The Exchange: After The Firm

“No one leans on Gaddafi. No one gets near him, except for his family. He has some boys from different wives and the whole clan is always in a row, much like my family but for different reasons, but he really listens to no one. Take that damned bridge. His engineers and architects knew it was a bad idea. One poor chap, an architect I think, called it foolish, and the Colonel had him shot. That curtailed the dissension and everybody got in line. Halfway through the project the Colonel finally realized that they couldn’t find enough water to fill a bucket of piss and all the streams had dried up.”

Mitch was impressed that Sir Simon knew so much about his case. He was also reminded that he had the annoying habit of beginning almost every sentence with “The way I see it.”

“The way I see it, Mitch, is that we lean on the Libyan ambassador here and the one in Rome and ask them to get the damned lawsuit settled, and quick. They owe our client the money so hand it over. Have there been settlement negotiations?”

“None at all. We just amended our claim to add more damages. A trial is a year away.”

“And the Libyans still use the Reedmore bunch?”

“Yes, Jerry Robb.”

Sir Simon cringed at the thought of opposing counsel. “That’s unfortunate. Intractable as ever, I presume?”

“He’s certainly an unpleasant fellow, though we have not yet approached the stage of negotiating.”

“Go around him. He’ll do nothing but obstruct.” He ripped off a bite of toast and pondered his next thought. “The way I see it, Mitch, this is a diplomatic matter. We chat with our Foreign Office boys and send them over to the Libyans. Can we arrange this, Riley?”

Finally asked to speak, Riley said, “We’re on the phones now. We have a solid contact inside the Foreign Office and I have a call in to her. The prime minister is traveling in Asia, gone for a week. His office has been superb, calls almost every day for updates. Same for the Service. Giovanna has been a priority from day one, but there was no movement until now. Now we have a demand and a threat. But no one knows where it’s coming from.”

Mitch asked, “Can we expect money from the British government? We’re passing the hat here, Mr. Croome.”

“I understand. The way I see it, our government should come to the rescue. However, it would be expecting too much for the Foreign Office to chip in when they have no idea where the money is going. Our intelligence services are being shut out. We haven’t a clue who the bad guys are. We’re not even sure they exist. Could be an elaborate hoax for all we know.”

“It’s not a hoax,” Mitch said.

“I know that. But I can just hear the foreign minister raising objections. We have no choice, though. We have to ask him for money, and quickly.”

Riley said, “There is a law on the books that prevents these sort of maneuvers. Just to remind everybody.”

“The way I see it, that law is there for the terrorists to read. Officially, we don’t negotiate and we don’t pay. But we do, in certain circumstances. This, gentlemen, is an exceptional circumstance. You’ve seen the tabloids. If something awful happens to Giovanna we’ll all be sickened by it and never forgive ourselves. You cannot fail, Mitch.”

Mitch held his tongue and took a deep breath. Thanks for nothing. That’s the way I see it.

The best they could do in a pinch was a Third Secretary named Mona Branch. Her title placed her about halfway down the ladder at the Foreign Office and she was not the choice Riley had in mind. However, she was the first one willing to set aside thirty unscheduled minutes in a hectic day to have a chat with the two lawyers from Scully.

They arrived at the Foreign Office complex on King Charles Street at ten minutes before eleven, and waited twenty minutes in a cramped holding room as, they figured, Mona cleared her desk and made room for them. Or perhaps she and her colleagues were just having tea.

She finally stepped out and offered a pleasant smile as introductions were made. They followed her into an office even more cramped than the holding room and sat down across her cluttered desk. She uncapped a fine pen, arranged a writing pad, seemed poised to take notes, and said, “Ms. Sandroni is on our morning sheet, which means her abduction is a primary concern. The prime minister is updated every day. You said you have some information.”

Riley, the Brit, would do most of the talking. He said, “Yes, well, as you know, there has been no contact with her kidnappers, or abductors, or whatever. That is, until now.”

Her pen froze. Her mouth dropped open slightly though she tried hard to project the standard diplomatic blankness. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at Riley. “They’ve made contact?”

“Yes.”

A pause as she waited. “May I ask how?”

“It happened in New York, through our office there.”

Her spine stiffened as she laid down her pen. “May I ask when?”

“Thursday of last week. Again on Sunday. There is a demand for ransom and a deadline. With a threat.”

“A threat?”

“Execution. The clock is ticking.”