Vanishing Act (9 page)

He nodded. “Yes,
was.
Apparently her father decided they weren't doing a good enough job for her because they were spending too much time making deals for Symanova.”

“Nothing new there,” Mearns said. “Parents always get into a snit about their kids not getting enough attention from their agents.”

“Absolutely,” Collins said. “Some other agent comes along, offers them the world, and they jump. Happens all the time.”

“So who did Makarova jump to?” Kelleher asked.

Collins glanced at Susan Carol. “It probably means nothing,” he said. “It hasn't been announced yet, but they say she's about to jump to Brendan Gibson at ISM.”

In all the time he had spent with Susan Carol, including a two-hour period when they had been tied to chairs and left alone with an armed thug in a hotel room, Stevie had never seen her so unnerved. “It probably does mean nothing,” she said to Stevie after all the grown-ups had given her the “Don't worry about a thing” talk and gone off to write. “But isn't it strange that Evelyn never mentioned it when we were asking her about Makarova?”

It was strange. “Maybe she doesn't know yet?” he said.

“I suppose so. But why wouldn't my uncle tell us last night when you were asking him how he was doing as an agent? That's kind of a coup.”

“Maybe it's still a secret.”

“Maybe. But I've got a lot of questions for him when we get home. Let's write and get out of here.”

That was fine with Stevie. He pulled his computer out from under Kelleher's desk and found an empty desk in the back row, which was apparently kept empty for overflow writers who showed up on the last weekend and didn't have assigned spots. When he had finished his glowing account of Evelyn Rubin's upset of Maggie Maleeva—including her desire to go to the Louvre and her attempt to finish her summer reading for school—he brought his computer to Kelleher so he could help him file. Kelleher stopped what he was doing long enough to scroll through the story. “It's good,” he said. “But you've written twenty-four inches. We'll be lucky if they give you sixteen. You want to cut it or let them do it in the office?”

Stevie decided he'd rather cut his own stuff. It was painful. Every time he cut a sentence or a paragraph, he was convinced he had to be down to sixteen inches. Then he pressed the count key and the computer told him he was still way over the right length. He gave up when he finally got to eighteen inches and presented it to Kelleher again. “There's not a cuttable sentence in there,” he said.

“No doubt true,” Kelleher said. “But trust me, they'll cut it anyway.”

It was after eight o'clock by the time all four of them were finished. The room was buzzing with people writing, people asking one another questions—every thirty seconds or so someone would shout a question at Collins, who either knew the answer or stopped his work to look it up in the myriad of books he had sitting at his feet. The room began to clear when the night match on the stadium court, featuring Andre Agassi, the ageless wonder, got under way.

Kelleher, Mearns, Susan Carol, and Stevie convened around Kelleher's desk to figure out what to do next. “First thing we need to do is get something to eat,” Kelleher said. “Let's walk over to Slew's.”

“What's Slew's?” Stevie asked, wondering if he could get another hamburger there.

“It's a little restaurant named after Slew Hester. He was the USTA president who came up with the idea of moving here from Forest Hills in 1978. Bud says he was a good guy.”

“Bud says everyone's a good guy,” Mearns said, causing Collins to look up from his computer a few yards away.

“That's not true,” he said. “I thought Hitler and Mussolini were terrible guys. Of course, Mussolini did get the trains running on time. Maybe he wasn't so bad.” He went back to writing.

“Anyway,” Kelleher continued, “you need a badge to get in, so it isn't so crowded.”

They walked across the plaza for what felt like the hundredth time that day, angling left to follow the curve of the stadium. It took them past some glass doors marked
U.S
.
OPEN CLUB
to a smaller door that said
SLEW'S PLACE
.

It was almost empty. There were only a handful of matches being played at night and almost everyone left on the grounds was watching tennis. When they were handed menus, Stevie's eyes grew wide when he got to what was called the “Slew-burger.” Here, the price of a hamburger had risen to twelve dollars.

“Think I should drink a ten-dollar beer?” Kelleher asked Mearns.

“No. Because you'll want a second one.”

“Good point.”

Once they had ordered, Kelleher said, “So, anyone got any ideas?”

Stevie wasn't even a little surprised when Susan Carol said, “I do.”

Kelleher smiled. “You ready to get your uncle to confess?” he asked.

