No One Takes My Child

Chapter 5

It was just after five am in New York and Martin Sacks was sitting in the office of Thomas Pearlman babysitting a writer from Forbes magazine who reminded him of Diane Keaton before she got unfortunately old. She was deciding whether to feel honored to be sitting in this office, he imagined, or whether to feel insulted that she’d been expected to arrive before the sun. Thomas had a reputation for early starts. 

‘And you are Mr Pearlman’s private attorney?’ 

Martin didn’t think she liked him very much. It made him smile. ‘Thomas shouldn’t be long.’

While Sacks sipped his coffee, his boss and friend was in the adjacent room taking an unexpected call. Martin would find out the details later, but in the meantime his duty was here — managing the affairs of one of Britain’s most successful self-made men.

‘Is there anything I can help you with?’ he offered.

She smiled with her mouth only and walked to the window. ‘I’m happy to wait.’

Martin eyed the clock. ‘He took me to see his first business once,’ he said, while she took in the view from forty-two floors above Sixth Avenue. ‘It’s a little news agency in Birmingham, England. He still owns it. When you look down the list of companies that are now part of the Pearl portfolio — the advertising agencies, the publishing houses, the record labels and production companies — at the bottom of that list is a little 750-square-foot mom-and-pop store currently being run by a single mother. No one knows her boss will soon grace the cover of Forbes magazine.’

She turned to look at him. ‘How did you know we were putting him on the cover?’ 

‘I didn’t.’

He grinned, but got nothing back. She turned her attention to a giant oil painting hanging on the wall. A canvas of ocean blue with a lonely white stick figure in the bottom corner. The citation read ‘Where’s Wally?’ 

‘You seem to have a lot of respect for him,’ she said.

‘People say many things about Thomas Pearlman. I say he’s a good man.’ 

As if on cue, the Englishman burst into the office, suit jacket open and no tie. He grabbed the television remote from the sideboard without looking at them. 

‘Everything OK?’ Martin asked. 

‘Have you seen the news?’

‘Not in the last hour. Why?’ Who had been on the phone? 

NBC was running a breaking news story from the studio just down the road. 

‘We have reports of a terrorist attack currently unfolding in Rome. Masked gunmen have taken hostages in the Borghese Art Gallery just over an hour ago. We’re unsure at this stage how many people are being held, and whether there are any Americans among them, but we do know that shots have been fired and that the Italian police have blocked off the area immediately surrounding the gallery. We cross now to our Italian correspondent, Cassie Prues. Cassie, what can you tell us from where you are?’

The picture changed from aerial footage of the gallery and gardens to a young brunette standing with her back to the sixteenth-century villa’s façade. 

‘From where I am, here on the edge of the police perimeter, you can see a large crowd of international media and members of the public have begun to gather. It’s believed that anywhere between one hundred and two hundred hostages are being held inside. Police here are trying to make contact with the gunmen, but our understanding is that there has been very little movement or response from within the gallery.’

‘And Cassie, do we have any indication as to who they are or what they want?’

‘Only speculation at this point, but we are getting word that there is a Vatican cardinal within the gallery who we believe is one of the hostages. Cardinal Alfredo Felici —’ his photograph flashed on screen ‘— apparently entered the gallery earlier this morning but at this stage we don’t know if this has anything to do with the motive for the attack, or whether it’s just bad luck. Obviously the word al-Qaeda is being thrown around, but frankly there is just as much chance that it could be one of the many other extremist groups we’ve seen emerging since the death of Osama bin Laden.’ 

‘Shit,’ Martin whispered, like air from a tire. ‘Thomas, are they …?’

His boss was punching the keys on his Blackberry while silently mouthing numbers.

‘She’s not answering her phone.’ 

He walked back out of the room.

The Forbes journalist looked from the television screen to the photo of a mother and child on Pearlman’s desk. ‘His wife and daughter?’ she asked.

‘Not exactly,’ Martin replied. He’d forgotten she was there.

A helicopter was flying over the gallery and showing footage of two abandoned Mini Minors, one stopped out the front of the gallery, one behind, leading the reporter to speculate that there could be up to ten gunmen inside. 

‘There is also reason to believe that this could be connected to the war of words of the last few years between the Catholic church and this man, Sheikh Ahmad Abdullah Khalil, a radical and vocal Islamic cleric and reported founder of the group Junood Allah. Back in September the Pope gave a speech in which he quoted a medieval text characterizing some of the teachings of the Prophet Muhammad as “evil and inhuman”. He backtracked from this statement quite emphatically, but the offense to many in the Islamic world had already been given. Khalil has released a number of audio and video messages in recent years condemning the Catholic church, even calling for a fatwa against the pope himself.’ 

‘His sister? Girlfriend?’ The reporter shattered Martin’s concentration.

‘Thomas and Rachel were together once. They never married and Zoe is not his daughter. Well, not biologically. The girls live back in London, although right now they’re in Rome.’ Martin turned to her. ‘You’ll need to leave. We’ll do this another time.’

‘Of course.’ 

Thomas came back into the room then. His forehead was glistening. 

‘I’ve called the airport, Marty. Let’s go.’