She got them out by the nearest door as quickly as she could, trying to ignore both what was happening on the screen and the cameras that turned to follow their progress.
When they were outside, Major Elston took a deep breath. “Thank you, Second Lieutenant. I take it that wasn’t something my wife would want to see?”
“I don’t think it was, sir, no.”
“What was it?”
“Really, sir, I don’t exactly know.” She hesitated. “The kidnappers appeared to be spraying her with water.”
But she didn’t tell him about the last thing she’d seen, just as the door closed on the conference; another title flashing onto the screen, above the heads of the assembled journalists.
HAVE YOU WORKED IT OUT YET?
TWENTY-TWO
“IT SEEMS THE original film wasn’t a clip at all, but a kind of embedded link,” Holly said. “In other words, when the kidnappers updated the footage on the server, the original was replaced by the new film.”
“Where’s this footage being hosted?”
“Carnivia – a social media site based here in Venice. The site’s owner, Daniele Barbo, is being questioned.”
“They think he had something to do with it?”
“Not necessarily, but the Carabinieri want to examine his servers to see if the source code gives any clue to the kidnappers’ location. So far, I understand, Barbo is sticking to his blanket policy of not cooperating with the authorities.”
She’d been summoned to update Colonel Carver, Major Elston’s commanding officer. He sat in the middle of a long table, flanked by serious-faced staff officers and a sprinkling of men in dark suits she assumed were kidnap specialists. She wasn’t introduced, but she knew a council of war when she saw one.
Carver shook his head angrily. “I spent a lot of time and money trying to contain the anti-Dal Molin activity. Instead, it looks like they’ve managed to get the whole world looking our way, and put a young American’s life in jeopardy at the same time. I suppose the Italian media are all over the story?”
“Affirmative, sir.” She took some printouts from a folder and placed them in front of him. Carver picked up the top one. It was from the blog written by the political campaigner Raffaele Fallici. Entitled “Persona Non Grata”, it usually consisted of an angry polemic against the various failings of the establishment. But today, perhaps because he was mindful of his own putative role in the affair, it was entirely devoted to a denunciation of Azione Dal Molin’s tactics – “From which, for the avoidance of all doubt, I hereby distance myself unreservedly. Indeed, there is nothing more likely to turn the sound judgement of the Italian people against the anti-Dal Molin movement than the damaging and irresponsible hijacking of a worthy cause by those whose overriding mentality is simply that of terrorists. In one reprehensible action, they have handed the moral high ground in this affair straight to Washington.”
“Well, that’s something, I suppose,” Carver said, passing it on.
Many of the papers already had the story up on the breaking news sections of their websites, illustrated by photographs of Mia taken from the internet. As most of the pictures were several years old, they had the effect of making her look even younger than she actually was. The headline in Il Gazzettino was fairly typical: “INNOCENZA RUBATA”, it screamed, above a particularly fresh-faced shot of the stolen innocent in question. The writer had somehow discovered that Mia had signed up to an abstinence movement; she was, he went on to say, the embodiment of the religious values that, more than anything, continued to unite their two nations.
“Several papers have asked us for a quote,” Holly said. “Do you want me to draft something?”
Carver fixed her with his gaze. “Tell them that America will hunt down and destroy our enemies wherever we find them.”
“Roger that, sir.” She hesitated. “Although technically, it will be the Carabinieri who’ll do the hunting down here, since this is Italian territory.”
Carver waved the objection away. “Then you’d better write some of that soft-soap stuff you people in Liaison always write. Just try not to be too obsequious to America’s adversaries, will you, Second Lieutenant? Every sign of weakness here is another haji emboldened to blow up our troops over there.”
“And Richard and Nicole? How are they holding up?” one of the staff officers asked quietly.
“Mrs Elston is in a bad way,” Holly said frankly. “The doctors are keeping her heavily sedated – they think it’s the best thing for her at this stage. The major’s coping pretty well, all things considered.”
“Major Elston is one of the toughest fighting men who ever served in this brigade,” Carver said. “A decorated hero and an inspiration to his men. He won’t buckle, no matter what pressure he’s put under.”
Holly said nothing. Mia was clearly the apple of her father’s eye, and it seemed to her that no man could fail to be destroyed by the knowledge that his daughter was being treated in such a way.
“But you’re to come to me personally the moment he shows any signs to the contrary,” Carver added. “I want daily updates. And I particularly want to know any details of the Italian investigation that aren’t being placed in the public domain.”
One of the men in suits said, “The Carabinieri’s record for pulling off successful rescues in situations like these stands at about sixty per cent.”
There was silence while the rest of the room digested this. “And the other forty per cent?” someone asked. “Are they killed by the kidnappers?”
The specialist shook his head. “Most die during rescue attempts.”
This time the silence went on even longer.
“So we offer what we’ll call ‘training and support’,” Carver said at last. “Effective immediately. That is to say, when they do locate her, we’ll jump in and take over as necessary. Meanwhile, we’ll have a team of our own people double-tracking the Carabinieri investigation, in the hope we find her before they do.”
“Affirmative, sir. I take it you don’t want the Carabinieri to know that’s what we’re doing?”
