By 2 P.M. Luca had knocked back two double espressos and was ready for action. He greeted an important visitor at the front door and escorted him to the veranda where he introduced him to Roberto and Mitch. His name was Diego Antonelli and, according to Roberto, he was a career diplomat in the foreign service and had known Luca for many years. Supposedly, he could be trusted with secrets and had contacts in the prime minister’s office.
Mr. Antonelli seemed ill at ease and Mitch got the impression he felt too important to make house calls. A light rain began so Luca invited everyone to his dining table where coffee and water were served. He thanked Mr. Antonelli for coming and said there had been a major development in the kidnapping.
Roberto took notes. Mitch listened as intently as possible. He always appreciated Luca’s Italian because it was slow and thoughtful, easier to follow. Mr. Antonelli, who no doubt spoke multiple languages, also spoke with perfect diction. Roberto, on the other hand, began each sentence in a mad dash to get to the end of it. Mercifully, he said little.
Luca told the story of the mysterious Noura and her contact with Abby McDeere in New York: the meetings, the photographs, the phones, and eventually the demand for ransom. The deadline was May 25, and, given their recent history, it was their belief that the terrorists would not hesitate to carry out the execution.
He made it clear that they had not contacted him or anyone else. They had chosen his law firm and had done so on American soil. In his opinion, it was not wise to involve the Italian police or intelligence services, nor those in Great Britain.
Antonelli took no notes, never touched his pen, nor his coffee. He absorbed every word as if filing away the details in perfect order. Occasionally, he glanced at Mitch with a mildly disdainful look, as if he really didn’t belong at the table.
Luca asked him to inform the foreign minister, who should then inform the prime minister.
“How do you know she’s still alive?” Antonelli asked.
Luca nodded at Roberto who slid a laptop into view, pressed a key, and there was Giovanna. When she finished and the screen went blank, Luca said, “That arrived yesterday in New York. It has been validated by our security.”
“A hundred million dollars,” Antonelli repeated but did not seem surprised. Nothing surprised him, and if something did no one would ever know it.
“The second question is, who are you negotiating with?” he said.
Luca touched his eyes with a tissue and took a deep breath. The image of his daughter had upset him for a moment. “Well, there are no negotiations. We don’t know who the terrorists are. But we do know they have my daughter, they are demanding ransom, and they will not hesitate to kill her. That is sufficient for the Italian government to get involved.”
“Involved? We have been expressly forbidden to interfere.”
“There is nothing you can do except help with the ransom. She is an Italian citizen, Diego, and right now she has a high profile. If the government does nothing, and she is sacrificed, can you imagine the backlash?”
“It’s against our law, Luca. You know the statute. It’s been on the books for over twenty years. We do not negotiate with terrorists and we do not pay ransom.”
“Yes, and the law has loopholes. I’ll be happy to point them out. There are ten ways around that law and I know every one of them. As of now, I’m asking you to speak to the foreign minister.”
“Of course, Luca. They are very concerned about Giovanna. All of us are concerned. But we’ve heard nothing until now.”
“Thank you.”
“May I ask if the British are involved?”
Luca was suddenly winded. He looked pale as his shoulders sagged. “Mitch.”
“I’m going to London tonight. We have a large office there and many of our partners have experience in the government. Tomorrow, we will meet with the British officials and tell them exactly what we have just told you. We will ask them to contribute to the ransom fund. Our firm has kidnapping and ransom insurance in the amount of twenty-five million dollars and we’ve put the insurance company on notice. Our firm will kick in an additional amount, but we cannot handle the entire ransom. We need help from both the Italian and British governments.”
In English, Antonelli said, “I understand. I will speak to the foreign minister this afternoon. That’s all I can do. I’m just the messenger.”
“Thank you.”
“Thanks, Diego,” Luca said softly. He suddenly needed another nap.
The second hostage raid was about as successful as the first.
After dark on Monday, May 16, two teams of Libyan commandos dropped from the sky and landed in the desert two miles south of the small, forlorn village of Ghat, near the Algerian border. They were met by a third team that had been on the ground for twenty-four hours and had trucks, equipment, and more arms.
Surveillance and informants had confirmed the “high likelihood” that the hostage was being held in a makeshift camp at the edge of Ghat. Adheem Barakat and about a hundred of his fighters were hiding there as well. They were being forced to move continually as the Libyan Army tightened the net.
Barakat’s informants proved to be more reliable than the Colonel’s.
As the three teams, thirty men in all, moved into position near Ghat, they were being closely monitored by enemy drones. Their plan was to wait until after midnight, crawl to within fifty yards of the camp, and attack from three sides. Their plans went haywire when gunfire erupted behind them. The convoy truck with the equipment and arms exploded and its fireball lit up the night. Barakat’s men stormed out of the camp with Kalashnikovs blazing. The commandos retreated and regrouped in a gathering of date palm trees, saplings that were too thin to provide adequate cover. From there they managed to hold off the insurgents as gunfire came from everywhere. In the darkness, injured men screamed for help. Searchlights swept the area but only attracted more gunfire. When the grenade launchers found their range, the commandos were forced to retreat even more. Their captain picked up a signal from one of their drones, and, out of the range of gunfire, they found their way back to the trucks. One was still burning. One had been raked with gunfire and its tires were blown. They piled into the third truck and took off in a frantic, inglorious retreat. The carefully planned and rehearsed rescue of the hostage was a disaster.
They left eight of their own behind. Five were presumed to be dead. The other three were not accounted for.
Giovanna was awakened by an explosion, then listened in horror as the gun battle raged for an hour. She knew she was in a small dark room behind a small house at the edge of a village, but nothing more. They moved her every third or fourth day.
She listened and wept.
For a variety of reasons, the Libyans chose not to report the attack. They had failed miserably again, been embarrassed by a ragtag band of desert fighters, and had lost men in the chaos. And they had rescued no one.
Adheem Barakat had plenty to crow about but remained silent. He had something far more valuable: three Libyan soldiers. And he knew exactly what to do with them.
Chapter 29
The Scully & Pershing office in London was in the heart of Canary Wharf, the modern business district on the Thames. Similar in ways to lower Manhattan, the area was filling up with a dazzling collection of soaring skyscrapers, no two even remotely alike. London and New York were slugging it out to be the financial center of the world, and for the moment the Brits were winning because of oil. The Arabs felt more welcome in the U.K. and parked their billions there.
Scully, with a hundred lawyers, leased the top third of an outlandish structure designed along the lines of a vertical torpedo. Critics and purists hated the building. Its Chinese owner was crying all the way to the bank. Every square foot had been leased for years and “the Torpedo” was printing money.