The Abduction: A Novel

by Jonathan Holt

  Meet again?

  Really want to see you

  A lovely picture of you and me

  Puzzled, she opened the last one.

  As I haven’t heard back from you I thought I’d send you a little reminder of the other night…

  Attached was a photo – or rather, she realised, a still from a piece of film; the frame had that telltale letterbox format. A softly lit hotel room. A bed. Kat, naked, on top of an equally naked Riccardo.

  Fuck, she thought as realisation dawned. The fucking prick filmed it.

  Thinking back, she recalled seeing his phone on a table, casually propped against a bottle of wine. Why hadn’t she thought to check it? But doing that would have meant not trusting him, and at the time she’d wanted to believe in the fiction she’d created around that evening – that instead of being a sad, furtive, meaningless encounter with a married man, it had been some kind of exciting, romantic adventure.

  You stupid idiot.

  Her immediate instinct, after the initial anger and disgust had worn off, was to email him back, arrange to meet, and then arrest him. Or at the very least, show him her Carabinieri ID and put the fear of God into him.

  But there was no time for that now. Besides, it had taught her a valuable lesson.

  On Carnivia, no one is who they seem.

  The fact was, she realised, she’d only met up with men like Riccardo because she’d been bored out of her mind. The website had been an outlet, a hint of risk and danger – just as for Mia, the thrill of going to a swingers’ club to see what went on there had seemed like a cool rebellion against her military family. Mia had been unlucky enough to get abducted; Kat had got away comparatively lightly.

  But for her the real thrill came from doing the job she loved. That was far more satisfying, and far more addictive, than any night with a stranger.

  Doing the job you love – with the man you love, a voice inside her head echoed. But the voice was wrong, she knew that. There was nothing between her and Aldo Piola now, nor would there ever be.

  She put her hands on the keyboard and, in a few quick strokes, closed down her account at Married and Discreet.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  MIA CAME AWAKE at the touch of a hand on her shoulder. Harlequin was squatting next to her mattress.

  “Wake up, Mia. We have work to do.”

  Her heart sank. “Work” was his euphemism for the things they did to her.

  As if reading her mind he said, “I want you to know that this is not my choice. But your government and mine are leaving us no option.”

  She was given a piece of paper with what she had to say hastily scrawled on it. The red light on the camera went on. Facing it, she delivered the words in front of her.

  “This is a message from Azione Dal Molin in response to the attempt by the Italian authorities to close down the Carnivia website. They want you to see what will happen if the channel of communication between my captors and the Italian people does not remain open.”

  The light went off. She waited.

  A little later, she heard thumping from the room next door. It sounded like blows, a body crashing against a wall. They’re fighting, she thought anxiously. But what about? Whether to release her? Rape her? Kill her? There was no way of knowing.

  Something had clearly happened – something they hadn’t been ready for. Whatever she was hearing, it was part of their response.

  The chain rattled and the door opened. She tensed, then saw to her relief that it was Harlequin.

  He came in and gestured silently for her to stand.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  He put a finger to his lips, telling her to be silent. The he pointed to the zipper of the orange overalls and mimed for her to undo it.

  Nervously, she complied. When she was down to her underwear he walked around her slowly, scrutinising her. She tried to force herself not to show fear. She was, she realised, unconsciously mirroring the postures of the fighting men she’d grown up around: standing straight, her shoulders back.

  Harlequin chuckled. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he adjusted her position slightly, like a sergeant major on a parade ground.

  Suddenly she realised, It’s not the same man. The mask might be the same, but the person wearing it was an inch or so shorter than the kidnapper she thought of as Harlequin, and more stocky. All the relief she’d felt evaporated.

  As he resumed his scrutiny, he whistled under his breath. At one point he picked up her wrist, examining it carefully.

  He’s seeing if the cuffs have done any damage. “Are you a doctor?” she said nervously. “Dottore?”

