Vanishing Act

by John Feinstein

  A podium had been set up at one end of the court. There were rows of chairs all the way back to the net, and behind that was an even larger podium that was jam-packed with cameras and their crews. As it got close to eleven o’clock, they could hear the whir of helicopters overhead. “I haven’t seen anything like this since the O.J. chase,” Mearns said.

  By 11:10, a USTA PR guy was demanding that everyone take seats, and even from a distance, they could sense that an entourage of people was moving toward the court. “Reminds me of the posse in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” Kelleher said, bringing up a famous old movie Stevie had watched with his dad. “You can see them coming from miles away.”

  The posse entered through a side gate near the podium. Stevie tried to count the security people as they poured in—some in suits with earpieces, some in the blue shirts worn by the USTA security people—and gave up when he got to eighteen. In the midst of all of them, Stevie could see Arlen Kantarian, Mr. and Mrs. Symanov, Hughes Norwood, and last but certainly not least, Nadia Symanova. As soon as the fans spotted her, they began to clap and cheer and call out her name: “Nadia! Nadia!” The noise built as they came through the gate and people could see her clearly as she followed her father onto the podium. She was dressed more like a model than a tennis player, in a short blue dress and high-heeled sandals.

  “She must be eight feet tall in those shoes,” Stevie said to Susan Carol.

  “Don’t make fun of tall girls,” Susan Carol said. “But you’re right.”

  The posse sat in chairs next to the podium and Kantarian walked to the microphone to get things started. There was still a lot of noise from the fans and hundreds of cameras clicking and whirring as Symanova sat down and crossed her legs. She had a broad smile on her face and was waving to people, even blowing kisses at a few particularly amorous fans. “Marry me, Nadia!” one of them screamed.

  Kantarian, now at the microphone, picked up on that quickly, saying, “No proposals this morning.”

  Everyone laughed. Kantarian settled into the script that was apparently in front of him. “We’re here this morning to celebrate,” he said. “As you can all see, Nadia Symanova has been returned safely to her family and to the family that is the world of tennis.”

  “Oh God, the family of tennis,” Mearns said. “Be sure to write that down.”

  Kantarian went on for several minutes: they could not share details of Nadia’s ordeal, he said, because the FBI still considered it an open case. No ransom had been paid. He knew there had been speculation that the Russian SVR had been responsible for her kidnapping but they could not confirm or deny that. What mattered, he said, was that she was safe and “this nightmare is now over and we can go on with this wonderful tournament with Nadia very much a part of it.” He announced that her first-round match would be played on Arthur Ashe Stadium court that night at eight o’clock, the start moved back thirty minutes to accommodate CBS.

  “What a surprise,” Kelleher murmured.

  “The winner of the Symanova–Joanne Walsh match will play her second-round match on Friday, and the winner of that match will play Sunday. So the tournament is running right on schedule. When I’m finished, Nadia will make a statement, but please remember she’s been through an ordeal and she has to play tonight, so she can’t talk long.”

  Bud Collins stood up in the front row to ask a question and Kantarian waved a hand at him. “Wait till we get a mike to you, Bud,” he said as someone rushed in with a handheld for him.

  Collins came right to the point. “Arlen, with all due respect, what do you mean, you can’t give us details? We’re all thankful Nadia is safe, but now that this is over, don’t you think the public deserves to have an understanding of who did this and why?”

  There was some catcalling from the fans as he sat down, some people yelling, “Yeah, tell us!” and others saying, “Leave her alone, media!”

  Kantarian smiled uncomfortably. “I hear you, Bud,” he said. “But even though Nadia is safe now, this isn’t over. There are some issues we are still dealing with—like bringing her kidnappers to justice—that make it impossible for us to be as forthcoming as we’d like to be.”

  Kantarian babbled on for a few more minutes about how cooperative everyone had been, how supportive Symanova’s fellow players had been—“I guess he didn’t hear Walsh’s agent screeching for a default,” Susan Carol whispered—and how proud he was of everyone in the sport for “coming together in a crisis.” Finally, he brought Symanova to the podium. When he did, Hughes Norwood came up with her.

