Chapter ONE by Steve Cubbins “Oh,
not again,” said John Smith as for the fourth time that evening the
heater on court four started whining away to the distraction of the
players, who naturally decided that as the sky was about to fall in on
them they should abandon their game of squash and come upstairs to the
office to complain. Supressing
the urge to tell them what he really thought, John agreed with his
members. “It’s very annoying, I know, but we have the engineer coming
in to service the units tomorrow, so if you can put up with the noise
for the rest of tonight’s session I’m sure we’ll have it fixed in time
for your next match.” Knowing
what was coming next, he added “we’ll give you 50% discount on
tonight’s court, or a free first drink at the bar, if that’s ok by you
gents?” That
sent the punters back onto court satisfied - they took the drink of
course, they’re squash players after all - and left John to complete
his paperwork for that day’s transactions and to make the call to the
heater maintenance firm that he’d been putting off in the now
unrealised hope that the problem on court four would just go away. That
was the last drama for the day, and at 11.45pm John was able to finish
the washing up, put the day’s takings into the safe, set the alarm,
turn off the lights, lock the doors, pull down the shutters and head
off home at the end of another exhausting session at Vale Squash Club. “How was last night dear?” Jill Smith asked at breakfast the next morning, “Thursdays are always busy aren’t they.” “As
busy as usual,” replied a still-sleepy John, who had as was his custom
after an evening shift slept in the spare room to avoid waking his
wife, who absolutely needed her ‘eight straight hours’ to be able to
function as a normal human being the next day. “Court
four heater was playing up again, I’m getting HeatCo to come in and
look at it today, but apart from that it was a normal Thursday, if
anything counts as normal in that hell hole,” he said. “Now, now, dear,” chided Jill, “you know you love it really, and it’s our livelihood now after all.” “I
know, I know,” admitted John, now tucking in to his cereal with gusto,
“but some of the members really get to me, they complain at the
slightest thing and expect me to be able to put it right just by waving
a magic wand or something.” “We
knew what some of them were like before we bought the place,” said
Jill, “and anyway most of them are real gems, you just have to know how
to deal with the few troublesome ones.” “It’s
ok for you,” said John, “you just flash your eyes at them and they’re
eating out of your hands like little puppies. Me, they try to push me
as far as they can just for the fun of it!” Jill
sighed. “You’ve never been very good with people, have you Dear, that’s
why we split the duties with me on the front desk and you in the office
most of the time. But you’re getting better at it, I swear that some of
the Ladies’ Aerobics classes actually prefer it when you’re there to
welcome them!” “Yeah,
yeah,” said John, now attacking his bacon sandwich while simultaneously
trying to pour his second cup of coffee, without much success. “And
multi-tasking was never a strong point either was it,” admonished Jill,
prising the coffee jug out of John’s hand to save her tablecloth from
another dousing at her clumsy husband’s hands. “Just be careful,” she
chided, “you’re like a bull in a china shop!” After
a third cup of coffee, a piece of toast with his favourite Vegemite
spread thickly over it and a deep sigh, John rose from the breakfast
table. “Come
on kids,” he shouted up the stairs that led from the kitchen of the
barn-converted house that a lottery win had allowed the
family to buy outright, “we’re leaving in ten minutes.” He
didn’t wait for an answer. He knew that he’d shouted loudly enough to
be heard, and knew that demanding a reply from his children would just
end up with an argument at the start of a long journey ahead and he
didn’t need that, not today. He’d heard enough rumblings from upstairs
to know that they were up, at least. “They’ll come when they’re ready
and if we’re late they’ll only have themselves to blame,” he told
himself, not really believing it. Today
was a big day for Sam and Jessica Smith, their first Gold grade junior
tournament, and the results could well dictate the paths of their
budding squash careers. Sam, the elder of the twins by a matter of five
minutes, was a 5/8 seed in the Boys U15 event with, so the family
thought, a good chance of progessing beyond the quarter-final predicted
by the seedings. Jessica
was seeded two behind a local girl she’d already beaten three times
this year, and was not happy about it. John simply hoped that she’d
behave herself on court - unlikely as that was, given his daughter’s
behaviour in previous tournaments she’d gone into bearing a grudge,
whether it be against the organisers, competitiors, club staff, or
quite possibly all of them. It didn’t take much to wind up Jessica
Smith. Sam
was the complete opposite - mild mannered, always smiling on and off
court, pretty much self-sufficient and no trouble at all. He didn’t
have Jessica’s natural talent, academically or in sports, but never
seemed to have any problems with the success or attention that his
‘little’ sister gained or demanded. John sometimes wondered if that was
a good or bad thing for his son’s future, but more often than not
decided that it was good for keeping the peace right now, so he’d
consider the ramifications later, if necessary. BANG,
BANG, BANG. The crashing down the wooden stairs told John that at least
one of his offspring was on its way downstairs. Jessica, probably,
given the noise level. “Where’s
Mum,” asked the thirteen-year-old redhead, dropping her racket bag at
the bottom of the stairs and heading for the breakfast table. “She’s getting ready to go to the club, you know she’s working today so that I can take you to the tournament,” responded John. “Yeah I know that,” said Jessica, “I just wanted her to fix the zip on one of my skirts.” “And you didn’t think of asking me to do that last night,” came Jill’s voice from the living room. “I didn’t know it was broken last night, did I, mum.” Jill
refrained from reminding her daughter that she’d told her countless
times to get her kit ready the night before just in case something was
broken or missing, and to save some of the inevitably short supply of
time in the morning. ‘Not now,’ she thought, not for the first time. “You’ll
just have to wear another skirt Jess, I haven’t got time to do anything
about that now. You must have enough surely, there’s only one match
today isn’t there?” “Yes
mum, but I just wanted to wear my matching red outfit. Oh well, I’m
only playing Fiona Young I should beat her easily so I can wear it
tomorrow. You can fix it tonight, can’t you, pretty
please,” Jessica beamed enquiringly at her mother. “Come
on Sam,” John shouted upstairs, hopefully stopping a potential skirt
argument in its tracks. “We need to leave in five minutes, maximum.” Three
minutes later Sam appeared, complete with racket bag that had been
prepared the night before, a point he thankfully resisted telling his
sister. He never took breakfast, preferring to grab the last piece of
(non-vegemite) toast or fruit from the table. Today’s leftovers would
suffice on the journey to the tournament, and he always took full
advantage of whatever food was on offer at the host club. “You
really should have something proper before a tournament,” said Jill,
more out of habit than in any expectation of changing her son’s
behaviour. With
that, a peck on the cheek for her husband and a “good luck” to the
kids, Jill took her car keys from the hook and headed out for her
morning session at the helm of the squash club they had bought two
months previously with the remaining proceeds of the lottery win that
was enough to allow them to give up their jobs, but annoyingly short of
being sufficient to take proper early retirement. John
shepherded the children and their assorted bags out into his car and
set out for the latest in a long line of junior squash tournaments. Both were hoping for a quiet and successful day. Neither had any realistic expectations of the former. Chapter TWO by Mick Joint Jill
pulled into the Vale Squash Club and parked her 1998 red Vauxhall next
to her assigned parking spot. She had refused to upgrade her vehicle
with the lottery winnings, insisting it was a waste of money to replace
a perfectly functioning and well maintained machine. John had pleaded
for weeks that they should buy a Jaguar – his dream automobile – but
Jill had managed to at least hold that purchase off for a while. If the
Squash Club, she compromised, turned out not to be a money pit, they
could revisit the idea. With
a sigh of disgust she looked over at her assigned parking spot where
the hedges had overgrown so much that not even a Mini could fit anymore
and cursed under her breath. Frank, the part time handyman, was
supposed to take care of this ‘agricultural’ problem weeks ago. Once
again Frank’s promise of cleaning it up had gone unfulfilled. She
wondered where that human sloth was lingering. He was scheduled to work
every Friday morning and his car wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Frank
was utterly inept. He was also an inheritance. When the Smith’s pulled
the trigger on the purchase of the squash club, the one condition they
could not revoke was taking on the part time handyman. It was a special
deal concocted by one Mr. Avery Wilburforce, the longest serving and
most influential board member of the club and, most importantly, the
biggest donor as well. It was because of Mr. Wilburforce’s generous
funding that the courts stayed open for business through the recent
number of financially torturous years. Frank was Jill’s worst
nightmare, a complete waste of a pay check, and he was also Mr.
Wilburforce’s brother-in-law. Jill exited her car. “Good morning, Jill! How are you on this wonderfully cloudy, slightly breezy morning?” It
was Walter. As usual, Walter was standing at the entrance, racquet in
hand, before the club was even scheduled to open. Jill adored Walter.
Short and somewhat overweight, he was dressed in his usual white socks,
white shorts, white collared shirt and white cricket vest and carrying
his brown squash bag that was more a luggage piece than sports apparel.
With the top of his head as bald and shiny as a bowling ball, he made
little effort keeping the horseshoe shaped ring of hair that wrapped
around from ear to ear anywhere close to being respectably neat. The
same could be said about his shaggy eye-brows that needed a trimming
more desperately than her parking spot. He was the ultimate regular
customer. Even though she had only known him for two months, he was an
easy man to like. Retired, always cheery, not so much humorous as
entertaining, he reminded her of a fuzzy muppet character that made you
smirk and feel better all at once. He was here half an hour early for
his weekly friendly with his best friend Gerry, as he always was, like
clockwork. “Morning, Walter. Doing well, nice to see you. I presume Gerry will be here in a jiffy?” “As usual”, replied Walter. “The old bugger keeps on coming back for more punishment every week. Guess he loves to lose.” It
wasn’t true of course. In reality, Gerry was slightly the better player
and more often than not, would win the weekly bout. Another lovable
character, it was easy to mistake the two gentleman for brothers, or,
if you didn’t know them well and had a somewhat deviant mind, something
more than a friendly relationship. It was therefore considerably
baffling, but wholly amusing, that when the two were slugging it out on
the court, their competitive natures took over completely and they
would be at each other’s throats like foul-mouthed medieval gladiators
arguing about every ‘let’ call, pick-up and score. Jill
unlocked the front door and went through the typical rituals of getting
the club ready for the day’s business. She expected the next few hours
to be slow up until about 4pm when the Friday afternoon round robin
kicked off which would then keep all the courts busy for the remainder
of the day. Walter hustled off to his usual court number 3 to get a
head start on Gerry by stretching and warming up. As Jill was tidying up John’s office, she heard Frank meander through the front door. He was twenty minutes late. Again. “I thought you were going to take care of my parking spot, Frank?” Jill said trying her best not to sound snarky. “Err,
yes, good morning, it’s next on my list, didn’t have time to take care
of it on Wednesday you know, my back was playing up a bit, needed to
rest it up a bit,” replied Frank quickly who was the worst liar Jill
had ever come across. “I’ll get to it right away, but, um, first I need
to get back home to, um, pick up my garden trimmer.” Unbelievable.
As much as it infuriated her, the court four heater was a more pressing
matter for now and the parking spot would have to be put off for
another day. “Leave it,” she snapped. “HeatCo should be here shortly to
fix the heater issue on court 4. Just go and set up the ladder. Do you
think you can manage that?” “Sure
thing. No problem. Good as done.” Frank sauntered off to the storage
room like he was going for a Sunday stroll along the beach. No sense of
urgency whatsoever. Jill
needed a strong coffee. Just being in the same room as Frank made her
tetchy, he didn’t have to do or say anything to fray her nerves. Which
was ironic, because Frank never did or said anything useful anyway. While
she poured herself a large cup, Gerry scurried in with a wave and a
jovial “Morning, Jill!” on his way to meet Walter on court 3. Jill
smiled. For the next hour or so she would hear the two men yell and
scream at each other like 10 year olds only to leave the court
afterwards laughing and patting each other on the back, congratulating
themselves on another successful match. Her
smile dissipated instantly on seeing Frank wrestling with the ladder on
his way to court 4. The fact that it had taken him at least ten minutes
just to find the ladder was one thing, but he also managed to bang into
every wall and corner while carrying it, leaving a small trail of
destruction in his painfully slow wake. Eventually, he was able to
manoeuvre the ladder into the correct position, but not before he
caused a few pounds worth of repairs along the way. Repairs that he
would never fix himself, of course. All
the noise had peaked the interest of Walter and George. They followed
Frank onto court 4 to satisfy their curiosity and found the handyman
atop of the ladder, screwdriver in hand, and starting to open the back
panel of the heater. “What’s the problem there, Frank?” asked Gerry. “Heater is still on the fritz,” replied Frank. “Just getting it set-up for HeatCo to look at it. They should be here shortly.” “Don’t you think you should let one of them do that”? Walter chimed in. “You don’t want to fall.” “Just
getting this here panel off, that’s all”, said Frank as he clumsily
dropped the first screw onto the court floor below, landing it just
next to Walter’s foot. “Oops! Sorry, Wal...” The
loud creaking sound drowned out the rest of Frank’s sentence. It was
followed by an even louder cracking sound as the chains securing the
heater to the ceiling gave way, plummeting the sixty pound device to
the earth. Sitting
at the reception, sipping her coffee, Jill was startled by the noise
causing her to spill the drink over yesterday’s court sheets. “Damn it,
Frank” she whispered to herself through clenched teeth. “What have you
done now?” She jumped up to check out the handyman’s latest disaster
effort and secretly wished she was at the squash tournament with her
two kids. _________________ John
secretly wished he was at the Vale Club sitting quietly in his office.
Jessica Smith was in fine form today and John’s patience was wearing
drastically thin. Jess’ complaining had started the moment they had
departed the driveway at home beginning with the tournament venue: the
poor lighting, slippery floors, smelly showers, no lounge area to relax
in, it went on and on. It seemed that there was not one square foot of
space in the entire building that could satisfy her. She had also
managed to mention her red dress at least five times stressing that Mom
better have it fixed by tomorrow. Her
mood didn’t improve once they were there. It was a national conspiracy
that she wasn’t seeded one, and clearly her half of the draw was loaded
with all the strong players. She appeared oblivious to the fact that if
she played even close to her abilities, she should reach the final
without too many problems. John
did his best to calm her down. “Jess,” he said in his most reasoning
tone, “you need to focus on your squash. Just think about your upcoming
match and not worry about your surroundings. There is nothing you can
do about them anyway, so there’s no point protesting. Concentrate on
beating Fiona, and then look towards your next match.” The
small piece of logical advice sunk in and Jess quietened down a
little. But not completely. “I’m not worried about Fiona.
She’s hopeless,” and with that she stomped off to wait for her court
time. A
pang of guilt immediately struck John. For a split second he wished his
daughter would lose her first match, just to teach her a lesson. But he
dismissed the thought as quickly as it had entered his mind. And
anyway, he couldn’t imagine the volcanic eruption that would ensue if
she somehow happened to get beaten. Thirty
minutes later, he was wondering if God (or maybe the Devil) had
listened to him. As fate would have it, Fiona Young played the game of
her life. Perfect length, error-free, the ball-on-a-string squash where
one can do no wrong. Fortunately for Jessica – and for John’s wallet -
it was for only one game. After going down convincingly in game 1, Jess
stormed off the court and slammed down her racquet, which then
regrettably bounced up onto the nearby table knocking over 3 cups of
tea, 2 muffins, and a small jar of honey that landed in someone’s open
squash bag pouring the contents all over and inside their shoes. Incensed
and profoundly embarrassed, John still knew that it would be pointless
to approach his daughter in such a state so he had to sit back and let
nature take its course. That was after, of course, a thousand apologies
to the surrounding spectators, and forking out money to replenish the
lost breakfast, Jess’ now broken racquet, and probably a pair of new
squash shoes if he could locate the owner of the honey-soaked Hi-Tec’s. The
loss of the game was exactly the slap in the face Jessica Smith didn’t
want any part of, but desperately needed. It focused her mind, and
using Sam’s racquet for the remainder of the match, she systematically
carved up Ms. Young in the last three games dropping only 5 points in
the process, 3 of which were miss-hit winners off her opponent’s frame.
It was the type of squash game she was capable of displaying. Pity it
took a catastrophic tantrum to bring it out. Relieved
at the victory, but still furious with his daughter, John then went to
hunt down his other child who was due on court in a few minutes. He was
bound to be socializing with his buddies, unaware he was supposed to be
preparing himself for his match. Sure enough, Sam was goofing up a
storm with 3 others boys, still wearing his street sneakers. “Sam!” John yelled. “You’re up! Get your shoes on! Court 2! Go!” Sam
snapped to attention, wasted no time changing his footwear, grabbed his
racquet from his father who had made sure Jess hadn’t left it lying
somewhere, and raced off for his match. No stretching, no warm-up. John
rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Good luck!” John called after him. The
match could have been entered into history books as ‘one for the ages’.
But for all the wrong reasons. It was the worst ever refereed match
since the creation of the sport, John thought, although it wouldn’t
have changed the outcome. Sam played fairly well, not terrific, but he
didn’t really need to. His opponent was a lanky but lethargic looking
kid, whose arms and legs didn’t quite work in unison giving him the
appearance as if he was constantly stumbling and regaining balance even
when he was just walking around the court. Kind of like ‘Lurch’ from
the Addams Family but with an unpredictable, alternating limp. He could
somehow still swing the racquet and the bizarre looking technique
turned out to be somewhat deceptive, even if it was inconsistent. The
awful part was, he had the dreadful habit of asking for a ‘let’ at
every possible opportunity and the referee – a young girl of about 12 –
was terrified every time he did so. Her solution was to automatically
award the ‘let’ regardless of the situation, which of course only
encouraged the weird youngster to ask for even more, and the match took
5 times longer than what it should have done. Predictably, Sam took the
excessive ‘let’ calls in stride and didn’t show any negative emotion
about having to win each point multiple times. It was the longest 50
minute 3-0 pasting John had ever agonized through and he was thankful
it wasn’t Jess on the court. The 12 year old referee would have never
reached 13. The
painful morning of junior tournament squash was almost at an end. John
was looking forward to heading home, grabbing some lunch, and then
heading out to his squash club to spend the evening in more comfortable
surroundings. He decided to call his wife first to tell her the good
and bad news. Good that the kids had won, but Jess’ outburst had been
mortifying and a suitable punishment for her needed to be discussed.
They were both scheduled to play tomorrow – Saturday – two matches each
if they kept to the script. He
took his cell phone out of his pocket. As usual it was turned off. It
was the first cell phone he had owned, a luxury purchase he and Jill
had afforded themselves with their lottery winnings. Not so
technologically minded, John wasn’t sure he liked the gadget. He wasn’t
patient with learning all the features, had no idea how to send a text,
constantly struggled to remember how to retrieve his voice- mails, and
regularly forgot to charge it. Today, he was in luck, the battery
hadn’t yet been completely drained. As
the screen came to life, he was surprised, if not a little dismayed, at
the flashing message that popped up instantaneously reporting he had 12
voice mails and 4 text messages. All from the same number. The squash
club’s. “This can’t be good,” he muttered. Ignoring the messages, he called Jill. The phone rang only once before his out-of-breath wife picked up the call. “Vale Squash Club,” she blurted out. “Jill, its John. What’s going on?” “Do
you have any idea how many times I’ve tried to call you! Damn it, John!
What’s the point of having a cell phone if you never have it turned
on?!” Jill was half-screaming, half-wheezing, clearly not thinking
straight. The strangely familiar ‘what-have-I-done-now’ feeling swept over John. “What have I done, now?” he asked. “It’s not you, it’s Walter.” “Walter?” John repeated. “What, Gerry finally had enough and killed the old bastard?!” “No,” answered Jill coldly. “Frank did.” Chapter THREE by Aubrey Waddy “For Pete’s sake, Jill,” John said. “That’s not funny. What are you trying to tell me?”
“I mean,” Jill spelt it out coldly down the phone, “there’s been an
accident. Frank was up a ladder on Court Four and, and…” Jill
usually controlled her emotions but here there was a catch in her
voice. The pause grew uncomfortably long. “Come on, Jill. Tell me what
happened.” It
came out in a rush. “And the heater came down off the ceiling. It
landed on Walter. Hit him on his shoulder. He might have been all right
but it knocked him against the back wall and he hit his head. At first
we thought he was just knocked out. His foot was twitching. But his
eyes,” her voice trailed away again. “His eyes were wide open, staring.
They stayed wide open the whole time, it was horrible.” “How is he now? You’ve called an ambulance?” “For
Christ’s sake, John, you never listen? Of course we called. 999. Blue
lights, the full performance, nenaw nenaw, two paramedics, an hour ago,
more. They tried and tried to bring him back. They worked on him, I
don’t know, twenty, thirty minutes. In the end they had to give up.
He’s dead, John. We’ve got to accept it. Walter’s dead. They’ve taken
him away, his body that is. On a stretcher. The police will be here
soon. Please come back.” Shit,
shit, shit! Walter dead? It didn’t seem possible. And what about the
club? Not that he should be bothering about the club right now. What
about Walter’s daughter, as well? His guilty secret. It would be
awkward having Kristin around and having to pretend they didn’t know
each other. TGI Friday? No chance now, John thought. Quite the
opposite. I wish it weren’t Friday at all. “Okay,”
he said, “stay calm. The kids both won, by the way. I’ll round them up
and we’re on our way. Oh, and Jill, before you do anything else, call
Nick, as soon as you can. We need some good advice on this.” Nick Gaultier was the solicitor the Smiths had used during the protracted negotiations with the Vale board to buy the club. “I already have. Luckily he picked up straight away,” she added resentfully. “Don’t say anything till Nick gets there. I’m off to find Jess and Sam. I’m leaving now.” John
groaned as he went in search of his kids. Not much had gone right since
that darned lottery win. And now this. Complications with Kristin, too.
What more could go wrong? He shuddered to think. John
found Sam in the men’s locker room. “Come on, Sam. We’ve got to be
leaving. Right now. Shift yourself! Make sure you collect all your kit,
too. Especially that racquet.” “Oh Dad. Do we have to go now? Can’t we watch some of the under nineteens? Jonathon Nicol’s playing at two o’clock.” “No. There’s a problem back at the club. Do you know where Jessica is?” “Haven’t seen her. The girls are mostly hanging round in the locker room. I’ll text her.” “No, call her.” “I can’t. I don’t have any minutes. You call her, Dad. You can use your new cell. I’ll text her anyway.” “What’s her number?” “Hold
on.” In no time flat Sam sent the text and then read out Jessica’s
number. John tentatively prodded it into his old-style brick and put
the cell to his ear. “Ah,” he said with pride, as if just he’d
succeeded in assembling a flat pack state of the art supersonic
Eurofighter Typhoon Air Superiority Combat Jet worth 150 million quid.
“It’s ringing.” Sam
looked at his father expectantly but after a few seconds John shrugged,
“Afraid it’s gone through to voicemail. We’ll have to find her.” Outside the locker rooms they bumped into one of Jessica’s rivals in the under fifteens, the fifth seed Jenny Waters. “Hi Jen,” John said. “Have you seen Jessica anywhere?” “No,
she’s not in the locker room, I can tell you that. I thought I saw her
headed towards Reception. But that was half an hour ago. She could be
in the gallery.” “Thanks. If you see her, tell her we’re looking for her. “Come on, Sam. We’ll go that way.” “Wait,
Mr Smith,” Jenny said. “I was going to hand it in. Here, Jess left the
cover for her cell in the locker room. I’m sure it’s hers. No one else
has got one of these.” Jenny
unzipped a pocket on her huge sports bag and extracted Jessica’s second
most prized possession, a lurid pink and green cover for the latest
Samsung Galaxy smart phone. She’d bought the Galaxy, ranked her number
one most prized possession, with money from her grandparents a month
previously, and the ridiculously expensive cover had arrived a week
later with savings from her birthday. Since
then the phone had taken over Jessica’s life. Both Jill and John had
remarked on the time she was spending with it. ‘It’s only Facebook,
Mom,’ she had told Jill during a recent argument about
school work. ‘I need to know how everyone’s getting on with their
project. And anyways, I’ve been making new friends.’ “That’s strange,” Sam said. “She never takes her cell out of the cover.” John
frowned and turned to Jenny. “Thanks again, Jen. She’ll be around
somewhere. We’ll find her.” Then to Sam: “We’ll ask at the front desk.
They may have seen her.” The
manager of the busy Queenstown Squash and Racketball Club, Cameron
Hiscoe, was on duty with his daughter, Donna. “You haven’t seen Jessica
anywhere, have you?” John asked him. “We need to be leaving but we
don’t know where she is.” “Jessica?” Cameron said. “I’m not sure that I know a Jessica. There’s so many of them here today.” “I know her,” Donna said. “She’s the redhead, isn’t she? With a black scrunchie?” “That’s right, she’s thirteen, but tall.” “I
did see her here. It was a good while ago though. She was still in her
squash kit. I noticed because she went out the front entrance and I
thought she’d be cold out there. Without a trackie and all.” “That’s not like Jess,” John said. “She hates the cold. Has she come back in?” “Not that I’ve seen. She went off to the left, towards the car park.” John
scratched his head. “Sam, you go upstairs and check the galleries. I’ll
see if she’s still outside. But listen, don’t go missing yourself.” In
normal mode Sam would be lost in no time, goofing around as always with
his friends. “Meet me back here in five minutes,” John said, “after
I’ve had a look outside.” “Sure thing, Dad.” _________ Jill
had put up a large board at the front of the club saying, without
explanation, ‘CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE’. She had considered telling
Frank to do it, but she wanted the job to be actually done, and Frank
was even less likely than usual to achieve anything constructive.
Instead, when she came back in, Jill told him to go home. Gerry intervened immediately. “No, you better stay until the police have come. They’ll want to take statements from everyone.” “It
wasn’t my fault,” Frank complained for the umpteenth time. “I was only
trying to help, before HeatCo came. You should have told me not to use
the ladder. It’s just not safe.” And
for the umpteenth time Jill did her best to control her irritation.
This time, however, being blamed for Frank’s zero competence was simply
too much. “Said
what?” she exploded. “For pity’s sake, Frank, shut the something up! If
I’d had my way you wouldn’t have been anywhere near this club, today or
any other day, let alone these courts and not in a million years on
even the bottom rung of any flaming ladder. In your hands a screwdriver
becomes a major public health hazard. Why don’t you go off and… and… do
some odd jobs, “she sneered, “at Grandpa Wilburforce’s? An opportunity
to wreck his house rather than my squash club.” She looked at him fiercely. “See who you can kill there!” “Hey,
hey,” Gerry said. He was still in his quaint squash kit and now that
he’d recovered from the initial shock, his closest friend killed in the
freak accident not a yard away from him, it was he who had taken
charge. It had been his suggestion for Jill to contact their lawyer,
immediately after she had made the 999 call. With his background in
corporate affairs, Gerry was used to thinking strategically, and a
sound strategy would be needed now. He wanted to see all the obvious
bases covered. And
one thing was definite, the obvious hostility between Jill and Frank
was not going to do any of them any good when the police arrived. So
Gerry said, “We’re all a bit stressed. Let’s get a coffee in the bar.” “I’m not taking anything with that loser,” Jill said sharply. “Feeling’s mutual,” Frank replied, staring at his feet. “I’m out of this dump.” “Don’t be a fool, Frank,” Gerry said gently. “You know the fuzz will want to talk to you.” Ignoring
this, Frank moved, in a cross between a slouch and a stomp, away from
the court corridor where they were standing. Gerry would have laughed,
but it wasn’t a day for laughing. “Come on, Jill. We’ll go and sit down till the police get here.” “I
can’t believe that Walter’s gone,” Gerry said when Jill had made them
each a coffee and they were seated in the large bar area. “He only
retired last year.” He
wiped his hand across his face, as if trying to erase the horrifying
images of the morning. “One consolation, I guess. He has, had I mean,
never got over Madeline.“ His voice fell, and he paused. No one knew
it, but Madeline had been his passion too. People had joked about how
close he and Walter had been. Little did they know that he’d be a whole
lot closer with Walter’s wife. “That
darned breast cancer,” he went on. “Two years it is and he’s always
talking about her.” He corrected himself. “Was always talking about her. “Dammit,
oh dammit, I forgot. I’ll have to call his daughter. Kristin; do you
know Kristin? She’s quite a girl. She lives an hour away, in
Pennington.” “Kristin?
No. I didn’t know Walter had a daughter. I guess I didn’t know him so
well. He was just,” a tear ran down her face, “just so cheerful.” Gerry sighed. “What a guy. Life’s not going to be the same.” Jill grimaced. “Not for any of us.” Gerry
took a grip. “Yup. But let’s think about today. We need to cover all
the bases.” He started to check off on his fingers. We’ve called the
paramedics. We’ve called the cops. We’ve called John.” “Nine
times,” Jill said, “nine times at least.” She was still furious with
John, partly because of the time it had taken him to pick up, partly
because he had got lucky in avoiding the morning’s drama, and partly
because he was, well, just because he was him, and he always got away
with it. “And we’ve called Nick. Tell you what. You’d better give your insurers a call, too. Sooner rather than later.”
“You’re right. I suppose this is going to be expensive. I’ll call them
from the office.” Jill was feeling better with Gerry’s calm approach.
“You see if you can reach Walter’s daughter. Is there any other next of
kin, by the way? And I’ll check the insurance.” For
a moment Jill sat while Gerry fiddled around in his ancient brown bag,
seeking his cell phone. Then she got up and headed for John’s office.
