by James Siegel
He hadn’t connected the address Miles had given him to Williamsburg, bastion of Orthodox Judaism. Clearly, that’s where they were.
At every traffic light, sweating, bearded faces stared at him through the windows.
Miles’ home was a handsome brownstone neatly festooned with pots of scarlet geraniums.
Paul paid the driver, then lugged his black bag out of the car, like your friendly neighborhood drug dealer.
He walked up the brownstone steps and rang the buzzer.
The door was opened by a stout, smiling woman who would’ve been pleasant-looking if it weren’t for the thick black wig that sat on her head like a helmet.
“Mr. Breidbart?” she asked.
“Yes.”
The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Goldstein and led him into a wood-paneled study.
“He’ll just be a minute,” she said. “Please sit down.”
Paul chose one of the leather chairs facing a desk buried in an avalanche of paper.
After Mrs. Goldstein had left, he wondered about the wig.
Cancer?
A sudden image of his mother came back to him, meticulously placing someone else’s hair onto her head before the dresser mirror.
Paul gazed at the crowded bookshelves that lined two sides of the den, where books and pictures fought for space. Most of the photographs were of Miles. Shaking hands, posing with various Latin American kids. There was a picture of Miles and María Consuelo standing together in front of the Santa Regina Orphanage. There were several framed citations haphazardly mounted on the wall. Latin American Parents Association Man of the Year. Sitting just below an honorary degree from a law school and a certificate of service from a local hospital.
When a man entered the room and turned around to shut the door, Paul almost asked him when the man in the pictures would be coming down.
But it was the man in the pictures.
In disguise.
Miles was wearing a black felt yarmulke. He was in the process of detaching a small black object resembling a box from his naked forearm, unwrapping a tangle of crisscrossing leather straps. He was wearing a jet-black jacket that fell all the way down to his knees, looking very much like someone who’d wandered out of a Matrix movie.
“They’re called tefillin,” Miles said after he’d shaken Paul’s hand and sat down behind his desk. He’d added the strange black box with trailing straps to the rest of the clutter on his desk, where it lay like some exotic sea creature, an inky octopus maybe, now dead. “They’re kind of indispensable to morning prayer.”
“It’s afternoon.”
“Yeah. I’m playing catch-up.”
“You’re an Orthodox Jew?” Paul asked.
“Hey—you’re good.” Miles smiled when he said it.
“You didn’t dress like this at the office. I didn’t know.”
“Of course not, why would you?” Miles said. “Anyway, I’m modern Orthodox. And I’m kind of unorthodox about my orthodoxy. Wearing nonsectarian attire is a necessary accommodation I make for my career—it might frighten off the clients. Wearing a yarmulke at home is a necessary accommodation I make for my religion—if I didn’t, God might get angry. Got it?”
Yes, Paul got it.
He was eager to get off the subject of Judaism and onto the subject of his kidnapped wife and daughter.
“So,” Miles said, “you’re here. Welcome back. What’s the problem?”
“The problem?” Paul repeated it, maybe because it was such a hopeful word—problems could be faced and surmounted, couldn’t they?
“Bogotá,” Paul said flatly. “It wasn’t safer than Zurich.”
“What?”
“I’m in trouble,” Paul said. “Help me.”
PAUL WAS SIPPING A CUP OF GREEN HERBAL TEA GENEROUSLY provided by Mrs. Goldstein.
Good for the nerves, Miles said.
Miles’ nerves were evidently okay—he’d declined a proffered cup and was instead sitting at the desk with his hands clasped against his forehead.
He’d pretty much reacted the way a concerned lawyer should at the news that his clients had been kidnapped, with one of them still in Colombia and the other forced to smuggle drugs past U.S. Customs. Maybe more so. His face had dropped, become a puddle of concern, anger, and empathy.
He’d come out from behind the desk and clasped Paul around the shoulders.
“My God, Paul. I’m so sorry.”
