Vanishing Act

by John Feinstein

  “No, not unless we absolutely have to. Let her get ready to play.”

  He took a quick shower and got dressed. Eggs and an English muffin were waiting for him on the table when he walked into the kitchen. Kelleher was standing at the stove. “My day to make breakfast,” he said.

  Stevie was finishing his breakfast when the doorbell rang. Mearns opened it and a man Stevie guessed was the FBI agent Kelleher knew walked in. Stevie remembered the FBI people in New Orleans as very stern-looking. This one was different. “Pete Dowling,” he said, shaking hands with a smile. Susan Carol offered everyone coffee and they all sat down.

  “Bobby briefed me on the phone about what’s been going on,” Dowling said. “My partner is waking a judge up right now, trying to get a search warrant for that apartment. But honestly, I’m dubious. What you have is hardly definitive.”

  “Have you been able to find out who the apartment belongs to?” Susan Carol asked.

  “Not exactly,” Dowling said. “The official listing is a company called TB-Inc. As far as we can figure, it’s a bogus name.”

  “Well, that makes it suspicious, doesn’t it?” Susan Carol said. “Can’t you find out who’s behind the fake name?”

  “We’re working on it, but it takes a while, especially on Labor Day weekend. These people have insulated themselves pretty well.”

  Kelleher leaned forward in his chair. “Pete, we don’t have time,” he said. “We need to know if this guy has been kidnapped, and if so, why.”

  “Has anyone been contacted?” Dowling asked. “Has Ms. Rubin heard anything leading her to believe this is connected to her match today?”

  “Not so far as we know,” Kelleher said.

  Dowling stood up. “That’s the problem,” he said. “I can’t get a warrant for this apartment based on a phone message and the address being on a notepad. There has to be some tangible evidence that someone is being held against their will in that apartment. If you can get me that, I can make a move. Until then, I can’t.”

  They all looked at one another. “It is a little bit strange that no one has called, isn’t it?” Susan Carol said. “If someone wants Evelyn to throw the match, they should have contacted her by now.”

  Stevie heard the Duke fight song again. Susan Carol answered. She listened for a minute and then said, “Okay, we’ll get right back to you.”

  “That was Evelyn,” she said, closing the phone. “The Makarovs just told her that SMG has scheduled a press conference for Symanova after the match today. They’re convinced SMG is going to announce the movie deal. They say CBS is going to cover it live—and the other networks are fighting to get onto the grounds to cover it too. CBS is trying to keep it exclusive. Big battle going on.”

  “They must be pretty confident Symanova’s going to win today,” Mearns said.

  “Exactly,” Susan Carol answered. “Now, why would that be?”

  It took a while, but they finally came up with a strategy: Kelleher and Mearns would pick up Evelyn and drive her out to the tennis center. She had turned down a ride from the Makarovs and had told Susan Carol she couldn’t bear the thought of making small talk in a courtesy car.

  Dowling was going to see if he could find a judge to grant some kind of conditional warrant—one that wouldn’t allow a search of the apartment but would at least authorize using his FBI badge to get into the apartment. “Long shot,” he said. “But it isn’t out of the question.”

  Stevie and Susan Carol would wait for a call from Dowling and then meet him if he found Brendan Gibson. Kelleher wasn’t thrilled about leaving them in the city on their own, but Susan Carol was desperate to be close by if her uncle was found. So Kelleher made them promise not to do anything until they heard from Dowling, no matter how tempted they might be to try something on their own. Reluctantly, they promised. “This isn’t New Orleans,” Kelleher said as they were leaving. “I’m not sure those academic types would actually have hurt you guys. But we already know these goons mean business—don’t we, Stevie?”

  Once they were gone, Susan Carol made more coffee. Stevie tried joking about it stunting her growth, but she could only manage a wan smile.

  “I guess I misjudged your uncle,” he said finally. “Whatever he was up to, he wasn’t involved in this.”

