“Just a knife. Makes him feel safe.”
They both laughed.
“Should I take it away from him?” the guard asked.
“Don’t bother,” Federov said. “Any little boy can play with a knife. Maybe he’ll cut his wrists later and solve a problem for us.”
Dmitri thought this was funny. So did Federov. Rizzo rolled his eyes.
Another man, whom Federov addressed as Ramiz was waiting for them in the living room. He was a small man in his fifties with a sharp intelligent face. Alex took one look and knew he wasn’t there for his muscle, so he must have been there for another reason. She soon learned: he was a Federov employee who served as an interpreter in Arabic.
Ramiz sprang to his feet, respectfully and fearfully, when he saw Federov. He joined in the group. They walked to some steps and went upstairs. They headed to what was the master bedroom suite of the new house, Grisha leading the way.
He pushed open a door without knocking, and the whole group walked in.
The room had a claustrophobic and condemned feel. It smelled of sweat, cigarettes, and some spice that she couldn’t place, maybe curry. Alex saw a frightened man on a bed, skin of mocha hue, unshaven for several days. This was Ahmet. He was dressed in jeans and a sports shirt. He had a paring knife by his side. Nothing special, just the type of thing that a chef might use to chop celery.
“Get up,” Federov ordered.
The man was pale and as jittery as a frightened cat. He couldn’t take his eyes off Alex when the visitors arrived and surrounded him.
“Hello, Ahmet,” Federov said in English.
Ahmet nodded and continued to stare at Alex. First at her breasts, then at her face.
“We’re going to talk about what happened,” Federov said. “You’re going to sit at that table over there and you’re going to tell us everything you know, everything you’ve done.”
Ramiz jumped in, translating into Arabic. As Ramiz spoke, Alex glanced to her right. There was an oblong table, large enough to seat twelve, the type that might be used for conferences. It was so big that it might have overpowered the room, except a wall had been taken down with sledge hammers-a huge gaping gash-and the hole led into the next room.
There was some back and forth in Arabic between the hostage and Ramiz, who blurted out several things quickly. He spoke with great animation and shook his head in Alex’s direction. He indicated that he had issues with Alex being there.
“What’s his problem?” Federov asked. “Doesn’t he know he’s not allowed to have problems?”
Ramiz turned back to Federov. Ramiz spoke with a very precise brand of English, almost too perfect, as if he had been educated at British schools, same as Peter.
“Signor Ahmet has informed us,” Ramiz said evenly, “that he feels he is being mistreated here. He further adds, and I quote directly here, that he refuses to speak at all in front of this woman.”
“Why not?” Federov asked.
The hostage must have understood the question because he offered several utterances in Arabic. Ramiz gave it a moment, as if he were trying to add some delicacy to it. Then he translated.
“Ahmet says he has no desire, sir,” Ramiz said, “to be put on display for one of your cheap filthy whores.”
Alex blinked. So did Rizzo. Federov nodded pensively. A second passed, during which the prisoner appeared as if he thought he had scored an important point.
In one movement, Federov pulled back his enormous fist and blasted Ahmet in the side of the face. He held him in place with one hand and then delivered a second blow right after the first. Same location.
Never in Alex’s life had she seen such a pair of devastating punches thrown by a bare hand. She had gone to prize fights a couple of times with friends in Los Angeles, had sat close to the ring, and had seen the fists land. She had been at hockey games when players had squared off right on the other side of the glass. But she had never seen a one-two punch like this.
The force of the blows crunched into the side of the man’s face with hard cracking sounds. Federov let go of Ahmet after the second hit. The man flew over backward onto the bed and bounced. He landed hard against the wall then dropped onto the mattress like a sack of potatoes. Federov’s long arms followed him, picking him up, holding him, and walloping him in the gut, and then slamming him backward against the bed and the wall a second time, leaving a pale bloodstain on the wall.
Peter and Rizzo tried to intervene, but not very hard and not very successfully. Alex knew better. Ahmet was cowering now, yelling in terrified Arabic. Federov grabbed him again, by his shirt and by his throat, ripping his clothing as he pulled him upward. Then Federov dragged him across the room. He slammed him down on a hardback chair at the table.
“My guests are personal friends!” he roared in English. “They have come a long way. The lady is a personal friend in particular and works for the government of the United States of America. Not only will you talk to her, but you will answer any question that she asks.”
The man sat there stunned for a moment, listening to Ramiz’s translation.
“Is all this clear?” Federov bellowed.
The Arab nodded, now in fear for his life. He was bleeding from the corner of his eye and a massive welt had already emerged over his cheekbone.
“Tell him to apologize!” Federov said to his translator. “Now!” Ramiz relayed the request.
“Yuri. It’s all right,” Alex said.
But the Russian was blind with rage.
Cowering, Ahmet said his only word of English for the evening, looking at Alex. “Sorry,” he said. There was blood in his mouth. He sputtered. Part of a tooth came out.
Peter reached in his pocket, found a handkerchief, and tossed it to Ahmet. Ahmet gave him a trembling nod of thanks.
They all settled in at the table. Alex sat between Peter and Rizzo. The hostage had Ramiz to his right and Federov to his left, in case he needed to be encouraged to talk again. There were several empty chairs.
In a surreal touch, Dmitri-all seventy-four inches tall of him-appeared again with a tray. He spread bottles of water around the table, a bowl of fruit, and some chips.
Federov lit one of his cigarettes, waved the match to extinguish it, and threw the match to the floor. He turned back to Ramiz.
“Tell him to speak Italian,” Federov said. “I understand it some. Two of my guests,” he added, meaning Alex and Rizzo, “are fluent.”
Ramiz brought the prisoner up to speed.
Peter leaned to Alex and whispered, “You’re my lifeline on this one. I don’t understand any Italian.”
“I’ll fill you in afterward,” she said. Rizzo gave a slight nod to the two of them also, underscoring that he was working the same side of the street. Federov stared at Ahmet, barely appeased. The trip had been long and the prisoner finally began to talk.
FIFTY-SEVEN
VILLA MALAFORTUNATA, ITALY, SEPTEMBER 16, 10:18 P.M.
His name was Ahmet Lazzari, he said, switching into Italian. He was a Turk by way of Sicily. His parents had been laborers, his father a bricklayer, his mother a picker in a vineyard. More recently, he and his brother had moved to Genoa, where they had found occasional work on the docks. Eventually, they had worked for one of Federov’s shipping companies.
His accent was thick and guttural.
He talks like a goat, Federov had warned back in Geneva. Alex wasn’t so sure of that, but Ahmet did have the breath of one.
All of Federov’s business had come out of Odessa, Alex knew, but his bases of operation had expanded heavily into the Middle East and the Mediterranean. He thought of himself as a poor man’s Aristotle Onassis, with the ships but without the ex-first-lady wife who could give him the big time social and political clout and solve problems for him.