The Exchange: After The Firm

Chapter 13

The news blackout ended dramatically when the four Turks were found with their heads cut off. They were naked and hanging by their feet from a cable running between two storage buildings a mile from the bridge. Their flesh was slashed, burned, and bloodied, and it was safe to assume they had suffered greatly before being decapitated. Nearby was a large oil drum with a plank across its top. On the plank, in a neat row, were the four heads.

Haskel, Gau, Abdo, Aziz.

The Lannak security guard who found them early that morning did not attempt to match the heads with the bodies. Someone far smarter than him would be given that task.

There was no sign of Youssef, Walid, or Giovanna. No sign of the murderers. No note, no demand, nothing. The Lannak security guards at the bridge heard nothing, but the nearest one was at least a hundred yards away. There was little security left because the company was pulling people off the site and sending them home. The construction was practically finished. All closed-circuit cameras in the area had been dismantled.

The four beheadings would no doubt encourage the company to retreat even faster.

A Libyan official quickly sealed off the area and prohibited anyone from taking photos and videos of the scene. His orders from Tripoli were to keep everyone, including Lannak employees, away from the bodies. Such a gruesome sight would go viral in an instant and only embarrass the government. The story, though, could not be buried, and before noon Tripoli released a statement confirming the murders and kidnappings. There was still no word from the “terrorists.” In its first effort at disinformation, the regime said the attack “was believed to be the work of a notorious tribal gang headquartered in Chad.” The Libyan authorities vowed to find the outlaws and bring them to justice, after, of course, it found the other hostages.

Mitch was leaving the hospital in a car with Roberto Maggi when the call came. An associate in their Rome office had just seen the news out of Tripoli. The government was confirming the abduction of Giovanna Sandroni, along with two Libyan employees of Lannak. Their whereabouts were unknown. Their Turkish security team had been murdered.

They drove to Luca’s villa in the Trastevere neighborhood, in south-central Rome, and found him sitting alone on the veranda under the shade of an umbrella pine, wrapped in a quilt and gazing at a fountain in the small courtyard. A nurse sat by the open double-doors. He smiled at Mitch and waved at an empty chair.

“It’s good to see you, Mitch,” he said. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Roberto said, “I’ll be inside, Luca,” and disappeared.

Mitch asked, “How are you?”

He shrugged and took his time. “Still fighting. I’ve been on the phone all morning with my best contacts in Libya, and I’m not getting much.”

“Could it be Gaddafi?”

“That’s always a possibility. He’s a madman and capable of anything. But I have my doubts. They just found five dead soldiers, Libyan Army, the guards at the checkpoint. All shot in the head, bodies burned. I doubt Gaddafi would kill his own men, but then one never knows.”

“Why would he kill Lannak employees?”

“Intimidation, perhaps.”

A well-dressed woman of about fifty appeared and asked Mitch if he wanted something to drink. He asked for an espresso and she walked away.

Luca ignored her and continued, “Gaddafi owes Lannak at least four hundred million dollars for his beautiful bridge in the desert. The price of oil is down. The Libyans are always out of cash because Gaddafi wants stockpiles of weapons. He just ordered forty more MiGs from the Russians.” His voice trailed off and he lit a cigarette. He was pale and looked ten years older than he had two weeks earlier.

Mitch wanted to say something about Giovanna but couldn’t bear to bring up the subject. His espresso arrived on a small tray and he thanked the woman.

When she was gone, Luca exhaled a cloud of smoke and said, “That’s Bella, my friend.”

Luca usually had a lady friend around.

He said, “Something told me not to let her go, Mitch. I didn’t like the idea but she insisted. Giovanna’s tired of London and I’m afraid she might be growing tired of the law. She wanted an adventure. She was home last Christmas and I talked too much, talked about the bridge Gaddafi built in the desert, and my client Lannak, a great company from Turkey. It was all cocktail talk, the way lawyers do, nothing confidential. I had no idea she would want to go there. And she couldn’t, as long as I had the case. Then I got sick, called you, and here we are, Mitch. Here we are.”

Mitch sipped his espresso and decided to just listen. He had nothing to add.

“How are you, Mitch?”

He shrugged and waved him off. With the body count now at nine — five burned bodies and four decapitations — it seemed almost silly to dwell on a bad case of food poisoning.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Physically.”

Luca had two phones on the table and one began vibrating. He picked it up, looked at it, said, “It’s from the Libyan embassy in Milan. I need to take it.”

“Of course.”

Mitch walked inside and saw Roberto crouched over a laptop on a table in the kitchen. He waved Mitch over and said quietly, “There’s a video that’s going viral. Someone filmed the four dead Turks. The news stations are not showing it but it’s everywhere else right now. You want to see it?”

“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.”