  Almost casually his arm flicked out, his elbow close to his body and the forearm sweeping towards her, so that the back of his hand hit her across the stomach. She doubled up in agony, too winded even to make a sound. As she gasped for breath he put his finger to his lips again. Don’t talk.

  Then he reached for her head, wrapping his strong hands around it as if to snap her neck. She tried to scream, but he wasn’t hurting her, just rotating her head this way and that.

  She’d had a physical exam from a doctor once, after a snowboard fall. He’d done something similar, to check her vertebrae.

  Evidently satisfied, he stood back, gesturing silently for her to pull up the jumpsuit. He left, returning a few minutes later with Bauta. They were carrying between them a large piece of plywood and some lengths of timber.

  She understood then that what she’d heard earlier hadn’t been fighting. It had been practising. Whatever the wood was for, the whistling man had been instructing the others in the use of it.

  DAY THREE

  THIRTY-NINE

  AS SHE NEARED Campo San Zaccaria next morning, Kat saw Piola. He was carrying an overnight bag and his face was unshaven. His wife had thrown him out, then. She hoped it wasn’t because of their dinner, which, after all, had been strictly professional. But she feared it might be.

  There was a time when she’d have asked him. But things were more complex now. So she only said, “Good morning, sir.”

  “Buongiorno, Captain,” he replied, equally neutrally.

  In the operations room she went straight to her computer. To her surprise, she appeared to have been logged out. As she retyped her password, she saw that others around her were doing the same.

  “Some kind of IT problem,” one of her neighbours told her with a shrug. It was the first time he’d spoken to her in months.

  She hadn’t even finished logging in when her screen abruptly went dark. The grinning Carnivia mask appeared, before cutting immediately to a piece of film. Mia, holding a piece of paper.

  “This is a message from Azione Dal Molin…”

  Around Kat, the same words were playing from every computer. She watched, appalled, as the film cut abruptly to Mia, standing in her underwear in the same room, blindfolded and cuffed, in front of a wall made of wood. A title appeared:

  THE DETAINEE IS PLACED IN FRONT OF THE WALLING WALL. THE DETAINEE REMAINS HOODED. THE DETAINEE REMAINS NUDE.

  The man in the Harlequin mask entered the frame and placed a towel around Mia’s neck, locker-room style, looping it over itself so it wouldn’t come loose. The action, some of them commented later, was strangely tender in its protectiveness, given what was about to happen – like a parent fastening a scarf around a child’s neck on a chilly morning.

  WALLING IS ONE OF THE MOST EFFECTIVE TECHNIQUES BECAUSE IT WEARS DOWN THE DETAINEE PHYSICALLY AND CREATES A SENSE OF DREAD WHEN THE DETAINEE KNOWS SHE IS ABOUT TO BE WALLED AGAIN.

  With sudden, shocking violence, the man grabbed Mia by the head, one hand on either side, and flung her against the wall, so that she took the full impact against her shoulders. The force of the blow was such that around the room, hardened Carabinieri officers gasped.

  As she fell forwards he caught her, pulled her to her feet and threw her back against the wall again. This time, as she rebounded, he slapped her across the face.

  I
F APPROPRIATE, AN INSULT SLAP WILL FOLLOW.

  Almost without a pause, it seemed, Mia was thrown yet again against the wall, as helpless as a rag doll, before the image cut to another title:

  A DETAINEE MAY BE WALLED TWENTY TO THIRTY TIMES CONSECUTIVELY WITHIN A SESSION.

  As the film resumed, Mia could be seen slumped on the floor.

  THE TIME PERIOD BETWEEN SESSION ONE AND SESSION TWO COULD BE AS BRIEF AS ONE HOUR.

  THE PROCESS OUTLINED ABOVE, INCLUDING TRANSITION, MAY LAST FOR THIRTY DAYS.

  Their screens went blank. A moment later, the regular desktop screensavers were back.

  “What the fuck just happened?” the man to Kat’s right demanded. “How is that even possible?”

