1999, Lannak signed a contract with the government for eight hundred million dollars. Gaddafi wanted a billion-dollar bridge, so he ordered changes before construction started. In his newspapers he posed for photos with models of �The Great Gaddafi Bridge� and told everyone it would cost a billion, all generated by Libyan oil. Not a dime would be borrowed. Because Lannak has done business in Libya for many years, they knew how chaotic things could be. Let�s just say that Colonel Gaddafi and his warlords are not astute businessmen. They understand guns and oil. Contracts are often a nuisance. Lannak would not begin the job until the Libyans deposited five hundred million U.S. dollars in a German bank. The four-year project took six years and is now complete, which is a miracle and a testament to the tenacity of Lannak. The company met the terms of its contract. The Libyans have not. The overruns were horrendous. The Libyan government owes Lannak four hundred million and won�t pay. Thus, our claim.�

Luca put down his cigarette, picked up a remote, and aimed it at a flat screen on the wall. Wires ran from the screen to the floor where they joined other wires that snaked away in all directions. The current demands of technology required all kinds of devices, and since the walls were solid stone and two feet thick, the IT guys did not drill. Mitch adored the contrast between the old and new: the latest gadgets wedged into a sprawling maze of rooms built before electricity and designed to last forever.

The image on the screen was a color photo of a bridge, a towering suspension bridge over a dried-up riverbed with six-lane highways running to and from. Luca said, �This is the Great Gaddafi Bridge in central Libya, over an unnamed river yet to be found. It was and is a foolish idea because there are no people in the region and no one wants to go there. However, there is plenty of oil and maybe the bridge will get used after all. Lannak doesn�t really care. It�s not paid to plan Libya�s future. It signed a contract to build the bridge and upheld its end of the deal. Now our client wants to be paid.�

Mitch enjoyed the conversation and wondered where it was going. He had a hunch and tried to control his excitement.

Luca stubbed out his cigarette and closed his eyes as if in pain. He punched the remote and the screen went blank. �I filed the claim in October with the United Arbitration Board in Geneva.�

�I�ve been there several times.�

�I know, and that�s why I want you to take this case.�

Mitch tried to maintain a poker face but couldn�t suppress a smile. �Okay. Why me?�

�Because I know you can represent our client effectively, you can prevail in the case, and because we need an American in charge. The board�s chairman, more formally known as the ruling magistrate, is from Harvard. Six of the twenty judges are American. There are three from Asia and they usually go along with the Americans. I want you to take the case, Mitch, because I probably won�t be around to see it through.� His voice faded as he thought about dying.

�I�m honored, Luca. Of course I�ll take the case.�

�Good. I talked to Jack Ruch this morning and got the green light. New York is on board. Omar Celik, Lannak�s CEO, will be in London next week and I�ll try to arrange a meeting. The file is already thick, thousands of pages, so you need to catch up.�

�I can�t wait. Do the Libyans have a defense to the claim?�

�The usual truckload of absurdities. Defective design, defective materials, unnecessary delays, lack of supervision, lack of control, unnecessary cost overruns. The Libyan government uses the Reedmore law firm out of London for its dirty work, and you will not enjoy the experience. They are extremely aggressive and quite unethical.�

�I know them. And our claim is bulletproof?�

Luca smiled at the question and said, �Well, as the attorney who filed the claim, I�ll say that I have complete confidence in my client. Here�s an example, Mitch. In the original design, the Libyans wanted a superhighway approaching the bridge from both directions. Eight lanes, mind you. There are not enough cars in the entire country to fill eight lanes. And they wanted eight lanes over the river. Lannak really balked and eventually convinced them that a four-lane bridge was more than adequate. The contract says four lanes. At some point, Gaddafi reviewed the project and asked about the eight lanes. He went nuts when his people told him the bridge would have only four lanes. The King wanted eight! Lannak finally talked him down to six and demanded a change order from the original design. Expanding from four lanes to six added about two hundred million to the job, and the Libyans are now refusing to pay that. It was one major change order after another. To complicate matters, the market for crude oil cratered and Gaddafi ordered some stiff belt-tightening, which in Libya means everything gets reduced but the military. When the Libyans were a hundred million dollars in arrears, Lannak threatened to stop working. So Gaddafi, being Gaddafi, sent the army, his revolutionary goons, to the job site to monitor the progress. No one got hurt but things were tense. At about the time the bridge was finished, someone in Tripoli woke up and realized that it would never be used. So the Libyans lost interest in the project and refused to pay.�

�So Lannak is finished?�

�All but the final punch list. The company always finishes, regardless of what the lawyers are doing. I suggest you go to Libya as soon as possible.�

�And it�s safe?�

Luca smiled and shrugged and seemed winded. �As safe as ever. I�ve been there several times, Mitch, and know it well. Gaddafi can be unstable, but he has an iron grip on the military and the police and there�s very little crime. The country is full of foreign workers and he has to protect them. You�ll have a security team. You�ll be safe.�

Two hours before he was to board the nonstop flight from Rome to London, Mitch abruptly changed plans and got the last seat on a flight to New York�s JFK. There were pressing matters at home. Dinner with Giovanna could wait.

Confined to a narrow seat for eight hours, Mitch passed the time as always on long flights by diving into thick briefs so boring they usually led to a long nap or two. First, he reviewed the docket and current membership of the United Arbitration Board and read the bios of its twenty members. They were appointed by one of the many committees at the United Nations and served five-year terms, with a lot of time spent in Geneva and with generous expense accounts. A former member once told Mitch, over drinks in New York, that the UAB was one of the best gigs in the world for aging lawyers with international pedigrees and contacts. As always, its roster was chock-full of bright legal minds from every continent, most of whom had at one time or another passed through Ivy League law schools either to study or teach. Its business was done in English and French, though all languages were welcome and could be accommodated. Two years earlier, Mitch had appeared before the board and argued a case on behalf of an Argentine grain cooperative seeking damages against a South Korean importer. He and Abby spent three honeymoon-like days in Geneva and still talked about it. He won the case, collected the money, and sent a hefty bill to Buenos Aires.

Winning cases before the UAB was not that difficult if the facts fell into place. It had jurisdiction because the contracts, like the one for the bridge project between Lannak and the Libyan government, had a clearly written clause requiring both parties to submit their disputes to the UAB. In addition, Libya, like virtually every other nation, was a signatory to various treaties designed to facilitate international commerce and make the bad actors � and there was never a shortage of them � behave.

Winning was relatively easy. Collecting an award was another matter. Dozens of rogue states willingly signed whatever contracts and treaties were necessary to get the business, with no intention of paying the damages that became due at arbitration. The more Mitch read, the more he realized that Libya had a long history of trying to walk away from deals that looked promising at contract but went sour.

According to Scully�s intelligence, the bridge was a perfect example of Gaddafi�s erratic dreaming. He became enamored with the vision of a soaring structure in the middle of a desert and ordered it built. Then he lost interest and moved on to other important projects. At some point, someone convinced him it was a bad idea, but by then those pesky Turks were demanding serious money.

Luca�s UAB claim ran for ninety pages, and by the time Mitch had read it once he was almost asleep.

There were no direct flights from New York to Tripoli. The marathon began in New York with an eight-hour trip through the night on Air Italia to Milan, then a two-hour layover before boarding an Egyptair flight to Cairo that was delayed for two hours, no excuses given. Cancellations and rebookings followed at a languid pace, and Mitch spent thirteen hours catnapping and reading in the Cairo airport while someone somewhere sorted out the mess. Or did they? The only bright spot was the fact that his time was not completely wasted. Lannak would eventually get billed for his hours.

When he left New York, at least half of the passengers seemed to be �Westerners,� or, in other words, people who could generally be described as looking, dressing, speaking, and acting sort of like him. Most of those got off in Italy, and by the time Mitch boarded an Air Tunisia flight for the final leg, the plane was packed with people who were definitely not �Westerners.�

He was not bothered by the fact that he was now in a distinct minority. Libya promoted its tourism and attracted half a million visitors a year. Tripoli was a bustling city of two million with business districts filled with domestic banks and corporations. Dozens of foreign companies were registered in the country, and in some sections of Tripoli and Benghazi there were vibrant international communities with British and French schools for the children of visiting executives and diplomats.

As he often did while traveling on the far side of the world, Mitch smiled at the thought that he was undoubtedly the only boy from Kentucky on the flight. And though he would never mention this, he was proud of his accomplishments and wanted more. He was as hungry as ever.

Almost thirty hours after leaving New York, he stepped off the plane at Mitiga International Airport in Tripoli, and shuffled along with the crowd in the general direction of Passport Control. Signs were primarily in Arabic, but there were enough in English and French to keep the traffic moving. Under the iron hand of Colonel Gaddafi, Libya had been a military state for thirty-five years, and like most countries ruled by intimidation, it was important to impress upon new arrivals the presence of heavily armed soldiers. They roamed the concourses of the modern airport in their smart uniforms, guarded the checkpoints, and with unpleasant scowls inspected every Westerner who walked by.

Mitch hid behind his sunglasses and tried to ignore them. Never make eye contact if possible. The same routine he�d learned long ago in the New York subway.

The lines at Passport Control were long and slow. The vast room was hot and unventilated. When a guard nodded at an empty booth, Mitch walked forward and presented his passport and visa. The customs officer never smiled; indeed, upon seeing that Mitch was an American, he managed to frown even harder. A minute passed, then another. Customs could be nerve-wracking enough for any citizen returning to his own country. Maybe there�s a glitch in the passport. In a place like Libya, there was always the flash of horror that an American could be suddenly on the floor, handcuffed, then hauled away and detained for life. Mitch loved the thrill of the unknown.

The officer kept shaking his head as he picked up the phone. Mitch, without the sunglasses, glanced back at the hundreds of weary travelers behind him.

�Over there,� the officer said rudely, jerking his head to the right. Mitch looked and saw a gentleman in a nice suit approaching them. He stuck out a hand, smiled, and said, �Mr. McDeere, I�m Samir Jamblad. I work with Lannak and also with Luca, an old friend.�

Mitch felt like kissing him, which, in the sudden embracing and grappling that followed, seemed likely. Once properly hugged, Samir asked, �How was your flight?�

�Wonderful. I think I�ve been to at least thirteen countries since leaving New York.�

They were walking away from the booths and crowds and security guards. �This way,� Samir said, nodding to officers as they went. Luca had told Mitch not to worry about entry. He would take care of things.

Samir used the restricted doors, away from the crowds, and within minutes they were outside. His Mercedes sedan was parked near the crowded terminal and in a lane reserved for the police. Two officers leaned on a marked car, smoking, loitering, and appearing to guard nothing but Samir�s fine sedan. He thanked them and tossed Mitch�s bag in the rear seat.

�First time in Tripoli?� he asked as they left the airport.

�Yes, it is. How long have you known Luca?�

Samir smiled easily and said, �Oh, many years. I�ve worked for Scully and Pershing and other law firms. Companies like your Exxon and Texaco. British Petroleum, Dutch Shell. Plus some of the Turkish companies, Lannak being one.�

�You�re a lawyer?�

�Oh no. An American client once referred to me as a �security consultant.� Sort of a facilitator, a corporate handyman, the go-to guy in Libya. I was born and raised here, all my life in Tripoli. I know the people, there�s only six million of us.� He laughed at his own effort at humor and Mitch felt compelled to join in.

Samir continued, �I know the leaders, the military, the politicians, and the government workers who get things done. I know the chief of customs back there at the airport. One word from me and they leave you alone. Another word from me, and you might spend a few days in jail. I know the restaurants, bars, good neighborhoods and bad ones. I know the opium dens and the brothels, good and bad.�

�I�m not in the market.�

Samir laughed again and said, �Yes, that�s what they all say.�

From the first impression � the handsome suit, polished black leather shoes, shiny sedan � it was apparent that Samir did indeed know his stuff and was paid well for it.

Mitch glanced at his watch and asked, �What time is it here?�

�Almost eleven. I suggest you check in, get settled, and let�s meet for lunch around one in the hotel. Giovanna�s already here. You�ve met her?�

�Yes, in New York, a few years back.�

�She�s lovely, yes?�

�Yes, as I recall. And after lunch?�

�All plans are tentative and subject to your approval. In Luca�s absence, you are in charge. We have a meeting with the Turks at four P.M. at the hotel. You�ll meet your security team and discuss the visit to the bridge.�

�An obvious question. Lannak is suing the Libyan government for almost half a billion dollars, a claim that certainly looks legitimate. How much friction is there between the company and government?�

Samir took a deep breath, cracked a window, and lit a cigarette. The traffic had stopped and they were sitting bumper-to-bumper. �I would say not much. The Turkish construction companies have been in Libya for a long time, and they are very good. Much better than the Libyans. The military needs the Turks, the Turks like the money. Sure they fight and squabble all the time, but in the end business prevails and life goes on.�

�Okay, second obvious question. Why do we need a security detail?�

Samir laughed again and said, �Because this is Libya. A terrorist state, haven�t you heard? Your own government says so.�

�But that�s international terrorism. What about here, within the country? Why are we taking Turkish bodyguards to visit a Turkish construction site?�

�Because the government doesn�t control everything, Mitch. Libya has a lot of territory but ninety percent of it is Sahara, the desert. It�s vast, wild, sometimes uncontrolled. Tribes fight each other. Outlaws are hard to catch. There are still warlords out there, always looking for trouble.�

�Would you feel safe going where we�re going tomorrow?�

�Of course. Otherwise I wouldn�t be here, Mitch. You�re safe, or as safe as a foreigner can be.�

�That�s what Luca says.�

�Luca knows the country. Would he allow his daughter to be here if he was worried?�

Any worries about being ambushed in the desert by warlords or bandits were allayed when Mitch and Giovanna met their Turkish security detail. There were four of them � Aziz, Abdo, Gau, and one whose name sounded like �Haskel.� Their first names were such a challenge they did not offer their last ones. All Turks, they were large young men with thick arms and chests, and their bulky clothing was layered in such a way that it was evident they were concealing all manner of weaponry. Haskel, the unquestioned leader, did most of the talking in passable English. Samir was quick to point out a few things in Turkish, just to impress Mitch and Giovanna with his language skills.

They met in a small room in a warehouse half an hour from the hotel. Haskel pointed here and there on a large, colorful map that covered an entire wall. He�d been in Libya for four years, had been to the bridge and back dozens of times without incident, and was confident they were in for an uneventful day. They would leave the hotel at five the following morning in one vehicle, a customized delivery truck with plenty of axles and fuel and other �protections.� During lunch, Samir had let it slip that the Lannak executives often zipped off to the bridge project in a helicopter. Mitch thought of asking why one was not available for their legal team, but then thought better of it.

The truck driver would be Youssef, a trusted Lannak employee and a bona fide Libyan. There would be checkpoints and perhaps some minor harassment by local soldiers, but nothing Youssef couldn�t handle. They would carry plenty of food and water as it was best not to stop, unless of course nature called. The trip had been approved by the government and so, supposedly, their movements would not be monitored. Samir would tag along just in case, though he was obviously not looking forward to another trip to the bridge.

He left Mitch and Giovanna at the hotel after dark and went home. After greeting his wife and nosing around the kitchen, he went to his small office, locked the door, and called his handler with the Libyan military police. The debriefing lasted half an hour and covered everything from what Giovanna was wearing to the make of her cell phone, hotel room number, purchases at the market, and her dinner plans. She and Mitch had agreed to dine in the hotel at 8 P.M. and invited Samir to join them. He�d begged off.