With no one else in the bar, Gerry was able to openly scrutinise her
rounded ass in her customary tight jeans. No matter what, Gerry
thought, with poor Madeline gone but always in his thoughts, Walter’s
accident scarcely two hours earlier, a great ass was still the ass of
trumps. And in his opinion, Jill’s was right up there. He sighed. Yes
he could sneakily scru-tinise her. He did it all the time. Much better,
so much better as he so often wished, would be to confine the action to
the first syllable. He wished he could screw her. Forget about the tin
eyes, he joked bitterly to himself. It had been so long. In
the tiny office Jill reckoned she knew where the insurance
correspondence should be, but insurance was John’s business, and filing
was never his strong point. Indeed, for all she basically loved the
great lunk, sometimes she wondered whether any of his points would be
classified by a neutral observer as strong. There were plenty of the
other sort, but maybe she was being unfair. Indeed this time, there in
a file labelled ‘Premier Insurance’, was the relevant collection of
papers. She felt guilty about her doubts. It was just that you couldn’t
rely on John. As
Jill leafed through the schedules and certificates and policies, a
nagging thought started to trouble her. She remembered overhearing John
discussing Premier with Nick Gaultier. Premier had offered them too
good a deal to turn down, too good on the structure and contents
insurance, that was. Nick hadn’t been happy with some aspect of the
deal though. Jill racked her brains but she couldn’t remember anything
more. She found Premier’s claims number on one of the documents, called
it and after prodding through several inhumanly spoken options, and
several minutes of listening to the tinny sound of a rock band that she
was continually yelling at Sam to turn down in his bedroom, she got
through to a flesh and blood voice. “Yes,
good morning Mrs Smith.” Was it still morning? Jill said sarcastically
that she would be positively thrilled if a recording of their
conversation was used for Premier’s training purposes, but the woman
kept her cool and efficiently led her through the details of the
accident. Job
done, Jill thought as she put the phone down. John could pick up the no
doubt extensive ramifications later. Jill really wanted him back at the
club. There were so many things to take care of, and even when he was
bumbling around in his own time-and-motion disaster zone, John had a
way of making her less tense. They’d have to dump the kids at home, but these days that wasn’t a problem. _________ As
John re-entered the Queenstown club from the car park Sam was making
his way down the stairs with Kasey Urquhart, the first seed in
Jessica’s competition, someone they knew well from the local squash
circuit. Kasey was a short, powerful girl who wore unusual red glasses
and a matching red eye shield on court. She was still in her squash
kit, white with red piping, but she had applied some lipstick, the same
colour as her glasses. This made her look older, certainly older than
Jess. Kasey was laughing at something Sam had said. “Hey, Sam,” John said. “Is she up there?” “Is who up there?” “For heaven’s sake. Is Jess up there?” “Oh, of course, Jess. No, she’s not in the gallery.” “Are you looking for Jess, Mr Smith?” Kasey asked. “She told me she was meeting a friend.” “Oh. Do you know who?” “She
wouldn’t say. She was kinda coy. I thought she might have found a
boyfriend.” She giggled at Sam. “You know what Jess is like. She’s got
more than five hundred friends now in Facebook. I bet some of them are
real hot. One of them is bound to be special.” John
tried not to show he was shocked. His son Sam, Jessica’s twin, still
sometimes reminded him of the little boy he had only just left behind.
He was now tall for his age and gangling, but most of the time
definitely a boy and not a spotty teenager. Kasey herself was another
one on either side of the growing up cusp. For all her drilled
professionalism on a squash court, and her increasing sophistication,
she could be a child when things weren’t going her way. Which
frequently happened against Jess. And what about their Jess? Hardly
into her teens, he thought. Was she already having assignments with
boyfriends? Had her life moved into today’s teen arena, where
apparently you were judged merely on how hot you were? Hot! Inwardly
John shuddered. What did she do with these alleged boyfriends, anyway?
And what did they do with her? “Could you make another check for us in the locker room, Kasey? Jess might be back there now.” “Sure, Mr Smith.” They
followed Kasey to the corridor that led to the locker rooms. After
she’d entered the girls’ John told Sam to go and collect his kit.
“Leave it in the car. Here, take the keys.” Moments later Kasey re-emerged. “No sign of her there, Mr Smith. Have you tried calling her?” “Yes. It just goes through to voice mail.” “That’s strange. She worships that Galaxy. Now I’m like, why doesn’t she have it with her?” They were interrupted by Sam bursting back into the corridor. “Dad, Dad, look at this.” “What is it?” “It’s Jess’s Galaxy. Look, the screen’s smashed.” Now John was alarmed. “Show me. Are you sure it’s hers?” Sam
handed the Galaxy to his father while a frowning Kasey looked on. “It
must be hers,” she said. “There’s lots of iPhones, and older Samsungs,
but no one has the s3 yet. Only Jess.” “Where did you find it?” John demanded. “It was lying in the dirt beside the car.” Sam looked as if he was going to cry and held up something in his other hand. “And I think… I think this is Jess’s purse.” _________ “Hello Nick.” Jill was greeting the lawyer at the entrance to the club. “It’s so good of you to come. Such short notice.” Nick
Gaultier smiled. “No problem. This sounds like a bad one.” He grimaced.
“Is the body still here? Have you spoken to the police yet?” “No
to the first. I insisted the paramedics take poor Walter away. They
said it should be okay. No suspicious circumstances. As for the police,
they just called to say they’re on their way. There was an incident in
town, apparently, which has delayed them.” Nick
was a college friend of John’s, tall, mid thirties with an aura of
power that had already attracted a wide client base. More women than
men, Jill suspected. John and he had been members of the university
squash team, and he was still fit and still single. He was wearing his
customary sober three piece suit, customary flamboyant silk tie and
expensive sneakers. ‘Shoes maketh the man,’ Jill quoted to herself. I
wouldn’t mind making the man myself. She
introduced Nick to Gerry, who was even now still in his squash kit. He
had intended to shower back home, as he usually did, just round the
corner from the club. “Hi,” Nick said. “Didn’t we meet at that Rotarian party last fall?” “That’s
where it was. I thought I recognised you. You were giving a talk on
commercial building insurance, if I recall. If that sounds dull, it
wasn’t. I’d never believed something could be so complicated.” “That’s right. It can be difficult. It provides lawyers like me with a ton of business.” He
turned to Jill. “Just like here, I recall. Complicated, wasn’t it? The
insurance, I mean. I didn’t want you to take on Premier’s public
liability offering, if I remember the small print. The rest of it was
solid. Who did we go for in the end for public liability?” “I don’t know. John took care of that. I knew there had been some complication.” “You’re
right, it’s coming back to me too. I went on holiday just when you were
completing the deal. That darned Avery Wilburforce, pardon my English,
but what an asshole. Everything was so delayed. Tell you what, Jill.
You should speak to Premier, and whoever the other people are. They’re
going to be taking a big interest in this one.” “I’ve
already called Premier. They’ll talk to John and fix for someone to
come out. I don’t know who’s got our public liability. I’ll go and get
the file.” “And I think I’ll head home for a shower,” Gerry said. “Won’t be more than fifteen minutes.” Moments
later Jill returned with the insurance file, handed it to Nick and went
to make him a cup of coffee. Nick was frowning when she put the coffee
down in front of him. He looked up at her. “This doesn’t look so good, Jill. I’ll have to talk to John.” “What do you mean? What’s the matter?” “Well,
I can hardly believe this. If all your insurance documents are here, in
this file, it looks as though you don’t actually have public liability
cover. There’s several proposals, but nothing’s been followed through.” “But we’re covered for all the damage, aren’t we?” “That’s
not what’s worrying me. That’s small anyway, a few thousand pounds at
most. The public liability though, depending on this Walter. Who was
he, by the way?” “Walter Selby.” “Depending on Walter’s estate, and the attitude they take,” Nick was looking directly at Jill, “this could run into millions.” “You mean we could be sued? Millions of quid?” “I’m
afraid so. And unless John did something about it, finalised one of
these proposals, and we were very specific on this point, I remember
the correspondence, you two could be personally liable.” Jill’s hands went to her face. “But we don’t have that sort of money,” she gasped. “Millions of pounds, that’s crazy money. “No way!” Chapter FOUR by Will Gens John
should have seen signs of trouble, especially with Jessica. And Jill.
His love, his anchor, he always believed that they were destined for
one another. If ever opposites attract, they were opposites. She was
practical, organized, methodical. He was a bit of a dreamer, an "idea"
man as he liked to call himself. He thought Jill loved him for that and
thought he was and would always be the center of her universe, as she
was his. Jessica
had gone missing now for 8 months, and there was little or no trace of
her after that fateful day when it seemed the world, their world turned
upside down on a screw. John, his life fallen apart, had begun to sense
the bottom, but what he feared most was that the pit he had fallen into
was bottomless, and maybe he was indeed in hell. When
the police were notified about Jessica's disappearance and they began
retracing her steps, Mrs. Peabody, the girl's locker room attendant,
told them that she saw Jessica come through the front entrance of the
club and go past her in a rush to her locker, fiddling furiously with
the combination and rummaging through it frantically before she found
what she wanted and settled into one of the big oversized lounge
chairs. Noting that Jessica had been kicking her feet as they rested
over the arms of the chair, Mrs. Peabody told the police, “I thought
she was so young and beautiful and carefree, but her posture on the
chair was a bit rude, so I told her to please sit properly in the
chair.” Mrs.
Peabody was a grandmother and matriarch of the Peabody clan, a portly
matronly woman with the shock of grey hair who was once county squash
champion. You'd never know it since, as a grandmother, she never
stepped on court (60 lbs heavier than her playing days) but loved to be
around the game and helped her grandson run his squash tournaments. She
kept a keen eye on the manager of the club, Cameron Hiscoe, and his
daughter, Donna. Mrs. Peabody didn't like Donna at all, viewing her as
“a bit loosy-goosy and always with these unsavory types, bad boy types
hanging around the club.” She remembered that “the Jessica girl sort of
rolled her eyes but then said, ‘Sorry, Ma’am, just waiting
for my dad and brother.'” Mrs. Peabody said, “It's okay, darling, I
have to watch young-un’s like you who have all that nervous energy
taking it out on our poor furniture." "The
girl smiled, she found my reasoning a bit humorous.” Mrs. Peabody told
the police that she asked the girl a little later, "Wouldn't it be
better, darling, if you waited near the front desk so your dad could
see you?" She added, "The girl was sitting there fiddling with her cell
phone, I guess she was answering texts or something." Mrs.
Peabody had gone about her business of straightening up the locker
room, bringing in fresh towels, talking to some of the members and
quieting some of the younger girls down if they became too loud and
boisterous. She told the police that she last remembered the girl on
her cell talking in a funny manner, bright red, like she was
blushing...she thought, "Love is nice." And that was the last anyone
saw of Jessica. The police re-interviewed the manager and his daughter,
who had first seen Jessica leave but didn't notice her coming back.
They never saw her leave again. "We're sure, absolutely sure, because
we would have noticed her," Cameron Hiscoe insisted. John
remembered later when he spoke to the police that in the craziness of
the Walter accident, he told Jessica that he'd meet her out at the
front desk and to wait for him and Sam, after which he took the call
from Jill and totally forgot about Jessica. In those ten minutes that
he was on the phone with Jill, Jessica had received a call on her cell
that police later traced to a disposable cell phone. There were also
numerous text messages from another phone, which also was disposable. The
police were unable to garner any leads from either of the two phones.
It was their theory as they checked her phone records and deciphered
her laptop, which police confiscated later as evidence when they came
and went through Jessica's room, that she had met someone on Facebook,
developed a bit of a flirtation, and had very possibly become the
victim of Internet Grooming, a crime that only in recent years had
surfaced as a result of the internet. Severe penalties had been imposed
against men who developed email, text, or phone relationships with
under-age girls. Often the "groomers" were middle-aged men, many
married and with families. In extreme cases, these relationships had
led to rape and, on rare occasions, disappearance. Jessica's
case troubled the police because it had some of the earmarks of another
disappearance of a teenage girl in Manchester about a year earlier. A
potential serial "groomer" might have taken it to the next level,
posing as a teenage boy, cool and captivating, perfectly normal
behavior for someone of that station. But when he saw some of the text
and Facebook messages on Jessica’s phone, John became nauseated at the
thought that a 45-year-old man might be behind these texts,
someone wanting to hurt these girls. He
and Jill seemed to blame each other. Jill grew to hate John and saw his
descent into his private hell as pathetic. She was a fighter. Three
weeks after the police told them that there were no leads but that they
believed that her disappearance fit the M.O. of an internet
groomer --- funny how he himself had used that Latin-phrase
acronym so often ("Hey that's his M. O.,” “Hey, typical of his M. O.,”
“Jessica, is that what your M. O. is?”) --- John told his wife, "Jill!
You should have been more diligent about her Facebook crap, damn it,
why weren't you monitoring her?" "John,”
she shot back, "if you hadn't spent so much time at that
club maybe I would have had time. God only knows what you were doing!
Don't put this on me, you bastard!" John was stunned, his wife never
had spoken to him that way. And the look in her eyes, the hatred, utter
hatred for him. He realized she blamed him, not just for Jessica, but
for everything, losing the club and house and everything they had was
just part of it. Loss of possessions they could have dealt with but not
your own child, your daughter, your son's sister, your parents’
grand-daughter. Walter's
daughter, Kristin, surprised him the most. At first she was very
accommodating and sympathetic because of the accident and how it
coincided with the tragedy of Jessica disappearing. But then something
happened, he wasn't quite sure, Kristin changed. While they seemed at
first a bit awkward around each other because of their past history,
John felt ashamed how he let himself down and became involved with
Kristin while he was married to Jill. Kristin hired a really shark
lawyer and basically was taking John and Jill for everything they had.
John had never taken out the public liability policy, he just let it
slip like he did so many other things. This slip cost them dearly, and
he blamed himself. "The world turns on a dime, nah, on a screw,"...he
poured another drink and laughed sarcastically to himself. "Yeah, a
screw, in more ways than one." In
the months since the accident and Jessica's disappearance, John lost
his business, his house, his daughter and finally Jill. How ironic, he
thought, sinking further into his morose state, how no matter what
happens, people will always take advantage of you no matter how far
down you are; they will try and kick you even further down. Gerry
Stanhope, Walter's friend and squash partner , who helped Jill pull
herself together and call the lawyer and police moments after the
accident, was very supportive, offering help with business
issues where the club was concerned. Gerry never ceased to
remind John, "My friend you screwed up, what can I say, there's nothing
we can do but try and make sure you don't end up behind bars. Kristin
for some reason is out for blood, your blood, my friend." Some friend,
John thought, while Gerry was looking out for his well-being, he was
screwing Jill. "Screwed, screwing, screwed...no two ways about it." He
was drinking heavily now. It wasn't beyond his scope to begin thinking
about ending his life. "Dramatic,” he thought, "but effective.” And
then he thought of his son, what would Sam do, Sam needed him, he had
to hang in there for Sam, only for Sam....he then put his head down on
the kitchen table and passed out. -------------------------------------------------- He
awoke as he heard the door shut. He was in a fog, his tongue was stuck
to the roof of his mouth. He tried to gather his thoughts, his dreams
-- he looked out the kitchen window and saw Sam headed off to the
school bus stop, he didn't look back. John wanted his son to look back
and smile, the wonderful perfect smile that cost him 8,000 pounds. But
Sam walked down the street, turned the corner and was out of sight.
There on the counter was a half-finished bowl of cereal, the milk left
out, "typical Sam.” John
didn't know what hurt more, his head from all the drink or his heart.
The dreams were bad, he tried not to remember them, but he knew they
were bad; "Why couldn't Sam have turned around, why couldn't I have
seen his smile?" Almost mechanically, John went into the bathroom and
rummaged through the medicine cabinet. There he found his prescription
of Mobic, a strong anti-inflammatory for his Achilles tendinitis last
year. He never used it, but kept it just in case. He looked at the
expiration date, still valid. Expires in 2 months, "Two months," he
thought, "that is like an eternity." He
took a pee, stood there looking...he still felt groggy from the
booze...everything he was doing would be for the last time. "How many
pees in this lifetime have I taken, I can't even fucking calculate,
something I should have done, too late now, this will be my last
one..." He finished off and went into the kitchen, took the remainder
of Scotch and fumbled with the prescription bottle before it popped
open. He wanted to tell Sam something, how proud he was, how sorry, how
he knew Sam would be a great squash player and a great father someday,
a son always surpasses his father, "Isn't that the law of
nature? I can't even think of you, Jessica, my sweet girl,
my princess," he said in a whisper. And that familiar phrase came back
into his head, "The world turns on a dime, nah, on a screw," he laughed
a bit to himself. He took a handful of the Mobic, counted 25 -- "This
ought to do it,” he said, and opened the bottle of Scotch. The phone rang, more shrill-sounding in his head than a million dying chickens. Chapter FIVE by Tracy J. Gates MEH-rrrrrrrr . . . MEH-rrrrrrrr…… “You’ve got to be kidding me….” The
girl rolled over, stuck a tanned arm out from five hundred count
Egyptian cotton sheets, and slapped her palm down on the teakwood night
table. Nothing.
She slapped it down to the left. To the right. This time it struck a
slim silver square. Her fingers closed around it and carried it up to
her squinting eyes. The bleating came again. “What
the . . .” She punched some buttons with her thumb, and suddenly
Rihanna was singing at the top of her lungs in full Bose surround
sound, the volume still at the level of her impromptu late night dance
party. Now, instead of making her hips and hair sway, it caused her
head to jerk back in a useless attempt to escape, knocking it into the
headboard. MEH-rrrrrrrr . . . MEH-RRRRRRRRRRRR “What a bad little girl I am” sang Rihanna. “I got a problem, bad, bad…” “Shhhhh—ugar,
sugarrrrrrrrr,” growled the girl, involuntarily mimicking her mother,
when she was going for a winner, but putting the ball into the tin
instead. Tears sprang to her eyes. She took a corner of the sheet and
wiped them away. They were from the shock of physical pain, she
decided, because surely she didn’t miss her ridiculous mother. She
didn’t have time to think about it, though. Over another round of
something that sounded like seagulls being strangled and Rihanna
squealing “Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad,” there was now a loud knocking on
her door. “Jesss? Are you there? Are you okay??” Jessica
thought about this, after giving the affirmative to Nikki on both
counts , figuring out how to kill Rihanna with the press of the right
button, and using her deductive skills to solve the mystery of the
obnoxious wake-up call; she couldn’t see a thing out her window. Fog. She
was fine, she thought, better than fine, as she opened the doors to her
closet. It wasn’t a walk-in like Nikki’s mum had, but then again Jess
didn’t have fifteen years worth of clothes—or however long it had been
since Mrs. Ivanov had been married to Nikki’s dad. She only had—was it
already eight months?—worth of Juicy Couture, True Religion, Miss
Sixty, to name a few. Some were hand-me-overs from Nikki, but many were
gifts from Mrs. Ivanov who clearly liked to shop and did so every place
they stopped. Lacy sun-dresses from the French Riviera. Embroidered and
hand-printed tops from Africa. Bikinis from Bermuda. “You
have such lovely figure,” Mrs. Ivanov would say in her heavily accented
English. I should send Nikki to orphanage!” And then she would laugh in
her half sexy, half hoarse from too many Newports voice. “Orphanage,”
Jessica muttered to herself, sweeping the hangers of teen couture to
one side. She could wear a beaded bikini to breakfast, but her squash
lesson was mid-morning. “I still can’t believe she bought that….” Mrs.
Ivanov wasn’t the brightest bulb in Bergdorf’s. The
other half of the closet contained all of her squash attire. Harrow,
Adidas, Nike, Prince, Asics . . . Mrs. Ivanov wasn’t loyal to one
brand; it was mostly which color caught her eye. And who had worn it.
Recently, she’d been ordering whatever dress Kasey Brown had worn,
since she saw her beat Nicol David in a black and silver number. “What
amazing arms,’ Jessica overheard her say, as she and Nikki watched a
video of the match in the salon. Jessica
quickly flipped by a bunch of coordinated outfits—turquoise, berry
pink, sunset orange, and then her hand dropped. Fire engine red. It
couldn’t be… She looked more closely. The skirt had pleats in the front
and—she pushed the hanger over to see the back—a zipper stuck half way
down (or up, depending on your degree of optimism) on the back. How had
it gotten there? She hadn’t remembered seeing it . . . but had it
always been there? No, she was sure not. The last time
she’d seen the vintage tennis skirt (well, her mum’s from when she was
a girl) was when she’d stuffed it into her squash bag that final
morning at home. But she hadn’t been wearing it when she had made that
dash to the limo. Nikki had told her to leave everything; it would look
more like a kidnapping. That had been easy; she didn’t have anything
she really liked. Anything except her beautiful new Galaxy 3s phone,
but Nikki’s brother Alexi had grabbed it when they were driving away.
“You want to be found, princess?” he said, tossing both her phone and
his cigarette out the window. “Only
by you,” she had thought to herself. He was cute, in a young Peter
Nicol kind of way—which was still too old for her; he was Nikki’s half
brother, from her father’s first—or was it second?—marriage. Then
again, she could probably beat him on the court. The
court. She put the skirt to the back of her mind; maybe she had brought
it after all. She needed to get going if she was going to eat and get
on the court by mid-morning. Aman scolded them in Arabic if they
waltzed on even a few minutes late. She grabbed a black skirt, a
tournament t-shirt with Big Apple Open emblazoned on the front, and a
pair of Asics and closed the door. André opened the door to the dining room. “Good morning, miss.” “Morning, André.” “No breakfast on the deck this morning?” She shook her head. “It’s foggy. I heard the horn.” “Ah,” the mustachioed maitre d' nodded. “That accounts for Alexi’s presence.” Jessica
quickly glanced around the room. She figured Nikki might be there, but
the rest of the family usually ate in their rooms, on their private
decks, or in the case of Mr. Ivanov, in his office. She rarely saw the
man. But there was Alexi, sitting in once of leather banquettes, eating
eggs and a pile of bacon. She’d gotten over her schoolgirl
crush on the guy. Now he just made her nervous. Especially alone. “Oh. Right.” She began backing up. “Maybe I’ll see if Nikki’s up . . .” Too late. Alexi had seen her and was waving her over. “What did you do to your forehead, Princess?” he asked her when she got to his table. She
put her fingers to it and winced. There was a bump now from the
headboard. The chorus “bad, bad, bad, bad, bad” started pounding again
in her head. “Bad.” she mumbled. “Bump.” “I’d say,” he agreed, raising his eyebrows at her. He scooted over on the banquette. “Come sit down.” “I should see if Nikki’s up…” she began, but Alexi quickly interrupted. “She’s
asleep. Here,” he insisted, pulling her firmly over to his side so that
she half sat, half fell onto the leather cushions. “The usual, Miss?” André had followed her over. Jess nodded thankfully. “Yes, please, André. Weeta….” “You should have eggs,” Alexi interrupted. “Protein. Don’t you have a lesson later?” Jess looked down at her skirt. “Yes, but....” “Bring her some eggs, André,” Alexi ordered. “Over easy.” He turned back to her and smiled. Within
moments, André was back with her order. Her usual order. Two pieces of
weetabix with sliced banana on top. And a pitcher of cold milk. “Your
first course, Miss?” Jessica smiled for the first time that morning. She could always count on André. Alexi
frowned. “Forget the eggs, André. I’ll take a refill on my espresso,
but then you can go.” He paused. “Jessica is going to give me some
top-secret tips for my squash game.” “Really??”
The voice came from the door to the hall and not the kitchen. Nikolina
was leaning on the frame. “Jess only gives her secret tips to me,
future Junior nomer adin.” “She
should give you her secret diet tips, too,” Alexi shot back. His half
sister was seemingly his opposite, short and dark to his tall and fair.
But their tongues were both sharp. “The
only tips you need are how to stop mooching off Papa.” Nikki flounced
her short self into a seat. “Ouch. Oooch. Oh, my head hurrrrrrts.” Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, thought Jess, lightly rubbing her own. Alexi sneered. “And you’ve got to stop pinching your mama’s wodka.” Nikki
stuck out her sharp tongue. Alexi rolled his eyes. Jessica quickly
finished her weetabix and stood up. “Um. I have to get to my lesson?” Nikki
lay her head down on the mahogany table and closed her eyes. “Tell Aman
that I don’t feel well; we can play our practice match tomorrow.” Alexi shot his eyes from his half sister to Jessica. “I’ll play with you, Princess. After your lesson.” Jessica protested. “Oh, you don’t want to play with me….” Alexi
slipped something small out from under his napkin. “Oh, I do.” He
tapped the slim silver rectangle. “And then we must talk.” Nikki yawned and put her arms over her head. Jessica stared. Alexi grinned. “Da?” Once again, Jessica nodded. Aman wasn’t too happy when she told him Nikki’s message. “That girl is la-zee,” he muttered. “You can’t buy experience. You can’t borrow eet, “ he said, shaking his head. “Oh, Aman, Nikki’s gotten better,” she protested. “Yes.
She has,” Aman agreed in his knowing way. “But you. You have gotten
many, many times better.” He smiled at her. “And nicer, too.” Jessica
blushed. But she did feel nicer. Or, well, she liked being nicer. When
she first got to this grand place that the Ivanov family called home,
she couldn’t believe how nice every thing was. How Nikki had the nicest
clothes and the nicest squash stuff and all the nicest, newest
electronic everything. She hadn’t felt bad at all that she had told
them she was an orphan. In fact, she kind of was one; since her parents
bought the squash club, they were never home. It opened before she got
up in the morning and closed after she went to bed. She checked her
watch; they were probably there right now.” “Your parents would be proud of you,” Aman continued. “They
were,” Jess agreed, and then realized what she’d just said. “I mean, I
hope they would be. Should I, um, do some suicides to warm up?” she
quickly asked. “That’s my girl,” Aman beamed. Jessica opened the door of the all-glass court and sprinted to the front wall. She couldn’t hear, but on the other side of the one-way glass, Alexi repeated Aman’s words. “No, that’s my girl.” Jessica
was drenched and her legs were wobbly by the time Aman was done with
her. He usually gave her and Nikki a break half way through, but with
Nikki not there whining about dying for water and rest, he just kept
feeding ball after ball and asking for rails, drops, volleys, boasts,
volley-drops until she was about to drop herself. “We’ll
work on your stamina next time,” Aman said, handing her a towel and a
bottle of water. “But they should be sending you to the championships,
not Nikolina.” Now
that wasn’t going to happen, Jessica thought as she chugged down the
drink. Funny how a split-second decision had made her both a better
player and impossible for her to compete. But she was too tired to
really think about it. So that’s why she was still slumped on the sofa
outside the court when Alexi walked in as soon as Aman left. “Ready to play? Or to talk?” he asked, waving her racquet with one hand and a phone in the other. Jessica
looked up at him. The good part about running around for hours was that
while her body was down, her endorphins were up. Nikki was right, Alexi
was a bozo not worth worrying about. She waved two empty hands, palms up. “Whatever.” “So do you want to call your father before we play or after?” Jessica sat up like a shot, this time jerking her head into a table lamp. “Ouch. What??” Alexi turned the phone around so that she could see the number displayed. It looked familiar. 展hy would you want to call my father?・she asked, her adrenalin kicking in over the throbbing of her head. Alexi rolled his eyes. 釘ecause he痴 rich. And he wants you back.・He paused. 鄭nd I could use a little money right now.・ 釘ut you池e rich!・Jess protested. Alexi
shook his head. 溺y father is rich. I知 not rich. And I知 not dumb, either
. . . Now that I know your family won the lottery, they may be looking
for something to invest in.・He narrowed his not-so-Nicol-like eyes.
鏑ike your return.・ 釘ut I . . . I wasn稚 even kidnapped!・ 哲ow you are.・Alexi smiled down at her. He handed her the racquet. 徹n second thought, let痴 play first.・ Jessica
stared at him as he turned to pick up his racquet by the door. This
time she wasn稚 too tired to think. She stood up, wound up, and whacked
him as if going for a winner, right on the head. The
fog had lifted when Jessica came bursting out the door onto the deck,
the phone in her hand. She ran around the pool, dodged through some
deck chairs, and scooted behind a lifeboat near the bow. This
may have been the stupidest thing she壇 ever done, she thought, catching
her breath. Next to throwing her racquet at Emma Duncalf in last year痴
club finals. There was no cell phone service on a yacht. Not even one
as super nice as this one. They were miles from shore. And then she looked up. A very green and tall lady, holding a book and a torch, was looking down on her. . . . Chapter 6 by Alan Thatcher Steve
Dwyer痴 Ferrari drew some admiring glances as he pulled up outside the
Vale Hotel. After checking into the Royal Suite, he checked his laptop.
He had invited an old friend, who just happened to be an old flame, to
join him for lunch. A
successful businessman, who had made a small fortune in the States, he
had returned home for one simple reason. He loved a challenge. He
wanted to see if he could repeat his American triumphs on English soil. A talented squash player, he could have turned pro. Hitting winners came naturally to him. And so did making money. The bonuses he earned working in a small but well-connected wealth management company in New York set him up for life. But
he preferred being his own boss. He opened a chain of health and
fitness clubs that attracted thousands of members and generated a
steady cash flow into his company coffers. He
was breaking new ground in America by making squash the focal point of
the business, with at least four courts at most of his clubs. Most
Americans thought squash was a vegetable. But Dwyer knew, from his time
at Harvard, that squash, the sport, was growing in popularity. As
an Ivy League sport, most colleges were now building large squash
centres, hiring the game痴 leading coaches and recruiting talented
students from all over the world. The
headlines surrounding Trinity痴 long unbeaten run, finally ended by Yale
after 13 astonishing seasons, helped to create an aura about the sport. Dwyer knew that the strong work ethic required in squash struck a chord with most Americans. They also enjoyed the British-style banter in the British-style pub that formed the social hub of all of his clubs. He was convinced he could ride to the rescue of a sport that many felt was dying back home in the UK. That痴 why he had invited Jill Smith to lunch. Jill
痴 day began as usual with getting son Sam ready for school, and
promising to pick him up at 4pm to take him for a practice session with
the county juniors. When her phone rang, Jill saw a number she didn稚 recognise. The long list of digits suggested a call from overseas. 滴ello?・ 笛ill, it痴 Steve Dwyer here.・ She caught her breath and stumbled on her reply. 展hat? Steve! How did you・ It痴・ Steve smiled as he said: 鉄orry to spring a surprise, but you haven稚 answered any of my emails.・ His voice was calm and soothing and Jill tried to pull herself together. 徹h
my God. Sorry. I check every email hoping to hear news about
Jessica,・she said. 展hen I saw it was from you I guess I couldn稚 get my
head round it. I didn稚 know what to think. Steve, I知 so sorry. I should
have answered. Where are you calling from?・ 的知 just up the road at the Vale Hotel. I was hoping you could join me for lunch,・said Steve. 鉄eeing that number, I thought you were in America.・ 的 must get it changed to a UK number,・he said. 的t値l make life easier.・ 添es it will,・said Jill. 的 was just on my way to the squash club for a board meeting. It should be over by 12 noon.・ 典hat痴 fine,・said Steve. 的値l pick you up at 12.30.・ Jill
痴 head was spinning. Why was Steve Dwyer calling her up after all these
years? They had grown up together in the county junior squads and had
been boyfriend and girlfriend for several months before Steve gained
his scholarship to Harvard and moved to the States. Their
furtive fumblings at the back of the squash courts had turned into
full-on passion when Steve bought his own car at the age of 18, but
despite being close they knew that life would take them on different
journeys. Steve
was an outstanding mathematics student as well as being a star member
of the Harvard squash team, and Jill bagged her own place at
Loughborough, immersing herself into sports science. They
had stayed in touch for several years but that contact slowly dried up
as Steve became embroiled in business and Jill went through a variety
of relationships before marrying John. She
struggled to concentrate on her meeting at the squash club. She found
all the legal and financial matters absolutely draining, and she needed
to get home to check up on any possible news of her missing daughter. Soon
after Jessica痴 disappearance, there were several reported sightings in
various parts of the country. All had been false trails. But those
calls had dried up and she needed to think of a new strategy to keep
the police involved, instead of simply leaving Jessica痴 name on a
missing person痴 list, soon to be forgotten. She
had planned to leave the meeting early to go home and get changed
before meeting Steve Dwyer. She normally wore jeans or a tracksuit,
especially if she was playing her friend Sally, and was keen to avoid
answering any questions about choosing to dress smarter than usual. But
as she stepped over the weed-filled excuse for a lawn at the side of
the club, she was confronted by a rather unusual sight. For parked next
to her own small vehicle stood a gleaming, obviously very expensive,
sleek red Ferrari. Her
jaw dropped as Steve Dwyer stepped out of the car and walked towards
her. At 43, he was just as handsome as she recalled. Six feet tall,
with just the merest hint of a grey fleck in his thick, black hair, it
was cut stylishly and was much shorter than she remembered. Wearing
jeans and an open-necked shirt, he looked every bit the relaxed
executive, with a familiar and very fetching twinkle in his eye. The smile, that charming, disarming smile, was just the same. They
hugged silently before tears filled Jill痴 eyes. She tried to explain
how difficult life had been these past few months but Steve wiped away
a tear with his right index finger and then placed it on her lips. 的
know all about it,・he said. His voice was more mature than she
remembered, but of course it would be after all these years. And there
was no hint of an American accent despite years of living on the other
side of the Pond. Jill
didn稚 ask how he knew, but felt obliged to be cheerful, as most British
people are programmed to behave, even in the direst of adversity.
