The Abduction: A Novel (14 page)

TWENTY-SEVEN

KAT WENT BACK
to Venice. But instead of going straight to the Carabinieri headquarters, she made her way to Palazzo Balbi in Dorsoduro.

This sprawling old building overlooking the Grand Canal was the home of the Veneto parliament, the Giùnta Regionale. She found Vivaldo Moretti’s office and sent in her request via the startlingly curvaceous secretary.

At last a TV crew came out, talking animatedly amongst themselves. Shortly after, the man himself appeared with some papers, then vanished again. He must have communicated with the secretary by email, however, as a few moments later she said, “You can go in now.”

Moretti’s office was small and comfortable, with fresh flowers on the low coffee table that stood between two elegant B&B Italia sofas. As he rose and escorted her to one of them, she recalled a newspaper interview in which he’d said he liked to do his work on the sofas and have sex on his desk, instead of the other way round like most of his colleagues. The quip had reinforced his public image as an incorrigible old goat. But it also bolstered his reputation as someone who brokered alliances and got things done, rather than simply pushed paper.

He was shorter than he appeared on television. The facelift, too, was obvious, but somehow the tightened skin behind his eyes enhanced rather than obscured the expression of twinkling amusement, while the grid of hair plugs across his scalp reminded her of a neatly planted vineyard. Add to that a bulbous nose and a protruding chin, and the man could hardly be called handsome. Even so, she felt the extraordinary force of his charm.

“So,” he said. “I think I already know what prompted this visit, Capitano.”

“Giù called you.”

Moretti gave a shrug, as if to say the loyalty of men like Giù was inevitable. “What I’m less clear about is how you think I can help.”

“He said that you like a particular table at Club Libero, next to the dance floor, where you can see what’s going on. It occurred to me that someone sitting in such a spot might have seen something useful.”

“Ah. It’s true, yes, that I was at the club last Saturday. Though sadly,” he sighed theatrically, “one gets so little time just to sit back and observe. Even though at my age the attractions of an
ombra
of
prosecco
and some entertaining gossip are perfectly sufficient, my companions last Saturday were more energetic, and I was soon dragged into the fray. I’m afraid I saw nothing but some young people having a good time.”

“Did you come across either of these two?” She showed him the pictures of Dreadlock Guy and Tattoo Woman.

He pulled out a pair of glasses and scrutinised them before shaking his head. “Regretfully, no.”

“How often do you go to that club?”

He considered. “A few times a year, no more.”

“Aren’t you worried it might get in the papers?”

“It’s a risk, certainly,” he said with a shrug and an easy smile. “But after all, what is life without risk? I can think of nothing worse than avoiding all pleasure in the hope of appeasing public opinion. Have you come to blackmail me? If so, I should warn you that you’re going to be disappointed.”

The question took Kat aback. “Of course not. Are you going to ask me to keep your presence at the club a secret?”

He looked equally surprised. “Of course not. Although I would hope that you won’t publicise it unless it becomes necessary to your investigation.”

“I can’t see any reason why it would.”

“Excellent. Since we find each other so
simpatico
,
Capitano, I find myself wondering how we should continue this conversation. Will you have dinner with me?”

She laughed, and Moretti affected to look hurt. “Have I said something amusing? I was thinking perhaps at the Hotel Metropole, which has recently gained a second Michelin star. But not in the restaurant – people are so very friendly, they would want to pass by our table and talk about politics, whereas I would much rather get to know
you
. There’s a charming suite on the second floor with a lovely view across to San Giorgio. And it’s just round the corner from the Carabinieri headquarters.”

She shook her head. “I don’t intend to go to bed with you, Mr Moretti.”

“Vivaldo, please. And although I very much regret your answer, I quite understand. Perhaps we might have a drink together in any case. I collect interesting people, Captain, and I think that you would interest me greatly.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to fuck off. “Maybe one day,” she found herself saying. Since he’d taken so little offence at her refusal, it was hard to get worked up about his pass. Perhaps, she thought, that was the secret of his success with women: good manners, persistency, and the element of surprise. “Getting back to these tapes… What’s puzzling me about Club Libero is why anyone felt the need to firebomb it. At first I thought it might be because someone like yourself had heard about the investigation and wanted to make sure they weren’t exposed as a patron. But having spoken to you, I feel reasonably confident you wouldn’t do such a thing.”