In his opinion, the visit to the bridge was a waste of time, but typical of Western lawyers. Lannak was paying them by the hour, so why not do some traveling, have some fun, get out of the office, and see the eighth wonder of the world � a billion-dollar bridge over a dried-up river in the middle of the desert?

He was fast asleep and had no idea of the time when he awoke in the darkness and grabbed the sheets because the bed was spinning. The sheets were soaked with water or sweat or something, he couldn�t tell in the first few awful seconds when he tried to sit up and breathe. His heart was pounding and ready to explode. His stomach was churning and flipping and before he could find a light switch, the dinner of light seafood stew and the pinot grigio was burning its way up. He gritted his teeth, tried hard to swallow, but couldn�t hold the surge and began vomiting off the side of the bed. He gagged and spat and coughed, and when the first batch was out he stared at the mess in the semi-dark and tried to think. It was impossible. It was all spinning � bed, ceiling, walls, furniture. His skin was oozing perspiration as his heart and lungs thundered away. He gagged and retched and puked some more. He had to get to the toilet but he was far too dizzy to stand up. He rolled out of the bed, fell into the vomit, and began crawling across the carpet to the bathroom where he turned on a light and unloaded again into the toilet. When his stomach was empty he leaned against the tub and washed his face with a hand towel and cold water. Hot sharp pains shot through his head and made him gasp. His labored breathing would not slow. His pulse felt like a jackhammer. He thought about another attempt at standing and moved slowly to all fours, then blacked out and fell to his side. He was sure he was dying.

His stomach exploded again and he retched into the toilet. When the wave passed he leaned on the tub and turned the knobs. He could smell himself and had to clean up. Lying on his back, he pulled down his boxers and pajama pants, then wrestled off his shirt. They were wet with sweat and reeked of rancid fish stew. He tossed them into the shower and would deal with them later. He managed to roll himself into the tub without breaking bones. The water was too cold so he turned a knob. It ran over his head and down his neck, and when the tub was half full he turned it off and soaked for a long time with his eyes closed. The spinning was relentless. He noticed a clock on the counter. 1:58. He had slept less than three hours. He closed his eyes again, massaged his temples, and waited for the dizziness to go away.

If it was food poisoning, then Giovanna would be just as sick. They ate the same stew, drank the same wine, started with the same martini. He should call her � she was only four doors away. What if she, too, was in the same shape? What if she was dying?

The problem was he couldn�t walk. Hell, he was having trouble lying still in the lukewarm bathwater as his head spun like a top. He saw a thick white bathrobe hanging on the door and was determined to get it and cover himself. He slithered and wiggled his way out of the tub, found a towel and dried himself, then yanked the bathrobe off the hook and put it on. Nausea hit again and he stretched out on the cold tile floor and waited for it to pass. He would have vomited violently but his stomach was empty.

He crawled to a credenza, gently lifted the hotel phone, and punched the button for the front desk. There was no answer. He cursed, tried it again. No one. He cursed some more and thought about Samir, his one pal in town who could find a doctor, maybe a hospital. The thought of being put into an ambulance in Tripoli and rushed to a Third World hospital was terrifying, but then so was the idea of being found dead in a hotel so far from home.

He needed water but didn�t see a bottle. Five minutes passed, then ten, and he vowed to make it to thirty because by then he would still be alive and getting better, right? His guts were suddenly on fire again and cramping. He leaned to one side and tried not to retch, but he couldn�t hold back. The vomit was not last night�s dinner; that was already on the floor. Now he was regurgitating blood and water. He called the front desk but no one answered.

He punched the number for Giovanna�s room. After four rings she finally said, �Hello, who is this?�

�It�s me, Mitch. Are you okay?� She sounded fine, maybe a bit sleepy. With his enflamed throat and dry mouth he sounded like a dying man.

�Well, yes, what�s the matter?�

�You�re not sick?�

�No.�

�I�m in trouble, Giovanna. I think I have food poisoning and I need a doctor. The front desk doesn�t answer.�

�Okay, I�ll be right there.� She hung up before he could say anything else. Now, if he could only get to the door to unlock it.

The cab of the truck was like a cockpit with two captain�s chairs for the drivers. A narrow passageway ran to the back so that the drivers could talk to the passengers if necessary. Unmarked crates of supplies were stacked near the rear door, with more loaded onto a deck above the roof. When Youssef was satisfied that everything was strapped down and secure, he took the wheel and shifted gears.

Giovanna and her bodyguards were in heavily padded chairs that could recline a few inches and were quite comfortable, at least on the paved city streets. Haskel, the leader, explained to Giovanna that the roads were not quite as smooth out in the country. According to him, the truck had been modified to haul Lannak engineers and executives from the city to the bridge and back, and had been used practically every day for years now. Youssef could make the drive in his sleep, which he often did.

Aziz offered her thick Turkish coffee, which smelled delicious as he poured it into a metal cup. Haskel handed her a twisted pastry of some sort, flaky around the edges with a distinct sesame aroma. He explained, �It�s called a kaak. Very tasty.�

Over his shoulder, Youssef said, �My wife makes them all the time for these trips.�

�Thanks.� She took a bite and smiled her approval.

The city�s streets were still dark and empty and it was too early for even a hint of sunlight. Two narrow windows on each side of the cargo hold gave them glimpses of the city. Within minutes, Gau and Abdo were slumped in their seats, eyes firmly closed. After two sips of the coffee, Giovanna knew sleep would not be possible. She nibbled on the Libyan version of a biscuit and tried to absorb her surroundings. Two days earlier she had been at her desk in London, same as always, dressed to kill and not looking forward to another round of dull meetings. Now she was in Tripoli, in the rear of a converted truck, sitting with four heavily armed Turks, and venturing into the desert where she would inspect a billion-dollar bridge to nowhere. She was wearing loose jeans, hiking boots, no makeup whatsoever. She pulled out her cell phone. Haskel noticed this and said, �Service is okay for about an hour, then nothing.�

�How do you speak with your construction people at the bridge?�

�A satellite system for phones and internet. You can use it when we get there.�

She was worried about Mitch and sent him a text. She did not expect a response. She sent one to Samir, who quickly replied with the news that Mitch was feeling better. He, Samir, planned to spend the day at the hospital. She thought about Luca and decided to wait. Hopefully he was still asleep.

Aziz nodded off, leaving only Haskel to stand guard, though no security was needed at the moment. Boredom hit hard, and Giovanna opened an exciting office memo that purported to summarize the sorry state of modern Libya, or at least since 1969, when Gaddafi pulled off his coup and installed himself as dictator, ruler, and king for life. At the edge of the city, as the highway narrowed, she began to yawn and realized that she had slept less than three hours. Mitch had called near death at 2 A.M. and she had been wired ever since.

She checked her phone. No service. Only four hours to go.

Viewed by most of the world as a pariah state, Gaddafi�s Libya struggled to maintain normal diplomatic relations even with its friends. With its enemies, contact on sensitive matters was at best tricky and often impossible. The Turkish ambassador was the first to arrive at the People�s Palace for a hurriedly arranged meeting. He spoke with a senior military adviser to Gaddafi and was told that the government was doing everything to find the missing team. Off the record, the ambassador was assured that the government was not involved in the abductions or kidnappings or whatever they were being called at the moment. He left the meeting unsatisfied and with more questions than when he arrived, but that was not unusual when dealing with the regime.

The Italians were next. Given their colonial history, they still maintained formal ties with the government and often did the dirty work for the Westerners who chose to deal with Libya because of its oil. The Italian ambassador spoke with a Libyan general on the phone and was fed the party line: the government was not involved, nor did they know who was, nor did they have any idea where the hostages had been taken. The Libyan Army was scouring the desert. The ambassador immediately called Luca, an acquaintance, and relayed the conversation. For some vague reason, the ambassador was confident Giovanna and the others would be found unharmed.

Neither the British nor the Americans used diplomats when dealing with Libya. After President Reagan bombed the country in 1986, an undeclared state of war had been in effect. After that, any contact with Gaddafi and his minions was complicated and fraught with intrigue. Further compounding the situation was the fact that no American was involved. Giovanna had dual Italian and British citizenship. Scully & Pershing was headquartered in New York, but it was a law firm, a corporation, not a person. Nevertheless, the U.S. State Department and its intelligence services were on high alert, watching the internet and listening to the chatter. And they were hearing nothing. Satellite images had yet to produce anything.

British spies in Tripoli were likewise scrambling for gossip. The details, though, were still vague, and their usually reliable sources knew virtually nothing.

As of 10 P.M. there was still no word from the kidnappers. No one knew what to call them because no one knew who they were. Terrorists, thugs, revolutionaries, tribal warriors, fundamentalists, insurgents, bandits � many descriptions were in play. Since the state controlled the press, there had been no confirmation of the story. Not a single word had been leaked to the Western media.

The news blackout ended dramatically when the four Turks were found with their heads cut off. They were naked and hanging by their feet from a cable running between two storage buildings a mile from the bridge. Their flesh was slashed, burned, and bloodied, and it was safe to assume they had suffered greatly before being decapitated. Nearby was a large oil drum with a plank across its top. On the plank, in a neat row, were the four heads.

Haskel, Gau, Abdo, Aziz.

The Lannak security guard who found them early that morning did not attempt to match the heads with the bodies. Someone far smarter than him would be given that task.

There was no sign of Youssef, Walid, or Giovanna. No sign of the murderers. No note, no demand, nothing. The Lannak security guards at the bridge heard nothing, but the nearest one was at least a hundred yards away. There was little security left because the company was pulling people off the site and sending them home. The construction was practically finished. All closed-circuit cameras in the area had been dismantled.

The four beheadings would no doubt encourage the company to retreat even faster.

A Libyan official quickly sealed off the area and prohibited anyone from taking photos and videos of the scene. His orders from Tripoli were to keep everyone, including Lannak employees, away from the bodies. Such a gruesome sight would go viral in an instant and only embarrass the government. The story, though, could not be buried, and before noon Tripoli released a statement confirming the murders and kidnappings. There was still no word from the �terrorists.� In its first effort at disinformation, the regime said the attack �was believed to be the work of a notorious tribal gang headquartered in Chad.� The Libyan authorities vowed to find the outlaws and bring them to justice, after, of course, it found the other hostages.

Nothing changed in the twelve hours it took KLM to fly Mitch from Rome to Amsterdam to New York. There was one seat left on a direct flight to JFK, but it was back in coach and Mitch needed the legroom up in business class. He also needed easier access to the restrooms. His stomach was rumbling again and he feared a sudden eruption. After what his system had been through over the past four days, he left nothing to chance. Along the way he called Abby twice and caught up with family matters and neighborhood gossip. He called Roberto Maggi to check on Luca, who was resting. There was no word out of Libya, nothing from the kidnappers. He called his secretary and reorganized his schedule. Over the Atlantic, he took a sleeping pill that barely knocked off the edge but eventually led to a fitful thirty-minute nap. When he woke up, he made calls to his paralegal and two associates.

He tried not to think of Giovanna, though it was impossible. How were they treating her? Where were they hiding her? Was she getting food and water? Was she being interrogated, injured, abused? The law of the jungle accepted the torture and murder of armed men who had been trained with weapons and expected to do their own killing, but not an innocent civilian. Especially a young female lawyer who was just along for the ride.

The ride? Mitch simmered at the hubris and foolishness of dashing off to a country known for its instability and danger, and including Giovanna as a favor to her father. Of course, Luca had suggested the trip and assured him they would be safe, but Mitch was no rookie and could have insisted on other arrangements. He had asked himself, more than once, if a visit to the bridge was actually necessary. The answer was: probably not. Had he been overly excited about the adventure? Yes. He had never been to Libya and had been too eager to add it to his list of countries he�d visited.

Killing time in the Amsterdam airport, he had called Cory Gallant, Scully�s chief of security. When Mitch joined Scully eleven years earlier he was unaware that it had its own little army of security experts. He learned that most firms in the world of Big Law spend a fortune not only to protect their partners but to investigate their enemies, even their own clients. Before leaving for Rome and Tripoli, Mitch had been briefed by Cory on the situation in Libya. Gallant had traveled to the bridge with Luca a year earlier. In his opinion, the trip was only slightly risky. It was in the best interest of the Libyans to protect all foreign businessmen and professionals.

Cory was waiting outside the baggage claim at JFK with a driver, a thick young man who took Mitch�s bags and hauled them to a black SUV parked illegally near the cabs. He got behind the wheel as Mitch and Cory settled into the rear seats. A plexiglass panel separated them from the driver.

It was almost 8 P.M., Sunday, April 17, and the traffic out of JFK was brutal as usual.

After describing the joys of a twelve-hour journey, Mitch asked, �Any news from over there?�

�Not much.�

�Not much? That sounds like more than nothing, which is what we had a few hours ago.�

�There�s been a development.�

�Go on.�

�There�s another video. We found it about an hour ago on the deep web. The kidnappers videoed the decapitations.�

Mitch exhaled and looked out the window.

Cory continued, �Live and in color. Horribly graphic. I saw it and I wish I had not. These are nasty boys.�

�I�m not sure I want to see it.�

�You don�t, believe me, Mitch. Please don�t watch it. It has nothing to do with Giovanna, other than the fact that she�s being held by some sick and sadistic people.�

�That�s supposed to be comforting?�

�No.�

The traffic was moving and they did not speak for a moment. Mitch asked, �Can you maybe describe it without going into too much detail?�

�They used a chain saw and made the others watch. The last one, a man named Aziz, saw his three buddies lose their heads before he lost his.�

Mitch threw up both hands and said, �Okay, okay.�

�It�s the worst thing I�ve ever seen.�

�I knew Aziz. I knew all four of them. We met the day before at the Lannak office in Tripoli and they briefed us on the trip. They had no worries at all, said they went to the bridge and back all the time.�

Cory nodded sadly and said, �I guess they were wrong.�

Mitch closed his eyes and tried not to think about Aziz, Haskel, Gau, and Abdo. He tried not to think about the image of them hanging by their feet. His stomach flipped again as his pulse went haywire. He mumbled, �Sorry I asked.�

�I�ve seen a lot, but this is something else.�

�Got it. Any word out of Washington?�

�Our people there have talked to contacts at State, the CIA, NSA. Everybody�s scrambling and nobody�s hearing anything. For a lot of reasons we don�t have a lot of good sources in Libya. Gaddafi has never been too friendly. The Brits have stronger contacts, as do the Italians, and, of course, she belongs to them. The Turks are raising hell. The situation is extremely volatile and unpredictable and no one is in charge. We can�t just go barging in, as we so often do.�

�How valuable is she?�

�Depends on who has her, I guess. If it�s really some splinter group of terrorists or a renegade militia with big plans, then it�ll be a demand for ransom. A few million bucks might be sufficient. But if it�s Gaddafi, then who knows? He might use her as a bargaining chip to settle the lawsuit.�

Mitch said, �Sure, she could save him some real cash.�

�That�s your department, Mitch.�

�If it�s Gaddafi, it�s a pretty stupid move because Lannak will not settle. The company has been furious for two years because of non-payment. Now, with four of its security guards murdered, they�ll want even more money. And the court will give it to them, in my opinion. Giovanna, of course, gets caught in the crossfire.�

�Well, the early speculation out of Washington is that it�s not Gaddafi. He may be crazy but he�s not stupid. Anyway, we have a briefing at seven in the morning with our guys in Washington, a teleconference. Jack Ruch�s office.�

�I�m not going to be there at seven in the morning, Cory. Rearrange the schedule.�

�Mr. Ruch said seven.�

�I�m taking my sons to school in the morning and I�ll be in the office around eight-thirty, my usual time. Sure, this is an important matter, but holding an urgent meeting at seven tomorrow morning, here in New York, will not do a damned thing to help Giovanna.�

�Yes, sir. I�m sure Mr. Ruch will call you.�

�Oh, he calls all the time and I usually do what he says.�

Whatever they were � criminals or terrorists � they had a flair for the dramatic. Four days after ransacking the checkpoint and murdering five army guards, and three days after taking a chain saw to the necks of the Turkish security team, and two days after releasing their video into the vastness of the deep web, they hung Youssef�s body on a telephone pole next to a busy highway in Benghazi. He was found, head attached but with a gaping hole in it, bloody and stripped of all clothing, bound at the wrists and ankles, turning slowly at the end of a thick wire as the sun came up. A note was attached to his right ankle with a piece of string. It read: Youssef Ashour, Traitor.

