Vanishing Act

by John Feinstein

  “Why is that?” Susan Carol asked.

  “It’s just a natural adversarial thing,” Kelleher said. “Sometimes cops help reporters, but they also like to remind you they’re in charge whenever they get a chance.”

  “Kind of tough to argue with guys when they have guns,” Stevie said.

  “No kidding.” Kelleher pulled open the door that led back inside with a frustrated yank. The scene inside the building was chaotic. People were running in and out of the entrance to the media center shouting, as far as Stevie could tell, in a variety of languages.

  “Okay,” Kelleher said, pausing just outside the pressroom entrance. “We need a strategy of some kind. I think we should split up—”

  He broke off in midsentence as a middle-aged man with graying hair ducked out of the media center and made a quick turn away from them.

  “Arlen!” Kelleher said, heading toward the man. “Arlen, hang on a second!”

  The man half turned, still walking, and waved a hand as if to say, “Go away.” “Not now, Bobby. I can’t talk. We’re organizing a press conference. We’ll let you know what’s going on in a while.”

  He had slowed down enough that Kelleher was able to catch up to him. Stevie and Susan Carol followed at what they hoped was a discreet distance.

  “In a while?” Kelleher said. “Come on, Arlen, give me a break. Don’t give me that press conference crap. What happened out there? Where the hell is Symanova?”

  The man stopped and turned to face Kelleher. Stevie noticed he was quite pale. He looked around as if to be sure no one could hear him and dropped his voice to a whisper so that Stevie, standing right behind Kelleher, could barely hear.

  “We don’t know,” he said.

  For a second, Kelleher just stared at him. “What do you mean, you don’t know? How can you not know? Wasn’t she on her way over to Armstrong with Walsh?”

  “Yes! She was!” Arlen said, clearly exasperated, still looking around as if he was afraid someone would hear him. “They were on their way over there and she disappeared.”

  “Disappeared!” Kelleher shouted.

  “Bobby, please,” Arlen hissed, signaling Kelleher to keep his voice down. “Yes, she disappeared. You know what it’s like out there between the stadiums. We had four security guys surrounding the two players. A group of people cut across their path, headed for the food court. The security guys got jostled. Walsh and her two guys kept going—no one bumped them. By the time Symanova’s guys got untangled, she was gone.”

  “But how is that possible?”

  Arlen held up his hand. “For crying out loud, Bobby, if we knew, she wouldn’t be missing, would she? We’ve sealed all the exits from the place, but that’s the problem—we’re right on the edge of a park. There are plenty of ways to get off the property without walking through an exit.” He looked around again. “I’ve got to go. There’s a meeting in about two minutes. I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “Okay, okay,” Kelleher said. “Can I quote you on this stuff?”

  Arlen smiled wanly. “At this point, that’s the least of my worries.” He turned and walked down the hallway.

  “Who was that?” Stevie asked.

  “Arlen Kantarian,” Kelleher said. “He’s the CEO of professional tennis for the U.S. Tennis Association. It means he’s in charge of the tournament. He talks to me because his brother Harry’s a friend of mine.” He took a deep breath.

  “Okay, this story is officially huge. Beyond huge. We’ve got a big leg up on people right now—let’s do something with it.”

  “Like what?” Susan Carol said, for once looking as baffled as Stevie felt.

  Kelleher took a deep breath. “Good question,” he said. Then he snapped his fingers. “Listen, Susan Carol, you can get into the junior girls’ locker room.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “I’ll give you the short version,” Kelleher said. “There are so many girls under eighteen in the event that they have a separate locker room that the media isn’t allowed into because the parents freak out about men seeing their daughters half-dressed. Since female reporters are allowed in the men’s locker room, male reporters are allowed into the women’s. But not where there are women under the age of eighteen. It’s been a huge controversy for years because all the players freak out about us being in the locker room. The point is the junior locker room door’s not even marked and they usually don’t even have a guard on it because they don’t want to call attention to it. If you take your press credential off, you can probably walk in there like you’re a player.”

