The black Surburbans breached the property and approached the mandatory guardhouse slowly. There should have been a guard in the house waiting to notify the kidnappers. But there wasn’t. Did they scare him off? Did four black, unmistakably federal Surburbans send too loud a signal? The big vehicles inched closer and without any assistance, the thick iron gates parted. Still, no one around.
This wasn’t at all like the hi-cinema ARD 10 raid in Switzerland. How were they going to surprise anyone by driving twenty-four thousand pounds of metal, rubber and GM bin parts up to the guard gate, in sight of its security cameras?
Flint had spoken only a few words to Wally on the drive into Woodside, preferring to chat with his sleeve and nod to his earpiece. He got out, checked the vacant guardhouse and tapped on Wally’s ten per cent tint window. Wally rolled it down.
“I’m sorry,” said Agent Flint. “We’re either too late or we misread the intel.”
“What do you mean ‘too late’?” said Wally. “Danielle is here. She has to be. The intel is solid.”
Had he really just said that? Maybe he did have a few unresolved Bourne issues.
“You’re right. We think so too,” said Flint. “But the advance team says she isn’t here. The house and grounds are basically deserted.”
“They already checked?”
“They are the advance team. We couldn’t have a tennis teacher going through the gate first.”
“I appreciate that.”
“We’re going to have a look anyway,” added Flint. “Who knows? I may want to make an offer if this goes on the market.”
“By the way, what does ‘basically deserted’ mean?”
But Flint had returned to his communion with cuff and ear.
The lengthy, curling ribbons of driveway on this property made the Margincalls’ regal approach look like a tiny, neglected asphalt bow. It took three minutes of driving just to catch a glimpse of the house through the tall trees. And two more to see details. When they finally got closer, Wally saw the team of commandoes standing, waiting, and all around them were realistic mannequins, artfully posed and costumed perfectly – a rack of Swiss Special Forces onesies left on the lawn. This was what basically deserted meant. The same thing as basically fit. He got it now.
There had been no raid. No attempted rescue at the mansion. It was staged. It was a joke. On them. And Wally’d cancelled two lessons for this too. This whole kidnapping was not only destroying him emotionally, it was getting expensive.
Danielle wasn’t there and that made Wally want to hit someone with a serve. On purpose.
They Suburbaned on and stopped by a red clay tennis court. Very unusual for the west coast. Expensive to construct and maintain, and probably the only one in Northern California, especially since no one here really liked clay. In different circumstances, Wally might have wanted to road test it. Now he just wanted to see Danielle on it. Crunching out onto the court, he did see her. As a mannequin. Posed just like he saw her yesterday in the video feed. But this was definitely the court on the Skype. He was sure of it. He never forgot a court.
One of the commandoes came out of the shadows and handed Flint a computer.
“No one. Nothing. But we found this on the court, with a note on it for you. ‘Play me’.”
“Thanks,” said Flint. “Alice in freakin’ Switzerland.”
Flint held up the computer, the screen glowed to life and he and Wally saw Danielle in another crisp, new Nike tennis outfit hitting balls with Donald on a stunning grass court. Wally had to admit that her forehand did look a little better. But that’s why it was important to practice.
The precise Swiss voice spooled up and taunted on over the Danielle v. Donald rally footage. “It’s a pity I can’t show you my Fondue-ravaged face, because if I could, you would see a smile. A smile for your success in following my clues and for my own cleverness in keeping them simple enough that you could.”
“You can show us your face,” said Flint. “We’re officially non-judgmental.”
“Perhaps someday.”
“Suit yourself, but I don’t see this as a long-term association.”
“That all depends on you, really, and how quickly you figure this out or meet our demands. But don’t worry, we’re not unfair. We are however, unwavering in our purpose. And now that we know what kind of intelligence we are dealing with, all clues will be simpler in future.”
So, being as smart as a federal agent might not be smart enough to catch these guys after all. They certainly didn’t think so.
Was Matt Damon available? Or somebody from the Robert Ludlum estate?
The voice again. “I think we have proven again that we cannot be caught. So, please listen. We don’t want to harm any person. Simply have Roger Federer deliver positive news to us from the Swiss government and Frau Wilson will be reunited mit Herr Wilson. In the meantime, she will stay in our exquisite care and continue her relationship with Donald Grosser.”
What ‘relationship’? Wally felt like throwing up.
“Please take us seriously,” said the precise, Swiss voice.
Then the screen went dark.
“Take him seriously?” said Wally “I’d like to take him to the woodshed.”
Flint nodded, but no one spoke. The intel had been shaky. There wasn’t a new plan yet and they were all just bummed. And silent. Everyone just stood there. That was all they could do.
The Woodside air was dry and quiet. Even the Coy were still. Wally guessed this was what quiet desperation basically meant.
Then there was a single, comforting, familiar sound.
Rod Laver the Dog started sniffing, whiffing at the uncannily-accurate Danielle mannequin’s clothes. Inhaling like a sommelier. Then he started to whine.
Wally went over to the mannequin. He touched the clothes. He smelled the clothes too. And he stopped and gasped. These were not only Danielle’s clothes, they were Danielle’s clothes.