  “Oh, he was involved,” she said. “But obviously not the way we thought. At first, I just couldn’t imagine him being crooked. Then I thought I was wrong. Now I just can’t imagine him being…”

  “He won’t be,” Stevie said. “Mr. Dowling will come through.”

  The time crept by. They turned on the TV and watched The Sports Reporters. Mike Lupica was talking about Symanova versus Rubin. “If you took this plot to a movie studio, they would turn you away because it’s just not believable,” he said. “This is the Russian supermodel against the girl next door. This is the girl every boy wants to date against the girl they’re all going to want to marry someday. The victim of a kidnapping against America’s newest sweetheart. This could be the most dramatic tennis match any of us has seen since Bobby Riggs played Billie Jean King in 1973. And the only thing we know for sure? Both these girls are going to be very, very rich no matter who wins this afternoon.”

  “I guess he’s got that right,” said Stevie, remembering the contract he had seen the night before.

  They flipped around. Tim Russert was interviewing Hughes Norwood on Meet the Press. After listening to Norwood talk for thirty seconds, Stevie hit the remote again. George Stephanopoulos was on ABC talking to Arlen Kantarian and Bud Collins. One more click to CBS and, yup, there was Bob Schieffer lobbing questions at Mary Carillo and Billie Jean King. “What happened to Nadia is a nightmare,” King said. “But because of all the circumstances, this could be the biggest match in the history of women’s tennis—it will certainly be the most watched, based on the ratings so far this week.”

  “As big as when you played Riggs?” Schieffer asked.

  “Bigger.”

  “I think if the president of the United States resigned today, it would be the second-biggest story going,” Susan Carol said.

  Her phone rang again. Again, she listened. “Okay, we’ll call Mr. Dowling right now,” she said. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be all right. Someone will be there right away. Just sit tight and don’t even think about anything except winning the match.”

  “Evelyn?” Stevie said as she hung up.

  She nodded while dialing.

  “They called?”

  “No. There was a note in her locker. It said something like ‘As soon as you lose today, your agent will be released unharmed.’”

  “Holy…”

  “Mr. Dowling,” Susan Carol said, “I think we have the tangible evidence you need.”

  Stevie listened as she filled him in about the note and then saw a frown cross her face. “But that’ll be too late,” she said. She nodded her head. “Okay, but please hurry. The match starts in four hours.”

  She stood up and started for the door. “Come on,” she said. “We need to get going.”

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Mr. Dowling said an agent would go find Evelyn at the tennis center to see the note and make sure she’s okay. Then he can get a warrant, but it may still take time,” she said. “We can’t wait that long.”

  “But we promised…”

  “That was before Evelyn got the note. Come on. I’ll think of what we’re going to do in the cab.”

  “Cab? Where are we going?”

  “Twenty-five East Tenth Street,” she said. “Apartment 4B.”

  Neither of them said much in the cab. Even though it was late in the morning, the streets in Greenwich Village were still quiet. They had the cab stop a few yards short of the green awning that said 25 on it and got out there.

  “Now what do we do?” Stevie asked when they were standing on the sidewalk.

  “I’ve got a plan,” she said.

  “I figured you would.”

  “Mr. Dowling to
ld me that if he knew someone was in imminent danger, he wouldn’t need the warrant. The note to Evelyn isn’t quite enough.”

  “So?”

  “So I’m going in there. When I do…”

  “You’re doing what? What in the world are you talking about? You’re just going to walk up there and ring the doorbell?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And what do you expect them to do? Invite you in for coffee?”

  “I expect them to hold me against my will.”

  He looked at her closely to see if she might be joking. She wasn’t.

  “Why would they even open the door?”

  “Because if they won’t, I’ll yell that I’m going to get the police if they don’t let my uncle Brendan go. You can bet they’ll open the door then. As soon as I’m in there, you can call Mr. Dowling and say I’m being held and I’m in danger. He’ll have to come then.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea. Well, it was a terrible idea—but it might work.

  “You can’t do it,” he said. “I won’t let you.”

  She smiled at him. “Yes, you will,” she said. “Because you know it’s a good idea. And we can’t waste any more time.”

