Wally had spoken to Addie that morning. He was prepared to be loving, fair, reasonable, stern and ground her for the weekend and close her Facebook account. But fortunately for him, that was already taken care of. Addie was mortified of embarrassment and announced that she would stay in the house and study for finals the entire Memorial Day weekend and not talk to anyone; especially Ashley. She took the drunk, topless photo off of her Facebook page and Wally realized, with no small amount of relief, that sometimes single parents relied on either a providential angel or on good-old, clumsy serendipity. And that maybe they were the same thing. That wouldn’t always work, of course, but Danielle would be back on Tuesday. In any case, Addie was safely under auto house arrest and Deuce was there too, practicing coin finger rolls and card lifts and watching old Mark Wilson magic specials. He was Wally’s moll. Addie’s whereabouts only a text away if she decided to breach the perimeter. Day two. Disaster mostly averted.
As Wally and Rod Laver the Dog passed the tall twin anchors, the rigged mainsail and Bosun’s Chair at the grand front gates and headed toward the clubhouse, Raj Ranganathan, the Yacht Club’s beer-ad-handsome Head Professional and Assistant pro, Cindy Cho, the former Stanford number one and current crush of all the male club members were outside at the tournament desk handing out court assignments.
“Raj!” called Wally.
“Wilsey. Glad you could make it.” A Bro hug and shake. “Hey, Rocket!” Raj bent down and tousled Rod’s fur.
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” said Wally. “Your top teams need some easy wins or it’s going to be a long Saturday for them. Hi, Cindy.”
Hugging and kissing him, “Wilsey, how are you?”
“Danielle’s gone. Addie’s grounded and everything hurts. So, ready to tear it up.”
“You’re even cuter than usual when you’re grousing,” she said.
“Tough draw today,” said Raj.
“A few pros in the mix?” asked Wally with practiced mock innocence.
“Sania Mirza. Nicole Vadisova. Michael Chang. Stefan Edberg. And a couple others.”
“Nole and Rafa busy?”
“Clay court gig in France, I think,” said Raj.
Wally smiled, “Our chances are better than I thought, then.”
Cindy handed him two cans of balls and a scorecard. “That’s the spirit. Go join Gina on number eleven.”
“She’s here already?”
“Since we opened. I think she’s a little nervous.”
Wally laughed. “Eleven, hunh?”
Gina was shakily shanking serves as Wally stepped onto the immaculate grass court and put down his bag.
“Morning, Gina.”
She framed a wide slice at the Tidi-Court and quick-stepped over to Wally.
“Hi, Wally,” she said, hugging him. “And good morning, Mr. Laver.”
She tousled Rod’s head and then he settled in underneath the bench near the fence.
“All set?” said Wally in his best Positive Coaching Alliance voice.
“All set? No. Have you seen our draw?”
“Not yet,” said Wally. “Remember, just play the ball, not the reputation.”
“Fine, but frankly, I think we’re screwed either way.”
“Now why would you say that?” said Wally.
Gina pointed to the couple just arriving at the court, “Because it’s a grass court and we’re playing them.”
Dressed head to toe in tennis whites, a long-sleeved top and a floppy white hat, Ashley Margincall stepped onto the court with her partner for the day, 43 year-old, six foot four, 1991 Wimbledon Champion, Michael Stich.
“Hi, Wally,” she said, tipping her hat. “Looks like Michael and I got you first round. On grass too.”
“Hi, Ashley. Ashley, this is Gina.”
“Hi,” said Ashley. “And everybody, this is Michael Stich.”
“Hello,” said Wally.
“Michael’s in a little deal with my dad in Iceland, but he took the weekend off for the tournament.”
Gina looked at Ashley’s severe tennis outfit. “You’re really covered up. Won’t you be hot?”
“I’m always hot,” said Ashley. “I think I expose myself to the sun too much or something.” She winked at Wally.
“Shall we get started?” asked Gina. “I’ve never played on grass.”
Stich smiled knowingly at Ashley.