Pointing towards the Ferrari, she said: 展ow. This is amazing. I致e never
seen one of these up close before.・ 迭ich
boys・toys,・said Steve. 的 promised myself one when I grew up, but I
couldn稚 wait that long, so I bought it last year when I came back to
the UK.・ 添es, I壇 heard on the grapevine that you were back from the States,・said Jill. 展hat made you come back?・ 的 wanted to look at new businesses over here,・he said. 鄭nd that痴 what I wanted to talk to you about today.・ 敵osh,
sounds exciting,・said Jill. 釘ut I can稚 think why you would want any
advice from me. You seem to be doing pretty well on your own, judging
by the size of this car. It must have cost more than my house!・ 的t may well have done,・said Steve. 釘ut, like I say, it痴 just a toy.・ 鏑et痴 go for lunch at the hotel and we can both catch up on everything.・ As
Steve moved towards his car and opened the passenger door, Jill
hesitated. 的 can稚 go anywhere posh with me dressed like this, and
especially not in this car. I was going to go home and change.・ Her face fell but Steve quickly reassured her. 的t痴 OK,・he said. 的知 wearing jeans, too. 的
don稚 want to sound over the top, but I致e actually got a suite at the
hotel with its own dining room. I値l order something on room service and
we can chat away in private. How does that sound?・ A small smile crossed Jill痴 face. 徹K.・ The
journey to the hotel took less than five minutes and Jill felt
self-conscious as every pedestrian they passed gawped at the Ferrari. Steve put his arm around her shoulder as he ushered through the hotel reception and up one flight of stairs to his suite. Jill wondered how many illicit meetings Steve had initiated in this way. When lunch arrived, Steve tipped the waiter and poured Jill a glass of champagne. 徹nly a small one,・she said. 的致e got to pick Sam up from school later on.・ They
enjoyed the smoked salmon salad, followed by strawberries and cream,
and, as the meal progressed, Jill told Steve about the awful events of
the previous year. He felt almost guilty at being so upbeat about all of his own activities. They
moved into the lounge and sat at each end of a huge, sprawling sofa.
Jill felt safe at placing a large velvet cushion between them. Finally,
she said: 鉄o, why are you here? And what did you want to see me for?・ 鉄everal reasons,・said Steve. 擢irstly, I知 buying the club.能~ 展hat? That痴 impossible.・Jill shook her head. 典hat wasn稚 mentioned at this morning痴 board meeting.・ 典hat痴 because none of the board members knows anything about it,・said Steve. 的 wanted you to be the first to know. 鄭nd,・he added, 的 want you to run the club for me.・ Jill
was astonished. She didn稚 know what to say. 釘ut I can稚,・she said,
finally. 的t痴 all been a terrible shambles. My life is a mess. We致e got
legal problems to sort out at the club, I知 looking after Sam as a
single mum and I知 still trying to find my missing daughter.・ 的
know,・said Steve. 的致e instructed a solicitor to take care of all the
legal matters at the club. You won稚 have to worry about a thing. The
aggrieved family will be offered a compensation package and it will all
be taken care of away from the law courts, and the squash courts.・ Jill
was amazed at his confidence, and his obvious knowledge of matters that
she thought had been known only to the club board and a handful of
members. She
smiled at his little joke but then became more defensive. 的知
astonished. You Americans think you can just breeze in and take over
the bloody world,・she said. She was half-joking and half-serious. Steve
smiled again. 擢irstly, I知 not bloody American. I知 very much an English
gentleman but what I do have is confidence in my own ability. 的
致e built a chain of clubs in America that has exceeded all my financial
forecasts and I think it痴 time we did something similar over here. 釘ritish squash players are always bleating about clubs closing down as though the owners owe you some kind of favour. 溺ost
clubs in England were built as commercial ventures by businessmen
taking calculated risks. That痴 why squash became a boom sport in the
1980s and the businessmen just wanted a piece of the action. It had
very little to do with any imagination or investment from within the
sport itself. The squash boom came and went and now the flavour of the
month in business terms is the ability to take large amounts of money
off people to join a fancy gym. Where squash was once the way to make
easy money, now the gym chains have taken over that role in the leisure
industry. 摘ven
they are feeling the pinch in the recession but I知 looking at a new
concept where we build community sports clubs with squash as a major
part of the mix.
笛ust imagine if your courts were used for other activities during the
day, and that spare parcel of land next to the club was used for tennis
and five-a-side football. Add a gym, a sports injury clinic, and,
heaven forbid, a decent restaurant, and that way the club would be busy
every day, from 9am to 10 or 11pm, seven days a week.・ 添ou need a lot of money for that,・said Jill. 釘ingo,・the penny痴 dropped. 添ou don稚 have to be sarcastic,・said Jill, suddenly becoming uneasy at her surroundings. 鉄orry,
I知 not. I just know that most English squash clubs are run by boring
committees. They are always more worried about cleaning the loos,
sweeping the courts and making sure the showers work instead of
marketing the club and promoting the sport. They have no idea about
business. Usually, they are a bunch of old farts who hate juniors and
just want to keep things ticking over the way they have for years,
while the club and the sport dies around them.・ His
tone had become more forceful and Jill said: 哲ice speech. Now I can see
why you get your own way in business. But I agree with what you say,
most of it, anyway.・ 鉄orry,・
said Steve. 的t痴 just that I知 passionate about what I do. I made a lot
of money in America and I made my mind up that from here on in I would
only get involved in things that I love.・ He
looked at Jill as he spoke but he didn稚 want to overplay his hand. He
didn稚 want to come across as the pushy tycoon and frighten her off. He
wasn稚 sure if he was doing a good job. He
added: 鏑ook, you can work the hours you choose around your domestic
responsibilities and Sam can always bring his homework to the club. If
he痴 anything like I was at his age then he値l love to spend as much time
as he can at the club. 的
致e heard a lot about him and would love to get on court with him some
time soon, and see how good he really is. Maybe this afternoon, if
that痴 possible? I致e got plenty of free time and would love to see how
good the latest county juniors are.・ Jill
struggled to take it all in. 展ell, that痴 all very nice, but what about
Jessica? I might have to drop everything at a moment痴 notice to go and
find her.・ Steve
held his breath and chose his words carefully before saying: 展ell, I
hope you don稚 mind. But I think I can help you there as well. I am
happy to provide all the legal help you need. In fact, I have already
spoken to a very well-connected private investigator. He thinks he can
help. I hope you don稚 mind・ Jill
began to squirm. Deep inside, she felt uneasy at someone who was a
virtual stranger assuming that he could take so much control over her
life. 展hat?
I don稚 understand why you池e doing all this. You march into my life and
just think you can walk all over me and get your own way because you
have all this money?・ 的t
痴 very simple, but very difficult at the same time,・he said. 展hen I
left for America, I always imagined that you and I would get back
together one day. 釘ut then we both went our separate ways. I got married and divorced, but really I was married to the job. 鄭nd there, at the back of my mind, all the time I was thinking about you. 展hen
I heard about John, I tried to find out the reason he took that
overdose, and that痴 when a friend told me about Jessica going missing. 的致e come back to England because I miss so much about life over here, and especially you. 的 know you have a mountain of problems but I just want to do anything and everything I can to help you.・ Both were silent before Steve continued. 的
still love you. I always have done. I know I致e been away in America,
and I know it痴 been years since we致e seen each other, but I have always
loved you. I致e missed you so much.・ Tears,
again, rolled down Jill痴 cheeks. 的t痴 been more than 20 years,・she said.
的t痴 all too much of a shock. Do you honestly think we can just pick
things up where we left off as teenagers? 鉄o
much has happened. So many bad things. And you just come walking back
into my life like this. It痴 easy for you, but you have no idea what I致e
been through these past few months. 的
知 trying to find my missing daughter and I really don稚 know if I can
trust another man at the moment, let alone get involved again.・ She
quickly brushed aside thoughts of her dalliances with her friend Gerry,
who had helped her through so many difficult times at the club. 鏑ike I say, I just want to help,・said Steve. 的値l give you a lift back to the club if you like. Or I can call a cab if you prefer.・ Jill
dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. She breathed out a huge sigh and
shook her head. 鏑ook, it痴 probably me who owes you an apology. Coming
out of the blue, all this is just overwhelming. 釘ut, look at you. Handsome as ever, ploughing your way through life like you always did, and always getting your own way. 添ou池e a lovely man, Steve. You池e saying all these kind things but I知 not sure I can take all this in at the moment. 鼎an you give me some time to think about it?・ 徹f
course I can. There痴 no rush. I can instruct my solicitors to be as
discreet as possible with the purchase of the club, and, if anything
leaks out, can I just ask you to act like you know nothing about it?・ Jill
nodded. She moved closer to him and perched herself on the middle of
the sofa. She touched his shirt, stroked his arm, then let her hand
drop. 典here you go, getting your own way again.・ Steve smiled. 溺aybe. Maybe not. You kept me guessing enough when we were younger. 迭emember all those county tournaments where we used to sneak off outside the club instead of marking the other matches?・ Jill
grinned. 滴ow could I forget? It was lucky I had a red face from playing
squash because if the coaches knew what we壇 been up to I don稚 think I
could have hidden the blushes.・ She
looked deep into his green eyes, wondering what she could see there.
The tender look that came back told her everything she needed to know. 的 need a drink of water,・she said. Steve went to the well-stocked minibar and returned with a glass of chilled, sparkling Perrier. 典hey used to sponsor tournaments in France,・said Steve, placing the half-empty bottle on the coffee table in front of the sofa. 的n fact, we both took home Perrier T-shirts after playing in the European junior tournament in Paris.・ Jill sipped her water and fixed him with a look that melted his heart. 典hat was where we first kissed,・she said. 添es, and a lot more besides,・said Steve, cocking his head to one side with a cheeky grin. Jill put down her glass on the table. She stood up and Steve followed her towards the door. As
they walked through the dining room and passed the remnants of their
lunch on the table, Jill turned and stood opposite Steve. She slipped a
finger inside one of the buttons on his shirt and touched his
chest. 鄭re you going to show me the rest of the suite? I don稚 have to pick up Sam for another hour and a half.・ Their lovemaking was passionate, desperate and, at times, intensely physical. For
Jill, it allowed her to release months of pent-up tension. As they
dressed, her cheeks were flushed. She said: 的 can tell you池e still a
squash player. You still have the perfect length.・ Steve quickly whispered: 典hank you. And I hope I haven稚 lost my touch up front.・ When
Jill collected Sam from school, she told him: 的致e got a surprise for
you. I know it痴 not Christmas, but a friend of mine wants to give you a
ride in his posh car and then give you some free squash coaching.・ Sam痴 face was a picture as he gazed at the Ferrari. If any kid deserved a treat it was him. He had no idea who this mystery man was, and he had no idea how his life was about to change. Chapter 7 by Rob Dinerman
Change it had, all right, beginning right with that ride
in the Ferrari that afternoon and the squash lesson that followed.
Steve Dwyer had come into Sam痴 (and Jill痴) life just when their
downward spiral had seemed on the verge of permanently capsizing both
of them. He had promptly taken steps towards purchasing the club, per
his promise to Jill, with only some paperwork still left to be signed,
and his hand-picked solicitor was well on his way to resolving the
lawsuit filed by Walter痴 family. The private investigator Steve had
hired to locate Jessica had come up with several leads, none of which
had panned out in the intervening six months, but Steve had good reason
to believe that that pursuit would come to a successful conclusion as
well. As progress continued to be made on these several intertwined
fronts, Jill痴 mood had correspondingly lifted, as she
increasingly realized she could indeed trust this knight in shining
armor from long ago who had re-entered her life all these years later
with solutions to so many of the problems that had seemed so
overwhelming prior to his surprise appearance. She was even getting
more upbeat about Jessica being found and safely returned to the fold.
As for Sam, Steve had seemed to take a special interest in
him, which no one had done during those growing-up years when his more
charismatic twin sister had enjoyed most of the spotlight. With her
good looks, prepossessing natural talents (on the squash court and in
the classroom) and flair for the dramatic, Jessica was always getting
most of the attention, while Sam had lingered (not always as
contentedly as he let on) in her shadow. Steve had seen a potential in
Sam that no one else, including his parents, had ever noticed, and some
of those overlooked qualities had steadily emerged under Steve痴
encouragement and prodding.
As winter turned to spring, Steve became more and more
convinced that, although Sam was improving in his schoolwork and his
game, he would benefit from a more disciplined and structured
environment, and that a prep school in New England, the
Aullt Academy in northern Massachusetts, with its rigorous
academic standards and emphasis on athletics and citizenship, would be
exactly what Sam needed. Under normal circumstances, a late-May
application for the following academic year would be far too late,
December 1st being the deadline date to apply, with acceptances mailed
out by mid-March. But one of Steve痴 squash teammates at Harvard,
an Aullt Academy alum, was now a member of his prep-school
alma mater痴 Board Of Trustees, and Steve, who had swung several
lucrative business deals that had made his friend a ton of money, was
(with Jill痴 somewhat reluctant blessing) readily able to persuade the
fellow to pull some strings and secure a spot for Sam in the lower-year
(i.e. 10th grade) class.
It had not been an easy transition at first, and Sam in
his early letters and emails home frequently complained of how
demanding an environment he had brusquely been thrown into. As one of
maybe 50 new lowers joining 100 or so classmates who during their
ninth-grade year at Aullt had already firmly established
their own pecking order, Sam and the others who entered in 10th grade
were regarded by the returnees as interlopers, impostors, indeed almost
INVADERS eager to usurp the top spots on a totem pole that had been
meticulously constructed throughout the course of the prior school
year. Plus Sam and the roommate he had been assigned to in Webster Hall
dormitory (a snobbish fellow 10th-grader from an elite private-school
in Connecticut who had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth and
acted the part) had gotten off to a bad start right off the bat,
arguing unnecessarily on the first afternoon of registration who should
have the larger of the two rooms comprising Webster 15. The roommate
along with his parents had arrived in the room about 20 minutes before
Sam, just enough time for them to have plopped down their suitcases in
the bigger room.
It wasn稚 being consigned to the smaller room in back that had bothered
Sam, but rather the attitude of the roommate, who clearly felt that he
DESERVED the larger area, and the relationship had deteriorated from
there, to the point where by early fall it had become clear that Sam
and his roommate would never become chummy, that, without there ever
having been a blow-out argument, there were just enough small
resentments, a look here, an offhand remark or smirking putdown or
overheard comment there, to cause the two to be doomed to spend the
entire year circling around each other like wary cats who would have
preferred not to share the same owner but had accepted their situation
and divided up the turf more or less to both parties・mutual if grudging
satisfaction. Indeed, Sam had privately gotten quite a bit of pleasure
at his roommate痴 pratfall one afternoon during a home football game.
Sam had no idea how American football was played, but
everyone on campus had been talking with such anticipation that October
Saturday morning about the upcoming contest with one of Aullt痴
main prep-school rivals that he had felt compelled to walk the
half-mile to the small stadium on the far end of campus to see what all
the excitement was about. He found it difficult to understand the game
but had no difficulty understanding what happened to his roommate, who
played trombone (and bragged about it) in the Academy痴 marching band,
which was performing at halftime, all precision and straight lines and
carefully detailed patterns --- that is, until suddenly the perfection
was marred by a trombone lying clearly out of place on the grass for
several seconds before it was frantically scooped up by its errant
owner, Sam痴 roommate, as Sam cackled with ungenerous but undeniable
glee.
Beyond these diplomatic interpersonal issues, coping with
the sheer volume and pace of the school work had been the most
challenging aspect of all for Sam, who had always thought of himself as
being a competent student, a complacent self-impression that within
weeks ・really within the first several days of the FIRST week --- had
been severely jarred by the reality of the Aullt
curriculum. Keeping up with the course load required intense
between-classes study (teachers each assigned several hours of homework
from one session to the next, serene in what to them was the comforting
two-part view that, 1, Aullt wasn稚 for everybody, and, 2,
there were plenty of high schools who would gladly absorb an
Aulltcasualty) and class sessions were conducted according to the
extraordinarily innovative but equally double-edged Bowditch Plan. A
rich alum of that name nearly a century ago had purchased oval and
circular tables for the classrooms in every discipline but the
sciences; students (usually 12 to 14 per class, a remarkably low
teacher to student ratio) would sit not at individual desks but in
chairs arrayed around those tables facing each other, with the teacher
either also sitting at the table or, more rarely, illustrating a point
at the blackboard, the operative theory being that a more free-ranging
and spontaneous classroom exchange would result from this novel format.
Rather than having to raise their hands to participate,
students would interact in the discussion of a topic or the solving of
a problem much in the manner of friends gathered around a dinner table,
with the teacher giving his charges relatively free rein while still
making sure that the conversation did not go totally off course. One
thing for sure about the Bowditch Plan, as Sam had discovered
first-hand and in chastening fashion by mid-September --- whereas in
the 途egular・classroom structure if you hadn稚 done your homework, you
might get away with sitting at the back of the room behind a large
student to avoid being called upon (Sam had occasionally pulled this
off in grade school), at Aullt there was absolutely no place to hide,
or for that matter to hide the fact that you weren稚 prepared. Just as
someone痴 non-participation at a dinner table discussion is often
swiftly noted by his/her table-mates, usually with some discomfiture
and concern, similarly no one could come to those oval/circular tables
unprepared and realistically expect to get through the first TEN
MINUTES of the fifty-minute session, much less the entire class,
without everyone in the room becoming aware of his silence, and its
implications. If for no other reason than to avoid being embarrassed at
being exposed (and not only silence, but also body language, could be
counted on to give an errant student away), Sam resolved early on to
never come to class without having done his homework.
Jill, who had had her doubts (as had Sam) about the wisdom
of sending Sam across the ocean to Aullt in the first place
before both of them had, albeit with some misgivings, yielded to Steve痴
judgment, was concerned by her son痴 grousing communications (which
included an occasional phone call) home, but Steve saw them as
confirmation of the decision to enroll Sam at Aullt. The kind of
hands-on prodding that the setting there provided ・indeed imposed ---
upon its students was exactly what Steve accurately perceived Sam
needed to emerge from the shadow of his sister and reach his potential.
And indeed as the autumn months moved along, Sam came to realize that
Steve had been right and that, slowly but surely, he was growing into
this new environment, propelled by its demands and the excellence of
many of his classmates to a higher standard than he ever would have
attained had he remained in his particular school system in England.
He fed off the quiet energy that permeated the leafy campus, and when
he ascended the marble steps of the Academy Building six mornings a
week (yes, there were Saturday classes through the morning) and read
the Latin engraving above the doorway 滴uc Venite Pueri Ut Viri
Sitis・(鼎ome here as boys that you can become men・ --- founded in the
mid-1700痴 as an all-boys school, Aullt had been co-ed for nearly 50
years, yet the engraving had never been adjusted --- it was with a
sense of excitement and anticipation that he had never experienced
prior to coming to Aullt.
Sam had to admit as well that the change of scenery had
done him a world of good, representing as it did a needed escape from
the multi-front troubles that had engulfed his family ever since the
fatal incident at the Vale Squash Club, his sister痴 still unexplained
and unsolved disappearance, and the legal quagmire and his father痴
overdose that had ensued. Thankfully one of John痴 closest friends,
Malcolm Pearson, the one who had placed the phone call right before
John had swallowed his pile of pills and a person whose ability to
think coolly under stressful circumstances had bailed him out several
times in the past as well, had gotten the medics to him in time to save
his life; John had spent all these interceding months in a psychiatric
facility, receiving treatment, counseling and therapy for his emotional
wounds, with no clear-cut timetable for his release.
In a way it was just as well that Sam was of
necessity fully immersed in his activities in this new school, so
distant in miles and mood from the worries that had been dragging
himself and his mother down back at home. Reference was often made to
the 党Aullt bubble,・and in fact the place did function as a world
of its own, almost an oasis (albeit an extremely demanding one) from
the outside world, and the challenges of whatever came next, the next
paper, the next exam, the next athletic event (all students were
required to choose a sport for the fall, winter and spring, with
practice every weekday afternoon and players assigned to varsity, JV
and club teams) were enough to commandeer all of Sam痴 focus, energy and
attention.
All, that is, except for the quiet moments of reflection
that occasionally surfaced amid the hubbub, maybe in his dorm room
after he had finished a reading assignment, or between classes as he
headed on the pathway from one building to another, the buzz of his
fellow students around him, when Sam suddenly found himself wondering
what had happened to Jessica, if she was okay and indeed, if she was
still alive. Sam respected his sister for her drive, her passion (even
when it caused her to lose her temper) and the aggressive way she
confronted challenges, whether on court or off, and he clung to a
belief that somehow she could, and would, find her way out of any
predicament that befell her. Still, it had been well over a year and to
this point even the investigator Steve had summoned, as noted, had been
unable to come up with a solid lead to work with.
Of course one of the times Sam thought of his sister was
when the squash season began shortly before Thanksgiving recess. Even
though ice hockey was the 堵lory・sport at New England prep schools
during the winter months (neighborhood kids as young as four or five
years old were already skating on double-bladed skates on patches of
ice in their back yards), with basketball a somewhat close second,
still Aullt had an amazing squash facility as well, 10
glass back wall courts, two of them exhibition courts with seating
capacity of several hundred, within the confines of the cavernous
gymnasium. As a newcomer to the program, Sam had initially been
inserted at the bottom of the ladder (to play in interscholastic meets
as a member of Aullt痴 varsity one had to be in the top seven,
with Nos. 8 through 14 comprising the JV) but by mid-December, aided
substantially by the lessons Steve had given him and others Steve had
arranged with some of the better teaching pros (which had improved the
power and placement of his drives, added sharpness to his front-court
game and increased his confidence in his volley as well), Steve had
steadily progressed to No. 5.
He had capped off this climb with an uplifting
breakthrough win against an upperclassman who had beaten him handily
(and partly by psyching him out) the first time they played. In the
rematch several weeks later, Sam, refusing to be distracted by any of
his opponent痴 mind games, had arm-fought his way through a pivotal
12-10 tiebreaker in the third to go up two games to one and won the
fourth going away 11-3 with an exhilarating sprint to the tape as his
demoralized foe essentially conceded the last few points, too far
behind to have a realistic chance to catch up and too depressed to try.
The fifth position might be the highest that Sam could hope to attain
that season --- the No. 1 player had learned the game as a youngster in
the elite program in Malaysia and the No. 2 had represented the USA the
previous summer in the World Junior Championships in
Toronto--- but all four players ahead of him were
upperclassmen, which meant that Sam would move up as the players above
him graduated and therefore was well positioned to become captain-elect
at the end of his 11th-grade season and to eventually inherit the No. 1
position if he held his spot in the lineup.
Sam痴 win had come on a day that fell smack in the middle
of what was dubbed 滴oly Week,・when many of the final exams for the fall
semester would be administered and the final papers and presentations
were due. He had spent only a little time that evening savoring his
squash result --- he had an important Latin exam scheduled for the
following morning and therefore after dinner he devoted several hours
to reading the speeches by Cicero that the class had been studying. Mr.
Easton, well into his 60痴 and nearing retirement, was 登ld school・in
more ways than one and throughout the semester he had shown a knack for
plumbing any passages in the text that Sam had not attended to.
Still, by 10:25 that night, just a few minutes before
lights-out for everyone but seniors, Sam relaxed back in his chair (to
the extent one COULD relax on the Academy chairs, which were made of
hard wood with no cushioning), confident that he was ready for whatever
Mr. Easton threw at him. He couldn稚 think of a day that whole semester
that had gone better; in just 10 days he would be flying back home for
the Christmas holidays, thanking Steve for the changes he had made in
all their lives and basking in the glow of a triumphant first term
at Aullt.
The knock on his door surprised him ・it wasn稚 10:30 yet
and besides, the dorm faculty members were being lenient with the
lights-out edict that week, aware that their charges needed to get that
extra little bit of studying in with it being Holy Week and all. When
Sam opened the door, a fellow student, who lived two stories below him
on Webster痴 ground floor, was there, telling Sam that someone had
called the dorm痴 common phone asking to speak to him. Sam hurried
downstairs, a kind of nervous chill coursing through him, and when he
picked up, the voice on the other end of the line was so familiar to
him that he sometimes felt he must have heard it even when they were
both in Jill痴 womb. 鉄ammy, it痴 me!・ There was only one person in the world who called him by that name.
的知 in New York --- you致e GOT to help
me!・Then a gasp, sounds of a struggle, and the line went dead, leaving
Sam holding the phone, KNOWING he had to do something to come to the
aid of his twin sister, who for once was the one needing HIM (it had
always been the other way around). But WHAT? And HOW? Chapter 8 by John Branston One
year, two months, and 23 days from retirement. Hack Thomas had it all
figured out. His once promising career as a police officer, derailed by
his uncontrollable temper and drinking, was winding up in this small
town in New England, busting teenagers for DUI and answering complaints
about peeping toms and barking dogs. It paid $900 a week, enough for a
single man to live on, and he owed it to sobriety, a sympathetic former
partner with a soft spot for burn-out cases, and a connected relative
in the Massachusetts Chiefs of Police Association. Wouldn't be long now
until he could start collecting his pension and move back to
Tennessee. The phone in his untidy office rang and he reached over to pick it up. 泥avis
Barker here, with the behavior evaluation and threat assessment staff
over at Aullt. We met last year on that gun scare in our senior dorm.
Sorry to wake you up, Hack, but I've got something I want you to look
at.・ 泥on't tell me. One of your faculty get frisky and jump a student?・ 擢raternizing
went out with the Clinton administration. We're all about compliance
now. One of our first-year students got an interesting phone call last
night. British kid, sent over by his mother and her rich boyfriend. He
says it was his twin sister who's been missing for more than a year.
She's all excited, blurts out that she's in New York, then it sounds
like somebody maybe roughs her up a little and takes the phone away.
That's it.・ 摘asy enough to trace the call.・ 哲o,
it came in on an old common phone with no digital display and we
couldn't run it back. They don't call us old school for nothing.・ 適id with an overactive imagination? Probably read about the Elizabeth Smart case,・Hack suggested. 溺aybe.