  The crowd went wild when Symanova got to the mike, and she waved and smiled some more.

  “This is turning into a damn pep rally,” Kelleher said.

  “Isn’t that the point?” Stevie asked.

  “Apparently.”

  Someone had the mike and was asking a question. “Nadia, McDonald Faircloth from Fox News. Can you describe your ordeal?”

  Symanova smiled and looked at Norwood, who nodded. Apparently this question was okay to answer. “It was very awful,” she said, her English carrying just the trace of an accent. “Before I knew what was happening, there was something covering my mouth and I was being pulled along. As soon as we were in the car, I was blindfolded. It was all very, very scary. I prayed to God to help me, to save me, and he did. I know many people have prayed for me, and I want to thank them all.”

  “Did you fear for your life?” the Fox guy said, following up.

  She smiled. “Of course I did. If you were shut in a room with no windows for two days with a blindfold on, I think you would be scared too.”

  Stevie wondered how she knew the room had no windows if she was blindfolded.

  Someone else had the mike. “Nadia, Joseph Frisell from NBC News. Two questions: Were you fed? And do you think you’ll be able to play tonight after what you’ve been through?”

  She smiled again. “Yes, they did feed me, though not very much. Last night after I was safe, I had a giant steak. I’m feeling great now.” She moved away from the podium so everyone could see her from head to toe and struck a pose. Leaning back into the mike, she said, “How do I look?”

  Whistles and catcalls came from all sides. “Boy, she’s good,” Mearns said.

  Symanova was still talking. “I do not know, though, how I will play tonight. As soon as I leave here, I will go for a hit and hope I am okay to play. For now, I am happy to be alive, and I thank everyone for their love and their prayers.”

  Hughes Norwood now took the microphone. “That’s all the time we have for now. Thank you very much.”

  People were screaming all at once, trying to ask more questions. Bud Collins and a couple of other people in the front row tried to advance on the podium for follow-up questions and were practically knocked down by security guards. Symanova was waving to the crowd as she exited.

  “Dog and pony show,” Kelleher said, watching the entourage disappear through the gate.

  “What’s a dog and pony show?” Stevie asked.

  “Something sensational with no substance,” Susan Carol said. “They’re just trying to get publicity without telling us anything.”

  “Well, they certainly accomplished that,” Stevie said. “What do we do now?”

  Kelleher shrugged. “I think we proceed just as we had planned.”

  “Except for one thing,” Susan Carol said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I think you should try to call your FBI guy again. He’s got to be able to tell you more than we heard here.”

  Kelleher nodded. “Thirteen-year-olds should not be as smart as you are, Susan Carol,” he said.

  Mearns said, “You need to get out to court four, Stevie. I can see on the big scoreboard that Evelyn’s match has started.”

  She was right. They hadn’t gotten any answers during the dog and pony show, so they would have to go find them on their own. Which is what they should have counted on from the start.

  15: MEDIA DARLING

&nb
sp; IT TOOK them several minutes to get off the practice court and through the throngs still milling around on the plaza in hopes of getting a glimpse of Symanova, who was now long gone. Stevie walked as quickly as he could to court 4, which was directly behind the practice courts. It had grandstands on both sides with space, Stevie guessed, for about three thousand. He noticed a sign on the far side of the court that said MEDIA ONLY and headed there to find a seat. It wasn’t easy. The place was packed. There were at least seventy-five media members watching Evelyn Rubin play Lisa Raymond—which was exactly seventy-three more than had watched her on Monday—and Stevie had to squeeze into a corner seat.

