But that was in the future. No need to play the match in his head now. There’d be plenty of time for that between the lines. There was another fantasy camp checkoff to be checked off first. In just a few minutes, Wally was going to warm his game up with the greatest player of all time, the Swiss magician, Roger Federer. The court was reserved. Fed’s camp had confirmed. Everything was set.
Or so he thought.
At first, everything looked right. A crowd had massed and conditions were favorable. It was only eighty-five. And the wind hadn’t wound. The grizzled and the inured were there. So were the bloggers and tweeters. Most everyone dressed in RF, some in Wally tees. All there to see the young maestro and the old newbie serve it hard and hit it smooth. Wally jogged around the court. He signed a few hats. Willy stretched him. And he took a few deep breaths. He was going to rally with Fed.
There was only one thing.
Fed wasn’t there.
The appointed time came and went and Federer hadn’t shown. The brothers synched smartphones and the crowd began to gurgle. Minutes went by. Faces began to fall. Grown men wept and cursed. The great champion was definitely late. This had to be unlike him. He was Swiss. They waited some more, and Willy re-stretched Wally. Wally was now as limber as a fifty-two year-old, but Federer was about as there as an expectation. Willy called Federer’s agent, Tony Godsick, and got voice mail. He checked Federer’s website, but there was no mention of a withdrawal. He texted Ashley. In Calculus 2 Honors. Even she couldn’t find him. “Maybe he forgot,” said Willy. Whatever the reason, there would be no historic hit today. Mighty Fed had just no-showed.
The birthday glow dimmed a couple watts.
John Isner walked by and Willy snared him for a quick practice pound. Theoretically, he was a potential opponent, but only theoretically. With all due respect to Isner and his powerful game, Wally figured they’d both be watching the semis on TV.
The two tall bashers started to blast and the throng snapped back. But not all the way. The moment had been lost, but it wasn’t their fault. During their warm-up, the feeling at the Tennis Garden changed. The West Coast party vibe went static. It suddenly felt like the parents had come home early. With all the relatives. And there was a good reason. In just a few minutes, The Garden had gone a-bloom with yellow-jacket thick-necks and earpiece-suits. There was no official word to the players, but unofficially something was up. There was abundant security and it was causing insecurity.
Ever since 9/11, the U.S. Open had had elaborate contingency plans for a terror attack. The players had been briefed and assured that they would be warned. But no one was warning them now. The security footprint kept growing like a teenager’s and it was obvious to everyone. Besides more guards on the grounds, there were more outside the locker room and at the entrances too. There were even some at the Corona tent. Either something was going on or someone feared or knew that something was going to go on. Or else they were securing the beer.
Then just a little while later, something else significant didn’t happen either.
Showered, stretched and almost recovered from the Basel discord, Wally was bag-fresh in Nike and waiting in the Stadium hallway. In a minute there’d be a pre-match interview and then the introductions, but there was no sign of Rafa. What was happening in Indian Wells? Had the clocks stopped? Had the Lindh-ites threatened? Did he smell bad? Wally’s calm started to roil. Willy felt his brother’s mood and dove in to smooth the current.
“He does this,” said Willy.
“Who?” said Wally.
“Rafa. He makes you wait. It’s just a head juke.”
“Great. Thanks for telling me. I feel better.”
“But it’s all good, bro. Means you’ve got him worried.”
Wally glared. “Right. Sure. Fed too, I guess.”
Willy detoured. “So, how’s your stringing? Okay?”
Five minutes became twenty-five. And then, twenty-nine. They were the first match on, the court was open and the crowd was buzzing, but there was still no Nadal. If this was a tactic, it lost him at hello. Nadal was a minute from a default. Willy checked Rafa’s website and the ATP site and there was no mention of Rafa being either sick or injured. Or scared. Was it some family problem? Jury duty?
Then the explanation. Sort of.
The tournament director strode the hallway and told Wally the news that was fit to print. Rafa had been defaulted. No excuses. No details. No clarification. Rafa was out. Wally was in. Wally Wilson, fifty-four year-old teaching pro had just walked over to the semi-finals of the U.S. Open. The TD shook Wally’s hand and congratulated him.
For what? For showing up?
At least he’d have no worries about his rambunctious functions firing post match. Wally wanted to feel like celebrating, but he couldn’t. He was in the semis and he felt fully cheated. This was fake glory. It was the Black Sox. It was Rosie Ruiz. It was Milli Vanilli. Well, maybe not quite. But it felt like a hoax. Sure, he’d dreaded trying to find a way to beat the Spanish superstar, but he’d also wanted the chance to try. Given Wally’s short future on tour, this might have been his only shot. Vaulting into the final four was a great opportunity, but he’d just been denied a different great opportunity. And one earlier that morning. Good thing he’d destroyed that bucket list. He wouldn’t have to also not check this one off.
As Wally, Willy and Rod Laver the Dog sullenly left the locker room and stepped out on the player’s path, they naturally encountered Deeplee Arqane. Same e-cig. Same mystique. Still tall. Wally introduced his brother and his dog. Arqane didn’t say anything, but laid one of his ancient claws on each of their shoulders and led them off the path to the edge of the soccer pitch. Rod Laver the Dog followed, impressed and entranced by Arqane’s energy or the beef biscuit he gave him.
