Saving Sophie: A Novel (3 page)

Now, suddenly, the intercom barked, “Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the seat-belt sign. There’s some rough weather ahead. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts until the turbulence has passed.”

Malani opened her eyes and took stock of where she was—her head on Jack’s shoulder, his arm around her. She looked up at Jack and giggled.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Jack said, quickly lifting his arm. “I … I was sleeping and dreaming and … I’m so embarrassed.”

“I’m the one who should be embarrassed. I leaned on you. You should have awakened me or pushed me back in my seat.”

From there, a conversation gained traction. He said he was traveling on business and was thinking about finding a place on the islands. She said her family was deeply rooted in the islands, they’d been there for generations. She was currently vice president for
Hawaii Magazine,
a periodical owned by her family. She handed a business card to Jack.

“Honolulu is quite a fascinating place to live,” she said. “Hawaii has over a million residents and over eight million visitors every year—every color, size, and shape. It’s the crossroads of the Pacific. No matter who you are, it’s the ideal place to melt into the mosaic of humanity.”

“Very poetic,” Sommers said, as though the idea had not occurred to him.

She turned her attention back to her music, and Jack returned to his thoughts. The time passed slowly for him, and eventually the plane touched down. “I hope you find the right opportunity, Jack,” Malani said as she walked down the Jetway. “It was nice meeting you. You have a comfortable shoulder.”

“Thank you,” said Sommers with a short laugh.

Evening rain splashed hard against the banana leaves as Sommers followed the covered walkway to the main terminal. Tired and hungry, his joints aching from his long journey, he merged into the crowd moving toward the baggage carousels. The fragrances of orchids and tropical foliage filled the hall but did little to calm his nerves.

Once again, Sommers scanned the baggage area for law enforcement: men with large chests and broad shoulders, in blue blazers, their hands clasped before them, their feet spread apart, eyeing the arriving passengers, waiting to spot Sommers and take him into custody. But there were no such men and Sommers exhaled another sigh of relief.

Hello again, Hawaii,
he said to himself
. A place of happier times long ago. Now, you’re just a spot for me to hide at the other end of the world.

Without pausing, he walked past the baggage area, through the automatic doors, and directly to the taxi stand.

“Two sixty-four Kaiulani Avenue, please.”

The cabdriver nodded and drove east in the direction of Waikiki.

*   *   *

I
N HIS TRUMP TOWER
condominium, Dan Gibson started worrying about his partner, Denny Harrington. It was 1:30
A.M.
It wasn’t like Denny to be late and not even call. He’d never done that before. Gibson got out of bed, slipped on his robe, and went to sit vigil by the living-room window, not that he could identify anyone from the fifty-third floor. He stared at the city lights below. Then he called Harrington’s cell for the third time.

“Hi, this is Denny. I can’t take your call right now, but…”

“Really, Denny,” Gibson said aloud as he hung up. “I know you had a gigantic transaction and a celebration dinner, but do we have to be so inconsiderate?”

At two he called again. And at three. At four he called the police.

F
IVE

“C
OME, MY PRECIOUS LITTLE
one, it is time for madrassa.”

“No, Jaddi, please. I’m not going, I hate the school,” said the little girl, her arms defiantly folded across her chest. She stuck out her chin. “I want to go home.”

Squatting before his granddaughter, his hands gently on her shoulders, he spoke softly. “Oh, my little
hafiida,
we have spoken of this so many times. This is now your home. Your Jadda and I love you very much.” He smiled warmly and raised his eyebrows. “And you must go to school.”

The little girl, with fair skin and light hair, stood before her caramel-skinned grandfather and tightened her lips. “This is not my home!” She stomped her foot. “And I’m never, never going to that school.”

Dr. Arif al-Zahani stood and slowly shook his head. “You are six years old. All children go to school. They do not stay home. And we will not argue further.”

Tears formed in her eyes. She lowered her head. “They make fun of me.”

“Who makes fun of you?”

“Everybody. I don’t know what they’re saying, I can’t speak Arabic. I don’t know their games. They laugh at me. I hate them all.”

“Bashir will talk to your teachers. We will see that no one makes fun of you. Now, get ready for school and Bashir will walk with you.”

“I don’t want to wear a hijab.”