As Michael and Gina went to their baselines to warm-up, Wally stopped
Ashley. “We need to talk.”
“I’m home alone tonight. I hear your wife’s in Switzerland.”
“We need to talk about last night.”
“It was a harmless prank. Nothing I wouldn’t do out in the open.”
“That’s not exactly a standard to go by,” he said.
She frowned cutely.
“Addie’s really embarrassed,” he said.
“That is too bad. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. She looked great.”
“She’s staying in the house all weekend.”
“Yeah, until the hot guys start texting.”
Ashley, prim as a white rabbit, took out her racquet and stepped onto the close-cut green court. Wally suddenly felt a whole lot less confident of an averted disaster. Nothing to do right now though, except bend his knees and volley. He started hitting balls.
That was the last time the match was close. Ashley and Michael Stich played to Gina relentlessly and led 6–0, 5–0 at the last changeover. The three bisque points Wally and Gina started each set with didn’t really help. It only meant they didn’t lose every game at love. Stich played exactly the way a six foot four, forty-three year-old Wimbledon champion would play. Control of all of his shots. Just enough extra ragout to cook on each point. Some well-mannered displays of power here and there. For her part, Ashley didn’t miss a serve, return or volley. Wally was flattered to think that she was actually paying attention to tennis at her lessons. She was quite the multi-tasker.
As they all stepped back onto the court after the changeover, Wally took the balls and went to serve. Out of nowhere, two grim government agents in mid-priced dark suits appeared at the fence. As Wally bounced the ball, one of the men cleared his throat.
“Wally Wilson?”
Wally stopped bouncing and looked their way. “Wrong court, fellas. I think the president’s on number one.”
“We’re not from the Secret Service. I’m Agent Flint.” Then, pointing to the agent beside him, “And this is Agent Steel. Mr. Wilson, may we speak with you a moment?”
“Can’t it wait until we’re done?”
“Actually, sir, it can’t. Time is of the essence. And seeing the score, I’d think you’d welcome a default about now,” said Flint.
“I don’t want to default,” said Wally. “I’m about to serve.”
“Is that Micheal Stich?” asked Flint.
“Yes,” said Wally.
“1991 Wimbledon champion. Played Boris Becker in a great final. Does he still have game?”
“May I serve now?” said Wally. He started his serve bounce again.
An intense Fed vibe. “Sir, I think you’ll want to hear this.”
Wally caught the ball. “Okay, what is it?”
Agent Flint motioned Wally to the fence and lowered his voice, “Sir, I don’t believe this is the best place or time.”
“Yeah. It’s my serve.”
Flint looked at Steel moved in close to the fence and Flint pressed his mouth up to it and whispered to Wally, serious and chillingly, “Sir, your wife has been kidnapped.”
Wally couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “She’s not kidnapped. She’s in Switzerland.”
“Yes, sir, she is. And she’s being held hostage in Switzerland.”
Michael Stich called over to Wally, “Serve this morning, please?”
Wally’s eyes were now trained on Flint. “Danielle, my wife, is a hostage? In Switzerland?”
“Yes, sir,” said Flint. Steel nodded.
Ashley walked up to the net to get Wally’s attention. “Wally?”
“Yes?”
“Can your Amway friends come back later?” she said.
“Uh, I don’t think so. Just a minute.” Turning back to Flint, “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, sir. Our agency doesn’t kid.”
“People get kidnapped in Switzerland?”
“Yes, sir,” said Agent Flint. “Evidently they do.”
Wally exhaled hard. “Oh, my god.”
Wally looked down, dumbstruck. His face creased. His heart raced. He started gasping breaths.
Rod Laver the Dog sat up.
“Wally!” said Gina. “Can you serve, please? The grass is growing.”
“Okay. Right away.”