We were a little hesitant about taking him as a late admission, but
international students help our profile and the guy paying the bills is
loaded.・ 鄭re we talking capital fund endowment?・ 添ou
said that, not me. The boy's name is Sam Smith. He's definitely got a
twin sister named Jessica and apparently she disappeared
last year. We talked to the mother and she was all excited to hear that
her daughter's alive. She said she hasn't seen or heard from the girl
since she vanished from a squash club in London. She and her husband
are separated, and we haven't talked to him yet. Something about an
involuntary commitment to a psych facility.・ Hack
tried to focus on the call but his attention was distracted by his
retirement calculations and the passing parade outside his
window. 溺y hearing's not what it used to be,・he said, and in truth it wasn't. 泥id you say something about a pub?・ 哲o,
squash club. The sport. As in racquets and balls. We have some courts
here. After talking to the kid and his mother half the night I'd say
that calling the family dysfunctional would be polite. Sam might be the
only normal one in the bunch. The whole convoluted yarn is about people
whose lives revolve around squash.・ 的 think I saw it on television once in the Olympics.・ 鄭ctually
you didn't, but that's not important. What I want you to do is talk to
an investigator the mother and her boyfriend have hired. This is a
little out of my league and I need some help. We don't know quite what
to believe, but we have to take everything seriously since Virginia
Tech and Aurora. If it turns out to be a runaway or a domestic
he-says-she-says then it's not our problem. But the kid was pretty
shook up. He seems to think he might be in danger himself. Frankly, I
think he's short-changing us on the story. If he gets dragged into a
criminal case then we want to ・make that have to ・cooperate. We'd like
to keep ahead of the curve. And for now at least we'd rather none of
this got out.能~ Hack
glanced at the small pile of arrest tickets and reports on his desk and
the partially completed solitaire game on his computer screen. Aullt
was full of stuffed shirts, but he remembered Barker as a straight
shooter and a good guy. 展hat's the investigator's name?・he asked. 鄭ngus
Murray. The mother says he's been working on the girl's disappearance
for quite a while. Supposed to have worked for Scotland Yard back in
the day.能~ 迭ight. And I'm James Bond. What's the number?・ 典hanks,
Hack. I owe you. Remember the five-hour time difference. I hear the
Brits take their sleep seriously. Oh, and ask him to tell you the story
about the handy man and the air conditioner.・ 典he what?・ 笛ust make the call.・ Hack
sighed and took down the number and said good-bye. He took a marker and
scrawled 笛essica Smith・and 徒idnapping?・and 鉄am Smith, Aullt・on a note
pad. As an afterthought, he wrote 塗air conditioner・ A woman with an
impatient look on her face was standing on the other side of the
counter outside his office. Duty calling. With no aces up, the
solitaire game looked like a loser anyway. One
block from the police station, Bianca Phipps was leaving work at the
Weekly Scene. That such a relic from the age of print newspapers
existed at all was due to Tom McFadden, a former editor and Pulitzer
finalist at the Boston Globe. Like everyone else old enough to remember
Carl Yastrzemski, he had been offered a buyout five years ago. He took
it, but was bored stiff after a month and used the cash, a loan, and a
promise to buy the Scene. Bianca Phipps, a college dropout, came to see
him the first week. She wore sneakers, jeans, and a Wellesley t-shirt
and had a ring in her nose, a green streak in her blonde hair, and a
self-assurance that was disturbing. She
was the perfect hire, equal parts charm and guile. She could write,
take pictures, size people up, ask the right question at the right time
and get an answer so honest it would surprise even the person saying
it. She could fix computers, program them, or, McFadden suspected, hack
into them. She shared his disdain for social media but, unlike him,
understood them and used them. If he was lucky, she would stay with him
another six months, tops. 的'm headed out,Tom,・she said with a wave. 的'll see if Hack's got anything before I go home.・ John
Smith was no longer in the psychiatric facility. Even British health
care has its limits, and after several months his therapist decided
that he was no threat to himself or anyone else. Too much Mobic mixed
with alcohol and anger. The disappearance of his daughter Jessica, the
break-up of his marriage, the unlucky Walter and his bulldog daughter,
the fiasco with the public liability policy, it was too much for any
man. Had it only been a couple of years since he and Jill had won the
lottery and bought the club and were grooming the twins for squash
tournaments as if that was a big deal? Thinking
of Jill could throw John into one of the black moods his therapist
warned him about. Her bitchy remarks to him about his
forgetfulness and incompetence. The flirty conversations with the male
players, even old Gerry sometimes. And the rich Harvard prick she had
finally left him for. An old flame. Probably had to get in line for his
shot. Easy
boy, don't go there, John reminded himself. Some day he would fix all
of their asses but today he had a game with Gerry. Court therapy, John
called it. During the long nights in the psych ward, he had put himself
to sleep by closing his eyes and imagining a younger version of himself
hitting rail after rail tight against the backhand wall. But Gerry
could be a pain in the ass to play. With Walter dead, he'd had a hard
time getting a game. Of course John wasn't on anyone's call list either
these days, so he swallowed his pride and called the old bugger, who
actually sounded glad to hear from him. When John walked in the Vale Squash Club, Stephanie, the girl at the front desk, gave him a fake-looking smile. 滴ello, Mr. Smith. Nice to see you back,・she said, wondering how he had the nerve to show himself. Two
women checking in looked up at him, exchanged looks, and edged toward
the locker rooms. At the snack bar, another woman and a man that John
vaguely remembered pretended not to see him. They said something to
each other and laughed. The lobby was freshly painted and carpeted,
with flat-screen televisions in a new lounge. There was a flyer on a
table announcing an upcoming exhibition match with John White and Peter
Nicol. John and Jill had never been able to attract even second-tier
pros. The court where Frank the Fuck-Up inadvertently set the fatal
trap for old Walter had been thoroughly cleaned and given a new floor.
The cleaned glass, fresh towels, and the smack of so many balls against
walls and so many pairs of gum soles squeaking on newly sanded floors
practically screamed 填nder New Management.能~ Gerry was waiting outside Court Two. He got up to shake John's hand, which was more than anyone else had done. 敵ood to see you again,・he said. 添ou don't look so bad after your little vacation. Lost a few pounds?・ Same old Gerry. Get right to the point and put the needle in at the same time. 添es, but I wouldn't recommend it. You still having your way with arthritic old men and innocent young ladies? So
it went, back and forth, as they walked into the court and warmed up.
After the third game, John began to wonder if he had made a mistake.
Gerry was killing him. Insufferable even when he was winning, Gerry had
an annoying way of saying 堵ood hustle・when his opponent missed a shot.
Or 哲ice shot, lucky prick,・which he thought was hilarious. He had been
playing for 40 years but acted like he had never heard the word
田lear.・He'd plant himself in the front corners, stick his butt out,
hold his shot, and take a roundhouse backswing that would take your
head off if you got too close. When John got a sitter near the front
wall, Gerry would invariably run into him even if he had no chance on
the ball. 笛ust a let, please,・he would say as he turned his back.
When
John protested, Gerry muttered something about 土our mind is not quite
right.・But John didn't snap then. Instead he walked off the court. He
snapped a minute later. 添ou quitting on me?・Gerry whined. 滴ell, Jill hits harder than you do.・ John
froze for a few seconds, then took a racquet out of his
bag, a top-of-the-line Black Knight that cost him 150 pounds. He sized
up the smirking face in front of him. Grinning like a maniac, he wound
up and hit the sweetest overhead he had hit in years. 滴arder than that, son of a bitch?" Chapter 9 by James Prudden John
shot a gimlet gaze heavenward, eyeballing the gibbous moon shining
through the barred window above his bed. Nice moon, he thought, and to
think that we humans had once ventured there! The psychotropics
coursing through his body encouraged him to dwell on this magnificent
thought for a while as his eyes drifted back out of focus and his mind
danced along the border of consciousness. Ow, how his body ached! And
then he remembered. He had succeeded in giving a highly satisfying
shellacking to that lunkhead Gerry. Using a squash stroke that would
have made an excellent volley kill, he bonked the crusty old dolt
upside his head. But he didn稚 stop there. Oh, no sir. As Gerry stood
dazed by this attack, John then used the squash racket in his hand as
an epee, pointing it at Gerry痴 bewildered face and stabbing it at his
rather large proboscis. When Gerry bent low to fend off the continued
assault, John kneed him full force in the stomach, and down he
went. John,
that is, not Gerry, because the dullard Frank, still lumbering around
the club pretending to do odd jobs while trying to avoid killing
people, had seen the commotion, and in a sudden upwelling of
long-dormant athleticism tackled John with a flying leap that sent
John痴 head smacking to the ground, knocking him well and truly out.
Someone called the cops, and by the time the ugly mess was sorted out,
Gerry was sent home with a bit of acetaminophen, Frank was lauded by
the cops for potentially stopping a homicide, and John was carted back
to the psych facility, where he was isolated and dosed up with calming
agents. The
admitting psychiatrist, Dr. Abdel Funk, surmised that John, who not too
long ago had tried to do himself harm, had now transferred the focus of
his enmity to others, and by so doing had become a threat to society.
Dr. Funk, an unapologetic proponent of pharmacologic intervention,
concocted a mind-numbing stew of psychotropics for John痴 benefit in the
rather unscientific hope that one of them might possibly help his
patient. He started with an antipsychotic, for signs of mania, and then
added a newer atypical antipsychotic for good measure. He threw in a
tricyclic, since there were clearly signs of depression, and thought,
what the hell, he seems anxious, let痴 dose him up with an anxiolytic.
And even though obsessionality didn稚 seem to be too prevalent, he also
wrote a prescription for an anti-obsessive agent, mostly because the
pharmaceutical rep who regularly visits his office had promised him an
iPad if he wrote a certain number of scripts this quarter. He was damn
close. The
next day, in the quiet of the morning, Dr. Funk visited John, whose
head was buzzing from the drug cocktail and whose resultant lethargy
was reminiscent of a heroin addict痴 overwhelming lassitude. The good
Dr. Funk introduced himself and explained the drug regimen to his
unwilling guest: 的致e prescribed a few drugs for you that will make you
more calm and allow you to rest and recover from the mental
perturbation you have lately undergone,・he said, smiling
winningly. 擢uck
you, Funk,・John said, slurring his words, while still managing an
unmistakable hint of conviction. With that, Dr. Funk exited the room
and wrote in John痴 chart: 撤atient shows continued aggression and clear
tendencies to violence. Increase all script doses up 10 mg.・ The
next day, burdened by a brain that seemed more cotton ball than
functioning intellectual center, he was wheeled into the day room,
where the other patients were assembled. A TV was on, but few had the
wherewithal to watch. Most were perseverative and quiet islands of
dysfunction, with the exception of a fellow named Rodney, who felt no
shame in enthusiastically masturbating in a corner, and a guy named
Suzy ・well, that痴 what he insisted his name was, anyway ・who carried on
a rather interesting conversation with his good buddy, God. This proved
fascinating for John, who listened in as intently as his condition
allowed, and became more interested as the conversation went on
because, he had to admit, he never truly believed in Him, and here He
was talking to Suzy. Wow, I wonder if He might talk to me too? John
asked Suzy to perhaps provide an introduction, but the latter violently
explained that he was the son of God and the Father only talks to him!
Suzy was led away gently by the staff, in restraints, shouting godly
epithets. It
might have been a day or two later, or maybe three, but the good Dr.
Funk eventually arrived in John痴 room to inspect his case. 笛ohn, how
are you feeling? I know you have been angry lately, but I知 hoping you致e
been able to relax a bit and enter into a calmer state.・ 擢unk you, fuck,・John slurred, and dropped his head back onto his pillow. Wow,
thought the good Dr. Funk, he痴 one tough nut, as crazy as a hoot owl.
典itrate all meds up 10 mg more,・he wrote in the chart. Does
time really heal all wounds? Nah, highly doubtful, but the near coma
that had been prescribed to John eventually allowed Dr. Funk to loosen
his pharmaceutical straightjacket in the belief that John痴 vacant stare
indicated resurgent calm. The drug regimen was eased to the point where
John was able to crawl out of the cobwebs that had entombed him and
rejoin sentient society. He asked for a newspaper, started fretting
about his fractured family, and thought about that glorious day when he
could leave the hospital. Before that day arrived, however, he received a visitor, the first since his incarceration. ========================= 滴iya, John Smith, sorry to interrupt you, but I知 working with Angus Murray and・ John was confused. 展ho the hell is Angus Murray? And who are you?能~ 溺e?
I知 Bianca. Bianca Phipps. I was hired by Angus, you remember him, don稚
you? He痴 the private dick that痴 out looking for Jessica.・ 展hat?! Is this sexual?・ 哲o,
no・ I know you池e tired・・She rolled her eyes. 添our wife Jill has got a
private eye looking for Jessica. The dick thing is American slang. You
do remember Jessica, don稚 you?・she asked doubtfully. Oh
yeah, now I remember, thought John. That expensive private eye that
Jill痴 rich boyfriend hired, and who has done nothing as far as he could
tell. 添eah, I remember,・John said, readjusting his butt in his chair.
徹kay, I got it, sorry・But who are you?・ 展ell,
as of just recently I知 Angus・assistant. I met him 10 days ago when he
came to Massachusetts to follow-up a hot lead in the case. It seems
that your son, Sam, got a call at the Aullt Academy from his sister.
She seemed frantic. The school notified the local police, a guy named
Hack Thomas. I worked at the town paper and made it a habit of bugging
Hack to drum up local stories. So when Angus arrived the next day, I
was there and listened in on the conversation.・ John
stared at this Bianca girl. She seemed awfully young, and the streak of
red hair and nose ring did not give the greatest impression. Plus there
was a large tattoo of indeterminate design around the stylized words,
敵irls Rock.・John decided not to mention that. 鉄o how did you get
involved?・he asked. 展ell,
as I was listening in, it became apparent that they would not be able
to trace the call, so other than the fact that she told her brother she
was in New York and was undeniably alive, not much else was learned.
Hack and Angus seemed stumped. But I chimed in with a few ideas.・ 鏑ike?能~ 的
figured that the best way to trace her would be through some kind of
social media, so I suggested a full-on trolling of Twitter and Facebook
for starters. For whatever reason people just can稚 shut the hell up
nowadays, so whenever something interesting happens they throw it out
into the universe for all to see. I thought we might be able to trace
an IP address if we could find something, and Hack said it痴 possible to
get a court order to force either company to reveal specific user
information if a crime has been suspected. And in this case, a crime is
suspected, since according to Sam she appeared to be held under duress.・ 迭eally・ Poor Jessica, and poor Sam.・ 鄭ngus
liked my ideas and hired me on the spot, and I and a friend hit the
social media world full time. We致e been tweeting and facebooking for a
solid week now. Honestly, I thought I壇 puke. The idea was to focus on
squash and fashion, because those seemed to be the two things your
daughter was most interested in. Would you agree?・ 添eah, I guess so. You might throw boys in that mix, but those are good choices.・ 展ell,
we think we might have a lead, so that痴 the good news. But Angus wanted
me to come here and ask you personally, Why do you think your daughter
would want to run away?・ 迭un away? I thought you said she was under duress. Doesn稚 that mean she was abducted?・ 哲o.
Our feeling is that she went willingly, but whoever she went with may
now either be holding her against her will or at least making it hard
for her to return.・ John blinked. The cotton balls in his brain were not entirely gone. 的 don稚 understand・・ 的値l explain as best I can. But first, any guess as to why she would run away?・ 哲o,
not at all. She was a happy kid. A little high-strung, of course. They
say redheads are born that way. She complained a lot, but nothing
major, just the usual griping about this and that that kids all do. She
was very motivated in her sport, but that could lead to trouble from
time to time, since she could get angry in matches and act like a brat.
But no, all in all, she seemed fine to me.・ 鄭nd her relationship with you?・ 擢ine. Not a problem, and she got along perfectly well with her twin Sam.・ 鄭nd her mother?・ 展ell,
I think all in all pretty good. There was perhaps a little friction
there. Jill got on her case pretty heavily from time to time about how
she dressed, her occasionally bratty behavior, her obsession with her
cell phone, stuff like that. Mothers and daughters can attack one
another like feral cats from time to time, that痴 part of the deal.媒 “Man, don’t I know it. But go on.” “And
for her part, Jessica had started complaining a fair amount about how
we were never around, always at the club, she said. The ‘club from
fucking hell’ is what she called it – so did I, for that matter. She
loved her squash, but she emphatically did not like our involvement in
the squash club. Didn’t like having mom and dad hanging around her all
the time while she played her matches, either.” “Ah,
I see,” said Bianca. “So do you think it is possible that growing
friction with her mother plus the stress of club ownership might have
pushed this young girl to do something as drastic as running away?
Keeping in mind the hormonal rush of the early teen years; the
hyperfocus on friends and appearances; the inability to think things
through beyond the most immediate of gratifications; the possibility
that she met, quite likely online, someone whose life and looks so
overwhelmed her that she decided to take the leap….” John thought about it a moment. The truth was that Jessica was very voluble. Yes, he realized, it was possible. ========================= Meanwhile,
back in the U.S., Angus had returned to Massachusetts where he was
staying at Hack’s house, which had become their center of operations.
He had been to New York City and had spoken to the NYPD’s cybercrimes
unit. They had reviewed Bianca’s findings with the sergeant there who
had agreed that, yes, they might have something. To go ahead, however,
they had to get the court to force Twitter and Facebook to reveal
identities that they normally would not wish to reveal. That would take
money, and not a little time. But
Angus solved that problem with a call to his employer, Steve Dwyer.
Steve’s extensive business holdings in the U.S. had made him quite a
few contacts and his money seemed limitless. Steve said he would get
his lawyers working on an emergency injunction immediately, and to sit
tight back in Massachusetts awaiting instructions. Angus
could sit tight with the best of them. Particularly in the company of a
very good Scottish single malt whisky. He had developed an abiding
interest in the Speyside whisky brands, including Cragganmore,
Fettercairn, Glenfiddich, Glenlivet, Mortlach, and Speyburn. Mmmm. And
Hack was a good man to hang out with. Angus
poured a few fingerfuls, no ice, and sat back on Hack’s couch. “Hack,
we’ve not much to do now, have we? We’ll have to hope and pray the damn
lawyers can pull through on this one.” Hack nodded. “True. And that’s what worries me.” “Well, I’m sure Dwyer’s got some good ones.” “Are there good ones then? Was unaware of that fact.” “Hah, that’s funny, Hack. Have a bit of me Speyside, will ye?” Hack
didn’t just then, but against the onslaught of Angus’ whisky-fueled
bonhomie, he broke down eventually. And so it was that eight years of
sober living went glug-glug. ========================= Back
at the sanitarium, John stared at Bianca. “So you think she went
willingly, but something’s gone wrong with the plan and now she’s being
held against her will?” “I’m afraid so.” “You started by saying you had a lead. What is it?” “Well,
in order to track someone on social media, you really have to know
them. We brought in Sam and had extensive interviews with him about her
interests, how she acted, what internet sites she frequented, how she
talked and wrote, that kind of thing. We had a ton of data. We quickly
realized that the fashion world was too big and with minimal time we
would be better off focusing on squash, so that’s what we did. Anything
and everything about squash, we saw. Nothing seemed to click, but then
a few days ago we had a tweet and a Facebook posting that told us
something. Check these out.” Bianca
passed two papers over to John with a big, American, perfectly white
and nicely orthodontured smile. “The breakthrough boils down to one
word: Weetabix. See, this is a tweet from someone named ‘Alexivan’, who
says: ‘My secret weetabix girl played a hard match and rocked. Maybe,
if she’s good, we’ll reveal her to the world!’ And then here’s a
Facebook page, owned by the anonymous ‘Asquashpro,’ who said this: ‘Had
a good workout today with a talented client whose squash gets better
and better. She is a fiery competitor, fueled by great squash instincts
and her favorite food, weetabix. She’s ready for top competition.’
Well, we did our research, and those IP addresses are coming from the
New York area. And Weetabix, your daughter’s favorite whole wheat
biscuit cereal treat, is not at all common in those parts. We are
convinced those two messages are about your Jessica.” “Wow. Who knew?” said John. “Call me crazy but I always hated the stuff.... Thank heaven for Weetabix." Chapter 10 by Peter Heywood The
match at the Heliopolis Club went into a fifth game, Gamal levelling
with his trademark forehand volley-drop into the front right-hand
corner. Weston
left the court to towel down, take a drink and reflect on the state of
play, and on the state of his body. His three month sabbatical,
enforced by the medics back in London, still had two weeks to run. In
the beginning, an old friend had fixed him up with a villa in Barbados
where he’d been able to swim and snorkel most of the day before eating
dinner, prepared by the housekeeper, on the terrace overlooking the
sea. He’d drunk no alcohol, read, and retired to bed early with only a
painkiller for company. But
then, he’d felt the need for some recreation, something with an edge,
something competitive. So he’d come back to part of the
world where he’d spent so much of his time in the service on
assignment. Somewhere, despite recent political upheavals, where he
felt comfortable, connected with history, alive. Here,
in Cairo, he’d kept up a fitness regimen to maybe seventy-five per cent
of his potential. Swimming, running and weights at the club, with the
occasional game of tennis, and now squash with an old friend and his
former squash coach. Gamal was now in his early fifties, but was still
more than a match for him. They
resumed their match, watched from the balcony by some youngsters whose
parents, he reflected, obviously had the money and the connections, for
them to be there. Weston started the stronger, keeping his opponent to
the back of the court, but then tired as Gamal’s superior powers of
deception began to take their toll. It was their third match in as many
weeks but now, he sensed, he was getting closer. Showered
and changed, they sat by the pool drinking iced tea and watching the
sun set over the city. They talked business, politics. Then
family. Gamal’s family. Weston had none. At least that was his story. ‘So how’s that nephew of yours?’ he said, switching to Arabic. ‘The squash player?’ ‘Ah,
a fine boy,’ said his squash partner with pride. ‘And a fine coach too.
But now, I hear so little from him and see him even less.
He left home over a year ago to work abroad. Always on the move, my
friend. So many places around the world.’ He paused. ‘Do you know, the
last my sister heard from him, he was coaching squash on a yacht
somewhere. Can you imagine that? On a yacht!’ Weston smiled and lifted his face towards the setting sun. When they’d finished their drinks, they picked up their bags and racquet cases and walked towards the reception area. ‘Same time next week, Jim?’ said Gamal. ‘Yes Gamal’ said Weston. ‘Why not.’ He left his playing partner and walked out into the early evening heat. ‘Taxi, Mr. Faulks?’ asked the concierge. Weston nodded. Later,
in his room at the hotel, Weston retrieved his cellphone from the safe.
It displayed a solitary text message from an unidentified number. It
read simply: ‘Call Global Trading. Urgent.’ He
took a second ‘phone from the safe and connected it to a small
electronic device taken from his racquet case. He keyed in a number
from memory and listened. There was a click and then a low hum on the
line as he heard the call being diverted. At last, he heard the voice – precise, distant but unmistakable – of the person he most respected in the world. ‘Weston?’ ‘Ma’am?’ ‘The party’s over.’ ‘But, I thought –‘ ‘One of our sales force is reporting exceptional activity.’ ‘Where?’ ‘In the Gulf, although imports from the US are looking up as well.’ ‘What about my sabbatical? It doesn’t end until –‘ ‘To hell with your sabbatical. I need you on the first flight to Dubai tomorrow. Got that?’ ‘Yes ma’am.’ The line went dead. Next week’s match at the Heliopolis Club was most definitely off. The
following afternoon, Weston found himself sitting in the Dubai offices
of Global Trading awaiting the appearance of Dan Thorpe. A stencilled
sign on the glass door read ‘Mr. D. R. Thorpe, Sales Director, Middle
East & North Africa’. Weston
had been ushered into Thorpe’s office, a scene of uncharacteristic
disorder given the true role of its owner in the service. Now, looking
from his third floor vantage point towards the Dubai skyline, he sipped
at a glass of sweet tea and wondered what sales activity was about to
be shared with him. When
he finally appeared, Thorpe looked much the same as ever, slightly
dishevelled with dark hair greying at the temples and a stooped posture
as he walked towards Weston, hand outstretched. They exchanged
pleasantries before sitting opposite each other across Thorpe’s desk. ‘Sorry about the sabbatical, Jim’ said Thorpe. ‘Duty calls, eh?’ Weston gave a wry smile and relaxed into his chair. ‘A
week ago, our cousins across the pond shared some intelligence with
London about someone they’ve been watching. Someone they believe may be
about to take possession of a, shall we say, shipment intended for
subsequent distribution – and, presumably, consumption - within the US.
They don’t appear to know where the shipment will be handed over but
experience suggests it will be at sea. Somewhere in the Caribbean.’ ‘What has that got to do with Her Majesty’s Government?’ asked Weston. ‘I’m
coming to that’ continued Thorpe. ‘The person the cousins have been
watching has connections to someone that London believes could turn out
to be a threat to our national security. Someone who, coincidentally,
arrived in Dubai just over a fortnight ago.’ He leaned forward and pushed a manila folder across the desk towards Weston. ‘The
man the cousins have been watching is called Ivanov. Viktor Ivanov.
Born in St. Petersburg. In his mid-50s. Bit of a track record but
hardly public enemy number one. That’s his photograph on top of the
heap. He pretty much lives on his yacht, the Ekaterina. Registered in
St. Petersburg naturally. It’s now in US territorial waters. As far as
the cousins can tell, it got there via the Baltic, the North Sea, the
Med, North Africa, the Atlantic and the Caribbean, stopping at at least
a dozen ports, including London. Quite a holiday cruise – assuming that
he’s on holiday of course.’ Weston looked the photograph of a thick-set balding man with a black goatee as Thorpe continued. ‘Ivanov
has his family with him. More precisely, wife number three and two
children – one from a previous marriage. That’s a picture of his wife,
Maria. Looks like an archetypal Russian good-time girl
who’s seen better days but there’s something much more
interesting about her.’ Weston
looked at the picture. It showed a plump, bleached blonde woman in her
late 40s, perhaps, wearing a flowered smock. She was standing at what
looked like a ship’s rail. ‘Which is?’ ‘She’s the elder sister of this man.’ Thorpe pointed out the third photograph. ‘Anatole
Grigoriev. Also from Petersburg. And the person we believe now controls
the opium trade routes from Northern Afghanistan through Iran and the
former Soviet republics.’ Weston
picked up the photograph. It showed a clean-shaven athletic-looking man
with short dark hair. He was wearing a white shirt and slacks and was
sitting under a parasol, holding a cocktail glass up to the camera. ‘He looks a happy soul,’ said Weston. ‘He
should be,’ answered Thorpe, ‘Considering the amount of money he must
be making. But there’s just one problem. Grigoriev doesn’t just have
aspirations to control the global drugs trade. He wants to destroy the
West. It appears to be personal, for some reason. That’s what HMG is
panicking about. London believes that whatever Ivanov is up to is just
a side-show. Grigoriev is the one who pulls the strings. And now he’s
sitting in a penthouse suite over at the Burj Khalifa Hotel.’ Weston shrugged. ‘I
suppose it makes sense,’ he commented. ‘Big Russian community to
provide cover. The cousins not exactly popular in the area
for obvious reasons. Just us honest British businessmen left to see
fair play.’ ‘That’s where you come in,’ said Thorpe. ‘London
wants you to find out what Grigoriev’s up to. Whatever happens in the
cousins’ backyard isn’t our concern. But how Grigoriev responds most
definitely is. And you may just have a way of reaching him. Take a look
at the fourth photograph.’ Weston
picked it out of the folder. It showed an attractive young woman
playing tennis at what he suspected was the Burj Khalifa Sports Club.
Long legs, high cheekbones and a pretty good-looking double-fisted
backhand by the look of it. She was wearing a white visor with her
blonde hair pulled into a pony-tail. ‘Grigoriev’s younger sister, Tatiana’ said Thorpe. ‘Rather different from his older one I think you’ll agree?’ Weston nodded and placed the photograph back in the folder. ‘She
certainly has friends here,’ continued Thorpe ‘But seems to spend a lot
of her time in sports clubs. Money no object, of course. Tennis,
swimming, golf, even the odd game of squash, you’ll be pleased to hear.
Speaks four languages that we know of, all of which, coincidentally,
you speak fluently. I’m sure you’re more than capable of engineering a
casual meeting?’ When
Weston had left for his hotel, Thorpe closed his office door and picked
up the telephone. He pressed the scrambler and heard the familiar click
and hum. ‘Thorpe?’ ‘Yes, ma’am. He’s just left.’ A question. 挿No, ma誕m, he doesn稚 know anything about the runaway on Ivanov痴 yacht. Or the private investigators.・ 賎ood. Thank you, Thorpe・ He hung up. It was early evening at the Burj Khalifa Sports Club. Weston
timed his walk past the table by the pool to coincide with that of the
white-coated waiter. At an opportune moment, he moved sharply out of
the waiter痴 path, knocking into the table and upsetting the cocktail
glass standing on it. The glass hit the floor with a satisfying crash. 前h, how clumsy of me!・he exclaimed, turning to the young woman sitting there. 選 beg your pardon, madam,・said the waiter on cue, making to pick up the broken glass. Weston turned towards him and spoke quickly in Arabic. 善lease get the lady a replacement, Hassan, and charge it to my account.筑 The
woman spoke in accented English as Weston turned back towards her.
‘Please don’t concern yourself. It was a simple accident.’ By this time, Hassan had abandoned the glass and scuttled away on his highly lucrative errand. ‘Please. I insist. It was completely my fault, Miss - ?’ said Weston, this time in Russian. She smiled. ‘Grigorieva. Tatiana Grigorieva.’ He extended his hand. ‘My names Faulks. Jim Faulks.’ She hesitated, took it and answered. In Russian this time. ‘You speak very good Russian for an Englishman Mr. Faulks. Are you a member here?’ ‘Jim. Yes.’ he said. ‘And you?’ ‘Yes. I arrived in Dubai only recently.’ ‘Then I insist on helping you feel at home’ he offered. ‘Tell me. Do you play any games, Miss Grigorieva?’ She laughed. ‘Tatiana. Yes, Mr. Faulks. I do play games.’ She looked into his eyes. ‘In fact, I happen to be very good at them.’ Chapter ELEVEN by Ted Gross "I
see what you mean, a couple of damn drunks," said Davis Barker, the
Aullt Academy student behavior specialist. "You hungry, kid?" "Of
course, if you are, sir," said Sam, who had barely had any appetite
since the fateful "Sammie, it's me!" call from his sister two weeks ago. Barker
hung a left out of Hack's driveway and no one said anything until they
were squared away in the corner booth of the Honeycomb Diner on Route
21. "What
I don't get," said Barker, wolfing down his chicken-fried steak and
eggs, "is they claim they are in a waiting mode, but what are they
waiting FOR?" "Apparently, sir, according to Mum's boyfriend Steve--" "School's out for Christmas vacation Sam, call me Barker. Everyone does." "Really?
Thank you. Presumably they are waiting for Steve's lawyers to get
information from Facebook and Twitter that might pertain to my
sister. When I phoned Mr. Murray yesterday he confirmed
that. He said they were sitting tight at the moment. As I mentioned to
you, though, his speech seemed impaired." "Fuck
that, sitting tight!" Barker's head snapped forward as he said it, and
an egg bit flew off his lip. "Goddamn rummies with their slippers on,
watching Texas A&M and Oregon State in the Outback Bowl. The place
smelled like a wretched doctor's office." "Excuse me sir, what bowl?" "Barker.
Ah, dumb college football games. American football. About a hundred of
them on TV between now and New Year's. Hack's probably even taught
Angus the rules by now." "I did attend one of our matches in October but had trouble understanding much of it. My roommate was in the marching band." "Kid, you're better off. I got a hundred on Oregon State to cover and I couldn't help notice at Hack's they were down." "Excuse me?" "Not important. What about your trip back home?" Sam
picked at his uneaten blueberry muffin. The last ten days of the
semester had been brutal. He had been sailing along, in many ways
enjoying the most rewarding three months of his life, and then the call
from Jessica right in the stretch run, smack in the middle of Holy
Week. Mr.
