The Abduction: A Novel

by Jonathan Holt

  Kat looked over. “Yes. Condoms.”

  “What kind of club is this?”

  “A club privé.” Seeing Holly’s look of incomprehension, she nodded at a discreet sign, “Solo Coppie”, to one side of the door. “Couples only. It’s a swingers’ club. Which means Mia must have come here with someone. I’m hoping the tapes will show us who.”

  While they waited for the security director, Kat and Holly took a look around. In many ways it seemed hardly different from any other nightclub, Holly thought, struggling to equate what she was seeing with what she now knew actually happened here. The cleaner was vacuuming the dance floor. An electrician was working on a smoke machine that had blown a fuse. Only in the smaller rooms at the back – some of which contained oversized beds, wooden frames, and in one case a padded floor – was there any indication that the clientele didn’t come just to dance.

  A woman in her late thirties was putting out piles of freshly laundered white towels in one of the rooms. Coming over, she introduced herself as Jacquie, Edoardo’s wife.

  “Oh, you’re American,” she exclaimed to Holly in English. “Me too.”

  “How long have you had the club?” Kat asked.

  “Four years. It’s been our dream ever since we met, though.” She made it sound as if they were running a sweet little café by the sea. “Somewhere clean and safe and glamorous, where everyone would feel welcome. I hope you find that poor girl soon,” she added anxiously. “It’s awful to think she might have been here.”

  When she’d left them, Holly turned to Kat. “Are there many places like this round here?”

  Not so Italian after all, Kat thought wryly. “Every city has one or two. I’ve never had much to do with them, professionally speaking. The clientele are usually affluent and well behaved. And the clubs invest in good security because they don’t want any hassle.”

  “‘Professionally speaking’? You’re not saying you’ve been somewhere like this in your personal life?” Holly couldn’t help sounding shocked. She’d just peeked into another of the back rooms as they passed. It was bisected by a partition with a number of holes cut into it at around waist height. She tried not to think what they were for, although the paper-towel dispenser on the wall gave some indication.

  Kat laughed. “Sure. It was a while ago now, when I was in Roma. I had a boyfriend who was into it, an older guy. He made it sound fun. So I went along a couple of times out of curiosity.”

  “And?”

  She shrugged. “It was lots of people having sex. Once you get over the novelty, it’s no big deal. But it’s also pretty superficial. You meet, you say hello, you fuck, you say goodbye – it’s like fast food. Me, I prefer a slow-cooked ragù.” She glanced at Holly. “Not to mention a few arguments over the recipe.”

  “And Italians generally? They just accept these places?”

  “Holly, until recently we had a prime minister who openly boasted of holding orgies. And every time he did, his approval ratings went up. If Italy ever starts to get prudish about sexual matters, it won’t be because of clubs like this.”

  At the front desk they found a man working with Edoardo on the CCTV machine. He didn’t look up as they approached, which immediately made Kat suspicious.

  “It seems there’s a problem,” Edoardo said. “The footage is meant to be stored on the computer. But there’s some kind of glitch. We’re working on it.” He addressed the security man. “How long, Giù?”

  “Maybe an hour or so,” the man mumbled, his head still turned away from the two women. “I’ll take it away, see if I can fix it—”

  As soon as he opened his mouth, Kat realised she knew him. “You’re a carabiniere!” she exclaimed. “One of the local boys.”

  “So?” Giù said belligerently. “A man’s got to make a living, hasn’t he?”

  “Sure. But a man’s also got to clear any part-time jobs with his generale di divisione. And I’m willing to bet yours has no idea you spend your nights doing security here. In fact, I’d bet that if I took a look at your duty roster, I’d find you magically manage to be in two places at once from time to time. So let’s cut the crap, shall we, and tell me what you know.”

  Giù sighed. “All right. Get off my balls, will you? There is something, as it happens.”

  “Go on.”

  “I have four guys who work for me here. All good people. Anyway, on Saturday one came to me and said he thought there was someone dealing.”

