The Abduction: A Novel

by Jonathan Holt

  “There’s nowhere on base?”

  He shook his head. “You’ve seen for yourself how busy it is. There’s no way someone could be kept round here against their will without people knowing.”

  Shit, she thought. Shit. Holly, where are you?

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  SHE FELT MORE tired than she’d ever felt before. It wasn’t just not being allowed to sleep. What she hadn’t appreciated was that pain – endless, continual pain – was itself exhausting. She had endured what felt like hours of walling; hours of being slapped in the face and belly and tits; of being choked; of being pulled up by the arms and then suddenly dropped; of being hosed down over and over with chilled water and left to shake with cold. After all that, she had no resistance left in her. All she wanted to do was sleep; if necessary, forever.

  But she also knew she had to fight for time. She had to believe someone would come looking for her. Her only possible strategy was to stay alive until they did.

  And these, she knew, were just the preparatory stages – what the CIA called “establishing a baseline state”. After each of Franklyn’s sessions, Carver came to look over his man’s handiwork. It had been Carver who’d cut off her clothes – “Are you culturally modest, Boland? I sure hope so”; Carver who told her, mockingly, that “No blood, no foul” didn’t apply down here; Carver who informed her about the sensory-deprivation tank that could fry a person’s brain in hours and the electric-current baths that could do the same to their flesh, both without leaving a mark. And it was Carver who had selected the music to be played at deafening volume in the facility’s sleep-deprivation cell. Beyoncé’s “End of Time”. The words and the crashing rhythm still hammered through her head.

  “You know, Boland,” he said now, inspecting her as she hung by her arms. “It’s a shame about those tits of yours. Frankly, I’ve seen more impressive fried eggs.” He stopped, struck by an idea, and turned to Franklyn. “Could we give her a boob job, Sergeant Franklyn?”

  The other man considered. “Can’t see why not, sir. Get the implants by mail order, I could sew ’em in easily enough.”

  “Well, how’d you like that, Boland?” Carver demanded, leaning close. “We’re going to make you beautiful. You’ll thank us before we’re done.”

  She knew – hoped – that he was just trying to needle her, but if so, it had worked. Gathering all the saliva her dry mouth could provide, she spat in his face.

  Grinning, he scraped her spittle off his cheek with a finger and put it in his mouth. “Mmm, tastes good. I hope there’s more where that came from. You’ll be needing it.” Almost gently, he smoothed her hair out of her eyes, tucking it back behind one ear. “We could break you in ten minutes if we had to, Boland. But who wants a broken plaything? Frankly, your defiance is currently the sexiest thing about you.” He stepped back so he could see her expression. “You know, there’ll come a time when you’re so thirsty you’ll beg me to spit in your face. So hungry, you’ll beg me to come in your mouth. So lonely you’ll plead for a touch or a contact, no matter how much pain it comes with. But I really hope that time doesn’t come for many years. No matter what we do to you.”

  He turned to Franklyn. “Have we boarded her yet?”

  The other man shook his head. “I was just getting round to it.”

  “Carry on, then. I haven’t got all day.”

  She was strapped to a trolley, the same trolleys they used to transport hog-tied prisoners down the endless tunnels. A towel was wound around her face.

  Before the towel claimed her vision, she saw Franklyn hooking a hose up to a spigot in the wall.

  They left her for what seemed an age, but was probably only a few minutes – they’d know what the anticipation would be doing to her mind. She couldn’t help it: she was already shaking with fear.

  The first touch of the water was gentle, a cool sensation on her parched mouth. But that was only Franklyn soaking the towel. She held her breath – it wasn’t a conscious decision but an instinct, her body saying, No.

  But she could only hold it so long, and they knew it. When, finally, she drew a breath, a great gasping inhalation of the air her body was screaming for, it wasn’t air she sucked in but water. Water filled her throat and lungs like cement, a bolt of pain that only made her gasp for more air.

  And there was none, only more water.

