White Hot Silence

by Henry Porter

  ‘Go on, please, sir.’

  ‘But the suspects were obviously professional criminals and they were very organised. So we ask ourselves why they are doing this, when they can make more money on a shipment of cocaina to Il Porto di Napoli. Did these men kidnap Signora Hisami because she was working with migrants? We cannot answer that for sure, though it does not seem likely.’ He paused and they could hear the officer take a drag on a cigarette. ‘Is there someone who wishes to harm Signor Hisami? Maybe that is an answer. Maybe this is not about money. Maybe it is about revenge, or possibly someone wants to threaten him.’

  ‘Thank you for sharing your thinking with me,’ she said. ‘What steps are you taking to trace the Mercedes?’

  ‘There is a national alert on the registration plate.’

  ‘As I made clear earlier, Mr Hisami does not want any publicity about his wife’s abduction. He believes it would endanger her life. The US Embassy has contacted you to emphasise that the American government also does not believe that publicity is in the interests of Mrs Hisami. But on the murders of the two African men, will you be telling the media about that?’

  ‘We issued a statement about the two dead migrants,’ replied Fenarelli. ‘After a little time we will have to say they were shot, and that will be a story for the media because violence against migrants is, regrettably, more common than it used to be. But we will not say anything about a kidnap.’

  ‘We have your assurance on that?’

  ‘Sí, Signora, but this decision will be reviewed if circumstances change.’

  ‘The US Embassy would need to be consulted about that,’ said Zillah firmly. ‘Mr Hisami also.’

  She nodded to Craig to stop the recording and swivelled to Hisami. ‘Shall we go through the arrangements in Italy?’

  Hisami nodded. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘We already have two operatives there. Yossi is setting up in a town on the coast – forty miles from the site where the kidnap took place, which is a short distance to the local headquarters for the Carabinieri. He has been in touch with Fenarelli, and Pete and Jonathan here are leaving for Italy tonight and will carry out on-the-ground investigations. We need to make sure that the Italians are doing all they can. We’ve fired up FBI and CIA contacts in Italy and I’m in constant touch with the embassy. They’re being helpful.’

  After they had talked a few minutes more on the arrangements Zillah had set in place, the room started to empty, leaving only Hisami, Tulliver and Zillah.

  ‘Any news on the passport?’ she asked.

  Hisami shook his head. He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. There was a long silence, during which they heard the distant swell of the ocean. Zillah was about to say something but Tulliver gave her an imperceptible shake of the head. Eventually, Hisami looked up, his eyes burning with a deep inner fury. He appeared to force himself to communicate.

  ‘So you agree this is all connected, Zillah?’ he murmured.

  ‘It’s a concerted campaign.’ She handed him a tablet. ‘It’s just a question of who’s doing it.’

  ‘What’s this?’ he said, looking down at it.

  ‘That’s a story that was published last night by newsJip.com. It’s a political-gossip website, Silicon Valley-based.’

  Hisami read the headline that was leading the site: SPECIAL FORCES PAST OF HIGH-PROFILE TECH INVESTOR DENIS HISAMI AND A DRAMATIC BALKANS HOSTAGE RESCUE.

  Underneath was a photograph of Hisami and Anastasia taken at a charity fundraiser and, more worrying, a blurred shot from twenty-five years before of a young man in fatigues, an automatic weapon hanging from his shoulder, addressing half a dozen soldiers. It didn’t look like him and he didn’t recognise any of the men in the picture, but he thought the leather flying jacket on the young man in the photograph was almost certainly his.

  We interrupt your evening, dear reader, to bring you news of mystery man and billionaire tech investor Denis Hisami, who, it is revealed, stormed an IS terrorist hideout in the Balkans three years ago in an action that resulted in the slaying of four or more terrorists and the rescue of hostages.

  Hisami, who made billions of dollars jumping on the social media boom early, is believed to have freed a former British spy who was being tortured by IS terrorists. His name is not known and mystery surrounds the identity of the other hostages, but rumour has it that one may have been his current wife, Anastasia, with whom this tech éminence grise set up a foundation to help migrants.