Barker, along with Mr. Nowe, the headmaster, had met with Sam and
suggested he consider withdrawing from school and finishing the
semester on an independent-study basis when he felt ready. But Sam
decided that staying busy was best, so he carried on despite this
overwhelming distraction and handled his final exams and presentations
surprisingly well, though he did blow his Latin final. "I'm thinking this may not be the best circumstance in which to return to London," Sam said. "I hear you, kid, nothing to celebrate this Christmas, that's for sure." "I
thought instead I'd maybe go to New York, have a look around. A mate
from the squash team, you probably know him, Nestor Geiberger? He says
I can stay with him and his family." Barker
took his time with this one. The same thought had been unfortunately
rattling around in his head for the past hour--now that it was clear
that Hack and the British PI were useless--that he, himself, should
head down to the city and try to somehow look for Jessica. After all,
he grew up in Woodside, Queens, and his own sister Nadine was married
to a cop in Astoria, and just maybe someone could talk to someone who
knew something about this unlikely case that he was pretty convinced
now the kid wasn't making up. It
was the right thing to do, but it would screw up all his plans. He had
begun dating a lovely long-legged auburn-haired woman named Vanessa,
who was fresh out of college and had just completed her first term
teaching English at the public high school. Barker and Vanessa were set
to drive up to Stowe on Friday for a few days of skiing and whatever,
to see where the relationship might go. "Sam, New York's a tricky place, not like here. Or anywhere. Let's don't be stupid." "I mean, after the lady interviewed me, I at least held onto a bit of hope. But it's clearly gone nowhere!" "Wait a minute, what lady?" "The lady from the newspaper. Steve and Mr. Murray hired her to help with the investigation." "Jesus,"
said Barker, looking out the window now, picturing the green streak in
the blonde hair, and that amazing first time with Bianca. "I didn't
know about that." "But
no one's DOING anything!" Sam said, and he began sobbing, one of the
first real cries he allowed himself since Jessie's disappearance all
those months ago. Barker let him go, and then said finally, "It's okay, kid. I'm with you." Chapter TWELVE by Mick Joint Alexi
Ivanov watched with contempt as Jessica went through her paces with
Aman. She was in the middle of a torturous ghosting session that would
cripple a normal human being, lunging from corner to corner as if her
life depended on it. And in a way, it did. She
had suddenly become a liability. His indignation towards this girl grew
by the day. And for a number of reasons. Firstly, because she was a lot
better squash player than Nikki. Not that Alexi cared very much for the
sport, but family is family and even he could see that Jess was miles
ahead in not just talent, but in attitude and determination as well.
She tried. Hard. Even now, while Jess was spitting up a lung working on
her footwork and fitness, Nikki was lounging on the lower deck sipping
a cocktail and working on her fingernails instead. Secondly,
for being blindsided and cracked in the skull by a forehand smash which
knocked him out cold for several minutes and left him with a concussion
that still lingered with the occasional headache. The scar was still
there, albeit hidden underneath his thick black hair. His father,
Viktor Ivanov, was relentless about poking fun at him that he was
beaten up by a teenage girl half his size. That, of course, enraged him
even more. Thirdly,
and this one bothered him the most, was how she managed to find the
phone number to call her brother in that school dorm room in
Massachusetts. Alexi despised not being able to understand his
surroundings and not being in control, and he simply couldn’t figure
this one out. When he regained consciousness from the blow to the head,
it wasn’t long until he found her hiding behind a lifeboat, on a cell
phone and blurting out, “Sammy, it’s me. I’m in New York, you’ve GOT to
help me!” before he managed to yank her roughly out of her recess,
snatch the phone away, and backhand her violently across the mouth,
cutting her lip. After locking her up in her cabin, he redialled the
number on the phone to hear a young voice answer “Ault Academy, Webster
Hall Dormitory” before immediately hanging up. Simple research had
revealed she had notified a member of her family that she was alive and
in trouble. And that meant people will be looking for her. He had
demanded to know how she came by the number as he was sure someone on
the boat was helping her get information. Accusing anyone on the yacht
of being a traitor without any proof was not a smart move and Alexi was
forced to look at everyone with suspicious eyes which did not make him
any happier. Jess was nothing if not stubborn and even the vilest of
threats yielded zero progress. It
was a major problem. Especially in the business the Ivanov family was
involved in. They lived the highly luxurious lifestyle they had become
accustomed to through the dealings of special ‘merchandise’ to a very
demanding society in the Americas. It was the reason they were still
currently anchored in the New York harbour. Deliveries were being made,
the majority of them to arrogant wealthy Wall Street pricks. Repulsive
characters that played with other peoples fortunes affecting the
livelihood of millions of people all over the world. Alexi adored
selling his product to such assholes. They paid exorbitant amounts of
money to get high, considered themselves rulers of the free world
although they were utterly clueless about the real one, and couldn’t
help themselves from spiralling out of control. When things went bad,
the first phone call they would make would be to his family. The
Ivanovs owned them. And over the past couple years, business has been
spectacular. Jessica now threatened that existence. If she was
discovered on the boat, they would be finished. He couldn’t just let
her go either as she would certainly blab her story to the world. His
father had given him a simple instruction: “deal with her... before she
overpowers you again”. Viktor was a ruthless business man. Alexi knew
what he meant, and even though he was in a cutthroat occupation, he had
never dealt with anybody before. Alexi
pondered his options. Way too much time had passed. He had been
procrastinating with a decision and the longer they waited, the riskier
things became. He knew the cell phone Jessica used to call Sam was
untraceable and it would be a while before the authorities would be
able to get a lead, if they could find one at all. Pressure from his
father was forcing him to act. Either he did something or Viktor would. Initially,
he kept his now new prisoner under lock and key 24 hours a day. He did
not want her outside her room. But it was like keeping a lion in a
cage. Without being able to expend energy and from pure boredom, Jess
would continually destroy her surroundings, throwing, breaking and
smashing everything that wasn’t nailed down. She was a human tornado. A
tenuous agreement was then made and to keep Jess at a relatively
obedient level, he still allowed her to play squash and take lessons
with Aman and also get match practice in with Nikki. Since it was the
only time Jess was permitted outside of her cabin, she trained like a
demon, for hours a day, using it as a release and her squash benefited
from it enormously. There was nothing else for her to do. Otherwise she
was confined to quarters where one of his “henchman” as Jessica
referred to him, would stand guard outside her door. She also demanded
Weet-a-bix for breakfast every morning, a product not so easy to find
in New York and, Alexi thought, tasted horrible as well. But in order
to stop the destruction of the yacht, he relented. Alexi
started thinking about money. He knew Jessica’s family had won the
lottery and thoughts of ransom crept back into his mind. He recalled –
before being clobbered – that he had been planning on phoning her
father with demands for her safe return. Maybe he could receive a
decent payout for all this trouble after all. He had no intentions of
handing her over when (if) the ransom was paid. He suddenly made up his
mind. He would take the money and do her in anyway. He took his cell
phone and decided to call her mother instead. She would be bound to be
more emotionally involved and more likely to pay up. He dialled the
Vale Squash Club. _______________________________________ “What
the Hell is this!?” demanded Jill as she slammed the invoice down on
the front counter knocking over a pile of Vale Squash Club event flyers
all over the floor. Frank started to make his way to pick them up. “Leave
it!” scolded Jill. “80 bloody pounds for an electrician! 80 pounds! And
what did he do? Changed a light bulb. One damn light bulb. You called
an electrician to come in to change out one fucking light bulb?” Jill
was losing it. Big time. “Just
what the Hell do I hire you for? Your looks? Charm? Sense of fucking
humour? Am I laughing? Explain to me, you complete and total moron, why
you called this guy and why I shouldn’t take it off your pay?” Luckily,
the club was empty. This was not a scene that any member would be
wanting to witness. Jill was breathing fire trying her utmost not to
rip Frank’s head off. Her patience with him had clearly worn out. Even
though Steve had purchased the club, negotiations with Avery
Wilburforce still proved difficult. She didn’t understand one iota why
Steve had agreed to keep Frank on. Avery insisted that the club
wouldn’t even exist if it hadn’t been for him and the least Steve could
do to thank him was to retain his brother-in-law’s services. Steve
didn’t want to waste time on the issue so they came to a quick
compromise of keeping Frank on a trial basis for 6 months, after which
if any party was still unhappy they could part ways. Jill almost
convulsed in fury when she heard of the deal. Steve reasoned that at
most, they would be rid of Frank in 6 months without any fuss. She’d
certainly be bringing this up with Steve later today. “Didn’t
want to take no chances”, mumbled Frank. “You know, electrical stuff
and all, can get kind of dangerous”. He was a little scared of his boss
right now, but he enjoyed it tremendously when she blew a gasket and
lately he had been going out of his way to cause her distress. This
latest effort was one of his best yet. “You’re
a God damn handyman! That’s your job! A retarded baboon can change a
light bulb. I’m taking this off your next check. The way you’re going,
you are going to owe me money at the end of the month. And in case you
have forgotten, because I only remind you five times a day, you still
haven’t taken care of those bloody hedges in my parking spot. Any
chance of taking care of that before the sun burns out?” “As
soon as I’m done with me coffee break. It’s 11 am and I need a little
rest”, said Frank with an upbeat tone he knew would push Jill closer to
the cliff edge. “A
rest? A rest?” Jill repeated herself half screaming the words. “You
arrived less than an hour ago. Un-fucken-believable!” She searched for
more insults to throw at him but she was at the end of her rope. Her
brain switched off with the rabid rage she was feeling and she couldn’t
think of anything else to say. To avoid committing a homicide, Jill
marched out of the front door to get some fresh air and try to calm her
nerves. She would call Steve immediately. Frank
smiled. “Take that, you bitch”, he muttered to himself. He had no plans
to go anywhere near the hedge today or any other day. He thought about
hiring a gardener to do the job, but it gave him immense pleasure
watching Jill Smith get her knickers in a wad on a daily basis. He knew
his tenure at the Vale Club was on its final stretch. When his
brother-in-law announced to him that he had succeeded in saving his job
– at least for the time being – when Mr. Steve-I’m-So-Perfect-Dwyer
took over ownership, he wanted to throw up. “I got you a 6 month
probation”, Avery declared as if he had negotiated world peace. “I
expect you to do your job and not to let me down”. The bastard. Frank
wanted nothing more than to never have anything to do with this
establishment ever again. Knowing that peace with Jill would be
impossible, he had decided from day one of his probation that his goal
in life was to make her life as miserable as possible. He simply did
not care anymore. The front desk phone started to ring. He
knew that if Jill caught him answering the phone, she may very well
shove it down his throat, but the opportunity was too juicy to pass up.
If it was a member, he was very capable of screwing up the court
reservation, and succeeding in getting them pissed off at Jill too. He
picked up the receiver. “Vale Squash Club”. “Yes. Hello. I was looking for Mrs. Jill Smith... please.” “The bitch ain’t here”, spat out Frank before he could catch himself. Just the mention of her name made him react aggressively. “Excuse me?” said Alexi, surprised at the retort. “Um,
err, sorry. I mean Mrs. Smith isn’t here. Did you want a court? I’d be
happy to do that for you”, said Frank, now flustered and suddenly a
little nervous. “No,
I’m not calling to play squash. Look, I have an extremely important
business proposal for her. One that I guarantee will peak her utmost
interest. It is most urgent I speak to her.” Frank
couldn’t believe his ears. Was this another rich ex-boyfriend of hers
wanting to ride in on a white stallion, sweep the bitch of her feet,
buy the club and save the day? How many fellas did she sleep with,
anyway? “Sorry, buddy, you’re too late. Club was recently purchased by
some other rich bozo, who by the way is now also stuffing her bun oven
if you know what I mean.” Frank couldn’t help himself. He could not,
for the life of him, say a friendly word about Jill – even to a
complete stranger on the phone. Frank
continued. “Yeah. A Mr. Steve Dwyer rocks up in his fancy red Ferrari –
maybe you know him - flashes his wallet and perfectly quaffed hair, and
she just opens right up, let’s him in her life, the club, and her
pants. God, the guy is something out of a Hollywood spy movie. Rich,
good-looking, successful, intelligent... type of guy you can’t help but
want to punch in the mouth.” “Fascinating,”
whispered Alexi taking all this in. His mind was ticking a hundred
miles an hour. “Just as a matter of interest, what does Mr. Smith think
about all this?” “That
jerk? Complete loser. Wife chucked him out after their daughter
disappeared. Turned to drugs, alcohol, hookers, and God knows what
else. Went nuts. Spent time in the loony bin. In fact, he recently
turns up here out of the blue and starts beating up some old guy. I
kicked his ass. Saved the guy’s life. Police called me a hero.” Frank
was practically pounding on his own chest. Alexi formed an idea. “And who might you be?” “Name’s
Frank. I’m the handyman. Do all the odd jobs. If it weren’t for me,
this place would be a pile of rubble. Constantly fixing up all the
screw-ups around here.” Frank actually said like he believed it. “Well,
Frank. Nice to make your acquaintance. Sounds like you have some
personal issues with your superiors. I could help you out with that if
you like. In fact, we could help each other. I need a little
information, and if you get me that information, I can give you money.
You need money, Frank? It could be your lucky day. Think of me as your
lucky leprechaun.” It was a risky statement. Alexi was going for the
throat, but the way Frank was going he was likely to cough up anything
he requested. “You don’t sound Irish to me. More American like.” Frank had no idea. He was guessing. “Sure.
American. All I need from you, Frank, is Steve Dwyer’s
phone number. Think you could pass that on? You do that for me, and
I’ll give you two thousand bucks. Easiest money you’ll ever make, deal?” “Sure.
Deal. Happy to do it. Hold the line, I’ll get the number for you.”
Frank placed the receiver on the front desk and raced into the office.
He had to be quick, he obviously did not want Jill to re-enter the club
before he was done. He saw Jill’s purse hanging off the back of the
chair, opened it up and rummaged around for her wallet. She would
surely have Steve’s number written down somewhere. “Damn
women’s purse,” he grumbled. Jill’s purse was choc-o-bloc full of crap.
Frank couldn’t believe what was in there. He pulled out earrings,
lipsticks, a half eaten candy bar, a handful of loose tampons, a spoon,
used tissues, a spare pair of knickers (hopefully clean), and a copy of
‘50 Shades of Grey’. “Why am not surprised,” he snarled. He found the
wallet underneath the novel and sure enough Steve’s business card was
right there amongst the cash. He took the item along with a 20 pound
note for good measure, re-stocked the purse and rushed back to the
phone. “Okay. Got it. You ready?” Frank passed on the information. “You’re a champ. You have no idea how much I appreciate it”, said Alexi. “No problem. Now about the two grand?” asked Frank. “Oh yeah, your money. Well, there’s a slight issue there.” “What do you mean, slight issue?” “I’m not giving it to you”, replied Alexi and he hung up. _______________________________________ “Steve
Dwyer speaking”, said Steve irritably as he answered his cell phone
driving towards the squash club in his Ferrari. He had just gotten off
the phone with an irate Jill, who was swearing up a storm about Frank.
He had never heard the f-word so often in one conversation, nor had he
any idea there were so many uses for it. He knew not firing Frank would
cause problems, but not like this. Steve was about to do something he
rarely did in business: break a promise. The deal with Avery
Wilburforce was off. Frank was currently working his final hour. “Hello
Mr. Dwyer, listen very carefully. I am only going to say this once.”
Alexi felt like he was in a movie. Very cliché. “The safe return of
Jessica Smith will cost you 2 million dollars. You have 48 hours to get
the money together by which time I will contact you with information of
where to wire the money. If you ask any questions, she dies. If you
call the police, she dies. If you don’t get the money together, she
dies. If you don’t answer my call, she dies. If you answer my next
question with anything but ‘yes’, she dies. Is that clear Mr. Dwyer?” “Yes”, said Steve, completely stunned at what he was listening to. The line went dead. Chapter THIRTEEN by Will Gens “John
Smith, John Smith, what are we going to do with you?" To which John
answered, "I don'tknow, how about I down you in the next hour or so and
that ought to shut you up...what would you think of that, mother
fucker?" The bottle of Scotch was opposite him at the table; he
hadn't touched the stuff in months, and had promised Bianca, the snappy
news reporter helping to find his missing Jessica, that he wouldn't. He
grew to hate that bottle only because he wanted it so much, the
memory of Jessica, and Bianca insisting he remain clear-headed. Sober
and out of emotional Sing-Sing was incentive enough, but
somewhere in the back of his mind he thought that he could put
the shattered pieces of his family’s lives back together again. He
missed Sam, achingly so, thousands of miles away, he needed Sam
here...he needed Jill here too, he didn't care how or why but he
was going to get her back. "Sorry, my friend, I'm going to have
to do it without you, as much as I hate that," he smiled, proud that
another close call with his Scotch friend had come and gone. He
hoisted an empty shot glass, "Bottoms up!" John
must have dozed off because the chimes of his cell indicating a
voicemail woke him out of a troubled sleep, his neck hurt too
because he fell asleep awkwardly on the second-hand love seat,
which he had garnered from the alley behind his building -- discarded
(and no doubt for good reason), it smelled a bit of urine, cat
urine, but he couldn't prove it, doing his best to douse it in
rubbing alcohol. He used to tell his kids when he was cleaning the
house and Jill was at the club, "Alcohol will kill any bacteria,
it smells good – ah, tastes even better -- and it's good for the environment."
Their house always smelled like the hallways in a hospital, the kids
used to make fun of him if they made a mess, "Nurse dad, get the
swab and alcohol." He
fumbled a bit with the cell log and didn't recognize the incoming call,
thought twice, and went to his voicemail. "John, this is Bianca,
John, where the fuck are you, pick up...it's Jessica, I mean it's
a lead, a big time lead, I need you to call me back ASAP...shit, I hope
you aren't passed out. John, please tell me you didn't…" "John, what the hell, are you sober, clear-headed?” "Yes, Bianca, as a judge, but what is the lead, cut this other crap, what do you have?"
"Okay", her heart raced, she tried to catch
her breath, “I received this very strange email from a Mr. Chander
Sivilingam, out of Chennai, India." "Bianca, Chennai, India, what does this have to do with Jessica!" he shouted.
"John, I'm getting to that, don't interrupt..."
John eyed the bottle of Scotch, he was really unnerved, he thought, a
quick shot or two could really steady him. But he snapped to his mantra
(sober, clear-headed and ready).
“Mr. Sivilingam owns a very successful outsourcing
technology company in Chennai, India, which is in South India
about four hours’ flight from Dubai. "What is outsourcing?” John asked.
"It's when companies, big companies, pay cheaper
prices to have their technology developed and maintained for a
fraction of the cost for doing it onsite in the UK or the US. Mr.
Sivilingam was one of the early players and built a mega firm that has
30,000 employees billing at around five billion pounds per year!" "Okay", said John, waiting for more.
"So he said he read about Jessica's disappearance
in the papers, he usually doesn't read the English papers, but he
happened to be at the Chennai Cricket Club one morning, eating his
usual 15 yokeless hard-boiled eggs, I think he's a health nut, and
there was a British couple there as guests of one of the members, and
he overheard them talking about this missing girl and how it baffled
police and investigators...when they left, they left the paper on the
table and he picked it up and started reading it." She paused "I
haven't gotten to the best part...so he's reading it and he told me
later that his blood went cold, literally ice cold, he--" "What do you mean?" John interrupted.
"Just wait, give me time to explain it then you can
ask questions, trust me you won't believe it." She added, "I didn't at
first believe it." She continued, "Anyways, his voice was quite shaken
when he called me and said he read the story in the Mirror and the case
seemed almost identical to his daughter's case four years ago." She
added quickly, "Of course my first question to him was how did he get
my number and how did he know I was involved in the case? To which he
replied, and I quote, ‘I have many international business connections,
including significant ones in Dubai, UK and the US...it didn't take me
long. But to put your mind at rest, I can give you some references in
Dubai, the UK and the US.’ John, he dropped some names at Scotland Yard
and the FBI. I didn't check Dubai, and someone named Jim Folks or
Faulks -- couldn't get a hold of him, but the others at Scotland Yard
and FBI knew Mr. Sivilingam and vouched for him. John shot back, "What does he mean, his daughter's case!?"
"John, I'm getting to that, hang on, I have another
call coming in, and it’s from Mr. Sivilingam." The phone went dead, "Damn," said John. He
tried calling Bianca back it went straight to voicemail, he heard the
beep, his battery was dying. "Shit, shit, shit", he yelped as he
stubbed his toe on that infernal love seat that smelled like urine as
he went for the charger behind it. He stood by there as far as the
charge could reach, and thinking that he had to get rid of this
loveseat, it really does smell like cat urine. 15 minutes went by as he
waited, eying the Scotch, his mind racing: Jessica, Jessica, what could
be the connection?
His cell chimed, he answered it immediately, not
checking who it was, "Jill! What, I can't hear you…Steve and
what...you're breaking up?...Call me later." He noticed an incoming
call from Bianca and it crossed his mind that Jill was calling him
awfully late. "John, I have Mr. Sivilingam conferenced in. Mr. Sivilingam, are you there?"
He responded distantly, with an ever so slight hint of
South Indian accent, "Yes, I am here. Mr. Smith? I hope I haven't
caused you undue alarm, it wasn't my intention. But I felt it my duty
to contact you and Ms. Bianca because your case, from what I read in
the paper, is so strikingly similar to what happened to my
daughter...Mr. Smith, are you there?" John slowly responded, "Mr. Sivi-Sivi…"
"Sivilingam" Mr. Sivilingam finished for him, "Mr. Chander
Sivilingam, President and CEO of Universal Outsourcing, LTD located in
Chennai, Hyderabad and Bangalore, with offices in London and New York."
"Mr. Sivilingam, please tell John what you told
me,” Bianca said. "John, just listen, questions later,” she added.
Mr. Sivilingam proceeded to explain how his then
13-year-old daughter was an avid squash player who trained out of
a Chennai institute run by a renowned coach of Indian squash,
Syrill Sancha. She was quite good but a bit of a hot-head, especially
in tournaments..." Mr.
Sivilingam's voice faltered, John noticed and he wondered if she was
still alive. Mr. Sivilingam sort of gathered himself a bit and
continued, "She was playing in a tournament at the Institute and there
were junior players from all over, a big tournament. Her ‘nanny,’ Vidya
Suriya, a most diligent woman who helped raise -- sorry, my daughter's
name is Shamini -- raised her from the time she was a baby, took her as
she always did to the tournaments. After her second-round match, which
she won, she went to the locker room and simply vanished.”
John had to interrupt. "Is she okay, is SHE OKAY,
Mr. Sivilingam, I need to know, 'cause if they hurt her and they are
the same people….”
Bianca jumped in, "John, just let him finish, she's
alive and at home with them but there's more." -------------------------------------------- It
was 5:00 in the morning by the time John got off the call with Bianca
and Mr. Sivilingam, his mind racing. He had to find his passport.
"Where the fuck is the passport? I can never find this stuff, I
swear if God lets me fix all of this and my family is safe, I will
change, I will change this -- entire damn…Jill, I’ve got to call
Jill." He pressed the return call on her number and it rang, her
voicemail picked up....he paused, thinking of her in a sexy negligee in
the arms of Steve, Steve the home wrecker, the bastard. He shook
that from his head, “C'mon, focus,” and left Jill a cryptic message.
"Jill, some big lead on Jessica, I'm going to track it
down…” He stopped himself, something told him don't
give the whereabouts, don't give her too many details, she had a
right to know, but Steve, Steve he didn't trust and besides Steve would
usurp him and somehow claim the heroics. John was only thinking
about Jessica. He dashed off a quick email to Sam, Sam, he didn't
even know where Sam was, something about New York. ------------------------ He
and Bianca settled into the first-class British Airways seats,
compliments of Mr. Sivilingam. "John, this is crazy isn't it,
what if there is a connection to his daughter's case?"
He seemed lost in his own world as he stared out
the window while the plane was taxiing to the runway. “I need some
sleep, I need my friend, Mr. Scotch, or maybe some of those small
little jigger relatives of his, what I wouldn't do for a double and a
cube of ice,” he thought as he closed his eyes. Bianca was a
nervous flier and furiously thumbed through the airline
merchandise catalogue, not really stopping to check anything out, just
furiously flipping through the pages. -------------------------- They
had an eight-hour layover in Dubai before flying on to Chennai. Mr.
Sivilingam had arranged for them to clean up in one of the very elegant
and posh spas in the airport. "Bianca," John said, "This guy must have
a lot of pull." "Yeah", said Bianca. "He seems like he's on the up and up.” "Let's hope so," John added.
"The shower, steam and massage will feel great,”
Bianca said as she looked at John. “You holding up okay?” “Yeah, I’m okay, need some food I think and a stiff…“
“John! Don’t even think it, if we get through this
and we find her, I promise I’ll take you out and get you
shit-faced with the best Scotch on the planet.”
While John was waiting for Bianca to get her
massage, he got out his lap top, connected to the airport Wi-Fi and
Googled Chander Sivilingam. He was quite stunned; there was a lot
about his business, then a lot about his daughter’s
disappearance, then some amazing articles about Shamini
Sivilingam and her squash. She was a squash phenomenon, known
throughout India, nothing short of miraculous. He couldn’t
believe what he read over and over: “ShaminiSivilingam, blind squash
player, wins again.” “Blind Girl Defies Squash Reality” – why
hadn’t anyone in the UK mentioned her. Blind squash, is this
something out of science fiction? Then John thought, “Well, they
have blind golf. He read how the girl had been a rising star before a terrible accident four years ago had blinded her.
A tune came into his head John hummed that “Pinball
Wizard” song from the rock opera “Tommy” by The Who – and
then a thought panicked him about his own daughter: did the same people
who had done that to Shamini plan to do that to Jessica as well? Bianca
came bouncing out of the spa and snapped him out of those panicked
thoughts -- they walked a bit before they were heralded by a smartly
dressed limo driver and taken quickly through security into an awaiting
black Mercedes. “…But I ain't seen nothing like her In any squash hall. That -- blind kid Sure plays a mean squash ball!” John played it over in his head while they zipped through the streets of Dubai. Chapter FOURTEEN by Tracy J. Gates Bianca bounced the squash ball under her racquet in rapid succession, warming it up. “Middle-aged guys are just so gullible,” she said, feeling the ball now to see if it was ready. Her
opponent nodded as she adjusted her blond ponytail. “Definitely,” she
agreed. “They’re easily distracted. Although you’re particularly good
at it,” she said, looking her up and down. Bianca
looked down. She was wearing neon bright Flashpoint Asics, a hot pink
skirt that matched the freshly dyed streak in her hair, and a Smith
College t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. “Not my fault,” she replied.
“Only the shirt is mine. Plus, you’re no doubt better. Nice dress.” Tatiana
readjusted the shoulder straps of her silver halter dress. “Well when
you’re backing a sportswear designer, you should wear the product. All
women run by the way.” “Nice. Let’s hit, huh? I’m only here on a layover, remember.” Tatiana grinned. “Right. Serve it up.” Once
the women warmed up, a few other club members stopped to watch their
game. It was clear that they weren’t just there for exercise and with
wrists precisely cocked, deep wall-hugging rails, and graceful
movements around the court, it was evident that they weren’t amateurs
either. Tatiana had great hands and moved the ball patiently around the
court, while Bianca was the more aggressive of the two, cutting the
ball off whenever she could and making overhead volley drops when she
was well set up at mid-court. They were well matched, despite their
differences in play. Tatiana got the first two games by outwitting her
opponent’s athleticism, but Bianca caught on to her tactics by the
third game and began mixing it up as well, holding her shots so that
Tatiana was more off balance. It worked and they were tied at the end
of the fourth game. Tatiana
toweled off her racquet handle before the fifth. “You’re not as rusty
as you said you were,” she said. “Where are playing these days?” “A boy’s boarding school near where I work. There are some pretty good players there. For guys,” Bianca added, winking. Tatiana raised an eyebrow. “Speaking of. Should we check on where yours is?” “Oh
I told the staff to give him the works in the spa. I’m sure he’s dead
asleep by now. He didn’t get much last night, thanks to your Mr. Sly
Chennai.” Bianca stifled a yawn. “Then again, I didn’t either.” “Yes,
sorry about that. My brother does like to put on an accent and tell a
good long yarn.” Tatiana yawned as well. “And your Mr. Smith must enjoy
listening to one. We could barely get him off the phone. Let’s finish
up before we both doze off. Plus, I need to fill you in a bit more.” “Yeah, you do.” *** After
a shower, Bianca wrapped a thick towel around her and tucked it so it
held under one arm. She pulled on the glass door next to the row of
marble sinks and a whoosh of steam swirled out and rolled across the
ceiling. Bianca walked through the door and into an almost opaque cloud
of steam. She couldn’t see a thing. “Are you in here?” Tatiana’s voice was somewhere ahead of her and to her right. “Yes, just walk in slowly. I’ve put my hand out.” Bianca
took a careful step, having no idea how large the room was, and saw the
perfectly manicured fingernails of her friend reaching out to her. Even
as a teenager, Tatiana had been immaculately polished and coiffed,
Bianca recalled. They were unlikely friends when they met at the Junior
tournaments and camps back in the late 90’s. Bianca Phipps, the
scholarship kid with a chip on her shoulder, and Tatiana Grigorieva,
the Russian princess—or so she looked. But both were outsiders, albeit
on opposite sides, and when Bianca said a few words to her in
Russian—thanks to her Ukrainian grandmother—they quickly joined sides.
Bianca hadn’t seen that hand, however, for at least ten years. She put
her out her own nail-bitten one and touched fingertips so that Tatiana
could guide her in. “Here. Put your towel on the lower bench. I’m on the upper one,” Tatiana said. “Or I’ll make room up here,” she added. “That’s
okay,” Bianca said. It was seriously hot. She’d probably pass out on
the upper one. She could make out Tatiana’s body now, or parts of it,
through the thick steam. Bianca unwrapped her towel, spread it out on
the lower bench, and lay down. She breathed the eucalyptus infused
steam and closed her eyes. “So,” she said, “can we talk in here?” “That’s why I suggested it,” said Tatiana. “Nobody to overhear us. Shall I start or you?” “You,” said Bianca, stretching so that her toes just brushed the wall. ”Tell me everything.” *** “Tell me again what you want to do?” Aman asked her. Jessica
Smith sat in front of him, stretching on the carpet next to the court.
