The Abduction: A Novel (27 page)

It was him. It had to be.

Had she had more time to reflect, she might have been uneasy at discovering just how much data was held about her countrymen by the US. She’d had a vague idea that when you ticked a privacy setting it meant no one could see your information, not even the government. But like most people, when she was presented with a four-page “Terms and Conditions” she simply clicked “Agree”, trusting the global brand whose product she was using to keep her safe. And she’d always assumed that, if something was too invasive for the US government to do to its own citizens, they wouldn’t do it to citizens of other countries either.

Clearly, that wasn’t actually the case. She began to understand now why Daniele was so reluctant to open up Carnivia’s servers.

Going to Saito, she explained what she’d learned about Caliari.

“Good. Take two officers and a search team and go to his home. If he’s not there, break down the door. I’ll fax you a search warrant.”

DAY SIX

SIXTY-FIVE

IT WAS
7.30 a.m. by the time they smashed in the front door of Caliari’s apartment in Verona. The place looked barely lived in, Kat thought as she strode from room to room. A mattress on the floor; crockery and pans still in boxes; a hi-fi system that hadn’t even been wired up. The only things he’d unpacked properly were his books. Most, she noticed, were academic tomes on theology – particularly liberation theology – and ethics, but there were also some on anti-globalisation and modern culture: Naomi Klein’s
No Logo
, Noam Chomsky’s
Hegemony or Survival
and Jared Diamond’s
Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Survive
. All were in English, she noticed, suggesting that he was fluent in that language. A poster in the kitchen bore a quote by Mahatma Gandhi: “Earth provides enough to satisfy every man’s need, but not every man’s greed”.

On the table were some printouts. She picked them up and leafed through them. They all appeared to be from the web. On the top one, a paragraph had been carefully underlined:

During World War II, US planners developed a strategy of global control, intended to displace the European imperial powers and go far beyond, but in new ways. They had learned the effectiveness of airpower, and intended to cover as much of the world as possible with military bases that could be quickly expanded when necessary, and used to guarantee control over resources, suppress indigenous movements that threatened US domination, and install and protect client regimes. Massive intervention in subverting Italian democracy from the late 1940s is just one of many examples, benign by comparison with others that reached as far as near-genocidal slaughter.

Noam Chomsky.

As the search team got to work, she collected the post from the box outside and looked through it. There was a letter from the Carabinieri, asking Caliari to get in touch – evidently, he’d been on enough lists to get his name flagged up, but not so many as to cause alarm when he hadn’t responded. There was a credit card bill, which showed no new transactions. But in the recycling bin, the searchers found a receipt from a hardware shop for timber, rope and metal hooks, bought with cash.

And then they brought her something that made her blood run cold. A receipt from the Co-op for twenty-four bottles of nutrition drink and a carton of sanitary towels. He’d paid cash for those, too.

They had their man.

Panicucci came in from talking to the neighbours. “No one’s seen him for weeks. Even before that, he generally kept himself to himself. But he told the woman downstairs he was going away on a spiritual retreat. He’d done that before occasionally, so she wasn’t surprised.”

Kat went and spoke to the technician leading the search team. “Bring me anything that particularly relates to travelling around Italy. Maps, itineraries, camping sites… anything at all. We need to find an address.”

“Will do.”

She concentrated on finding his official documents. Everyone, she reasoned, no matter how disorganised, has a file or a folder somewhere that contains the really important stuff: financial papers, passport, birth certificate.

Eventually she found it – a fat cardboard file, unceremoniously stuffed into a carrier bag. In it were a number of out-of-date travel permits and visas relating to a period of employment by the Red Crescent in Yemen, and an even older letter from the diocese of Verona headed “Grant of Dispensation”, accepting his resignation “with great reluctance” and alluding to the “difficulties you have been having with spiritual discipline”. Then came some old Telecom Italia Mobile bills, all relating to the same account. A vaccination certificate. A guarantee card for a flat-screen television.

Frediano, where have you taken her?

Struck by a thought, she went back to the vaccination certificate. It dated back twenty years and bore the address of a hospital in Trentino-Alto Adige, the mountainous German-speaking area far to the north.

She got on the phone to Saito.

“I think he grew up in the Alto Adige,” she told him. “Can you have someone search the residency records for anyone by that name? There may be a family house he’s using.”

“Hold on.” She heard him giving some commands to another officer. Then, coming back on the line, he said, “Good work. Leave the search team to finish up there and get back to Venice.”

As they drove down the
autostrada
, Panicucci looked across at her. “Do you think we’re closing in?”

“It certainly feels like it. But those mountains are incredibly remote. Assuming that’s where he’s holed up, I’m guessing it’ll take a while to pinpoint the exact location.”

Panicucci said hesitantly, “What kind of dongle do you suppose he has?”

What do you mean?”