He inclined his head. “Thank you.”

“Then who?”

He thought. “You know, crime isn’t so different from politics, in the end. In both, you sometimes make decisions not because of the effect they have, but because of the message they send.”

“What do you mean?”

“Perhaps someone wants to draw attention to the club’s role in this kidnap. Perhaps it is all part of their plan to make this one of the great mysteries of Italy.”

She was silent, digesting this.

“That interview I just gave…” he said, gesturing at the door. “The journalist wanted to know if I agreed that this website, Carnivia, should be shut down. Already, apparently, people are saying that if we can just deny the kidnappers a platform, Mia will be released.”

“You don’t agree?”

“I think it’s a simplistic answer. But this case will be all about public opinion, it seems to me. And at times like this people want action, not caution.”

“The website hasn’t done anything illegal.”

He shrugged. “Some means will be found. It always is. And with the elections coming up, I think you can depend on there being more than the usual amount of nonsense talked. ” He stood up. “Goodbye, Captain Tapo. I hope our friendship will continue to blossom.”

“I hope so too,” she said, and was surprised to discover that she meant it.

“Until we meet again, then.” He held out his hand for hers, and when she took it, raised it to his lips and kissed her fingers.

As she left his office, she could have sworn the curvaceous secretary winked at her.

TWENTY-EIGHT

SITTING ON THE
thin mattress in her orange overalls, Mia wrapped her arms around her knees and sobbed. As hour followed hour with nothing but her own thoughts to distract her, terror had been replaced by an aching, dull despair.

I’m such a fuck-up.

She saw now how the kidnappers were going to prevent this from dragging on: they were simply going to escalate her torment, little by little, and film themselves doing so. The onus would be on the US to find a solution before things got really nasty.

She didn’t kid herself that her parents would have any say in what happened then. Her father was a soldier. He obeyed orders, just as he expected those under his command to obey the orders he gave.

At the thought of her parents, her despair worsened. They’d know by now where she’d been snatched from. What must they think of her?

She got onto her knees and tried to pray. At home her family did this together every week; it was one of the things her father insisted on. She wasn’t sure if she really believed – not that she’d ever dare tell
him
that – but right now it felt reassuring, as if it weren’t God she was getting in touch with, but her family.

The sound of the chain rattling at the door alerted her to the fact that the kidnappers were coming for her again. She pressed her hands even tighter together, squeezing her eyes shut too, whispering soundlessly into her fingertips.

She heard the door open, but no command came.

She went on praying. Still there was no sound. A minute passed. When she did eventually look up, she saw Harlequin standing there, framed by the doorway, waiting for her to finish.

“Get up,” he said. “We have work to do.”

She was strung up by the wrists again, her arms supporting almost all of her body weight, the metal of the cuffs digging into her flesh.

Suddenly, without any warning, Harlequin grabbed her by the lapels of her overalls and pulled her violently towards him, then threw her backwards in the same manner. As she rocked back against the rope he slapped her, hard, across the cheek, with an open palm.

She screamed. It wasn’t just the pain; it was the sudden, shocking violence of it. After he’d given her the overalls to wear, she’d convinced herself that he didn’t intend to hurt her. Whimpering, she pulled away as far as the rope would allow.

Bauta filmed it all impassively.

Harlequin was breathing heavily now. He swung her round on the rope, then yanked her forward and grabbed her head in both hands, bringing it very close to his own so that she could see right into his eyes. As he released her, he slapped her face again.

“
Aspetta. Voglio fare un primo piano.
” It was Bauta. He seemed to be telling Harlequin to do it again, so that he could get a closer shot.

Harlequin turned and, in one fluid move, smacked the camera clean out of Bauta’s hand. It seemed to shock all of them – not least Harlequin, who muttered curses as Bauta scrabbled after the camera.

She wondered whether, if it was broken, they’d let her go.

It was fine. Bauta was telling Harlequin it was fine.

For the first time she realised how deep, and how unpredictable, the rage in Harlequin was.

