“I don’t know.”
“It’s graphic. Is your system still a bit fragile?”
“Let’s see it.”
Roberto slid the laptop around and hit a key. The video was shot with a cell phone and whoever took it was very close to the bodies. So close that he was told to stand back because of the blood that had pooled beneath each victim. It ran for thirty seconds and was abruptly stopped when someone began yelling in Arabic.
Mitch stood erect, felt another knot in his stomach, and said, “I wouldn’t tell Luca.”
“I’m not, but he’ll probably see it anyway.”
New York was six hours behind Rome. Mitch called Abby, who had been monitoring the news reports. So far there was nothing from Libya. Bad news from North Africa didn’t sell well in the United States. However, the British and Europeans were far more interested. When the London tabloids got the story of a young British lawyer kidnapped in Libya by a ruthless gang that, at the same time, decapitated her bodyguards, the online reports ran wild. At the Scully & Pershing office in Canary Wharf, security was quickly beefed up, not out of fear of more terrorist attacks, but to protect the staff from an assault by the British press.
Mitch and Roberto had lunch with Luca on the veranda, though he ate almost nothing. Mitch, now ravenous, devoured everything in sight. It was clear that he was feeling much better and Luca said, “Mitch, I want you to go home. I’ll call when I need you. There’s nothing for you to do now.”
“I’m sorry this happened, Luca. I should have been there.”
“Be thankful you were not, my friend.” He nodded at Roberto, who said, “We’ve gone back thirty years and reviewed every case involving Westerners taken hostage in Muslim countries. We’re still digging. Almost all of the women survived and very few were mistreated. Their captivities ranged from two weeks to six years, but virtually every one got out, either by ransom, rescue, or escape. The men are a different story. Almost all were physically abused and about half did not survive. Forty that we know of are still captive. So, yes, Mitch, be thankful you had a good round of food poisoning.”
“Is there a chance of a diplomatic resolution?” Mitch asked.
Luca shook his head. “Doubtful. We don’t know the enemy as of now, but it’s probably safe to say they don’t care much for diplomacy.”
“So it’s rescue or ransom?”
“Yes, and we shouldn’t dwell on rescue. That’s always incredibly dangerous. The Brits will kick into high gear and want an elaborate military-style operation. The Italians will want to pay the money. Anyway, it’s premature. Right now all we can do is sit and wait for the phone call.”
“I’m sorry, Luca,” Mitch said again. “We thought we were safe.”
“So did I. As you know, I’ve traveled there many times. I love Libya, in spite of its instability.”
“Samir felt sure we were safe.”
“You can’t trust Samir, Mitch. He’s a Libyan agent and he reports to the military police.”
Mitch swallowed hard and tried to keep a poker face. “I thought he worked for us.”
“He works for anyone who’ll pay him. Samir has no loyalty whatsoever.”
Roberto added, “He was supposed to be with Giovanna, Mitch, but he found an excuse to stay at the hospital with you.”
Mitch said, “Now I’m really confused.”
Luca managed a smile and said, “Mitch, in Libya, you trust no one.”
Chapter 14
Nothing changed in the twelve hours it took KLM to fly Mitch from Rome to Amsterdam to New York. There was one seat left on a direct flight to JFK, but it was back in coach and Mitch needed the legroom up in business class. He also needed easier access to the restrooms. His stomach was rumbling again and he feared a sudden eruption. After what his system had been through over the past four days, he left nothing to chance. Along the way he called Abby twice and caught up with family matters and neighborhood gossip. He called Roberto Maggi to check on Luca, who was resting. There was no word out of Libya, nothing from the kidnappers. He called his secretary and reorganized his schedule. Over the Atlantic, he took a sleeping pill that barely knocked off the edge but eventually led to a fitful thirty-minute nap. When he woke up, he made calls to his paralegal and two associates.
He tried not to think of Giovanna, though it was impossible. How were they treating her? Where were they hiding her? Was she getting food and water? Was she being interrogated, injured, abused? The law of the jungle accepted the torture and murder of armed men who had been trained with weapons and expected to do their own killing, but not an innocent civilian. Especially a young female lawyer who was just along for the ride.
The ride? Mitch simmered at the hubris and foolishness of dashing off to a country known for its instability and danger, and including Giovanna as a favor to her father. Of course, Luca had suggested the trip and assured him they would be safe, but Mitch was no rookie and could have insisted on other arrangements. He had asked himself, more than once, if a visit to the bridge was actually necessary. The answer was: probably not. Had he been overly excited about the adventure? Yes. He had never been to Libya and had been too eager to add it to his list of countries he’d visited.
Killing time in the Amsterdam airport, he had called Cory Gallant, Scully’s chief of security. When Mitch joined Scully eleven years earlier he was unaware that it had its own little army of security experts. He learned that most firms in the world of Big Law spend a fortune not only to protect their partners but to investigate their enemies, even their own clients. Before leaving for Rome and Tripoli, Mitch had been briefed by Cory on the situation in Libya. Gallant had traveled to the bridge with Luca a year earlier. In his opinion, the trip was only slightly risky. It was in the best interest of the Libyans to protect all foreign businessmen and professionals.
Cory was waiting outside the baggage claim at JFK with a driver, a thick young man who took Mitch’s bags and hauled them to a black SUV parked illegally near the cabs. He got behind the wheel as Mitch and Cory settled into the rear seats. A plexiglass panel separated them from the driver.
It was almost 8 P.M., Sunday, April 17, and the traffic out of JFK was brutal as usual.
After describing the joys of a twelve-hour journey, Mitch asked, “Any news from over there?”
“Not much.”
“Not much? That sounds like more than nothing, which is what we had a few hours ago.”
“There’s been a development.”
“Go on.”
“There’s another video. We found it about an hour ago on the deep web. The kidnappers videoed the decapitations.”
Mitch exhaled and looked out the window.
Cory continued, “Live and in color. Horribly graphic. I saw it and I wish I had not. These are nasty boys.”
“I’m not sure I want to see it.”
“You don’t, believe me, Mitch. Please don’t watch it. It has nothing to do with Giovanna, other than the fact that she’s being held by some sick and sadistic people.”
“That’s supposed to be comforting?”
“No.”
The traffic was moving and they did not speak for a moment. Mitch asked, “Can you maybe describe it without going into too much detail?”
“They used a chain saw and made the others watch. The last one, a man named Aziz, saw his three buddies lose their heads before he lost his.”
Mitch threw up both hands and said, “Okay, okay.”
“It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I knew Aziz. I knew all four of them. We met the day before at the Lannak office in Tripoli and they briefed us on the trip. They had no worries at all, said they went to the bridge and back all the time.”