  General Saito gathered them together, his face grim.

  “It appears that when Malli connected a copy of Mia’s hard drive to his computer, a virus entered our system, giving the kidnappers limited access to our network. The virus has now been found and removed. Needless to say, no word of this must leave this building.” He paused. “The same film has been sent to Corriere della Sera, La Repubblica and various others. Therefore we needn’t be specific about how it came to our attention.”

  “What will our response be?” someone asked. “Do we let Barbo go?”

  “The decision has been taken at the highest possible level. Neither the American nor the Italian government negotiates with terrorists. Therefore, no action will be taken in response to these threats. Daniele Barbo will remain in custody. CNAIPIC will continue to locate and neutralise any servers hosting the Carnivia website.”

  “What about Mia?” Kat said, appalled. “What will this decision mean for her?”

  “Freeing Mia and arresting her abductors was already our priority. Therefore nothing has changed,” Saito said baldly. He paused. “Look, I’m as disgusted by what I’ve seen as any of you. But these were difficult conversations, particularly in light of the fact that we don’t have any decent leads. We’ll have to spread our net wider. That means locating and interviewing every single person who has supported the No Dal Molin movement since it began.”

  He passed a hand across his face, and for the first time it occurred to Kat what a strain this must be placing on him. “You should know that, as of last night, this is now officially a joint operation between the Carabinieri, the Polizia and Military Intelligence. Unofficially, questions are being asked of us – why we haven’t found her yet. Within a day or two we’ll probably be taken off the investigation altogether. I would appreciate your best efforts to find her, and quickly.”

  FORTY

  PIOLA CAUGHT A vaporetto for the five-minute hop across to the island of La Giudecca, where he booked himself into the Molino Stucky Hilton. There were cheaper hotels in Venice, but he wanted to stay somewhere large and anonymous. And besides, he liked the view back over Venice from the upper floors.

  He’d last been there a couple of years back, and remembered thinking at the time what a good job they’d done of converting the huge Stucky flour mill into a hotel. Once, La Giudecca had been home to Venice’s heavy industries, the decline of which had left the area derelict, its former rope factories and boatyards a haven for drug addicts and petty criminals. The Hilton’s dollars, and their confidence, had helped the whole area turn the corner, bringing economic regeneration at a time when no Italian company would touch it.

  At the desk they told him bookings had fallen by thirty per cent since news of the kidnap was announced. American families already here on vacation had simply packed up and gone. There was no particular reason to think the protestors would snatch another teenager, but no one wanted to take any chances.

  Predictably, the papers this morning were full of nothing else. Most were still going with the line that Mia was as innocent as apple pie. One had even printed a recipe for that dish, which it claimed was Mrs Elston’s own, while the Berlusconi-owned Il Giornale – part of the same group that once caused an international furore by publishing topless photographs of Kate Middleton, the future British queen – had dubbed Mia “la Vergine Rapita”, “the Stolen Virgin”, its cover splashed with a picture lifted from the first kidnap video on which her bare breasts were clearly visible; the whole image, perhaps unconsciously, redolent of Michelangelo’s Madonna and Child.

  One paper, though, had scooped them all. “KIDNAPPED MIA A SWINGER?” screamed Il Gazzettino’s front page, the question mark an indication that the paper itself couldn’t quite believe its own luck, let alone its own story. Underneath was a second, scarcely smaller headline: “SEX CLUB BURNS AS TEENAGER HELD”.

  Piola scanned the article. As he’d expected, an “anonymous source close to the investigation” had exclusively revealed where it was that Mia had been abducted from. The Carabinieri, the article said, were now investigating “whether Mia’s secret life had any bearing on her kidnap”. Lurid pictures from Club Libero’s website accompanied the piece.

  Piola remembered how quickly the Italian press had turned twenty-year-old Amanda Knox into “Foxy Knoxy” after the Meredith Kercher murder. He had little doubt the same thing would happen here. Journalists loved nothing better than a sexual enigma, and the question of whether Mia was a saint or sinner would surely occupy them for days, if not weeks.