Paul allowed himself to be comforted, to soak it in like a parched sponge. Up till now, the only person who’d felt sorry for him was him. Miles wanted details.
“Tell me what happened—exactly what happened.”
He told Miles about the afternoon they came back to the hotel and discovered their baby gone. About the next day, when Joanna had matter-of-factly stated that she was certain that the baby sleeping next to them wasn’t Joelle. About the trip to Galina’s, the cries coming from the back of the house, followed by Pablo’s sudden brutality.
The boarded-up room. Arias. The man with the cigar. The burned-out house. Paul continued right up to the moment the taxi stranded him in Jersey City.
Miles listened intently, made a few notes on a yellow legal pad that magically appeared from the clutter on his desk.
“Pablo?” Miles asked him. “This man was your driver?”
“Yes.”
“Uh-huh. And he was contracted through Santa Regina?”
“Yes. Why? Do you think Santa Regina had anything to do with this?”
“Not a chance. I’ve known María Consuelo for years. The woman’s a saint.”
Paul peeked at his watch. “They said eighteen hours. That’s two hours from now.”
“Okay. Let’s think about this logically.”
Paul was going to say that was easier said than done. That it wasn’t Miles’ wife and child in the line of fire. That time was running out. He remained quiet.
“Look, I know it looks pretty bleak, but we’ve still got something they want,” Miles said. He peered at the black bag on Paul’s lap. “In there, huh?”
Paul nodded.
“Maybe we should lock that up in my safe. I have kids running around.”
“Okay.”
Miles walked around to Paul’s side of the desk. He unzipped the bag and looked inside.
He whistled. “I’m no expert on narcotics, but that looks like a lot of stuff.”
“Two million dollars.”
“I’d say that constitutes a lot.”
Miles zipped the bag closed, then tentatively picked it up, holding it at arm’s length the way dog walkers carry their pets’ droppings to the trash can. He opened a liquor cabinet that wasn’t; there was a stainless-steel safe inside.
After he’d locked the bag in, he settled back behind the desk. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you manage to swallow all that?”
Paul was going to say that it’s amazing how much you can swallow when your wife’s life depends on it. You can swallow thirty-six condoms and your own fear and disgust.
“I don’t know. I had to.”
“Yeah, guess you did,” Miles said. “Okay, where were we?”
“The drugs. The something they want.”
“Right, the drugs. They’re not going to do anything to your wife until they know where it is. Doesn’t that make sense?”
Paul nodded.
“Of course it does,” Miles continued. “That’s two million dollars. Besides, I believe FARC’s been known to hold hostages a long time. Years, even.”
Miles offered that particular fact as a palliative. It had the opposite effect; it made Paul sick to his stomach.
Years.
Miles noticed. “Look, I was just making a point. They may have told you eighteen hours. I don’t think they meant it.”
“How do you know?”
“Call it an educated guess.”
Okay, Miles was saying, you have more time. It’s like those threatening past-due bills you get in the mail—they’
re just trying to scare you.
But Paul did feel sick to his stomach—in addition to feeling sweaty, filthy, and physically exhausted. He closed his eyes, rubbed his throbbing forehead with a hand that still smelled of gas station soap.
“You okay?” Miles said with evident concern. “I mean relatively? Look, I need you to stay with me. We’ll work this out, we’ll find a way—but I need you, okay?” He looked down at his scribbled-on pad. “Let’s review our options.”
Paul wasn’t aware that they had any.
“One—we go to the authorities.” Miles seemed to contemplate this notion for a moment; he shook his head. “Uh-uh. Your first instincts were probably dead-on. I mean, which authorities exactly would we go to? The NYPD? The State Department? The Colombian government? They haven’t been able to free their own people. Never mind a foreigner. Plus, if FARC finds out we’ve got people looking for Joanna and the baby, she becomes a liability to them. Then they might do something to her. And there’s something else. You did smuggle drugs into the United States—a lot of drugs. Under duress, sure, the worst kind of pressure, but we’re still talking narcotics trafficking, a federal offense. Okay, we don’t go to the authorities. Agreed?”