“I bought an internet dongle myself when I went on holiday, so that I didn’t have to pay hotel rates for wi-fi. But even though it was pay-as-you-go, I still had to show ID when I bought it. I asked why – apparently it’s a regulation, so the dongle could be linked to my TIM account. All these films he’s been uploading… he
must
have needed to top up the data allowance, and probably more than once. If he has a mobile phone account, perhaps the dongle will be registered to it too.”

“That’s a good suggestion. Add it to the TIM request, will you?”

Back in the operations room, she noticed that people were now looking at her in a different way – no longer with a kind of sly, surreptitious disapproval, but with curiosity, as if reassessing her, and even the odd blatant flash of professional jealousy. But Saito himself was frustrated.

“There are over sixty Caliaris in Alto Adige – it’s a common surname up there. And TIM are saying it’ll take at least a day to get back to us about the dongle.”

“A day!”

He nodded. “It’s crazy.”

It was extraordinary, she thought, that she’d managed to get hold of Caliari’s Facebook traffic faster than his phone company could identify whether they had any records relating to his mobile broadband. She hesitated. “There might be a quicker way.”

“Such as?”

“When we were first trying to trace Mia’s phone, Second Lieutenant Boland got Daniele Barbo to look it up on TIM’s system. He did it within half an hour.”

Now it was Saito’s turn to look appalled. “Dear God.”

“We could do the same thing now,” she suggested.

He looked torn. “There’s no way I can authorise that, Captain.”

“I understand, sir. I’ll be back as soon as I find anything.”

As she was leaving the operations room, she saw a new film flashing up on the screens. Evidently Carnivia had managed to get itself back online.

The footage showed Mia, apparently recovered, tied to a chair. The caption read:

CIA-FUNDED RESEARCH AT MCGILL UNIVERSITY SHOWED THAT SENSORY DEPRIVATION USING GLOVES, GOGGLES AND EARMUFFS COULD INDUCE HALLUCINATIONS WITHIN 24 HOURS AND COMPLETE BREAKDOWN AND DISINTEGRATION OF PERSONALITY WITHIN 48 HOURS.

ACCORDING TO THE USA, SENSORY DEPRIVATION IS NOT TORTURE.

AT 9 P.M. TONIGHT SHE WILL NOT BE TORTURED.

“Daniele,” Kat said when she reached the prison. “This beautiful fucked-up mess just got a bit uglier and more fucked up.”

She told him what she needed from him, and he nodded. “I can do that.”

Opening the laptop she’d brought with her, he logged on to the TIM website. “This is how I did it before,” he explained as he typed some code into the “Email address” and “Password” boxes. “I doubt they’ve got round to fixing the vulnerability yet.”

Sure enough, within moments he was inside TIM’s system. Then he frowned.

“What is it?”

“I can’t access the account details.” He typed some more code.

“It’s blocked?”

“No,” he said, puzzled. “There’s someone else in here. Someone who opened the database before I did.”

“Can’t you open it too?”

He shook his head. “Not until they’re gone.” He waited, then typed the command again.

“That’s better. And we’re in luck. Your
sottotenente
was right – there’s a pay-as-you-go dongle linked to his main account.”

“Can we trace it?”

“He hasn’t used it in the past twenty-four hours. But if he uses it again, we should be able to get the cell area, just as if it were a mobile phone.”

By noon, using conventional methods, the Carabinieri had managed to eliminate only six Caliaris from their list. At this rate, Kat thought, it would take them weeks.

The problem was that the area was so mountainous, and the villages so scattered, that checking out even one address took several hours. The local units had put all their available manpower onto it, but it wasn’t nearly enough.

“Wait,” Kat said. “How are they choosing which addresses to check?”

“They’re doing the quickest ones first – that is, the ones that aren’t too remote, so that we can cross as many as possible off our list.”

“We need to flip it round. If he’s got an old family property he thinks is perfect for holding Mia, it’s because it’s unusually inaccessible. It may even be listed as derelict. We should start prioritising the places that are the hardest to get to.”

They made the change. But by six, darkness was falling in the mountains, making the task of checking any more addresses almost impossible.

And then, finally, the investigators had the tiny sliver of luck that had so far eluded them.

Somewhere high in the Alto Adige, Frediano Caliari topped up his wireless broadband dongle, ahead of the data-heavy upload he was planning to make later that evening. Although he used a pay-as-you-go card, the SIM in the dongle checked in with the nearest cell phone mast to make sure it could find a connection before authorising the new capacity. The tiny packet of data was automatically linked to the account registered to the ID Caliari had showed when he made the original purchase.

Instantly, Daniele forwarded the information to Kat.

The phone mast was situated on top of a two-thousand-metre-high mountain and covered nearly thirty square kilometres around the village of Frisanco.