“Sort of,” she said. “I think I should ask him directly about what's going on with Makarova.”

“I think you ought to just ask him what he knows about her,” Stevie said, jumping in. “See what he says.”

Susan Carol looked at him angrily. “He won't lie.”

“Susan Carol, we can't be sure of anything,” Mearns said gently. “I don't think we want to show anyone our cards right now—even your uncle. We need to use what we know to find out what others know. I'm sure you're right that he won't lie. But let's find out.”

Susan Carol nodded, still looking distressed.

“What else?” Kelleher said.

“I think we need to find out more about why SMG is pushing the SVR story so hard,” Susan Carol said.

“I agree,” Kelleher said.

“I still have some NYPD sources from my stint at
News-day,
” Tamara said. “I'll call them in the morning, see what they're saying.”

“Good,” Kelleher said. “I'll see if I can call in a favor with a friend at the FBI. Stevie, Susan Carol, I think you ought to nose around early at the U.N. Plaza before coming back out here.”

“The U.N. Plaza? What's that?” Stevie asked.

“It's the hotel where most of the players stay. Very posh. All the agents have suites where they hold meetings, have refreshments for players who want to hang out, things like that. Usually everyone's around in the morning. I'll call Ross to make sure you guys can get around the hotel unhassled.”

“If Ross is an agent, why is he your friend?” Stevie asked. “You don't like agents.”

Kelleher shrugged. “It's sort of like having a pet. Even if you don't like dogs, you like
your
dog. Tom's
my
agent.”

Mearns laughed. “You always forget that cuts both ways,” she said. “I'm sure Tom sees you as
his
reporter.”

“Probably true,” Kelleher said. “I'll call him first thing in the morning. He's always up early. Unless you guys hear different from me, take a cab to the hotel and I'll have Tom meet you in the lobby at eight-thirty.”

“When do you think I should talk to my uncle?” Susan Carol said.

“First chance you get,” Kelleher said.

“Bobby, there's one thing you need to understand,” Susan Carol said, looking as serious as Stevie had ever seen her.

“What's that?”

“Uncle Brendan is
my
agent.”

Kelleher nodded. “Understood. But let's find out if he's Elena Makarova's agent too.”

9:
SURPRISE VISITORS

BRENDAN GIBSON
wasn't home when Kelleher dropped Stevie and Susan Carol off in front of 52 Riverside Drive, but Susan Carol had the code to get into the building and a key to the apartment. There was a note in the kitchen that said simply: “Home late. See you in the morning.”

Susan Carol had been very quiet on the car ride home, and Stevie wasn't sure how or if he should bring up the subject of her uncle possibly being involved in Nadia Symanova's disappearance. He decided to try and use the old reporting tactic of asking soft questions first to see if they might set up the harder questions. Dick Jerardi, who had become a mentor to him back home, always told him to save the toughest questions for last.

“So how close are you to your uncle?” he asked casually as they sat at the kitchen table munching on some pretzels and chips that she had found in one of the cabinets.

“Don't you play reporter's tricks with me, Stevie Thomas,” she said, her eyes flashing anger again. “I know
exactly
where you're going with this.”

That figured, he thought. Trying to outsmart her was a waste of time. “Okay, okay,” he said. “I can understand why you'd feel this way, but…”

“No buts, Stevie,” she said. “My uncle isn't a kidnapper.”

“Can I ask one question?” he said.

“Maybe,” she answered.

“Three years ago, if someone had said your uncle would become an agent, would you have believed it possible?”

She stared at him for a few seconds, then stood up from the table. It looked like she was going to say something. Then her eyes welled up with tears. “You know, it
really
doesn't bother me that Bobby and Tamara might think Uncle Brendan could be involved in this,” she said. “They've never met him and they've had years to build up their distrust of agents. But
you
? Not only have you met him, not only are you staying in his apartment, but how could you so doubt
me
?”

He started to answer but she was gone, stalking past him while he was trying to swallow a pretzel. He heard the door to her bedroom slam. Then the door opened again and she was back. “To answer your question, no, I wouldn't have thought he would become an agent. But I also wouldn't assume it was a dishonorable thing to do.”

She turned and stalked out again. The door slammed one more time.

“Okay, then,” he said to the empty kitchen. “I think that went well.”