“Too right, Second Lieutenant. When the life of an American innocent is at risk, diplomatic niceties come second. Mia’s safety is our only priority now.”
She saluted. “Roger that, sir.” He nodded to show she was dismissed.
Leaving the war room, she headed over to the far side of Camp Ederle, to the Education Block. In theory, three different American universities offered courses here, helping soldiers gain the qualifications that would get them jobs when their military careers were over. In practice, those who used these facilities were mostly wives and retirees; as, indeed, were many of the teachers.
She found a small classroom marked “CH12 – Roman Civilization” and knocked.
“Come on in,” a familiar voice said.
She smiled a greeting to the white-haired man by the window. She often consulted Ian Gilroy about matters relating to her work, given his long experience of running the CIA’s Venice section before his retirement, but it was something more specific that had prompted her to arrange this meeting today. One of his cases, back in the period of turmoil in Italy known as the Years of Lead, had concerned the kidnap of the young Daniele Barbo, whose mother was American. Daniele had been mutilated by his kidnappers, but she knew that many in the intelligence community believed that, had it not been for Gilroy’s behind-the-scenes counsel, the outcome could have been far worse. Daniele’s father had evidently agreed, subsequently appointing Gilroy to the board of his art foundation, a role he had continued to hold ever since. Daniele himself, though, took a rather different view. Since the Foundation controlled all the family’s wealth, Gilroy was now effectively Daniele’s guardian in financial matters, something the younger man deeply resented.
She updated him on the Carabinieri investigation, just as she had Carver, with the difference that this time she added a summary of Colonel Carver’s remarks as well.
“An interesting situation,
” Gilroy said thoughtfully when she’d finished.
“In what way, sir?”
“It just seems curious that the kidnappers should have chosen Daniele as their conduit, given his own history. It gives a strange kind of… symmetry to the story, doesn’t it?” He mused for a while. “Do any of the news reports mention Carnivia?”
“Most of them. But it’s Fallici who’s going the furthest, on his blog.”
Gilroy got out his reading glasses as she handed him the printout. “‘It is literally incredible,’” he read out loud, “‘that an organisation can be permitted to exist whose sole purpose is to facilitate the propagation of pornography, to make possible anonymous slanders, to facilitate tax evasion and petty crime, to break all the laws of our country, and to spread malicious innuendo and rumour. That it has the effrontery to reside right here, in our own country, rather than in some desperate and despotic tax haven, says more about the inherent corruption and political apathy of our nation than even the ongoing scandal of our crime statistics. For the crimes on Carnivia.com are potentially numberless. Even now, it could be that the abduction and subsequent brutalisation of a thousand more Mias is being planned within its darkest corners. I have long supported the freedom of the internet. But with great freedom comes great responsibility. Is it too much to ask that the authorities finally exert themselves to bring this festering cyberslum under something resembling control?’” He raised his eyebrows. “Fiery stuff.”
“It sure is.”
“What is it, Holly?” he said, noticing her hesitation.
“Daniele spotted that some of the messages he was sent were lifted word for word from CIA directives. It seems a fair bet that the captions on the films were, too.” She gestured at the printout in his hand. “Assuming the kidnappers have more material to quote from, and that it’s all going to be blown up by the media, what are the political implications of this?”
“Ah, Holly. As ever, you’ve thought about the bigger picture that your more gung-ho colleagues have missed. It was a great loss to Langley when you decided to enter the military, I hope you know that.” He considered. “In answer to your question, it probably depends on what else the kidnappers have, and how they choose to use it.”
“Think I should do some more digging? See what else might be coming out?”
“Indeed I do, Holly. It’s what you’re best at. Let’s try to figure how this might play out for Mia, before any of these hotheads unleash their dogs of war.”
TWENTY-THREE
AFTER THE DOUSING she’d been left to stand there, naked and wet. Soon she’d started to shake uncontrollably, both from the cold and the pain in her stretched arms.
It was as if they’d been waiting for her to do exactly that. At a word from Harlequin, Bauta lifted the camera and filmed her for a minute or so, before Harlequin gave another command.
“Quanto basta.”
Was it her imagination, or did Bauta seem almost reluctant to obey? Whatever the reason, Harlequin had to repeat the instruction a second time before Bauta stopped.
A sound came from the laptop – a familiar four-note bubbling refrain: the Skype call tone. It was so reminiscent of all the times her father called home from foreign deployments that for a moment she thought, It’s dad. Hope leapt in her chest. Even if it wasn’t her father, it could be someone trying to negotiate. Her nightmare, surely, couldn’t last much longer.
“E’ lui,” Harlequin said. Picking up the laptop, he left the room.
E’ lui. That meant “It’s him”. So it was a call the kidnappers had been expecting, not an offer of negotiation.
As they waited for Harlequin to return, she could hear Bauta’s breath rasping in his nose. For some reason, it made her uneasy. She suddenly felt acutely aware of her own nakedness.
Bauta moved, coming closer to her, and she tensed. He walked all around her, but without the camera this time, close enough to touch. Her skin crawled as he went behind her, out of her line of sight.