On the Carabinieri’s list of properties registered in the name of Caliari there was just one in the area of Frisanco: a former farmhouse. It was listed as derelict, and was perched halfway up the mountain, well away from any other houses.

There was a moment’s stunned silence as they realised what it meant.

“Listen, everyone,” Saito said urgently. “This isn’t the end, not by a long chalk. Now we have to work out how to get her out of there safely.” He lifted the phone. “But first, I should update our partners.”

He spoke for several minutes. But Kat saw how, almost from the start of the conversation, his expression was clouding. By the time he put the phone down his face was dark.

“The Americans are already in the air,” he said heavily. “Officially, it’s a joint operation. In practice, there are a few of our Special Forces with them purely for political cover. The USAF want to get Mia back themselves.”

“How did they know?” Kat asked. “If they’re already in the air, and we hadn’t told them about Caliari?”

“It seems we’re not the only ones carrying out surveillance,” Saito said bitterly. “Clearly, they’ve been listening in on our investigation all along.”

SIXTY-SIX

SHE DIDN’T KNOW
what had happened. She could remember the pain – the panic of suffocation, and the searing agony as her lungs battled for air that wasn’t there. She could even remember the sense of vertigo as unconsciousness rushed towards her. But of her resuscitation by Harlequin, she could remember nothing.

Only that when she eventually surfaced, there was a sharp pain in her chest. She later realised that he’d cracked a rib, restarting her heart.

She’d thought, after that, that this had to be the end. They’d nearly killed her, and by some miracle she’d survived. She’d sensed Harlequin’s terror even after she came round. So now, surely, they must see sense and release her.

The Skype incoming-call sound had bubbled on the laptop, again and again. Each time, Harlequin had ignored it.

Eventually, from her cell, she’d heard a vehicle climbing up the mountain, the sound gradually getting louder as it tacked back and forth up the steep roads. She heard a door bang, then shouting.

“
L’ho quasi uccisa!
” That was Harlequin’s voice.

Another, calmer voice had replied, “
Si, questo è ciò che accade.
”

I nearly killed her.

Yes, that’s what happens
.

Then Harlequin yelled what sounded like an ultimatum – a long stream of Italian, increasingly angry, culminating in him switching to English. “Fuck you. I’m quitting. Do what you like. But I’m getting out of here.”

The reply was in English too. Because the speaker wasn’t shouting, she had to strain to hear. But it sounded like, “Fine. Your choice.”

Then she’d heard some strange noises, not loud, but what could have been a scuffle. Whatever it was, it was over in seconds. A third voice – a rasping Italian male that she guessed was Bauta – shouted, “
Che cos’ hai fatto? Ma sei matto!
”

There was a pop, like a bottle being opened, then silence.

She heard nothing more for half an hour. Then she caught the sound of something heavy being dragged across the rough floor. It was followed by the rattle of the chain at her door.

The man who came in was wearing the Harlequin mask. But it wasn’t Harlequin. He was whistling under his breath.

He gestured for her to stand up, then to unzip her overalls.

When he’d walked all round her he put his hand just below her breast. She flinched, then forced herself to relax. He was checking her ribs. She cried out when he came to the cracked one. He kneaded it for a few seconds, like a doctor, but rougher.

She cried out again, but he seemed not even to notice. Apparently satisfied, he pointed to the overalls again. Then he tied her to the chair and filmed her for a few minutes.

“Where are they?” she said. “What have you done to them? Where’s Harlequin?”

Without hesitation he drove his fist into her solar plexus. She doubled up, winded.

As he left, he put his finger to his lips.
No talking.

Through her cell window she heard him moving around outside. Then came banging, the sound of a hammer on wood.

Later still, he opened the door and gestured for her to precede him into the larger barn. In the middle of the room was a wooden box lined with blankets.

Silently, he handed her a pair of earmuffs, then a heavy felt hood. She felt her wrists being secured. Thick, soft mittens were pulled over her hands. She was pushed, firmly but without violence, into the box.

As she lay down, she sensed some kind of lid being placed over her. She could dimly hear nails being hammered in – she counted four.

Then there was silence. The deadest, most absolute silence she’d ever known.

She tried to concentrate on the pain in her solar plexus. It was at least something to hold onto, something that existed. But after a while even that seemed to ebb away from her.

Strange patterns danced in the darkness in front of her. She tried opening and closing her eyes, but it didn’t make any difference to what she saw. After a while, she couldn’t even tell whether her eyes
were
open or closed, and she started to panic.

I will not go mad
, she told herself.
I will not.

She began to hallucinate. She was on a fairground ride, watching the stalls below as she spun round and round. She was in a small boat at sea, feeling seasick. She was already dead, and this was her coffin. She was underwater, slowly sinking to the bottom. Distantly, she heard popping noises, like firecrackers, and couldn’t tell if they were real or just another figment of her brain.