Midnight In Madrid

FIFTY-SIX

ROSANATO, VILLA MALAFORTUNATA, ITALY, SEPTEMBER 16, 7:24 P.M.

They touched down at the landing field in Italy less than an hour later. The field was small and serviced private planes only. It was adjacent to the much larger Genoa airport. The terminal was small, and they walked through customs with barely a nod from the Italians at each of their passports.

Then they were in a parking area. It was past nine in the evening and they walked to a van. Rizzo was already there, having connected earlier with Federov’s driver, a young Italian kid with a distinct northern accent. Alex pegged him as a Genovese, but wasn’t sure.

They piled into the van, the driver, Rizzo, Federov, and Alex, and one of the bodyguards, Dmitri, who came along. The driver also had some sandwiches in a box, with some more bottles of water.

“It’s not far from here,” Federov said. “The house where we are going.”

“Are you taking some precautions?” Alex asked. “About being followed?”

“Of course,” Federov said.

Federov gave the Italian kid a nod and they took off. They were on a motorway within a few minutes. The sandwiches were passed around with the water. They were lifesavers at this point. They hit a village that had a surprising amount of activity for the hour. But it was very late summer, so the Italians were enjoying evenings in their cafes, dining, laughing, and drinking.

Minutes later the van rolled to a halt in front of a public garage, part of a gas station. The garage appeared to be closed, but when the driver of the van honked twice, a large door came up noisily and automatically.

The van rolled in. Federov instructed everyone to get out and move quickly. He led them to a BMW SUV, a big overpowered Black Mariah of a vehicle that had a new driver and its engine running. The group quickly jumped into the SUV, all except for Federov’s bodyguard Dmitri, who jumped into a second car by himself, a compact Fiat. Obviously, the bodyguard knew the directions and grudgingly, Alex had to admire the efficiency of Federov’s team, even in retirement.

Another door rolled upward in the rear of the garage.

Dmitri hit the gas on the Fiat with a sharp jerk and rolled out first, followed quickly by the SUV. Federov sat up front, his broad shoulders more than filling the seat. The new driver, another Italian kid in a white open-collared shirt and a cigarette over his ear, floored it.

Alex was in the backseat sitting in the middle between Rizzo and Peter. Out they rolled into the darkness.

They went through some side streets with the driver following the first car closely but constantly checking the rearview mirror. But there were no other cars behind them, and they seemed to be traveling cleanly.

No watchers, no shadows. At one point they passed a police vehicle but it gave them no notice. There was no traffic. The driver drove fast but smoothly. Half a moon was shining on northern Italy. They hit one of the older highways that meandered upward along the shore and then along cliffs where the guardrails had been badly dented from years of haphazard driving. At one point on a curve, there was a section that had been knocked out by a car that hadn’t quite navigated the turn, either through fog, Alex guessed, or the fog of beverage. But then they were racing down a hill again.

Federov broke out a pack of his inevitable cigarettes, lit one, and offered the pack around the car. Everyone declined except the driver, who lit his smoke from his boss’s. Peter made a point of lowering his window by a quarter.

Within fifteen minutes, they were off the motorway and onto a narrow back road. They cut through several residential neighborhoods. New houses, very middle class. No one spoke. The driver had one of those new European sky radio stations that was playing bouncing European pop which fit the occasion as well as anything. Alex liked the music.

Then they went down a final street and Alex could see that the bodyguard in the lead car, Dmitri, had pulled to a stop in front of a house. Dmitri stepped out of his car, and Alex saw he was holding a pistol and waiting.

But there was no reason for alarm. She saw no one else, and she knew he was just doing his job, providing cover. The SUV rolled into the driveway of a house that had its lights on.

The driver hit his horn once and cut his lights into darkness. The downstairs lights in the house went off. Federov raised his meaty left hand to indicate that everyone in the van should remain quiet and still as a precaution. Alex’s lateral vision caught sight of Dmitri standing in the driveway, his gun still drawn, his arm at his side, also smoking a cigarette, watching the house.

Then the driver flashed his lights twice.

From within the house, the downstairs lights flashed twice in response.

“Okay,” Federov said.

The car doors opened, and they all slid out, Alex exiting on the side of Peter who offered her a hand, which she accepted.

They walked up the front path to the house. The door opened and they went inside. The place was furnished with surprising comfort. They were met by another Russian who must have been six and a half feet tall. He wore a black leather jacket despite the warmth of the evening and went by the name of Grisha. Grisha wore a nine millimeter automatic on his right hip. Alex counted him as another one of Federov’s transplanted hoods from Ukraine. When he nodded to Alex and shook her hand, he nearly crushed it. And he was on his best behavior.

“How’s Ahmet today?” Federov asked in Russian, which Alex followed easily.

“Better,” Grisha answered, whatever that meant. He didn’t expand.

“He doesn’t have a telephone does he?” Federov asked.

“No, sir.”

“Does he take walks?”

“No, sir. Not unattended.”

“What does he talk about?”

“Not much, sir.”

“Good,” Federov said. “Does he have a weapon at all?”

“Just a knife. Makes him feel safe.”

They both laughed.

“Should I take it away from him?” the guard asked.

“Don’t bother,” Federov said. “Any little boy can play with a knife. Maybe he’ll cut his wrists later and solve a problem for us.”

Dmitri thought this was funny. So did Federov. Rizzo rolled his eyes.

Another man, whom Federov addressed as Ramiz was waiting for them in the living room. He was a small man in his fifties with a sharp intelligent face. Alex took one look and knew he wasn’t there for his muscle, so he must have been there for another reason. She soon learned: he was a Federov employee who served as an interpreter in Arabic.

