White Hot Silence

by Henry Porter

  He finished the beer and rose. It was nearly two hours since Zillah had taken off. She must be at Odessa by now, if that was where the container vessel was bound. He’d call once he had got his things together and was on the road to Naples – anything was better than sitting in the hotel. There was activity in the street as two cars drew up, some catcalls from loitering kids. He popped his head over the parapet. Two cars of Carabinieri had arrived. Fenarelli got out of one. Samson drew back, switched off Anastasia’s phone and left the room. A little way down the hall there was a picture with a heavy frame – a nineteenth-century study of a mountain shepherd’s hut in fake gilt. He pulled the picture a few centimetres from the wall, slipped the phone into the gap behind the canvas and let the picture fall back.

  Fenarelli and two uniformed officers had taken the first flight when he bumped into them, ostensibly looking for the bar. They went back down to the lobby, where Fenarelli put his hands together. ‘The phone, signore – the phone you found at the crime scene. This is evidence and you must give it to me now.’

  Samson looked puzzled. ‘Ms Dee has it. As you must know, Mrs Hisami was taken out of Italy on a boat and Ms Dee is on a plane to Ukraine. She said she was going to send you the film. Has she not done that?’

  ‘Yes, but we need the phone.’

  Samson smiled politely. ‘You misunderstand me, sir. Zillah Dee has it.’

  ‘Why did you give it to her?’

  ‘Because she’s running the investigation for Mr Hisami and insisted the phone was the property of the family. How could I argue with that?’

  ‘I am sorry, but we will have to search your room, Mr Samson.’

  Samson appeared offended but handed Fenarelli the keys. They waited awkwardly while the men were upstairs. At length, Samson said, ‘Why’s the phone so important? That part of the story is dead.’

  Fenarelli turned to him. ‘The crime was committed on Italian soil. This is a very serious affair. We are investigating three, maybe four, murders and one kidnap. We want to know who the men were working for and why they were eliminated.’

  ‘You have the film – there’s nothing else. I looked through the phone before Ms Dee took it from me.’ Fenarelli glanced at the receptionist and suggested they move to a room overlooking the street, where a fat young boy sprawled in a chair between fake pot plants. Fenarelli said, ‘Perdersi, ragazzino’ – ‘Get lost, kid.’

  ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand, Colonel,’ said Samson. ‘Did the Camorra sacrifice these two men, or were they double-crossed?’

  Fenarelli studied him, deciding how far he should go. ‘We believe this was a contract, signore. These men, Scorza and Bucco, they were offered €100,000 each and the organisation more than $1 million.’

  ‘You say dollars – did this money come from the States?’

  Fenarelli just looked at Samson, which was as good as a yes.

  ‘So you have a source in the organisation and they told you this, right? You do know that her trip to Italy was only planned just sixteen days ago when she got confirmation on a place in the migrant rescue ship. Only four people knew where she was.’

  ‘The contract was issued even more recently.’

  ‘After she arrived here in Italy?’ He nodded slowly.

  ‘That’s a hell of an operation to put together so fast. The boat is headed for the Black Sea, but the money came from America. Does that make sense to you?’

  ‘It does not.’

  Samson returned to the subject of the kidnappers. ‘Did the Camorra know their people were going to be killed? That’s important, right? I mean, if they didn’t know, we’re dealing with someone who is not afraid of a major international crime organisation.’

  Fenarelli didn’t answer. His attention had turned to his officers in the lobby. One shook his head. He turned to Samson. ‘I need to see what you are carrying with you, signore. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I have two phones – both are mine. You can check by dialling the numbers.’ He pulled out two Samsungs, his wallet and passport.

  Fenarelli glanced at them and shook his head. ‘Not her model, signore. But we need to check the car.’

  ‘It’s the Audi right outside,’ said Samson, handing the fob to Fenarelli, who tossed it to one of his officers.

  ‘I came because I wanted to see you personally and ask you something.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘This investigation started in Italy, but it will not end here. Perhaps you will keep me informed of developments? It will be helpful to me personally, you understand.’ Samson understood perfectly. Fenarelli was ambitious and knowledge was the way to the top.

  ‘I have no problem with that. None at all.’

  The officers returned, having found nothing in the Audi. Fenarelli offered his hand to Samson.

  ‘You have my card?’ Samson nodded. ‘Good luck. I appreciate it is important for you personally to find Mrs Hisami.’

  He was letting Samson know that he was well informed and was not the average provincial commander in the Carabinieri.

  CHAPTER 12

  In that moment when they found her and men were scrambling up the stack of containers to seize hold of her, she had no thought for her own safety. She had jumped up and used the length of wood against the men, hammering their hands as they clung to the side of the container, swinging at them as they crawled towards her and connecting with one man’s head, sending him toppling unconscious to the container below. She’d fought hard to suppress the aggression her father had warned her about, to the point that she was always known among colleagues as the calmest person in the room. But now, overwhelmed by a blind rage, she didn’t give a damn about her safety or who she hurt, and as she was backed into a corner she yelled out that she would kill with the knife the first man who laid hands on her. It was clear they had understood her and they backed off. Then a voice speaking in English hailed her from below, the same voice she had heard on the PA system.

