Vanishing Act (15 page)

“The winner of the Symanova–Joanne Walsh match will play her second-round match on Friday, and the winner of that match will play Sunday. So the tournament is running right on schedule. When I'm finished, Nadia will make a statement, but please remember she's been through an ordeal and she has to play tonight, so she can't talk long.”

Bud Collins stood up in the front row to ask a question and Kantarian waved a hand at him. “Wait till we get a mike to you, Bud,” he said as someone rushed in with a handheld for him.

Collins came right to the point. “Arlen, with all due respect, what do you mean, you can't give us details? We're all thankful Nadia is safe, but now that this is over, don't you think the public deserves to have an understanding of who did this and why?”

There was some catcalling from the fans as he sat down, some people yelling, “Yeah, tell us!” and others saying, “Leave her alone, media!”

Kantarian smiled uncomfortably. “I hear you, Bud,” he said. “But even though Nadia is safe now, this isn't over. There are some issues we are still dealing with—like bringing her kidnappers to justice—that make it impossible for us to be as forthcoming as we'd like to be.”

Kantarian babbled on for a few more minutes about how cooperative everyone had been, how supportive Symanova's fellow players had been—“I guess he didn't hear Walsh's agent screeching for a default,” Susan Carol whispered—and how proud he was of everyone in the sport for “coming together in a crisis.” Finally, he brought Symanova to the podium. When he did, Hughes Norwood came up with her.

The crowd went wild when Symanova got to the mike, and she waved and smiled some more.

“This is turning into a damn pep rally,” Kelleher said.

“Isn't that the point?” Stevie asked.

“Apparently.”

Someone had the mike and was asking a question. “Nadia, McDonald Faircloth from Fox News. Can you describe your ordeal?”

Symanova smiled and looked at Norwood, who nodded. Apparently this question was okay to answer. “It was very awful,” she said, her English carrying just the trace of an accent. “Before I knew what was happening, there was something covering my mouth and I was being pulled along. As soon as we were in the car, I was blindfolded. It was all very, very scary. I prayed to God to help me, to save me, and he did. I know many people have prayed for me, and I want to thank them all.”

“Did you fear for your life?” the Fox guy said, following up.

She smiled. “Of course I did. If you were shut in a room with no windows for two days with a blindfold on, I think you would be scared too.”

Stevie wondered how she knew the room had no windows if she was blindfolded.

Someone else had the mike. “Nadia, Joseph Frisell from NBC News. Two questions: Were you fed? And do you think you'll be able to play tonight after what you've been through?”

She smiled again. “Yes, they did feed me, though not very much. Last night after I was safe, I had a giant steak. I'm feeling great now.” She moved away from the podium so everyone could see her from head to toe and struck a pose. Leaning back into the mike, she said, “How do I look?”

Whistles and catcalls came from all sides. “Boy, she's good,” Mearns said.

Symanova was still talking. “I do not know, though, how I will play tonight. As soon as I leave here, I will go for a hit and hope I am okay to play. For now, I am happy to be alive, and I thank everyone for their love and their prayers.”

Hughes Norwood now took the microphone. “That's all the time we have for now. Thank you very much.”

People were screaming all at once, trying to ask more questions. Bud Collins and a couple of other people in the front row tried to advance on the podium for follow-up questions and were practically knocked down by security guards. Symanova was waving to the crowd as she exited.

“Dog and pony show,” Kelleher said, watching the entourage disappear through the gate.

“What's a dog and pony show?” Stevie asked.

“Something sensational with no substance,” Susan Carol said. “They're just trying to get publicity without telling us anything.”

“Well, they certainly accomplished that,” Stevie said. “What do we do now?”

Kelleher shrugged. “I think we proceed just as we had planned.”

“Except for one thing,” Susan Carol said.

“What's that?”

“I think you should try to call your FBI guy again. He's got to be able to tell you more than we heard here.”

Kelleher nodded. “Thirteen-year-olds should not be as smart as you are, Susan Carol,” he said.