Ramiz sprang to his feet, respectfully and fearfully, when he saw Federov. He joined in the group. They walked to some steps and went upstairs. They headed to what was the master bedroom suite of the new house, Grisha leading the way.

He pushed open a door without knocking, and the whole group walked in.

The room had a claustrophobic and condemned feel. It smelled of sweat, cigarettes, and some spice that she couldn’t place, maybe curry. Alex saw a frightened man on a bed, skin of mocha hue, unshaven for several days. This was Ahmet. He was dressed in jeans and a sports shirt. He had a paring knife by his side. Nothing special, just the type of thing that a chef might use to chop celery.

“Get up,” Federov ordered.

The man was pale and as jittery as a frightened cat. He couldn’t take his eyes off Alex when the visitors arrived and surrounded him.

“Hello, Ahmet,” Federov said in English.

Ahmet nodded and continued to stare at Alex. First at her breasts, then at her face.

“We’re going to talk about what happened,” Federov said. “You’re going to sit at that table over there and you’re going to tell us everything you know, everything you’ve done.”

Ramiz jumped in, translating into Arabic. As Ramiz spoke, Alex glanced to her right. There was an oblong table, large enough to seat twelve, the type that might be used for conferences. It was so big that it might have overpowered the room, except a wall had been taken down with sledge hammers-a huge gaping gash-and the hole led into the next room.

There was some back and forth in Arabic between the hostage and Ramiz, who blurted out several things quickly. He spoke with great animation and shook his head in Alex’s direction. He indicated that he had issues with Alex being there.

“What’s his problem?” Federov asked. “Doesn’t he know he’s not allowed to have problems?”

Ramiz turned back to Federov. Ramiz spoke with a very precise brand of English, almost too perfect, as if he had been educated at British schools, same as Peter.

“Signor Ahmet has informed us,” Ramiz said evenly, “that he feels he is being mistreated here. He further adds, and I quote directly here, that he refuses to speak at all in front of this woman.”

“Why not?” Federov asked.

The hostage must have understood the question because he offered several utterances in Arabic. Ramiz gave it a moment, as if he were trying to add some delicacy to it. Then he translated.

“Ahmet says he has no desire, sir,” Ramiz said, “to be put on display for one of your cheap filthy whores.”

Alex blinked. So did Rizzo. Federov nodded pensively. A second passed, during which the prisoner appeared as if he thought he had scored an important point.

In one movement, Federov pulled back his enormous fist and blasted Ahmet in the side of the face. He held him in place with one hand and then delivered a second blow right after the first. Same location.

Never in Alex’s life had she seen such a pair of devastating punches thrown by a bare hand. She had gone to prize fights a couple of times with friends in Los Angeles, had sat close to the ring, and had seen the fists land. She had been at hockey games when players had squared off right on the other side of the glass. But she had never seen a one-two punch like this.

The force of the blows crunched into the side of the man’s face with hard cracking sounds. Federov let go of Ahmet after the second hit. The man flew over backward onto the bed and bounced. He landed hard against the wall then dropped onto the mattress like a sack of potatoes. Federov’s long arms followed him, picking him up, holding him, and walloping him in the gut, and then slamming him backward against the bed and the wall a second time, leaving a pale bloodstain on the wall.

Peter and Rizzo tried to intervene, but not very hard and not very successfully. Alex knew better. Ahmet was cowering now, yelling in terrified Arabic. Federov grabbed him again, by his shirt and by his throat, ripping his clothing as he pulled him upward. Then Federov dragged him across the room. He slammed him down on a hardback chair at the table.

“My guests are personal friends!” he roared in English. “They have come a long way. The lady is a personal friend in particular and works for the government of the United States of America. Not only will you talk to her, but you will answer any question that she asks.”

The man sat there stunned for a moment, listening to Ramiz’s translation.

“Is all this clear?” Federov bellowed.

The Arab nodded, now in fear for his life. He was bleeding from the corner of his eye and a massive welt had already emerged over his cheekbone.

“Tell him to apologize!” Federov said to his translator. “Now!” Ramiz relayed the request.

“Yuri. It’s all right,” Alex said.

But the Russian was blind with rage.

Cowering, Ahmet said his only word of English for the evening, looking at Alex. “Sorry,” he said. There was blood in his mouth. He sputtered. Part of a tooth came out.

Peter reached in his pocket, found a handkerchief, and tossed it to Ahmet. Ahmet gave him a trembling nod of thanks.

They all settled in at the table. Alex sat between Peter and Rizzo. The hostage had Ramiz to his right and Federov to his left, in case he needed to be encouraged to talk again. There were several empty chairs.

In a surreal touch, Dmitri-all seventy-four inches tall of him-appeared again with a tray. He spread bottles of water around the table, a bowl of fruit, and some chips.

Federov lit one of his cigarettes, waved the match to extinguish it, and threw the match to the floor. He turned back to Ramiz.

“Tell him to speak Italian,” Federov said. “I understand it some. Two of my guests,” he added, meaning Alex and Rizzo, “are fluent.”

Ramiz brought the prisoner up to speed.

Peter leaned to Alex and whispered, “You’re my lifeline on this one. I don’t understand any Italian.”

“I’ll fill you in afterward,” she said. Rizzo gave a slight nod to the two of them also, underscoring that he was working the same side of the street. Federov stared at Ahmet, barely appeased. The trip had been long and the prisoner finally began to talk.