The military police swarmed the area, blocked all roads and highways, and let him hang for hours as they waited for orders. Perhaps there would be another video of the murder that might yield some clues.

Samir went to the scene, confirmed that it was indeed Youssef, a man he�d known for years, and called Lannak, then Luca.

Only Walid and Giovanna were left, as far as anyone knew.

Giovanna was fourteen years old when her parents divorced. She loved them both and they adored her, their only daughter and youngest child, but when the marriage began to crack Luca and Anita thought it best to remove their children from the hostilities. They sent Sergio, their son, to a prep school in England and Giovanna to one in Switzerland, and when they were out of the way the parents fought some more, then grew weary of it and signed agreements. Anita moved out of the villa and gave up all claims to it. It had been in Luca�s family for decades and Italian matrimonial law leaned heavily in his favor.

Anita took some money and a vacation home on Sardinia, and left Rome to try to put things back together. By the time she left, Luca had already arranged for his girlfriend, and future wife number two, to move in. The transition was another good reason for Giovanna to stay away.

She watched this from afar, grateful to be in Switzerland. She still loved her father, but at the time she didn�t really like him. They had never been close, primarily because of his ambition to build the greatest law firm in Italy. His drive kept him at the office or on the road far too often. Her brother, Sergio, was so turned off by Luca�s routine that he vowed never to become professional at anything. Currently he was living in Guatemala, drifting and painting street scenes in the city of Antigua.

Nor had she been close to her mother, Anita, who was a beautiful woman and watched with growing envy as Giovanna became just as beautiful. She competed with her daughter in fashion, style, weight, height, almost everything. Anita could not accept the realities of aging and grew more resentful as her daughter blossomed and grew taller and thinner. They had great mother-daughter times together, but there was always the undercurrent of competition.

When Anita realized her husband had a girlfriend, she was crushed and ran to her teenage daughter for support. Giovanna wasn�t prepared to deal with such chaotic emotions and pushed her away. For a long time she avoided her father, but there was always the nagging suspicion that she really couldn�t blame him for looking around. To get away from both of them, she embraced the idea of boarding school.

When Luca�s second marriage blew up, Anita was elated and wished him even worse luck. Giovanna was turned off by her mother�s gloating and tried to ignore both parents. During her last two years of boarding school she did not see either one. When they mentioned attending her graduation, she vowed to disappear and hide.

With time, most of the pain and anger dissipated. Luca, always quite the statesman, managed to patch things up with Giovanna. He was, after all, paying her college bills. When she started talking about law school, he was elated and made sure the right doors were opened. Anita found happiness in a serious boyfriend, a slightly older man with more money than Luca. He was Karlo, a wealthy Greek, and he had been through enough marriages to understand the need for tranquility. He would never marry again, but he, like Luca, would always adore women. He insisted on meeting Luca, and eventually brokered a truce between the exes.

By 6:30 A.M. Mitch was well into his second cup of strong coffee and deep into the internet. For the third morning, he went from one tabloid to the next and marveled at how the Brits could make so much out of so little. The story itself was certainly newsworthy � an associate in the London office of the world�s largest law firm kidnapped by murderous thugs in Libya � but the scarcity of real facts did nothing to throttle the breathless headlines, photography, and speculation. If the facts were insufficient to carry a story, others were simply created on the fly. The thugs were demanding ten million pounds in ransom, or was it twenty? There was a deadline three days away before Giovanna would be executed, or was it four? She had been spotted in Cairo, or maybe it was Tunis. She had been targeted because of her father�s shenanigans with Libyan oil companies. A nut claiming to be an ex-boyfriend said she had always professed admiration for Muammar Gaddafi.

But the true sensation was, of course, all the dead bodies. Most of the tabloids continued to run photos of the four headless Turks hanging by their feet. Youssef, hanging by his neck, was still page-three news. Under the photo of him, one tabloid asked in bold print: Could Giovanna Be Next? The titillating tone left little doubt that the reporter would not be disappointed by more tragic news.

The Italian press was slightly more subdued and had stopped running photos, other than a portrait of Giovanna. A few of her friends spoke to reporters and said nice things about her. Luca got more press than he could have dreamed of, though not the kind he wanted.

The Americans were preoccupied with their invasion of Iraq and the unexpected insurgency that was causing headaches. Casualties were mounting. Each day brought more bad news, and for a country accustomed to bad news in the Middle East, the kidnapping of a British lawyer was not enough for headlines. The stories were being reported but only in passing.

Scully & Pershing maintained a stone wall of silence. �Could not be reached for comment� was in many of the reports. The firm had issued a press release when the news of the abduction first broke, and its PR people were working around the clock to monitor events. Classified memos to every lawyer and employee went out daily. All said basically the same thing: Not a word to the press without authorization. Any leaks will be dealt with severely.

But what was there to leak?

The firm would not speak until it had something to say, and it would have nothing to say until Giovanna was home safe.

Abby wandered into the kitchen and, before uttering a word, went straight for the coffee. She sat down, took the first sip, then smiled at her husband. �Tell me only good news,� she said.

�Yankees lost.�

�No more bodies?�

�Not yet. Nothing new from the kidnappers. Scully and Pershing gets mentioned, as does Luca Sandroni, but no one else.�

Satisfied with the updates, she took another sip. Mitch turned off the television and closed his laptop. �What�s on tap in your world today?�

�I haven�t got that far yet. Meetings, always meetings. Marketing, I think. And you?�

�A briefing by our security consultant first thing this morning. I can�t walk the boys to school.�

�I�m happy to. A security consultant? I thought Scully had its own little spy shop.�

�We do. It does. But this is far more serious and requires us to spend a fortune on an outside intelligence service, a rather shadowy outfit run by former spooks and retired colonels.�

�And what might they brief you on?�

�It�s classified, top secret and all that. Ideally, they would tell us who abducted Giovanna and where they are hiding her, but they don�t know yet.�

�They have to find her, Mitch.�

�Everybody�s trying, and that might be part of the problem. Maybe we�ll learn something this morning.�

�And can you tell me?�

�It�s classified. Who�s invading our kitchen tonight?�

�It�s classified. Actually, no one. But we have some frozen lasagna from the Rosarios� last visit.�

�I�m kinda tired of those two. When are you going to finish their cookbook?�

�Could be years. Let�s take the boys out tonight.�

�Pizza again?�

�No, let�s make them pick a real restaurant.�

�Good luck with that.�

In Giovanna�s absence, Mitch needed an ambitious associate to step in and do the grunt work. There was no shortage of them at Scully; indeed, the firm hired three hundred of the brightest law grads each spring and marched them through the meat grinder of 100-hour workweeks and relentless deadlines. After a year, the blue-chippers began to emerge from the pack. After two years, those falling behind were jumping ship, but by then the veterans could spot the lifers, the future partners.

Stephen Stodghill was a fifth-year senior associate from a small town in Kansas who had excelled at the University of Chicago Law School. Mitch had a secret bias in favor of the small-town kids who were succeeding nicely in the big leagues. He asked Stephen to join the team and was not surprised when he jumped at the chance. There were no snide jokes about what happened to the last associate Mitch had picked. They were still trying to find her.

Giovanna�s plight was on the minds of every Scully lawyer, all two thousand of them in thirty-one offices around the world. There was much concern and quiet talk as they went about their work, waiting. Always waiting for news of the next development. In the Atlanta and Houston offices, small groups of lawyers and employees met for coffee and prayer early each morning. A female partner in Orlando was married to an Episcopal priest who was thoughtful enough to stop by the office for a moment of prayer.

The United Arbitration Board was headquartered on the fifth floor of the Palais de Justice in downtown Geneva. Its twenty judges came from around the world and served five-year terms, with the chance of being re-appointed for an additional term. Seats on the bench were quite prestigious, often lobbied for, and were doled out through the United Nations. The UAB�s docket was a dizzying collection of civil disputes from all over. Governments fighting each other; corporations from different countries suing each other; individuals seeking vast sums from foreign companies and governments. About half the cases were heard in Geneva, but the board was quick to take its show on the road. Travel was first-class, as were the expense accounts. If Cambodia wanted to sue Japan, for example, it made little sense to require the lawyers and witnesses to set up camp in Geneva, so the board would pick a more convenient venue in Asia, preferably one near a fashionable resort.

Luca had filed Lannak�s claim against Libya the prior year, in October of 2004, and requested a trial in Geneva. The chair of the board, known as the ruling magistrate, agreed.

Now she wanted a reschedule, a nuisance in every lawyer�s opinion but not an uncommon one. Mitch was of the opinion that the board was curious about the case because of its sudden notoriety. Virtually all of the other cases on its docket were exceedingly boring disputes from the other side of the world. Nothing could match a half-billion-dollar fight that involved a bridge in the desert, four beheadings, several related murders, and the saga of a missing Scully associate. When Mitch first received the notice to appear for the reschedule, he thought seriously about asking for a postponement, which was standard practice. A thirty- to ninety-day continuance would have been granted. However, after conversations with Lannak, it was agreed that the hearing in Geneva would be a better time and place to meet and discuss the lawsuit.

Mitch and Stephen flew to Rome and visited with Luca in his villa. Two weeks had passed since Giovanna�s abduction and there was still no word from her captors. The days were getting no easier for Luca. He seldom ate or slept and was losing weight. He was due for another round of chemo but simply wasn�t up to it. He was bickering with his doctors and unhappy with the home nurses. He was, however, pleased to see Mitch and even had a glass of wine, his first in days.

With Roberto Maggi, the team spent two hours in Luca�s home office going over strategies, then flew to Geneva where they met the men from Lannak: Omar Celik, the CEO and grandson of Lannak�s founder; Denys Tullos, his chief lawyer and Mitch�s principal contact; and Omar�s son, Adem, a graduate of Princeton and the future owner of the company. They were not Muslim and enjoyed alcohol. After cocktails in the hotel bar, they walked to a restaurant and settled in for the evening. Joining them late was Jens Bitterman, a Swiss lawyer who was part of the team and handled the dealings with the UAB.

Omar had been close to Luca for over twenty years and was concerned about his friend. He had met Giovanna on a number of occasions as she was growing up. Several times Luca and his family had vacationed at the Celik beach estate on the Black Sea. Omar was, of course, angered by the fact that the Libyans owed him $400 million for the bridge, money he was determined to collect, but he was much more concerned about Giovanna�s welfare.

In one of their many conversations, Denys Tullos told Mitch that the company was financing private security deep inside Libya in an effort to find her. Mitch relayed this to Darian Kasuch at Crueggal, who was not surprised. �Join the crowd,� he said.

Two London newspapers ran stories about the hearing. The Guardian, on page two, back-filled with some history of the case and reminded its readers that there had been no �reported� contact with the kidnappers. It described the reschedule in Geneva as �boring� with little progress being made. The Board seemed reluctant to make decisions with so much uncertainty in the case. It ran a small stock photo of Giovanna, and a new one of Mr. McDeere walking into the Palais de Justice with Roberto Maggi at his side. Both were correctly identified as partners in the mammoth law firm of Scully & Pershing. They were seeking at least four hundred million dollars for their client from the Libyan government.

Mitch, once again over the Atlantic, studied the black-and-white of himself. He was not pleased at being identified but knew it was inevitable.

The Current ran a teaser on the front page � Gaddafi�s Lawyers Seek Delays: Nothing From Giovanna � and on page five attacked the �ruthless dictator� for not paying his bills. The slant was clear � Gaddafi was behind the killings and kidnappings because he was angered by the lawsuit. There was a photo of Mitch; one of Giovanna; and the same sad image of poor Youssef hanging by a wire.

Epicurean Press occupied the bottom three floors of a turn-of-the-century brownstone on Seventy-Fourth Street, near Madison Avenue, on the Upper East Side. Above it, on floors four and five, the owner, an eccentric recluse who was pushing ninety, lived alone with her cats and her opera. She played records all day long, and as she aged and lost even more of her hearing, she gradually turned up the volume. No one complained because she owned the building, and also the ones on both sides. The editors on the third floor could sometimes hear the music, but it was never a problem. The brownstones of that era were built with thick walls and floors. She charged modest rent because, number one, she didn�t need the money, and, number two, she enjoyed having nice tenants below her.

A perfect morning for Abby began with clear skies, a fifteen-minute walk with Clark and Carter to school, then a thirty-minute walk across Central Park to her office at Epicurean. As a senior editor, she was on the first floor and thus far away from the opera but close enough to the kitchen. The offices were small but efficient. Space was cramped, like most of Manhattan, but also because valuable footage had been given to the kitchen, a large, modern, fully equipped facility designed to accommodate visiting chefs working on their cookbooks. One showed up almost every day, and the air was perpetually filled with delicious aromas of dishes from around the world.

Giovanna had been abducted twenty-seven days earlier.

As always, Abby ducked into a trendy coffee shop on Seventy-Third for her favorite latte. She was waiting in line at about nine-fifteen, her mind on the day ahead, her boys at school, her husband forty-eight floors up and hard at work, and her eyes on her phone. The person behind her gently tapped her on the arm. She turned around and looked into the face of a young Muslim woman in a long brown robe with a matching hijab with a veil that covered everything but her eyes.

�You�re Abby, right?�

She was startled and could not remember the last time, nor the first time, she had talked to a woman so completely covered. But it was, after all, New York City, home to plenty of Muslims. She offered a polite smile and said, �Yes, and you are?�

The man behind the Muslim woman was reading a folded newspaper. The nearest barista was loading a display case with croissants and quiches. No one was paying attention to anyone else.

She said, in perfect English with only a slight Middle Eastern accent, �I have news from Giovanna.�

The eyes were dark, young, heavily made-up, and Abby looked at them in disbelief as her knees wobbled, her heart skipped, and her mouth was almost too dry to speak. �I beg your pardon,� she managed to say, though she knew exactly what she had heard.

From somewhere inside her robe the woman pulled out an envelope and handed it to Abby. Five-by-seven, too heavy for only a letter. �I suggest you do as you�re told, Mrs. McDeere.�

Abby took the envelope, though something told her not to. The woman turned quickly and was at the door before Abby could say anything. The man with the folded newspaper glanced up. Abby turned around as if nothing had happened. The barista said, �What would you like?�

With difficulty, she said, �A double latte with cinnamon.�

She found a chair, sat down, and told herself to breathe deeply. She was embarrassed when she realized there were beads of sweat on her forehead. With a paper napkin from the table she wiped them off as she glanced around. The envelope was still in her left hand. More deep breaths. She placed it in her large shoulder bag and decided to open it at the office.

She should call Mitch, but something told her to wait a few minutes. Wait until she opened the envelope because whatever was in there would involve him too. When her latte was ready, she took it from the counter and left the shop. Outdoors, on the sidewalk, she managed a few steps before stopping cold. Someone was, or someone had been, watching, waiting, following her. Someone knew her name, her husband�s name, her husband�s business, her walking route to work, her favorite coffee shop. That someone had not gone away, but was nearby.

