The Abduction: A Novel (32 page)

SEVENTY-SEVEN

“
KAT? IT’S DANIELE BARBO
.”

“What can I do for you, Daniele?” Kat knew it must be something out of the ordinary for Daniele to have called her.

“I’m worried about Holly,” he said abruptly. “She hasn’t been in touch for days.”

Kat was surprised to hear that Daniele and Holly were even in contact, let alone that he expected her to call regularly. “She’s not returned any of my messages recently, either. But I imagine they’re pretty busy over there. Either that, or she’s finally having wild sex with a lapdancer.”

There was a long silence. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that when she does finally come out of the closet, it’s going to be a pretty momentous event,” Kat explained patiently. “But I’m sure she’ll be in touch soon. What was it you wanted to say to her? If you tell me, I’ll pass the message on.”

She was answered by a click.

She sent Holly a quick email saying that she should get in touch and added a jokey PS.
Your admirer’s getting keen
…

As she pressed “Send” her eye was caught by the previous message, the last one Holly had sent to her.

Kat, I spoke to Mia today. There seem to be some discrep $ particular, Mia talks about a “whistling man” who wore the same mask as another kidnapper. This one never spoke, but whistled Springsteen under his breath. Does that ring any bells your end?

She’d replied, but heard nothing back. And then there’d been that failed call at 4 a.m. An odd time to phone, unless it was something important.

She phoned the base and asked to talk to Holly’s ranking officer in Civilian Liaison. Holly had mentioned First Lieutenant Mike Breedon on several occasions: Kat knew she liked and trusted him.

The mellow Virginian voice that came on the line sounded anxious. “She’s not been at her desk for twenty-four hours. Usually I kind of let her get on with things, but she’s always careful to let me know what her schedule is.” He paused. “Usually in fifteen-minute segments, colour coded, and with a note reminding me what my own schedule is too.”

“Something’s wrong,” Kat said. “It must be.”

“Could the Carabinieri maybe send someone to check her apartment?”

“I’ll go myself,” Kat said. “Text me the address, will you?”

It turned out Holly was renting an apartment on the top floor of a building right in the historic centre of Vicenza. As was usual in these places, there was a concierge-cum-handyman who held duplicate keys.

Inside, it was even tidier than Kat had expected. In the kitchen were four separate chopping boards of different colours, carefully labelled “Meat”, “Fish”, “Chicken” and “Vegetables”. Cookery books – Kat had never read a cookery book in her life, let alone bought one, since she’d picked up all the recipes she needed from her mother and grandmother – were ranged on a shelf in alphabetical order. In the bedroom, the bed was made with military neatness, and even the clothes in the dirty laundry basket had been carefully folded.

Kat thought back to the incident that had precipitated her rift with Holly. Although both of them now chose to pretend that it had been over a frying pan, the truth was a little more complex than that. Soon after Holly had come to stay with her, after the end of the Bosnian case, they’d gone out to Kat’s favourite Venetian
bacaro
, where, towards the end of the evening, they’d found themselves being chatted up by two good-looking young men, Philippo and Andreas. Since Kat had got on well with Andreas, and since Philippo and Holly seemed to be in a similar situation, Kat had naturally suggested when the bar closed that they all go back to her apartment. After a bottle of wine had been opened and consumed, however, it became clear that there was a small problem, in that there was only one bedroom; which was to say, Kat’s.

Kat had taken the opportunity to murmur to Holly, when getting another bottle, that she would presently slip off with Andreas, leaving the sitting room to Holly and Philippo.

Holly had stared at her. “I’m not planning on
sleeping
with him, Kat.”

“Oh.” Kat considered. “Well, that’s awkward. You’d better send him home, then.”

However, it hadn’t quite worked out that way, and somehow Kat had ended up in the bedroom with both Andreas and Philippo. And somehow they’d made a bit more noise than was strictly necessary – which was nothing at all to do with making a point to the repressed American who was trying to sleep on the couch just the other side of the wall; but might, she later reflected, have been taken that way.

Next day, Kat had gone straight to work. While she was out, it transpired, Holly had decided to give the place a much-needed clean – which, in turn, had absolutely nothing to do with feeling that the whole apartment was now morally tainted by the previous night’s excesses. With her usual methodical efficiency, she’d sorted, scrubbed and scoured everything in sight. Unfortunately, that had included Kat’s cast-iron frying pan, a family heirloom given to her by her grandmother, Nonna Renata. Kat was extremely proud of the ancient, blackened patina that enabled the pan to perform its function with nothing more than an occasional wipe and a drizzle of good Garda olive oil, and her fury when she returned that evening to discover that her house guest had not only imposed her anal American neuroses on the clutter of Kat’s lovely kitchen, but had ruined her grandmother’s pan in the process, had been terrible to behold.

