Vanishing Act (11 page)

“Oh, that is
so
nice of you,” Susan Carol said, noticeably toning down her Southern accent—a good move since Evelyn was from the Midwest. “We'll be sure to tell Evelyn we saw you and how kind you were.”

Norwood beamed to the point where Stevie wondered if he was really the same guy he had seen yesterday.

“And we're
so
sorry about Nadia. We hope she's going to be found soon and that she's okay.”

Norwood nodded. “Yes, it's been tough for everyone. SVR, bad group of people, you know.”

There he went again, pinning it on the SVR. “So that's really true?” Stevie asked. “Wow. We could hardly believe it. Have you heard anything from them? Has there been a ransom note?”

“No, nothing that specific—yet,” Norwood said. “Mr. Symanov is convinced they're making him twist in the wind for a day or two before they tell him what they want. Well, we all know what they want.”

“Will Mr. Symanov give in?” Susan Carol asked, still the picture of concern.

“I don't know,” Norwood said. “He was so upset yesterday. It's hard to believe this could go on in today's world.” He sighed, heavily burdened. “One would hope sports and politics wouldn't mix, but I guess that's naive.” He looked at his watch. “You tell Evelyn good luck against Raymond in the second round. And tell her we'll be watching her when she plays Nadia in the third round….” He paused a minute. “Of course we
hope
they play in the third round.”

“Yes, of course. Very nice to meet you,” Susan Carol said.

He smiled, seemed to catch someone's eye, and said, “Jorge,
hola
!” and raced across the room to hug a man who had been sitting by the window.

“Just a wild guess,” Stevie said as he left. “Jorge's a player's father.”

“No doubt,” Susan Carol said. “You breathing yet?”

“Barely. Did you notice he knew just who Evelyn was playing in the second round?”

“He could have looked it up on the draw sheet when Melissa told him about us,” she said. “Still, Tom Ross was right. It's pretty obvious they would
love
to get Evelyn away from my uncle. And we would have been toast trying to pose as players.”

There was no arguing with that. Stevie had been convinced the day before that Hughes Norwood's face would break if he smiled. Now, among clients and potential clients—or their siblings—he couldn't stop beaming.

Stevie wanted more French toast. He stood up to go back to the buffet. “You aren't going to eat
more,
are you?” Susan Carol said. “Have you got a hole in your stomach?”

“I'm still growing, remember?” Stevie said. “And the prices in here are a lot better than out at the tennis center.”

She opened her mouth to say something, then stopped. The room had suddenly gone quiet. Stevie looked in the direction of the door and saw why: Misha and Yolanda Symanov were walking in the door. They stopped to exchange kisses on both cheeks with Melissa and were then greeted with hugs by Hughes Norwood. He led them to a table in the corner and waved a much younger man over. He whispered to him for a moment and the younger man bolted to the buffet table and began loading two plates with food. Stevie realized he was staring. He looked around and saw that everyone else in the room was doing the same thing. The Symanovs looked remarkably composed under the circumstances. Norwood's man Friday brought food to the table and then scurried back to get drinks.

Some of the other people in the room walked over to the table to greet the Symanovs. There were more hugs and kisses and lots of quiet talking. Stevie was still standing, having forgotten about his French toast. Suddenly he saw Norwood turn and wave in their direction. His heart started racing again. “Steve, Susan—can you come over here for a moment?”

Susan Carol gave him a stay-calm look as she stood and walked to the table, followed by Stevie.

“The Symanovs just wanted to say hello to you two,” Norwood said. “They've seen your sister play.”

“She is very good player,” Misha Symanov said as he shook hands with each of them. “She will be champion, I think, someday.”

“Might make good doubles partners,” Norwood said. “Contrasting styles, not to mention backgrounds.”

“Yes, I think maybe. Nadia is tall, can play the net. Evelyn is more ground stroker, no?”

“Yes, she is,” Susan Carol said. “Right now, though, we're only concerned with seeing Nadia safe.”

Mrs. Symanova had started to cry again. “Thank you, my dear,” she said. “You are very kind.”

“Will you go out to the matches today?” Susan Carol said.

“Or stay here?”

“We are not certain yet,” Mr. Symanov said. “There is
so
much media there. We did four TV interviews this morning. Maybe later, if we are needed, we will go out there. For now, I think we stay here and rest once we have eaten.”

“It seems like the entire world is following this story,” Susan Carol said.

“Yes. We are grateful for all the concern people have shown. Maybe this will show the SVR they cannot get away with this. The whole world knows what they are attempting. We pray for the best.”

Stevie thought he had heard those words before. Then it hit him: he
had
heard them just a few minutes ago, watching the
Today
show interview.

“Please,” Mrs. Symanova said, “give our best to your sister.”

“Yes,” Norwood said. “Please do. And tell her to think about Nadia as a doubles partner in the future. They'd be a great team—on and off the court.”

Stevie saw Mrs. Symanova's eyes cloud again. “She'll be okay,” Norwood said to her. “Have faith.”

“And pray for the best,” Susan Carol said.

Stevie wondered if he should say “amen.” He decided against it.