  He thought about it for a minute. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll try it. But I’m going in. You call Mr. Dowling.”

  She shook her head. “Nope, it has to be me,” she said. “They’ll open up more quickly for a girl.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “He’s my uncle, Stevie. I have to try.”

  Stevie still didn’t like it. But he wasn’t exactly full of alternative plans. And he could see there was no talking her out of it. He took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said. “But I’m scared.”

  She smiled. “Me too,” she said.

  She looked at her watch. “It’s eleven-fifteen. If I’m not back down here at eleven-twenty-five, call Mr. Dowling.”

  “How about eleven-twenty?” he said.

  “It’ll take me a minute to find the right apartment. And maybe someone unexpected will answer the door, or maybe the apartment will be empty…,” she said. “Wait ten. Then call.”

  “You sure Dowling will come? What if he’s mad at us for doing this?”

  “Oh, he’ll be mad. But he’ll come.”

  She handed him a piece of paper. It was the one on which Brendan had written down the address. “Keep that,” she said. “You’ll need the door code when they get here.”

  “I hope you’re right about that being what ‘DC’ stands for,” he said.

  “Well, let’s go see. If I’m wrong, we’ll need a plan B,” she said.

  She squared her shoulders and turned to go. Stevie had an urge to do something before she left—he just wasn’t sure what. He caught hold of her arm and pulled her back. “Susan Carol…,” he choked out, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. Finally, he settled for “Be careful,” which was kind of dumb—by walking in there, she was being anything but careful.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I know you’ll come and rescue me.” She gave him the smile and walked up to the front door of the building. She punched the code into the keypad next to the door, and in a second she was gone.

  Stevie began staring at his watch. And sweating.

  At 11:24, Stevie decided he had waited long enough. He dialed Dowling, who picked up on the first ring.

  “Mr. Dowling, I think you need to get over here right away,” Stevie said. “Susan Carol went up to the apartment and she hasn’t come back. I think she’s being held by the kidnappers.”

  There was silence for a moment. “She what?!” Dowling finally said. “What the hell is she playing at?”

  “Can I explain later?” Stevie said. “You said imminent danger. I think she may be in imminent danger right now.”

  “Dammit,” he heard Dowling say. “Where are you?”

  “Right outside the building,” he said. “Twenty-five East Tenth.”

  “Don’t move. Do not go inside. You kids had better have a good explanation for this when we get there. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Stevie wasn’t sure who “we” were, but he was glad to hear that Dowling was coming and bringing help. Who knew how many kidnappers there were inside the apartment?

  He paced up and down the sidewalk, ignoring the looks from passersby, until he saw a police car and another car, both with sirens going, turning off of Fifth Avenue onto East 10th Street. Dowling got out of the unmarked car with another man in a suit. Two policemen jumped out of the police car.

  “No time for introductions,” Dowling said. “Let’s go.”

  “Here’s the code to the front door,” Stevie said, handing it over.

  “When we get up there,” Dowling said to Stevie, “you stay back away from the door. You got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They rode in silence up the elevator. There were only three apartments on the L-shaped floor. Dowling ordered Stevie to stand at the corner of the hallway, well back from the door to 4B. Stevie peered around and saw Dowling ring the doorbell. There was a pause and then he heard Dowling say, “This is the FBI. Open the door.”

  Another pause. “You should know that holding a minor against her will is a federal offense that can put you in jail for life.”

  And then: “We don’t need a warrant when you’re holding a minor. If you open the door right now, you have my word I will only charge you with holding Mr. Gibson. You’ve got no chance to get out of there. We know everything. Don’t make this any worse for yourselves.”

  Another pause. “You’ve got thirty seconds.”

  Stevie held his breath. This could be very good or very bad…. He waited. And waited.

  Finally, he saw the door open—a crack. Dowling pushed it open and Stevie saw all four officers pour into the apartment. He ran to the door, then hesitated, hearing a voice shout, “Down on the floor, get down!” He peered in and saw two men lying on their stomachs being handcuffed. Dowling was untying and ungagging Brendan Gibson. Susan Carol, her hands tied in front of her but not gagged, was being released by Dowling’s partner.