Arqane whispered to the brothers, “They’re gone. All four of them. No matter what you don’t hear and what you don’t see, they are gone.”
Arqane grinned guardedly and looked around.
“Where are they?” said Wally.
“Who are they?” said Willy.
“You know who,” said Arcane, admonishing Willy. Turning to Wally, “Where is much more difficult. There are forces that want upheaval and disorder.”
“And?” said Wally.
“Be thankful,” said Arqane. “Just be thankful. And get your serve in.”
He grinned again and gave Rod a second biscuit. He sucked once on the business end of his e-cig and dropped it down his shirt. Then he was gone again.
When he was out of earshot, Willy said to his brother, “He could so be in the movie!”
That evening, John Isner was also waved on to the round of four when Andy Murray failed to show and was defaulted. That was three of the top four players unaccounted for. This was no coincidence. And it wasn’t the end of it. If Wally had known where to look right then, he wouldn’t have found Djokovic either. They were all gone. The Big Four were out. Abduction? Abdication? Abdominal pulls? It didn’t matter. The Open was now wide open.
It was going to be Wilson v. Isner in the semis. American vs. American. Tall Guy vs. Even Taller Guy. A Coachella fiesta of serve holds and short points. And reels of shredded string. After all of the USTA how-will-we-make-some-champions hand-wringing, the hats could relax. For the first time in five years, a yank was going to play on Sunday. This was one road to better American results.
That might have been called the good news.
Red Numbers sat in his executive box in the Stadium, a full glass of Macallan in his hand and wondered to himself, what the heck? Or words to that effect. When was the last time the top four seeds had all missed the Open semis? Was there a last time? He didn’t need Wikipedia. The answer was never. And his big day, his Wonderful Wednesday before Super Saturday had produced nothing except two seismic defaults and no men’s tennis for the entire session. He’d wanted disruption, but not like this. This wasn’t democracy. It was anarchy. And anarchy was for Trotskyites, Libertarians and Lacrosse, not
a Grand Slam. He drank the full stinging measure of smooth single malt and wondered to himself if there’d ever be another desert Open. And what the USTA’s impeachment process looked like.
Back at the PGA West fractional, Wally would’ve downed a Macallan too. And probably a second. Water and a banana just wouldn’t take the edge off. He was unsettled by the day. And by the secret he thought he knew. They were all about to be bombed and blown up by some dial-up jihadists. And the top four were the only ones who’d gotten away in time. The top four and Mr. Poke. He was also MIA. What did they know?
He tried to figure it out, but he couldn’t think. Willy and Zelda were in a Skype conference with Sophie. And it was loud. Among the many agenda items he didn’t really need to hear, Zelda lobbied to make it all more physical. So Wally took Rod for a walk to be alone with his doubts and guilt and ignore the trio’s naughty bits. When they returned, Willy, Zelda and the Rapide were gone, and Sophie was shut off. He was no closer to an answer. They probably weren’t either. But it was quieter.
Entering the living room, he found Agent Flint reading the draft of his S-1, and Agent Steel on a couch watching The Ammo Channel and making notes in his phone. He didn’t even ask how they got in. Their Men’s Warehouse Fed-Suit jackets off, he saw that they were both wearing monogrammed UTG tactical vests and Call of Duty: Black Ops shoulder holsters. The house bulged with the muscular whiff of AXE Essence.
“Nine hundred and seventy-three hours is the estimated time for finishing one of these things,” said Agent Flint, thumping the S-1. “It isn’t the amount of pages, it’s the research and the background work. Ashley Margincall finished it in seventeen hours. While wearing Maurizio Galante. I’m happy when mine finish their homework.”
Wally smiled nervously. “So, what’s up?” he said.
“Donald Grosser,” said Agent Flint, putting down the document.
“What about him?”
“He was found today, wandering around Joshua Tree National Park in Tacchini separates.”
Wally stood in the middle of the living room, frozen, his eyes wide. “You’re kidding!”
“I know, right? Who wears Tacchini these days?”
Wally’s voice was weak. “Who found him?”
“Young couple with a baby. He staggered into their campsite and just started babbling. They called the ranger and the ranger called us.”
“Where is he now?”
“We have him.”
Wally proceeded slowly with his next question. “And Danielle?”
“Sorry. No. Just Grosser.”
“Did he say where they were? Where she is?”
“He didn’t seem to know. About either.”
“That’s not good.”
“It may not be anything,” said Flint. “He may want to bargain and hold out for a deal. He may not even be right yet. He almost ate it out there.”
“The heat?”
“The husband. He kept trying to seduce the woman with the baby. Told her he had money, cars and a PhD.”
“Does this help us?”
“The PhD? No. But I think we’re close.”
“Good. Because I think the Lindh-ites are close. The top four players left the tournament today.”
Flint stood up and took a step toward Wally. Steel looked up from his ordinance intensive for a moment.
“They didn’t leave,” said Agent Flint.
