No, this kidnapping could not be political.
Then a bit of memory returned, like a kick. A boat...rocking on a boat. Vomiting frequently, burning in the sun...
The image returned of the tent...
And his daughter. Yes, his daughter. What is her name?
He carefully scanned the place where he was being kept. An old structure. Brick walls, beams overhead. He was in a cellar. The floor was stone and well worn, scarred and uneven. He looked down to see what kind of chair he was seated in and felt a pressure at his neck. A cord of some sort. He looked up.
No!
It was a noose!
The thin cord rose to a beam over his head. It continued to the far wall, over another beam then down to a weight, one of those big round ones that are attached to the ends of barbells. It was upright and resting on a ledge about five feet off the ground. The ledge was at an angle, and had the weight been free it would have rolled off and tugged the noose taut, strangling him. But thank God--praise be to Him--it was wedged in place.
He tried to make sense of this. Then he noted movement again, from the corner of his eye.
On the floor. More rats. And, like the others, they paid him no mind. They were much more interested in something else.
And then, to Khaled's horror, he saw what drew the squirmy creatures, with their tiny red eyes and sharp yellow teeth: a block of something that was preventing the deadly weight from rolling off the ledge and tugging the noose up to strangle him. Pink, streaked with white. A piece of meat. That was what kept the weight from rolling and pulling the noose taut.
The first of the rats, moving cautiously, untrusting, approached it now. They sniffed with their pointed noses, they leapt back, then moved closer. Some were pushed aside by others--the more aggressive--and it was collectively decided that this addition to their lair was not only harmless...it was tasty.
The four rats soon became seven and then became a dozen, swarming the meat like huge, gray bacteria.
Some fights broke out, screeching and biting. But on the whole, they shared.
And began the serious effort of dining.
Khaled shouted and screamed through the gag and shook in the chair.
Which drew the attention of one or two of the rodents and their response was merely to glance at him with curiosity as they happily chewed and swallowed.
In five or ten or twenty minutes, they would devour the meat entirely. And the weight would begin its fall.
Despair.
But then came a flash of joy.
Yes, yes, thank you, God, praise be to Him. He had remembered his daughter's name.
Muna...
At least he would have her name--and the memory of her happy face, her thick curly hair--to accompany him to his death.
Chapter 50
They tried. Both of them tried, slamming into the front door of the farmhouse.
But houses built in an era before alarms, when solid oak and maple had to provide the front line of defense, were not easily breached. Then or now.
Ercole had called Rossi again, who in turn had located the closest police station. It was the rival Carabinieri, but for a case like this every officer in Italy was on the same side. A car would be there in ten to fifteen minutes. The Police of State dispatched earlier would be about the same.
"Shoot the lock out," Ercole said to Sachs.
"That doesn't work. Not with handguns."
They circled the farmhouse quickly, still staying vigilant. They had no evidence that the Composer wasn't inside or nearby. And by now he could know he had visitors. And would have seen or at least guessed it was police.
Ercole stumbled over an old garden hose and jumped back to his feet, wincing. He'd cut his palm on some broken crockery. Not badly. She was keeping her eyes--and concentration--on the windows, looking for both threats and for a means of entry.
She found one. A window in the back, one they'd looked through earlier, was unlocked.
Out came her small but blinding tactical flashlight. "Stay back, away from the window," she called to Ercole.
He dropped into a crouch. She clicked the light on and, holding it in her left hand, high above her head, stepped quickly to the window and played the beam inside while aiming her Beretta with her right. If the Composer were inside, armed and ready to shoot, he would instinctively aim for the light or near it. She might take a round in the arm but would have a second or two to fire before she collapsed in pain.
Or died from a brachial artery shot.
But the room yawned back, its only occupants dusty boxes and furniture covered with mismatched sheets as drop cloths.
"Boost me up."
He helped her inside, then he vaulted the sill and joined her.
They walked to the closed door that led to the hallway.