Paul said, “Yes.” He was enormously heartened by Miles’ use of the we word. It made him feel a little less alone in the universe.
Miles held up a second finger. “Two. We could do nothing. We could sit and wait for them to contact you.” He shook his head again. “Not so smart. How do we even know they know how to get in touch with you? Odds are, they don’t and who says your wife told them? Okay, scrap that. We can’t sit on our hands. Now . . .” He held up a third finger, leaned slightly forward. “Three. We can contact them ourselves. We can tell them we’ve still got their drugs. All we’re looking for is someone to give it to. We give you the drugs, you let Joanna and the baby go. No Joanna and baby—no drugs. Drugs equal money, lots of money. They’ll want the money.”
Okay, Paul thought, it sounded like an actual plan.
Perfectly logical, simple, even hopeful. Except . . .
“How are you going to contact them? They’re not answering that number. I’ve tried.”
“The driver,” Miles said, snapping his finger. “Pablo. I’ll call Santa Regina. María must have his number somewhere.” Miles opened his desk drawer and pulled out a small phone book. “Let’s see . . .” He scanned down one page, then flipped to the next. “Consuelo . . . Consuelo . . . here we are.”
He picked up his phone, punched in a number.
Some people chat on the telephone as if the person they’re speaking to is right next to them in the room. Miles was like that. When he said hello to María, he grinned, smiled, shook his head, as if she were sitting there right in front of him.
Fine, Miles said, and you?
Yes, growing up. And how are yours?
That’s wonderful—I’d love to see a picture . . .
They continued in this vein for a minute or two, small pleasantries, polite inquiries, general catching up.
“María,” Miles said, “I wonder if you could give me the number of a taxi driver—Pablo. I’m not sure what his last name is . . . Yes, that’s right. I’m thinking of using him for another couple . . . Really? Oh great.”
Miles gave Paul the thumbs-up. He waited, flipping a pencil back and forth between two fingers.
“Ahhh . . .” He scribbled something down. “Thank you, María . . . Of course. Talk to you soon.” He hung up the phone.
“Okay.” He looked up at Paul. “We have the number. Now . . .” He looked down at the pad and dialed again.
This time there were no hellos, no pleasantries exchanged, no small talk. That was because there was no talk at all. Miles waited, flipped the pencil, looked at his watch, stared around the room. Then he shrugged his shoulders, hung up the phone, and tried again.
Same result.
“Okay,” Miles said, “no one’s home.” He put the phone down. “I’ll try again later.”
Paul nodded. The question was, how much of later did they have?
“Look,” Miles said, “I’ve been thinking about this. You probably shouldn’t go home. Not yet. They didn’t want anyone knowing you’re back, correct?”
“Yes.” He’d been lifted up, borne along by Miles’ optimism, but now that they’d failed to connect with anyone, he felt his spirits plummeting.
“Let’s keep it that way, shall we? At least for the time being. You can stay here. Until we get through to them. That all right with you?”
Paul nodded again, willing to be reduced to childlike obedience. If Miles were recommending he stay here, he’d stay. Yes, sir. He was drained, dog-tired, in dire need of a pillow.
Miles made some explanation to his wife—Paul heard him whispering in the next room. Then he led Paul upstairs, past his children’s room, where two boys with remote controls in their hands looked up from their Nintendo.
There was a small guest room at the end of the hall.
Miles clicked on the light.
“Make yourself comfortable. If you want to take a shower, the bathroom’s down the hall. There’s pillows in the closet.”
Paul said, “Thanks.” He did need to take a shower, remembering what had transpired in the middle of the Triborough Bridge. But he didn’t have the energy.
Miles turned to leave, took a few steps, then turned back. “I’ll keep trying the number. If we don’t get him today, we’ll get him tomorrow. We’re going to save them, okay? Joanna and the baby, both of them. We’ll do everything we can.”