Keep moving, she told herself, and act as if nothing is wrong.

The nightmare was back. The horror of trying to live normally while knowing someone was watching and listening. Fifteen years had passed since the Bendini mess in Memphis, and it had taken a long time to relax and stop looking over her shoulder. Now, as she dodged pedestrians along Madison Avenue, she wanted desperately to turn around and see who was watching her.

Five minutes later she opened the unmarked door of Epicurean Press on Seventy-Fourth, spoke to the usual lineup of friends and colleagues, and hustled to her office. Her assistant wasn�t in yet. She closed her door, locked it quietly, sat at her desk, took another deep breath, and opened the envelope. In it was a phone and a sheet of typing paper.

Abby put down the sheet of paper and picked up the phone. Unmarked and about the same size as other cell phones, there was nothing distinctive or suspicious about it. She tapped 871 and a menu appeared. She tapped PHOTOS, and was instantly nauseous. The photo was of her, Clark, and Carter, less than an hour earlier, as they said goodbye on the sidewalk outside of River Latin School, four blocks from their apartment. She took another deep breath and reached for a bottle of water, not the coffee. She unscrewed the top, took a sip, and spilled water on her blouse. She closed her eyes for a moment, then slowly scrolled left. The next photo was an exterior shot of the brownstone in which she was now sitting. The next photo was an exterior shot of their apartment building, taken from Sixty-Ninth and Columbus Avenue. The next photo was a long-distance one of 110 Broad, where Scully & Pershing was headquartered. The last photo was of Giovanna, sitting in a dark room, wearing a black veil, holding a spoon, and looking into a bowl of what appeared to be soup.

Time passed but Abby was not aware of it. Her brain was a jumbled mess of rapid thoughts. Her heart pounded like a jackhammer. She closed her eyes again and rubbed her temples and became aware that someone was gently knocking on her door.

�In a minute,� she said and the knocking stopped.

She called Mitch.

Mitch was waiting in the lobby of the Carlyle when Abby rushed in at ten minutes before noon. He waved her over and, without a word, they disappeared into Bemelmans Bar, one of the most famous in the city. At that hour, though, it was nearly empty. They sat on stools at the bar, face-to-face, and ordered diet sodas. Her eyes were moist and worried. Mitch tried his best to remain calm. By nature they were not excitable, but then they had never had their children threatened.

He motioned and she put her shoulder bag on the floor under her stool. Softly, he said, �There�s a chance your new phone will track you wherever you go. Also a good chance it hears and records everything, whether off or on.�

�I�d like to get rid of it. Have you called the school?�

�No, not yet.� He nodded, stood, and motioned for her to follow him. They walked a few feet away and kept their eyes on her bag. Almost whispering, Mitch said, �We�ll meet with the security folks upstairs in a few minutes. Maybe we�ll figure out what to do.�

Her jaws clenched and she tapped her teeth together. �I say we get the boys and get the hell out of the city, go hide somewhere for a few days.�

�I like that. The problem is you can�t leave. The phone might track you and you have to keep it in your pocket at all times. You�re the link, Abby. They chose you.�

�I�m honored.� Her eyes suddenly watered. �Can you believe this, Mitch? They followed us to school this morning. They know where we live and work. How did we get here?�

�We�re here and we�ll get out, I promise.�

�No promises, Mitch. You don�t know any more than I do. I want to help Giovanna, okay, but right now my only concern is my two little boys. Let�s go snatch �em and run.�

�Maybe later, but right now let�s go upstairs and meet with the team.�

After Carter and Clark were finally convinced that a weekend away from the city and on a remote island in Maine could be a great adventure, and that the Bruisers� game Saturday would probably be rained out, and that they would be staying in a mansion with eighteen bedrooms and two boats waiting at the dock, and that they would ride on a small private jet, then a ferry, and that their grandparents would be there to play with them, as would their father, and that their mother needed to stay in the city for some unclear reason, the boys were ready to go. They reluctantly went to bed, still chattering away.

The next conversation was just as complicated but forty minutes shorter. After swapping emails to arrange things, Mitch called Giles Gatterson of River Latin at exactly nine-thirty. He apologized again for the intrusion and they quickly dispensed with the preliminary chitchat. As vaguely as possible, he explained that one of his cases, an international one, had presented a �security concern� that necessitated an early and furtive departure from school for the boys the following day, and would likely keep them out of the city for a week or so. Giles was eager to help. The school was filled with the children of important people who traveled the world and ran into unusual situations. If questions were asked about the boys� absences, the company line was that they were suffering from measles and were quarantined. That should keep the curious at bay.

Abby made the next call, the third one to her parents in the past few hours. A private jet would fetch them in Louisville at 2�P.M. Saturday and fly nonstop to Rockland, Maine, where they would be met by a driver who would take them to the harbor in Camden.

As they talked, Mitch kept thinking about the eighteen bedrooms and was thankful that the summerhouse was large enough to put distance between himself and his in-laws. Only a threat from a terrorist organization could force him to spend a weekend with Harold and Maxine Sutherland. �Hoppy� and �Maxie� to the boys. His therapist would want to know how it happened, and he was already practicing his stories. The fact that he was still spending good money to deal with his �in-law issues� irked him to no end. But Abby insisted, and he did love his wife.

Oh well. His dislike of Hoppy and Maxie seemed rather trivial at the moment.

With the phone calls out of the way, an unforgettable day was finally coming to an end. Mitch poured two glasses of wine and they kicked off their shoes.

�When will she call?� Abby asked.

�Who?�

�What do you mean, �Who�?�

�Oh, right.�

�Yes, Noura. How long will she wait?�

�How am I supposed to know?�

�No one knows, okay? So what�s your guess?�

Mitch drank some wine and frowned as if in deep and meaningful thought, calculating exactly what the terrorists were thinking. �Within forty-eight hours.�

�And what do you base that on?�

�That�s what they taught us in law school. I went to Harvard, you know?�

�How could I forget?�

He took another sip and said, �They�ve proven to be patient. Today is number twenty-seven, and the first contact. On the other hand, it�s a lot of work holding a hostage. She�s probably in a cave or a hole in a wall, not a good place. What if she gets sick? After a while the kidnappers will get tired of her. She�s worth a lot of money so it�s time to cash in. Why wait longer?�

�So it�s all about ransom?�

�Let�s hope so. If they were going to hurt her in some dramatic way it would�ve already happened. Probably, and according to our experts anyway. And what would they gain by it?�

�Because they�re savages. They�ve managed to shock the world already. Why not do it in an even bigger way?�

�True, but the men they�ve killed were of little value, dollar-wise. Giovanna�s a different story.�

�So it�s all about money.�

�If we�re lucky.�

Abby was not convinced. �So why did they bomb the office in Athens?�

�Something else we didn�t cover in law school. I don�t know, Abby. You�re asking me to think like a terrorist. These people are fanatics who are half crazy. On the other hand, they�re smart enough to put together an organization that can send an agent into a coffee shop down the street and hand you a package.�

Abby closed her eyes and shook her head. Nothing was said for a long time. Other than the occasional sip from a glass, nothing moved. Finally, she asked, �Are you scared, Mitch?�

�Terrified.�

�Me too.�

�I really want a gun.�

�Come on, Mitch.�

�Seriously. The bad guys have plenty of guns. I�d feel safer if I had one in my pocket.�

�You�ve never held a gun, Mitch. Giving you one would endanger half the city.�

He smiled and rubbed her leg. He gazed at a wall and said, �Not true. When I was a kid, my father took me hunting all the time.�

She took a deep breath and considered his words. They had been in love for almost twenty years, and she had learned at the beginning not to be curious about his early years. He never discussed them, never opened up to her, never shared the memories of a rough childhood. She knew his father died in the coal mines when he was seven. His mother cracked up and worked low-wage jobs but had trouble keeping them. They moved often, from one cheap rental to another. Ray, his older brother, dropped out of school and pursued a life of petty crime. Mitch once spoke of an aunt he lived with before running away.

�We grew up in the mountains where every kid was hunting by the age of six. Guns were a part of life. You know Dane County.�

She did. It was Appalachia, but she was a town girl whose father wore a suit and tie to work each day. They owned a nice home with two cars in the driveway.

�We hunted year-round, regardless of what the game warden said. If we saw an animal that might make a good stew, it was dead. Rabbits, turkeys, I killed my first deer when I was six. I could handle a gun � rifles, pistols, shotguns. After my dad died, Mom wouldn�t let us hunt anymore. She was afraid we might get hurt and the thought of losing another son was too much. She gave away all the guns. So, yes, dear, you are correct in saying that if I had one now I�d probably hurt somebody, but you�re wrong in saying I�ve never fired a gun.�

�Forget the guns, Mitch.�

�Okay. We�ll be safe, Abby, trust me.�

�I do.�

�No one will be able to find us up there. Cory and his gang will be close by. And since it�s in Maine I�m sure the house will be full of guns. Don�t they shoot moose up there?�

�You�re asking me?�

�No.�

�Don�t touch a gun, Mitch.�

�I promise.�

Promptly at six the following morning, Cory rang the buzzer for the McDeere apartment and was welcomed by Mitch. Abby poured coffee at the breakfast table and offered yogurt and granola. No one was hungry.

Cory walked them through the plan for the day and gave each a little green phone that flipped open. He said, �These are cell phones that cannot be hacked or traced. Only five � these two, me, Ruch, and Alvin.�

�Alvin?� Abby asked, obviously becoming irritated with the cloak-and-dagger stuff. �Have we met an Alvin?�

�He works for me and you probably won�t meet him.�

�Of course.� She held her newest gadget and stared at it in frustration. �Yet another phone?�

�Sorry,� Cory said. �I know your collection is growing.�

�What if I make a mistake and pull out the wrong one?�

Mitch frowned at her and said, �Please.�

She said to Cory, �I thought our cell phones cannot be hacked or tracked.�

�That�s right, as far as we know. These are just another layer of security. Stick with us, okay?�

�I�ll shut up now.�

�So, the plan is to leave the front door of the building at exactly eight A.M., as always, with Carter and Clark, just another walk to school. South on Columbus, west on Sixty-Seventh, two more blocks to the school. We�ll be watching every step.�

�Watching for what?� Mitch asked. �You don�t really think these guys will do something stupid on a busy sidewalk.�

�No, more than likely they will not. We want to see who�s watching. It�s doubtful Noura is working alone. It would take a team to follow Abby and the boys yesterday, take the photos, follow her across the park, and arrive at the coffee shop at about the same time. Somebody gave her the Jakl, a rather exotic gadget. She has a boss somewhere. These cells are not run by women.�

�And what if by chance you notice someone following Abby today?�

�We�ll do our best to track them.�

�How many people do you have on the ground right now?�

�I�m not allowed to say, Mitch. Sorry.�

�Okay, okay. Continue.�

�You leave at the normal time, take the subway to work, nothing unusual. At ten I�ll have a car nearby and I�ll call with directions.� He picked up his green phone, smiled, and said, �We�ll use these. Hope they work.�

�Can�t wait.�

�You�ll return here, enter this building through the basement exit, get the bags, hustle back to the car. At eleven you�ll enter the school through a side door off Sixty-Seventh, get the boys, and get out of there. I�ll meet you at the Westchester airport. We�ll hop on a cute little jet and thirty-five minutes later land in Rockland, Maine. Any questions so far?�

Mitch said, �You look exhausted, Cory. Are you sleeping?�

�Are you kidding? A Scully lawyer has been held hostage somewhere in North Africa for a month now. How can I sleep? My phone starts ringing at one A.M. when the sun comes up over there. I�m running on fumes.�

Mitch and Abby looked at each other. �Thanks for all this, Cory,� she said.

�You�re under a lot of pressure,� Mitch said.

�I am. We are. And we�ll get through it. You�re the key, Abby. They chose you and you have to make it work.�

�I�ve never felt so lucky.�

�And I�ll be hunting moose,� Mitch said with a laugh, one that was not shared by the others.

Mitch�s shot-in-the-dark prediction, allegedly based on his fancy education, was remarkably close. Noura did not wait forty-eight hours. She waited about forty-seven, and called Abby on the Jakl phone at 7:31 Saturday morning.

Abby was on her yoga mat in the den, stretching half-heartedly and trying to remember the last weekend when she had the apartment all to herself. She missed her guys and under different circumstances would not have been worried about them. She talked to Mitch twice Friday night, on the green phone, and was fully debriefed. The boys were having a grand time in Mr. Barry�s mansion, while Mitch and the owner were smoking Cuban cigars and drinking single malts.

They felt perfectly safe. No one could possibly find them.

Selecting the proper phone from her collection assembled on the coffee table, always close at hand, Abby lifted the Jakl and said, �Hello.�

�Abby McDeere, this is Noura.�

What�s the proper greeting to a terrorist on a rainy Saturday morning in Manhattan? Though in an odd way she was relieved to get the call, she refused to show any interest. Calmly she said, �Yes, this is Abby.�

Evidently, terrorists didn�t use greetings because Noura skipped them altogether. �We should meet tomorrow morning before noon. Are you available?�

Do I have a choice? �Yes.�

�Walk to the ice rink in Central Park. At ten-fifteen, approach the main entrance. There�s an ice-cream vendor to the left, on the east side. Stand there and wait. Your husband is a Mets fan, right?�

A kick in the gut could not have jolted her more. How much did these people know about them? �Yes,� she managed to say.

�Wear a Mets cap.�

Mitch had at least five of them hung on a rack in his closet. �Sure.�

�If you bring anyone with you, we will know immediately.�

�Okay.�

�That would be a terrible mistake, Mrs. McDeere. Understood?�

�Yes, of course.�

�You must come alone.�

�I�ll be there.�

There was a long pause as Abby waited. She repeated, �I�ll be there.�

More silence. Noura was gone.

Carefully, Abby put down the Jakl, picked up the green phone, walked to her bedroom, closed the door, and called Mitch.

The runway at Islesboro�s small airport was only 2,500 feet long, too short for a jet. Early Sunday morning, Mitch and Cory took off in a King Air 200, a turboprop with small field capacity.

They left Alvin and one other guard behind at Wicklow. Mitch was convinced the boys were safely tucked away where no one could find them and he told himself to stop worrying. The day would be complicated enough without thinking of them. But there was no way not to.

An hour later they landed at Westchester, drove into the city, and by 10 A.M. were in a large suite on the fifteenth floor of the Everett Hotel, with a view of the Wollman ice rink in Central Park. Darian was there from Crueggal, along with Jack. Over coffee, Mitch gave Jack a full report on his brother and all the gossip around Wicklow, which wasn�t much. Jack planned to retire July 31 and spend the month of August at Islesboro fishing with his brother.

The weather was cool and clear and Central Park was crowded. In the distance, they could see skaters circling the rink, but they were too far away to distinguish anyone. At 10:20, Mitch was certain he saw his wife walking down Fifth Avenue, on the park side. She was wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a brown barn coat she�d had for years. And a faded blue Mets cap.

�There she is,� he said with a knot in his stomach. She disappeared into the park and they lost sight of her. Cory and Darian had argued over placing someone near the entrance of the rink to watch Abby, but decided not to. Cory thought there was nothing to gain by doing so.