  Rubin was up 4–3 in the first set with Raymond serving. Stevie recognized Raymond’s name. She was one of the older players on tour. Someone, if his memory was right, who was more of a doubles specialist than a singles player at this point in her career. He looked at the draw sheet in his pocket and discovered he was right: her singles ranking had dropped to number 108 but he knew she had once been a top-twenty player. Rubin was wearing a baseball cap to protect herself from the sun and had her hair tied back, just as she had on Monday. One thing Stevie liked about her was that she didn’t grunt or shriek when she hit the ball. If there was one thing Stevie had never liked about Maria Sharapova or Venus Williams, it was all the shrieking. Rubin almost made it look easy. She didn’t crush every shot—she’d use topspin some of the time, the occasional drop shot, and a lot of very sharp angles. The trend in tennis had been in the direction of pure power: the Williams sisters, Sharapova, Lindsay Davenport. Rubin had power in her game, but finesse too—unusual for such a young player. She had Raymond running a lot, which, even in the cooler weather, Stevie knew would be to her advantage, just as in the Maleeva match.

  He looked around, searching for Brendan Gibson. He wouldn’t be so easy to pick out in this crowd, even in his agent’s uniform. The place was packed. Stevie saw no sign of him, although it was possible he was sitting on the same side of the court, out of his view.

  He was sitting next to a middle-aged man with curly brown hair and a mustache. Stevie glanced down at his credential and saw that his name was Pete Alfano and he worked for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. Stevie turned his attention back to the court just in time to see Rubin surprise Raymond by coming to the net. Raymond had floated a backhand and Rubin closed on it and put it away with a pretty forehand volley. Stevie was reminded of something he had heard Carillo say: that the last female player who could really volley was Martina Navratilova.

  “Game Rubin. She leads five games to three, first set.”

  Pete Alfano wrote something in his notebook and turned to Stevie. “Pete Alfano,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Steve Thomas,” Stevie said, accepting the handshake.

  “I know who you are,” Alfano said. “You’re one of the kids who saved Chip Graber at the Final Four. Nice work.”

  Stevie was starting to get used to reporters knowing who he and Susan Carol were. But it was still cool.

  “Thanks,” Stevie answered. “We were very lucky. So why are so many reporters watching this match?”

  Alfano smiled and started to answer but Raymond was serving. He waited until an interminable backcourt rally ended with Raymond shrieking in anger as her forehand cracked the net tape. “Symanova can beat Joanne Walsh and Annabelle Kim if she plays them left-handed. This Rubin kid can play. She wins today, they’ll play in the third round and it will be the most watched third-round match in U.S. Open history. Most of us haven’t seen her or have only seen her briefly. So we need to see her today—and talk to her about what she’s probably going to walk into on Sunday.”

  That made sense. It also meant, Stevie realized, that he wasn’t going to be able to saunter up to Evelyn Rubin and see if she could talk to him. And judging by the packed stands, the media weren’t the only ones who saw Rubin as an emerging story. The rest of the match went fairly quickly. Raymond double-faulted on set point to lose the first set, and just as she had done with Maleeva, Rubin simply wore her out in the second set, running her from side to side with her ground strokes. She was up 5–0 in what seemed like the blink of an eye, then got a little bit nervous and blew four match points to allow Raymond to win a game. She finally ended it on her fifth match point, hitting a perfect drop shot that Raymond simply stood and watched with a smile on her face as if to say, “Kid, you’re just a little too good for me.” The crowd gave Rubin a standing ovation as the players shook hands at the net. Rubin had won, 6–3, 6–1.

  “A star is born,” Pete Alfano said, standing up. “Now let’s see if the USTA is asleep at the wheel.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean there’s close to a hundred of us out here. They ought to take this kid into the interview room. But I’ll bet they’re so Nadia-obsessed right now, there’s no one out here from the PR staff and we’re going to have to crowd around her on the court. It will be chaos.”

  As it turned out, Alfano was right. By the time they worked their way down to courtside, most of the media had formed a semicircle just outside the entrance of the court where Rubin would exit. A few had cornered Raymond as she came out—no doubt to get her to talk about Rubin. Then Evelyn came walking out, head down, still with just one security guard, and seemed shocked when she heard a chorus of voices calling her name. She had probably been expecting to see Stevie and Susan Carol and no one else, just like on Monday. That, Stevie thought, was a long time ago.