11:
WHAT NEXT?

THEY DECIDED
it was time to make a graceful exit from the SMG suite while they were still ahead. Stevie's only regret was the second plate of French toast he didn't have. They walked quickly down the hallway to the elevator bank and Stevie turned to press a button. Susan Carol waved him off.

“Where are we going now?” he asked.

“We have to get our computers back. Plus, I want to see what Tom Ross thinks about all this.”

They continued down the hall, past the suite marked
INTERNATIONAL MANAGEMENT GROUP
and the one marked
SFX
, until they arrived at the last one, which was marked
OCTAGON INC
.

A smiling woman with short dark hair greeted them at the door. “Hi, can I help you?” she said.

“We're looking for Tom Ross,” Susan Carol said.

“Oh, he's in a meeting,” she said. “I'm Kelly Wolf, his assistant. Can I be of help?”

Susan Carol shook her head. “No, we really need to talk to Tom. It's kind of an emergency. Could you possibly tell him that Susan Carol and Steve are here?”

Kelly Wolf eyed Susan Carol for a minute, clearly unsure of why she would have an emergency involving her boss. “Hang on one second,” she said. “Let me see.”

She walked to a closed door at the back of the suite and walked inside. A moment later Tom Ross, looking nervous and harried, emerged.

“Guys, I'm in the middle of a tough negotiation on a shoe contract,” he said. “Are you sure this can't wait?”

“Can we have three minutes?” Susan Carol said.

He did the tie thing again, pulling it tight one more time.

“Okay, okay.” He glanced around, looking for a private spot. The Octagon lounge was at least as crowded as the SMG lounge.

“The hallway?” Stevie suggested.

“Too public,” Ross said. “Follow me.”

He walked them across the room, opened a door, and ushered them into a bathroom. “Sorry,” he said. “This is the best I can do. At least it's a big one.”

He sat on the sink and listened while Susan Carol filled him in on their visit to SMG.

“Hughes's behavior with you isn't surprising at all,” he said. He shook his head. “That old trick about playing doubles, though, that went out years ago. No one cares about doubles anymore….”

“That doesn't matter,” Susan Carol said. “What matters, I think, is that he and the father are both acting as if this is an inconvenience, while the mother is clearly hysterical.”

Ross looked at Stevie. “Did it seem that way to you too?” he asked.

Stevie was glad someone cared about his opinion. “It just felt like they knew something she didn't,” he said.

“Exactly,” Susan Carol put in.

“I think you're onto something,” Ross said. “Problem is, I don't know what. Maybe they're just trying to be calm for the mom's sake. Or maybe they've heard something but for some reason aren't telling her.”

“Like what?” Susan Carol asked.

“No idea. But if I'm not back in that room in about thirty seconds, I'm going to blow a multimillion-dollar deal. Look, here's my card. That's my cell number on the bottom. Call me this afternoon.”

Susan Carol took the card and put it in her pocket. When they walked out of the bathroom, Stevie noticed several people giving them funny looks. They picked up their computer bags, which were behind the front desk, thanked Kelly Wolf, and walked back to the elevators. In parting, Ross had recommended they walk three blocks over to Grand Central Station and take the subway out to Flushing rather than wait for the next courtesy bus from the hotel.

“You just missed the ten-thirty. Next one isn't until eleven. With traffic, it'll be noon before you get there. The subway will take you forty-five minutes.”

Stevie had never been on the New York City subway but figured it would be fine during the daytime. Susan Carol wasn't as sure. “I've heard all the stories,” she said as they walked to Lexington Avenue and turned left to walk two blocks down to 42nd Street.

“Come on,” he said. “It'll be an adventure.”

“Just what we need,” she said. “More adventures.”

He was right about the subway being fine. They didn't have any trouble finding the number 7 train, but when they got to the platform it was jammed with people clearly headed for the tennis tournament. Stevie knew this because many of them were wearing tennis outfits—especially the women. Still, somehow the train swallowed them all up and there was room to stand even if there were no seats. The train was quiet—Stevie wondered if that was the nature of a tennis crowd, or if perhaps the fans were thinking about Nadia Symanova. After the second stop in Queens, the train came out of the tunnel and became elevated. Stevie liked that. In just under thirty minutes, they were at the station marked
SHEA STADIUM
/
WILLETS POINT
and saw the smaller signs pointing to
NATIONAL TENNIS CENTER
. They spilled out of the train along with just about everyone else and followed the crowds across the street and up onto the boardwalk that led from Shea Stadium to the tennis center. It was teeming with fans and vendors selling everything from T-shirts to caps to tennis bags. There were also the inevitable ticket scalpers, all of them yelling, “Anyone selling tickets?”

Stevie knew from his experience at the Final Four that this was code to let people know they had tickets without taking a chance on being accused of scalping by a passing policeman. As they came down the steps onto the promenade outside the gates, Stevie could see that part of the area had been roped off so that TV crews could set up platforms to do live shots. Stevie saw signs for CNN, MSNBC, Fox News, ESPN, Fox Sports, and E! There were roving crews doing stand-ups in the middle of the crowd without benefit of a platform. “The whole world is here,” he said to Susan Carol.

