Vanishing Act

by John Feinstein

  As instructed, he followed the signs. None of the doors were actually marked, so he ducked his head into two wrong doors before he finally found the right place. “Back here, Stevie,” he heard Carillo say as he was starting to explain himself to the woman at the front desk.

  He walked back a few steps and found himself in a large office/lounge area. There were two desks in the room and two couches. He immediately recognized two of the people on the couches: Bill Macatee, who he knew had been doing tennis and golf for CBS for years, and Patrick McEnroe, younger brother of John, who was now both the U.S. Davis Cup captain and a tennis analyst for CBS and ESPN. In fact, it seemed as if every time he turned on a TV set to watch tennis, Patrick McEnroe was doing the match. They both nodded hello at him before his attention was diverted by Carillo, coming out of a back room. She was sipping coffee. So was Susan Carol. Stevie decided against a lecture on the evils of caffeine.

  “Where have you been?” Susan Carol asked. “You’re sweating like you just played a match.”

  She was right. He hadn’t even noticed until just now. “It was hot in the sun in the stadium,” he said.

  “Really?” Carillo said. “The media seating’s in the shade.”

  Whoops.

  “Yeah, I know,” Stevie said, stalling. “But I…decided to sit down close because there were so few people watching the match.”

  “The ushers didn’t stop you?”

  “Um, no. I guess they figured it was okay since the seats were empty.”

  That seemed to satisfy Carillo. The look on Susan Carol’s face told Stevie she wasn’t buying. He decided to change the subject.

  “So what have you guys been reporting about Symanova?” he asked, directing the question at all three CBS people.

  Macatee laughed. “They’ve brought in our news department to handle it,” he said. “They don’t think we jocks are capable of handling real news. Plus, the sports people are afraid if we do any real reporting, the USTA will get in a snit, and they don’t want that.”

  “I heard they wouldn’t let USA Network call it a kidnapping yesterday when everyone else was already calling it that,” Stevie said.

  “Exactly,” Macatee said, shaking his head. “They can’t push CBS around like that because we pay them a lot of money. But they can make their position pretty clear. We’ve all been pulling our hair out about what we can and can’t do for the last twenty-four hours.”

  Macatee had, as far as Stevie could see, the most perfect head of hair on Earth. Carillo read his mind. “Billy is speaking metaphorically, of course,” she said.

  Stevie turned to Susan Carol. “The USTA press conference is at three,” he said, not saying anything they all didn’t already know. “I’m hungry. Will you go with me to get a hamburger first?”

  “I thought you were getting one before….”

  “I got distracted.”

  “That reminds me,” Carillo said. “I gotta get some makeup on. We’re going live from the press conference. I hear they’re announcing something important but it’s very hush-hush. I can’t get anyone to tell me anything.”

  “There you go being a reporter again,” McEnroe said.

  “You should know better.”

  Susan Carol put down her coffee. “Okay, Ravenous One, let’s go feed you. I’m a little bit hungry myself.”

  “I’ll see you guys at the press conference,” Carillo said, walking into a room marked MAKEUP.

  They shook hands with Macatee and McEnroe and made their way to the door. Once they were in the hallway, Susan Carol stopped, looked around, and said in a quiet voice, “Okay, now tell me what you’ve really been up to.”

  “I will,” he said. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  They walked back outside onto the plaza and through the big midday crowd to the food court.

  “You get a table,” Stevie said. “I’ll get a hamburger. Then I’ll fill you in.”

  “Get me…”

  “I know, a bottle of water.”

  “Actually, I think it’s time I try one of those hamburgers,” she said. “Get me one too.” She started to pull money out of her skirt pocket but Stevie waved her off. “It’s on me.”

  He walked up to the counter, thinking, Because it might be the last time you ever eat with me.

  She had found a table right on the edge of the food court. He put the food down, then took a swig of the water he had bought and a deep breath. “Okay, I might as well just tell you everything from the beginning,” he said. “If you hate me, you hate me.”

  “I won’t hate you,” she said. “I might disagree with you, but I won’t hate you. Just tell me what the heck’s going on.”

  He started from the beginning, going from accidentally overhearing her uncle’s arrival in the apartment right through their hostile conversation in the Grandstand court. She was pale when he finished. He imagined he was too. She took several bites of her hamburger, causing Stevie to think she might just finish eating, get up, and walk away from him forever. Melodramatic, he thought, but entirely possible.

  Finally, she took a sip of her water and shook her head. “Look, Stevie, I don’t blame you for being suspicious of my uncle after what you heard,” she said, sending a wave of relief through him. “But I can also kind of understand why he lied to me. I’m not saying it was right or that I’m not upset about it. But it does make sense that he was worried about the secret getting out before he has a signed contract. He is new at this.”

  “Then why do you think he blew up at me like that?” he asked.

  “Well, you did call him a liar.”

  “Because he lied,” Stevie said, getting a little bit defensive.

  “And he tried to explain why. Then, in return, you called him a kidnapper.”