  She thought her lungs must explode. She felt the hammering in her ears, the retching spasms in her larynx. It was like the moment when you swam underwater as far as you could and realised you had to get to the surface, fast.

  But here there was no surface.

  Abruptly, the flow of water ceased. For a moment she thought it was too late, that she was going to lose consciousness. But then, with a massive effort, she forced herself to fight for air. Spluttering and gasping, she vomited up what was in her lungs, the water spluttering out of her in a fountain, and she was alive.

  “Again,” she heard Carver say.

  The second time was longer. The third time was longer still, and she died. She came back with Franklyn’s hands pummelling her chest, and a pain like a car crash somewhere in the region of her heart.

  “Again,” Carver said calmly.

  As Franklyn picked up the towel, his boss leaned over her. “You’re tougher than you look, aren’t you, Boland? Fifty-two seconds is quite impressive. But you know, we don’t play by the CIA rules down here. If I want to bring in a taser, or even just a nice heavy truncheon to spice it up a little, I can. So why don’t we take a break, and you can tell me everything that you and your friends the Carabinieri have figured out? It’s only a matter of time, after all.”

  But time is all I have to shoot for.

  “Sir, I don’t report to traitors,” she croaked.

  “Traitors?” He laughed, a bark of amusement at her presumption. “How am I a traitor?”

  “You’ve betrayed every principle of the military code.”

  “Oh, Boland. Boland. How shall I punish you for taking that tone with me?” He looked her over. “Well, let’s come back to that. But in response to your pathetic allegation, I am the furthest from being a traitor of any American you’ll ever meet. I am a patriot, Boland. A patriot who understands that being obsequious to our adversaries only emboldens them. A patriot who understands that the national interest can only be served by those who act outside its legal constraints. A patriot who knows that America will only survive if it retains its strength. I love my country, you dumb little whore, and that is why I am prepared to lie and torture and murder to protect it.”

  Harlequin probably said much the same thing to Mia, she thought. Just in very different words.

  “Do you know why I let those idiots work over Elston’s girl?” he demanded. “It wasn’t only to stop that fool of a major from getting on his high horse. It was to show the world what we do to those who oppose us. For years we’ve been trying to hide the evidence, like it’s something to be ashamed of. Destroying the CIA’s tapes of waterboard sessions. Pretending the black sites and the rendition flights don’t happen any more. Denying that we do what we need to do. But I’m not ashamed of those things, Boland. I’m proud of them. Those waterboard tapes are my favourite late-night viewing. Right now every would-be-mujahedin teenage raghead in the Middle East has seen what happened to Mia and maybe – just maybe – is thinking to himself, if I mess with the US, that could be me. So tell me this, Boland: is America more vulnerable today because of what I did? Or safer?”

  “Sir, you’re an obscenity,” she said.

  Almost casually, his hand flew out and cracked her across the face, first one way, then the other. “If you weren’t strapped to that gurney, Boland, I’d rip your ass open right now and shove a cattle prod up it.” He smiled. “Course, I’m not saying that I didn’t enjoy what happened to that girl. Miss Mia Elston, the great virgin of Vicenza. I saw her strutting round the base in her cheerleader outfit, looking so cute, like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. And all that abstinence
crap. She knew the effect she had on men. She loved it, you could tell. Loved the power she thought it gave her. But what you whores don’t realise is that you don’t have any power over us, not really. Only what we choose to let you have.” He looked across at Franklyn. “Enough of this. Get me the juice. We’re going to do the double.”

  They brought in a truck battery and clipped the electrodes to her breasts with crocodile clips.

  “This one’s not in the manuals, Boland, so let me explain how it works,” Carver said, leaning over her. “Franklyn here administers the water – sixty seconds. It’s pretty much guaranteed to kill you.” He touched one of the crocodile clips, enjoying the way she winced as the sharp teeth tugged at her. “Which is where the juice comes in. It brings you back, but not in a nice way. I’ve heard sometimes people beg for the water again, just to stop the juice. That’s if they can talk at all.”