  “That can’t be unusual, surely?”

  Giù bristled. “Dealers know to stay away from this place.”

  “That’s why I employ him,” Edoardo added. “Having a carabiniere on the premises, even off-duty, it lets people know you’re serious. We operate a zero-tolerance policy – the guys search anyone they think might be bringing something in.”

  It seemed unlikely to Kat that the club would be allowed to survive very long if the Mafia really had no way of selling drugs to its customers, but she only nodded and said, “Go on.”

  Giù continued, “Anyway, I went looking for him – it was a young guy, they told me; white, but with dreadlocks. But he was already gone. I thought he must have realised he’d been spotted. Tino in the parking lot said he’d seen a van with blacked-out windows driving off fast. So that seemed to fit.”

  “But something didn’t?”

  Giù went over to the desk and opened a drawer. “We found this in the car park,” he said, pulling out what looked like a tangle of knotted ropes. He shook it, and it became a wig of long white dreadlocks. “If he was a dealer, it seems weird that he was wearing a disguise.”

  Kat’s phone rang. It was Daniele. “Yes?” she answered.

  His voice sounded tense. “I’ve been sent another message.” He paused. “A film clip. Kat, you need to see it. Mia’s been kidnapped.”

  SEVENTEEN

  “THERE’LL BE A press conference tomorrow at nine a.m.,” Saito told the packed room. “In the meantime, no one else is to see this unless I’ve cleared it.” He gestured to a technician to start the tape.

  The Carabinieri team had been assembled in record time. Already, eighteen officers and sixty regular carabinieri had been allocated to the case. Kidnap specialists were driving down from Milan, and several Americans whose job titles were as vague as their names were uncatchable had set up a secure communications centre in a side room. Kat spotted Colonel Piola in the crush of officers and looked away, determined not to catch his eye.

  The first thing on the film was a crude title, typed on basic video-editing software.

  FOLLOWING CAPTURE, THE CAPTIVE IS SHACKLED AND DEPRIVED OF SIGHT AND SOUND THROUGH THE USE OF EARMUFFS, GOGGLES AND HOODS.

  The film cut to a grainy image of a figure, hooded and bound, lying on the floor of a van. It had been filmed with a phone, or some other unsophisticated camera: the picture was shaky and slightly out of focus. Almost immediately, it cut to another title.

  THE RECEPTION PROCESS GENERALLY CREATES SIGNIFICANT APPREHENSION.

  Now the camera was moving through the doorway of a small stone-built room, like an animal pen. A figure was sitting on the floor, handcuffed. The hood had been taken off, but only as she looked up did it become clear that it was a teenage girl. She looked terrified.

  SLEEP DEPRIVATION AND DIETARY MANIPULATION ARE USED AS STANDARD PREPARATORY STEPS.

  Then there was a brief shot of the same girl drinking from a plastic bottle of Ensure. Again, it was only on screen for a few brief seconds.

  THE INITIAL INTERVIEW IS RELATIVELY BENIGN.

  Next came a shot of the girl’s face in close-up. The camera pulled back jerkily to reveal that she was sitting in a chair. There was a murmur of disquiet around the briefing room as they saw that she was stripped to her underwear, and that her limbs had been secured to the chair’s arms and legs with duct tape.

  The framing was adjusted by an unseen hand, and the background came into view. On a kind of banner behind the girl was a crudely daubed circle containing a gi
ant A, with a smaller D and M immediately beneath. To one side, a man wearing a Harlequin mask stood impassively.

  THE CAPTIVE MAY BE OFFERED CLOTHING, FOOD OR OTHER INDUCEMENTS IN EXCHANGE FOR COOPERATION.

  The man spoke through the mask in strongly accented English. “Mia, do you have something to say?”