  She had a point. Maybe he had gone too far. “Okay, maybe I came on a little strong. But let me ask you this: if he wasn’t your uncle and you didn’t love him, would you feel any differently, given the facts, than I do? Wouldn’t it at least cross your mind he might be involved—especially when someone you know to be honest gets caught in a flat-out lie?”

  Again, she took a while to answer. “Maybe,” she said. “Okay, yes, I would wonder. But I do know him. And I know he would never do anything like that. I’ve known him all my life.”

  “Have you ever known him to lie before?”

  She sighed. “No.”

  They were both silent for a moment. Then she smiled—something he hadn’t seen very often in the last twenty-four hours. “Do me one favor,” she said. “Don’t be upset with me for defending someone I love.”

  “On one condition.”

  “What?”

  “That you not be upset with me for asking questions about him when he’s left himself open to questions.”

  “Deal,” she said. “Now what do we do next?”

  “The first thing we have to do is get back to the media center for that press conference. The second thing we do is check in with Bobby and Tamara. And the third thing we do is figure out where I’m going to sleep tonight.”

  They barely squeezed into the interview room for the press conference. The room was overflowing with camera crews packed into every available inch—and a few that weren’t available—and reporters practically sitting on top of one another. Stevie and Susan Carol were almost the last two people let in the door before a USTA official said, “That’s it, we can’t get anyone else in. You’ll have to go listen to the feed in the workroom.”

  They stood against the wall near the door and scanned the room. Kelleher, Tamara Mearns, and Bud Collins had obviously arrived early—they were in the front row, not far away from where they were standing since the door was near the front of the room. Kelleher looked over and saw them. He stood up. “Meet us at my desk when this is over,” he shouted, just as the door behind the podium opened and Arlen Kantarian, the FBI guy from the day before, Hughes Norwood, and Misha Symanov walked in.

  “Whoo boy,” Stevie said, quickly stepping backward. T
he last thing he needed was for either Norwood or Symanov to spot him.

  He stood just behind a tall guy with a tape recorder and urged Susan Carol to stand behind him. She could see over his head anyway, especially since the room raked up from front to back.

  “Keep your head down,” he said as everyone settled in.

  “No kidding,” she said.

  Kantarian didn’t waste any time with pleasantries. After introducing the other three men on the podium, he quickly turned the microphone over to the FBI guy: Bob Campbell.

  “We have been contacted by Nadia Symanova’s kidnappers,” Campbell began, cutting right to the chase. “Obviously, there is now no doubt there has been a kidnapping. They have made certain demands, which I can tell you aren’t financial. We are discussing these demands with Mr. Symanov and his wife right now before deciding exactly how to respond.”

  “What are the demands?” someone shouted, a simple and logical question.

  “For obvious security reasons, we can’t share that with you,” Campbell said. “We have been told her life is not in danger. This has more to do with whether she will be returned in time to participate in this tournament.”

  “Have the kidnappers identified themselves to you?”

  “Not specifically. But we have an idea who they are. Right now is not the time to share our suspicions with you.”

  “Is it the SVR?” Voices were coming from all over the room.

  Campbell smiled. “As I said, I’m not prepared to speculate at this point.”

  “Can you confirm that it isn’t the SVR?”

  This time he didn’t smile. “I can’t confirm or deny anything in that area.”

  Bud Collins broke in. “Misha, can you give us some idea of what the last twenty-four hours have been like for you and Yolanda?”

  For the next ten minutes, Misha Symanov talked at great length about what he and his wife and their family and friends had been through. He thanked Hughes Norwood and the USTA for all their help and he said he hoped this ordeal would be over soon. He was far more emotional than he had appeared to be in the SMG lounge just that morning. Perhaps he was more worn out. Perhaps hearing from the kidnappers had made the situation more frightening for him. He concluded by saying he was grateful for all the sympathy and support extended to him and to his family since “this nightmare of our lives began.”

  He paused for a minute to collect himself. “I know there have been many rumors,” he continued. “I want to say this to all of you: the Russian government has been very supportive since yesterday. They have offered to help my family in any way possible. I have lived in this country five years now and I love it, but I am very proud to be Russian by birth. So too is my daughter.”

  “He’s either very good or very upset,” Susan Carol said.

  Stevie had been thinking almost the same thing. Maybe they were both being a little unfair. He was trying to imagine how his parents would react if he vanished into thin air. And yet Susan Carol was right—something seemed odd about Mr. Symanov. One minute he was as calm as could be, the next he was the brokenhearted father.

  Kantarian was breaking up the press conference, saying the media would be kept apprised as more information became available. Before Stevie or Susan Carol could start to leave, a man wearing a USTA shirt walked up and said quietly, “Can I have a word with you two kids?”

  Uh-oh, Stevie thought. What could this be? The man walked toward the door and signaled them to follow him. Stevie wondered if they shouldn’t go back and grab Kelleher or Tamara or Bud Collins so one of them could vouch for them. The man kept walking toward the door of the media center and didn’t stop until they were outside.

  “Should we really go out there?” Stevie hissed at Susan Carol as she followed him.

  “Beats me,” she said.

  Once they were in a quiet spot, the man turned around, put out a hand, and said, “Mark Preston.”