He tapped her arm. She smiled. He was holding out rubber bands.
They put them on their feet. He whispered, "But no gloves. Tactical."
Nodding, she whispered, "We clear every room. That means we assume that he's on the other side of any closed door or he's hiding behind anything big enough to hide behind. I'll hit the room once, fast, with the light, high, like I did at the window. Then back to cover. Then we go in low, crouching. He'll be expecting us standing. And I mean low."
"And if we find him and he doesn't surrender, we shoot for his arms or legs?"
She frowned. "No, if he's armed, we kill him."
"Oh."
"Shoot here." She touched her upper lip, just below the nose. "To hit the brain stem. Three shots. Are you okay with that?"
"I--"
"You have to be okay with it, Ercole."
"I am." A firm nod. "Si. D'accordo."
A few deep breaths, and so began the hunt. This was a game you never got used to, a game you hated and yet was the most exquisite drug ever concocted.
First, she directed him to the den, where she'd seen the rifle. They cleared the room and she lifted the gun down and removed and pocketed the bolt, so it couldn't fire. Then they began a room-by-room search, from the back of the house to the front. Most rooms were empty. There was a small bedroom that had to be the Composer's. A single Converse Con sat beside the bed.
The kitchen, too, had been used with some frequency.
They continued on.
And hit every room on the ground floor of the place, then upstairs. The Composer was not here.
Finally, they returned to the door that Sachs believed led to the cellar.
She tested the wrought-iron latch slowly. It was unlocked.
Amelia Sachs loathed basements. With a full tactical operation, you could pitch down a flash bang grenade, stun a barricaded suspect and leap down fast. But now? Just the two of them? She'd have to descend the stairs, her legs then hips then torso in full view of whatever weapon the Composer had. When he'd stolen the rifle, had he gotten away with a pistol as well?
Two shots to the knees and she'd fall, helpless and screaming in pain, ready for the final kill.
She glanced up and noted that Ercole, while he would not have had any such experience, was determined and calm. She was confident he'd do fine, if anything happened to her.
She whispered, "If Khaled is anywhere, it's down there. Or the garage. More likely here, I'm thinking. So let's go. You pull the door. And I go down, fast."
"No, I will be the one."
She smiled. "This is my thing, Ercole. I'll go."
"Let me. If he fires or attacks you will be able to shoot him better than I can. It is not a subject I excelled in at training. Truffle smugglers rarely carry AK-Four-Sevens." A smile.
She gripped his arm. "All right. Go fast. Here's the light."
He took a deep breath. And muttered something. A name. Isabella, she believed. Maybe a saint.
"Ready?"
He nodded.
She yanked the door open. It crashed into the wall with a cloud of dust.
Neither moved for a moment.
It wasn't a cellar. It was a
closet. Empty.
Breathing fast.
"Okay. Garage. We need something to break the padlock."
They rummaged for tools and, in the kitchen, Ercole found a large hatchet. They left the house and made their way, crouching, to the outbuilding.
They prepared for entry again--different this time, since they could both establish a field of fire. He would break the lock and pull the sliding door open, while Sachs crouched and aimed into the small building with her flashlight and Beretta. He would do the same.
She nodded.
One swing of the tool and the padlock flew off. He yanked the door open...and just like with the closet, empty space greeted them.
A sigh. They put their weapons away and walked back to the house.
"Let's see what we can find."
How much time did they have until Khaled died? Not much, she knew.
They walked into the living room and, donning blue gloves now, looked over the desk, the papers, files, notes, instrument strings. Searching for anything that might give a clue where the Composer and Khaled might be.
Her phone hummed--she'd put it on silent before the entry.
"Rhyme," she said into the microphone attached to her earbud cords. "It's his hidey-hole. But they're not here. The Composer or the vic."
"Massimo says the Carabinieri should be there any minute."
She could hear the sirens.