It was as good a good-night prayer as Paul could hope for.
He took off his shoes and socks and lay down on the bed without bothering to get a pillow.
PAUL WOKE UP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. HIS WATCH SAID 3:14.
There was that moment when he wasn’t aware where he was, or even what had happened to him. When it was still possible Joanna lay next to him in bed and in the next room lay Joelle, softly sucking on her pacifier.
Then reality intruded. He knew where he was. He knew why. Understood that eighteen hours had come and gone and his wife either was or wasn’t alive. He shut his eyes and dug his head into the mattress in an effort to get back to sleep.
He couldn’t.
He felt suddenly wide-awake, infused with the energy of the seriously panicked. He turned one way, then another. He got a pillow from the closet; lay back and closed his eyes again. No dice. His mind couldn’t stop racing.
Hello, Arias, nice to see you. How’ve you been?
Buenas noches, Pablo.
Galina, good to see you again.
He pictured Joanna too, locked up in that room. His wife, his warrior princess.
After an hour he gave up.
It was dead quiet, the time of the night when it seemed he might be the only one on earth.
Don’t be silly. The darkness can’t hurt you, his father used to say to him as he lay shivering under the covers.
Hard to believe that was true. After all, Paul had been assured that other things wouldn’t hurt him, only to find out differently. Cancer, for instance, which he’d been told was nothing much, even though it had already reduced his mom to the human skeleton he’d discovered lying on her bed, before it killed her just three days past his eleventh birthday. His father was distant, and not home much. His mom was the nurturer in the family. He’d resorted to serious and constant prayer on her behalf. When she succumbed anyway, when the family priest fastened onto his hand as his mom—not his mom, her body—was brought down the stairs draped in a white sheet, he’d secretly renounced his belief in a higher deity. He’d embraced the cool logic of numbers. He’d carefully constructed a universe of structure and compliance. Where probabilities and ratios were your friends. Where you could statistically calibrate the odds of bad things happening to you, then take comfort in them.
It wasn’t by chance that he’d gravitated to a career whose sole purpose was controlling risk.
In
actuary-speak: reducing the likelihood of undesirable events.
His risk management skills seemed to be lacking these days.
He rolled out of bed and stood on his bare feet. The wooden floor felt cool and ancient. There was no television in the room, no radio.
He needed a diversion, something to keep his mind off things. Something to read.
He tiptoed down the staircase, but it still protested with creaks and groans. Having no idea where the hall lights were, he had to feel his way along from banister to wall.
He finally made it into Miles’ office, where after some fumbling around he discovered the light switch just inside the door.
Click.
He shuffled over to the bookshelves. Okay, light reading was in order here. He seemed to be out of luck. The shelves contained the kind of books you might expect in the office of a lawyer. Law books, a veritable glut of them: thick, leather-bound, and singularly uninviting. There were a few other books there but nothing that looked particularly enticing. A Jewish Bible with a cracked, peeling binding. The Kabbalah—whatever that was. A biography of David Ben-Gurion. A wafer-thin volume titled The Story of Ruth.
It won by default.
He could use a good story. The story of anything. But when he pulled it out, not without some difficulty since it was wedged between New York Estate Statutes and Principles of Trial Law, a stack of papers fell out.
Paul reached down to scoop them up.
Letters, old ones by the look of them. Sickly yellow to off-white.
Dear Dad, Daddy, Pop, Father, the first letter began.
One of the video-game players from upstairs. Writing from summer camp maybe?
He felt like a voyeur, an intruder into the Goldstein family history. It made him think of his own family—or lack of one.
He felt a sudden and overwhelming sadness, mixed in with something he clearly recognized as jealousy. Miles was lucky. He had a wife who wasn’t sitting in Colombia under armed guard. Two children who dutifully wrote him from camp, delighting in using every existing term for father.