第 36 页

Where, where?

God, praise be to Him, where am I?

Nothing made sense. He had no memory of the past … well, how long? An hour, a week? No memory at all. A vague recollection of being in a tent. It was – yes, it was under the sun. Hot sun. A tent, his home. Why was he in a tent? Had something happened to his home in Tripoli?

No, their home.

He and others. Someone … Yes! His wife! He could now picture her. Ah: Fatima! He remembered the name, praise be to God! And their child.

And she – he believed the child was a girl – was named … He could not recall, and this made him want to cry.

So cry he did.

Yes, yes, she was a girl. A beautiful curly-haired daughter.

Although was she, the girl he pictured, in fact, their daughter? She might have been his brother’s. Then another thought came to him. Italy. He was in … in Italy.

Wasn’t that right?

But where was he now? Here? He’d been in a tent. That he was pretty sure about, though for what reason, he had no idea. A tent, then nothing, then he was in this place. That was all he could recall. His memory was so bad – the result of some drug? Or had he been suffocating, his brain cells dead? Maybe. His throat hurt. And his head too. Dizzy.

A dark room. Cold.

A basement, he believed.

Who had done this? Why?

And why was his mouth gagged, sealed with tape?

Something brushed his bare feet and he screamed, loud to him, soft to the world, because of the gag.

A rat! Yes, there were several of them. Skittering, twitchy.

Were they going to devour him alive?

Oh, my God, praise be to You!

Save me!

But the half-dozen – no, dozen, no, more! – creatures passed him by on their way toward the wall to his right. They weren’t interested in him.

Not yet.

All right. What is happening here? Hands bound, feet bound. Kidnapped. Gagged. But why on earth? Why would God – praise be to Him – allow this? Now more pieces of memory returned – though none recent. Recalling being a teacher in Tripoli until education in Libya became so fraught that his secular school was closed. Then he managed an electronics store, until the economy in Libya became so fragile that the shop was looted.

Only his wife’s salary as a nurse was left to support them.

And life grew even worse. No dinars, no food, the spread of the fundamentalists, ISIS or Daesh, taking over Derna, Sirte and other cities and towns, like an infection. Were they behind his kidnapping? Those men would certainly abduct and torture. Khaled and his family were moderate Sunnis, and believed in secular government. Yet he’d never vocally opposed the extremists. How could the mullahs and generals of ISIS even know he existed?

And the Libyan government?

Well, governments, plural. There was the House of Representatives, in Tobruk, along with the Libyan National Army. And then there was the rival General National Congress, based in Tripoli, whose questionable claim was enforced by the Libya Dawn militia. Yes, Khaled favored the House of Representatives but did so discreetly.

No, this kidnapping could not be political.

Then a bit of memory returned, like a kick. A boat … rocking on a boat. Vomiting frequently, burning in the sun …

The image returned of the tent …

And his daughter. Yes, his daughter. What is her name?

He carefully scanned the place where he was being kept. An old structure. Brick walls, beams overhead. He was in a cellar. The floor was stone and well worn, scarred and uneven. He looked down to see what kind of chair he was seated in and felt a pressure at his neck. A cord of some sort. He looked up.

No!

It was a noose!

The thin cord rose to a beam over his head. It continued to the far wall, over another beam then down to a weight, one of those big round ones that are attached to the ends of barbells. It was upright and resting on a ledge about five feet off the ground. The ledge was at an angle, and had the weight been free it would have rolled off and tugged the noose taut, strangling him. But thank God – praise be to Him – it was wedged in place.

He tried to make sense of this. Then he noted movement again, from the corner of his eye.

On the floor. More rats. And, like the others, they paid him no mind. They were much more interested in something else.

And then, to Khaled’s horror, he saw what drew the squirmy creatures, with their tiny red eyes and sharp yellow teeth: a block of something that was preventing the deadly weight from rolling off the ledge and tugging the noose up to strangle him. Pink, streaked with white. A piece of meat. That was what kept the weight from rolling and pulling the noose taut.

The first of the rats, moving cautiously, untrusting, approached it now. They sniffed with their pointed noses, they leapt back, then moved closer. Some were pushed aside by others – the more aggressive – and it was collectively decided that this addition to their lair was not only harmless … it was tasty.

The four rats soon became seven and then became a dozen, swarming the meat like huge, gray bacteria.

Some fights broke out, screeching and biting. But on the whole, they shared.

And began the serious effort of dining.