  “Are you okay?” Stevie said, stepping around the two men on the floor to get to her.

  “Fine,” she said.

  “Stevie, go out in the kitchen and get Mr. Gibson some water,” Dowling said.

  Stevie nodded and turned into the small kitchen. He found a glass in a cabinet and filled it at the sink. He walked back into the living room, just as the cops were standing the two kidnappers up. When he saw their faces, he gasped and dropped the glass of water, which didn’t break but clattered loudly on the floor, spilling water everywhere.

  “The subway guys!” he shouted. “These are the guys who beat me up!”

  The two men said nothing.

  Dowling walked up close to them. “You two better be willing to talk,” he said. “Or you’re going away for a very long time.”

  One of them shrugged. “Nothing to talk about. We’re just the hired help. We get a call, we get paid. We got nothing to tell you.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Dowling said.

  He turned to his partner. “Bob, you’ve got their cell phones? Start checking the numbers right away.”

  Bob nodded. Dowling turned to Brendan Gibson, who was now drinking a new glass of water that Stevie had brought him.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Scared—still,” Gibson said. “But okay. When does the match start? Someone call Evelyn.”

  Stevie pulled out his phone and started to dial.

  Susan Carol sat next to her uncle on the couch, holding on to him—clearly not wanting to let him go. “Uncle Brendan, I am so sorry for doubting you,” she said.

  “Me too,” Stevie said, then broke off as Evelyn answered.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Gibson said to Susan Carol. “I know why you doubted me. I haven’t behaved perfectly this week myself. But you’re here now. I can’t believe you put yourself in such danger.”

  “Yes, we’ll be discussing tha
t, Ms. Anderson,” Dowling said. “Mr. Gibson, I assume you know who had you kidnapped?”

  “Oh yeah,” Gibson said. “Can I tell you the whole story on the way out to Queens? I really want to see Evelyn and be sure she’s okay.”

  “You think you can walk?” Dowling asked.

  Gibson stood up very slowly and wobbled a bit. Susan Carol helped steady him. “I’m okay,” he said. “I’m not ready to do any sprinting, but I can walk.”

  “Mr. Gibson,” Stevie broke in. “Evelyn wants to hear your voice.” He held out the phone.

  “Evelyn, it’s me. I’m fine,” said Gibson. He listened for a minute and then said, “I’ll tell you everything later. You just need to get ready to play. You need to beat the pants off that girl.”

  21: MATCH POINT

  THEY PILED into Pete Dowling’s car—Stevie, Susan Carol, and Brendan Gibson in the backseat, and Dowling’s partner, who he finally introduced as Bob Ades, up front. The two police officers had taken the two kidnappers away in their squad car, with orders from Dowling to take them to the FBI’s Manhattan field office, along with the cell phones and the guns they had found on them.

  Before Brendan Gibson could tell his story, Dowling demanded that Stevie and Susan Carol explain how Susan Carol had ended up in the apartment. He kept shaking his head over and over as Susan Carol told him. “Do you understand how stupid that was?” he said. “What if they had decided to turn you into a hostage?”

  “But they didn’t,” Susan Carol said. “They were counting on not having to hurt anyone. That’s what I was counting on too.”

  “You were very lucky,” Dowling said. “And I will give you a long lecture when this is over. Okay, Mr. Gibson, tell us what happened.”

  They were in the Midtown Tunnel, which was now familiar territory to Stevie.

  “I’ll try to give you the short version in the interest of time,” Gibson said. “For me, this started on Monday night—the night you heard me in the apartment with the Makarovs, Stevie.

  “Before that, over dinner, they told me they thought that Symanova’s kidnapping was a fake—a setup. Mr. Makarov’s brother is high up in the SVR. He said there was no way they would pull a move like that—if only because it would ultimately fail. He believed the Symanovs and SMG were trying to pin it on the SVR to make it look real.”