  “Sir, I’ll tell you what I can,” she said, accepting defeat.

  “Go ahead.”

  “I know that it was some kind of Iran–Contra-type operation. You were shipping drugs from Afghanistan. I’m guessing you were using the money to fund Exodus.”

  He nodded. “Very good, Boland. Even with a tame contractor like Conterno, places like this cost money, and it had to be kept off the books somehow. We tidied up the poppy supply in our part of Afghan, organised a few shipments to the right people here in Italy, and froze out the Taliban in the process. Win-win.”

  “And Major Elston found out.”

  “About the drugs, yes. The least important bit. A mere detail in the great scheme. He’d have exposed the whole of Exodus if he’d gone public. So he had to be persuaded to change his mind. Mazzanti’s report landed on my desk at just the right time. A radical protest group, planning on kidnapping American kids? Hell, yes! After that, it was just a matter of logistics.” He spread his arms. “Which is kind of what we do here anyway. Of course, we had to manage the Carabinieri side of things. I must admit, you had me worried, when you came and told me they were on to Mazzanti. But the reward kept them looking in the wrong direction.” He leaned forward. “Now, listen to me very carefully, Boland, and answer this as truthfully as you can. Did you write any of this down? Report it in any way? Mention it to anyone?”

  She hesitated, thinking. She’d spoken to Gilroy about some small pieces of it, and Kat too of course. They were both insiders, so it was unlikely Carver would go after them. But there was someone else she’d discussed her suspicions with Daniele. The owner of a site on which people could post whatever secrets they possessed.

  “No, sir. No one,” she said.

  “Boland, Boland.” He shook his head in mock sorrow. “You are a terrible liar, do you know that?” He gestured at Franklyn. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

  SEVENTY-NINE

  SHE WENT BACK to Holly’s apartment, to the spidergram and the neatly made bed. The answer was here somewhere, she was sure of it.

  Holly, tell me where you are.

  But nothing had changed. The spidergram was just as she had left it. Carver. Elston. Exodus…

  Kat stepped out onto the tiny terrace and rested her hands on the parapet, her head bowed in despair. I’m failing you, she told her friend silently. I am a captain in the Carabinieri and being clever about bad people is my job. But I just can’t work out where they’ve taken you.

  She raised her head and gazed over the rooftops at the Berici hills. It was astonishing, she thought, that the Americans had concealed a nuclear-weapons command bunker under their placid surface for so long.

  Connections sparked and fizzled in her brain like firecrackers.

  Of course.

  “Site Pluto,” she said, pointing. “Here.”

  According to the map she’d spread across Piola’s desk, Pluto was just a small US storage compound at the foot of the Berici hills, a few kilometres south of the main base.

  “The reason it looks so small,” she added, “is because this is only the entrance. The site itself is under these hills, in a series of old caves and quarries. During the war the Germans housed a factory down there, building aircraft parts and munitions, that employed three thousand workers. Even then, it extended over thirty thousand square metres.”

  “And now?”

  “Pluto was officially decommissioned after the Cold War. But as part of the recent building work at Dal Molin, they slipped in a refurbishment.” She showed him the plans he himself had got from Sergeant Pownall. Pluto was marked “Explosive Materials Disposal”.

  He began to understand now why the construction programme at Dal Molin had been working to such a punishing schedule, and why the consortium might have chosen to use illegal labourers who’d ask no questions. “‘Explosive Materials Disposal.’ I take it that’s Carver’s idea of a joke. Did you take a look?”

  She nodded. “Two armed soldiers turned me back. Which in itself is strange, given that all the other US installations around Vicenza are under Carabinieri guard.”

  “Do we have any proof she’s there?”

  “None at all. But it’s the only place left, and if she is there, we’re running out of time.”

  He made a decision. “Very well. Come with me.”