Khaled shouted and screamed through the gag and shook in the chair.

Which drew the attention of merely one or two of the rodents and their response was merely to glance at him with curiosity as they happily chewed and swallowed.

In five or ten or twenty minutes, they would devour the meat entirely. And the weight would begin its fall.

Despair.

But then came a flash of joy.

Yes, yes, thank you, God, praise be to Him. He had remembered his daughter’s name.

Muna …

At least he would have her name – and the memory of her happy face, her thick curly hair – to accompany him to his death.

CHAPTER 50

They tried. Both of them tried, slamming into the front door of the farmhouse.

But houses built in an era before alarms, when solid oak and maple had to provide the front line of defense, were not easily breached. Then or now.

Ercole had called Rossi again, who in turn had located the closest police station. It was the rival Carabinieri, but for a case like this every officer in Italy was on the same side. A car would be there in ten to fifteen minutes. The Police of State dispatched earlier would be about the same.

‘Shoot the lock out,’ Ercole said to Sachs.

‘That doesn’t work. Not with handguns.’

They circled the farmhouse quickly, still staying vigilant. They had no evidence that the Composer wasn’t inside or nearby. And by now he could know he had visitors. And would have seen or at least guessed it was police.

Ercole stumbled over an old garden hose and jumped back to his feet, wincing. He’d cut his palm on some broken crockery. Not badly. She was keeping her eyes – and concentration – on the windows, looking for both threats and for a means of entry.

She found one. A window in the back, one they’d looked through earlier, was unlocked.

Out came her small but blinding tactical flashlight. ‘Stay back, away from the window,’ she called to Ercole.

He dropped into a crouch. She clicked the light on and, holding it in her left hand, high above her head, stepped quickly to the window and played the beam inside while aiming the Beretta with her right. If the Composer were inside, armed and ready to shoot, he would instinctively aim for the light or near it. She might take a round in the arm but would have a second or two to fire before she collapsed in pain.

Or died from a brachial artery shot.

But the room yawned back, its only occupants dusty boxes and furniture covered with mismatched sheets as drop cloths.

‘Boost me up.’

He helped her inside, then he vaulted the sill and joined her.

They walked to the closed door that led to the hallway.

He tapped her arm. She smiled. He was holding out rubber bands.

They put them on their feet. He whispered, ‘But no gloves. Tactical.’

Nodding, she whispered, ‘We clear every room. That means we assume that he’s on the other side of any closed door or he’s hiding behind anything big enough to hide behind. I’ll hit the room once, fast, with the light, high, like I did at the window. Then back to cover. Then we go in low, crouching. He’ll be expecting us standing. And I mean low.’

‘And if we find him and he doesn’t surrender, we shoot for his arms or legs?’

She frowned. ‘No, if he’s armed, we kill him.’

‘Oh.’

‘Shoot here.’ She touched her upper lip, just below the nose. ‘To hit the brain stem. Three shots. Are you okay with that?’

‘I—’

‘You have to be okay with it, Ercole.’

‘I am.’ A firm nod. ‘Sì. D’accordo.’

A few deep breaths, and so began the hunt. This was a game you never got used to, a game you hated and yet was the most exquisite drug ever concocted.

First, she directed him to the den, where she’d seen the rifle. They cleared the room and she lifted the gun down and removed and pocketed the bolt, so it couldn’t fire. Then they began a room-by-room search, from the back of the house to the front. Most rooms were empty. There was a small bedroom that had to be the Composer’s. A single Converse Con sat beside the bed.

The kitchen, too, had been used with some frequency.

They continued on.

And hit every room on the ground floor of the place, then upstairs. The Composer was not here.

Finally, they returned to the door that Sachs believed led to the cellar.

She tested the wrought-iron latch slowly. It was unlocked.

Amelia Sachs hated basements. With a full tactical operation, you could pitch down a flash bang grenade, stun a barricaded suspect and leap down fast. But now? Just the two of them? She’d have to descend the stairs, her legs then hips then torso in full view of whatever weapon the Composer had. When he’d stolen the rifle, had he gotten away with a pistol as well?

Two shots to the knees and she’d fall, helpless and screaming in pain, ready for the final kill.

She glanced up and noted that Ercole, while he would not have had any such experience, was determined and calm. She was confident he’d do fine, if anything happened to her.

She whispered, ‘If Khaled is anywhere, it’s down there. Or the garage. More likely here, I’m thinking. So let’s go. You pull the door. And I go down, fast.’

