‘Struggle,’ a female voice said in strangely accented Italian, ‘and you’ll be shocked again. Nod if you understand.’ Giordano did. ‘We’re going somewhere to talk,’ the voice continued. ‘When we’re there, if you answer our questions completely and truthfully, nothing bad will happen to you. Again, nod if you understand.’
He did, but Giordano knew a lie when he heard one.
Underneath the sack, he began to sob.
Giordano grimaced on the hard uneven metal of the van as it drove through the streets of Bologna. His lower back was sore — as if burned. His captors didn’t speak again, either to him or to each other. He knew there were at least four of them: one to drive the van, the man who had sat in front of him at the cafe, the woman who had sat behind, and the strong one who had grabbed his shoulders. He didn’t know who they were. He didn’t know what they wanted.
There was no point struggling. At best they would just electrocute him again. He didn’t want to think what might be at the other end of the scale of punishments.
He figured it had been fifteen minutes before the van stopped. He tensed, terrified at what might happen next. Light filtered through the sack over his head as the van’s sliding door was opened. Hands grabbed his limbs and pulled him out of the van. Giordano’s feet found the floor and the hands kept him upright.
The woman’s voice said, ‘Remember, answer our questions in full and nothing bad will happen.’
He was led through what he guessed was some kind of deserted factory or warehouse. Their footsteps echoed. They walked quickly and Giordano struggled to keep up. The hands holding on to him made sure he didn’t fall.
The woman said, ‘Stop,’ and Giordano did, and heard the sound of chains rattling.
They were wrapped around his wrists and a force above Giordano pulled his arms up until they were vertical, either side of his head, and only the balls of his feet touched the floor. The strain on his shoulders made him wince. He couldn’t see anything. Tape was wrapped around his ankles, binding his feet together.
Wheels squeaked and something rattled across a bumpy floor. It stopped in front of Giordano and his pulse quickened and his breaths shortened in fear of what it might be.
The sack was pulled from his head and, despite the dim light, he squinted. It took a moment for his eyes to focus and he saw he was indeed inside a warehouse or factory. There was wide open space all around him, the extremes of the room lost in shadows and darkness.
In front of him stood a woman and a man. He recognised the woman’s plain face and boyish hair from outside the cafe. In the dim light her features seemed even harsher. Giordano hadn’t seen the man before. He was muscular and very tall, with a buzz cut and thick eyebrows that almost met in the middle. He stood without pose or expression, but violence seemed to radiate from him. Next to the woman was a rusty trolley, like a mechanic might use.
Resting on the trolley was a pair of pliers, bolt cutters, a variety of bladed instruments, a belt sander, a circular saw, and a blow torch.
Giordano let out a muffled cry.
The woman said, ‘If you are honest with us, then we won’t need to use of any of that.’
Giordano barely heard. His eyes were locked on the trolley. He pulled and yanked at his chains, achieving nothing more than lifting his feet from the floor and swinging gently.
The large man stepped forward and punched Giordano in the stomach. Pain flooded through his abdomen and he coughed and spluttered behind the tape sealing his mouth as he convulsed.
‘We only require information,’ the woman said, ‘information that you have, Alberto. Give us that information and this can be over. Deny us, and this is only the beginning.’
When he had recovered, the large man ripped the tape away.
She ran her fingertips over the collection of blades and selected a box-cutting knife.
‘No, please,’ Giordano begged.
The woman raised the box cutter and stepped closer. Giordano screamed and tried to get further away from the blade. The large man grabbed his legs to hold him steady. Giordano continued screaming as the woman used the knife to cut through his T-shirt from waist to neck. She pulled it open to reveal his bare flesh beneath and pressed the blade to the skin of his stomach. The skin indented but the pressure wasn’t enough to split it. Yet.
Giordano was paralysed with terror. Tears streamed from his eyes.
The woman produced a grainy picture and said, ‘Where is this man?’
‘I don’t know, I swear.’
‘You’re lying,’ she said, and Giordano felt the blade press harder against his flesh. ‘He was here in Bologna with you four weeks ago. You met with him twice. Your people have already confirmed it.’
‘But I don’t know where he’s gone,’ Giordano shouted, trying to get away from the knife. ‘I don’t.’
‘Why did he visit you? What did he want?’
‘Information.’
‘On what?’
‘He had a camera. He wanted me to track its origin.’
‘Did you?’
‘I gave him the name of a company — Lancet Incorporated — that’s all I found.’
The woman exchanged words with the large man, speaking in the language Giordano didn’t understand.
‘What else did you give him?’ the woman asked.
‘Nothing. I swear.’
The woman’s eyes examined Giordano. ‘I know you’re loyal to him, but I see you are also afraid of him. Aren’t you, Alberto?’
Giordano didn’t answer.
‘You don’t have to confirm it,’ she said. ‘I find that amusing. I find it amusing that you would dare lie to me when I have the power to inflict upon you the most horrific pain imaginable.’
‘I’m not lying,’ Giordano dared to say.
‘Of course you aren’t.’
In one quick action, the woman dragged the blade of the box cutter down the Italian’s abdomen. The skin bloomed open. Blood poured out of the wound.
Giordano wailed.
He thrashed and bucked against his chains and the large man holding his legs.
‘You are a master forger,’ the woman said, talking loudly to be heard over Giordano’s screams. ‘What did you make for him? Identification? A passport?’
‘ YES,’ Giordano managed to yell through his cries of pain. ‘ A passport. I made him a passport.’
‘That’s better,’ the woman said in a pleased tone. She placed the box-cutting knife down on the trolley, and turned away from Giordano. ‘That’s much better. What is the name on the passport you constructed for this man?’
‘Tolento Lombardi,’ he said to her back.
‘Remember when I told you if you were truthful, I wouldn’t hurt you?’ she asked without turning back around. Before Giordano could answer, she added, ‘Unfortunately, you chose to lie to me. And now I can’t believe anything you say.’
Giordano grimaced from the agony in his stomach. He could feel rivulets of warm blood trickling down his stomach. Sweat covered his whole body. ‘I’m sorry. Please, I won’t lie again. Please.’
‘Some people believe torture to be ineffective,’ the woman explained, her back still to Giordano. ‘But it is only ineffective if the person administrating it is unlearned. I have studied the art for more than a decade, all over the world, learning every technique imaginable, both modern and ancient. But, alas, I rarely get to use my talents.’ The woman finally turned around, the blow torch in hand. ‘So, Alberto, I’m particularly glad that you chose to lie to me. Thank you for that.’
There was a whoosh as she sparked the flame.
CHAPTER 56
Moscow, Russia
Yuliya Eltsina stood inside one of the many warehouses owned by the organisation. Even though the arms-trafficking company was huge in size, there was no office building or central hub. The business employed a structure not dissimilar to a terrorist network with cells operating largely independently from one another. Each cell received its orders from a member higher up the chain, who in turn answered to an executive governed by the board, of which Burliuk and Eltsina were the equivalent of VPs. Kasakov, of course, sat at the top of the table as CEO. Until now.