  Several TV people with cameras and microphones pushed forward, practically knocking Rubin down in the process. Stevie could see the security guy pull his walkie-talkie off his belt. No doubt he was calling for help—which was a good idea. The questions came all at once and, standing near the back with Alfano, Stevie could see that a good deal of pushing and shoving was going on near the front.

  “Someone’s going to get hurt,” Alfano said.

  “You called it,” Stevie told him.

  “I’ve covered this tournament since the eighties,” Alfano sighed. “The USTA hasn’t learned very much in that time.”

  Stevie kept looking around, wondering where Brendan Gibson was. Still no sign of him. He was surprised. This was a big moment for his client. Why wouldn’t her agent be here? He wasn’t complaining. It would be a lot tougher to talk to Rubin alone if Gibson was around. Perhaps impossible since he might jump in and say no. Stevie continued looking around amid the tumult to see if he was lurking.

  Some of the print reporters were yelling at some of the TV guys. Evelyn was standing back, letting the security guy try to create some space for her, looking stunned by what she was seeing. Finally, some sort of accord seemed to be reached and people began asking questions that could actually be heard.

  The third question—after a couple about how well she had played against Raymond—got to the point. “Do you realize you will probably play Nadia Symanova next?”

  “Well, I know she’s the seeded player in my section of the draw,” Evelyn said. “I’m just very glad that she’s okay. I saw her in the hallway when she was walking to her press conference, but I didn’t get a chance to say hello because there must have been a hundred people around her. If I do play her, it will be a thrill to be on court with her.”

  Stevie was struck by how cool and calm Evelyn was under the circumstances. She patiently answered all the questions: no, she had never played Symanova before (Stevie noticed a TV person asked that, a question that could have been answered by looking at Evelyn’s bio); yes, she had been very scared when she had heard about the kidnapping; Nadia was very brave to come back and play; when she’d talked to her on occasion she seemed like a very nice girl. The media crowd began to thin. More security arrived, but by this time things were more or less under control. The TVs, as Stevie heard Kelleher call them all the time, had their sound bites and began to leave, practically taking off the heads of fans—who were being kept back by more security people—as they departed. Finally, just a few reporters with notebooks w
ere left. Stevie moved closer and stood just outside the circle. Evelyn spotted him. “Hi, Stevie,” she said as someone was asking a question.

  He was very pleased she had noticed him and said hello. “Great win, Evelyn,” Stevie said.

  “Is this your boyfriend?” one of the reporters said to Evelyn. Stevie certainly didn’t mind someone thinking that, but he felt his face flush when the question was asked.

  She laughed. “No, no, just a friend. I’m afraid Stevie’s taken. He dates my agent’s niece.”

  Whoo boy, now Stevie was turning multiple colors. He started to correct her, then realized it was pointless. Once the reporters were convinced he had no serious connection to Rubin, they lost interest in him. He waited until they finished their questions and finally it was just him and Evelyn and six security guards.

  “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you,” she said.

  “It’s Susan Carol who would be embarrassed,” he answered. “She’s out of my league.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Evelyn said. “I do know she likes you.”

  “You do? How—”

  One of the security guards broke in. “Ms. Rubin, we need to get you out of here. The players for the next match on this court are on their way.”

  “Oh sure,” she said. “Can my friend walk with us?”

  The security guard didn’t seem thrilled by the idea, but shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  The six beefy men in blue formed a gauntlet around them and one of them began to shout, “Player coming through” as they started walking through the crowd. There were some fans imploring her for autographs.

  “I really should sign,” Evelyn said.

  “Not here,” the security man said. “It would completely stop all traffic. We need to get you back inside.”

  She didn’t argue. Amid the shouting as they walked, Stevie said, “I really need to talk to you for a few minutes.”