Good dog, Rocket.
The Swiss had been there. With Danielle. Danielle had been there. And they had just missed her. This was glowingly good and desperately bad. So where was she now? Why had they come here and left? And what was with the goofy ransom? The whole kidnapping was bad and bad. And it was coy. And evasive. And frustrating. Like a Greg Popovich postgame.
Now Wally really wanted something to hit. Maybe his angel.
TWELVE
But that would have to wait. The test wasn’t over. His angel wasn’t done with him yet.
Back on Cloud Avenue, Willy was still on his cell phone, and Sophie was still out. So were the kids. Wally checked his phone. He had two missed calls from Sophie. Willy had missed three.
Wally started to dial Sophie, but before he could, she undulated in the front door. She was missing something too. Addie and Deuce. She said they weren’t at car line after finals and no one was picking up her calls. It reminded her of the film business. It reminded Wally of serial abduction.
Just then, a white BMW M3 with a carbon fiber hood, carbon fiber deck lid, blacked-out rims and carbon-fiber-tipped Dinan exhaust rumbled up. Wally had seen that car before. About an hour ago. Driving the track-prepped four-year UC tuition equivalent was Dirk Ross, son of the Ross-whatever-the-heck-it-was-his-dad-did fortune. Dirk was wearing a carbon fiber shirt and was gripping the carbon fiber M steering wheel at ten and two and tapping the carbon fiber paddle shifters. Maybe his dad made carbon fiber.
Dirk was a popular kid at the Atherton Academy. Particularly with the popular girls. Wally questioned his sudden interest in Addie, especially since he’d never been around during sweater season. Dirk was also a tennis player. An additional complication. Wally knew the kind. He’d been the kind. His daughter, the math and science girl was now the hot, dangerous girl with Facebook breasts. If he were a seventeen year-old guy, he would’ve texted her too.
Addie and Deuce got out of Dirk’s first car and happily bounced in. Addie saw Wally and looked a little surprised or chagrined or caught.
/> “Dad, you’re home early,” she said.
“Took the afternoon off. Went to look at a tennis court.”
“Dirk gave us a ride from school. Hope you weren’t worried.”
“A little,” said Wally. “Sophie was planning to pick you up in our car.”
“But we don’t have a Dinan Stage Three M3,” said Addie.
“Or even a Stage Two,” said Wally.
“I know,” said Deuce. “Isn’t it sick?”
“As Dengai Fever,” said Wally.
“So, dad, can I go study with Dirk?” said Addie.
“What happened to embarrassment and regret?”
“I guess I worked through it. Pretty mature, right?”
“Yeah. Good recovery. But, Addie, we should really set aside fifteen minutes tonight and talk about this.”
“Sure. But nothing happened. So, can I go?”
“No. Not today. Just stay here and study and try to remember how you felt on Saturday.”
Addie thought for a few seconds.
“Okay, fine.”
That was easy.
Addie tapped off a quick text. The white M3 gurgled away.
But she wasn’t quite finished.
“And, dad, on Saturday, I felt pretty attractive, actually.”
Addie turned, flipped her hair and skipped off to her room. She clearly wasn’t worried. And Wally had just made a tactical error, but what? And how was he supposed to know, anyway? He was the dad.
Wally was much better at handling these teenage daughter councils with Danielle, in the tag team format. Where he did basically nothing. And where Danielle knew exactly what to do. On his own, Wally’s insights had all the wishful accuracy of a campaign ad. Flint was right. They were a project at this age. Maybe Flint should talk to her.
“So, are we good?” said Deuce.
“Of course,” reassured Wally. “Dirk isn’t after you.”
“Yeah, I was just an accessory after the fact,” said Deuce. “Like Dirk’s cold air intake and stiffer suspension. But it’s really no biggee. We just went for a short performance drive on Mountain Home.”
“I was actually out that way. I think we just missed each other.”
“Tight. Dirk’s an awesome driver. He’s been to Skip Barber. He and his dad go on track days, too.”
Wally thought how free and unfettered young minds were by context, or fear. And how he’d been that way as recently as last Friday.
“And just so you know,” continued Deuce, “She kept her top on the whole drive.”
“Thanks, son. Glad you were there.”
And he was.
Deuce went off to his room, clearly pleased that he’d helped. Sophie shimmied over to Wally, engaging as she did, more moving parts than Marion Bartoli’s serve. She was simply incapable of direct, unprovocative steps across physical space.
“I’m sorry, Wally,” said Sophie. “I really can do an after school pick up.”
“Not your fault. After the photos hit Friday, the text boys have been moths to her frame.”
“Don’t need to tell me. Social media is a corrupting influence. No girl her age should be showing herself like that. For free.”
That was a different perspective.
Willy emerged from the family room, toting a large Wilson signing ball, some Petra Kvitova posters and a Sharpie.
“Don’t worry about it, Soph,” said Willy. “He’s just freaked ‘cause his daughter and some guy in a Stage Two Dinan M3 both just realized she’s hot.”
“She showed her breasts on the internet,” clarified Wally.
“Okay, I get it. But it could be worse,” said Willy.