  “How do you know where it is?” Susan Carol said.

  “Carillo showed me. Come on, let’s start walking. I’ll show you where it is. Meantime, Stevie, I want you in the players’ lounge. Once you’re past the guard, take your credential off and just walk around and listen. I’m going to the men’s locker room. We’ll meet back here in thirty minutes and compare notes.”

  “What exactly are we listening for?” Stevie asked as they started to walk down the long hallway.

  Kelleher shook his head. “I have no idea, Stevie,” he said. “But people will be talking and someone must know something.”

  “And what do I do if I manage to get in?” Susan Carol said. “Won’t the other players know I’m a fraud right away?”

  “Sit in front of an empty locker as if it’s yours and listen. You’re dressed like a player. There are so many different events going on here at once that no one knows everybody. You never know when you’re going to be in the right place at the right time. If we’re in three different places, our chances are three times as good of hearing something helpful.”

  “But what do we think is going on here?” Stevie asked.

  “That,” Kelleher said, “is the multimillion-dollar question.”

  5: KIDNAPPED

  STEVIE HADN’T been in the hallway under the main stadium yet. Like the media center, it was filled with people running in different directions shouting at one another.

  “Keep your heads down, keep walking, and act like nothing’s going on,” Kelleher said.

  “Aren’t we allowed in here?” Susan Carol asked.

  “Yes, we are,” he said. “But everything changes when the most famous female player in the world has just gone missing.”

  There were signs on all the walls pointing out where different things were. When they reached a point that would have been a four-way stop with traffic coming in all directions, Stevie noticed a sign pointing to the left that said STADIUM COURT.

  “Turn right,” Kelleher said. They turned and walked halfway down the hall, where Kelleher stopped. “Okay, Susan Carol,” he said. “Right around the corner there, you’ll see an unmarked door.” He glanced around. No one was paying attention to them. “Okay, take your credential off. If there’s a guard on the door, just say you left your player badge inside your locker.”

  “And what if he won’t let me in?” she said.

  “We’ll wait here until we know you’re in,” Kelleher said.

  She nodded and started walking. Stevie had been tempted to make fun of her in the morning for wearing a tennis outfit. Now it seemed like an awfully good idea. She disappeared around the corner and Stevie held his breath. “We’ll know quickly,” Kelleher said.

  They waited a full minute. They heard and saw nothing.

  “Stevie, walk to the end of the hall and turn the corner,” Kelleher said. “If you see a guard and no Susan Carol, act as if you made a wrong turn and come right back.”

  Stevie followed orders. As soon as he rounded the corner, he saw a guard. No sign of Susan Carol. The guard looked at him. “I’m trying to find the stadium court,” he said.

  “You took a wrong turn,” the guard said. “All the way at the other end of the hall.”

  “Thanks,” Stevie said. He walked back to Kelleher. “She’s in,” he said.

  “Was there a guard?”

  Stevie nodded. “Yup. But there’s neve
r been a guard born she can’t talk her way past.”

  Kelleher laughed. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

  The two of them made their way back down the maze of hallways until they came to a large double door on the left. “I’ll wait to make sure you get in,” Kelleher said. There were two security guards on this door. People were whizzing past them and, surprisingly, they didn’t seem to be checking badges that carefully. Kelleher noticed too. “I’m guessing they’re more concerned about people going out than in right now,” he said. “Get going.”

  Stevie squared his shoulders, then tried to relax so he could look casual. He waited to let a couple of people he assumed were players get in front of him and then walked up to the doors, giving one guard a nod and a quick “Hey.” The guard didn’t even look at him, which was fortunate because if he had he might have seen how terrified Stevie was. Worse, he might’ve heard his heart pounding. Stevie walked inside and stopped to look around. There were tables and couches all over the vast room and people sitting or lying everywhere. Most wore tennis clothes, but some were dressed more formally. There were several offices that ran along the inside wall of the lounge, which all had large windows, so Stevie could see inside. In one of them, Kelleher’s friend Arlen Kantarian was seated behind the desk, surrounded by at least fifteen people who had crowded into the room.