  Her presence on that lonely mountainside has yet to be confirmed, but impeccable sources state that it all has something to do with Hisami’s sister, who was serving as doctor with Kurdish forces on the front line with ISIS four years ago when she was killed. Hisami tracked down the people responsible for her death and eliminated the squad of trained Moslem killers in a deadly hail of bullets.

  At the time, there was no mention of Mr Hisami’s role in the action, though his presence in the area has been established without doubt. The Macedonian authorities took the credit for killing the terrorist squad and for releasing the hostages, but you can’t keep a story like this hidden for too long.

  Facts have emerged about Mr Hisami’s past that suggest he’s certainly capable of ruthless action. He served on the front line in Northern Iraq with the Peshmerga forces a quarter of a century ago and as a young man won a reputation as an audacious and skilful commander.

  For years, rumours have circulated in the investor community about Hisami, who is famous for his shrewd, below-the-radar operating style. But few suspected that he was so handy with a gun and could, on his own, pull off an operation like this, which, our sources say, was more reminiscent of Rambo than an investor with the old-world courtesy and intellectual tastes of Denis Hisami.

  Lately, things have not been going so well for Hisami, who is estimated to be worth over $5.6 billion. It is said that he is under pressure on several large-scale investments, especially one in the Reason TV Channel, which he has been trying to buy into for three years. Other investments have not done so well either, and banking sources say that Hisami is being pressed to sell stock in companies that have yet to make the big bucks. In consequence, the whole complex web of his holdings is now threatened.

  But with this kind of resumé, Homeland Security can find a role for him. Watch this space, folks – there’s more on this one coming down the pike. Be sure of that!

  Hisami handed the phone to Tulliver. ‘See if the lawyers can do something about this.’

  Tulliver skimmed the story and started shaking his head. ‘My advice is to leave it. This isn’t worth your time right now.’

  Hisami nodded and studied Zillah Dee. ‘Okay. Where do you think this comes from?’

  ‘Not sure yet, but someone badly wants to stop you investigating TangKi.’

  ‘And you think they’d kidnap my wife for that and have my passport suspended?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So do I.’ He reached for a water bottle and looked out across the ocean, which sparkled in the morning sun. After a couple of minutes of intense thought, he turned to them. ‘Only someone in the government can be behind this, or someone who has a very great deal of influence and has access to a lot of information.’

  ‘The CIA knew about the incident in the Balkans,’ said Zillah. ‘Word gets out about these things, and I guess the story on the website is preparation for someone to leak the news about your passport. Evidently, they’re building a case that makes it seem as though you concealed your past from the US authorities when applying for citizenship and that your activities are a danger to US foreign-policy interests.’

  Hisami glanced at Tulliver for his reaction. ‘I pretty much agree with Zillah’s assessment.’

  ‘But to have my wife kidnapped by Mafia types in Italy – even the US government doesn’t do that.’

  ‘Maybe there are two separate strands to the campaign – an official one and a dirty one.’

  Hisami thought again then opened his hands in genuine
mystification.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to just kill me?’

  ‘That’s maybe an option – they’ve kept this place under surveillance.’

  ‘It’s the obvious course.’

  ‘Maybe you have something that is valuable to them – something they need you to give up,’ said Zillah.

  Hisami said nothing and stood. ‘We have to think of Anastasia – she’s all that matters. I appreciate what you’re doing in Italy, Zillah, but we all know that there’s one person in the world who can find my wife, and that’s Paul Samson, and he’s already working on the Crane side of this affair.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Hisami, but I thought …’

  ‘Samson probably already knows I’m behind the investigation. He’s smart – he will have made connections. Talk to Macy Harp. See what he thinks about the idea.’

  Tulliver coughed and looked at Zillah. ‘As I understand it, he was once close to Mrs Hisami.’

  ‘Yes, he was. That’s why I want him to work on the case. There’s no better incentive.’