He got up to go to bed, walking past the entryway to the apartment, when he heard voices in the hallway. He paused for a second and then heard a key being put into the door. Instinctively, he ran for cover, perhaps because he didn't want to explain why he was still up and Susan Carol wasn't. He went into the hall and stood listening, figuring he would run into his bedroom if anyone came in his direction. He wondered if Susan Carol would come out of her room, hearing the voices, but he thought he heard a shower coming from there. He heard Brendan Gibson's voice as the door was closing. “This is a lot better than the hotel,” he was saying. “Much more private.”

“What about your niece and her friend?” a man's voice said in response. The voice was heavily accented. Stevie thought he might be imagining things, but it sounded Russian.

“I'm sure they're asleep,” Gibson answered. “They had a long day, especially with the kidnapping.”

“Us too,” said a female voice, also accented. “People were everywhere. All the questions and rumors. Such craziness.”

“I know,” Gibson said. “Why don't we sit in the living room? What can I get you two to drink?”

“You have Stolichnaya?” the man's voice said.

“As it happens, I do,” Gibson said. “My favorite vodka. Mrs. Makarova?”

Stevie almost shouted,
What?
Or, more appropriately, he thought, clapping a hand over his mouth,
Who?

“Yes, please, me also,” he heard Mrs. Makarova say.

He slunk back against the wall as the man and the woman crossed the foyer and went into the living room. He could hear Gibson rustling around in the kitchen. He was tempted to knock on Susan Carol's door so she could hear what was going on, but he was afraid any noise at all might alert Gibson. When he heard Gibson saying something as he walked—Stevie assumed—into the living room, he crept forward as far as he dared. There was no door, just an entryway, and the acoustics of the apartment were such that he could hear pretty clearly from his hiding spot. He even heard glasses clinking.

“To a new relationship,” Gibson said.

Bud Collins's information had been accurate. Of course, that didn't mean Gibson or the Makarovs had anything to do with Symanova's disappearance. He kept listening.

Mr. Makarov was talking now. One thing Stevie had learned during the day was that Russian women's names all ended in-
ova
but the men didn't add the-
a.
“As we told you, Brendan, we have done—work at home—on you?”

“Homework, I think you mean,” Gibson said. “Which is good—you should do that before making a decision as big as this.”

“The people at SMG are not happy with us at all,” Mr. Makarov said. “Mr. Norwood was very unpleasant today.”

“I would think Mr. Norwood had other things on his mind today,” Gibson said.

Stevie leaned forward a little more, not wanting to miss a word at this stage of the conversation.

“Yes, you would think so, no? I was very surprised. I have seen him soon after the girl disappears and he starts shouting at me that I am a terrible man and my daughter will pay for this.”

“Maybe he said this because what happened upset him,” Mrs. Makarova said.

“Don't worry about him, he's just flailing,” Gibson answered.

“What is this ‘flailing'?” Mrs. Makarova said.

“Swinging wildly when you don't know what to do,” Gibson said. “When Elena wins this tournament, which she's going to, he'll really be flailing.”

“I wish she would get to play Symanova in quarters,” Mr. Makarov said. “Then people would see she is much better player. I hope she is found soon.”

At that moment Stevie felt a cough coming on. He tried to stop it, but before he could get his hand over his mouth the cough came out. The voices in the other room stopped. For an instant, Stevie thought about sprinting to his bedroom. That wouldn't work. Clearly, he'd been heard. As he saw Brendan Gibson bolting through the entryway into the foyer, he took a long step into the foyer himself, angling toward the kitchen.

“Stevie,” Gibson said, looking unnerved. “I didn't think you guys were up. What's going on?”

“Got a cough,” Stevie said. “I was going to see if there was any Coke in the refrigerator. It helps when I have a scratchy throat.”

“Um, I'm sure we do,” Gibson said, half pulling him in the direction of the kitchen, clearly not wanting him in the living room.

“You have guests?” Stevie asked. “I heard voices.”

“Oh yeah. Friends. Old friends. They were at the matches tonight, so I brought them back here for a drink. They live right nearby. They'll be leaving very soon.”

He pulled a can of Coke from the refrigerator. “You need a glass?”

Stevie was tempted to stall to see if one of the Makarovs would come into the kitchen. But even if they did, Brendan Gibson could just introduce them by another name and they would be smart enough, he figured, to say nothing.