  ‘You cannot escape. There’s no place for you to hide. Come down. You will be treated well.’

  This confirmed what she had suspected since she’d found the dead kidnappers lying in the dark of the container with her. They were prepared to kill as many people as was necessary, but they needed her alive. She had value. She felt the gap between the two highest containers to her right, stuffed the wooden bat into the jacket and the knife into the pocket, then slipped between the containers and shimmied up between them with the skill she had perfected over the previous thirty-six hours. The three men on top of the container lunged after her, but she was too quick for them and in no time at all was standing on the topmost container against the full force of the wind. She looked over the edge and called down, ‘I’ll kill myself, then what have you got?’

  ‘There is no point.’

  ‘There is to me!’ she yelled wildly. ‘I will never allow you to take me prisoner again. Do you understand? Never!’ Some part of her knew this was untrue, for she wanted very much to survive, but she could not go back into the dark of the container.

  ‘We can work this out. What do you want?’ came the voice, now through a loudhailer.

  ‘A shower, food, light.’ This, too, was hopelessly unrealistic. The ship’s crew had already dumped two murdered men in the ocean. They were hardly going to give her a shower and a hot meal.

  She kept her captors at bay by threatening to run across the containers and jump into the sea, so the stand-off continued for an hour or more, until dawn, when she noticed clusters of lights in the distance either side of the bow of the ship. She had seen this view before, when she was a child, and realised they were approaching the Dardanelles and these were the lights of Asia and Europe converging on the straits through which they would pass into the Sea of Marmara. Lights meant mobile-phone coverage. Now she had a chance. She took the phone out and frantically began to dial, but in her panic couldn’t recall Denis’s number. She went back into the phone’s log to find the numbers she had dialled as they slipped past t
he island earlier, but these didn’t work either. Then the fog cleared and she managed to dial the right number. She got through and the call went straight to voicemail. She didn’t need his fucking voicemail. She wanted her husband on the other end telling her what she should do and ready to organise her rescue. She left a crazy, incoherent message, hung up and crouched, knowing that the crew would soon reach her. Then she dialled a number she was absolutely certain of and, after three rings, the call was answered.

  Samson had driven the four and a half hours to Naples International Airport the evening before and parked in front of the terminal. Early next morning, unable to sleep he had gone in search of coffee and was now waiting outside the terminal on a bench, smoking a cigarette and trying to get hold of Zillah Dee when one of his phones started to vibrate. He took it out and answered.

  ‘Samson, it’s me,’ Anastasia said. ‘I’m on a boat … we’re going through the Dardanelles … the boat is called the Black Sea Star … you got that?’

  He suppressed his astonishment. ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘I’m on top of a container … they’re about to lock me up again … you’ve got to get me off this fucking ship … please … I can’t do it any more … please.’

  ‘We’re sending people. Which port are you going to – Odessa, Burgas? Which port?’

  ‘Don’t know. You have to track the ship. Get it searched.’ And then she began to break down. This was anger rather than self-pity or fear and he told her calmly to keep talking to him. How big was the boat? Where was she, exactly? What could she see? Who were they? Russian? Ukrainian? She answered as best she could but kept on losing her voice. She was speaking in gasps, breathing rapidly.

  ‘Listen, Anastasia,’ he said. ‘There are people looking for that boat now. They are coming to find you. Whatever happens, I promise I’ll free you. I promise. Do you understand? I will find you wherever you are, no matter what it takes. I will find you. Stay alive. I’m coming for you.’ In the background there were sounds of men’s voices and he sensed that she was about to be seized because the sobs of frustration and anger had stopped and her breathing had become more rapid. She uttered just three more words before the call dropped. ‘Please, Samson! Please.’ Then the line went dead. Samson was left with a phone in his hand, staring at the row of buses waiting for the early flights from the United States.

  He dialled Zillah. ‘She got hold of a phone. She just called. She’s entering the Dardanelles. Have you tracked the ship yet?’

  ‘There’s no trace of any vessel of that name.’

  ‘Have you checked the ships leaving the ports of the eastern seaboard of Italy?’

  ‘Doing that now.’

  ‘We have an accurate position, so the ship could be intercepted any place from the Dardanelles through the Sea of Marmara and the Black Sea. How are you doing on that?’

  ‘Not good – the Israelis won’t play.’

  ‘It’s in Turkish waters – does that work?’

  ‘I have to get through to DC, and it’s late at night there. Can’t get hold of anyone.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Odessa, but we’re on the plane and we can take off when we need to.’

  ‘We don’t have long. That boat will head for Russian waters as soon as it reaches the Black Sea. I’m going to call Macy and see what he can do. I’ll keep this phone free.’

  He hung up and cursed himself for failing to give Zillah the number used by Anastasia. He wrote a text instead, which he sent to Macy as well.

  Then he called Macy, who awoke after two rings and answered with his usual unflappable good nature. Samson told him about the call from the ship and his conversation with Zillah.