“I want to enter the Davenport Open. It’s in Philadelphia this weekend;
you could enter me as a wild card.” “And
just how am I going to do that?” Aman looked at her like she was crazy,
but she could also see the wheels turning. He had been trapped on the
Ekaterina longer than her and a chance to get off the yacht was surely
as tantalizing to him as it was to her. “The
whole family’s gone. For the weekend, at least. We must be able to get
off without the staff knowing.” She bent at the waist, leaning over her
outspread legs and caught the bottom of the couch, pulling her torso
forward for a deeper stretch. She looked up at him. “Don’t you want to
see how I measure up to other girls? Other women? Don’t you want to see
how good a coach you are?” Aman’s
dark eyes stared into hers. “Jessica. You don’t know who you’re dealing
with. I don’t even know. And it’s not just with Alexi or his father.
Someone else is controlling this boat. And the price of getting off is
a lot steeper than getting on.” Jessica
took a breath. “What if we pay a price? I win the tournament. You win
as coach. And we give them all the credit? It’s win-win-win!” Die, die, die is more like it, Aman thought. He tipped his head back to gaze a the ceiling. “Let me think about it.” Jessica
brought her legs together and jumped up. She grabbed a jump rope and
started hopping on one foot as she spun the rope through the air. “I
know I can win,” she told him. “Who practices more than I do?” “Nobody,” Aman agreed. “Nobody.” *** “Nobody
knows how to clean up around here,” Jill Smith muttered to herself,
picking up used towels left on the floor, on benches, and one hanging
over an exercise machine as if it were a ghost. She dumped them all
into a large container marked “USED TOWELS” and then went back for the
plastic cups hiding in plain and not-so-plain sight. Replacing the
water cooler with gleaming glass containers of cucumber and cantaloupe
water was a nice gesture on Steve’s part to upscale the place, but she
was starting to miss the good old b.y.o.w.b. days. She
was bringing a few pairs of unclaimed eye protectors, a set of car
keys, and what looked to be the newest iphone left just outside court
three over to the front desk to put in the lost-and-found box, when she
heard Steve raise his voice from inside the office. “Dubai! How am I supposed to get to Dubai by tonight?!” Jill
stopped midstep and instinctively went still. Steve wasn’t one to yell,
so it had to be something pretty big. His voice went down, so Jill
inched closer to the slightly open door and looked in. He was at his
desk facing her and writing something down on a piece of paper. She
ducked her head back so that he wouldn’t see her when he looked up. He
preferred to keep his business dealings private. “Well what if I can’t? What if I don’t?” He was whisper yelling now. Jill put her ear next to the doorframe. "So
that’s it then? I show up with the money, she lives. I don’t, she dies.
And I’m supposed to believe you because you know she had a Samsung
Galaxy?” Jill
sucked in a breath and quickly covered her mouth. Hardly anyone knew
that. Steve was tapping on his desk now with his pen, and then barked
into the phone, “Well, that’s not how I do business. You want someone
who does it sloppy, call her father.” “What are you doing?” Jill whipped around. Frank was leaning on the other side of the front desk, playing with the iphone she’d put down. “Yes, what are you doing, Jill?” Steve asked. He was standing next to her now, fingering a piece of paper in his hand. Jill
snapped her head one way then the other, looking at the useless
handyman and her spineless boyfriend. Suddenly, one didn’t look anymore
appealing than the other. “You
guys are idiots,” she said. “What am I doing?” She snatched the paper
from Steve, grabbed the iphone from Frank and the set of Ferrari keys
from the counter and strode to the front door. “I’m going to Dubai,” she said, shoving the door open with her hip. “To find my daughter.” *** Maria Ivanova turned to her daughter. “Nikkolina, stop playing with your food.” Instead,
Nikki picked up a radish carved to look like a rose and threw it over
the seat, hitting her brother on the head. A hand came over the
headrest and waved the middle finger. Maria sighed, picked up the tray and gave it to the flight attendant. “Sorry,” she said in English. “It’s a long flight.” The young woman smiled. “Not too much longer. We’re starting our descent. Can I get you anything else?” Yes.
My own jet. But Maria didn’t say this aloud. Instead she asked
for a double espresso. Maybe after the meeting with Anatole, she
would have her own jet. She certainly deserved one, keeping her
end of the bargain. She leaned back and shut her eyes. When she opened them, the plane was taxiing on the ground and something near her feet was buzzing. Nikkolina poked her in the side. “Wake up, Mom, your phone is ringing.” Maria
leaned down, was caught by her seatbelt and sat back up to unclip it.
The buzzing stopped just as she fished it out of her bag and the lights
came on, signaling that they were at the gate. “Maria,
we’re here,” her husband said obviously and impatiently, leaning on his
seatback. He was still annoyed that they were flying commercial. It
wasn’t until they were walking toward Transportation and Baggage that
she retrieved her messages. Viktor was striding briskly ahead, his
right hand trying to tamp down a cowlick that had sprung up on the
flight. Alexi was a half step behind him. And Nikkolina followed them,
alternating between a shuffle and a run. They looked like a frumpy
family of tourists, but at least she’d gotten them all there. Anatole’s
voice was in her ear now, and within a few words she had come to a
stand still. “Stoj!” Three heads swiveled back. Maria
ran to catch up with them, pressing more buttons on the phone. “He’s
not here,” she explained, out of breath. “He’s gone to some villa it
sounds like.” “What? Where?” demanded Viktor. Alexi looked a little sick. Maria
shook her head. Her sunglasses flew off and her bag slid down her
shoulder and bumped her in the head as she bent down to retrieve
them. Nikki groaned and grabbed the phone. She listened a moment and pressed a few more numbers. They all looked at her. “Philadelphia, Dad. He’s gone to Philly to see a women’s squash tournament.” Chapter FIFTEEN by Alan Thatcher “No. You can’t go on your own. Absolutely not.”
Steve Dwyer followed Jill out of The Vale Squash Club and caught up
with her as she opened the driver’s door of his Ferrari. “It could be dangerous. I’m coming with you. Let me drive. We’ll get to the airport quicker that way.” Jill silently acquiesced. “Just tell me what’s going on. Who was that on the phone? What did they want?” Steve
fired up the Ferrari as Jill clicked her seatbelt. “Sounded like
Russians. Maybe Mafia. They say they have Jessica and are demanding a
ransom.” Jill
stared at Steve, overwhelmed to hear confirmation that her teenage
daughter was alive. But terrified to hear that she is most likely in
the hands of Russian gangsters. “What
else did they say? Have they hurt her? Is she OK?” The emotion was too
much. Tears rolled down Jill’s face as she grappled with the enormity
of the situation. Steve moved his left hand off the steering wheel and grasped Jill’s right hand. “We
can only hope she’s OK. We know she phoned Sam from New York and we can
only hope that these people are looking after her properly.” Jill shook her head. “I just don’t know…” Steve said: “You didn’t ask.” “Ask what?” “How much they wanted.” “I’m too frightened to ask.” Her voice trailed off again. “How much was it?” “Twenty million dollars.” +++ James Matthew’s iPhone beeped quietly in his pocket to alert him to a new message. He
was sitting in the Starbucks opposite his office in the Upper East
Side, New York. His morning coffee break was a ritual. A latte with two
extra shots and a pastrami sandwich. Same every day for the last six
months since he moved down from Boston. This
helped him operate closer to the big bucks on offer from frightened
Wall Street corporations who were terrified of online fraud scams and
the armies of Chinese and Eastern European hackers who were intent on
destabilising the Western economy. He
licked the foam off the latte and put his cardboard cup down. A
computer genius, Matthew had made rapid advances in helping major
corporations improve their online security. It
was a natural extension of the business to provide physical security to
some of his clients. The security game had made rapid advances in a
short space of time. Criminals, and those trying to resist them, needed
to be up to speed with the latest technology. Keeping up with the criminals, or second-guessing their next moves, were all part of the service. As an ex-hacker, Matthew was perfectly placed to sniff out the latest trends in cyber-crime. And
he had learned very quickly that smart, athletic, physical enforcement
was equally essential to the brainpower needed to be a major player in
this booming industry. This particular message told him that an old friend needed urgent help in a far-away country. They had been team-mates on the college squash team. His
friend had already briefed him on the crisis he was facing and Matthew
instantly mobilised three staff members to head for JFK. There
were two flights a day to Dubai. They needed to be on the 11.20am
flight that got them into Dubai 12 hours and 30 minutes later. They
would arrive at 07.50 local time. He hoped they would be in time to help. +++ The flight time from London Heathrow to Dubai was six hours and 56 minutes. Dubai is four hours ahead of London in the spring. The 20.40 Emirates flight was scheduled to land at 06.30. After
racing home to grab passports and pack the barest of essentials into
two carry-on bags, Steve and Jill headed for the airport. They didn’t
want to be delayed at baggage check. They just wanted to
finds Jessica and bring her home. +++ Jill
had worried about what Jessica might be most in need of. Clothes,
toiletries, medicine, maybe. After so many months of worry, her anxiety
levels were going off the scale. Her emotions ricocheted between the
joy of holding her in her arms again for the first time in almost a
year, and her fears that something could go terribly, badly
wrong. They settled into their seats in First Class and Steve tried to coax Jill into relaxing as much as she could. “Try
to get some sleep. The Russians say they will make contact when we
land. They obviously hadn’t looked at the flight schedules when they
called earlier.” The
stewardess brought Jill blankets and an extra pillow as she curled up
in a ball in her luxury seat and tried to follow Steve’s instructions. It
felt incongruous to be drinking the complimentary champagne that was
offered as soon as they ventured past the curtain that separated them
from economy class, but she knew it usually sent her to sleep fairly
quickly. It did the trick and she was soon quietly snoozing on the plane as it soared above West London before heading south. As Jill slept, Steve was busy preparing a back-up plan for their Dubai meeting. The
cash was not an issue. He would pay much more to see Jessica returned
safely to her mother, but his competitive urges forced him to look for
an alternative solution. No-one had ever made a mug out of Steve Dwyer
in business, and he wasn’t about to surrender that record to a bunch of
lowlife scumbags who were bartering Jessica’s life. After
an exchange of emails, he thought about shutting down his iPhone.
Instead, he opened up a series of documents that set out his ambitious
plans for The Vale Squash Club. His
makeover involved an all-glass showcourt, and he wanted to launch it in
style with the biggest and best tournament seen in the UK since the
halcyon days of the British Open at Wembley Conference Centre, an era
when Jahangir Khan won ten years in a row in front of sell-out crowds
of more than 3,000. Steve was a big fan of the Canary Wharf Classic, a tournament he had always headed for when he was in London on business. Now
squash was part of his business, and his new glass court was designed
just like the imposing East Wintergarden venue at Canary Wharf, with a
mezzanine level for a bar and restaurant suspended above the backwall
seating. That would enable the club to build a reputation, like Canary Wharf, for high-level corporate hospitality. He
had made site visits to inspect the permanent glass courts in
Manchester, Sheffield and the new one at the luxurious St George’s Hill
Club in Weybridge, the exclusive stockbroker belt in Surrey. With
The Vale north of the river, he might not have the opulent surroundings
of the richest county in England, but he had different ambitions,
altruistic as well as commercial. He
had finally hooked up again with the love of his life, Jill Smith, they
were living together as happily as could be expected in the
circumstances, and he wanted to build a business that would provide a
solid future for both of her children, as soon as they could be
reunited. It would also provide a massive injection of hope into a game which had lost too many clubs in the capital. +++ James
Matthew stayed in his office for the rest of the day. The next trip to
Starbucks was undertaken by one of his staff, who returned with another
latte and two bars of chocolate. As
he unwrapped the chocolate and sipped his coffee, he stared at one
large screen then another. His satellite links allowed him to conduct a
dual surveillance protocol for his wealthy client. Despite
being alerted to the blackmail demands of the alleged kidnappers in
Dubai, and his client’s natural inclination to fly out there
immediately to bring a hasty conclusion to the situation, he was not
convinced that the solution would be so simple. Sure,
he had sent three of his best security guys on the next Emirates flight
from JFK, but he was also monitoring all mobile phone frequencies on
the Eastern seaboard and had created his own unique access to the
highest-level search engines to seek out names and key words that might
lead him to the kidnappers of Jessica Smith. He
had picked up chatter about squash, and a women’s tournament in
Philadelphia that had accepted a late entry from an unknown European
player. With his extensive background in the sport, he knew tournaments did not run that way. If
it was a WSA tournament, there would have been a closing date for
entries and the only way a non-member would be able to play was to gain
a local spot in the qualifying competition or a wild card in the main
draw. A late entry from a non-WSA member simply shouldn’t happen. There was only one answer. They had bought their way in. +++ Steve
Dwyer and Jill Smith ate sparingly on the flight to Dubai. When they
touched down, Jill wanted to get off the plane as quickly as possible,
but Steve insisted on waiting until they were the last to leave. He
also surprised Jill by heading for a coffee shop once they had gone
through customs and ignoring what seemed like urgent calls to his phone. She couldn’t stop staring around the terminal, looking for Jessica and her captors. She was almost hysterical with fear. She
wanted to shout out her daughter’s name, and hoped she would come
running into her arms on the concourse above the world’s biggest
duty-free zone, but Steve stayed remarkably calm. Chapter SIXTEEN by James Zug Thirty-five
hundred miles from the old stone walls of the Vale Squash Club, Steve
and Jill and John and Bianca bumped into each other in the Dubai
International Airport. The
entire flight home, John kept working the scene over in his head. Had
it just been plain bad luck? To run into his ex-wife and her lover
outside the Chanel store in Terminal 3, the shining bottles in serried
rows, the overly bright, bouncing light, the syrupy smell of the
perfume. He had been so relaxed after his deep-tissue massage and
following Bianca as she tested a bottle of Coco Noir. Out of the
Skytrain came Jill and Steve. “What
are you doing here?” Steve demanded. He had a large cup of coffee in
his hand; the domed lid had a little bit of plastic which brushed his
nose when he drank. What
are you doing here?” John said. “Together—I thought you were breaking
up.” Steve, wearing a new, crimson Harvard squash cap, moved closer,
partially blocking John’s view of Jill. For a second, John thought
about going after Steve, but he remembered, with sickening dread, about
his foolish attack on Gerry. He immediately deflated. “We’re looking for Jess,” John continued lamely. “So are we.” “We think she’s in the India,” “India? We think she’s in Dubai,” Steve said, with a lacerating grin. “I’ve talked with her captors, some Russian mobsters.” “Russian mobsters in Dubai,” Bianca jumped in. “Well, that should narrow it down considerably.” “Who
the hell are you,” said Jill, her eyes flashing from her formerly
hapless ex-husband to this young, nubile woman with a nose ring, a
purple streak in her hair and the hint of a tattoo peeking out from
under her Capri pants. “I’m Bianca Phipps. I work with Angus Murray. Steve’s eyes narrowed. “You’re with Angus? He never said anything about an assistant.” “Partner,”
Bianca corrected him. “I met him when I worked at the Weekly Scene in
Devon—you know, near Aullt.” She added, looking at his hat, “I went to
Wellesley.” Steve
was about to throw out a Hasty Pudding joke about her alma mater, but
Jill interrupted. “Enough about America. What’s this about India, John?” “Oh, I don’t know. Bianca came up with it.” “I
know the plan,” Steve said. “We are going to meet with the kidnappers,
give them the money and get Jessica. You guys can go home. I’ve got
this operation under control” “Go home?” John said. “Sounds
good,” Bianca said cheerfully. “You guys look like you know what’s
going on. We didn’t find out anything here in Dubai. Just a dead-end.” John blurted out: “A dead end? You, we—“ “That’s
right,” Bianca said. “We got nothing. But I did get in a good game of
squash this afternoon. Some damn good players at the Burj. And,” she
added looking straight at Steve, “a great steam room.” John
and Bianca had then gone to the counter to check in to the British
Airways flight. His head was doing triple Salchows. The woman in the
starched BA suit clicked away at her computer for nearly a minute
before acknowledging them. “Yes, your flight to London leaves in one hour,” she concluded after looking up their reservation. “London?” said John to the woman. “Yes, London, dear” said Bianca, wrapping her arm around John’s waist. “What about Chennai?” John said, half to himself. “I’ve got the story. We don’t need Chennai.” She laughed a laugh that sounded like a light rainshower. “What do you mean?” John wiped his forehead as if it was wet. “Let’s
get our boarding passes and I’ll tell you,” Bianca said, smiling slyly
at the woman: they were honeymooners on a global scavenger hunt. They
went to their boarding gate and sat down. John went to the water
fountain near the bathrooms to refill his water bottle. A lukewarm
spray dribbled out. He couldn’t get his bottle more than half-filled.
Typical. He
sat down. Bianca reported about what Tatiana Gregorieva had told her in
the steam room. “Jessica’s not in Dubai. Or in India. She’s on a yacht
in the Atlantic.” “How do you know? What about Steve and the kidnappers in Dubai.” Bianca
ignored the questions. “Tatiana’s sister is married to a very bad dude.
His name is Viktor. She mentioned drugs, something about heroin coming
out of southwestern Afghanistan and going through Iran. Viktor is
knee-deep in some serious shit. Tatiana and her brother have fallen out
with the sister and Viktor. Family dynamics. You can’t take Russia out
of the Russian, that kind of thing. Tatiana said some English girl was
on the sister’s yacht—fancy ship the length of a city block. Had a
squash court. The girl trained there, along with Tatiana’s niece. “She’s been living on a yacht?” “Yes,
Viktor has a court—all-glass in fact—and a pro, workout room, the
works. Probably a steam room. Tatiana said the yacht was in the North
Atlantic last week when she talked to her sister. That was all she
knew.” “Maybe
New York?” said John hopefully, remembering the call Sam had gotten at
boarding school. That had looked like a dead end. Maybe it wasn’t. “Right.
And one more thing. We’ve got more company than just Steve and Jill.
Tatiana said some guy from the MI6 was snooping around Dubai asking
questions about Viktor. They played squash, she said. She crushed him
3-0 and then the split the two after-games, giving him a bone.” “How did she know he was MI6? “He
spoke fluent Arabic and fluent Russian, both without an accent. The
only guys who just happen to know both those languages and can speak
them without an accent are intelligence guys. And besides, Tatiana said
he wanted to play to nine, British scoring. Old-school. MI6. ******************* Back
in London, John and Bianca took the bus from Heathrow straight into
Victoria Station. “6Ł,” John thought. “Utter larceny they charge four
times that on the train to Paddington where no one wants to go anyway,
except for a Peruvian bear in a duffel coat.” They
got out and walked around the corner to get their bearings. They were
travelers of the modern age, stunned by the deathless hours in steel
cocoons with only distant piles of clouds as landscape. They were
unsure what day it was, what time it was. The quiet of a leafy,
back-street Belgravia morning descended upon them. John wanted to lie
down and sleep. He was inexhaustibly exhausted. Bianca’s
hotel was above some Irish bar in Crouch End or something, John
couldn’t remember, just far far away. She peered at her phone, both
hands gripping and thumbs tapping as if she was making a rugby goalpost
and a classmate was about to kick a folded-up triangle of paper through
the uprights. She said something about checking in with Angus to track
the yacht and then going to a tattoo convention in Wapping. “It’s a big
deal,” she said when she saw John slightly roll his eyes.
“International convention. And I might change my hair color—green, red,
now purple. Am thinking orange. Anyway, where’s Wapping? She
asked. “Down by Tower Bridge, near Traitor’s Gate.” As
Bianca blithely walked away towards the Underground, John sent his
rope-knuckled fingers into his pocket to check his phone for the first
time since leaving London forty-four hours earlier. He had just one
measly text. It was from Kristin Selby. “WE NEED TO TALK” was all it
said. John
groaned. The last thing he wanted was to revisit all the trouble with
her father death. Hadn’t the lawyers sorted it out? Walter was a good
chap and it was all an accident. John felt whipsawed by the past week,
a ragged towel in an industrial washing machine. He had to break the
rhythm. John loved to play squash as if it was a dance. He liked the
flow. He almost always hit a cross-court when faced with a short boast.
It just felt better that way. He couldn’t improvise well. He was
terribly at deception. He could beat players with his good length and
width but against anyone at his skill level, he got crushed because he
was too predictable. He texted Kristen: “COMING NOW. SEE U AT CLEVELAND IN 15 MINS?” Let’s
see, he thought to himself, eyeing the pedestrians on Ebury Street, “In
the past two days, I’ve taken the Tube, a plane, a limousine, a taxi, a
plane and a bus. What’s left?” Just then a yellow London pedicab came
cycling past. John hailed him, flung his tiny black wheelie-bag in the
seat, the long handle still periscoped out and sat down. “Cleveland
Square,” John barked. He was about to ask if the biker knew his A to Z
but his phone buzzed like a rasping armidillo. “YES,” flashed Kristin’s
text. “NOW.” Ten
minutes later the pedicab wheeled John slowly pulled through Hyde Park.
The grass was flecked with sunbathers and picnickers, the
vitamin-starved English desperately savoring the last hints of sunshine
before winter. A queue of kids clambered on the pirate ship in the Lady
Di playground. Kristin lived in a spacious flat in a mews near
Cleveland Square. She was waiting at the door, her face uplifted, her
tight blue tee-shirt swimming just below John’s eyeline. She gave him a
long, lingering hug and let him inside. She was solicitious. She took
his bag. She made tea. They sat in her tiny patio in the back,
surrounded by white stucco walls. He told her about the mad trip to
Dubai, leaving out most of what Bianca had learned in the Burj Khalifa
Sports Club steam room. “I’m
so so so sorry about what happened after Daddy died,” Kristin said,
putting her mug down. “I know you’ve had a rotten few months. I was
pretty upset about Daddy. First Mummy and then two years later him. In
between Simon. I was all alone. My lawyer said he had talked with Nick,
that there was a lot more to the Vale Squash Club than just a couple of
squash players trying to make a club go. I had a lot of debt at the
time. Simon had moved out, leaving me with the mortgage on this flat—I
couldn’t sell, it was underwater.” Simon was her ex-boyfriend, a nasty
chap from Essex who ran a garden furniture store. He had the
intelligence of a used Q-tip. He was probably at the tattoo convention
now, hitting on Bianca. “What do you mean, more to the club?” “Nick had told him that the lottery was a joke.” “A joke? It was Ł300,000. Enough to buy a squash club.” And almost a Jaguar, John silently added. “Yes, but wasn’t there something odd about the lottery?” “Sure,”
John said hesitantly, not sure at all. He didn’t want to get into it.
Did Jack go back to the old man with the magic beans and ask for an
explanation about the goddamn beanstalk? “It was a bit strange. We
never bought tickets to the lottery. It just came out of the blue. Jill
said she had a ticket, but I didn’t see it. We met them at some offices
in Slough and they gave us the money. No publicity, they said, which we
were fine about—didn’t want my cousins to find out or they’d come
begging. Sam was disappointed: he wanted to hold that oversized check
they have for the photographs.” “So you never inquired about the lottery, this money just appearing on your doorstep? That takes the biscuit.” “No,
no, Nick said it was all legit. The money was real. And the winnings
were not even regarded as income so Revenue & Customs wouldn’t tax
it.” “Did Nick say anything else?” “No.”
John’s eyes fastened onto her neck, her clavicle freckled and tanned,
the wire-taut tendons above. He wanted to curl up there and sleep. “It
just was that Daddy’s death was so weird. He was all fired up about
something. He had been retired for years and seemed to have nothing
going on in his life besides squash. What is a retired accountant to
do? Squash isn’t like golf, it doesn’t soak up the whole day. Then
Daddy had this burst of energy. He texted me a couple of times in the
week before he died, saying he had a great new idea, something that was
going to make he and I a ton of money. It was all very vague. I have
the texts still.” Kristin
looked at him as she leaned over to tug her phone from the back left
pocket of her jeans She had been laughably chaste when they had their
affair, but now she was flirtatious. She scrolled down and clicked and
scrolled and then handed the phone over to John. “WE HAVE A LEAD ON THE
VALE.” “THE VALE CONNECTED TO BIG INT’L OPERATION.” “MORE TOMORROW.” “Don’t
you think it’s strange,” Kristin said, after a silence. “First you get
all this money to buy the club and then Daddy dies from a falling
heater and then some guy from America, this Steve Dwyer tosser with a
Ferrari, just motors in and saves the club?” ***** The
boat left her on a pier on the Hudson. Jessica slipped her arms through
the straps of her squash shoulder bag and walked east. She had stuffed
her bag with half a dozen coordinated outfits, racquets and sneakers.
Nikki would be angry about that. Andre had given her five new $20
bills, and Anan had rowed her ashore from the yacht before dawn. It had
been easy. She moved along the concrete with little jets of
exhiliration firing through her mind. It felt great to be on land. She
knew she had a couple of hours before Alexi or Viktor would become
aware of her absence and by then she’d be long gone. She
walked past shuttered strip clubs and art galleries of Chelsea, She
stopped on Ninth and got a warm bagel. The shop smelled so strongly of
baking bread, Jessica almost wanted to stay there. She spread cream
cheese: the white knife, the grey tub of cream cheese. It was all so
simple and beautiful. But she moved on to Penn Station and waited for
the bus. As
the bus bolted away from 31st Street and headed towards Lincoln Tunnel,
she thought she saw Sam. Two teenagers walking down Tenth. No, he would
be up at Aullt, not down in New York? But wait. December 9th. Maybe the
term was over, maybe these American schools with their elongated
holidays had let him out. She stood up and pressed her nose against the
glass but the bus hurtled through the intersection. Sam? She whispered.
No, it couldn’t be him. There must be a hundred boys within a thousand
yards right now who looked just like Sam. Fifteen
bucks and two hours later she was standing next to 30th Street Station.
She walked east again, this time over the Schuykill and into downtown
Philadelphia. Everything was verdant and lush. Bushes still held green.
The streets were named after trees. She found the club, just off
Walnut, a blue and red flag flapping in the breeze. She went in. She
told the porter she was here for the Davenport tournament. She took the
elevator up to the third floor and walked past the barber shop and the
square swimming pool and into the locker room. No one was there. She
found an empty stall, took off her clothes, lifted a towel from the
stack on the table and walked into the bathroom. The club was famous
for its showers. For the first time in almost a year, she could relax.
She turned the two metal knobs. A giant circular disk the size of a
trash can lid emitted a torrent of water. The water cascaded over her
face, filling her ears. She couldn’t hear a thing. Not one thing. **** John
had played squash with Nick Gaultier for the last two years of
university. Nick had been a cocky player, despite playing down on the
ladder. He always boasted about past wins. He talked about pro players
he had trained with, partied with—good mates—and then, when you asked
the pro about Nick, they’d said, “Who?” One
year when they played Nottingham, John had beaten a very good player at
#1, someone who had been on the national junior team. Nick’s first
reaction after the match was that he now had indirect over some of the
best players in the country. But, John had thought, as Nick patted his
back and walked away, you don’t have an indirect—you’ve never beaten me. John
went to Nick’s offices. They were in the Gherkin, the new,
pickled-shaped skyscraper in the City. When John entered his office, he
was standing by his desk, putting files in a briefcase. His white
Oxford shirt hung kempt, without a fold or crease, as though the work
he did couldn’t touch him. “I’m moving to the Shard next month,” Nick
told John straight away after the assistant had shut the door. “The
view is better.” He settled his lanky frame into a leather chair.
“How’s your squash?” Was there a hint of disdain there? Not eager to compare notes, John started to talk about a niggling hamstring. Nick
interrupted. “Oh, I’ve been playing a lot this fall, getting on court
almost every day. I’m going to play in a couple of 35s tournaments.” “I came here to talk about the Vale.” “Sounds like things are taking shape over there now.” John
winced. “I don’t know. Steve and Jill aren’t there right
now. They are in Dubai.” John looked hard at Nick to see if that meant
anything to Nick, but.his face betrayed no emotion. “Stephanie’s
running it while they are away. So who is the Dwyer guy?” “Steve’s
a fantastic chap, really top-notch. Played at Harvard. Loves fast cars.
He’s got plans to build the Vale into THE club in London. Glass
showcourt, an American doubles court. Ambitious.” John
knew squash. He had read a history of St. George’s Hill, the squash
club in Weybridge; he knew how you built up a club. You didn’t go from
zero to sixty in one blink of an eye. You had to shore up the
fundamentals, a dependable client base, a solid teaching pro, night
leagues, Saturday morning junior clinics. He knew how to run a club.
“Dwyer’s up to more than just squash. Where does he get his money?” “I
couldn’t say, John. I mean, it’s in off-shore accounts, so I don’t know
the story. He’s put up all these health clubs in the States, dozens of
them, very successful. He knows the industry.” “What about the lottery, Nick. Wasn’t that just a peculiar thing?” “The
lottery—what do you mean?” He suddenly was speaking slowly, pausing
after every word like an invigilator reading directions for an exam. “Yes, we never got into the newspapers or the tele, nothing was said. Just here’s your money. Jill never played the lottery.” “What
are you saying, that someone just decided to give you Ł300,000 because
you’re a nice guy? I remember the correspondence on it. It was all
legit. Jill never played the lottery. Really? I think there’s a lot
about Jill you didn’t know.” A
note of discord had crept into Nick’s voice, like a string out of tune.
John instantly realized that Nick had lied after Walter died. John had
chosen the public liability after all. “I remember the correspondence,”
Nick had said that awful day, but he never produced any of it. John had
chosen the insurance. Nick just hadn’t filed it. Same words again, a
vocalized puff of air: I remember the correspondence. Indeed. John laughed—his first laugh in months. He got up to leave. “Goodbye, Nick. You always were a bit of a wanker.” ****** John
went home. He was a cicada that had spent years underground, just
focused on staying alive. Now he had burrowed back into the light. He
mopped away the sour, damp smell in his flat with a bucket of alcohol.