“Really?”
“Yeah. They could be small.”
“Thank you, uncle Willy,” said Wally. “Big breasts make everything okay.”
“I’ve always thought so,” said Willy.
“I kind of agree,” added Sophie.
“Will you guys do me a favor?” said Wally.
“Sure,” said Willy.
“If you get married, wait a while to have kids.”
“Yes, bro, and I promise to mature. Just for you,” said Willy.
“And, by the way, his car is a Stage Three,” said Wally.
“So? What’s the difference?”
“The engine and about twenty grand.”
“Then she should definitely date him,” said Willy.
Wally glared at him.
“Money makes everything okay too,” said Willy. “Anyway, can we talk about something else important now?”
That kind of question was never good. Willy had the hungry, expectant look that meant scheme or loan request or both.
“Sure,” said Wally, wondering how much it would cost. Whatever it was.
“Okay,” began Willy, “here it is.”
Wally interrupted him. “Actually, can we do this in the kitchen? I really should start dinner.”
“No need. Sophie’s already got everything.”
“She does?”
“Yeah. Pasta with red sauce. Chicken breast. Salad with vinaigrette.”
“And my dinner?”
“Bro, that is your dinner. The new dinner. No more rich, gourmet foods. I already told you.”
“I need a beer.”
“Sorry. Can’t do that either. Starting today, you’re on The Wally Wilson Training Regimen. Better diet. More exercise. More sleep. And tomorrow, you’re hitting with Nikolai Gogol, one of our pros who just barely missed at the French qualies.”
“In preparation for what? Russian novelists for five hundred?”
Willy could barely contain his enthusiasm. “No, my brother. In preparation for the U.S. Open.”
“Isn’t that exciting?” said Sophie.
“I feel like Roy McAvoy,” said Wally.
Willy held up the signing ball, the poster and the pen. “Then there’s no time to waste. You need to learn to autograph curved and flaccid surfaces.”
“I thought you wanted me to go on tour.”
“I did. But do you know how hard it is to join the ATP tour?”
“No,” said Wally.
“Well, it’s hard. But the Open is open. To anyone who can qualify. Just like Tin Cup.”
“But, William, he didn’t win. In the movie, he shot a twelve on eighteen.”
“He was a driving range Don Quixote. You’re Franco Columbu,” said Willy. “They’re going to need a tin cup to play against you. So what do you think?”
Wally thought about it. And about his angel, and the test. He was intrigued. Almost induced. Until he remembered it was crazy.
Willy was rubbing off. And he was deluded too. Or was he? He knew talent. He knew the tour. Willy worked with players. He’d been a good player.
But, he was still deluded.
This was loopy. He had to nip this in the butt right now. He turned to his brother.
“Okay, let’s do it!”
“Really?”
“Really.”
This would teach his flippen angel to give him the essay exam.
“And I’ll learn to sign curved and flaccid surfaces.”
“Great!”
Willy held out a sheaf of forms.
“I’ve already entered you in the first qualifier.”
“That was fast.”
“It’s at Chamisal in Carmel Valley in three weeks. Then you play in New Haven in late August and then in a pre-Open qualifier in New York. A total of ten rounds in three tournaments. And then the Open.”
Willy stopped and looked at Wally, concerned.
“You’re serious about this, right?”
“Dead,” said Wally.
“Awesome!” said Willy. “Why?”
“I don’t exactly know. What I do know is that my strength is some kind of cosmic test. And the only way I’m going to pass it is to ram the blue book down some conniving spirit’s divine, incorporeal throat. I’m going to win the U.S. Open and get the one point eight million and solve all of our pro
blems.”
Willy hugged Wally and then Sophie. “I told you he’d say yes.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“But I felt it,” said Willy.
“Or me,” said Sophie.
They smiled at each other.
“Excuse me,” said Wally.
“Yes?” said Willy.
“There’s just one thing I’m going to need,” said Wally.
“Sure. Anything. What?”
“We’ve got to find a stronger racquet.”
“On it like Blue Bonnet. Good decision, bro.”
Maybe things were looking up. It had been a dark few days.
Then, the white M3 returned, reverberating to a stop in front of the house.
Maybe not.
Addie shot out of her room and skipped to the front door. Dirk got out with his carbon fiber roller backpack. He wiped down the car’s door handles with a chamois and started up the Wilson’s non-carbon-fiber walk. Wally was almost speechless.
“What’s he doing here?”
“You said stay here and study,” said Addie. “You didn’t say alone.”
What was he raising, a logician?
“You’re right. I did.” Schooled again. “Alright, you can study with him. In the dining room.”
“Like we’re going to do anything.”
“Where I can see you.”
“Okay,” she said, exasperated.
Addie opened the front door.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” said Dirk.
He looked even hungrier than Willy.
“Daddy, this is Dirk.”
Dirk removed his carbon fiber driving gloves. He and Wally shook hands.
“Nice to meet you,” said Wally.
Addie and Dirk ambled into the dining room like grifters.
He had so much to learn. Not only that, he’d made an old, rookie move today.
Only an old rookie calls out his angel.
THIRTEEN
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