Mearns said, “You need to get out to court four, Stevie. I can see on the big scoreboard that Evelyn's match has started.”

She was right. They hadn't gotten any answers during the dog and pony show, so they would have to go find them on their own. Which is what they should have counted on from the start.

15:
MEDIA DARLING

IT TOOK
them several minutes to get off the practice court and through the throngs still milling around on the plaza in hopes of getting a glimpse of Symanova, who was now long gone. Stevie walked as quickly as he could to court 4, which was directly behind the practice courts. It had grandstands on both sides with space, Stevie guessed, for about three thousand. He noticed a sign on the far side of the court that said
MEDIA ONLY
and headed there to find a seat. It wasn't easy. The place was packed. There were at least seventy-five media members watching Evelyn Rubin play Lisa Raymond—which was exactly seventy-three more than had watched her on Monday—and Stevie had to squeeze into a corner seat.

Rubin was up 4–3 in the first set with Raymond serving. Stevie recognized Raymond's name. She was one of the older players on tour. Someone, if his memory was right, who was more of a doubles specialist than a singles player at this point in her career. He looked at the draw sheet in his pocket and discovered he was right: her singles ranking had dropped to number 108 but he knew she had once been a top-twenty player. Rubin was wearing a baseball cap to protect herself from the sun and had her hair tied back, just as she had on Monday. One thing Stevie liked about her was that she didn't grunt or shriek when she hit the ball. If there was one thing Stevie had never liked about Maria Sharapova or Venus Williams, it was all the shrieking. Rubin almost made it look easy. She didn't crush every shot—she'd use topspin some of the time, the occasional drop shot, and a lot of very sharp angles. The trend in tennis had been in the direction of pure power: the Williams sisters, Sharapova, Lindsay Davenport. Rubin had power in her game, but finesse too—unusual for such a young player. She had Raymond running a lot, which, even in the cooler weather, Stevie knew would be to her advantage, just as in the Maleeva match.

He looked around, searching for Brendan Gibson. He wouldn't be so easy to pick out in this crowd, even in his agent's uniform. The place was packed. Stevie saw no sign of him, although it was possible he was sitting on the same side of the court, out of his view.

He was sitting next to a middle-aged man with curly brown hair and a mustache. Stevie glanced down at his credential and saw that his name was Pete Alfano and he worked for the Fort Worth
Star-Telegram.
Stevie turned his attention back to the court just in time to see Rubin surprise Raymond by coming to the net. Raymond had floated a backhand and Rubin closed on it and put it away with a pretty forehand volley. Stevie was reminded of something he had heard Carillo say: that the last female player who could really volley was Martina Navratilova.

“Game Rubin. She leads five games to three, first set.”

Pete Alfano wrote something in his notebook and turned to Stevie. “Pete Alfano,” he said, extending his hand.

“Steve Thomas,” Stevie said, accepting the handshake.

“I know who you are,” Alfano said. “You're one of the kids who saved Chip Graber at the Final Four. Nice work.”

Stevie was starting to get used to reporters knowing who he and Susan Carol were. But it was still cool.

“Thanks,” Stevie answered. “We were very lucky. So why are so many reporters watching
this
match?”

Alfano smiled and started to answer but Raymond was serving. He waited until an interminable backcourt rally ended with Raymond shrieking in anger as her forehand cracked the net tape. “Symanova can beat Joanne Walsh and Annabelle Kim if she plays them left-handed. This Rubin kid can play. She wins today, they'll play in the third round and it will be the most watched third-round match in U.S. Open history. Most of us haven't seen her or have only seen her briefly. So we need to see her today—and talk to her about what she's probably going to walk into on Sunday.”