He opened the windows. He got a neighbor to help him lug the love seat
back down to the alley. He ran a load of laundry. He put away the
dishes that had sat, clean, in his dishwasher for a month. He took out
the rubbish. He checked his email and mail. He went through all the
paperwork he had on the Vale. He
emailed two contacts in the Caymans. Off-shore for Americans meant the
Caymans, not the Channel Islands or Malta. John had been to the Caymans
for their women’s tournament, a spectacular pro event, and had gotten
to know a lot of the bankers on the island. Everything was
confidential, everyone tight-lipped but John had done them some favors
when they came to London: getting them matches, waiving their court
fees, plying them with tickets to West End shows, introduced them to
some City bigwigs. Quid pro quo. Especially when you’ve gotten them
some quid. Within
a day, John had pieced together the story. The Vale wasn’t just a
squash club. It was a laundering operation, a way for money to be
washed and cleaned and pressed and sent back out into the world.
Avery Wilberforce, Nick Gaultier and Steve Dwyer. They were all involved. John realized that accident with the heater was no accident. Walter had found something out. In
the morning, John drove over to the Vale. The parking lot was
perfection. The hedges clipped like they did at Kew. Stephanie was at
the front desk. She cheerily threw another of her fake, bacon-fat
smiles at him, as if he was bladdered and she was waiting patiently for
him to collapse on the floor. “Oh, hi Mr. Smith.” “Hello, Stephanie, wonderful to see you, indeed. Have you seen Frank? I need to have a bit of a chin wag with him.” “That
nice,” she said. The last time Mr. Smith had seen Frank, it was during
the courtside melee in which Frank had showed off latent rugby skills
and tackled him. “I haven’t seen him this morning, but you know, he
sometimes gets in a bit late.” John
looked into court four. Empty. He got the ladder from the back
storeroom and hoisted it up near the front wall. He examined the chains
where the heater had been. They had been cut, as he suspected. He was
carrying the ladder down the hallway when two players ran into him.
“Oh, it’s you, John. Great to see you. There’s a body behind the bar.” John
dashed into the bar. In the corner, slumped against the icebox, with
blood pooling on the floor, was a dead man. John turned him over with
his toe. It was Frank. Chapter SEVENTEEN by John Branston Mind the gap. Which
sounded to Bianca like “Moind the gap.” Anyway, she loved it, the
oh-so-British warning to boarding and exiting passengers that sounded
every time a train approached a station with an air-sucking roar in the
London tube. It was her new catch phrase. She even bought a “Mind the
Gap” t-shirt at a souvenir store near the Tower of London. Her cheap international cellphone rang, and she heard the voice of John Smith. “Where are you? I've been trying to reach you all day.” “I'm
just coming out of the tube station at Oxford Circus,” Bianca said.
“Wait a second while I get some space so I can hear you better.” She
fumbled with the unfamiliar phone. The usual horde of tourists and
locals was making its way along Oxford Street while the rain had let
up. If there was a global recession, they hadn't gotten the news. A man
the size of a gorilla wearing a top coat and sunglasses bumped into
Bianca, and muttered an apology. She instinctively clutched her bag
tighter, but his mitts were way too big for a career as a pickpocket.
He reminded her of the face on the billboard she had just seen coming
out of the tube for the new movie “The Sweeney” with a tough guy actor
named Winston or something. “No
time to chat, but listen carefully and I'll fill you in as soon as I
can,” said John. “And do you know anything about firearms?” “Draw, point, pull the thingee, make it go bang.” “That's what I was afraid of,” and his voice broke up amid the surrounding din. “But I can take care of myself,” Bianca quickly assured him. “I'm
sure you can, but we're not talking about drunken college boys trying
to get into your pants. We're dealing with some dangerous people here.
I decided to stop by the Vale Squash Club. A fellow named Frank who
worked as a handy man turned up dead today.” “Christ, that club again? What happened?” “Either
he strangled himself or someone did it for him. He had a broken neck
and spit up some blood. Looks like he put up a fight.” “Who wants to whack a handy man? Did he forget to clean the toilets?” “Cute
but inappropriate. I'm not sure but he must have done something or
known something that made him more than the pain in the ass I remember.
The police are talking to employees and were trying to reach Jill and
Steve Dwyer. Get over here as soon as you can.” Bianca
sat down to try to sort it out. Which wasn't easy. It seemed like
everyone was a detective and flying off to New York, London, Dubai,
India, or who knows where. Vale, goddamned Vale, had been the scene of
a death by falling appliance, a possible kidnapping, an assault by a
madman with a squash racquet who happened to be her traveling
companion, a change of ownership, and now a murder in less time than it
takes most health clubs to switch out the towels. She needed a compass, a guide, someone with some perspective. She called Angus Murray, who had hired her in the first place. “About time,” he said. “Thought you'd gone rogue.” “I know,” said Bianca. “But hear me out, okay?” She
told him about her little jaunt to India, the awkward reunion with Jill
and Steve, and the call she had just taken from John. “They're
wasting their time,” she said breathlessly. “They've got more money
than sense. Jessica's not in Dubai or India. She's somewhere in the
states with a guy named Aman. I've been talking to Tatiana Grigorieva
and getting her to open up. That's what I do, remember? She's a piece
of, uh, work herself, but I think she can help us find Jessica.” “Maybe,”
said Angus, “but I'm getting mixed signals lately from the suddenly
not-so-happy couple that is paying our bills. Not so sure they're on
the same page, as you say. What I want you to do now is back off for a
while and let me earn the retainer. Get back to the flat, and have John
call me if he will. I assume he is with you.” “Not
exactly, at least not at the moment, but I can see him soon enough.
Unfortunately he's drinking again and not always on his game, but he's
smart enough when he's sober. He said he was going to meet someone
named Kristen about the sale of the club. I think it figures into
Jessica's disappearance somehow.” “John's
a dupe, and Jill may be too,” Angus snapped. “They don't know as much
as they think they know, and frankly, neither do you, although you seem
to be handing out business cards on three continents. I hired you to
poke around a New England prep school and chase a couple of leads in
New York for me, not to be the next girl with the dragon tattoo.” The
condescending remarks stung, but Bianca let it go. Angus was a pro.
Being a smart ass and know-it-all had nearly gotten her kicked out of
college before she dropped out on her own. Keeping her mouth shut and
using her head more had given her a new life. She was a 20-year-old
girl working at a weekly newspaper who suddenly found herself in London
with a man she barely knew and working for a British investigator on a
missing persons case. She could handle the likes of Tatiana well
enough, but Angus didn't always keep her up to speed and John was
erratic on his best days. Too much on her plate. Her instincts told her
to chill. Mind the gap. The
rain had started in earnest, and she decided to take the tube instead
of walking or catching a cab. She slipped her pass into the turnstile,
rode the escalator down to the corridor where a guy was blowing a
saxophone in a passable attempt at “Stormy Weather.” She
tossed a few coins into his open case, got a nod in return, and
followed the crowd to Platform Two. The display flashed “train approaching.” The disembodied voice announced Mind the gap. She
looked toward the black tunnel anticipating the sound that would soon
be a roar. She took her place just behind the yellow caution line, and
noticed the guy who had bumped into her a few minutes ago. Ray
Winstone, that was who he looked like. Yes, only uglier, more Russian
that British. He was looking at her now and coming right toward her, no
mistake about it, and he did not look like he was going to introduce
himself. Chapter EIGHTEEN by The Squashist “Excuse me, but what the fuck is going on?” James
Matthew was the type of man who liked to remain in charge, but he
quickly realized that what seemed at first to be a relatively simple
abduction case had more appendages than a centipede. He didn’t like
centipedes, and he didn’t like to be confused. But nonetheless he was,
so he decided to investigate the situation by conferencing in the
investigators. Steve
Dwyer had hired him to cover his back in Dubai in case there was an
opportunity to wiggle out of the need to fork over a couple million
bucks to the bastards who took Jessica. But James also knew that Steve
had hired Angus Murray to follow the abduction case in New England, and
Angus in turn had hired this Bianca Phipps chick. His Dubai security
detail surprised him when they reported that John Smith and Bianca were
in Dubai at the same time as Steve and Jill had gone there to pay the
dough to the abductors, and that coincidence smelled funny. One of the
security men, Boris Obolensky by name, was instructed to follow John
and Bianca, and when those two split up, Boris stuck with Bianca.
Reporting in to James that he had her eyeballed on the train platform,
he got his instructions: Take her in. Boris
stuck a Glock between Bianca’s fourth and fifth rib and politely asked
her to follow him. Bianca readily obliged, and Boris quickly added that
she wasn’t being abducted but rather being given a command request to
go over what she knows about the Jessica case. “We have the same
employer, Steve Dwyer. He hired you and Angus, and he also hired me,” –
here Boris smiled winningly – “through James Matthew, a New York
security guy. So all we want to do is talk.” At that, Boris put the gun
away. “Ah,
that’s a relief,” Bianca said. “If you want to know what’s going on, I
can help, but you also have to talk to John Smith, father of the girl,
who just called me with some new info. And get Angus on the line.” Which
was how John, Bianca, and Boris ended up at John’s place on a
conference call with Angus on the line from Northern Massachusetts and
James on the line from the Big Apple. Plus the MI6 guy, though he came
later. “So
then,” James asked again, “what the fuck is going on? What Steve told
me was that Jessica had been abducted by the Russian mob and they
wanted $2 million to get her back, and to go to Dubai for the transfer.
You all agree with that statement?” “Yes
and no,” John said. “When we met him in Dubai he told us that the
amount was 20.” This caused a flurry of commentary, with no obvious
solution, although John’s theory was probably best. “I think he was
asked to fork over 2 million but he told Jill it was 20, just to get a
little extra loving from my ex-wife.” The line was delivered
morosely. Bianca
then explained what she knew, and it was a lot. “I talked to Tatiana
Grigorieva, an old friend, who I just happened to meet in Dubai.” A
little neuron in James Matthew’s brain fired away at that: another
funny coincidence… “Her brother Anatole is a big-time shit, who she
confessed is into drug dealing on a major scale, although she would
never admit that in any court,” Bianca added. “Tatiana said that
Anatole’s older sister Maria is married to a Viktor Ivanov, another
big-time supplier, who was allied with Anatole but with whom they have
now had a falling out. It turns out that Anatole had called us
pretending to be some Indian capitalist big-shot who had information on
Jessica’s disappearance, sending us to Chennai by way of Dubai, but
that was all bull.” “Why would he do that?” James asked. “I
told you, he’s a shit,” Bianca said. “But the interesting thing is that
Tatiana had heard that there was a girl on the Ekaterina, the Ivanov
yacht, which is mostly used for picking up opium shipments at various
ports and moving them around in international waters. Tatiana said the
yacht has a squash court and a squash pro, and without doubt that is
where Jessica has been kept these last months.” “That
goes with the social media info you discovered, Bianca,” Angus said.
“That yacht has been floating in New York harbor for awhile. Perhaps we
could get a search warrant?” “No
need,” James said. “I think I know where she might be. There’s a
women’s pro squash tournament going on in Philly, starting tomorrow. My
security firm has been tracking cell phone chatter about anything to do
with squash, and it seems the tournament has had a very odd last-minute
addition. The chatter says the new player is named J. W. Vale, and she
has a coach, a guy named,” – James looked down at his notes -- “Aman
Hussein. Do you think this J.W. is our girl?” John
could barely contain his excitement. “I bet you everything it’s her!
‘J’ is for Jessica, obviously, and Vale is the name of our club! And W
…” “…
Is for Weetabix!” Angus said. “She’s sending us a message. She may not
yet feel free to escape, but somehow she has managed to get to this
tournament. We have to get there and extract her from whatever
situation she is in.” “This
is good, then, very good, we are making real progress here,” James
said. “I will let Steve know what’s going on right away.” John
looked meaningfully at Bianca, and then said, “No, hold on, not quite
yet. Listen, everyone, I have only today received new information, but
before I tell you what it is I need everyone to promise that they will
look beyond who employs them and continue on in search of justice. The
information I have is damaging to Steve Dwyer, that prick. This will be
a matter for the police.” “John,”
James said, “rest assured, my business requires me to never shield
anyone from the law, even if they employ me. This case already involves
international drug smuggling and abduction, so we already have plenty
of reasons to bring in the police. But, you know, I have an excellent
contact in this area. If you are about to get into a discussion about
international drug smuggling, then hold on a moment, I might be able to
get him in on this conference call, he just might be able to help.
Stand by everyone….” They
were put on hold while James called up his most important international
contact, an expert at MI6 whose beat is the drug trade. James had made
it a habit to feed any relevant information he came across to Weston
Faulks, who in turn helps him out a bit when needed. James has a few
such contacts across Europe, the Middle East and Asia, but Weston was
by far the most fruitful contact of them all. James
briefly explained that he was working on a case that apparently
involved two groups of drug smugglers, the Ivanovs and Anatole
Grigoriev, and that he could use his insights. At the mention of the
two drug cartels, Weston was happy to oblige. “Patch me in!” he said. James
got back on the conference line. “Hello everyone, I have on the line an
expert on the international drug trade. I can’t tell you who he works
for, and I can’t tell you his real name, but his information is as good
as anyone’s. He will go by the name of Jim for the purposes of this
call. Jim, by the way, happens to be in Dubai as we speak. John, you
were about to tell us what you had discovered.” “Okay,
it’s a long story, but I’ll keep it short. The first thing to know is
that we bought the club because of some supposed winnings from a
lottery, but the actual lottery was all very vague. One day we pretty
much were given a bunch of money and Jill came up with the idea of
buying the club. Just like that, out of the blue. At the time it seemed
impossibly lucky, now it seems like something else entirely. It was all
arranged through my solicitor, an old friend named Nick Gaultier. More
about him later… “I
recently heard from a woman named Kristin Selby, and it was her father,
Walter, who was the fellow who died at the Vale when the big heating
unit fell on top of him. Kristin told me that her father had found
something out about the club right before he died. She didn’t know
what, but he had texted her saying that the Vale was part of a, quote,
big international operation, unquote. Then he was dead. I just had a
talk with Nick, who was the one who took care of the insurance policies
and dealt with the aftermath following Walter’s death. I found out that
Nick deliberately misled me about the policy we had for accidents at
the club. He said it didn’t exist, and as a result we had to sell. To
Steve Dwyer. I checked the chains supporting the heater and they were
clean-cut. It was no accident. “So
this accident was set up to do away with Walter, who had discovered
something, and force me to sell the club. I contacted two old buddies I
know in the Caymans who owe me a few favors, and they confirmed my
suspicions. Steve has accounts set up that take money in and out of his
clubs in the US, as well as the Vale club, and launder bad money into
respectable profits. It turns out that old Avery Wilburforce, a patron
of our club, owns one of the accounts with Steve. This must be why
Avery insisted his brother-in-law Frank stick around after the sale; he
was really Avery’s eyes and ears at the club. And, furthermore, someone
has apparently figured that out, because Frank, that idiot, just turned
up dead, strangled at the club.” “That’s
interesting,” Jim said. “I can confirm that Nick Gaultier has been used
in laundering operations in the past; we have been aware of him for a
while, though we are just watching at this point. We thought it was
small-time stuff, but maybe not. I can also confirm that Avery
Wilburforce has had some shady dealings in the past, and he served some
time for check kiting about three decades ago. Steve Dwyer, as far as I
know, has had a clean record.” “So, Jim, how do you think the Ivanovs and Grigoriev are connected to this?” asked James. “I
have a theory, and I bet it’s on the money. I think the lottery win was
to set you up as sucker-owners who could be manipulated by Avery
Wilburforce and Anatole Grigoriev. I hate to say it, John, but it seems
like Jill may have been in on the deal, at least partially.
Wilburforce, who had been at the club for a long time, probably
proposed using the Vale as the first non-USA club to join in on their
line of launderers, but Walter somehow got wind of their plan and they
had to go with a more forceful one. Kill Walter, and then buy the club.
All well and good. On the other hand, Viktor Ivanov and his family I
believe somehow enticed Jessica to come away with them, probably
willingly. They wanted to exert some control over the club, perhaps by
blackmailing John if needed. I think they did this without Grigoriev’s
knowledge, and it is evidence of the rift that now exists between the
two groups. Viktor Ivanov is ruthless and has done this type of thing
before. The only thing worth noting is that Grigoriev is even more
ruthless. And Frank’s death strikes me as interesting. I think Frank’s
death was a message to Grigoriev, Wilburforce and Dwyer that Ivanov is
out there and not happy. He’s played second fiddle to Grigoriev for
years; now he’s saying screw you to the lot of them. And that means we
may have a war on our hands.” The
phone went quiet as this news sunk in. A war between drug smugglers
seemed removed from their daily lives except for one excruciating
detail: Jessica was involved. “What now?” John asked. “We’ve got to go to Philly to get Jessica, that’s all I care about.” “Philly?”
said Jim. “That’s interesting. We know that Grigoriev is now in Philly,
and the entire Ivanov family is even as we speak in the air in transit
to Philly. Why there?” Bianca explained the hunch that Jessica was playing the tournament as J.W. Vale and was accompanied by her coach, Aman Hussein. “Aman
Hussein!” said Jim. “That’s my friend Gamal Hussein’s nephew, whose
been missing for months, supposedly lolling about on a yacht acting as
a squash pro. That’s it then; you’re hunch is hereby confirmed.” “Well, I’m going to Philly to check out this tournament,” Angus said. “Me too,” said Bianca. “Me three, that’s for damn sure,” said John. “Well, with the Ivanovs there and Grigoriev there, I better get there too,” Jim said. Or rather Weston Faulks said. “I’ll
see you all there,” James said. “Boris, you and your security detail
meet me there. Well, gentlemen, lady, off to the city of brotherly
love. See you in Philly.” ----------------------------------------------- Sam
Smith and his squash buddy Nestor Geiberger spent all day wandering
around the city and even visited several squash clubs, thinking they
might possibly find Jessica. But New York is a big city, and they saw
neither hide nor hair of her. Frustrated, they went back to Nestor’s
apartment. The next day, they got up and didn’t know what they should
do next. “Sam,”
Nestor said, “let’s admit defeat on this for the time being. I need
some fun. All this going to squash clubs has got me anxious to get my
squash in. I read on the Daily Squash Report website that the WISPA
Philadelphia Open starts tomorrow. It’s just 2 hours by train, and
won’t cost all that much. What do you say we go check it out? We can
stay at Ben’s place, his family lives right in town and I have a
standing invite. Plus his brother goes to Drexel University and we can
play squash there.” Sam
was as much of a squash nut as Nestor, and he knew he would never find
Jessica. He’d have to leave that for the authorities. Plus, he’d never
been to Philly, and the squash would be damn good. “Sure, let’s do it. Let’s go to Philly." Chapter NINETEEN by Peter Heywood The line went dead. Weston pushed a button on the hand-set. There was a click and a low hum. ‘Did you get all that?’ asked Weston. There was a pause. ‘Loud and clear,’ came the reply. One of the workers looking after their queen, Weston thought. ‘She’s on her way.’ Weston
hit the button again and swivelled towards Thorpe. The dusk was
filtering into the Dubai offices of Global Trading prompting the ‘Sales
Director, Middle East & North Africa’ to reach behind him for a
bottle and two glasses. He poured a measure of whiskey into both and
handed one to Weston. ‘So,’ said Thorpe, ‘it would appear that your efforts have generated more than a little movement on the chessboard.’ Weston glanced down and brushed a non-existent speck of dust from his slacks. ‘Well,
you did ask me to find out what Grigoriev was up to,’ he responded,
raising his eyes to meet Thorpe’s. ‘It turns out that he was up to
quite a lot.’ Thorpe
chose not to rise to the bait. Weston had form as a loose cannon. As
well as a ladies’ man. But he could sniff out the opportunity for a big
sale. ‘As
I see it,’ continued Thorpe, employing a measured delivery which Weston
sensed was tinged with disappointment mixed with curiosity, ‘not only
do you seem to know rather more than you have, up to now, disclosed to
your superiors, but you have now shared carefully chosen parts of it
with a, shall we say, disparate group of individuals searching for a
missing girl.’ Weston remained silent. ‘All
this,’ continued Thorpe, ‘in the context of what would appear to be a
rapidly-developing conflict of interests between two rather nasty
players in the global drugs trade. Players who are not only related by
marriage but who are also clearly prone to the influence of their
family members – particularly in relation to the noble art of squash
racquets.’ ‘You could say that,’ responded Weston. Thorpe
took a sip at his malt and grunted. His analysis had given him time to
appreciate what Weston had also chosen to disclose and, more
importantly, not to disclose to Mr Matthew and his assembled guests.
The present whereabouts of Grigoriev and the Ivanovs; the laundering
record of Steve Dwyer; his surprise at hearing of the whereabouts of
his old squash coach’s nephew. ‘Sense, adapt, exploit,’ mused Thorpe. ‘But don’t trouble yourself with the possible consequences.’ ‘Ah, well,‘ he thought, ‘everyone’s entitled to a little white lie or two, now and again.’ ++++ It
was another hour before Weston left Thorpe’s office. He stepped into
the warm Gulf evening and waved down a taxi. The call with London had
been short. Plenty of questions but nothing in the way of instruction.
Dispassionate, workmanlike, faint praise. ‘Await further instructions’
was the message. And Weston didn’t like it. No clearance to fly to
Philadelphia, no sign of calling in the cousins. What was
she playing at? ++++ Thorpe re-filled his glass and settled into his chair. The return call was not long in coming. ‘Well, Thorpe?’ she enquired. ‘If
I read this correctly, Ma’am,’ he began, ‘the Grigorieva woman wants to
change the peripatetic yet somewhat high-risk lifestyle she currently
enjoys with her brother. To achieve this, she appears to have enlisted
the support of Weston, Miss Phipps and, almost certainly, her own
sister, having made a big show of falling out with the latter in the
past. The sister also wants to remove herself from her current, er,
domestic situation and take her daughter with her. At the same time,
Grigoriev wishes to, shall we say, terminate his relationship with his
brother-in-law and replace him with a less conspicuous US distributor.’ He paused. ‘Go on.’ ‘And
then there’s Ivanov’s son, of course,’ he continued, warming to his
task. ‘The boy is prone to exhibiting somewhat psychopathic behaviour
which has led to him getting into trouble in the past, and is likely to
do so in the future. A high profile is, as you would concede, Ma’am,
not a desirable attribute for someone involved in the global drugs
trade.’ ‘I
should have thought not, Thorpe,’ came the reply. A little frosty this
time, he sensed, in direct contrast to the temperature of his office.
He pressed on. ‘Finally,
there’s the Smith girl. Ivanov junior has been particularly ineffective
in his attempts to secure a ransom for her from her mother and Mr.
Dwyer. His incompetence alone would seem to be enough to call his
continued involvement in the business into some question.’ ‘Which
is why,’’ came the response, ‘Grigoriev has travelled to the US to make
arrangements for the Ivanovs’ imminent retirement. Under the pretext of
visiting a squash tournament, I understand. Very imaginative.’’ ‘I
believe that cover may have been suggested by his younger sister,
Ma’am,’ said Thorpe. ‘She may also have advised him to invite the
Ivanovs to Dubai whilst he travelled to the US to arrange their
replacement unhindered.’ ‘And Weston?’ ‘Wants
to be present at the, er, tournament,’ said Thorpe. ‘for obvious
reasons, although perhaps not the ones that might occur to Mr Matthew
and his friends.’ Silence. Then, just as he was about to ask… ‘Get him on the first flight, Thorpe. Let’s give him enough rope to hang himself, shall we?’ ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ ‘Oh, and Thorpe?’ ‘Yes, Ma’am?’ ‘You
may want to make sure that the sales force is at full strength over the
next few days. Business opportunities in your part of the world may be
about to come thick and fast.’ ++++ Steve
Dwyer arranged himself as comfortably as he could in his seat and
sipped at his drink. The lights in the cabin were dimmed as the night
flight to London headed north-east across the Arabian peninsula. After
the debacle in Dubai, he and Jill had been forced to wait more than 24
hours for the next available flight, 24 hours during which her state
had changed from despair to near hysteria as her hopes of being
re-united with her daughter had been dashed. Now she slept soundly
beside him as Steve tried to make sense of the situation they were now
in. There
had been no meeting with Jessica’s kidnappers, no hand-over of ransom
money, no electronic transfer of funds, no re-union. Just a voice-mail
left on his ‘phone while he and Jill were still in the air heading for
Dubai. It
was the same voice, the same accent, the same cocky delivery, the same
menace. There had been a ‘change of plan’, it said. His journey to
Dubai had been ‘a test’ to see whether he was serious about securing
the girl’s release.’ He was ‘being watched’, it said. ‘I’ll be in
touch.’ And the same mantra. ‘She dies.’ ++++ He
and Jill were in the queue in Heathrow immigration before Steve
switched on his cell-phone. He scanned the SMS message and voicemail
details, looking for patterns. Plenty from James Matthew, one from
Angus, a few from business contacts, even one from a squash buddy.
‘Probably wants a game,’ thought Steve. ‘I could tell him a thing or
two about games.’ ‘Oh, my God!’ His
thoughts were suddenly shattered by Jill’s cry. Their fellow
supplicants in the queue turned to look. She was talking to someone on
her cell. ‘When did it happen?’ then ‘Why did it take you so long to
get me?’ and ‘I’m in immigration at Heathrow. I’ll ring you back later.’ She hung up and grabbed Steve’s elbow, dragging him out of the queue. Her face had turned white. ‘That was Stephanie. Frank’s been murdered at the Club,’ she said. ++++ Twenty
minutes later they were making their way through the green channel.
Jill appeared calm, thought Steve. Maybe Frank’s death had given her
something else to focus on, for the time being at least. He
said nothing to her as they approached the exit. He glanced at his
cell-phone and began to scan his message and voicemail again. Force of
habit. He was waking up now, feeling more alert. Looking for patterns. Suddenly,
he began to feel uncertain, anxious. So many issues to deal with, so
many people needing his attention, so many plans to make. Just in case. He looked up. Less
than 20 metres away, at the end of the exit channel, stood two
uniformed police officers. Not airport police. With them stood a
youngish man wearing a black leather jacket. Another officer Steve
guessed. They seemed to be waiting for someone off a flight. And they were looking directly at him. ++++ It was December 9th. He stood across the street watching the blue and red flag flapping in the breeze. It
had been easy to follow the girl, to keep her in his sights as she made
her way through the city to the building. He had the street-craft, the
gift of noticing patterns, the gift of remaining
inconspicuous, unobtrusive. It came naturally to him. Natural after
years of learning, and surviving, in a world of shifting urban
landscapes. And,
he thought to himself, he was going to need it if he was going to
survive. Not just today, but every day until the game had played itself
out. Whatever that might mean. For him. For the girl. For the others. Yes, he was going to need it when they began to follow him. And in the last few minutes he knew that they were already following him. He had thought that he’d have more time before they appeared. Before they made their presence felt. Still,
they were here now. Part of the ecosystem of the city with its steel
and concrete towers, its manicured parks, its river, its history,
its…brotherly love. Plying their own form of street-craft, he supposed
but, surely, one more suited to different landscapes, different
cultures? He’d
already spotted one of them. Across the park to his left, maybe a
hundred metres away. And a second, standing on the corner with Walnut.
Too easy. There
was something noticeable about them. A sense of disquiet, a sense of
not quite being comfortable, a sense that maybe there were other
players in the neighbourhood. In the game. He
glanced at his watch. Time to move. More people would be arriving soon
for the tournament. To compete, to play the game, to watch. The endgame. He reached inside his track suit top and felt the gun nestling in its holster under his left armpit. Just in case. He bent down, hoisted his racquet case onto his shoulder and strode towards the building. Chapter TWENTY by Aubrey Waddy “Who is that girl?” Bianca
smiled to herself as she eavesdropped on two of the players from the
main draw in the Davenport Philadelphia Open. They were watching
qualifying on the left hand of a row of four glass back courts. Bianca
remembered the two girls from the time she had played tournaments
herself. In front of her was Eliza Dardanelle, as always eye-catching
in a tight yellow tracksuit and matching Nikes, and to her right
Jo-Anne Shrugg , wearing a World Squash Day t-shirt and artfully
shredded jeans. “She’s listed as Jess Vale.” “Jess who? Never heard of her.” “Nor have I. Shit, is Catreena even going to get a point?” The
two girls, and a few other desultory spectators, continued to admire
the demolition Jess was meting out to a qualifier who had been fancied
to make it into the main draw. “Where is this Miss Vale going to end up in the first round?” Eliza whispered. “You mean if she makes it into the first round.” “Hey
come on,” Eliza replied as Jess, incredibly focussed, with her red hair
in a tight pony tail, powered another winner past a by now despondent
Catreena Williams. “If she’s beating Catreena this easily she’ll cruise
through whoever she plays next up.” “I think I know,” Jo-Anne said. “In the first round, I think she’ll be playing Françoise.” Eliza
giggled. Françoise Dutronc was the second seed, the world number three,
and not popular in the locker room. “I’ll be watching that one then.” Jo-Anne jabbed her finger at her friend. “Of course if she beats Françoise, then she’ll be playing you know who.” “Me. Shit! I didn’t realise. After watching her I think I’d prefer Françoise.” This time it was Jo-Anne who giggled. “Nobody prefers Françoise.” Bitch bitch, Bianca thought. “Anyway,”
Jo-Anne went on. “You’d have an advantage on the glass
court, no argument. This girl can’t be used to a white ball and all.
But where has she come from?” Bianca
was distracted by four people, certainly not squash players,
approaching in front of courts to their right. They were led by a
thick-set, balding guy with a goatee. He was followed by a tall, fair
young man with a faint resemblance to him but no goatee, a plump
dark-haired girl, again no goatee Bianca observed, and a frowsy
middle-aged woman with too much make up on. As
he approached, the goatee merchant was staring fiercely past Bianca to
the top of the gallery and she turned to see a dusky figure she hadn’t
noticed earlier moving hurriedly away down the far side. The
goateed gent projected what was, for a squash gallery in the middle of
a serious competitive match, a highly inappropriate shout. “Aman, you stop!” The
accent was not from this side of the Urals, Bianca concluded. Then it
dawned on her: this must be the Ivanov clan, and, remembering James
Matthew mentioning Jessica’s coach, she concluded that the dude rapidly
departing from the exit to the left of the gallery had to be Aman
Hussein. The players had stopped mid point at the altercation. In a shrill voice the marker said, “Quiet please.” The
two male Ivanovs ignored her and blundered past the bags and drinks
bottles and spare racquets at the front of the court. Maria and Nikki
Ivanov held back uncertainly. Bianca
decided to follow the men, so she didn’t see several burly figures in
dark glasses arriving from the same direction as the Ivanovs. “Mr Dwyer?” The hard looking young man in the black leather jacket had an equally hard sounding voice. Steve
suppressed a surge of anger. He didn’t the fuck need this after the
last fucking couple of days, into Dubai, no sign of Jessica, the wait
for the fucking flight back. The police posse was, as it had appeared
to be when they first saw it, waiting for them. “Yes, what is it?” Steve said. “And who are you?” “Would you like to come with us, Sir.” A command, not a question. “And the lady as well.” The
uniformed officers were festooned with gear, a torch, a truncheon,
various electronic gizmos, plus, Steve noted, both a hand gun holstered
to their belts and a mean-looking submachine gun held casually in their
right hands. They moved menacingly either side of Jill and Steve.