“Why not? It is just a scarf, and a very pretty one.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I want to go home, Jaddi. I want to see my daddy. I want to be in my own room.”

Al-Zahani patted her on the head, turned, and walked out, leaving the little girl sitting on the marble floor, her head hanging low against her chest. She rocked back and forth, clutching tightly to her stuffed bear. The brown bear was dressed in a blue sweater with a large orange
C
in the middle. She sat on the floor, cheek to cheek with her bear, and sobbed. Her bear understood. He was the only one who cared.

In the next room, her grandfather called for Bashir. The solid, broad-shouldered man in his tan sport coat came into the room. His walk had purpose, his movement efficiency, his bearing befitting a calm, strong constitution. He was not a man to be trifled with. Bashir bowed slightly.
“Sayyid?”

“Please walk my granddaughter to school. Speak to the headmistress. Tell her I am displeased with the little one’s integration into the classroom. The children are unkind. She tells me they make fun of her. We must see that such conduct stops immediately.”

Bashir nodded. “I will talk to the woman.”

The large man walked quietly into the library and held his hand out for the little one. She slowly rose and put her tiny hand in his.

Bashir looked down at her and gently said, “We must leave the bear at home.”

“His name is Sweetness,” she said quietly.

He smiled and sat Sweetness on the shelf. Hand in hand, they left together.

*   *   *

J
ENKINS CUSTOMARILY ARRIVED AT
his office early, but on this day, a day when his firm was in charge of closing the book on a $300 million sale, he was especially early. And he had an uneasy feeling. All his voice-mail messages to Sommers had gone unreturned. He paced the office and made a few more attempts to reach him.

“Damn it, Jack,” he said to the ringing phone. “Get up. Answer the phone.” Finally, at eight thirty, he summoned Gil Roberts, a junior partner.

“Gil, you were seconding Sommers on the Kelsen deal, right?”

“Somewhat, but Jack wanted to handle the deal himself. I prepared some papers for him, but that’s about all. I know the deal pretty well, if you have a question.”

“My question is, ‘Where’s Jack?’ So far, I’ve been unable to reach him. In the event he’s sick or something and doesn’t come in, would you make yourself available to tie up any loose ends and make sure everything goes smoothly this morning?”

“Of course, Mr. Jenkins. All of the deposits have been made. It’s pretty routine.”

Gil went to Sommers’s office to retrieve the file and prepare for the closing. Sommers’s papers and files were neatly arranged in stacks. A few personal items were here and there: a paperweight made from a painted rock, a marble bookend, and a framed picture of Sommers standing on a beach, his left arm around the waist of his wife and his right arm resting on the shoulder of his curly-haired, lithesome child. He picked up the photograph. Sommers and his wife were in their swimsuits. Jack, a head taller than his wife, was still fit from his high school tennis days. Alina was lovely. She had smooth gentle curves, long dark hair, well past her shoulders and parted in the middle. A classic beauty. Dazzling in her two-piece suit. They made a handsome couple. Sophie, her nose scrunched up as she squinted in the sunshine, held a blue plastic bucket and shovel in her hands.
The perfect family
, thought Gil.
What a shame.

Gil found the Kelsen closing papers stacked on the shelf over the credenza. He thumbed through them. Everything seemed to be in order. He picked out the unsigned copies of the two bank releases. Later that morning, when the title company received the signed originals, evidencing full payment of Kelsen’s loans, the balance of the purchase price would be disbursed to Kelsen.

Midwestern Title, the escrow company selected to close the transaction, had wire-transferred funds to pay off each of the bank loans the previous day. When Midwestern received the signed releases, it would disburse $96 million to Victor Kelsen. All neat and simple. The parties estimated that the payoff would occur no later than 11:00
A.M.
At 10:00
A.M.
, Gil called Jim Ellis at Midwestern to make sure everything was in place.

“Jim, it’s Gil Roberts at Jenkins and Fairchild. Can I confirm that you are prepared to disburse Kelsen’s proceeds?”

“I thought Jack Sommers was handling this deal.”

“He is. I’m just helping out. Are we all set to disburse?”

“Not quite. I’ve got First Bank’s release in front of me, but not the one from Exchange. They’ve yet to send over their signed release.”