Kat had been on a short fuse in any case since discovering just how difficult her complaint against Piola was going to make her life, and that evening all of her pent-up anger had erupted in one long but satisfying tirade. Things were said that could never be unsaid, some of them even postulating a link between Holly’s fondness for cleaning products and her lack of sexual interest in men. Stung, Holly had offered to move out. Kat had told her it would be better if she was gone within the hour. And, somewhat to Kat’s surprise, she had been. It was a relief in many ways – the tiny apartment had never been going to accommodate two such different personalities – but a faint suspicion in Kat’s mind that she might herself have been in the wrong had, not for the first time in her life, turned into a fierce determination that if so, she didn’t give a fuck.

Only later did she discover that she actually cared very much indeed. She had been thanking her lucky stars, ever since Mia’s kidnap, that Holly had taken the initiative to reignite their friendship. They might be chalk and cheese, but something about their relationship made their differences irrelevant.

Kat went through to the living room. Beyond a glass door was a tiny little terrace, with fresh herbs growing in pots, and a table with one chair, angled south over the terracotta rooftops towards the Berici hills. She pictured Holly sitting there, drinking her single cup of coffee every morning, perfectly content, and felt a sudden stab of anxiety.

It was when she turned around, though, that she stopped short. The pictures had been taken down from one wall and replaced with the neatest, most organised spidergram Kat had ever seen.

Carver. Elston. Drugs…

She scanned it carefully. There were connections she herself had made, as well as some that were unfamiliar. She raised her eyebrows at the stick drawing of the Club Libero swingers – that, at least, was surely out of character.

Two more stick figures caught her eye, male and female, marked “Daniele” and “Holly”. It occurred to her to wonder if she’d said something rather tactless to Daniele earlier. Oh well: there’d be plenty of time to rectify that later. The important thing now was to find Holly.

I’ve just spoken to Mia
, Holly had said in her email.

She punched a number into her phone. “Mike,” she said when Holly’s boss answered, “Can you find out for me where Mia and her father are now?”

They were at Vicenza High School, came the word back. At a social function, not to be disturbed.

Kat went right ahead and disturbed them.

As she drove into the parking lot she saw a banner tied over the gate. “Ninth Annual Purity Prom!” And, in smaller letters, “Special Homecoming Gala Invitees: Mia and Major R. Elston”.

A military band was playing at the base of a raised stage, and a number of pre-teen girls in full prom gowns were trying their hardest to look like Scarlett O’Hara. Some even sported Bo-Peep hats and elbow-length gloves, while their fathers were resplendent in ceremonial dress. Retirees and veterans marched stiffly to and fro, medals pinned to puffed-out chests. Posters tied to the trees and railings exhorted the guests to “Pledge Purity!” and, more incongruously, “Once You Pop You Can’t Stop”.

She pushed through the crowds, looking for Major Elston. A huge cheer and a round of applause went up, and she saw Mia stepping onto the stage. She edged closer to listen.

“Hey, everyone,” Mia began a little awkwardly. “In a minute, some of you guys will make your purity vows. Just like I did a few years back.” She paused. “You know, my dad and I have been talking about this, and we’ve agreed I made the decision to do that before I was really old enough to understand what it meant. Before I realised that the only person you can make a promise like that to is yourself.

“So, if you want to pledge not to do the big S-word thing until your wedding night, then go right ahead – I honour and salute you, and I wish you every success. But equally, if those ideals aren’t right for you, don’t feel bad.” She stopped, blushed in confusion, and added, “I guess that’s all I’ve got to say. Except that I’ve got the best dad in the world.”

The teen princesses applauded her a little doubtfully, glancing up at their own fathers for some indication that these sentiments were acceptable. If their fathers thought they were not, they gave no sign of it.

As the first father–daughter pair was called to the stage, Kat made her way to the side, where Major Elston stood with his arm around Mia’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. It’s about Second Lieutenant Boland.”

He glanced at her. “This is not an appropriate time, Captain. I’m with my family.”

“I understand that. But it’s an emergency. She’s missing.”

“You told me once that runaways generally turn up, as I recall.”

She swallowed. “I was wrong. Major… Please. You have your daughter back. Help me to rescue my friend.”

“Dad…” Mia said pleadingly.

He grimaced. “Very well. Walk with me, Captain.”

He took her to one side and listened, his face darkening, while she explained.

“I can see why you’re concerned,” he said quietly. “Believe me, I think she’s in very great danger. But I’m afraid I really can’t help. I simply have no knowledge of where they might have taken her.”

“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?”