  “Yes.” The girl looked directly at the camera. In her terror she spoke too fast to begin with, so that it was hard to make out all the words. “Azione Dal Molin demands that a referendum be held immediately, so that the people of the Veneto can determine for themselves the following. First, whether all work be halted on the Dal Molin military base with immediate effect. Second, whether plans are drawn up to demolish the buildings already finished.” She paused and took a breath, slowing herself down. “Third, whether the site is returned to public ownership by the end of the year. And fourth, whether all American troops engaged in the illegal occupation of northern Italy should be gone by August first.” Her voice faltered. “I’ve been told I can add a short message to my parents. Mom, Dad—”

  Abruptly, the picture cut. Another title appeared.

  TO BE CONTINUED.

  As the screen went blank, all the Carabinieri officers in the briefing room collectively exhaled.

  “Her name’s Mia Elston,” Saito said. “Sixteen years old, the daughter of an American officer based at Caserma Ederle, reported missing last night. As for Azione Dal Molin, we hadn’t heard of them until this morning, when some of them broke into the construction site and sprayed graffiti around in what now appears to be a coordinated attempt to publicise themselves ahead of this film.” He nodded to where Piola stood. “By a stroke of good fortune, we were asked to investigate that incident, and Colonel Piola has already gathered the names and addresses of the ringleaders. We’ll go in at four a.m. for maximum surprise and disorientation, and bring them in for questioning – all of them. One four-man team to each address, and an additional three-man unit to remain in each location to search for any evidence that might indicate where she’s being held. Clear?”

  Around the room, people were nodding.

  “Coscia will lead a team that will analyse the film. Flamini will activate the official protocols and liaise with specialist advice units. Horst’s unit will follow up on a van that was glimpsed driving away from the probable abduction site. Everyone else has been assigned to one of the arrest groups – there’s a full list on the table, along with briefing packs detailing what little we know.”

  The officers filed out of the room, talking quietly amongst themselves. Having looked at the allocation list, Kat hung back.

  “Yes, Capitano?” Saito said, noticing her.

  “The list doesn’t say which team I’m on, sir.”

  “That’s because you’re not on any of them. You can return to your other duties.”

  Kat couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “With respect, sir, if it wasn’t for me, we wouldn’t have the leads to the club, or the van, or the girl’s telephone.” She thought it best not to mention her role in contacting Daniele Barbo, or in persuading him to pass on the film to the authorities. “I think I’ve proved I can be of use.”

  “Possibly. But you’re forgetting one thing.” Saito gestured towards the door. “Colonel Piola is playing a key role in this investigation. And I have instructions from Internal Affairs that the two of you aren’t to work together until your complaint against him has been resolved.”

  “But that’s crazy,” she said furiously. “It was because he tried to move me off a case that I made the complaint in the first place. And now Internal Affairs are effectively doing the same thing.”

  “So make a complaint about them,” Saito said, turning away. “Make a complaint about me. Perhaps if you make enough complaints, Captain, your career will get back on track. But personally, I doubt it.”

  She went back to her desk still seething. Glancing at her emails, she saw that the list of petty crimes to be processed had almost doubled in her absence. She clicked on the top one.

  CF56431A. Tourist camera missing from café.

  Not for the first time, she found herself regretting ever having made the complaint about Aldo. She’d been right in principle, of course; but almost certainly wrong in practice. Looking back, she realised she’d probably been trying to emulate Piola’s own somewhat idealistic attitude to his work. Well, that was a lesson well and truly learned. If you were a man, and a colonel, you could get away with romantic notions about fairness and justice. If you were female and a captain, you had to work the system.

  “Fuck it,” she said aloud. She reached for her phone. “It’s Kat,” she said when it was answered. “How’s it going your end?”

  “Crazy,” Holly replied. “People flying in from all over. And the Elstons still in complete shock. You?”

  “They’re trying to take me off the case, just because Aldo’s on it. Will you speak to Major Elston? If you can get him to insist, I reckon my bosses will have to let me stay.”

  “If you want.” Holly’s voice was guarded. “But Kat, what about Aldo? Wouldn’t it make more sense to keep some distance?”

  “He’ll be fine. It’s a big investigation, and what matters now is finding Mia. There’s plenty of room for both of us.”