Gil knew that Exchange Bank was owed $88 million to pay off Kelsen’s commercial loan and would sign the release as soon as they got the money.

“Do you know whether Exchange received its loan payoff?” Gil asked.

“I’m sure it did. I wired the money first thing yesterday morning, the same time I wired First Bank’s, but we don’t have the Exchange release of lien yet.”

“Not good. Kelsen’s money is supposed to be disbursed to him in an hour. Do you have any idea why there’s a delay?”

“No. But I know they received the wire. I have the Fed confirmation number.”

Gil ended the call, thumbed through the documents, and found the telephone number for the Exchange loan officer, Greta Dahmshultz.

“I have your release all set to go,” Greta said, “but we haven’t received our funds yet.”

“Are you sure? I’ve been told the money was wired to you yesterday morning,” Gil said. “Ellis told me he had the Fed number.”

“I’m sorry, but the money hasn’t been credited yet. Sometimes these Fed wires are slow. It’ll probably be credited later today. Why don’t you call me back at noon?”

Gil was frustrated but knew his hands were tied until the wire was received. He thanked her and went to talk to Jenkins.

“This is just dandy,” Jenkins said, standing behind his desk, clenching his fists. “Kelsen’ll be here in half an hour and he’ll have my ass. I don’t care what Dahmshultz says, call her back at eleven. Stay on her.”

As he was told, Gil made the call at eleven, but heard the same dismissive answers, along with “I thought I told you to call me at
noon
.” He buzzed Jenkins. “I’m sorry, sir, but Ms. Dahmshultz still maintains they didn’t get the money.”

“Gil, I’m sitting here with Mr. Kelsen right now,” Jenkins replied in an irritated tone. “He’s not happy about this. And neither am I. Would you please find out what the hell happened to the wire and the release? Do whatever you have to do.” Jenkins set the phone down and forced a smile at Kelsen. “I’m sure this will clear itself up in a short while.”

Gil looked at the telephone receiver in his hand.
Whatever I have to do? What does he think I can do?

Kelsen shifted impatiently in his chair and looked around Jenkins’s expansive corner office. Antique oak bookcases and side tables bordered one end of a nine-by-sixteen Oriental rug. A Tiffany lamp hung in the corner over a small marble conference table. The walls were covered with distressed-oak paneling, which Jenkins boasted was salvaged from the demolition of the old St. Aloysius Church on South Kildare.

Jenkins opened a walnut humidor, took out a large cigar, held it under his nose, and lifted his eyebrows. He offered it to Kelsen, who waved it off.

“It’s a Cuban,” Jenkins said, “but, of course, you’ll have to wait until you get outside. Can’t smoke in my own damn offices anymore.”

Kelsen shook his head. “No, thanks. I just want to get my money and be on my way.”

“I understand completely, Victor. I guess Murphy’s Law is hard at work on this deal. You know, if something can go wrong, it will go wrong.” Jenkins forced a nervous chuckle. “But don’t worry, we’ll clear it up.”

“So, the bigger the deal, the bigger the fuckup, is that right? Is that what you’re saying?” Kelsen snapped. “Who is this kid, this Roberts? What happened to Sommers? Why isn’t he working on this? Didn’t I pay you guys enough?”

Jenkins shrugged. “He must be ill. I can’t reach him. What about your man Harrington? Does he have any idea why the wire is delayed?”

Kelsen took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. “Fuck Harrington. I can’t find the prick. Of all the days to go missing, Harrington decides to be a no-show on the day the escrow closes. His partner called me earlier this morning and he doesn’t know where Harrington is either. In fact, he called the cops.”

“The cops?”

“Missing persons. Wants to file a report because Harrington didn’t come home last night.” Kelsen swiveled to look out the window.

Jenkins rocked back in his chair and raised his eyebrows. “Is this typical of Harrington?”

“Fuck no. You think I’d keep an irresponsible CFO? He was the most punctual, detailed, boring man I ever met. His partner says he’s never done this before.”

Kelsen and Jenkins locked eyes as the same thought entered both of their minds. Harrington and Sommers had been in charge of the entire transaction. Together. And now both were inexplicably missing. And so was the money. Jenkins shook his head to clear that thought. Not possible. He’d known Sommers for years. But, still.