“And remember what the Mrs. said about the Mr.’s security concerns?” Julie asked with such emphasis she shivered. Anna recalled that first day months ago when she had found the foyer doors closed. It had seemed inconceivably ridiculous then; had there ever been a home invasion in a Park Avenue co-op? But now, Anna wished she had taken it more seriously as she watched the security personnel break up into teams to scour the entire apartment for clues, starting in the second kitchen upstairs, where Peony and Nanny ate lunch.
Another sob, from poor Nanny, sweating, crying, and hooked up to a lie detector. A wiry woman in a suit who, despite being of average size and middle age, looked like she could probably break Nanny’s neck in under three seconds conducted a deadpan interview in Indonesian. After fifteen years and two other Von Bizmark children under her belt, Nanny seemed an unlikely culprit. She took a few gulps of air and returned to the beginning of her story about this terrible afternoon for the ninth time. A much calmer Silver Fox took his lie detector test in stride, answering each of the questions in the measured tones of a man with nothing to hide. Investigations like this were common in his multimillion-dollar business, where pricey items frequently went missing; he would never sell out the Von Bizmarks.
The alpha suit, a craggy, enormous, emotionless head atop a blocky body, interviewed Mrs. Von Bizmark on the couch. Tears streaked her only partially made-up face; half her hair was held up in rollers while the other half hung against her damp cheek. She clutched the top of her robe together. Mr. Von Bizmark paced along the far wall, the drop cloth a backdrop for his simultaneous passionate working of two phones, one pressed to each ear, marshaling all the political, municipal, military, and financial forces available to him.
Anna waved at Marco, spotting him perched on a windowsill behind the bank of number crunchers, appearing nervous even from across the large room. No one would mistake him, with his darting eyes, puffy hair, and pinky ring, for former military personnel. He hugged his leather briefcase like a security object. She felt for him. This investigation called for scouring all the Von Bizmarks’ financial affairs, a process that featured in Marco’s nightmares: audit.
In another distant corner of the room, Avi sat with two other lawyer types in folding chairs, his legs spread wide, forearms on thighs, leaning over fingertips pressed together. His buzz cut revealed several slim rolls of flesh on the back of his neck. Boy, did he look annoyed. He rocked on his feet with agitation. Avi eyeballed each of them for ten seconds before answering any of their questions. He kept rubbing his head and sighing. He finally rolled his eyes so dramatically that he caught sight of Anna, whose wave he met with a quick pop of an eyebrow.
One of the suits hopped off his hacker-proof satellite phone, a brick-size device that looked like it could be used as a weapon in extremis, and announced, “We have eyes on both BVBs.”
“Thank God,” Mrs. Von Bizmark said and reached for another tissue.
Anna looked to Julie for an explanation—BVBs? “Baby Von Bizmarks,” Julie whispered. Apparently, they had dispatched several local teams in Boston and Concord to locate Chester and Vera, yanking them out of class (and in Chester’s case, his dorm, smoking his roommate’s new volcano vaporizer) and detaining them in fully secured, undisclosed locations. Anna imagined their fear being quickly outpaced by the annoyance of being disrupted in public by strangers and then held against their will. Mr. Von Bizmark talked to each of them briefly in turn on a quick rotation of mobile phones. “Peony’s missing,” he snapped. “Just do what security says!”
When Mrs. Von Bizmark’s interview concluded, Julie and Anna took seats on either side of her. “I’m so sorry,” Anna said. “I . . .” Mrs. Von Bizmark took Anna’s hand but kept her eyes on nothing in the middle distance, shaking her head periodically, stunned into silence. Anna could see she was grappling with this strange reality: her child whom she frequently forgot about was now in fact missing. “What happens next?” Anna asked Julie.
“Well, I get the sense that they’re trying to make a list of possible enemies.” But Mr. Von Bizmark himself faced the same problem as every journalist who had ever tried to write about VBO. They all wondered what exactly VBO did to make so much money, but to know precisely was virtually impossible because corporate holdings were rigorously siloed. Mr. Von Bizmark himself preferred to remain ignorant about much of his business, but now he had no choice; he reeled off calls, explaining to each executive what had happened.
“The security service told me months ago they were tracking an active threat, but all they had was nonspecific chatter. They advised me to up the security in my home, which we did. But clearly, not enough,” he spat in the general direction of one of the suits. “Come clean, because I’ve opened all the books,” Mr. Von Bizmark nudged on the phone.
“Ask her about this one hundred and twenty-seven million dollar transfer to a DPC Unlimited in Liberia . . . ,” suggested a number cruncher from behind his computer.
Mr. Von Bizmark continued haranguing the head of the weaponry group. “Did you hear that?” With each sentence he grew more incensed. “You have to look into it? One hundred and twenty-seven million, and you’re not sure?”
Perched on the windowsill, Marco could not keep himself from nibbling his cuticles. He tried to make out the numbers on the auditor’s screen, but it was just a few inches too far away.
“How about you call me back when you’ve gotten your head out of your ass.” He hung up and ran his hands through his hair.
Mrs. Von Bizmark broke out of her stupor. “You don’t think it could have to do with that lawn dispute? Out East?” she said.
“With the Greenbaums? No, Bambi, I don’t think the new neighbors kidnapped our daughter because you told them that their landscaping is tacky.” Tears leaked from her eyes again, and Julie rushed to hand her a fresh box of tissues.
A nearby suit gave Mr. Von Bizmark a phone to talk to the head of his energy group, and he launched in immediately: “That Russia deal with that really unsavory guy. What’s his name? Well, please look it up now. I’ll wait.” His breathing was so loud and overworked that Anna started to worry about Mr. Von Bizmark having a heart attack. “Derpikoska?” he said, repeating the word for the benefit of the suits all around him. A ripple traveled among the security personnel.
“Did he say Derpikoska?” the head suit asked with quiet, crisp authority.
“Yes!” Mr. Von Bizmark said, eager and crushed at the same time. “Is that bad?”
In response, the man shouted, “All right, people, tell me everything we know about Derpikoska!” and rushed off to the nearest secure phone.
Meanwhile, Anna and Julie punctuated their stunned silence with busywork. They slipped away to make calls postponing and ultimately canceling Mrs. Von Bizmark’s appearance at the press junket. Julie ordered sandwiches for everyone, which the ladies tearfully served.
The men in suits generated reports on Derpikoska and some North Korean general. Cristina updated Villson at the back door. Anna sat in silence with a devastated Mrs. Von Bizmark and felt so inadequate looking at her employer’s fallen face. It was hard to just sit by, but Anna was genuinely lost for words. It was as if she was not even involved in what was happening all around her.