At 10:30 she walked to the counter of an ice-cream vendor near the rink�s main entrance. From behind large, dark sunglasses, she watched everyone while trying to appear nonchalant. It wasn�t working; she was a wreck. The Jakl vibrated in her pocket and she pulled it out. �This is Abby.�

�This is Noura. Leave the ice rink and walk to the Mall. Go past the statue of Shakespeare and to your left you�ll see the one of Robert Burns, then a long row of benches. Stay to the left, walk about a hundred feet, and find a spot on a bench.�

Minutes later, she passed the statue of Shakespeare and turned right onto the Mall, a long promenade lined with stately elms. She had made the walk countless times, and flashed back to their first winter in the city when she and Mitch had shuffled along, arm in arm, in a foot of snow with more falling. They had spent many long Sunday afternoons, in all seasons, sitting in the shade of the elms and watching the endless parade of New Yorkers outside for the day. When the twins arrived, they put them in a tandem stroller and pushed them up and down the Mall and all over Central Park.

Today, though, there was no time for nostalgia.

Hundreds of people were strolling along the Mall. Vendors sold hot and cold drinks. Loud carousel music echoed from speakers in the distance. As Abby walked she counted thirty steps, found an empty bench, and sat down as nonchalantly as possible.

Five minutes, ten. She clutched the Jakl in her pocket and tried not to look at everyone who passed. She was looking for a Muslim woman in full robes and a hijab, but saw no one of that description. A woman in a navy jogging suit pushing a baby stroller eased beside her. �Abby,� she said, barely loud enough to be heard.

Both were wearing large sunglasses, but somehow they made eye contact. Abby nodded. She assumed it was Noura, though she could not identify her. Same height and build but that was all. The bill of an oversized cap sat low and covered her forehead.

�Over here,� she said, nodding to her right.

Abby stood and said, �Noura?�

�Yes.�

They walked together. If there was a baby in the stroller it wasn�t visible. Noura turned right onto a sidewalk and they left the Mall. When they were away from everyone, she stopped and said, �Stare at the buildings. Don�t look at me.�

Abby gazed at the skyline of Central Park West.

Noura took her time and said, �The safe return of Giovanna will cost one hundred million dollars. The price is not negotiable. And it must be paid ten days from today. May twenty-fifth at five P.M. Eastern is the deadline. Yes?�

Abby nodded and said, �I understand.�

�If you go to the police, or the FBI, or involve your government in any way, there will be no safe return. She will be executed. Yes?�

�Understood.�

�Good. In fifteen minutes a video will be sent to your phone. It is a message from Giovanna.� She turned the stroller and walked away. Abby watched her for a second � stylish Adidas jogging suit, red and white sneakers with no brand visible, goofy cap. She had seen only a portion of her face and would never be able to identify her.

Abby went the other direction and zigzagged northeast to Seventy-Second Street, then followed it east to Fifth Avenue. She entered the Everett Hotel, walked to the dining room, and asked for the table she had reserved earlier that morning. A table for three. She was meeting a couple of friends for brunch. When her coffee was served, she left the table and took the elevator to the fifteenth floor.

The firm�s management committee consisted of nine senior partners, ranging in age from fifty-two to almost seventy, Jack Ruch being the oldest at sixty-nine. There was no additional compensation for serving on the MC and most partners tried to avoid it. However, someone had to take the ultimate responsibility for running the place and making the most difficult decisions. But, obviously, never in the firm�s illustrious history had any partner been faced with such a momentous predicament.

Jack rousted them out of bed for a seven o�clock emergency meeting Monday morning. He immediately called for an executive session, meaning the two secretaries and Cory had to leave the boardroom. He asked a partner named Bart Ambrose to take minutes, and, though it was completely unnecessary and borderline irksome, he reminded them of the need for confidentiality. He began with a quick slide show of the photographs Noura had sent to Abby�s new phone the previous Thursday morning: Abby and the boys, their apartment building, her office. He saved the best for last and revealed the long-distance photo of 110 Broad, the handsome tower in which they were now sitting.

�We�re being watched,� he said dramatically. �Watched, followed, photographed, and threatened. And now they�re firebombing our offices on the other side of the world.�

All breathing had ceased as they gawked at the images.

The photos were from Thursday. The McDeeres went into hiding on Friday. Noura, the messenger, made contact on Saturday, met with Abby McDeere on Sunday, and passed along the demand for a hundred million.

Gloom was added to fear as the other eight members of the committee realized just how much money was at stake and that the firm might be on the hook for some of it.

The room was still silent as Jack played the video of Giovanna on a wide screen. Only a few had actually met her, but all of them knew her father. The visual impact of a Scully associate held hostage was breathtaking. They had been apprised of the situation over the past month, but nothing had prepared them for the shock of seeing her gaunt face and hearing her strained voice.

Jack stopped the video but left an indelible image of Giovanna on the screen for them to contemplate. He told them that Mitch had landed in Rome about an hour ago and was on his way to see Luca.

When the questions began, they came in a flood and from every side. Why not involve the FBI and CIA? The firm had strong contacts at the State Department. What were the Brits doing, and the Italians? Was there a plan to try to negotiate? The firm had insurance that paid for highly qualified hostage negotiators, why not use them? How much did they know about the terrorist group? Had they even identified it? Had the bankers been called?

Jack was not expecting the committee to agree on a plan, or on anything else for that matter, so he proposed nothing. He answered the questions he could, deflected those he couldn�t, argued when necessary, and in general let everyone blow off steam and try to impress the others. After a raucous first hour, the committee was split into three or four factions, with loyalties swinging back and forth. The loudest group wanted to go straight to the FBI and CIA, but Jack held firm. A couple didn�t like the idea of Mitch operating like a lone wolf out there, without real supervision.

No one held back. Opinions rose up swiftly, then dissipated. Some of the facts got blurred. Tempers flared and cooled, but no insults were hurled. They were too professional for that and most of them had been close for decades. At one time or another every member of the committee thought of Giovanna and silently asked the question What if that was me? More than once, Bart Ambrose said, aloud, �She�s one of us.�

By 2 P.M. Luca had knocked back two double espressos and was ready for action. He greeted an important visitor at the front door and escorted him to the veranda where he introduced him to Roberto and Mitch. His name was Diego Antonelli and, according to Roberto, he was a career diplomat in the foreign service and had known Luca for many years. Supposedly, he could be trusted with secrets and had contacts in the prime minister�s office.

Mr. Antonelli seemed ill at ease and Mitch got the impression he felt too important to make house calls. A light rain began so Luca invited everyone to his dining table where coffee and water were served. He thanked Mr. Antonelli for coming and said there had been a major development in the kidnapping.

Roberto took notes. Mitch listened as intently as possible. He always appreciated Luca�s Italian because it was slow and thoughtful, easier to follow. Mr. Antonelli, who no doubt spoke multiple languages, also spoke with perfect diction. Roberto, on the other hand, began each sentence in a mad dash to get to the end of it. Mercifully, he said little.

Luca told the story of the mysterious Noura and her contact with Abby McDeere in New York: the meetings, the photographs, the phones, and eventually the demand for ransom. The deadline was May 25, and, given their recent history, it was their belief that the terrorists would not hesitate to carry out the execution.

He made it clear that they had not contacted him or anyone else. They had chosen his law firm and had done so on American soil. In his opinion, it was not wise to involve the Italian police or intelligence services, nor those in Great Britain.

Antonelli took no notes, never touched his pen, nor his coffee. He absorbed every word as if filing away the details in perfect order. Occasionally, he glanced at Mitch with a mildly disdainful look, as if he really didn�t belong at the table.

Luca asked him to inform the foreign minister, who should then inform the prime minister.

�How do you know she�s still alive?� Antonelli asked.

Luca nodded at Roberto who slid a laptop into view, pressed a key, and there was Giovanna. When she finished and the screen went blank, Luca said, �That arrived yesterday in New York. It has been validated by our security.�

�A hundred million dollars,� Antonelli repeated but did not seem surprised. Nothing surprised him, and if something did no one would ever know it.

�The second question is, who are you negotiating with?� he said.

Luca touched his eyes with a tissue and took a deep breath. The image of his daughter had upset him for a moment. �Well, there are no negotiations. We don�t know who the terrorists are. But we do know they have my daughter, they are demanding ransom, and they will not hesitate to kill her. That is sufficient for the Italian government to get involved.�

�Involved? We have been expressly forbidden to interfere.�

�There is nothing you can do except help with the ransom. She is an Italian citizen, Diego, and right now she has a high profile. If the government does nothing, and she is sacrificed, can you imagine the backlash?�

�It�s against our law, Luca. You know the statute. It�s been on the books for over twenty years. We do not negotiate with terrorists and we do not pay ransom.�

�Yes, and the law has loopholes. I�ll be happy to point them out. There are ten ways around that law and I know every one of them. As of now, I�m asking you to speak to the foreign minister.�

�Of course, Luca. They are very concerned about Giovanna. All of us are concerned. But we�ve heard nothing until now.�

�Thank you.�

�May I ask if the British are involved?�

Luca was suddenly winded. He looked pale as his shoulders sagged. �Mitch.�

�I�m going to London tonight. We have a large office there and many of our partners have experience in the government. Tomorrow, we will meet with the British officials and tell them exactly what we have just told you. We will ask them to contribute to the ransom fund. Our firm has kidnapping and ransom insurance in the amount of twenty-five million dollars and we�ve put the insurance company on notice. Our firm will kick in an additional amount, but we cannot handle the entire ransom. We need help from both the Italian and British governments.�

In English, Antonelli said, �I understand. I will speak to the foreign minister this afternoon. That�s all I can do. I�m just the messenger.�

�Thank you.�

�Thanks, Diego,� Luca said softly. He suddenly needed another nap.

The Scully & Pershing office in London was in the heart of Canary Wharf, the modern business district on the Thames. Similar in ways to lower Manhattan, the area was filling up with a dazzling collection of soaring skyscrapers, no two even remotely alike. London and New York were slugging it out to be the financial center of the world, and for the moment the Brits were winning because of oil. The Arabs felt more welcome in the U.K. and parked their billions there.

Scully, with a hundred lawyers, leased the top third of an outlandish structure designed along the lines of a vertical torpedo. Critics and purists hated the building. Its Chinese owner was crying all the way to the bank. Every square foot had been leased for years and �the Torpedo� was printing money.

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 5 P.M. meeting with Second Secretary Madam Sara Hanrahan began at 5:21 and ended ten minutes later. She complained of a long day, looked frazzled, and really wanted to go home. In Mitch�s opinion, which he shared with no one, she had the watery eyes of a drinker and they were probably intruding on her happy hour. She had been briefed by the Third Secretary, and felt strongly that �her government� could not possibly get involved in a ransom scheme when it had no role in the negotiations. She claimed to be an expert on Libya and knew all that was knowable about the abduction of Giovanna Sandroni. Her department was briefed every morning and had grave concerns.

For Mitch and Riley, the only successful part of the otherwise useless meeting was a promise by Madam Hanrahan to push the matter upward and to do so with haste.

Leaving her office, in the rear seat of a shiny black Jaguar with a trusted Scully driver at the wheel, Riley yanked out his phone, looked at the message, and mumbled, �This should be fun.� He listened for a moment, grunted a few times, rang off, then said to the driver, �The Connaught Hotel.�

�Seems we�re having tea with Sir Simon. He�s found an old friend.�

The Connaught was a legendary London hotel in the heart of Mayfair. Mitch had never stayed there because he couldn�t afford it and Scully wouldn�t expense it. Its elegant bars offered the priciest drinks in town. Its restaurant had three Michelin stars. Its staff was a study in tradition and precision.

Sir Simon looked right at home in the main tea room, with a platter of fancy sandwiches on the table and a pot of tea ready to pour. He was with a friend, a dapper little man at least his age or older. He introduced him as Phinney Gibb.

Riley knew him and was immediately suspicious. As Sir Simon explained to Mitch, Phinney had been a deputy minister of some variety back in the Thatcher years and was still connected. One look at the old guy, though, and it was hard to believe he was connected to anything but his pearl-handled cane.

Mitch went silent as Sir Simon laid out a plan. Phinney could still work the back channels and had contacts in the prime minister�s office. He also knew a ranking secretary in the Foreign Office. Mitch and Riley exchanged glances. They�d had a full day with important secretaries. And, on top of that, Phinney knew Libya�s ambassador to the U.K.

Phinney was confident he could arrange a meeting with the prime minister�s office. The goal, of course, was to convince the PM that the government should pay some of the ransom to rescue a British citizen.

Mitch listened hard, sipped tea that he had never learned to enjoy, nibbled on a cucumber sandwich, and worried once again that too many people were getting involved. And the more they met and the more they listened, the more time was being wasted. It was Tuesday evening. Six thirty-five. Two days down, eight to go, and the ransom pot was still empty, except for Luca�s commitment.

Phinney prattled on about what a fine fellow the Libyan ambassador was. Riley asked if he could arrange a meeting the following day. Phinney would certainly try, but there was a good chance the ambassador was not in London.

At dawn, Mitch checked out of the hotel and got into the rear seat of the same Jaguar as the day before. Fortunately, the driver wasn�t much of a talker and the ride to Heathrow was quiet. At eight-fifteen, he boarded a Turkish Airlines flight to Istanbul, four hours nonstop. At customs there, he was greeted by a Lannak representative and led to an express lane where he was waved through with hardly a glance. He did look over his shoulder at the long lines behind him and was once again grateful he worked for an outfit like Scully. A black car was waiting near the terminal, and less than twenty minutes after touching down Mitch was on the phone as his driver zipped through traffic with little regard for speed limits and other annoyances.

Of course, a proud old company like Lannak would insist on being headquartered in a prestigious section of Istanbul�s central business district. There were several in the sprawling city of eleven million. Maslak was arguably the best known, and it was there that Omar Celik built a forty-story tower in 1990 and claimed the top half for Lannak, the family�s holding company.

Omar was away on business in Indonesia. In his absence, his son, Adem, was ostensibly in charge, though it was well known that his father kept virtually everything under his thumb. Adem was being groomed to take over one day, but Omar had many miles to go. Those close to him expected he would at least try to run things from the grave.

Adem was forty-four and had an American wife he�d met at Princeton, two teenage children in school in Scotland, and friends around the world. He and his wife fancied themselves an international couple and traveled extensively. Though they had an apartment in New York, Mitch and Abby had yet to entertain them. But they were on the list.

Adem welcomed Mitch to his splendid office on the thirty-fifth floor and inquired about lunch. It was almost 2 P.M. and Mitch had not eaten. Neither had Adem. They took the stairs up two floors and settled into the company�s small private dining room where a waiter took their orders and served ice water. The other six tables were empty. After some more of the obligatory small talk, Mitch went through the latest about Giovanna. The terrorists had made contact. There was a demand for $100 million in ransom, a threat, and a deadline. The questions began and Mitch had anticipated every one of them. Lunch arrived and they ignored it as the discussion continued.

Mitch had no idea why �they� would use Noura. They chose Scully because it is accessible, well known, and wealthy. Squeezing money out of Scully would be far more productive than hounding Luca, but the ransom demand was much too high. The British and Italian governments had been given most of the details, but neither was eager to jump into the middle of a mess over which they had no control. Both had tentatively agreed to work their diplomatic channels to push the Libyans into a settlement, but such efforts moved at a glacial pace even on a good day. So far, everyone seemed convinced that the terrorists were willing to carry out their threats. The Libyans had badly botched two rescue efforts.

It was not a hoax. Using his cell phone, Mitch showed Adem the video of Giovanna asking for help. Its date and time had been validated by private security. Obviously, its location was unknown.

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?