  They shook hands. Preston looked around to make sure no one was listening to him.

  “I heard what you guys said in there about the father.”

  “We didn’t mean anything by it,” Susan Carol said. “We were just—”

  Preston waved a hand to stop her. “Calm down, I’m not here to lecture you. I think you’re right. I don’t get why any of the so-called pros in there haven’t gotten onto this yet.”

  “Onto what?” Stevie said, because he wasn’t sure exactly what they were onto.

  “Something is funny with the father. We all know he was blabbing to anyone who would listen yesterday that the SVR did this. Kelleher wrote it; Bud’s whole column was on his angst right after the girl disappeared. Now the Russians are his best friends.”

  “Maybe he has to say that,” Susan Carol said. “Maybe that’s how they get her released.”

  “Maybe,” Preston said. “But it’s all a little too easy, I think. The kid disappears, the father and Norwood are practically chasing the media around yesterday to say the SVR did it. Now it’s all hearts and flowers—no more evil Russians.”

  “Okay, let’s say you’re right,” Stevie said quietly. “What do you think we should do about it?”

  Preston looked around. “If I was still a reporter—”

  “You were a reporter?” Stevie broke in, causing Susan Carol to give him one of her be-quiet looks.

  “For twenty-five years,” he said. “My mind still works like a reporter even if doing PR pays my bills. Look, my instincts are telling me something is up with the father, and I think yours are telling you the same thing.”

  “So where would your reporting instincts lead you right now?” Susan Carol said.

  “Easy,” Preston said. “The U.S. Open Club. I heard Norwood telling Symanov just before they walked into the press conference that their four o’clock meeting would be there. It’s unofficial agent headquarters when they’re up to something, because the media’s not allowed in.”

  “Is that the place next to Slew’s?” Stevie asked.

  “Yeah,” Preston said. “Same food, only more expensive.”

  “More expensive—”

  Susan Carol cut him off. “If the media can’t go in there, how can we?”

  “Follow me,” Preston said. “I can take care of that.”

  13: MORE CLUES

  THEY FOLLOWED Mark Preston back inside to an office that said USTA COMMUNICATIONS.

  “Give me your credentials,” he said.

  “What! Why?” they said almost together. Stevie didn’t feel the least bit comfortable about giving his credential to someone he had just met.

  “I’ll be back in five minutes,” he said. “Stay right here, you’ll be fine.”

  Stevie looked at Susan Carol, who nodded. They slipped their credentials over their heads and handed them to Preston, who—after glancing around again—disappeared inside the office.

  “Why are we trusting this guy?” Stevie said.

  “I’m not sure,” Susan Carol said. “Gut instinct? He makes sense. He has no reason to lie—that we know of, anyway. Right now I don’t know whom to trust.”

  He knew she was talking about what was going on with her uncle, but he decided this wasn’t the time to pursue it. “Maybe we should ask Kelleher or Bud about him,” he said.

  “Too late now,” she said. “They’re nowhere in sight and he’s got our credentials. We just have to hope…”

  The door opened again and Preston reappeared. “See, not even five minutes,” he said. He handed them back their credentials. Then he handed Susan Carol an envelope. “Don’t open it in here,” he said. “Walk outside, and while you’re walking around the building, slip your media credential off and replace it with what’s in here.”

  He smiled. “I’m sure you both think I’m nuts, but I’m trying to help and I just have a feeling you guys are onto something. I trust Kelleher and Mearns, but I think you guys might be a little ahead of the curve right now and you might be better able to run this down. Good luck.”

  He shook their
hands and left. “You want to try it?” Susan Carol asked.

  “Let’s walk outside and see what’s in the envelope,” he said.

  She nodded and they headed out and began circling the stadium. After a few steps, she opened the envelope, pulled out the contents, and smiled. “Take a look,” she said, handing a credential to Stevie. “This might work.” He looked at it. Like the media credential it had his photo on it. But instead of a giant “M,” it had a large “F” in blue lettering. Underneath it said simply: PLAYER FAMILY.

  “These will get us into the Open Club, and if we see Norwood or Symanov, we can still stick to our story about being Evelyn’s brother and sister,” she said. “These don’t have names on them, just the player family thing.”

  “Looks like Mark Preston knows what he’s doing.”

  “So far,” she said. “Now it’s up to us.”

  Susan Carol called Kelleher on her cell to let him know they were working on something and might not be back in the media center for a while. Stevie heard her say, “We’ll fill you in when we get back” before she hung up. Kelleher was obviously curious.

  Their new passes got them inside the door marked U.S. OPEN CLUB—CREDENTIAL HOLDERS ONLY with no problem. Stevie noticed a board on the window that showed who was and was not admitted to the club. There was a very clear X through the “M” badge on the board.

  The room was large and open with tinted windows that allowed customers to look out at the plaza but prevented passersby from looking in. There was a very large buffet table in the back. A hostess seated them in a booth that was thankfully tucked away in a corner of the room. Stevie and Susan Carol searched the room for familiar faces. It was four o’clock and only a few tables were occupied. They saw no one they recognized.

  “Maybe Preston’s not as good as we thought,” Stevie said.