“I do the questions,” said Flint, hard. Then, changing his tone and flattering Grosser, “And I’m asking them because I think you know a lot.”
“I do,” said Grosser, looking pleased.
“More than I do.”
“I do.”
“I know that. So tell me why they let you go.”
“Can I have your toast?”
Flint pushed his plate to Grosser.
“Thanks. I like this sprouted bread.”
He took a bite of toast. Flint stared him down again.
“I gave you my toast,” said Flint.
“Okay,” said Grosser, “they let me go because I upset Danielle.”
Wally sat up. This sounded like a truth.
Steel stared at Grosser. Flint let the comment hang. The cameras took it all in.
“And what did you do to Danielle Wilson, Mr. Grosser?”
“Nothing.”
Yeah, besides kidnapping her, thought Wally.
“Yeah, nothing besides kidnapping her,” said Agent Flint.
“Yes, I kidnapped her, okay? I wanted to be with her. That’s how the whole thing started. It was supposed to be me and her. We get kidnapped.” He put the word in air quotes. “I rescue her.” He air-quoted that also. “And she leaves him,” he pointed to Wally, “for me.”
“Didn’t quite work out that way, did it?”
“No,” said Grosser, ruefully, “But it should have. I was told these Swiss guys were the best kidnap stagers in the world, and I paid butt for their expertise. It was going perfectly too. And then we got snagged by this other group. And you think I’m going to get my money back? You think Danielle appreciated the gesture of love I made to her? No. All she could do was talk about him!”
Grosser pointed to Wally again. The cameras worked back and forth to get the gestures and the reactions.
“She talked about her husband?” asked Flint.
“The whole time. Where’s the gratitude? Where’s her vision? She wasn’t going anywhere with him. They were almost broke. I know.”
“He’s done well recently,” said Agent Flint.
“Well, good for Mr. Shorty Shorts,” spat back Grosser. “Who cares now? All she wanted to do was get away from me.”
“I see,” said Flint.
Wally smiled.
“That’s how I ended up in the desert. They all wanted me gone. I was voted off the island. Just like my last three boards.”
Wally smiled again.
“Maybe people are trying to tell you something,” said Agent Flint.
“Yeah. That they don’t appreciate me.”
Flint sensed an opening and leaned in and upped the pressure.
“And the others?” said Flint. “Where are they?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t allowed to see Danielle or anyone else since we arrived here. I think they were at a different location. I don’t really know. I was fed three meals a day. Other than that, locked up.”
Wally could see truth in that too.
Flint took another sip of his Monster.
“Okay,” said Flint, “let’s take a little break.”
“I’m not finished,” said Grosser.
Flint looked at him questioningly. The cameras held on him.
He, Steel and Wally all looked at Grosser and each other. And again at Grosser.
“I’ve got more. I know more,” continued Grosser.
“Okay, then,” said Flint. “Tell us.”
“There were four of them. Three men and a woman. Always in tennis clothes. Always talking about tennis. Went to the matches everyday. When I was with the group, I noticed that they talked to one of the bankers for hours at a time.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. But I do know that her husband ran ATP security.”
Well he’s fired, thought Wally.
“Did they torture her?”
“Sort of. They kept asking her rules questions. What happens if you reach over the net on a volley. You know, that kind of thing. But, as I said, she was a banker. And her husband wasn’t an umpire.”
“And do you know what the four wanted?”
“They wanted him!” He pointed to Wally in disgust. “The tennis pro loser. They wanted him to win!”
Grosser was on the verge of tears. The cameras pulled in close.
“Do you see how much I know?” he cried. “I know more than any of you. I have a PhD.”
“And we want to hear it all,” said Flint. “I think we all need a little break. Re-fill that latte?”
He stood up and the cameras stayed on an exhausted Grosser weakly nodding yes.