Dazed and unthinking, Wally went up to the line and hit a serve. Powered by his hyperactive heart, his surging adrenaline and the tension of the last few days, he unleashed a serve so powerful that it almost hit Ashley in the head after the bounce. It was the fastest serve of the day, here and at Roland Garros. In fact, it was one of the fastest serves ever hit. Ashley, Stich, Gina and the agents all dropped mouth and popped eyes.
15–Love.
He hit the next one even faster. Stich didn’t have time to move his racquet.
30–Love.
Speed increasing with each delivery, Wally blasted another by Ashley to the deuce court and then belted one so hard to the ad court that it shot through the back fence, the fence behind it and finally stuck in the fence behind it.
“Game,” said Wally.
“Wie bitte?” said Stich.
“Where were those in the first set?” said Gina.
Ashley yelled over to Wally, “We’re playing mixed, you know?”
“I need to stop,” said Wally.
He quickly came to the net and shook hands with everybody. Rod Laver the Dog was up on his many feet and ready to go.
“One game is enough for me,” he said to the group. “We default. Sorry. Gina, I’ll call you. Ashley, I’ll call you. Michael, good luck against Edberg.” He turned to Flint and Steel, “Let’s go.”
“Nice first serve,” said Agent Flint. “You just aced Michael Stich!”
The agents escorted him away.
Ashley looked puzzled. “What just happened?”
“And what about our next match? It’s a round robin,” said Gina.
“Who were those men?” said Ashley.
“Does anyone have a radar gun?’ said Michael Stich.
Wally stumbled out the main gate past the anchors, Rod trailing behind him.
Raj called to him, “Need more bisques?”
“I gotta go. I’ll explain later,” said Wally.
“Okay. Hope you can make the mixer.” Raj yelled to the running agents, “By the way, guys, the president’s on court one.”
Four black Suburbans, flanked by the cast of In The Line Of Fire, waited conspicuously in the valet drop-off. However, due to the usual pile of visiting fundraising candidates, paranoid tech CEO’s and other dignitaries, the Suburbans and agents received the same interest as the McLaren SLR or a dropped hundred. None.
“Wait!” said Wally, “What about my car?”
Agent Flint turned to him. “Which one is it? One of my men can drive it to your house.”
Wally pointed to it. “The blue 1968 GT 500.”
All the agents stepped forward.
“It’s taken care of,” said Agent Flint.
“I guess I feel better,” said Wally.
He and Rod got in the big government Chevy, sat down and buckled in. Their black Suburban, followed by three others and the GT 500 sped away. Wally’s head was spinning and he realized he still had his racquet in his hand, gripped to the death. Not very good technique, he thought. An effective serve needed light hand pressure. And he couldn’t let go of it.
The planets were now in a dizzy free fall.
The serve. The hand power. It was all strange. Wally wasn’t a tense guy, but right now he was a concerned guy. He had to let go of his racquet. More importantly, he had to relax.
SIX
The drive didn’t do it.
National security beckoning, the Suburbans took the seven blocks from the Yacht Club to Wally’s Cloud Avenue house like the Stig. But despite their pace, they finished second. When they arrived, Wally’s GT 500 was already there and parked. And the neighbors, who would all be by with questions later, were taking pictures and texting Channel 7.
Four agents in suits had commandeered the four corners of Wally’s five thousand square-foot lot. Two more identical agents stood guard at the front door.
And the racquet was still in Wally’s hand.
Deuce took the news about his mom stoically, helped his dad free the racquet, then brought all the agents what he would like to drink – Red Bulls, Rockstars and Monsters. He and Wally now stood in the living room with Flint and Steel, watching a kidnapper productions DVD on their 52-inch TV. Deuce thought this was the most interesting thing that had ever happened in Menlo Park and was proud that his family had a TV worthy of federal agents and their badass attention. And happy that they liked the drinks. Wally, on the other hand, was struggling to make sense of everything that was happening and Addie wouldn’t come out of her room. Two identical agents stood vigilantly in the entry, sipping the cold beverages, admiring Wally’s handmade furniture and the various family photographs of Danielle, especially the ones of her in a swimsuit or running shorts.
