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?