It was late afternoon when Agent Flint, Agent Steel and Wally drove back to the house in Flint’s Suburban. Wally was silent. It had been a long day and he was just now processing what he’d heard. How would all this end? Well, for one thing, Grosser’s life was probably over. He’d lose his company, his houses, his wealth. He’d probably go to prison. That was one version.
Or, he’d write the book about it that got made into a movie and then a novelization and a TV show. He’d make a sweet bundle of money and resurrect his name and become a famous executive producer and a-list celebrity. That actually seemed more likely. But that didn’t matter. He wouldn’t get Danielle. She wanted Wally. The kidnappers wanted Wally. No one wanted Grosser.
“So what happens now?” said Wally.
“He’ll have dessert probably,” said Flint. “And then we ask him questions until we’re satisfied and then we’ll decide what to do with him. He’s still wanted for kidnapping and four other crimes.”
Exactly. So where was the hypothermia and the sleep deprivation?
“That was the most polite interrogation I’ve ever seen,” said Wally, thinking that Dennis Haysbert would just have been embarrassed.
“Things have changed,” explained Agent Flint. “We’re almost a public company. Harsh methods don’t guarantee results or happy stockholders. And we have a reality show coming out. And our own fantasy league.”
Great. PC interrogators.
“We still don’t know why the top four were taken, do we?” said Wally.
“Actually, I think we do.”
“We do?”
“Yes. For you.”
“For me?”
“Yes,” said Flint. “Grosser even said it. They wanted you to win. The four presents we heard about weren’t four bombs, they were four tennis weapons out of the way so you could win rounds. The kidnappers are your biggest fans. The presents were for you.”
They drove on in silence for a few moments as Wally gnawed on this latest bit. Who could care about him? Why would they care? And why would they go to all this trouble?
They arrived at the fractional. There were security guards all around the house.
“Reminds me of home,” said Wally, looking at the law enforcement presence.
“They’re for your protection,” said Agent Flint. “The tournament’s understandably worried. They’re running low on players.”
“Thanks,” said Wally. “For breakfast and the interrogation.”
They shook hands and Flint handed him a card.
“What’s this?” said Wally.
“Twenty per cent off your next entrée,” said Flint.
“Thanks.”
As he started up the walk, thinking that if the food he’d had was any indication, Flint had a successful franchise on his hands, Willy and Zelda opened the front door and let Rod Laver the Dog out to greet Wally. His dog wanted him too. That was nice. Wally petted Rod under the chin and stopped mid-pet. He turned back to the departing Agent Flint.
“Agent Flint?”
“Mr. Wilson?”
“Ask Grosser if the kidnappers have a dog.”
“A dog?”
“Yeah. An Australian Shepard. Ask him.”
“Okay,” said Flint. “Will do. I’ll let you know.”
Wally and Rod Laver the Dog went in the house and Willy and Zelda were o
n him immediately.
“How’d it go?” said Willy. “Do they know where she is?”
“Not yet,” said Wally.
“I’m sorry, bro.”
“Me too.”
“Did they torture the guy at all?” said Zelda.
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“No.”
“Did he confess?”
“He whined a lot.”
“What is happening to this country, anyway?” said Zelda.
“Sorry, bro,” said Wally again.
Wally collapsed in a chair in the living room. After fidgeting for a minute, Willy sat down next to him.
“You watch any TV today?” said Willy.
“TV? No,” said Wally.
“Well, something’s come up,” said Willy.
“A tennis something?”
“Mmm hmmm.”
“What now?”
“It’s about the semis,” said Zelda.
“What? Is Isner gone?”
“No. He’s fine,” said Zelda.
“Yeah. Just fine. In fact, you can see just how fine when you play him tomorrow,” said Willy.
Wally looked at him. “Tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” said Willy. “Tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“The hats freaked,” said Zelda. “They got together and decisions were made. No 9/11 finish. No Sunday final. Semis tomorrow. You and Isner. Then, Retchy and Tsonga.”