“And then some,” she said.

They put on their press credentials so they could go in the gate marked
PLAYERS
/
OFFICIALS
/
MEDIA
. Stevie's shoulder was aching a little bit from carrying his computer bag. They had come in at the opposite end of the grounds from where they had arrived the day before with Kelleher, so they had to trek all the way across the plaza to the media center. Stevie was breathing hard by the time they arrived.

“Let me guess,” Susan Carol said. “You're hungry?”

“Always,” Stevie said.

That would have to wait. Kelleher and Mearns were waiting to debrief them. Stevie said nothing when Susan Carol reported her uncle's response to her questions about Evelyn Rubin. Kelleher and Mearns were far more interested in their experience in the SMG suite than anything else.

“Here's what Arlen told me just a few minutes ago,” Kelleher said. “Norwood called and told him they had been contacted by the SVR. Their demands are very simple: make a public announcement that Nadia will represent Russia in the Fed Cup and the Olympics for the rest of her career and she'll be returned immediately. Do it by midnight tomorrow or they'll have her on a plane to Russia.”

“Can they get away with that?” Stevie asked.

Kelleher shrugged. “Arlen seems to think they can.”

“Have they thought about getting our government involved?” Susan Carol asked.

Kelleher shook his head. “That's what's interesting,” he said. “I talked to my FBI guy and he said they have no evidence at all that the SVR's involved.”

“What about the police?” Stevie asked, looking at Mearns.

“Same thing,” Mearns said. “The witnesses they talked to all had different versions. But nothing of any substance. None of their sources seem to have any serious clues.”

Stevie was wondering when the Symanovs had heard from the SVR. Maybe that was what they were going to talk to Norwood about in the SMG suite. But if they were discussing something that serious, why would Norwood have waved them over to make his little recruiting pitch to the brother and sister of Evelyn Rubin? And where, he wondered, did Brendan Gibson and the Makarovs fit in to all this? He felt dazed.

“So what do we do next?” Susan Carol wondered. “Just wait?”

“That's probably not a good idea,” Bud Collins said, walking up. “It sounds like this kid is in serious trouble.”

The discussion about what to do next continued while Stevie picked up a match schedule for the day. One match caught his eye: the second match on court 3, the Grandstand court. Elena Makarova would play Kristen Stafford. It was about twelve-thirty and the opening matches had started at eleven o'clock. Stevie turned to the computer behind him and saw that the first match on the Grandstand was over. It looked as if Makarova and Stafford had just started.

“I'm going for a walk,” he announced. “I want to watch some tennis. I need to clear my head for a little while.”

Kelleher wanted to stay near the press center in case something broke. Mearns and Collins were going to walk out to court 11 to watch Jonas Björkman play Greg Rusedski. “Played each other in the semis five years ago,” Collins said. “Now they're playing on an outside court in the first round. In fact, Björkman had to make it through qualifying just to get here.”

“How many matches do you have to win to qualify?” Stevie asked.

“Three,” Collins said. “They start with sixty-four players and sixteen get into the tournament. That tournament is probably a better story than the real one. You lose in the first round this week, you still make ten thousand dollars. The real pressure is to get into the first round.”

“I can see why a wild card is a big deal,” Stevie said. “How many are there here?”

“Eight,” Collins said. “And you're right. That's why the agents beg for them.”

Stevie started for the door.

“You mind if I go with you?” Susan Carol said.

That was a dicey question. She just now seemed to be getting over being angry with him. If he took her with him, she was going to be angry all over again. “I was sort of going to just go watch the match on the Grandstand court a little,” Stevie fumbled. “I haven't been in there yet. But I'm going to get a hamburger first.”

She had been looking at him suspiciously until he brought up the hamburger. Now she rolled her eyes.

“You're unbelievable,” she said.

Maybe. But she did seem to believe him.

Stevie walked briskly across the plaza and back under Louis Armstrong Stadium. He remembered seeing signs the day before that said
GRANDSTAND COURT
, so he knew he was going in the right direction. He could hear the sounds of the match being played on Louis Armstrong as he walked and noticed there were long lines of people waiting to get into the court. He glanced at the schedule he had put into his back pocket and saw why: Roger Federer, the number one player in the world, was playing his first match. He now understood why the people who ran the French Open and Wimbledon would stick Americans on outside courts. How could Federer, the defending champion,
not
play his first match on the biggest court on the grounds?

Maybe he would write about that later in the day. For the moment, he followed the signs that took him around the Armstrong hallways until he saw a sign that told him that if he went up a flight of steps and turned right he would reach the Grandstand. When he got to the top of the steps, he could see that the Grandstand court was actually attached to the side of Armstrong and there were walkways that allowed people to go back and forth between the two courts.

He turned right and walked to the corner of the court, where he was stopped by ushers and told to wait for the changeover. He looked at the scoreboard and saw that Makarova was already leading 3–1 in the first set. She was serving at his end of the court. Stevie studied her as she tossed the ball and served with a twisting topspin so that it high-hopped Stafford, forcing her to lunge and hit her return awkwardly into the net.