  ‘But is that fair? And maybe he’ll have too much invested in the case to do a really good job.’

  ‘Jim, I’m grounded. I can’t leave the country. I have to sit here and wait. There’s no one I trust more than Samson.’ He pinched his finger and thumb in the air. ‘He came this close to finding Aysel, and he never gave up, even when we stopped paying him. He will find Anastasia. All that matters is that we get her back, right?’

  ‘Just raising my concerns …’ Tulliver stopped when he saw the look in his boss’s eye.

  ‘I have no choice and, by the way, when Samson hears she has been abducted it’s the only thing he’ll want to do. Zillah, talk to Macy then take the plane and go and see Samson in London. You will be dropping me off at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey so I’ll have just a five-hour time difference with Europe. Tell Samson everything – every detail about TangKi. If he wants to speak to me, that’s fine. Jim, I need you to stay here and work on the passport issue and the TangKi board meeting tomorrow. And tell Sam Castell to look at this newsJip website.’

  They got up. ‘I’ll see you on the plane in about two hours,’ said Hisami, picking up his phone. When they’d left the room he searched his contacts for Senator Shelly Magee, an old ally and friend, but before he tapped in her number, there was an incoming call from Gil Leppo.

  ‘Hey!’ said Gil. ‘Just got out of the pool. And I guessed you’d be up. I wondered how you’re doing.’

  ‘Thanks for helping out at the meeting yesterday. I was grateful for your support. I’m sorry I had to leave.’

  ‘Yeah, Castell said you had some problems.’

  ‘Gil, I want to ask you something – who’s my enemy in that room? Which of them wants to destroy me?’

  ‘No one, as far as I know. I mean, they’re competitive people, but they respect your judgement. In our world, everyone can behave like a See You Next Tuesday but, honestly, Denis. I don’t think anyone is, like, seriously fucking with you.’

  ‘Word leaked out about that meeting, Gil. Someone told Crane.’

  ‘That’s not surprising. They all like him and admire what he’s done.’

  ‘So people are in touch with him. They know where he is. Is that Gehrig? He seemed defensive during the meeting. Martin Reid?’

  ‘I didn’t say that people are in touch with him, Denis. I just said it wasn’t a big surprise that word leaked out. From Micky and Martin’s point of view, it looks like you’re trying to mount a coup against Adam. They’re pissed. They think you’re after something.’

  ‘Did you talk to Crane, Gil?’

  ‘Nope. Like you, I haven’t heard from Adam in a while.’

  ‘Okay, so if you hear anything from him or anyone else about anything, let me know, will you? I’d appreciate that.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ said Gil. ‘Say hi to your beautiful wife for me.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to do that, Gil.’ He hung up and sat thinking for the best part of half an hour.

  CHAPTER 7

  The crew didn’t discover she was missing until several hours after the sun had risen then vanished behind a bank of black cloud that moved south from the Balkans. She had climbed on top of a container and found a place that was shielded from view by stacks three high either side and at the same time protected her from the worst of the wind. She was wearing the dead man’s jacket, held close to her body by the belt she had taken. Gusts of wind brought the smell of a heavy aftershave from the material to her nostrils.

  She heard voices below her and crawled to peer over the edge of the container. A party of at least five men was methodically sweeping the ship, trying the doors of the containers and looking into the narrow crevices between them. They went up and down the length of the vessel twice then began to check the tops of the lower containers with the help of a metal ladder that was slammed against the container ends. She slunk to the far corner of her box, climbed to the third storey and waited, quite comfortably, pressing her back against one container and resting her feet on a ridge on another. A man made a cursory investigation of the top of her container. She saw a bald head fleetingly but then it disappeared and gradually the voices receded from her part of the deck.

  Although the ship wasn’t large by the standards of some container vessels, there were many other places they would need to search, so she reasoned she was safe for a while. Her challenge now was to stay undiscovered until the ship reached its destination, and to do that she would need food and water and somewhere warm to sleep.