“Good for Retchy,” said Wally.
“And finals on Saturday evening,” said Zelda.
“On 9/10?”
“Yup. They want to wrap it up and get back to New York.”
Wally uncollapsed and looked hard at his brother. There wasn’t much time. Again. “We’ve got to find Danielle,” he said.
“I know,” said Willy, “but–”
Wally’s phone sounded.
“Excuse me,” said Wally. He swiped on the phone. “Agent Flint.” He listened for a few seconds. “They did? Great. Then I think I know where they are.”
TWENTY-FIVE
It was two a.m. Friday and Wally was snapped from a streaky sleep by the familiar sounds of the four Suburbans pulling up in front of the fractional. He went to the bedroom window and looked out. It was dark. And then it wasn’t. Powerful lights klieged on and the camera crew scuttled out into the bright desert night to film Flint and frame the sponsor decals in the background.
As the other agents de-Suburbaned and stopped to pose for the cameras, Wally noticed their sickaliscious matte black-on-black BDU’s. All with large lime green swooshes fore and aft. Phil Knight must have given Oregon football the blems. These outfits might not always get their man, but they would nab the all-important 18–34 recruit demographic.
Flint looked over to Wally’s window, smiled g-manly for the cameras and gave Wally a posed thumbs up. Seconds later, the sixteen agents and their embedded camera crew stormed the next-door house and disappeared. Wally stepped outside in his practice tee, practice shorts and Nike sandals and waited. For five minutes, there were no sounds. No visible movement. It was just a warm night in the desert and there were armed agents next door looking for terrorist kidnappers, and being filmed.
When the agents resurfaced, two things were clear. They hadn’t found anyone of interest inside, and Flint’s hair had migrated a full degree off of plumb. Once discovered, the camera crew stopped filming and the agents froze in position as a makeup artist ran out from the lead Suburban and squared up his hair. She hurried back out of the shot and the tableau broke out again. Followed by the cameras and looking groomed but concerned, Agent Flint met Wally at his front door. One camera went to film from inside and one stayed on the porch, for the reactions.
“We found dog hair, some old tennis balls and a signed sports bra,” said Agent Flint. “But no people.”
“What now?” asked Wally.
“The owner of that house has fractional shares of twenty-two others. We’re going to have to check them all. No matter how long it takes.” Flint produced a fresh Monster from his sleek matte black-on-black vest. “Looks like we’ll need to stay awake for this one.”
Flint took a long drink for the cameras.
“What about vacationers?” said Wally.
“Fortunately, Mr. Wilson, it’s off-season,” said Flint. Steel nodded. “The ones we do disturb will receive gift cards for our new Rancho Mirage location off highway 111.”
“That’s a nice offer,” said Wally.
“We’ll let you know if any perps pop. Go back to bed. Get some sleep. You play at eleven.”
“Just find her for me, okay?”
Wally didn’t even mean to say that. Something about the hovering cameras made him crank the drama.
“I want to close this almost as much as you do,” said Flint, matching the moment. “We’re doing everything we can.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” said Wally.
“No need, Mr. Wilson. Just beat John Isner.”
Wally tried to sleep for the four remaining hours, but he had strange dreams about empty rooms, two-shots and Danielle. Then again, under the circumstances, who wouldn’t?
Security surrounded Wally and Willy on their drive to the Garden. Security took Wally to the locker room. Security perimetered the practice court. Security watched him change his clothes. There was more security at The Tennis Garden than Camp David in a Vince Flynn book. Wally couldn’t make a move or not make a move without security. He felt secure. And guilty. He hadn’t asked for it, but in a way, this was all for him and all about him and all because of him.
At eight, with no word yet about Danielle or the search, Wally was on a practice court warming up against John Isner before his match with John Isner. It was a little like the Yankees stretching the Red Sox, but the options were limited. The only players left were the singles and doubles semi-finalists and they were all practicing with each other too. Everyone else had left for Metz, Bucharest or a sponsor event.