  EIGHTEEN

  WITHIN AN HOUR Piola was told that the texts sent to Mia’s phone on the night of her kidnap had been traced. They’d been sent from a phone registered to one Johann Vicaro, whose address was listed as an apartment in Vicenza.

  “Who’s bringing him in?”

  “A local unit. He should be here in forty minutes.”

  Someone handed him a printout of the texts, along with Mia’s replies. The first had been sent at 11.57 p.m.:

  Meet you in the restaurant on Via Zamenhof. I’m wearing a jacket and blue silk shirt. Johann

  Thx! I’m in a red T-shirt. M

  Ten minutes later Vicaro had texted Mia again:

  I’m at the bar. Want a drink?

  Coke pls! Be there in five.

  Apart from that, the two of them had exchanged just one phone call, a week previously, which had lasted twenty-two minutes. Before that point, they appeared never to have contacted each other; at least, not by phone.

  His own phone rang, the caller ID one he didn’t recognise. “Piola.”

  “Hello, Colonel, how are you? It’s Dottora Iadanza.” The archaeologist’s voice was friendly.

  “What can I do for you, Dottora?” Aware of how much had to be done before the night was out, he spoke a little more briskly than he’d intended. In response, her own voice also became more businesslike.

  “I thought you’d want to be told straight away – I managed to get some ground sonar out to the dig site, and there are what appear to be two further objects in the soil. It looks very much like two more skeletons. Of course, I’ll make sure they’re excavated properly this time.”

  “Ah.” Piola thought hard. “How long will that take?”

  “A week, perhaps more.”

  “You may have to let the construction work go on around you,” he said, knowing that she’d assume he’d caved in to pressure from her bosses. But there was no way, now, that work could be halted – it would look as if the Carabinieri were giving in to the kidnappers’ demands.

  “But that could totally compromise the lift.”

  “I’m sorry, but we’re not going to be able to hold off any longer. I’m afraid I can’t explain the precise reasons just at the moment.” There was silence from her end. He added, “Look, you know Professor Trevisano at Ca’ Foscari, don’t you?”

  “Of course. It was me who gave you his name.”

  “Would you do something for me? The professor provisionally identified the first skeleton as a partisan commander by the name of Max Ghimenti. It’s a fair bet the other two will be the partisans who vanished with him. But there was another man with them who survived – he was photographed after the war, standing next to an American intelligence officer. If I se
nd you the photographs, could you pass them on to the professor? If he can put a name to the survivor, it would be a great help when I do come back to the case.”

  “Certainly,” she said with a sigh. He could tell she thought he was fobbing her off. “We’ll see what we can do.”

  He rang off, a little regretful. But wartime skeletons would keep, whereas a kidnap needed to be solved in the golden hours and days immediately after the victim was taken. It was when such cases dragged on, and frustration mounted on both sides, that tragedies occurred.

  By the time Johann Vicaro was brought in, Lieutenant Panicucci had also arrived, and had surprised Piola by speedily assembling a sheet of background information on their subject. Vicaro was Swiss, twenty-eight years old, and ran his own business exporting wine. The company appeared to be doing satisfactorily: the rent on apartments in the building where he lived was around four thousand euros a month. A passport check showed that he travelled regularly around Europe, flying business class or taking the high-speed train. He had no criminal record and his residence permits were up to date. He was, in fact, the very model of a hard-working young entrepreneur.

  Armed with the sheet, Piola stepped into the interview room. The young man sitting at the table was better-looking than his passport scan had suggested. He was expensively dressed in Ermenegildo Zegna knitwear, while his tanned face and general air of athleticism suggested that he spent much of the winter skiing. He hadn’t asked for a lawyer, and didn’t seem especially nervous, just bemused and frustrated at the sudden interruption to his evening.

  “Do you know why you’re here?” Piola asked as he sat down.

  “No,” Vicaro said. “Some bureaucratic nonsense.”

  “It’s to do with a young woman. Can you guess who I mean?”