Luca rallied somewhat after a few hours in the hospital. Some different meds stabilized his blood pressure. A drip rehydrated him. A stronger sedative sent him into a long, much-needed nap. The best medicine was the constant attention of a thirty-year-old nurse with a stunning figure and a short white skirt. Bella watched it all from a corner, shaking her head. Some men were hopeless.

Luca was attempting to put together a deal that involved a reclusive Italian billionaire he had known for a long time. Carlotti was his name and he was an heir to an old family fortune built on olive oil. His politics did not jibe with Luca�s, but when it came to money the two had always managed to see past their differences. Carlotti was close to the prime minister and had bankrolled him for years. At Luca�s urging, he had agreed to pressure the prime minister into an elaborate plan to funnel money from the Italian treasury into a ransom fund owned by a company in Spain, where Carlotti spent most of his time. He was reluctant because paying kidnappers was against the law in Italy but not in Spain. However, he adored Giovanna and would do anything to help her. The prime minister was reluctant because one more scandal would easily topple his fragile government. But, as Luca argued vehemently, a bad outcome for Giovanna could do even more damage. The prime minister was getting shoved into a no-win situation. Luca was confident he could skirt the law and bluff the prosecutors later if necessary. Mitch was uncomfortable with any conversation in which the word �prosecutors� was mentioned.

The next step was a conversation with Diego Antonelli, the deputy minister they had met Monday afternoon at Luca�s. His office was in a nondescript government building in the Lateran section of eastern Rome, near a palace where some popes once lived, according to Roberto, who had the mildly annoying habit of pointing out minor points of historical interest to any non-Roman around him.

Mr. Antonelli had been less than cordial during his house call on Monday. Evidently, a meeting at 6:30 P.M. on a Thursday did not please him either. He made them wait twenty minutes and finally waved them into a small conference room near his suite. There were quick handshakes but no smiles.

�There is no record of this meeting,� he began pleasantly, and actually looked around to see if anyone was eavesdropping. The door had been shut tight and locked. Mitch suspected there were bugs everywhere.

�If someone asks, the meeting never happened.�

Not for the first time, Mitch questioned what he was doing. If an illegal bribe or payment was in the works, why was he in the room? Luca had hinted at finding enough loopholes in the law to get the ransom paid, but Mitch had thought that was solely the concern of Luca and his Italian buddies. Scully could not be a part of a conspiracy to circumvent the laws of any country. He shuddered at the thought of federal prosecutors in Manhattan having a rowdy time with those charges.

According to Luca, the purpose of the meeting was to confirm �the deal� with Antonelli, who would serve as the intermediary between Carlotti and the prime minister. From one of its discretionary funds, the Foreign Service would loan $50 million to a faceless corporation registered in Luxembourg and controlled by one of Carlotti�s sons. A repayment agreement would be signed but buried. The money would then be wired here and there and parked in an account where it would sit at the ready.

Antonelli seemed less than enthusiastic about the deal and spoke only to Roberto, in Italian. That was fine with Mitch. He followed the conversation well enough, but would have preferred to miss all of it.

Antonelli asked, �And in your opinion, Counselor, this complies with all statutes and will not raise concerns at the Justice Ministry?�

�I see no problem,� Roberto said confidently, though all three knew there was trouble at every turn.

�Well, the prime minister�s attorneys will review it tonight. I suspect they may have a different opinion.�

�Then I�m sure you�ll inform Luca.�

The meeting lasted less than ten minutes and both sides were eager to get out the door. Mitch left Roberto on the street and took the first cab to the airport. His secretary had juggled flights again and he was booked on one to Frankfurt, then JFK. In the back of the cab, he closed his eyes and dreaded the next ten hours.

What about the next five days? Not only was the ransom pot still empty, it had sprung a significant leak. Tomorrow�s �deposit� of $10 million was the easy step, though Mitch was irritated that two members of the management committee had voted no. By yanking the rug out from under them, the insurance company not only acted in bad faith, an issue for another day, but it had upset all possible scenarios for pooling the ransom. The deal with Carlotti was precarious at best and illegal at worst and was probably already unraveling. Mitch would report it to Jack Ruch, who would no doubt call Luca and start yelling. Everyone was sympathetic and desperate to save Giovanna, but Scully was not about to start breaking laws in any jurisdiction. There was no movement from the British government, in spite of numerous Scully operatives pecking away at the Foreign Minister. Riley Casey had met with Jerry Robb of the Reedmore firm that afternoon to gauge any interest in a quick settlement of the Lannak lawsuit. Typical for Robb, the meeting was short, tense, and a total waste of time.

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 caf� 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 ros� 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 caf� 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.

She could tell by the way he walked back to the pool that the conversation had gone badly. Whoever was on the other end had delivered unpleasant news. He flashed a fake grin at Carter when he tried to splash water on him. Hoppy was telling Barry another story about catching salmon on a river in Oregon.

�You okay?� Abby whispered.

�Peachy.� Which, of course, meant things just went south.

�The boys want a boat ride?� Tanner yelled.

To which Maxie jumped in with �Oh yes, we do a boat ride every afternoon as soon as the water settles down.� The twins were climbing out of the pool, reaching for towels.

�Sounds like fun,� Mitch managed to say. Nothing, at that moment, could be fun.

Maxie said, �You guys take them. We�ll watch from the porch.�

Tanner was already on the dock checking the engine. The boys bounded aboard without using the stepladder. Mitch and Abby were more careful. The air was cooler on the water and the boys were wet and freezing. Abby wrapped them in thick towels and they assumed their favorite spots on cushions near the bow while their parents settled into leather deck chairs. Mitch tried to relax with �Not a bad rig here, Tanner. All wood?�

�It�s a classic. Made in Maine by a famous builder named Ralph Stanley. Thirty-six feet long. A beauty. Slow as molasses, though.�

�Who cares?�

Before he shoved off, Tanner said, �A beverage is required on Friday afternoons.�

�White wine, please,� Abby said.

�Double bourbon,� Mitch said. Tanner nodded and disappeared into the cabin.

�Double bourbon?� Abby asked with a frown.

�That was Jack Ruch. The management committee met for five hours today and voted not to borrow the money. As of now, the ransom account is empty. Ten million down the drain, nothing left. Giovanna�s a step closer.�

Her mouth fell open but she didn�t speak. Instead, she looked across the water and saw nothing.

Mitch went on, �Jack is upset, says he lost some friends today.�

�This is terrible.�

�I know.�

�Has he told Luca?�

�Not yet. You wanna call him?�

�I think not. I don�t understand.�

Carter bounced around the cockpit, disappeared into the cabin as if he owned it, and emerged with two small bags of popcorn. He smiled at his parents but did not offer them the snack. Then he was gone.

Mitch said, �These kids are out of control, you know?�

�Totally. I don�t think my parents are exactly cracking the whip.�

�And we do? I feel sorry for their teachers when they go back to school.�

�And when might that be?�

Mitch thought for a second and said, �Another week. Are your folks okay with that?�

�They�ll manage.�

Tanner was back with the drinks on a proper tray. He served them, yelled at the boys, and shoved off. Sitting close together and facing the stern, Mitch and Abby watched Wicklow fade behind them. The hum of the engine muffled their voices.

�I don�t understand,� she said again.

�They�re cowards, Abby. More concerned with protecting their assets than rescuing Giovanna. Put each one of them in her place, and they�d say hell yeah, borrow the money, get me outta here. The firm can absorb the loss, over time. But sitting in their nice offices in Manhattan they feel threatened and want to protect their money.�

�The firm grossed how much last year?�

�Two billion plus.�

�And more this year?�

�Yes, always more.�

�I don�t understand.�

�You know, we�ve had eleven good years with Scully and never thought about leaving.�

Tanner inched the throttle up a notch and the wake grew wider. They were nearing a cove with the Atlantic not far away. The water was deep blue and flat, but an occasional wave sent mist over the boat and refreshed everyone. With his left hand, Mitch reached over and took hers. With his right hand, he took a sip of bourbon and savored it as it wet his mouth and seeped down his throat. He rarely touched the hard stuff, but it was soothing at the moment.

�I�m sure you have a plan,� she said.

�Oh, lots of them, and none are working. There�s no playbook here. We�re all guessing.�

�Do you really think they�ll do something awful to Giovanna?�

�Oh yes. Definitely. They�re savages and they obviously crave attention. Look at all the videos. If they harm her, we�ll get to see it.�

Abby shook her head in frustration. �I think of her all the time. I�m living in a safe world with family and friends all around. I go anywhere, do anything I want, while Giovanna�s buried in a cave praying that we�ll come get her.�

�I�m still blaming myself, Abby. The trip to the bridge would probably have been productive at some level, but it wasn�t crucial. I couldn�t wait to go, another adventure.�

�But Luca insisted.�

�He pushed hard, but I could�ve said no, or not at this time. Actually seeing the bridge would not have affected our representation of Lannak.�

�You can�t beat yourself up, Mitch. Blaming yourself is wasted energy and you have more pressing matters at hand.�

�You don�t say.�

When Tanner opened the house at daybreak on Saturday, he found Mitch at the breakfast table, pecking away on his laptop. Notepads and memos were scattered about. Mitch said, �I wasn�t sure how to make the coffee and didn�t want to screw up the machine.�

�I�ll take care of it. Anything else?�

�No. I�ll be leaving in a couple hours. Abby will leave tomorrow. We�re hoping to retrieve the boys by the end of next week, if that�s okay. We feel like we�re imposing here.�

�No, sir, not at all. This house was built for guests and Mr. Ruch enjoys your company. You have a very nice family, Mr. McDeere. Please don�t feel rushed or anything like that. I promised the boys we�d go fishing this afternoon, if the weather holds.�

�Thank you, Tanner. They�re city boys and they�re having a blast, an unexpected vacation. You�re very patient with them.�

�Good kids, Mr. McDeere. We�re having fun. Emma will be along shortly for breakfast, but can I offer you anything?�

�No, thanks. Just coffee.�

Tanner disappeared into the kitchen and began making noise. Mitch took a break and walked outside to enjoy the brisk morning. Then the calls began. The first was to Stephen Stodghill, who was already at the office. Mitch wanted two paralegals on standby. Jack Ruch was en route. Cory was in the city and still asleep, or he was until Mitch called. It was early afternoon in Rome, and Roberto had just left the hospital where Luca had been through another bad night.

Abby wandered in at seven in search of coffee. Miss Emma fixed them cheese omelets and they ate alone in the dining room. With each day being entirely unpredictable it was difficult to plan, but plans had to be made. Mitch would leave for New York in half an hour, then on to Rome. Abby would leave Sunday morning for the city and be in their apartment staring at that damned Jakl at precisely noon. They expected a call from Noura, and the great question would be: �Do you have the money?�

The answer would be: �Yes. What�s next?�

Mitch showered and changed and peeked in on the boys. He wanted so badly to wake them and squeeze them, then go outside and play baseball. But the games would have to wait, hopefully for only a few more days.

A King Air was waiting at Islesboro Airport.

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.

Day 40. Or was it 41? She wasn�t sure anymore because there was no sunlight, only darkness. Nothing to measure time. Even when they moved her she was shrouded and blindfolded and saw nothing but darkness. And they moved her constantly, from a lean-to that smelled of farm animals, to a cavern with sand for a floor, to a darkened room in a house with city noises not far away, to a dank underground cellar where rusty water dripped on her cot and made sleep difficult. She never stayed more than three nights in one place, but then she wasn�t sure what was day or night. She ate when they brought her fruit and bread and warm water, but it was never enough. They gave her toilet paper and sanitary napkins but she had not bathed once. Her long thick hair was now matted and stringy from grease and dirt. After she ate, when she knew she would not be bothered for hours, she stripped and tried to clean her undergarments with a few ounces of water. She slept for long periods of time, the dripping water notwithstanding.

Her minder was a young girl, probably no more than a teenager, who never spoke or smiled and tried to avoid any eye contact. She was veiled and always wore the same faded black dress that hung like a bedsheet and dragged the ground. For humor, Giovanna nicknamed her �Gypsy Rose� after the famous stripper. She doubted the girl had ever taken her clothes off in the presence of a man. Wherever Giovanna went, Gypsy Rose went too. She had tried to engage her with simple words, but the girl had obviously been instructed not to talk to the captive. When it was time to move, Gypsy Rose would appear with a pair of oversized handcuffs, a blindfold, and a heavy black shroud. Not since the first days had Giovanna seen the face of a man. Occasionally she heard low voices outside her doors, but they disappeared.

She recalled from law school the Gibbons case. For over twenty years, Gibbons had been an inmate on death row in Arkansas, and as such was confined to an eight-by-ten-foot cell from which he was released one hour each day for exercise in the yard. He sued the state, claiming solitary confinement violated the Eighth Amendment�s prohibition of cruel and unusual punishment. When the U.S. Supreme Court agreed to hear the case, it attracted an enormous amount of attention, primarily because of the thousands of prisoners living in solitary. Everybody piled on: death row lawyers, psychiatrists, psychologists, sociologists, law professors, prisoners� rights groups, civil libertarians, and penal experts. Virtually everyone agreed that solitary was cruel and unusual punishment. The Supreme Court felt otherwise and Gibbons eventually got the needle. The case became famous and made it all the way to the constitutional law casebook Giovanna purchased and studied at UVA Law.

After forty or forty-one days in solitary, she now understood. She could now qualify as an expert witness and explain in vivid testimony exactly how and why such confinement was unconstitutional. The physical deprivations were bad enough; a lack of food, water, soap, toothbrushes, razors, tampons, exercise, books, clean clothes, a hot bath. But she had made those adjustments and could survive. The maddening aspect of solitary was the lack of human contact.

And, as she recalled, Gibbons had a television, radio, buddies next door, guards who brought dreadful food three times a day, 2200 calories of it, two showers a week, unlimited visits with his lawyer, weekend visits with his family, and plenty of books and magazines. He still went insane but Arkansas killed him anyway.

If she was ever free again, she might consider shucking Big Law and working for a death penalty lawyer or a prisoners� rights group. She would welcome the opportunity to testify in court or perhaps before lawmakers and detail the horrors of solitary confinement.

Gypsy Rose was back with the handcuffs and they had the routine perfected. Giovanna frowned but said nothing, then touched her wrists together. Gypsy Rose slapped them on like a veteran beat cop. Giovanna leaned forward to take the blindfold, a thick velvet cloth that smelled like old mothballs. Her world was black again. Gypsy put the hood over her head and led her from the cell. After a few steps, Giovanna almost stopped when she realized the girl�s eyes had been moist. Gypsy Rose was showing emotion. But why? The horrible truth was that after caring for her prisoner for so long, she had feelings for her. Now, the captivity was over. After forty days the big moment had arrived. The prisoner was about to be sacrificed.

They stepped outside into cooler air. A few steps, then two men with strong hands lifted her into the back of a vehicle and sat close to her. The engine started, the truck began to roll, and soon they were bouncing along another sandy roadbed somewhere in the Sahara.

Gypsy Rose had forgotten the morning bowl of fruit. After an hour, Giovanna was starving again. There was no ventilation in the back of the truck or whatever the vehicle happened to be, and Giovanna�s face and hair were dripping with sweat under the thick shroud. At times, breathing was difficult. Her entire body was sweating. Her captors reeked of a pungent body odor she had been forced to endure many times now. The stink of desert soldiers who rarely bathed. She didn�t smell too refreshing either.

As a hostage, she had logged thousands of miles over brutal roads without a glimpse of the outside. This ride, though, was different.