What no one on tour knew yet was that there was no bomb or gas or attack. And no 9/11-anniversary blast. These weren’t terrorist terrorists. They were tennis terrorists. And not your father’s Jimmy Nastase, either. They were smart, tech savvy and really knew the rankings. Wally had played himself into the quarters on his own talent, but their four presents gave him a chance for the finals. So which was worse he wondered, false glory or the spoils of crime? And if they wanted him to win so much, why did they still have Danielle? And if they were the bad guys, why was their evil plan succeeding?
In any case, it wasn’t his fault. None of this was. He supposed he just needed to win and something good would happen. Either that, or the terrorists were bluffing cruelly, Danielle was gone for good and he’d live out a barren life alone with a million-eight and a new Lexus.
Security escorted Wally and Isner to the Stadium court. Despite the swirling rumors and the abundant guards, the arena was capacited. Every seat was filled and there were American flags throughout the stands. American tennis fans had waited for this since Andy Roddick played Roger Federer in the 2006 final. It still mattered if an American went all the way at the Open. And after today, there would be one. Guaranteed. A very tall one at that.
The air temperature was one hundred and five and with the parabolic reflector effect of the Stadium and the solar panel effect of the court surface, the on-court temperature was close to one-twenty. But it was dry. And it would stay dry. If nothing else, Red could still report no rain delays.
Wally still hadn’t heard from Agent Flint, but twenty-two houses, the establishing shots and close-ups could take a night and a day to cover. Especially if they stopped to review footage along the way. Wally was determined to concentrate on the match. As he started playing Isner, he felt surprisingly ready. He didn’t think he was nervous, but his might spiked. Serves at two-eighty. Groundstroke winners or wall-balls. The match turned out to be the exact weapons whip-out everyone had expected, though maybe even quicker. At the end of fo
ur sets, Wally and Isner were dead even at two sets apiece, 7 – 6, 6 – 7, 7 – 6, 6 – 7. Total time was eighty-six minutes. There was no resemblance to July’s Isner/Mahut Wimbledon marathon. This one was ace, ace, ace, ace with an occasional two-shot rally for variety.
Wally took an off-court break before the final set to escape the heat and change his drawers. Sitting on a bench in the deserted locker room, he heard a familiar voice.
“Your tip was solid.”
Agent Flint and Agent Steel popped out from behind nearby lockers.
Wally stood up, breathless, in his briefs.
“Did you find her?” he asked hopefully.
“Not yet,” said Agent Flint.
“Where’s the camera crew?”
“There,” said Flint, pointing to the showers.
Wally looked over and saw the crew kneeling near a nozzle for a low shot.
“Do they have to get this?” said Wally, looking down at his compression shorts.
“We’ll fix it in post,” said Flint.
“What did you find?” said Wally.
“Well, after checking all twenty-two houses, we had a hunch and went back to the house next to yours. There, in the living room, wrapped in a tennis net were Federer, Djokovic, Nadal and Murray and the two bankers.”
“And they’re okay?”
“The bankers, yes. The players all needed to hit, stretch and call their agents. They said they’d been shuttled to different houses all night. But well fed and cared for. The kidnappers clearly wanted us to find them, but not before you started your match.”
“Where are they now?”
“We’re taking their statements, getting autographs and photos, and then they’ll be released.”
“And Danielle?”
“We don’t have her yet.”
Wally’s face fell.
“But we may be getting closer. We got this text at the house.” Flint scrolled his phone and read, “If you have received this text, it means we have sent it to you. Who are we? Previously, we chose to call ourselves the Lindh-ites. But that was to mislead you. Which actually hasn’t been very hard. I mean, we moved in next door. Anyway, our true name can now be known. We are Tennonymous.”
Tennonymous? thought Wally.
“That’s right. Tennonymous,” said Flint, reading on.
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