That made sense. It also meant, Stevie realized, that he wasn't going to be able to saunter up to Evelyn Rubin and see if she could talk to him. And judging by the packed stands, the media weren't the only ones who saw Rubin as an emerging story. The rest of the match went fairly quickly. Raymond double-faulted on set point to lose the first set, and just as she had done with Maleeva, Rubin simply wore her out in the second set, running her from side to side with her ground strokes. She was up 5–0 in what seemed like the blink of an eye, then got a little bit nervous and blew four match points to allow Raymond to win a game. She finally ended it on her fifth match point, hitting a perfect drop shot that Raymond simply stood and watched with a smile on her face as if to say, “Kid, you're just a little too good for me.” The crowd gave Rubin a standing ovation as the players shook hands at the net. Rubin had won, 6–3, 6–1.

“A star is born,” Pete Alfano said, standing up. “Now let's see if the USTA is asleep at the wheel.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there's close to a hundred of us out here. They ought to take this kid into the interview room. But I'll bet they're so Nadia-obsessed right now, there's no one out here from the PR staff and we're going to have to crowd around her on the court. It will be chaos.”

As it turned out, Alfano was right. By the time they worked their way down to courtside, most of the media had formed a semicircle just outside the entrance of the court where Rubin would exit. A few had cornered Raymond as she came out—no doubt to get her to talk about Rubin. Then Evelyn came walking out, head down, still with just one security guard, and seemed shocked when she heard a chorus of voices calling her name. She had probably been expecting to see Stevie and Susan Carol and no one else, just like on Monday. That, Stevie thought, was a long time ago.

Several TV people with cameras and microphones pushed forward, practically knocking Rubin down in the process. Stevie could see the security guy pull his walkie-talkie off his belt. No doubt he was calling for help—which was a good idea. The questions came all at once and, standing near the back with Alfano, Stevie could see that a good deal of pushing and shoving was going on near the front.

“Someone's going to get hurt,” Alfano said.

“You called it,” Stevie told him.

“I've covered this tournament since the eighties,” Alfano sighed. “The USTA hasn't learned very much in that time.”

Stevie kept looking around, wondering where Brendan Gibson was. Still no sign of him. He was surprised. This was a big moment for his client. Why wouldn't her agent be here? He wasn't complaining. It would be a lot tougher to talk to Rubin alone if Gibson was around. Perhaps impossible since he might jump in and say no. Stevie continued looking around amid the tumult to see if he was lurking.

Some of the print reporters were yelling at some of the TV guys. Evelyn was standing back, letting the security guy try to create some space for her, looking stunned by what she was seeing. Finally, some sort of accord seemed to be reached and people began asking questions that could actually be heard.

The third question—after a couple about how well she had played against Raymond—got to the point. “Do you realize you will probably play Nadia Symanova next?”

“Well, I know she's the seeded player in my section of the draw,” Evelyn said. “I'm just very glad that she's okay. I saw her in the hallway when she was walking to her press conference, but I didn't get a chance to say hello because there must have been a hundred people around her. If I do play her, it will be a thrill to be on court with her.”

Stevie was struck by how cool and calm Evelyn was under the circumstances. She patiently answered all the questions: no, she had never played Symanova before (Stevie noticed a TV person asked that, a question that could have been answered by looking at Evelyn's bio); yes, she had been very scared when she had heard about the kidnapping; Nadia was very brave to come back and play; when she'd talked to her on occasion she seemed like a very nice girl. The media crowd began to thin. More security arrived, but by this time things were more or less under control. The TVs, as Stevie heard Kelleher call them all the time, had their sound bites and began to leave, practically taking off the heads of fans—who were being kept back by more security people—as they departed. Finally, just a few reporters with notebooks were left. Stevie moved closer and stood just outside the circle. Evelyn spotted him. “Hi, Stevie,” she said as someone was asking a question.

He was very pleased she had noticed him and said hello. “Great win, Evelyn,” Stevie said.

“Is this your boyfriend?” one of the reporters said to Evelyn. Stevie certainly didn't mind someone thinking that, but he felt his face flush when the question was asked.

She laughed. “No, no, just a friend. I'm afraid Stevie's taken. He dates my agent's niece.”

Whoo boy, now Stevie was turning multiple colors. He started to correct her, then realized it was pointless. Once the reporters were convinced he had no serious connection to Rubin, they lost interest in him. He waited until they finished their questions and finally it was just him and Evelyn and six security guards.