  ‘I sent you a text. Can you get anyone at GCHQ to locate that number? It’s from the phone Anastasia used on board. We can get an exact position for her. Maybe the phone is still on and we can track it.’

  Macy murmured doubt about the speed with which this would have to be done. ‘Okay, so what else do we need to do here?’ he said. ‘I’ll find out if we have any naval assets in the area. There may be something we can do with NATO, but this will probably mean that the kidnapping is made public and with Denis in jail that will become a big story.’

  Samson’s other phone went. It was Zillah. He laid the phones side by side on the bench, wishing he’d had the sense to have these conversations in the car because of the background noise of the airport, and put them on speaker so Macy and Zillah could hear each other. ‘We believe the vessel left Taranto container port six hours after her kidnap,’ she said. ‘It was once called Black Sea Star but was renamed CS Grigori II and it’s registered to a Russian company.’

  ‘Very hard to intercept a bloody Russian boat. NATO won’t touch it,’ said Macy.

  ‘The Turkish government is a possibility,’ said Zillah. ‘It’s just a question of getting to the right people in the States.’

  ‘How long have we got?’ asked Samson.

  ‘The boat will head straight for Russian territorial waters once it enters the Black Sea – something like twelve to fifteen hours, maybe a little more. If they caught Mrs Hisami with the phone, they’ll assume that her presence on board is known. That means she will be in much greater danger than she was – they may be tempted to dispose of her. If they keep her alive, they will likely go to great pains to conceal her presence. This is a goddamn big boat and there are a lot of places to hide a person.’

  ‘I’ll talk to my contacts here and try to get a trace on that phone,’ said Macy. ‘And you deal with the American side. By the way, does Denis know any of this?’

  ‘He’s in lockdown. He has no idea what’s happening,’ said Zillah.

  ‘That seems harsh,’ said Macy.

  ‘Tulliver and Castell are up to date with all the developments. And one or other of them will see him today. But there’s …’ She stopped.

  ‘What were you going to say?’ asked Samson.

  ‘Mr Hisami hasn’t given Tulliver access to his phone, so even if Anastasia manages to send a message or makes a call, they’ll miss it.’

  Samson realised that she had failed to get through to Hisami and then called him, but was relieved that she had remembered his number. The call had left him with a sense of powerlessness – there was nothing he could do. He bent down to the pair of phones. ‘There’s no point me flying to Odessa until you’ve got news about the boat. I’ll stay put until I hear from either of you. Just be in touch as soon as you can. Oh yes! Zillah, I was going to ask about the package I gave you?’

  ‘I had it sent from Italy. Should be there by now, and the collection of the other materials was carried out yesterday. We’re in good shape on that.’

  She hung up and he was left with Macy on one line. ‘Paul, I should warn you that Nyman was round here last night. SIS is obsessed by all this. They’ve got good relations with their Italian counterparts and the wires are fairly humming about Anastasia’s abduction. Nyman’s trying to work out the connection between Crane, Hisami and the kidnap.’

  ‘Like we all are,’ said Samson.

  ‘Equally, he could be simply trying to find out how much you know. But this is plainly not a matter of only academic interest to them. I’m sure they’re not just gathering intelligence for the hell of it.’

  ‘What was he asking about?’

  ‘He’s particularly interested in the American end, and for some reason he can’t get what he wants through his usual channels to the CIA and FBI. Of course, things aren’t as easy as they used to be in that way.’ Samson caught a note of regret and remembered that Macy loved America and revered its intelligence agencies, with whom he had worked on so many operations during the Cold War. Macy wasn’t happy with the way things were going in the US, or anywhere else, for that matter. ‘Keep your end up. I know this is rough for you, Paul,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks, old pal,’ said Samson, and hung up. Things were back to normal between them.

  He got in the car, which had begun to attr
act the attention of two traffic cops; it was parked illegally. He drove to the half-empty short-stay car park and found a place on the top storey where he wouldn’t be disturbed. He climbed into the back seat and, using his backpack as a pillow and with a spare sweater draped over his shoulders, he crashed for an hour. When he woke he checked his phone for messages and emails but found nothing important, so lay back, sipping from a bottle of water and eating an energy bar he’d bought on the road. He kept Anastasia from his mind. Hearing her voice again, and hearing her in such distress, upset him profoundly, but he knew from searching for Aysel Hisami in Syria that nothing was gained by obsessively imagining the circumstances of the victim.

  His eyes were closed when there was a tap on the window above his head. He snapped up and saw a man in a T-shirt and jacket beckoning to him. The man stepped away from the car and held his hands up so that Samson could see that they were empty. Samson got out using the far door to the man. There were five of them – two of them bodyguards with hands on guns in their waistbands, who stood a few metres away; one in a grey hoodie with a purplish birthmark that ran from the side of his nose to the middle of his left cheek, who stood apart; and a short man leaning against a Maserati Quattroporte that now blocked in Samson’s car. He was smoking a cigarette using a tortoiseshell holder.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked Samson, looking at the man who’d knocked on the window and seemed to be the person designated to speak.