  The ship sailed on and hit the bad weather that had been threatening all day, causing it to pitch and roll in a furious wind that ripped spray from the top of the waves, repeatedly soaking her. This reminded her of the last time she had been at sea, crossing the Adriatic to Venice with Samson. She allowed herself to think of those few days spent exploring the outlying backwaters of the city and finding such delight in each other. And she thought of Samson – hopeless, brilliant and sexy, and kinder than she would ever be. A lover, not a husband.

  At dusk the deck lighting began to burn and she decided that it would be risky to break cover – watchful eyes on the bridge could easily pick her out. She waited a further five hours, during which time she saw no movement at all on the deck and heard nothing, but that was understandable, since the weather was atrocious. She often had to throw herself flat on the roof of the container to stop herself from falling off. Then, as midnight approached and the winds abated, she let herself down and moved with great stealth to the shadows of the containers nearest the bridge, where she could see more clearly the layout of the stern of the ship. If she was to steal food, this is where she would have to go. She watched for a full half-hour before satisfying herself that there was no one around – it seemed incredible they weren’t looking for her. She wondered if the decks were covered by CCTV but there were no cameras on the lighting masts and none, as far as she could tell, on the bridge that rose above her.

  She slipped through the shadows and found a companionway that descended to a deck where there were several doors leading to the bridge and main quarters. She went down, stopping to listen every other step. There was no noise except the churn of the engine. At the bottom, to her right, she saw a row of portholes facing out to sea. No lights shone from them. To her left was another short companionway that led to a door that spilled light on to a gangway. She went down, using the rails, her feet barely touching the steps. Through the door she heard the noise of someone working deep in the heart of the ship’s main quarters. She listened hard. It sounded as though they were scrubbing a floor with a brush and a hose. Music was playing in the background. She crept past the door and moved along the passage. The first door was open on to a storeroom filled with cleaning supplies, piles of cloth and drums of cooking oil. The next appeared to be a dumping ground for old furniture – broken tables and chairs, light fittings and coils of fine chain were heaped on the floor; safety netting, lamp torches and some mini traffic cones were ar
ranged neatly on the side. Above them, hanging on a row of pegs, were life vests and high-visibility jackets with the name of the ship printed on the back: CS Black Sea Star. She put one on and tucked her hair into the collar. At a distance, in the dark, she might pass for a member of the ship’s crew.

  The passage led to a large, well-lit space with long stainless-steel surfaces, square ventilation ducts and a tiled floor. She had found the galley, but there was no food in sight. To her left there was a smaller room with two sizable fridges and a door marked ‘Cold Store’. It was here that the man was working. He was kneeling down, facing the cold store, chipping away at something on the floor with a knife. The music was very loud – something Latin American – and he did not hear her as she sped past a series of ovens and huge gas rings. She now found herself in a darkened service area. A line of vending machines contained canned drink and snacks; there were tables and chairs and a dark TV set was mounted on the wall. She hunted around under the counter and found a kitchen knife, which she pocketed, then a jar of cereal, a cardboard box full of cookies in wrappers, croissants in cellophane and some little containers of butter and jam, presumably laid out for the crew’s breakfast. She stuffed as much as she could into her pockets and retraced her steps, carrying the cereal jar under her arm.

  This she nearly dropped when the man popped up from behind a steel cabinet with a look of enquiry on his face. He looked Chinese. He smiled and said, ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry – I felt hungry.’ She was searching his face to see what he would do, but he evidently had no idea who she was or why she was there. ‘It’s so cold out there,’ she said in her most normal voice. ‘I needed to eat. Hope you don’t mind.’

  He shook his head. She wasn’t sure he understood. ‘Very cold,’ she said, making a rather hopeless attempt to mime a shiver.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You want drink? I got whiskey and Metaxa 12 star in cabin. We can watch movie and drink Metaxa.’ He was undoing his apron and smiling. ‘I finish now. We make party. We make good, good party.’ She returned his smile. Maybe he didn’t know about her and the dead men who had been heaved over the side earlier that day. Maybe this strange little man was aware of nothing outside his spotless, glistening galley.