It was her praying, she realised with a flash of insight, that had made him so angry. Could he be religious? She tucked the question away for future reference. There was no time to think about it now. They were untying her. Her aching body sagged with relief, but it wasn’t back to her cell that they were dragging her, one on either side. It was towards the chair.

Evidently, work wasn’t over for the day.

TWENTY-NINE

DANIELE LEFT THE
Carabinieri headquarters in a fury, the Carnevale crowds only worsening his mood. Venice’s six million tourists were invariably so starstruck by the city’s beauty that they wandered around at a snail’s pace, looking everywhere but the narrow pavements. Venetians in a hurry had long ago learned to barge past with a cursorily muttered “
Attenzione!
”, their natural courtesy hardened by necessity.

Today Daniele Barbo dispensed even with the mutter.

He’d been interviewed by the man in charge of the investigation, General Saito, who’d blithely told him that it would be in his best interests to provide any information he could.

Daniele had tried to explain. “It’s in Carnivia’s best interests that it remain independent. I have a responsibility to my users to deny requests for information that they can reasonably expect to remain confidential. And in the case of Carnivia, that means everything.”

“What about Mia Elston?” Saito had said.

“My responsibility to Mia is exactly the same as to anyone else. That is, to keep her account out of the hands of the government.”

In response Saito had rubbed his hand over his face. He’d been up all night, and he wasn’t in the mood to let some skinny computer nerd get in the way of his investigation. “Then take it down,” he demanded.

“What?”

“Close Carnivia yourself. Why not? You’ll have denied the kidnappers the publicity they crave, but you won’t have compromised your precious data by sharing it with us.”

Daniele closed his eyes. “I can’t do that.”

“Of course not. That would be far too selfless.” Saito stared at Daniele. “Why you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did the kidnappers choose to alert
you
, in particular, to Mia’s abduction?”

It was a question that had been troubling Daniele too, but he didn’t intend to let Saito know that. “I’ve no idea. Since you’re the Carabinieri, why don’t you investigate and tell me?”

“I’ll tell you what I think.” Saito leaned across the table. “I think it’s because this stuff isn’t coming via Mia’s account at all. I think you’re putting it out there yourself.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? You’re a convicted computer hacker, I understand.”

“I was found guilty of a minor offence a long time ago when I was a student, yes.”

Saito picked up a briefing sheet. “‘The 1994 Comcast hack,’” he read aloud. “‘One of the first attacks by what came to be known as “hactivists”. The damage to Comcast’s reputation was estimated at millions of dollars.’”

“Your researchers shouldn’t believe everything they read on Wikipedia, General.”

Saito ignored him. “I should imagine that kind of attention-seeking is quite addictive. Do you miss those glory days? Mounting hacks against
American
companies? How much more satisfying to get the US Military dancing to your tune. And by hacking into your own website, you can make it look like it’s nothing to do with you.”

“This is total fantasy,” Daniele said, shaking his head.

“You were kidnapped yourself as a child, I understand.” Saito nodded at the note. “According to my researchers – who are very thorough, by the way – that’s when you started to develop your obsessive tendencies.” His gaze travelled over Daniele’s facial deformities. “Is this all just some kind of twisted revenge?”

“I won’t bother to answer that.”

“Your refusal to deny the allegation is duly noted.”

“Can I go now?” Daniele said coldly.

“Yes, for the time being. But I’m going to arrange for your medical history to be evaluated by a police psychiatrist. If the profiler agrees you’re capable of orchestrating Mia’s kidnap, we’ll apply for a warrant on that basis. One way or another, Mr Barbo, you
will
help us.”

Back at Ca’ Barbo, Daniele went up to the old music room and, with a sigh of relief, logged on to Carnivia. It was something he did every time he got home almost without thinking, as automatic and as welcome as closing his front door on one world and slipping into another.

Ordinary users, he’d heard, found entering Carnivia the first few times a bewildering, almost overwhelming experience, their exhilaration at being able to interact with others in complete anonymity tempered by fear at the realisation that others could act equally freely. But for him, a world in which the only laws were those of mathematics made perfect sense. He only wished the real world could be as straightforward.