The truck stopped. Its engine was turned off. Chains rattled, and the men lifted her to the ground. It was hot but at least she was outside. There were voices all around her as something was being organized. One guard firmly held her right elbow; another one had the left. They led her this way and that way and then they were climbing steps, steep ones made of wood, though she could not see her feet. Her guards helped her climb by lifting her arms. She had the sensation of being with others who were also struggling to climb the steps. Somewhere above a man was mumbling in Arabic and it sounded like a prayer.

When the climb was over they shuffled along a wooden platform until they stopped. Dead still. Waiting.

Giovanna�s heart was pounding and she could barely breathe. When they put a noose around her neck and yanked it tight, she almost fainted. Close by a man was praying. Another one was crying.

It was beneficial to have a real Roman in the group. Roberto Maggi knew all the restaurants, especially the famous ones with starred reviews and staggering bills. But he also knew the neighborhood trattorias where the food was just as enjoyable. With the clock ticking, no one was in the mood for a three-hour dinner early on a Sunday evening. He chose a place called Due Ladroni, �Two Thieves� in Italian, and they enjoyed a fifteen-minute stroll along Via Condotti. Of course Roberto knew the owner, a jolly Irish woman, and she had no trouble rearranging tables to accommodate the six of them outdoors.

Mitch was working through the menu when his green phone vibrated. It was Abby.

�I need to take this,� he said as he stood. �It�s my wife.� He stepped around the corner, said hello, and absorbed the blow. She was expected in Morocco. She replayed her conversation with Noura, with all the details. It was almost 1 P.M. in New York. Her flight left JFK at 5:10. Should she go? What should she do? Would she be safe? His first reaction was to say hell no. It�s dangerous. Think about the boys. But he realized his judgment was clouded by his last visit to North Africa. Abby had already blitzed through the internet and was convinced the trip would be reasonably safe. It was, after all, British Airways. The hotel was expensive, highly rated by travel magazines and websites. The more she surfed, the more attractive Marrakech became, though she would always feel vulnerable. She would not be the typical tourist.

Her confidence settled his nerves, but he was still bothered by the question of what might happen to his wife if they could not deliver the money. The pot was still empty. They wouldn�t kidnap her, too. Not from a four-star hotel. And why would they? If Mitch and his team couldn�t raise the money for one hostage, why bother with a second?

As they spoke, he ventured back to the table and said to Roberto, �I�ll take the cioppino, fish stew.� It was his favorite, then he remembered the fish stew in Tripoli. �Big news,� he said to Jack and walked around the corner.

Abby had to go. No question. She had been chosen as the messenger from day one and it was her obligation to Giovanna to follow instructions. They agreed on the plan, and Mitch promised to call back in an hour. She began packing, though with no idea how long she might be away. The temperature was already above ninety in Morocco. Where were her summer clothes?

When Mitch returned to the table, the team was waiting. His report was stunning at first, then troubling. The idea that Abby was being directed to Morocco to facilitate an exchange was excellent news. What would she do, though, with no money?

Cory said little but was thinking it through. Mitch looked at him and asked, �What about security? For Abby?�

�Low to moderate risk. She�s in a nice hotel, plenty of tourists from Europe. If she�s asked to do something she�s not sure of, then she says no. And we�ll be there.� He looked at Darian and said, �I think I should go, take a plane and a nurse. Check into a hotel nearby. Make contact with Abby. Monitor her movements. You have people in Morocco, don�t you?�

�We do,� Darian said. �I�ll notify them.�

�A nurse?� Roberto asked.

Cory nodded and said, �We have no idea what condition Giovanna�s in.�

Darian added, �It�s always best to have a nurse, if possible. I�ll stay here with the team.�

�Of course.�

�Jack, can we use the jet?�

Jack was not anticipating the question and hesitated only slightly, as if he didn�t really want to let go of the airplane. �Sure. There are plenty available.�

Other ideas came and went as they tried to enjoy dinner. The optimism ebbed and flowed. One moment they were excited about Abby�s trip to Morocco, and the next moment they were once again fretting over the ransom.

After dark, and as they were strolling back toward the Hassler and trying to enjoy another beautiful Roman evening, Roberto�s phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Diego Antonelli. Roberto held back from the others and listened intently as Diego rattled away in Italian. There were rumblings out of Tripoli. Somewhere in the depths of the regime a senior diplomat had been contacted by their embassies in Rome, London, and Istanbul, all urging the same course of action. The senior diplomat had Gaddafi�s ear and an approval of the settlement was expected.

An hour later, Riley Casey called Mitch from London with similar news. Sir Simon Croome had received a call from an old friend in the Foreign Office. The rumor was that the Libyan ambassador to the U.K. had also been informed that his government had decided to settle the Lannak matter, all of it, and to do so promptly.

Mitch, Jack, and Roberto met in a dark corner of the Hassler bar to talk about their client. Assuming a settlement, and they were cautious enough to assume nothing, they needed a strategy to press Lannak into using the money for the ransom. Roberto, who knew them best because of their long history with Luca, thought it likely that the Celiks would go along, but only with some guarantee that they would eventually receive $400 million. All three lawyers knew that in litigation there were no guarantees. A lawyer who promised one was a fool.

Roberto wanted some answers. He asked Jack, �Can Scully be convinced to borrow the funds? I know you�ve tried, but can you try again?�

�Maybe, but I�m not optimistic about the firm right now.�

�This is disturbing. Luca is devastated and he feels betrayed.�

�With good reason,� Mitch said.

�Would the committee vote differently if she were the child of an American partner?�

�Great question,� Mitch mumbled.

�I don�t know,� Jack said. �But I doubt it. The majority are more concerned with protecting their own assets. Asking them to cosign and guarantee such a loan was just too frightening, I guess. I tried, Roberto.�

�Luca�s putting up ten million of his own money. He�s mortgaged everything. He was expecting more from the firm.�

�So was I. I�m very sorry.�

Samir called Mitch Monday morning and said he had good news. Mitch invited him to breakfast with Roberto at the Hassler, and the three of them met in the restaurant at nine-thirty.

Mitch had been so out of step the past ten days that he wasn�t sure who was paying for what. He�d lost track of his expenses, a sin for any big firm lawyer. The Hassler was costing someone seven hundred dollars a night, plus meals and drinks. He assumed Lannak would eventually get the bills, but that didn�t seem entirely fair. The Celiks were not responsible for Giovanna�s kidnapping. Scully might have to eat the expenses, which was fine with Mitch because he was frustrated with the firm.

Samir was all smiles as they settled in. And he was quick to announce, quietly, �A call from Tripoli this morning, my friend in the Foreign Service. Late last night he heard that the government decided yesterday to settle the entire Lannak dispute and to do so quickly.�

Mitch swallowed hard and asked, �For how much?�

�Between four and five hundred million.�

�That�s quite a range.�

�Excellent news, Samir,� Roberto said. �Can it be done quickly?�

�My friend thinks so, yes.�

They ordered coffee, juice, and eggs. Mitch glanced at his phone. A text from Abby. She had left Gatwick on time. Some new emails, none related to Giovanna and thus of little importance. He needed to call Omar Celik in Istanbul with an update. Settlement looked likely, but he decided to wait an hour.

He lost interest in breakfast.

Grand Cayman?

The Caymans are three tiny islands in the Caribbean, south of Cuba and west of Jamaica. Still a British territory, they cling to old traditions and still drive on the left. Large numbers of tourists are attracted to their beaches, scuba diving, and fine hotels. No taxes are levied on money earned there. Or stored there. At least 100,000 corporations, more than one per citizen, register in Georgetown, the capital. Billions of dollars are parked in huge banks where they accumulate even more billions in interest, tax-free of course. Highly paid tax lawyers work in nice firms and enjoy a splendid quality of life. In the world of international finance, the word �Caymans� means, among other things, a safe place to hide money, clean or dirty.

Grand Cayman, Little Cayman, Cayman Brac.

Mitch had tried to forget about all three.

It was the shadier side of the Caymans that attracted the Bendini firm years earlier, in the 1970s, when drug money was pouring into the islands. Bendini was laundering money for its own criminal clients and found some friendly banks on Grand Cayman. The firm even bought a couple of swanky condos on the beach for its partners to enjoy when they were down on �business.�

�Tell me again, Abby, what he said. Word for word.�

�He said, �Tomorrow morning your husband goes to Grand Cayman. I believe he knows the place.� �

He knows the place.

Mitch paced around his room in his boxers, thoroughly baffled and ready to pull out his hair. How could anyone, especially a man like Hassan or whatever his name was, really know that Mitch had ever had any contact with the Cayman Islands? It had been fifteen years ago. He sat on the edge of his bed, closed his eyes, and began breathing deeply.

Some details were returning. When Bendini imploded, there were dozens of arrests and news reports. Mitch and Abby were hiding on a sailboat with his brother Ray near Barbados. Mitch was not being sought by the FBI, but the Chicago Mob damned well wanted to find him. Months later, when the McDeeres finally came ashore, Mitch went to a library in Kingston, Jamaica, and found the newspaper stories. In several, the Caymans were mentioned in connection with criminal activity by the Bendini firm. But Mitch�s name was never in print, at least not in the reports he could find.

That was the one possible link: the Bendini firm, of which he was briefly a member, and some of its alleged wrongdoings in the Caymans. As old and as obscure as it was, how could Hassan have possibly found it?

Equally baffling was how he knew Mitch was in Rome, and that he got there on a private jet. Mitch called a partner in New York, a friend who was a pilot and aviation junkie. Without being specific, he asked how difficult it would be to track the movements of a private jet. No problem at all if you have the plane�s tail number. Mitch thanked him and rang off.

But how could they know Mitch was on the plane?

Because they were watching Mitch.

He didn�t tell Abby this because she would immediately think of the boys and freak out. If �they� were watching the McDeeres this closely, then how safe were they?

For morning coffee, Abby wore her white dress and no makeup. Hassan wore another fine linen suit of a soft olive color. Brilliant white shirt, no tie. They met at the same table, one she was already tired of. They ordered coffee and tea and told the waiter they would think about breakfast later.

Hassan, ever the charming pro, kept smiling until she said, �We need more time, an additional twenty-four hours.�

A sudden frown and a shake of the head. �I�m sorry. That�s not possible.�

�Then we can�t arrange the entire sum of ninety million.�

A deeper frown. �Then things get complicated.�

�Things are beyond complicated. We are collecting money from at least seven different sources and in multiple languages.�

�I see. A question. If you have twenty-four additional hours, how much more money can you scrape together?�

�I�m not sure.�

His small black eyes zeroed in like lasers. �Then, that says it all, Mrs. McDeere. If you can�t promise more money, then I can�t promise more time. How much do you have?�

�Seventy-five. Plus, of course, the deposit of ten.�

�Of course. And it is in hand and your husband will be prepared to wire it tomorrow?�

The waiter was back and he slowly set the tea and coffee in front of them. He inquired again about breakfast, but Hassan rudely waved him off.

He glanced around, saw no one, and said, �Very well. I shall speak to my client. This is not good news.�

�It�s the only news I have. I want to see Giovanna.�

�I doubt that�s possible.�

�Then there�s no deal. No seventy-five million. No wire transfer tomorrow. I want to see her today and I�m not leaving this hotel.�

�You�re asking too much, Mrs. McDeere. We�re not walking into a trap.�

�A trap? Do I look like a person who could set a trap? I�m a cookbook editor from New York.�

He was smiling again as he shook his head in amusement. �It�s not possible.�

�Figure it out.�

She abruptly stood, picked up her cup of coffee, and left the restaurant with it. Hassan waited a moment until she was out of sight and pulled out his phone.

His first trip to the islands, some fifteen years earlier, had been with Avery Tolar, his mentor and supervising partner, and they had flown from Miami on Cayman Airways with a load of rowdy scuba divers, all guzzling rum punch and trying to get plastered before landing. Avery made the trip down several times a year, and though he was married and though the firm frowned on womanizing, he chased the women hard. And he drank more than he should have. One morning as he nursed a hangover, he apologized to Mitch and said the pressure of a bad marriage was getting the best of him.

Over the years Mitch had trained his mind to shut out thoughts of the Memphis nightmare, but there were moments when it was impossible. As the Challenger descended through the clouds and he caught the first glimpses of the bright blue Caribbean, he had to smile at his luck in life. Through no fault of his own, he had been within an inch of either being killed or indicted, yet he had managed to wiggle free. The bad guys went down, and hard, and they deserved it, and while they were serving time Mitch and Abby were starting over.

Stephen Stodghill had flown from Rome to Miami to Georgetown and arrived four hours earlier. He was waiting outside customs with a cab and they headed for downtown.

Another memory. The first wave of warm tropical air blowing in through the open windows of the cab as the driver listened to soft reggae. Just like fifteen years earlier.

Stephen was saying, �Our lawyer�s name is Jennings, British chap, nice enough. I met him two hours ago and he�s up to speed. According to our people, he�s a top guy here in the Caymans and knows all the banks and the ins and outs of transferring money. He knows Solomon Frick, our soon-to-be newest friend at Trinidad Trust. They probably launder money together on the side.�

�That�s not funny. According to my research, the Cayman bankers have cleaned up their act in the past twenty years.�

�Do we really care?�

�We do not. Over dinner I�ll tell you all about my first trip down here.�

�A Bendini story?�

�Yes.�

�I can�t wait. Around Scully the legend is that the Mob almost got you. But you pulled a fast one and outfoxed the Mob. Is that true?�

�I outran the Mob. I didn�t realize I was a legend.�

�Not really. Who has time to tell war stories at a place like Scully? All they care is about billing fifty hours a week.�

�We prefer sixty, Stephen.�

The cab turned a corner and there was the ocean. Mitch nodded and said, �That�s Hog Sty Bay, where the pirates used to dock their ships and hide on the island.�

�Yeah, I read that somewhere too,� Stephen said, with no interest whatsoever.

�Where are we staying?� Mitch asked, happy to forgo the tourist spiel.

�Ritz-Carlton on Seven Mile Beach. I�ve already checked in. Pretty nice.�

�It�s a Ritz.�

�So.�

�So, isn�t it supposed to be nice?�

�I suppose. I wouldn�t know. I�m just a lowly associate who�d normally be staying in cheaper joints but since I�m hanging with a real partner I get the upgrade though I still had to fly commercial. Economy, not first class.�

�Your brighter days are ahead.�

�That�s what I keep telling myself.�

�Let�s go see Jennings.�

�Here�s his firm,� Stephen said, handing over a file. �It�s a British outfit, a dozen lawyers.�

�Aren�t all the firms down here British?�

�I guess. Wonder why we haven�t bought one and added it to our letterhead.�

�At the rate we�re losing them we might need to expand.�

Jennings was on the third floor of a modern bank building a few blocks from the harbor. They met in a conference room with a view of the ocean that would have been enticing if not for the three mammoth cruise ships docked in Hog Sty Bay. He was a stuffy sort who talked down through his nose and had trouble smiling. He wore a coat and tie and seemed to enjoy being better dressed than his American counterparts, neither of whom gave a damn. In his opinion, the best strategy was to establish a new account at Trinidad Trust, a bank he knew well. Solomon Frick was an acquaintance. Many of the banks on the islands refused to do business with Americans, so it was best to have Scully�s London office open the account and keep everything away from the feds.

�Your tax people are notoriously difficult,� he explained through his nose.

Mitch shrugged. What was he supposed to do? Rush to the defense of the IRS? When the money was collected, hopefully by the following morning, it would be transferred to a numbered account at the Trinidad Trust, pursuant to Mr. Mansour�s instructions. From there, with one push of a button, it would be wired to some yet-to-be-determined account, and gone forever.