“No, this is fine. Thanks.”

Gibson walked him back into the foyer and down the hall to his room as if to make sure he didn't accidentally veer into the living room. “I'll see you in the morning,” he said.

“Get some sleep. Susan Carol's got a head start on you.”

“Yeah, sure,” Stevie said. “Good night.”

“Good night, Stevie,” Gibson said, then headed back down the hallway.

Stevie stood by the door for a moment and tried to listen. He heard footsteps again. It sounded like the little party was breaking up. He quickly stepped into his room and sat on the edge of the bed. He realized his heart was pounding. He wanted to rush in and tell Susan Carol what he had just heard but he figured that was a bad idea. Gibson might hear them talking and know something was up. Plus, he could see it was almost midnight. It had been a long day. Based on what he had just heard, tomorrow might be even longer.

He fell asleep a lot faster than he thought he might, so exhausted that even trying to piece together the conversation between Gibson and the Makarovs didn't keep him awake. The next thing he knew there was a soft knocking on his door. He glanced at the clock next to the bed: it was a quarter to eight.

“Stevie,” he heard Susan Carol say. “You need to wake up. We have to leave here by eight-fifteen.”

“I'm up,” he called back groggily. “I'll be in the kitchen in fifteen minutes.”

He got up, took a fast shower, and got dressed. Susan Carol was sitting in the kitchen drinking from a coffee mug when he walked in.

“Still drinking coffee?” he said, remembering she'd given him some in New Orleans.

“Only when there isn't a grown-up around.”

“Where's your uncle?”

“Left ten minutes ago. But I talked to him about Makarova and he laughed when I told him that one of the rumors going around last night was that he was going to represent her.”

“Laughed?” Stevie was too stunned to object.

“He said
everyone's
trying to represent Makarova and he made a pitch to them like everyone else. Then he asked me why Makarova changing agents would come up in conversation.”

“What'd you tell him?”

“The truth—that SMG seemed to be a little too eager to spread the idea that the SVR did this and we were wondering who might benefit if Symanova was out of the tournament.”

“What did he think about that?”

“I think the word he used, once he stopped laughing, was ‘absurd.' He said Makarova was a better player than Symanova and
he
had heard that she's dying to play her because she's tired of Symanova getting all the deals and the publicity because of her looks.”

“Wonder where he heard that.”

Susan Carol gave him a look. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. I just wonder where he heard it.”

“Anywhere. Everywhere. It's all over. We made the same assumption, didn't we?”

While he was trying to decide how to tell her what he'd overheard, she said, “God, I'm so relieved. I feel so much better knowing the whole Makarova thing was just another wild rumor. I mean, I
knew
my uncle wasn't involved in anything bad, but now there's no reason to even think about it.”

“Quick bowl of cereal and we're out of here,” he said, deciding this wasn't the time to tell her that her uncle was a flat-out liar.

She tossed a newspaper in his direction as he sat down. Much to his surprise, he saw that it was the
Washington Herald.
There was a headline on the front page, just underneath a story about Congress and the president battling over the budget, that said
VANISHED
. Underneath was a photo of Nadia Symanova.

“Your story is on page three of the sports section,” she said. “Uncle Brendan made arrangements to have it delivered here all week so you could see your stuff. I guess that's more proof of what a bad guy he is.”

“I never said he was a bad guy,” he said, more defensively than was probably necessary. He knew if he told her now she probably wouldn't even believe him.

“Is there anything new on Symanova this morning?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I was listening to the radio when I woke up. Everyone is reporting that it's the SVR. The Russian government is expressing outrage that anyone would think they had anything to do with it. Apparently Larry King did his whole show on it last night. The guy I was listening to on the radio said that King referred to the Lindbergh kidnapping as the most famous kidnapping in history—before yesterday.”

“So people are being calm and rational about it, huh?”

She gave him a no-kidding look. He opened the sports section and there it was. The headline read
RUBIN PULLS FIRST UPSET OF TOURNAMENT

. The byline underneath it said, “by Steven Thomas—Special to the
Herald.
” It gave him chills to see his name in print that way. He was about to start reading when Susan Carol stood up.

“Sorry, Ace, you'll have to read yourself later. We've got to get going.”

She bounced out of the kitchen, clearly pumped to go and find out what had happened to Symanova—now that she knew her uncle was in the clear.