Neither of them had an identifying badge, Steve was not pleased to
remark. “We don’t have options, do we?” he said. “No, Sir.” The ‘Sir’ did not come across as a mark of respect. Jill
was equally irritated, but slower to read the signals. Addressing
Steve, she said, “You’re not just going to let them do this to us. We
have to get to the club.” “If you mean Vale Squash Club, Mrs Smith,” the hard guy said, “that’s exactly where we’re going.” “How
do you know who I am? Well thank you, anyway, Sir, but no thanks.
We can get there perfectly well under our own steam.” The hard young man nodded at one of the policemen, who gripped Jill firmly by the arm. “You
can try to do it your way, Mrs Smith, and if you do I’ll
have two female officers here inside a minute. They’ll help you along
with us. And they’re much tougher than these pansies. Or you can do it
my way and,” he looked at a clock on the wall of the terminal, “we’ll
be at the club a whole minute sooner. Whichever you please.” “Come on, Jill,” Steve said. “We’re not going to win this one.” The
cops took their carry-on luggage and frogmarched them out of the
terminal to a Range Rover waiting in a No Standing zone with its lights
flashing. Five
litres of V8 and four hundred horsepower, Steve thought,
none of them unemployed as they screeched away from the terminal. Jill
was in a less mechanically-minded panic and had to stop herself from
clutching the brawny uniformed arm beside her. For her the journey
turned out to be thirty five minutes of pure fear, siren on continuous
like a demonic, never-answered ring tone; red traffic lights routinely
ignored; innocent road users bullied out of the way onto sidewalks.
They arrived at the club, a full fifteen miles across North West
London, in half the time it would have taken a normal motorist on a
clear day. These guys are in a serious hurry, Steve thought. No
fewer than five police vehicles were arranged outside the Vale Squash
Club in a flashing blue light festival. Steve and Jill were ushered
through the front entrance by the uniformed cops, following their boss. Inside, Mr Hard addressed an equally granite-looking non-uniformed guy standing beside the desk. “Where’s Wilberforce?” “I
can’t account for it. Wilberforce has given us the slip. He must have
made it out the back of his house and across the fields in his SUV.” “What? Shit, not good, that changes things.” Mr Hard wiped his hand across his face. “Okay, where can we talk to these two?” “There’s an office through there. We’ve got Gaultier in there.” Mr Hard’s cellphone rang. “Yes. Yes.” The first ‘yes’ was a Doberman bark but the second could have emerged from nothing fiercer than a poodle. “I see. I see. Yes, yes Ma’am, all right. Yes, we will.” “It’s three bags full, is it?” Steve sneered. “What now?” His face immediately screwed up in agony and he dropped to his knees. “Oh,
so sorry, sir,” one of the uniformed policemen said. He had been
holding Steve by the arm. “Did I grip your elbow a little tightly?” Mr
Hard smiled momentarily. “That’s enough, Mick. Change of plan and we’ve
got to hurry. We’re taking Gaultier and these two to Philadelphia.
There’s a BA flight in an hour. Back to Terminal Five NOW. “And
you, “ he addressed Steve. “You get up. Fun and games this isn’t and
you’ll regard me and my men from now on as an impertinence-free zone. “Understand?” It
was December the eleventh. Weston had marked a total of three men
following him across Philadelphia two days before, and had then
artfully lost them. He’d seen the girl safely reach the club, and had
discovered from the Daily Squash Report web site that she had
astonished the squash world in coming though the Philadelphia Open
qualifying as a complete unknown, with two easy victories. Weston knew
his squash and the message he picked up was, “This is the Philly Open
for Pete’s sake, a two hundred thousand bucks WSA tournament, the
biggest. Just who is this red-headed phenom? And why haven’t we heard
of her?" The
girl had apparently been revealing nothing about herself. Furthermore,
further mystery, the coach who had been with her on the first day
seemed to have disappeared. Today
she was due to play the second seed, a hard-as-nails French star. ‘This
is brewing up,’ Weston reflected, ‘but I need to make things a little
less complicated. Grigoriev’s goons,’ he laughed to himself, ‘let’s
call them Anatole’s Angels, have served their purpose, and it’s time
they returned to St Petersburg. And if I can’t persuade them to do
that…’ Before
he died, tied to a chair in chemically-induced agony in a grim, disused
Philadelphia warehouse, Alexi Ivanov had described over and over to
Anatole Grigoriev every last tiny detail of the Ivanovs’ Afghan web of
activity, every link in their US distribution chain, and the full
embarrassment of his own efforts to separate Steve Dwyer from twenty
million dollars in exchange for the life of Jessica Smith. Grigoriev had been surprised at this last bit of intelligence and had laughed. “What
a little big boy you are,” this came in accented English. “You don’t
have the money and now you don’t even have the girl. Your father,
your late father, I like this word late, he told me how
disappointed he was. In you, Alexi Alexeyevich. The girl? You tell me
she is staying in the club?" Alexi had nodded, still fighting the silver duct tape across his mouth. “I
will get her back,” Grigoriev said. Brandishing a now half empty
hypodermic syringe, he asked, “Is there anything else you want to tell
me?” With panic in his eyes, Alexi had shaken his head. “Are you really sure? Names? Addresses?” Alexi stared at him. “Then that’s all I need from you. Do svidaniya, little big boy.” An hour later Grigoriev was talking with his sister Maria in the lobby of her down town hotel. “Can
you get the girl to visit you here? We can take her back and do the job
properly with the Dwyer man. My sources say that he will be here, in
Philadelphia, and he’ll have the Smith woman with him. Once they have
been so close to the girl, once they have seen the girl,
they will be all the more willing to pay.” “No, the girl won’t trust me to come here.” “Nikki will do it.” “No. Nikki is upset you sent Victor and Alexi away.” Grigoriev
withheld the details of ‘away’. “Then we will have to take her at the
club. It will be possible. I have three men. After her match tomorrow
we will do it, when she is returning to her room, that will work.” Maria checked her appearance in a mirror from her purse. “She is very careful. You will have to be quick.” “We will be quick.” He
didn’t tell his sister that he had further plans for members of the
Smith family. After he’d learned about the Ivanovs’ blunder in letting
Jessica make the phone call from the Ekaterina to Sam in the Aullt
dormitory, he had put a tail on the boy. He had learned earlier in the
day that Sam and his friend Nestor Geiberger were on their way to
Philadelphia and the club to see Jessica’s first round match. What could be more convenient? Bianca
parked her hire car in the Short Term at Philadelphia International
Airport. She was in good time for the flight from Boston bringing Angus
Murray and James Matthew into Philly. Apart from being furious with
herself that she’d let the two Ivanovs get away when they’d set out
after Aman, and she’d seen neither of them since, in other respects she
was happy with what she had accomplished since coming in at Angus’
suggestion, three days earlier. That morning she felt she deserved a
reward and had celebrated in a big mall by updating the streak in her
hair to violet and acquiring a tight violet t-shirt and matching violet
Capri pants. Smarter than her usual floppy shirt, jeans and sneakers,
but there was a reason. Bianca had the vague hope of getting lucky with
the ultra-cute Alexi Ivanov before this gig was over. Could she finagle
Alexi into a one on one during an off duty moment? Well, let’s say an
off duty hour, maybe? Perhaps if he came to watch the game that
evening? Afterwards? As a precaution therefore, she’d also managed to
source some matching violet underwear in Victoria’s Secret. Too much
paper for too little fabric, she thought ruefully, but a girl’s gotta
do. Bianca
had no idea that Alexi’s bloated body was at that moment bobbing, face
down, in the Delaware River estuary, not far from that of his father,
and beyond the coercion of even the most powerful of Viagra analogues.
Certainly Alexi was off duty but even more certainly he was of no use
to Bianca in the hoped for context of what might have been ‘Bianca’s
Secret’. Bianca’s
musings at the Domestic Arrivals gate were interrupted when she picked
out James and Angus walking purposefully towards her. Her violet
wardrobe was covered by a stylish black trench coat but there was no
doubt who the bouncing, waving figure was as the two men confronted the
usual assembly of meeters, greeters and card carrying limousine
flunkeys. As they were exiting the car park Angus from the front passenger seat said, “Right, situation update. You first, Bianca.” “Well,
first, Jessica’s here of course. But she’s not talking to anyone,
period. She spends all her time in her room except when she’s playing
or practicing or working out. Twice a day. There’s this huge gym at the
club. I tried to get her to open out, I was beside her on a running
machine yesterday morning, jeez she’s fit. No go though. She just
stared at me and turned up her headphones. After her second qualifying
round win, you should have seen it; everyone was on to her,
microphones, note books, Canons, Nikons, you know the scene. She just
blanked them all. Wouldn’t speak to anyone. It was weird. “Next
is a puzzle,” Bianca went on. “I’m sure I saw her coach, you know, Aman
Hussein, the first day I was here. He was in the gallery watching Jess,
and like I told you, he left pronto pronto when the Ivanovs arrived. “And they’ve gone too, pouf, vanished. It looked like they were gunning for Aman. Dunno if they got to him ’cos I lost them. “And
now this is the scary one, there were these real goons, like out of a
movie, in heavy leather coats, three of them. I think they were
following the Ivanovs. They came into the court area right after them.”
She laughed. “Everyone’s chasing everyone.” She
pulled up at a red and turned to Angus. “Intellectually, ugh, they
looked on a par with depleted uranium, not the brightest stars in the
galaxy. Slavic types. Oops, sorry Slavia! Mikhail Gorbachov’s my great
hero, I promise. Boris Pasternak, yeaaah! Dima Bilan, Rudolf Nureyev,
sexy Rudi, all good. Prejudiced I’m not.” “The light’s changed,” Angus said. “Sorry.
I’ve not seen the goons again either,” she said as she pulled away.
“Oh, and last thing. Jess is playing squash out of her flipping skin.
She’s seriously aggressive. With serious control. High quality. She’s
dropped just three points in her two qualifying games. That’s
ridiculous. This evening she’s playing the second seed, Françoise
Dutronc, and the skinny is she has a chance of beating her. For a
qualifier that is ridiculous. The place is going to be packed. I’ve got
you seats, by the way. “And I think that’s it.” “Okay, thanks, Bianca,” Angus said, “and well done. “Now,
assembling what we know,” he went on. “First up, some Brit under-cover
people are delivering, actually delivering, Steve, Jill and Nick
Gaultier to Philadelphia. You picked this up, didn’t you, James?” “Yes,
well, the traffic has been very deep, very obscure. There’s high levels
of interest on both sides of the pond. The whole Steve Dwyer Avery
Wilberforce Nick Gaultier caper. It’s way above the pay scale of the
London Metropolitan Police, that’s for sure. The thinking is, MI6 or
some mob like MI6, they’ve got their boots on some mother’s throat, a
seriously bad throat, but they’re not sure how seriously bad. I
couldn’t access it but I got the feeling there’s been Downing Street
White House traffic here. Unofficially, and this is very deep but I got
a sniff of it from GCHQ, the whole imbroglio could have a bearing on
the eventual military departure from Afghanistan.” “No kidding?” Bianca exclaimed as she turned into Walnut Drive. James
went on, “And this made me laugh. You know how much Steve Dwyer thinks
of himself? The cool, international businessman, the high flyer. Well,
they’re high flying in humble BA Coach into Philly. Knees to your
chest, Steve, baby! “They’re scheduled to arrive in an hour from now.” “So that’s that lot,” Angus went on. “What else have you got?” “Coach
it won’t be, this one. Avery Wilberforce, no less, is coming in to
Philly too, on United. First Class of course.” James checked the time
on his phone. “In fact he should be here by now. He’s some sort of
meeting scheduled with Anatole Grigoriev, and it’s going to be at the
Davenport.” “Quite a party coming up then,” Bianca said. Angus
laughed. “I’m not finished yet. John Smith and his maybe girlfriend
Kristin Selby, they’re arriving today by Delta. What a party in
Immigration!” “Actually not,” Angus said. “The spook group will go through the softly softly channel.” Bianca
glanced at Angus. “So John and Kristin and Steve and Jill will all be
in Philly? And I suppose they’re all heading for the club?” “Yes,” Angus said. “James thinks so, don’t you? In time for Jess’s match of course.” “Right,”
James said. “So what we have is,” he started counting on his fingers,
“up to four Ivanovs, though from what Bianca has said, that may be in
doubt; there’s loose cannon John Smith, we’ve no idea what he’ll do
when he sees his daughter; Kristin Selby, unknown quantity; Steve, Jill
and Nick Gaultier plus members of Her Majesty’s Shady Brigade. And
here’s one of the less predictable ones: Anatole Grigoriev, he won’t be
far away, that’s with his Wilberforce meeting. If Anatole’s around you
can bet he’ll have some muscle not far away. And of course we can
assume your friend Weston Faulks will be here somewhere, but whether
he’s linked to the other Brit spooks we really don’t know. And finally,
we can assume there’ll be a deposition from Langley to keep all the
Brits in order and ensure that Uncle Sam’s interests are well served.” James concluded thoughtfully, “It’s going to be a hell of a mixture at the club tonight.” As
they drove into the Davenport Club car park none of them realised that,
extensive as James’ summary had been, he had overlooked two significant
wild cards, Sam Smith and his Aullt buddy Nestor. Chapter TWENTY-ONE by Alan Thatcher The
showcourt was packed for the unscheduled showdown in the first round of
the Philadelphia Open as Jess Vale prepared to face the number two
seed, Francoise Dutronc. Normally the house-full signs went up towards the end of the week for the quarter-finals, the semis and the final. Unknown
to the grateful promoters and the Davenport Club, at least a quarter of
the audience were police officers in various shades of plain-clothed
disguise. The
intriguing story of a supposedly-kidnapped English teenaged girl,
playing in this mysterious sport called squash, plus the attendant
activities of Eastern European gangsters, drug cartels,
money-laundering high-rollers and the interest of the British secret
service, had certainly raised a few eyebrows among the Philadelphia
Police Department at their Race Street HQ. Their
limited insight into European crime was nothing compared to their lack
of knowledge about squash. The usual jokes were batted around until
someone had the brains to turn to Google and discover that this whole
new sporting universe existed. “It’s like racquetball,” came the call. “But it’s, like, the British version, with a few Arabs and French guys.” “But we’re looking at a women’s tournament,” said the Chief. “And it’s right here in town. At the Davenport Club.” Further
searches produced links to mainly British websites which carried
reports and pictures of the tournament. It was clearly a big deal in
squash, but hardly caused a ripple among the citizens and
law-enforcement officers of its host city. When
the head-scratching was over, the Philly cops thought they ought to
pass the information up the line to Washington. But before a call could
be made, a team of FBI officers had made the 140-mile drive from
Washington to support their colleagues in Arch Street, who were just a
few blocks away and were already up to speed on the whole operation
thanks to intelligence sources in the USA and England. Many
of the smarter cops quickly got up to speed on this new sport and
headed for the Davenport Club with a hastily-acquired selection of
tracksuits and racquet bags. The bags did not contain racquets. +++ When
the flight touched down in Philly, Steve Dwyer and Jill Smith were
quickly ushered through side doors by their escorting officers. Travelling
in separate cars, officers continued to be highly suspicious of Dwyer
but were becoming far more sympathetic to his companion. This
relentless turmoil of fear and a treadmill of emotions left Jill Smith
on the brink of a mental breakdown. Much as she loved Steve, she was in
way too deep in so many areas. But the hope of seeing her daughter
again helped her to stay sane. When that moment came, she burst into tears. As
the police cars arrived at the Davenport Club, a female officer, who
had met them at the airport and accompanied them on the journey
downtown, produced an envelope of photographs. “Is this your daughter?” Jill collapsed in raging, uncontrollable sobs. “Yes. Yes, it is.” The officer touched Jill’s arm. “We think we know who the kidnappers are, but we need to know if you know them too.” She produced a file of images but Jill shook her head as each new photograph was passed in front of her. “We were supposed to meet them in Dubai but they didn’t show up.” She wiped her tears and pleaded with the officer. “Can I see her now?” “Not
long now. As you know she is playing in this tournament but has been
accompanied by some individuals who are of interest to us for
non-sporting reasons. “You
say you don’t know them and we believe you. But we can’t allow any
unexpected incident to jeopardise today’s operation so we will ask you
to be a little more patient, Mrs Smith. “We promise you that you will be reunited with Jessica before the end of the evening.” Jill could hardly believe those words. “Thank you,” she whispered. +++ The
train ride from Boston to Philadelphia took just over six hours. As Sam
Smith and his friend Nestor emerged from the cavernous 30th
Street Station and looked out across the Schuylkill River, they hailed
a cab to the Davenport Club. Fleetingly,
Sam looked around the grand, art deco arrivals hall and thought it
would provide a venue to rival the Tournament of Champions held every
year at Grand Central Terminal in New York. But his mind quickly returned to the task in hand. Finding his sister. And dealing with whoever had taken her away. +++ Steve
Dwyer didn’t enjoy his treatment at the hands of the police officers.
He also failed to enjoy travelling economy. And he certainly wasn’t
enjoying the barrage of questions he was facing from a team of FBI
officers in Philadelphia. His skills at moving money around the globe seemed to fascinate the officers. They had also found a sudden interest in the game of squash, and the luxury club Steve was building in London. One
officer asked for a list of Steve’s main business associates. And
another wondered how many flights he had made to various parts of
Europe in the past two years. Similar questions were being asked of Nick Gaultier in a nearby interview room. +++ Jessica Smith was quickly into her stride on the Davenport Club’s showcourt. Sam
was desperate to rush over and hug his sister. But he didn’t want to
upset her concentration or risk any kind of drama that might damage his
plans. He didn’t quite know what those plans were just yet. Sensibly,
he pulled the top of his hoodie over his head and looked around the
club to see if he could identify her travelling companions. Several
other pairs of eyes were doing exactly the same thing. The
watching police officers were immediately impressed by the athleticism
of the two squash players engaged in a gladiatorial battle on the glass
court. They
admired the power of the shots, the extraordinary reflexes that enabled
them to retrieve seemingly hopeless situations, and the rallies that
grew into a length and intensity rarely seen in top-level tennis. Bianca also admired the play, seated close to the referee with James Matthew and Angus Murray. Francoise Dutronc was stunned by the fitness and accuracy of this unknown opponent who had won through from qualifying. Qualifiers never play like this, she thought. After
failing to reach three perfectly placed drives that had landed in the
back left corner, she altered her tactics. As the players worked the
ball up and down the backhand sidewall, Dutronc changed her footwork
pattern so that she deliberately blocked her opponent from reaching the
ball. The
referee failed to spot the first incident, and Jessica was denied a
let. When the pattern became obvious, she elected to use the video
review appeal system to challenge the referee’s decision. The
rules of squash state that once you have played a shot, you must allow
your opponent direct access to the ball. But many players
allow subtle variations of footwork and body position to alter the
rhythm and the flow of this crucial element of the game. Most
fair-minded players step backwards from a good-length ball to allow
just enough room for their opponents to move into the corners, and then
skip and shuffle up the middle of the court to get in front of the
other player and gain control of the T position. But
not Miss Dutronc. Having struck her backhand drive she tried to move
directly back to the T and deny Jessica a clear path to the ball. It
was the first time Jessica had used the video review system. The crowd
enjoyed the drama of watching the incident unfold on the screens dotted
around the venue and Sam, and most knowledgeable spectators, could
instantly see what the French player was up to. Sam whispered. “Cheating bitch.” His pal nodded in agreement. When
the decision “Yes Let” was displayed on the screens, the crowd roared
in delight. The replays had shown the French player blocking. And the
crowd began cheering the underdog. Even the cops joined in, trying to
blend in to the surroundings. A
group of men, huddled on the bleachers near to Jessica’s seat, reacted
anxiously to the sudden increase in noise. Two of them instinctively
reached for their guns. This action was promptly noted by most of the
officers in the crowd, plus the extra camera filming alongside the
squash TV crew. +++ Jill Smith waited outside the squash club, sipping a coffee in a cardboard cup in the back seat of the unmarked police car. “Your
girl is winning,” said the kindly officer. “We just need to deal with
these people who we think have been holding her against her will, and
then you can see her.” Jill smiled. “I’m amazed she can concentrate, with all this stuff going on. I certainly couldn’t.” She asked about Steve, and was told that he was being also being brought to the club. Two conference rooms at the club had been taken over by the FBI, in preparation for the forthcoming events. +++ The crowd sensed that Jessica Smith was on the verge of a sensational victory. Between
games, she sat in her corner with a young couple who poured water,
dried her racket grips and gave her fresh towels to wipe her face and
hands. +++ Anatolie Grigoriev was in his hotel suite, waiting for a meeting with a business delegation from Europe. Text
messages from his aides kept him informed of developments at the squash
tournament. Then he received another message, from Nick Gaultier,
changing the venue of their meeting. He
told Grigoriev that the hotel was being watched and that it would be
safer to meet at the squash club. He had commandeered the conference
room and persuaded the Russian that no one would be monitoring the
members and squash fans coming and going at the Davenport Club. Back on court, Jessica won the first and second games and the crowd were behind her all the way. Upstairs
in the conference room, Nick Gaultier and Steve Dwyer waited to greet
their Russian guest, who arrived with two bodyguards, in addition to
the group at courtside. Always suspicious, Grigoriev stared menacingly at the two men seated on the opposite side of the table. Dwyer began the conversation. “I
hope that we are all more than satisfied with the anticipated growth of
our business partnership. Financing property development
and managing wealth are my specialities, and they are businesses where
we can always appear to operate on the right side of the law. “Being
a generous benefactor in areas such as sport helps to develop a popular
public image, and that is always a valuable asset. But some of your
activities, Anatolie, give rise to concern. If people found out that we
were involved with partners who, let me say, offended public morals,
then it could tarnish that image. “The
arms trade is one thing. One could merely be operating in a free market
buying and selling commodities. But drugs is something else altogether.
We understand it must be a lucrative operation but we don’t want to
risk our reputation by doing business with people whose activities
might bring unwanted attention to ourselves.” He had read and rehearsed the script, and delivered it perfectly. Grigoriev, as anticipated, roared like a bear. “Keep your fucking nose out of our business.” Gaultier and Dwyer both rocked back in their chairs as Grigoriev’s assistants got to their feet. +++ On
the court, Jessica was 5-2 up in the third game when her desperate
opponent decided that her physical tactics were not extreme enough. After
brushing past each other in mid-court, Jessica tumbled to the floor as
Dutronc’s racket butt dug into her rib cage. In the next rally, as
Jessica tried to move forward to the front of the court, she tripped
over her opponent’s deliberately outstretched leg. Then,
despite a warning from the referee, the French player’s frustration
boiled over as she unwound a huge backhand swing and the racket
followed a horizontal course and smashed into the English girl’s face. With
blood pouring from a split lip, Jessica got to her feet and left the
court. She was quickly pursued by the young Russian couple and the
group of spectators whose behaviour had been monitored by the watching
police officers. The officers had hoped to contain their operation to the environs of the glass court. As
Jessica disappeared through the doorway to the corridor heading to the
dressing rooms, her brother raced down the stairs to help her. He
didn’t know what he was going to do, but before he could get anywhere
near her the team of undercover officers sprung into action. Jill panicked and screamed as the call came through to the cars waiting outside. She dropped her empty coffee cup and begged to be allowed into the club to be with her daughter but the doors had been locked. Two
groups of officers who had been stationed in the locker rooms,
supposedly changing before a session in the gym, dipped into their
racket bags to grab their weapons. Three
female officers surrounded Jessica and escorted her into the ladies
changing room as their colleagues jumped in behind to form a buffer
between her and her Eastern European entourage. “Who the fuck are you?” The
Russians were taken by surprise. They grabbed their weapons but they
were soon outnumbered as more officers poured in from the bleachers. The
first Russian to bring a weapon out into the open was shot dead before
he could pull the trigger. Two others tried to flee down the corridor
but were jumped on as seemingly innocent bystanders in gym gear
wrestled them to the floor. The others, looking at the dead body on the
floor, leaking blood into the carefully woven Davenport Club carpet,
gave themselves up. Upstairs,
Grigoriev and his goons heard the shot fired and headed towards the
exit. Dwyer and Gaultier each had an arm twisted behind his back and
were being used as a human shield by the Russian’s henchmen. The police were waiting. “Drop your weapons.” Armed
officers in riot gear were waiting outside the boardroom. The meeting
had been recorded and the FBI had enough evidence from Dwyer’s script,
and the response from the big, burly Russan, to nail the man they were
hunting. Several
shots rang out. The first two were fired by Grigoriev’s men. One police
officer was wounded in the shoulder. In the mayhem that followed,
Gaultier tripped as one of the goons manhandled him away from the door
and a bullet struck him in the neck. Blood spurted across the face of
the man using him as a shield. The next bullet entered the goon’s eye
socket. He collapsed on top of Gaultier and his absence from the front
rank exposed Grigoriev to the police marksmen. Grigoriev also had a gun. “Drop your weapon.” The police wanted to take him alive to face the courts but Grigoriev ignored their warning and opened fire. Instead of aiming at the police he pointed the gun at Steve Dwyer and fired. Within
a split second, one marksman sent a bullet into Grigoriev’s hand,
forcing him to relinquish his weapon, and another shot him in the thigh. He and Dwyer tumbled to the floor. Grigoriev and his group were rounded up and herded into the wagons that rolled up outside the club to capture their prey. With
the dressing room secured, and a medic having mopped the blood from
Jessica’s face, the police officers finally allowed her to head back to
the court. The
poor referee was powerless to control the pandemonium that erupted at
courtside but had an important decision to announce to the crowd. “Conduct penalty against Dutronc for dangerous play. Match awarded to Smith.” Jessica was still escorted by a group of female police officers, but they broke ranks as a call came through from the car park. Jill rushed through the gap and she and Jessica fell into each other’s arms. Sam,
who had almost got into a fight with a gorilla of a police officer,
finally persuaded him that he was, indeed, Jessica’s brother. He, too, was allowed through. Overwhelmed, Jill embraced her two children. All three could hardly speak through the tears. Jessica had a lot of explaining to do but that could wait. “We’ve got all week to listen,” said Jill. “You’ve got a tournament to win.” “I don’t care about that,” said Jessica. “I just want to come home.” On the spot, Sam announced that he was quitting the Aullt Academy and coming home, too. Jill
had put Steve Dwyer out of her mind. But her friendly police officer
pulled her to one side as Sam and Jess hugged and cried and spoke
halting sentences all at the same time. “Mr
Dwyer is in the hospital,” she said. “He was shot during an incident
upstairs and may be in the hospital for some time. A Mr Gaultier was
also shot. They will be protected during their stay in the hospital and
will almost certainly be expected to stay here in Philadelphia to
assist with federal investigations. “You and your family are free to go.” At that moment Jill’s mobile rang. Bianca had kept John up to speed with developments. Sober, he was on the line to his wife. It was a difficult conversation. Both were crying into the phone. “Jessica’s safe. And Sam’s here as well.” Jill managed to blurt out those two short statements before crying again. “I’ll be waiting at the airport as soon as you get back,” said John. “I want the family to give it another try.” Jill, falteringly, agreed. “Just one condition,” said John. “We must get rid of that bloody squash club.” Jill stared at the phone, and looked across at her two smiling children. “Yes. That game’s finished.” THE END
THE SQUASHIST
is a Swede
trapped in an
American body.
He has
played squash
since the age
of 15,
following the
classical
route of
prep school to
Ivy League to
squash
monomaniac. He
spends his
days as
the editorial
director of a
medical
publishing
company in New
York City
and his nights
dreaming of
being born
anew with
uncomplaining
knees. He
is a published
short fiction
writer who is
far too
scatter-brained
to
ever complete
a novel. Ever
since George
W. Bush was
infamously
elected
to a second
term he has
adopted an
emergency exit
strategy that
requires him
to learn
Swedish, from
the land of
his mother’s
birth,
which is why
he is
currently
engaged in
obtaining a
Certificate in
Scandinavian
Languages at
NYU.
PETER
HEYWOODis
a scientist, a
writer and a
leadership
coach. He
discovered
squash when he
moved to the
South-East of
England
to take up his
first ‘proper’
job as a
research
scientist at a
top
secret nuclear
facility with
four courts
and a
subsidised
bar. His
career has
included
spells (as in
‘periods’ not
‘Harry
Potter’) in
forensic
science,
pharmaceutical
R&D and
management
consultancy.
He
recovered from
a heart attack
to resume
playing the
game he loves
and
train as a
squash coach.
He’s currently
writing The
Squash Life
Book
for squash
leaders and
entrepreneurs.
He lives in
London within
ten
minutes walk
of his squash
club.
TED
GROSS
was
born and
raised in San
Francisco. He
is the
publisher of
Daily Squash
Report.
JAMES
ZUGis
the
author of six
books
including
Squash: A
History of the
Game
(Scribner,
2003) and Run
to the Roar:
Coaching to
Overcome Fear
(Penguin,
2010). A
senior writer
at Squash
Magazine since
1998, he
writes
regularly for
Squash Player
magazine in
London, and
has a blog
on the game:
SquashWord.com.
He is the
chair of the
U.S. Squash
Hall of
Fame &
Museum.
"The
Club from
Hell" is a
work of
fiction.
Names,
characters,
places and
incidents are
either
products of
the authors'
imaginations
or are used
fictitiously.
Any
resemblance to
actual events
or locales or
persons,
living or
dead, or to
any other
works of
fiction, is
entirely
coincidental.