He checked his messages. Most were from his fellow administrators, concerning relatively mundane matters of housekeeping. There’d been a higher than usual number of attempted hacks on Carnivia in the last twenty-four hours, but that was no particular cause for alarm: there had been a higher than usual volume of traffic, too, as word about the Mia films had spread. Some of the attempts were so amateurish they made Daniele smile, the way an adult smiles at the bravado of a toddler.

Just as he was about to navigate away, another message arrived.

From: Mia Elston

Subject: Help

He opened it.

Daniele, won’t you come find me? Unlike Casanova, I can’t escape.

Daniele stared at the message. With a sinking feeling, he realised that, in one sense at least, he knew exactly where Mia was.

Setting off from Ca’ Barbo, he crossed the Grand Canal by the Accademia bridge, its wooden boards shaking slightly under his feet. Looking down, he saw it was currently low tide: you could just make out a faint line of green weed along the sides of the palaces bordering the canal. As he continued on to Piazza San Marco, a light shower made the
masegni
, the stone tiles that paved the narrow thoroughfares, a little slippery.

The route was almost as busy as it had been earlier, when he’d walked in the opposite direction, but it was an easy matter to slip through the crowds – not least because he was now invisible, and those around him were all avatars.

Carnivia’s version of Piazza San Marco was filled with masked and hooded figures. Many were deep in conversation; others were just passing through. Beyond them rose the Byzantine grandeur of the Palazzo Ducale. Daniele knew it well: he’d built it himself, taking the measurements of the real palace room by room and obsessively coding the wireframe of its Carnivian equivalent, line by line.

He was heading for the “leads” – the space under the lead roof that had once housed the Republic’s prison. The real palace had been built by Venice’s shipmakers, who constructed the roof as if it were an upside-down hull, leaving plenty of room in which to accommodate prisoners, though not in comfort. It was also where the Doge’s inquisitors once tortured on behalf of the state. The windows of the tiny, cramped cells looked inwards to the torture chamber, rather than outwards to the lagoon, in order to weaken the prisoners’ resistance even before it was their turn. It was from one such cell that Casanova had famously escaped.

In the middle of the torture chamber stood a female avatar wearing a Columbina mask. She was bound, her shackled wrists pulled above her head by a rope that hung from the ceiling. As he took a step towards her, some words wrote themselves in fiery letters across the wall:

According to America, this isn’t torture.

A film started, embedded in the wall of the Doge’s Palace as if on a giant cinema screen.

It began with Mia being violently grabbed by the lapels with both hands. A title appeared.

ATTENTION GRASP: THE INTERROGATOR CLASPS THE INDIVIDUAL WITH BOTH HANDS, ONE HAND ON EACH SIDE OF THE COLLAR OPENING, IN A QUICK AND CONTROLLED MOTION. IN THE SAME MOTION, THE INDIVIDUAL IS DRAWN TOWARDS THE INTERROGATOR.

Next the film showed the kidnapper grabbing her head, his palms over her ears and using it to pull her around and shake her.

FACIAL HOLD: ONE OPEN PALM IS PLACED ON EITHER SIDE OF THE INDIVIDUAL’S FACE TO KEEP THE HEAD IMMOBILE. THIS IS DONE TO INTIMIDATE THE INDIVIDUAL.

Then came the sudden, sickening violence of a slap, delivered as if he were driving a squash ball down a court. Its force spun Mia right around.

FACIAL OR “INSULT” SLAP: WITH THIS TECHNIQUE, THE INTERROGATOR SLAPS THE INDIVIDUAL’S FACE WITH FINGERS SLIGHTLY SPREAD. THE INSULT SLAP IS USED PRINCIPALLY TO DISPEL ANY NOTIONS IN THE CAPTIVE’S MIND THAT SHE WILL NOT BE STRUCK.

But it still wasn’t over. As they dragged her to a chair, fastening her arms and legs to it with duct tape, Mia looked up in horror at something they were bringing towards her. A moment later, Harlequin pulled some electric clippers into shot.

Sickened, Daniele couldn’t watch any more. Abruptly, he reached out and turned off his computer.

Then he sat for a long time in front of the blank screen, his head bowed in what would have looked, in any other man, like prayer.