Rhyme said, "There's not much time. He's uploaded his video. Massimo sent the link to Ercole's phone. The Postal Police are trying to track his proxies through the Far East. He doesn't have Edward Snowden's chops but it'll still be a few hours before they get a specific site."
"We'll keep at it here, Rhyme."
She disconnected and continued the search, telling the Forestry officer, "Check your phone."
Ercole showed her the screen. "Here."
The video showed the unconscious form of Khaled Jabril, sitting in a chair, a noose around his neck, mouth gagged. Even through the small speakers of the mobile, it was easy to hear the bass beat, keeping time to the waltz that played underneath the visuals. The tune was eerie.
Ercole said, "Ah, he's not using gasping breath for the rhythm, like before. It's the victim's heartbeat."
Sachs said, "It's familiar, that music. Do you know what it is?"
"Ah, yes. It is the 'Danse Macabre.'"
Sachs actually shivered, hearing the pulsing, ominous piece. She then squinted as she gazed at some papers in front of her.
No. Impossible.
She hit redial.
"Sachs. You've found something?"
"It's far-fetched, Rhyme, but it's the only chance we've got. Where's Massimo?"
"Hold on. You're on speaker."
"I'm here, Detective Sachs," Rossi said.
"Here's an address. In Naples." She recited it.
"Yes, it's in the Spanish Quarters, not too far away from us. What's there?"
"Khaled Jabril, I'm pretty sure. The only question is, is he still alive?"
Chapter 51
Sachs saw Massimo Rossi, standing before what seemed to be an old factory, long abandoned, boarded up. The word "Produzione" was legible, appearing below another word--a person's name or a product or a service--that was not.
The inspector saw them and called, "Qui. This way."
She and Ercole were on foot. They had to be on foot, for the address they sought was in what Rossi had described as Quartieri Spagnoli, a congested, chaotic warren of narrow streets and alleyways in Naples. "Named for the Spanish garrison that was stationed nearby in the sixteenth century," Ercole told her. "If you see a boy running here, unlike the Vomero, he very likely is alerting his father or brother to the presence of police. Camorra are here. Tanti Camorra."
Above her, laundry on white lines fluttered in the soft breeze, and scores of residents watched the flashing lights and the manhunt under way by dozens of uniformed officers. The spectators' vantage points were balconies and open windows--which were probably where they spent much of their time; there were no yards, front or back, or even door stoops to sit on and rock babies or talk about politics and the day's adventures at work, in the evening with a beer or wine.
Sachs was startled as a large basket descended to the ground just ahead of her. A boy ran to it and dropped in a plastic grocery bag. The basket ascended; three stories above his father or older brother began to haul the heavy load upward.
Life in the Spanish Quarters seemed to be largely overhead.
They entered the factory now. The air was dank, nose-pinching with mold. The bases of some type of equipment were still bolted into the floor, though what had been mounted to them was impossible to tell. The place was not large and was now made smaller by the many police officers inside. Little sunlight reached in; bright lamps had been set up and, while the rooms were naturally spooky, something about the stark white illumination made them seem even more troubling, like a bright light shining into an open wound. She saw Daniela and Giacomo and nodded. They greeted her in return.
Rossi pointed to the back of the facility and she and Ercole continued to the doorway he indicated. "Down there. The Composer has outdone himself this time," he muttered.
The inspector was already wearing booties and now Sachs and Ercole paused to slip them on too. Blue latex gloves, as well. They entered a small room and descended to the basement of the factory.
The area did not cover the entire footprint of the building but only the back half. The sting of mold and mildew was greater here. Decay too. Overhead were beams, and the floor was pocked stone, giving the place a medieval appearance.
A torture chamber.
Which was exactly what it had been. Khaled Jabril had been stationed--in a chair again, as with Ali Maziq--against a damp wall, the backdrop for the Composer's latest video.
"He was taped down and the noose went over the beams. It was tied to that." He pointed out a body-builder's circular weight, sitting on the floor, in a large evidence bag. Another bag held the noose.
"Qual e il peso?" Ercole asked.