  Rather than get caught staring, Stevie kept walking. He could smell food coming from the far end of the room and saw that there was a dining area with a number of people waiting in line at a buffet. He heard an announcement over the PA system: “Ms. Hetherington and Ms. Russell, please report to court 14. Ms. Hetherington and Ms. Russell, court 14, please.”

  He hadn’t really given any thought as to whether matches were still being played, but realized that not only was the tournament still going on, the people in this room might not even be aware yet that Symanova was missing. He looked at his watch. It was 2:20. He remembered that the players had been due on court at two o’clock, so it had only been twenty minutes since she had disappeared.

  If anyone in the lounge cared that he was there, they didn’t show it. People were chattering away in different languages, and when Stevie walked by, even if he looked right at them, they looked either past him or through him. He realized that to these people he was completely invisible. Which, for the moment, was a good thing.

  There was an empty table in the dining area, and Stevie thought maybe he could sit down there and pick up conversations around him. He took a bottle of water from a cooler and sat at the table sipping from it, trying to look as if he belonged. He realized that he had forgotten to follow Kelleher’s instructions to take off his media credential once inside, but he was afraid if he took it off at that moment it would look suspicious. Then again, it was possible that even if he took off all his clothes no one would notice. He slipped the credential off, hoping no one would see him do it.

  But someone did.

  “Are you going undercover?” a voice said behind him.

  Stevie froze, convinced he was about to get thrown out. He turned and saw Evelyn Rubin holding a tray of food, standing next to him. “Mind if I join you?” she said.

  “Oh, um, of course, I mean, no, not at all,” he said, stumbling all over himself because of nerves and because of her smile.

  She sat down and unloaded her tray. Her lunch consisted of a salad, some kind of green vegetable, and two bottles of Gatorade.

  “Is that all you’re eating?” he said.

  “I save myself for dinner,” she said. “The Gatorade fills me up and I’m a little dehydrated from the heat and a long shower.”

  He was struck again by how pretty she was. Her hair was still wet from her shower and she had it tied back, but her eyes were almost mesmerizing. She took a couple of quick bites of her salad, put her fork down, looked around to make sure no one was listening, and leaned closer to Stevie.

  “Did you hear what’s going on?” she said in a whisper just loud enough for Stevie to hear.

  Stevie looked around too, then remembered that he was invisible. “You mean about Symanova?” he said.

  She nodded. “I was just getting out of the shower when Joanne Walsh’s agent came in looking for Arlen Kantarian’s assistant, who was making sure that all the other under-eighteen girls were okay and letting us know they were going to keep playing matches,” she said. “So as soon as this agent came in, the assistant—I think her name is Cindy—said, ‘Jeannie, what are you doing in here? You know agents can’t come in this locker room.’

  “Well, Jeannie didn’t really want to hear that. She started screaming at her, demanding to know where Arlen was and how come Symanova hasn’t been defaulted for not showing up for the match.

  “So Cindy started pushing the agent toward the door, saying, ‘We aren’t going to discuss it here, Jeannie. Arlen’s in a meeting about it right now.’

  “Jeannie starts screaming, ‘Meeting, meeting, what’s to meet about? What are you guys hiding? Are you protecting that spoiled little Russian brat? Rules are rules, Cindy, and Arlen knows that!’

  “At which point Cindy, who is a lot bigger than Jeannie, practically picked her up and carried her out the door. The last thing I heard her say was, ‘Will you just shut up, we’ve got a crisis here.’”

  Stevie was trying to comprehend the idea of an agent demanding a default because her client’s opponent had vanished, when he noticed Rubin looking over his shoulder. He turned and noticed a TV set that was behind them. On the screen were the words “Symanova update.”