“What?”
“They were taken.”
“So we’re not going to be blown up?” said Wally.
“No. We may still be blown up,” said Agent Flint. “But that’s not why they’re missing.”
“You know who took them?”
“No, but I know where I’m going to start looking.”
“Hostage Inn and Suites?”
“No, but there’s a franchise idea,” said Flint, wheels turning. “Come with me tomorrow. You’ve got a day off. Let’s find out together. I’ll be here at eight.”
“Where are we going?”
“A cozy rendition site I know. It won’t take long.”
“I can be there?”
“Sure. Just bring an appetite.”
Was this spook humor? Was it humor humor?
“Right,” said Wally, as noncommitally as possible.
“Good, then,” said Agent Flint. I’ll see you at eight. Hungry.”
“I’ll be hungry too,” said Wally.
Agent Flint turned to go, thought of something and stopped. “Too bad about Mr. Poke.”
“Poke left too?”
“Poke was fired.”
“He was?” said Wally.
“Yeah. Broke the chain of custody,” said Flint. “Seems he met two hand models outside your house one morning. Samples left his sight. Now they’re tainted. The Tour’s suspended him, his results and the program. Everything he did is in question now. See you tomorrow.”
Steel safetyd the munitions marathon. He and Flint put on their fed-coats, finished their Monster promotional drinks and they were gone.
Mostly.
They’d left behind more musky fragrance than Deuce’s friends at a dance, but right then it all smelled just fine.
Poke was canned. How great was that? He’d come on a pillorying mission, and sure he was only the messenger and not a pilloryinger, or whatever the word was, but he was still a pain. And now he was gone. And Wally was at large and alive in the draw. Wally not only had an angel, but one with some pull, some diabol and twin Donzis at the Como house.
The whole thing was a sideways syllogism. Flint knew Ashley and Flint knew Poke. Flint had bets on Wally and Ashley knew the hand models. Therefore, Poke met the hand models.
Saved by the shady grace of angel logic.
Now the way was clear. He was one step closer to the final, and tomorrow, one step closer to Danielle. And Donald Grosser held the key. Even if he didn’t, he might just get a few fingernails pulled out.
So, except for the imminent destruction of everything around him, life was looking up.
TWENTY-FOUR
There would be no fingernail removal today. No stress positions and no enhanced interrogations either. However, there might be hot blintzes.
The Extraordinary Rendition Café had just opened in a small, high-end mall in Rancho Mirage. It replaced a cruelty-free toy store. Done in early twenty-first-century Polish-abandoned-warehouse, it was staffed by Flint’s men and was the flagship of a future coast-to-coast chain. Flint was an accomplished chef and had always wanted to open his own place. Besides, he figured the cash it generated would span the gaps between hostage rescues and make a credible washboard for untethered lucre.
His instincts were good. Business was arresting so far.
The menu had its own black ops charm. The Noc List featured such delicacies as the Snake Eater, the RPG and the Bag Job. Wet Works boasted cocktails like the Head Shot, the Double Tap and the Waterboard. There were silk-screened flak vests, Monster drinks, Call Of Duty games and Sig Sauer and H&K armaments. All completing a tidy merchandise circle back to the Agency’s corporate partners.
And the food was killer. Agent Flint and his team had struck just the right balance between comfort food and uncomfortable names for it. A large table of teenage boys and their moms couldn’t have been happier. Or more fragrant. Fortunately, the Agency had also wisely installed a strong ventilation system to counteract and subdue the various body spray potencies of their promoted brands.
Donald Grosser sat at a back corner table, still in Tacchini separates. Wally was on one side. Agent Steel was on the other. Agent Flint was facing him. The agency reality-show camera crew surrounded them and filmed them.
This was the first time Wally had seen Grosser since dropping Danielle at SFO three months ago. He wanted to punch him, but Flint had cautioned him about that. He told Wally to remember that they needed Grosser to help find Danielle, and also not to endanger his racquet hand. So no harsh techniques and not even a good, old-fashioned slug. Where was the justice in that? Lest
the nation forget, Grosser started all of this.
Agent Flint adjusted his chair, exhaled, turned his head a few degrees left and slowly returned his full operative-gaze to Grosser.
It was getting close to noon.
“So let’s try this again,” said Flint. “What did you like better? The IED Omelet or the Claymore Grits?”
“I’ve already told you. They were both excellent,” said Grosser.
“Sucking up to me isn’t going to make this any easier. We have a business to run and I need answers.”
Flint glared at Grosser. The camera crew filmed it all.
“I don’t know,” said Grosser.
“Yes, you do,” said Flint, angling his body forward across the small table.
“Alright. The omelet. The omelet.”
Flint sat back in his chair. His face relaxed.
“There,” said Flint, “that wasn’t so hard.”
The camera pulled in tight on Grosser looking stressed and worried.
“Are we done?” pleaded Grosser.
“Done? We’ve barely started,” said Flint.
“But it’s been hours.”
What a wimp, thought Wally.
Flint ignored him and took a sip of a Monster. “I want to know why they let you go.”
“What does it matter?”
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