  He took her to see General Saito and the prosecutor, Li Fonti. He recounted her story almost word for word, but with one addition: in his account, Kat had spoken to two separate witnesses in Longare who reported seeing a van drive up to the gates of Site Pluto, and a woman in US fatigues being hauled roughly out of the back.

  “And you’re quite sure of this, Captain?” Saito turned anxiously to Kat.

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  He looked no less worried. “If we get this wrong…”

  Piola said firmly, “And if we’re right, a small number of rogue Americans have made fools of us in front of the whole world. If we find and expose their corruption, all decent Americans – which I’m sure is the vast majority – will applaud us for it. The reputation of the Carabinieri will be restored.”

  Li Fonti said, “What do you need?”

  “Twenty carabinieri, armed with automatic weapons.” Piola saw Saito’s look of horror. “The Americans have guns,” he explained. “If we go in without sufficient force, we’re more likely to provoke a firefight than if we’re properly equipped.”

  “Do it,” Li Fonti said. “I’ll issue the warrant.”

  “And God help us all if you’re wrong,” Saito added faintly,

  EIGHTY

  “WHAT ARE YOU, Boland?”

  “I am a trou, sir.”

  “Correct, Boland. You are indeed a trou. And what do we do with trous?”

  “We wear them, sir,” she said wearily, the chant from her cadet years still embedded in her brain, even after so long.

  “Indeed we do. You will be receiving an STD test shortly, Boland. We operate a nice clean facility here.” At that he left her, her shackled arms still fastened to the ceiling.

  She hung there, exhausted and defeated. She’d given up Daniele. Despite all her resolve, when it had come down to a straight choice between endless pain or telling the truth, she had told Carver the truth.

  “You see?” he’d crowed. “Doesn’t it feel good when you stop lying?”

  No, she wanted to say. It feels almost worse than the water-board.

  She understood, now, the reality behind the bland CIA phrase “death due to psychological resignation”. If she’d been boarded again, she’d have gulped the water down and held it. Then again, the detainees the CIA had been referring to probably hadn’t had Franklyn standing next to them with his truck battery, ready to jump-start them back to life. She doubted she could even cheat them into letting her die now. Her life had become theirs, to do with as they liked.

  What that was to be, Carver had already made all too clear.

  “This is a family-friendly facility, Boland. Matter of fact it would be charming to have a few little Bolands running round the place.”

  Even in his absence, he was
there in her head, the things he’d said cascading like cluster bombs.

  “I never got to work on Mia myself. Had to make do with watching, like everyone else. Watching, and imagining. I’m just full of ideas for the two of us, Boland. Let me tell you some…”

  At first she’d wondered why he bothered with all this. If he was going to rape her, why not just get on with it? But then she’d realised that it wasn’t about sex, or not entirely. This was about power. And it wasn’t enough simply to have it: the thrill came from reminding her that he had it, as if he must exult in it or it did not exist.

  After he left, she was visited by a female guard. The guard wore white micropore gloves and carried a swab in a sterile tray.

  “You’re pretty,” the woman said incongruously as she went about her business. She had the same death’s-head tattoo on her upper arm as the other guards.

  Holly tried to establish eye contact. “I’m Second Lieutenant Boland of Civilian Liaison. I’m being kept here illegally. You need to raise the alarm.”

  “Colonel Carver gave orders not to listen to you, ma’am.”

  “You’re a woman. You know what they mean to do with me, don’t you? Can you really just stand by and let that happen?”

  “I always say the innocent have nothing to fear, ma’am.” After that the guard refused to respond to any more questions.

  In her exhaustion Holly must have fallen asleep in her shackles, allowing her body weight to hang from her wrists, because she woke to the agony of cramping muscles. As she gritted her teeth, determined not to cry out, she saw that he was there again, watching her.

  Coming close, he took her arms and pinched them gently, feeling the muscles knotting under the skin. As if she were some kind of farm animal, and he was judging if she were finally ripe for the knife.