When he appeared in front of her again, his face was so close that she could see his eyes through the mask. Deliberately, his gaze dropped to her breasts. Then he reached for his crotch, closed his hand around it through his trousers, and shook it at her.
She’d seen that gesture before – here in Italy leering old men, particularly in the countryside, used it almost like a wolf whistle. But she’d never experienced it when she’d been helpless like this. She gasped, pulling as far away as the rope would allow.
Chuckling at her reaction, he put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. It was calloused and leathery, the hand of a working man. “Carinissima,” he breathed. Cute.
She kicked him away. But without shoes on it was hard to inflict much damage, and he only laughed again. The second time she tried to kick him, he simply caught her by the ankle and pulled, forcing her to hop towards him on one leg.
“Bella sgualdrina,” he breathed, sliding his hand up her calf.
The door opened. Taking in the situation at a glance, Harlequin spoke sharply, in a stream of Italian too fast for her to follow.
Bauta shrugged sulkily and mumbled a reply. But he let go and took a step back, away from her.
Harlequin came and untied her wrists. “We do not do that,” he said, anger thickening his accent. “Only what is necessary.”
Going to a bag in the corner of the room, he took out some overalls and placed them on the table. “From now on you wear these.” He hesitated. “Unless I order it. But not him. You understand? And if he does that again, you tell me.”
She picked the overalls up. As the full length of them unrolled she realised something she hadn’t before. They were bright orange, made of heavy cotton, like those worn by the prisoners in Guantanamo Bay.
TWENTY-FOUR
IN THE AFTERMATH of the second film, the atmosphere in the operations room was feverish. Almost immediately, Saito was summoned to a high-level meeting – to be given a bollocking, Kat suspected. In his absence, the colonels allocated tasks as best they could.
“Captain Tapo. Have you been assigned yet?”
She turned. It was Colonel Lettiere from Internal Affairs. She’d known they were putting every available man on this investigation, so she wasn’t surprised to see him. But it was an effort not to let her dislike of him show.
“Not yet, sir. Why?”
“I need someone to compile a list of all the people who were in Club Libero that night. They will have to be contacted individually, in case they saw anything. Of course, being swingers, some of them may be wary of talking to the Carabinieri, so we should send someone they can relate to… I should imagine that’s a task you could accomplish, isn’t it?”
Behind him, someone sniggered.
“Of course, sir,” she said blandly. “But Club Libero was at full capacity that night. Tracking down all of them could take one person weeks.”
Lettiere’s expression didn’t waver. “Then it should keep you out of mischief for some considerable time, shouldn’t it, Captain?”
She drove back to Club Libero in a foul mood – not at Lettiere’s needling, which was no worse than anything else she’d been on the receiving end of recently, but at his instruction. She already knew that Club Libero made its guests sign in, so unless they’d used false names she should be able to trace them easily enough. But to tackle such a huge task on her own meant she’d effectively been once again sidelined from the main investigation. And it wasn’t even likely to generate any leads: Lettiere knew full well that on the night of the kidnap all the patrons had been masked, so the chances of getting anything useful from the clubbers was negligible.
She saw blue lights in her rear-view mirror and pulled over to let a fire engine past. It was rapidly followed by two more. Only as she neared her destination did she see that they’d been heading for the same place she was. Black smoke was billowing from a jagged hole in Club Libero’s glass door. Another fire engine was pouring foam from its hoses through the exit doors that gave onto the ca
r park.
Edoardo and Jacquie stood to one side, watching, their faces ashen. Kat went over to them. “What happened?”
Edoardo gestured. “A firebomb, they think. We got the call an hour ago.”
“Has anything like this ever happened before?”
He shook his head. “Never.”
“Have you ever had any trouble with organised crime? Anyone asking for protection money that you haven’t paid out on?”
If that was what had happened here, she knew they’d be unlikely to tell the Carabinieri. But Edoardo shook his head emphatically. “We’ve never had any trouble. Giù makes sure of that.”
She found Giù at the local Carabinieri station. “I suppose you’ve heard?”
He shrugged belligerently. “It’s not my fault. Someone decides the scambisti were spoiling the neighbourhood, there’s not a lot I can do about it.”
“Maybe. But that fire was started right by the front desk. I’m thinking that perhaps they wanted to be sure of getting the signing-in book. And the computer with the CCTV images on.”
“It’s possible,” he said grudgingly.
“The computer you said you were going to take away to fix,” she reminded him. “Where is it now?”
“In my locker,” he mumbled.
“Let’s take a look, shall we?”
As he set the computer up, she said, “Let me give you a hypothesis, Giù. This laptop’s working fine, and always was. You just didn’t want me to see the tapes.”
“I mended it,” he protested.
“Pull the other one. You’ve got a nice little sideline here, and you didn’t fancy having the club’s guests bothered by a Carabinieri investigation.”
“So?” he said aggressively. “Important people come to the club. Why drag them into it unless we have to?”
“Like who?”
He shrugged. “Vivaldo Moretti was in that night.”
She laughed out loud. “The politician? He must be nearly seventy.”
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