  He brought up Raffaele Fallici’s blog. Evidently, the politician had also been sent the walling video: there was already a link to it on his website.

  The decision to incarcerate Daniele Barbo was a typically ill-thought-out move on the part of the Carabinieri, an attempt to play to the gallery of public opinion with a quick, meaningless gesture more rooted in the world of politics than the harsh grind of real policing. When will they learn that there are no easy shortcuts? Mia will only be found through real intelligence – which means, in this modern age, employing the full panoply of electronic surveillance measures. One only hopes that the Americans themselves have not been so tardy.

  Puzzled, Piola clicked on the archive – hadn’t he recalled Fallici saying almost the exact opposite the day before? But that day’s entry had been deleted. He clicked on the one for the day before that.

  The situation at Dal Molin is a complicated one, requiring finesse, and is in danger of being bungled by the authorities. That is why I have been offering myself as a neutral conduit through which negotiations between the protestors and the authorities might be conducted – an honest broker who can be trusted by both sides, while holding no political view myself as to whether the Americans’ presence here is a good thing or not. I only wish that, in this situation which could all too easily become a dangerous one, democracy should prevail, and prevail peacefully.

  Piola snorted. Given the partisan speech he’d heard Fallici make at the peace camp, he doubted very much whether he was looking at a contemporaneous account.

  To one side were links to other websites and bits of film – all the Mia videos were there, as well as the film Luca Marchesin had made when he’d broken into the camp. Piola clicked on it, watching again how the grainy night-vision footage jolted and jiggled over the rough terrain as Luca ran for the truck. The section in which he was abruptly brought down by Sergeant Pownall was just as filmic as Piola remembered. As Luca had said, he was good at this kind of thing.

  A phrase came back to him, something the boy had said the first time Piola interviewed him. “I had to move fast – the MPs were after us within seconds.”

  Well, of course. But why did that particular phrase strike him as significant now? He thought again. Pownall had said something similar, he recalled, when Piola first arrived at the site. What was it, exactly? He tried to picture the scene – he’d been in Pownall’s Jeep, bumping through the mud, the pre-dawn mist shredding in the vehicle’s headlights, that colonel’s hat on his knee…

  Yes, that was it: “The gates are alarmed, and our cameras have night-vision capability, so we were well prepared for them…”

  He called Kat.

  “You were right,” he said when she answered. “There’
s more to this. The Americans had someone inside Azione Dal Molin. Someone who was telling them what was going on.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m not certain, but I have a pretty good idea.”

  He gave her a series of instructions, and told her he’d meet her in twenty minutes at Campo San Zaccaria.

  They had their subject placed in an interview room, then went in together .

  “Ettore Mazzanti,” Piola greeted the ponytailed young man. He consulted his notes. “Thirty-two-year-old student. Writing a PhD on political studies. When did you last see your doctoral supervisor, incidentally?”

  Mazzanti looked wary. “I check in with him occasionally. Why?”

  “You didn’t mention last time we spoke that it’s the American College in Rome you’re enrolled at.”

  He shrugged. “You didn’t ask. Is it important?”

  “How come the American MPs were ready for the break-in at Dal Molin, Ettore?”

  Mazzanti stifled a yawn. “I don’t know what you mean.” With his long hair and baggy college sweatshirt, he was the very picture of a perpetual student. But Piola noticed how his thin frame was padded with muscle, as if he worked out. And there was that Betty Boop tattoo, poking out from under his shirtsleeve. A strange tattoo for an anti-American protestor to have.

  “Do you speak English?” he asked in that language.

  “Some,” Mazzanti replied, also in English. “Why?”

  “You speak it with an American accent.”

  “Well, I lived in the US for a while.”

  “And joined the US Army when, exactly?” Piola enquired politely.