“I'm sorry if I embarrassed you,” she said.

“It's Susan Carol who would be embarrassed,” he answered. “She's out of my league.”

“I don't know about that,” Evelyn said. “I
do
know she likes you.”

“You do? How—”

One of the security guards broke in. “Ms. Rubin, we need to get you out of here. The players for the next match on this court are on their way.”

“Oh sure,” she said. “Can my friend walk with us?”

The security guard didn't seem thrilled by the idea, but shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.”

The six beefy men in blue formed a gauntlet around them and one of them began to shout, “Player coming through” as they started walking through the crowd. There were some fans imploring her for autographs.

“I really should sign,” Evelyn said.

“Not here,” the security man said. “It would completely stop all traffic. We need to get you back inside.”

She didn't argue. Amid the shouting as they walked, Stevie said, “I really need to talk to you for a few minutes.”

“For a story?”

“Sort of.”

She looked at him quizzically, but nodded. “I need to shower. Do you want to meet in the players' lounge?”

That was a bad idea. Too many people around. The same would be true of the pressroom and certainly out on the plaza now that Rubin had suddenly become a star. But where? Why hadn't he thought this through before?

“What were you planning to do this afternoon?” he asked.

“Go back to the hotel and rest.”

“How about if I go with you?”

Now she was
really
looking at him with question marks in her eyes. They were approaching the entrance to the stadium. “This must be important,” she said.

“It is. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't.”

They had reached the doors leading inside. “You're okay from here,” the security guard said. He eyed Stevie's credential for a moment. “I guess it's okay for your friend to go with you.”

Stevie was getting very tired of security people questioning him. He thought about saying something, then swallowed it. There were more important things to do. Evelyn stopped once they were inside the doors. “Okay, if it's really important, why don't you meet me at the transportation trailer in an hour.” She looked at her watch. “That would be two-thirty. You can ride back into the city with me. We can talk in the car.”

He shook his head. “No, we can't. I can't talk about this in front of anyone. But I'll ride with you anyway.”

Now the look in her eyes was a bit fearful. “I can't imagine what this is about,” she said. “Make it forty-five minutes. Now you have me curious and nervous all at once.”

He nodded. Then, trying to sound casual, he said, “So Brendan won't be riding back with you?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Makarova's playing tonight. He has to stay out here to watch. He's about to sign her.”

Wow, he thought. Gibson had told her about Makarova. He wondered
when
he had fessed up. “Okay. See you at two-fifteen.”

She turned and walked down the hall, racquet bag slung over her shoulder. Stevie couldn't decide who was prettier, Evelyn or Susan Carol. It occurred to him that he no longer even thought about Nadia Symanova that way. She was involved in something dirty—or at least her family was—and there was no way for Stevie to see her as attractive anymore. He wondered if that would change when—if—they figured out what had actually happened to her.

He circled the stadium to get back to the pressroom, hoping some of his companions would be back. There was no one in sight. He called Kelleher's cell phone and got voice mail. The same thing happened with Susan Carol. That meant they were probably watching matches. He sat at Kelleher's desk, glancing at his watch every minute or two. He wondered for a moment what it was like for Rubin to be thrust into all of this all by herself. Brendan Gibson had mentioned that her parents both worked but might fly in for the weekend if she was still playing. Well, she would certainly be playing—on a stage none of them could have even dreamed about when the tournament began.

At 2:05, he figured he had better get going so he could find the transportation trailer. He walked out the gate where he had seen players entering and exiting, turned left, and saw it at the end of a row of trailers. Several players were standing outside as cars pulled up. Evelyn walked out of the trailer with a slip of paper in her hands just as he walked up.

She waved at him, put an arm on his shoulder, and whispered in his ear, “Take your credential off. They don't let media in the courtesy cars.”

“I have another one that says ‘player family,'” he said.

She gave him a funny look. “You do?” she said. “You really are full of surprises. Okay, put it on. Here comes the car.”