Rossi replied, "Ten kilos."
About twenty-five pounds. Maziq was going to be strangled by a water bucket that would have weighed roughly the same, Sachs guessed.
Rossi clicked his tongue. "But what is so devious. Look there."
On the ledge where a number card sat was a piece of meat.
Sachs understood.
Ercole asked, "Ratti?"
"Si. Exactly. Il Compositore set the meat up as a block to prevent the weight from rolling, and then rats sensed it and began to eat. So the victim had time, perhaps much time, to contemplate his impending death."
"Did anyone see the Composer arrive or leave?" Ercole asked.
"No. There is a pushcart outside. We think he covered the unconscious victim in blankets and wheeled him here from the square nearby. He would look like any other merchant. We are conducting a canvass but even though the Quartieri Spagnoli is a small area, there are so many people, so many businesses and shops that nobody would pay him any mind." Rossi's shrug translated into the hopelessness of the efforts.
Then he brightened. "But now, let us go upstairs. You might wish to meet the man whose life you saved. For his part, I know he wishes a word or two with you."
Khaled Jabril sat in an ambulance. He appeared groggy and had a bandage on his neck but otherwise he seemed unharmed.
The medics spoke to Rossi and Ercole in Italian, and Ercole paraphrased to Sachs. "Mostly he is disoriented. From the chloroform or other drugs used to keep him submissive."
Khaled gazed at Sachs. "You are the one who saved me?" His Libyan accent was pronounced but she understood him.
"And Officer Benelli here," Sachs said. "Your English is good."
"I have some, yes," the man said. "I studied in Tripoli. University. My Italian is not good. I believe I was told my wife is all right. They told me she was struck by the man who did this. I have no memory of that."
"She's fine. I've spoken to her
since the attack."
"And my daughter? Muna?"
"She's good. They're together."
The medic spoke to Ercole and he translated. "They will meet you at the hospital. A car is bringing them from the camp."
"Thank you." Then Khaled was crying. "I would have died if not for you. May God bless you forever, praise be to Him. You are the most brilliant police ever on earth!"
Sachs and Ercole shared a brief glance. She didn't tell Khaled that the deduction as to his location was not so profound. The paper she had stumbled upon on the Composer's desk in the farmhouse near the fertilizer farm was a list of names of his victims--Maziq, Dadi and Khaled Jabril--and the places where they were to be stashed for the video. Sachs didn't quite believe it could be so obvious.
It's far-fetched, Rhyme, but it's the only chance we've got...
After she'd given Rossi the address, the inspector had sent Michelangelo and his tactical force here.
And, in the basement, they'd found Khaled.
Sachs was relieved that she could conduct an interview in English...though the results were far from satisfying. The unsteady Khaled Jabril had no memory of the kidnapping itself. In fact, he could remember very little of their days in the refugee camp. He'd woken and found the noose around his neck. He'd screamed himself hoarse through his gag, trying to scare the rats away as much as plead for help (neither worked).
Ten minutes of questioning led to nothing. No description of the kidnapper, no words he'd uttered, no memories of any car Khaled had been transported in. He supposed he'd been blindfolded for much of the time but couldn't say that for certain.
A medic spoke and Sachs understood that they wanted to get him to the hospital for a more thorough examination. "Si," she said.
As the vehicle nosed through the crowd, she, Ercole and Rossi stood in a clutch, watching it leave.
"Dov'e il nostro amico?" Rossi muttered, his eyes sweeping over this chaotic part of the city.
Where is our friend? Sachs believed was the translation.
"Maybe the evidence will tell us," she said. She and Ercole turned back to the torture chamber.
Chapter 52
Rhyme watched Dante Spiro as he disconnected the phone. Yes, as Ercole Benelli had suggested, his face's waiting state was a scowl, his eyes probing, as if they could stun like a Taser. But following the conversation, it seemed to Rhyme that his mood was particularly searing.
The Burial Hour Page 30
