When the climb was over they shuffled along a wooden platform until they stopped. Dead still. Waiting.
Giovanna’s heart was pounding and she could barely breathe. When they put a noose around her neck and yanked it tight, she almost fainted. Close by a man was praying. Another one was crying.
Once again, the killers chose to do it all on camera. The video began with the four victims already in place on the gallows with ropes around their necks and their hands cuffed behind them. From left to right, the first three were wearing uniforms of the Libyan Special Forces. They had been captured by Barakat’s men in the second commando raid five days earlier near Ghat. The fourth person was to the far right and wore a skirt or a dress and not a uniform. Close behind each stood a masked warrior with an assault rifle.
The surname Faras appeared at the bottom of the screen, and seconds later Faras was pushed by the gunman behind him. He fell forward, dropped fifteen feet, stopped abruptly as the rope jolted tight and shrieked just as his neck snapped. He jerked violently for a few seconds as his body slowly gave up. His boots were five feet above the sand. For good measure, a commandant of some variety stepped forward with an automatic pistol and pumped three slugs into his chest.
With each shot the next two soldiers shuddered and would have collapsed but for the nooses. They would fall soon enough. The woman on the end stood rigid and unmoving, as if too stunned to react.
Hamal followed, and at the age of twenty-eight the veteran solider with a wife and three children back home in Benghazi was murdered by a gang of insurgents. Moments later, Saleel took his last breath.
The camera refocused and zoomed in on the woman, Sandroni. Seconds passed, then a minute with no movement anywhere, or at least none on camera. Suddenly, the unmistakable whine of a chain saw began, off camera.
The guard behind her stepped closer, loosened the noose, and removed it. He took her arm, and as she was being led away the video ended.
Chapter 39
It was beneficial to have a real Roman in the group. Roberto Maggi knew all the restaurants, especially the famous ones with starred reviews and staggering bills. But he also knew the neighborhood trattorias where the food was just as enjoyable. With the clock ticking, no one was in the mood for a three-hour dinner early on a Sunday evening. He chose a place called Due Ladroni, “Two Thieves” in Italian, and they enjoyed a fifteen-minute stroll along Via Condotti. Of course Roberto knew the owner, a jolly Irish woman, and she had no trouble rearranging tables to accommodate the six of them outdoors.
Mitch was working through the menu when his green phone vibrated. It was Abby.
“I need to take this,” he said as he stood. “It’s my wife.” He stepped around the corner, said hello, and absorbed the blow. She was expected in Morocco. She replayed her conversation with Noura, with all the details. It was almost 1 P.M. in New York. Her flight left JFK at 5:10. Should she go? What should she do? Would she be safe? His first reaction was to say hell no. It’s dangerous. Think about the boys. But he realized his judgment was clouded by his last visit to North Africa. Abby had already blitzed through the internet and was convinced the trip would be reasonably safe. It was, after all, British Airways. The hotel was expensive, highly rated by travel magazines and websites. The more she surfed, the more attractive Marrakech became, though she would always feel vulnerable. She would not be the typical tourist.
Her confidence settled his nerves, but he was still bothered by the question of what might happen to his wife if they could not deliver the money. The pot was still empty. They wouldn’t kidnap her, too. Not from a four-star hotel. And why would they? If Mitch and his team couldn’t raise the money for one hostage, why bother with a second?
As they spoke, he ventured back to the table and said to Roberto, “I’ll take the cioppino, fish stew.” It was his favorite, then he remembered the fish stew in Tripoli. “Big news,” he said to Jack and walked around the corner.
Abby had to go. No question. She had been chosen as the messenger from day one and it was her obligation to Giovanna to follow instructions. They agreed on the plan, and Mitch promised to call back in an hour. She began packing, though with no idea how long she might be away. The temperature was already above ninety in Morocco. Where were her summer clothes?
When Mitch returned to the table, the team was waiting. His report was stunning at first, then troubling. The idea that Abby was being directed to Morocco to facilitate an exchange was excellent news. What would she do, though, with no money?
Cory said little but was thinking it through. Mitch looked at him and asked, “What about security? For Abby?”
“Low to moderate risk. She’s in a nice hotel, plenty of tourists from Europe. If she’s asked to do something she’s not sure of, then she says no. And we’ll be there.” He looked at Darian and said, “I think I should go, take a plane and a nurse. Check into a hotel nearby. Make contact with Abby. Monitor her movements. You have people in Morocco, don’t you?”
“We do,” Darian said. “I’ll notify them.”
“A nurse?” Roberto asked.
Cory nodded and said, “We have no idea what condition Giovanna’s in.”
Darian added, “It’s always best to have a nurse, if possible. I’ll stay here with the team.”
“Of course.”
“Jack, can we use the jet?”
Jack was not anticipating the question and hesitated only slightly, as if he didn’t really want to let go of the airplane. “Sure. There are plenty available.”
Other ideas came and went as they tried to enjoy dinner. The optimism ebbed and flowed. One moment they were excited about Abby’s trip to Morocco, and the next moment they were once again fretting over the ransom.
After dark, and as they were strolling back toward the Hassler and trying to enjoy another beautiful Roman evening, Roberto’s phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Diego Antonelli. Roberto held back from the others and listened intently as Diego rattled away in Italian. There were rumblings out of Tripoli. Somewhere in the depths of the regime a senior diplomat had been contacted by their embassies in Rome, London, and Istanbul, all urging the same course of action. The senior diplomat had Gaddafi’s ear and an approval of the settlement was expected.
An hour later, Riley Casey called Mitch from London with similar news. Sir Simon Croome had received a call from an old friend in the Foreign Office. The rumor was that the Libyan ambassador to the U.K. had also been informed that his government had decided to settle the Lannak matter, all of it, and to do so promptly.
Mitch, Jack, and Roberto met in a dark corner of the Hassler bar to talk about their client. Assuming a settlement, and they were cautious enough to assume nothing, they needed a strategy to press Lannak into using the money for the ransom. Roberto, who knew them best because of their long history with Luca, thought it likely that the Celiks would go along, but only with some guarantee that they would eventually receive $400 million. All three lawyers knew that in litigation there were no guarantees. A lawyer who promised one was a fool.
Roberto wanted some answers. He asked Jack, “Can Scully be convinced to borrow the funds? I know you’ve tried, but can you try again?”