After an hour, they left his office and walked two blocks to a similar building where they met Solomon Frick, a gregarious backslapper from South Africa. A quick Scully background check on Frick raised a number of red flags. He had worked in banks from Singapore to Ireland to the Caribbean and was always on the move, usually with some debris scattered behind. However, his current employer, Trinidad Trust, was reputable.

Frick handed Mitch and Jennings the paperwork, which they reviewed and emailed to Riley Casey, who was at his desk in London. He signed where necessary and sent everything back to Frick. Scully & Pershing now had an account in the Caymans.

Mitch emailed his contact at the Royal Bank of Quebec, which was just down the street, and authorized the transfer of his contribution of $10 million. He watched the large screen on Frick�s wall, and about ten minutes later his money hit the new Scully account.

�Your money?� Jennings asked, confused.

Mitch nodded slightly and said, �It�s a very long story.�

Mitch called Riley, who then called his contact in the Foreign Office. Stephen emailed Roberto Maggi with the wiring instructions. Luca�s money was sitting in an account on the island of Martinique, another Caribbean tax haven. Luca had dealt with several of them and was no stranger to the offshore games.

As they waited, Mitch glanced occasionally at the screen and the sum of money he�d just said goodbye to. There was a measure of relief in parting with the dirty funds he should have never grabbed way back then. He remembered the exact moment he made the decision to do it. He had been where he was now � in a bank building in Georgetown, not five minutes away by foot. He had been frightened and angry that the entire Bendini conspiracy had robbed him of his future, and maybe his life as well. He had convinced himself that they, the firm, owed him something. He�d had the access code and passwords and written authority, so he took the money.

There was now a relief in knowing it might actually do some good.

He called Abby, who was six hours ahead, and they talked for a long time. She was bored, killing time, and waiting on word from Hassan. She had talked to Cory, on the green phone of course, and they agreed that no money would change hands unless Abby was convinced Giovanna was safe. Assuming, of course, she was still alive and the deal was still on.

The British slush money arrived at 3:25 and came from a bank in the Bahamas. Twenty minutes later, the Italian funds arrived from a bank on Guadaloupe in the French West Indies. The current tally was $50 million, including Luca�s contribution.

Riley called Mitch from London with the intel that the American money would not arrive until Wednesday morning, unwelcome news. Since he had no idea who was sending it or where it was coming from, he could not complain.

Mitch had sent emails to Omar Celik and Denys Tullos in Istanbul but they had not responded. When it was time to leave, Mitch called Jack in New York on the off chance that he�d had some luck with the Scully management committee. He had not. With some bitterness that was uncharacteristic, Jack explained that enough of them had fled the city to prevent a quorum.

Wednesday, May 25.

At 9 A.M. Abby entered the hotel�s restaurant and asked for the same table. She followed the waiter to it and was mildly surprised because Mr. Hassan Mansour was not there. She took a seat and ordered coffee, juice, toast and jam. She texted Mitch just to say good morning and he responded quickly. She was not surprised that he was awake because he had not slept ten hours in the last month.

A well-dressed Moroccan couple sat at the nearest table. The gentleman was working for Cory and on her team. He glanced at her but did not acknowledge her presence.

Hassan finally came in and was all smiles and apologies. He had been delayed in traffic and so on, and wasn�t the weather nice? He asked for tea and went on for a few minutes as if they were tourists. She ate dry toast and tried to calm her nerves.

�So, Mrs. McDeere, what is the status?� She had asked him at least three times to call her Abby.

�We�re expecting two wires this morning, and they will tally things up to seventy-five million, as I promised.�

A lame effort at a frown, but it was obvious Hassan and his clients wanted the money. �But the deal was for a hundred million, Mrs. McDeere.�

�Yes, we are aware of that. You demanded one hundred and we tried our best to get it. But we�re a bit short. Seventy-five is all we have. And, it is imperative that I see Giovanna before the money is wired.�

�And you have an account at Trinidad Trust, as directed?�

�Yes,� she said, playing along. She knew that he knew the answer. His banker, Solomon Frick, had informed him that the account had been opened, or that�s what Jennings had told Mitch. Frick and his bank were waiting. Everything was set. The fortune was practically in hand, and Hassan was having a difficult time hiding his excitement.

�Would you like some toast?� she asked. There were four buttered slices on the small plate.

He took one, said �Thank you,� and pulled it in half.

She said, �We have plenty of time. The deadline is hours away.�

�Yes, it�s just that my client still demands one hundred.�

�And we cannot meet that demand, Mr. Mansour. It�s quite simple. Seventy-five, take it or leave it.�

Hassan actually grimaced at something, probably the idea of walking away. He sipped his tea and tried to appear concerned that things were falling apart. They ate for a few moments, and he said, �Here is our plan. I�ll meet you in the lobby at four P.M. You will inform me that all of the wires are complete and your money is ready. We will then leave together, go to a safe place, and you will see Giovanna.�

�I�m not leaving the hotel.�

�As you wish.�

Hassan listened intently for a moment, then put his phone on the table. He poured himself more tea and asked, �For you?�

�No thanks.� She had taken one sip. She doubted she would ever want another cup of tea.

Hassan removed another phone from another pocket and stared at the screen. Minutes passed slowly. He sipped even more deliberately. Finally, his first phone buzzed softly. He suppressed a smile, gathered both phones, and said, �The money has arrived. A pleasure doing business, Mrs. McDeere. I�ve never had a lovelier adversary.�

�Sure. Whatever. A real pleasure.�

He stood and said, �I�ll go now. It�s best if you wait a moment before leaving.�

In a split second he was gone. He stepped between two hanging rugs on the other side of the room and vanished. Abby waited, counted to ten, got to her feet, listened silently, then said, �Giovanna. Are you there?�

There was no answer.

Abby yanked open the rugs and froze in horror.

�Giovanna!� she yelled. �Giovanna!� She pulled at other hanging rugs looking for another room, another exit, but found nothing. She stood and gawked at the empty chair, the empty room, and felt like screaming. But she couldn�t hesitate. She had to find Giovanna and she couldn�t be far away.

Abby managed to slip through more rugs and find the cramped passageway. She hurried through it and back to the cobblestone street where she stopped and looked around at thousands of people wandering in all directions. The vast majority were men in long robes of various colors, but white was dominant. At first glance she did not see a single woman robed in black.

Which way to go? Where to turn? She had never been so lost in her life. It was hopeless. She saw the top of the dome of a mosque and remembered passing near it earlier. Going toward it made as much sense as anything else.

She had lost the money and she had lost Giovanna. It was surreal, impossible to believe, and she had no idea what to do next. As she drifted with the crowd she realized she had to call Mitch. Perhaps he could stop the wire, get the money back, but she knew the truth.

A man was screaming at her, a wild-eyed, red-faced lunatic ranting in another language, angry at her for some reason. He blocked her path and stepped closer and stumbled. She realized he was drunk, but he did not stop his tirade. She turned to her right and picked up her pace. He stumbled again, then fell hard. She got away from him but was rattled even more. She kept moving, and when she saw a small group of people who were obviously tourists she kept close to them. They were Dutch, with neat backpacks and hiking boots. She followed along for a few moments as she tried to collect her thoughts. The Dutch found an outdoor caf� and decided to take a coffee break. Abby found a table nearby and tried to ignore them. She also tried to settle her nerves but realized she was crying.

Her nearest ally was Cory. With the green phone she called him and he answered immediately. �Where are you?� he snapped, obviously wired.

�In the medina, close to the mosque. Where are you?�

�Hell if I know. I�m trying to find my colleagues. We�re close by, I think.�

�They�re watching you?�

�What?�

�Listen to me, Cory. The money has been wired and Giovanna has disappeared, again.�

�Shit!�

�I�m afraid so. I saw her for a second and she is alive. At least she was moments ago. Mitch completed the wire, then she vanished. I blew it, Cory. She�s gone.�

�Are you okay, Abby?�

�Yes. Please come find me. I�m at an outdoor caf� near a row of stalls selling leather goods.�

�Go to the Mouassine Mosque, the nearest one. There is a fountain on the north side. I�ll find you there.�

�Got it.� Where the hell was north?

She walked across a crowded plaza and saw the dome in the distance. It was not as close as she thought.

A familiar sound rang in her bag and she realized she had forgotten about the Jakl. She stopped next to a stall selling cheese and looked at the Jakl. Of course they were still following her. It was Noura.

�Yes,� Abby said.

�Listen to me, Abby. Turn to your left and walk past the large souk with brown pottery. Do you see it?�

�Where are you, Noura?�

�I�m here, watching you. Do you see the brown pottery?�

�Yes. I�m walking that way. Where�s Giovanna, Noura?�

�In the medina. Stay on the phone. Next you�ll see the small plaza with a row of donkey carts. Walk toward them.�

�I am, I am.�

Noura materialized from thin air and was beside Abby. �Just keep walking,� she said and put her phone away. Abby returned hers to her bag. She glanced at Noura, who looked exactly as she had when they first met in the coffee shop a month earlier. Her face was completely veiled, her eyes barely visible. She wondered if it was the same person and realized there was no way to know. However, her voice sounded familiar.

�What�s going on, Noura?�

�You will see.�

�Is Giovanna okay? Tell me nothing has happened to her.�

�You will see.�

They walked past the donkey carts and onto a residential street that was quieter and slightly less crowded. A smaller mosque, Sidi Ishak, was in front of them.

�Stop here,� Noura said. �To the right of the mosque, on the corner there, is a tiny souk for coffee and tea. Go inside.�

Noura abruptly turned and walked away. Abby hurried down the street, past the mosque and into the store. In a corner, partially hidden, was Giovanna Sandroni, wearing the same jeans, jacket, and hiking boots she had worn the day she was abducted. She grabbed Abby and they embraced tightly and for a long time. The shopkeeper eyed them suspiciously but said nothing.

They stepped outside and onto the street. Abby called Cory, gave him the news, then called Mitch.

�Are we safe?� Giovanna asked as they walked back to the market.

�Yes, Giovanna, we are safe. And we�re taking you to Rome. The airplane is waiting. Do you need anything?�

�No. Just food.�

�We have food.�

Abby glanced at an alley behind a row of stalls selling fruits and vegetables. A cardboard box was half filled with rotten produce and other garbage. She took a few steps toward it and dropped the Jakl into the mess.

�Have you ever stopped to think about how much misery those bad boys can create with seventy-five million dollars?� Stephen asked.

�It�s actually eighty-five, and yes I have,� Mitch replied. �More people will be terrorized and killed. More bombs bought and detonated. More buildings burned. Nothing good will come from the money. Instead of being used for food and medicine, it�ll be wasted on more bullets.�

�You feel bad about that?�

�If I think of it in that context, yes. But I don�t. We had no choice because there was a life at stake.�

�I wouldn�t worry about it either. As long as it�s bad actors killing one another, who really cares?�

They were sitting at a small table on the shaded porch of a coffee bar overlooking Hog Sty Bay. One massive cruise ship was docked and another was visible on the horizon. They were nervous and staring at Mitch�s phone in the center of the table.

It finally buzzed and Mitch grabbed it. From 4,500 miles away, Abby said, �We�ve got her and we�re going to the airport.� He flashed a smile and gave Stephen a thumbs-up.

�Great. Is she okay?�

�Yes. She called Luca and can�t wait to get home.�

�I�ll call Roberto.� Mitch was choked up for a second, then said, �Great job, Abby. I�m so proud of you.�

�I didn�t really have a choice, did I?�

�We�ll discuss it later.�

�You have no idea. She disappeared after the money was wired. I�ll tell you all about it.�

�I�ll see you in Rome. I love you.�

Mitch pressed the OFF button and looked at Stephen. �They�re going to the airport and headed for home. We did it.�

Stephen shrugged and said, �Oh well, all in a day�s work.�

�Right. I�m calling Roberto and Jack. You call Riley in London.�

�Will do. Where am I going from here?�

�You�re going to New York. I�m going to Rome.�

�Who gets the jet?�

�Not you.�

�Figures.�

�But I�ll approve an upgrade to business class.�

�That�s nice. Thanks.�

As Mitch entered 110 Broad for the last time, he paused and drifted to his right where the designer benches sat empty, always empty, and the expensive and baffling paintings hung in plain view, ignored by all. He sat down and watched, just like his old pal Lamar Quin, as hundreds of young professionals raced upward with their phones stuck to their ears. The crowd was not as thick because the hour was late, almost 9:30 A.M., an unheard-of hour for arrivals in Big Law.

For the past week, Mitch had been going in later and leaving earlier, if he went in at all.

He finally made it to his office, where he checked on his storage boxes, then left without a word to his secretary. He might call her later.

Jack was expecting him at 9:45.

�Please thank Barry again,� Mitch said. �For his incredible hospitality. We might go back in August.�

�Well, I�ll be there, Mitch. I�m leaving July thirtieth.�

�I�m leaving now, Jack. I�m walking out, resigning, quitting, whatever you want to call it. I can�t work here. I saw Mavis Chisenhall yesterday in the cafeteria and she almost broke her neck trying to get away. Too ashamed to speak to me. I can�t work in a place where people avoid me.�

�Come on, Mitch. You�re a hero right now, the man of the hour.�

�Doesn�t feel that way.�

�It�s true. Everyone knows what the management committee did, or didn�t do, and the entire firm is upset.�

�Scully lost its spine, Jack, if it ever had one.�

�Don�t do it, Mitch. Let some time pass. Everybody will get over it.�

�That�s easy for you to say. You�re leaving.�

�True. I just hate to see you go somewhere else, Mitch.�

�I�m outta here, Jack. So is Luca. I talked to him yesterday and he�s resigning. Giovanna too. She�s moving back to Rome and will take over his office.�

�Please, Mitch, don�t overreact.�

�And I�m keeping Lannak. They�re fed up with Scully.�

�Poaching clients already?�

�Call it whatever. You�ve done your share. I can think of a few you�ve snagged. That�s the game in Big Law.�

Mitch stood and said, �There are four boxes of my office junk on my desk. Could you have them delivered to my apartment?�

�Of course. You�re really leaving?�

�I�m gone, Jack. Let�s part as friends.�

Jack stood and they shook hands.

�I�d love to see you and Abby and the boys in August. Barry�s counting on it.�

�We�ll be there.�

The law firm of Scully & Pershing was founded in 2009 when I needed it to add flavor and authenticity to The Associate, that year�s legal thriller. Big law firms are big targets for writers of fiction, and I�ve had my share of fun at their expense. Five years later, I retained Scully again in Gray Mountain.

It was the perfect place to put Mitch fifteen years after The Firm imploded in Memphis. Now, he�s leaving again and I�m not sure where he�ll turn up next.

I was once a lawyer in a small town, far removed from the world of Big Law. And since I�ve always tried to avoid big firms, I have no idea how they function. Typically, I did what I usually do when trying to avoid research. I called a friend.

John Levy is one of the senior partners of Sidley & Austin, a mammoth Chicago firm with offices around the world. He invited me to stop by for lunch and toss questions at him and some of his colleagues. I had a delightful time talking books and law with Chris Abbinante, Robert Lewis, Pran Jha, Dave Gordon, Paul Choi, Teresa Wilton Harmon, and, of course, Mr. Levy himself. John is one of the finest lawyers I�ve had the pleasure of knowing.

If asked to, I would swear on a Bible that Scully is not based on Sidley.

Thanks also to other friends: Glad Jones, Gene McDade, and Suzanne Herz.

A special thanks to the readers who have enjoyed The Firm over the years and been kind enough to write and ask: Will we ever see Mitch and Abby again?