  “Someone turn the sound up,” he heard a player at a nearby table say. Magically, the sound came up as a sober-looking Michael Barkann came on camera. This wasn’t the Barkann Stevie was used to seeing on Daily News Live. The room was suddenly quiet as Barkann’s voice became audible: “…we will of course keep you updated, but, to repeat, tournament officials say they are in touch with Symanova’s agents, trying to determine exactly what happened that kept her from reaching the court for her first-round match with Joanne Walsh this afternoon. They have told us that as far as they know, Symanova is not injured and there is no health issue involved. Elise Burgin is standing by right now with Hughes Norwood, who represents Symanova for the Stars Management Group. Elise?”

  Barkann disappeared and was replaced on the screen by Elise Burgin, who had once been a top doubles player. Burgin was short and had dark hair and was, Stevie guessed, in her mid-thirties. The man standing next to her looked to Stevie as if he was about the same age as his dad. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a scowl.

  “The Master of Disaster,” Rubin hissed as Norwood came on-screen.

  “They call him that?” Stevie said.

  “Uh-huh. Because dealing with him in a negotiation is a disaster and he thinks he’s master of the tennis universe. Everyone hates him—except his clients.”

  Burgin was attempting to ask the Master of Disaster where Nadia Symanova was.

  “I can’t discuss that at this time,” Norwood said.

  “Is she going to play in the tournament?” Burgin asked.

  “I can’t discuss that at this time.”

  Burgin began to look a bit exasperated.

  “Can you give us some idea—any idea—why she didn’t show up on court as scheduled today?”

  “I can’t discuss that at this time.”

  This time Burgin paused for a moment as if deciding what to ask next.

  “Just to save time, Mr. Norwood, what can you discuss?”

  Norwood almost smiled.

  “I can tell you that my first concern and SMG’s first concern, as always, is the welfare of our client. That’s the way we have always conducted business.”

  “Can you tell us if your client’s welfare is in jeopardy at this moment?” Burgin asked.

  “I can’t discuss that.”

  Burgin sighed and turned back to the camera. “Michael,” she said, “sorry to have wasted your time.”

  Stevie was surprised by that
bit of honesty. Barkann was shaking his head when he came back on camera. “Well, Elise, you tried,” he said. “We’re now told that the USTA has scheduled a press conference for three-thirty to update everyone on the situation. We will cover that for you live. In the meantime, let’s go back to the stadium court and Bill Macatee and John McEnroe.”

  As magically as the sound had come up, it was turned down.

  “Did you see her before she went on court?” Stevie asked Rubin, realizing that Symanova would have been in her locker room.

  “Just for a minute,” Rubin said. “I came back in and she was getting ready to go out. I wished her luck and she said to me, ‘I’m playing Joanne Walsh. She’s the one who needs luck.’ She’s always like that, very confident.”

  “Sounds arrogant to me.”

  “Maybe, but she’s sixth in the world at age sixteen. She was smiling when she said it.”

  “You say anything else to her?”

  Rubin shook her head. “Didn’t get a chance to. The guard came over and told her that Mr. Norwood was waiting outside the door to talk to her and she jumped up and left. That’s when I went in and took my shower.”

  Stevie saw Brendan Gibson walking through the room in their direction. His usual smile was missing as he sat down. He didn’t even greet Stevie or Evelyn. “This is just awful,” he said. “How can the USTA let someone just grab a player en route to play a match?”

  “So you’re convinced she was kidnapped?” Stevie said.

  Gibson nodded. “It’s already being reported on CNN, MSNBC, and Fox News. The only one not reporting it that way is USA Network and that’s because they don’t want the USTA to be upset with them the next time they renegotiate their contract.”

  “How can they keep playing with this going on?” Stevie asked.

  “Because if they stop playing, it would cost them millions of dollars,” Gibson said.

  Rubin frowned. “Well, I really hope she’s okay,” she said. “I want to play her in the third round—if I can get there.”

  Stevie had forgotten that Rubin and Symanova might meet in the third round. “But kidnapping,” Stevie said. “Does it make you nervous?”