‘No, I will be the one.’

She smiled. ‘This is my thing, Ercole. I’ll go.’

‘Let me. If he fires or attacks you will be able to shoot him better than I can. It is not a subject I excelled in at training. Truffle smugglers rarely carry AK-Four-Sevens.’ A smile.

She gripped his arm. ‘All right. Go fast. Here’s the light.’

He took a deep breath. And muttered something. A name. Isabella, she believed. Maybe a saint.

‘Ready?’

He nodded.

She yanked the door open. It crashed into the wall with a cloud of dust.

Neither moved for a moment.

It wasn’t a cellar. It was a closet. Empty.

Breathing fast.

‘Okay. Garage. We need something to break the padlock.’

They rummaged for tools and, in the kitchen, Ercole found a large hatchet. They left the house and made their way, crouching, to the outbuilding.

They prepared for entry again – different this time, since they could both establish a field of fire. He would break the lock and pull the sliding door open, while Sachs crouched and aimed into the small building with her flashlight and Beretta. He would do the same.

She nodded.

One swing of the tool and the padlock flew off. He yanked the door open … and just like the closet, empty space greeted them.

A sigh. They put their weapons away and walked back to the house.

‘Let’s see what we can find.’

How much time did they have until Khaled died? Not much.

They walked into the living room and, donning blue gloves now, looked over the desk, the papers, files, notes, strings. Searching for anything that might give a clue where the Composer and Khaled might be.

Her phone hummed – she’d put it on silent before the entry.

‘Rhyme,’ she said into the microphone attached to her earbud cords. ‘It’s his hidey-hole. But they’re not here. The Composer or the vic.’

‘Massimo says the Carabinieri should be there any minute.’

She could hear the sirens.

Rhyme said, ‘There’s not much time. He’s uploaded his video. Massimo sent the link to Ercole’s phone. The Postal Police are trying to track his proxies through the Far East. He doesn’t have Edward Snowden’s chops but it’ll still be a few hours before they get a specific site.’

‘We’ll keep at it here, Rhyme.’

She disconnected and continued the search, telling the Forestry officer, ‘Check your phone.’

Ercole showed her the screen. ‘Here.’

The video showed the unconscious form of Khaled Jabril, sitting in a chair, a noose around his neck, mouth gagged. Even through the small speakers of the mobile, it was easy to hear the bass beat, keeping time to the waltz that played underneath the visuals. The tune was eerie.

Ercole said, ‘Ah, he’s not using gasping breath for the rhythm, like before. It’s the victim’s heartbeat.’

Sachs said, ‘It’s familiar, that music. Do you know what it is?’

‘Ah, yes. It is the “Danse Macabre.”’

Sachs actually shivered, hearing the pulsing, ominous piece. She then squinted as she gazed at some papers in front of her.

No. Impossible.

She hit redial.

‘Sachs. You’ve found something?’

‘It’s far-fetched, Rhyme, but it’s the only chance we’ve got. Where’s Massimo?’

‘Hold on. You’re on speaker.’

‘I’m here, Detective Sachs,’ Rossi said.

‘Here’s an address. In Naples.’ She recited it.

‘Yes, it’s in the Spanish Quarters, not too far away from us. What’s there?’

‘Khaled Jabril, I’m pretty sure. The only question is, is he still alive?’

CHAPTER 51

Sachs saw Massimo Rossi, standing before what seemed to be an old factory, long abandoned, boarded up. The word Produzione was legible, appearing below another word – a person’s name or a product or a service – that was not.

The inspector saw them and called, ‘Qui. This way.’

She and Ercole were on foot. They had to be on foot, for the address they sought was in what Rossi had described as Quartieri Spagnoli, a congested, chaotic warren of narrow streets and alleyways in Naples. ‘Named for the Spanish garrison that was stationed nearby in the sixteenth century,’ Ercole told her. ‘If you see a boy running here, unlike the Vomero, he very likely is alerting his father or brother to the presence of police. Camorra are here. Tanti Camorra.’

Above her, laundry on white lines fluttered in the soft breeze, and scores of residents watched the flashing lights and the manhunt underway by dozens of uniformed officers. The spectators’ vantage points were balconies and open windows – which were probably where they spent much of their time; there were no yards, front or back, or even door stoops to sit on and rock babies or talk about politics and the day’s adventures at work, in the evening with a beer or wine.