On the TV, a friendly, educated German-accented voice started in over a wide shot of the wind-furled Swiss flag.
“We can no longer be neutral,” it said.
Suddenly, the screen image flag burst into flames, smoldered menacingly and faded incongruously into footage of Danielle, Donald and the bankers toasting each other with champagne flutes on a yacht in Lake Geneva. While Danielle talked business with the Swiss, her boss stared at her, tongue protruding.
“We have taken the American couple, Danielle Wilson and Donald Grosser.”
“American couple?” thought Wally.
“Who’s Donald Grosser?” asked Deuce.
“Mom’s boss,” said Wally.
“That guy with the tongue?” shuddered Deuce.
Wally nodded.
The Swiss voice went on, “We have also detained some of our countrymen so that we may now set in motion an overdue chain of necessary events.”
The dinner cruise image dissolved to a slick, promotional video of a luxurious estate in a Swiss forest, showing tennis courts, stables, a pool, a nine-hole golf course and a formal dining room with Swiss dinner delicacies and some perky, blond models.
The voice continued, “They will remain our guests, free to use all the amenities of this world-class destination and receive expert instruction in sports, cooking and language classes until our demands are met. You see, we are angry but we are not uncivilized.”
Inexplicably, Wally suspected that Donald had something to do with the reason they were snatched, but he could not quite work it out. Yet. He wanted to be Liam Neeson in Taken, but at the moment he felt like Harrison Ford in Frantic. And behind the self-restraint, he knew his son was rattled.
What could he do? Didn’t he have some hidden abilities that could be tapped for a daring, nighttime rescue? He had well-polished interpersonal skills, for instance. Couldn’t they help?
His rambling focus returned to the big screen TV.
Over a shot of downtown Zurich’s banking district, the precise voice was winding up.
“We want two things. One, for the Swiss government to lower the cost of living for average Swiss citizens who have been priced out of their own country. And two, for confirmation of this action to be delivered to us personally by the greatest tennis player of the Open Era, the Swiss maestro and Lindt spokesman, Roger Federer. That’s it. We will be in touch again after his first match on Monday.”
The DVD closed with a short highlight reel of Federer’s victory at the 2009 French Open over
Robin Soderling.
“He really played well that year,” said Flint popping the DVD out of the Blu-ray player,
Wally asked, “Swiss pirates?”
“A lot of folks with an agenda these days,” said Flint.
“But Danielle just called me this morning. What happened?”
“As far as we know right now, heavily-armed men boarded the cruise boat and took them. They were well-funded, well-organized but unaffiliated as far as we can tell. The boat was found abandoned this morning. The dinner was uneaten, but quite lavish.”
“Who shot the video?” said Deuce.
“That’s a good question,” said Flint, taking a sip of Monster.
“Thank you,” said Deuce, delighted. “By the way, I thought you guys carried Glocks.”
Flint patted his service weapon. “We’re not FBI.”
“Okay. Then, CIA? NSA?” said Deuce.
“CGA,” said Flint. Off Deuce’s puzzled look, “Classified Government Acronym.”
“OIC,” said Deuce.
“So what can I do?” said Wally.
“Remain calm. Go about your normal life. Answer the phone when they call.”
“That’s it?”
“Aren’t you guys going to look for her?” said Deuce.
“We are following every available lead. We’ll do everything we can to get her back.”
“Awesome,” said Deuce.
“But please understand, it’s very delicate. We can’t just invade an ally.”
“So not everything, everything,” said Deuce.
Flint and his men assembled to leave. “We’re going to leave you now.”
“Great,” said Deuce, deflated.
Wally was worried. “But this is a kidnapping, don’t you need–”
“An elaborate phone set up with agents at your house?’ asked Flint.
“Yeah. Don’t you?” said Wally.
“We’ve already cloned your cell phone. We’ll know when they call.”
“Can you clone my sister’s too?” said Deuce.
Wally glared at him.
“I thought you’d want that,” said Deuce, honestly.
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