Wasn’t that right?
But where was he now? Here? He’d been in a tent. That he was pretty sure about, though for what reason, he had no idea. A tent, then nothing, then he was in this place. That was all he could recall. His memory was so bad—the result of some drug? Or had he been suffocating, his brain cells dead? Maybe. His throat hurt. And his head too. Dizzy.
A dark room. Cold.
A basement, he believed.
Who had done this? Why?
And why was his mouth gagged, sealed with tape?
Something brushed his bare feet and he screamed, loud to him, soft to the world, because of the gag.
A rat! Yes, there were several of them. Skittering, twitchy.
Were they going to devour him alive?
Oh, my God, praise be to You!
Save me!
But the half-dozen—no, dozen, no, more!—creatures passed him by on their way toward the wall to his right. They weren’t interested in him.
Not yet.
All right. What is happening here? Hands bound, feet bound. Kidnapped. Gagged. But why on earth? Why would God—praise be to Him—allow this? Now more pieces of memory returned—though none recent. Recalling being a teacher in Tripoli until education in Libya became so fraught that his secular school was closed. Then he managed an electronics store, until the economy in Libya became so fragile that the shop was looted.
Only his wife’s salary as a nurse was left to support them.
And life grew even worse. No dinars, no food, the spread of the fundamentalists, ISIS and Daesh, taking over Derna, Sirte and other cities and towns, like an infection. Were they behind his kidnapping? Those men would certainly abduct and torture. Khaled and his family were moderate Sunnis, and believed in secular government. Yet he’d never vocally opposed the extremists. How could the mullahs and generals of ISIS even know he existed?
And the Libyan government?
Well, governments, plural. There was the House of Representatives, in Tobruk, along with the Libyan National Army. And then there was the rival General National Congress, based in Tripoli, whose questionable claim was enforced by the Libya Dawn militia. Yes, Khaled favored the House of Representatives but did so discreetly.
No, this kidnapping could not be political.
Then a bit of memory returned, like a kick. A boat…rocking on a boat. Vomiting frequently, burning in the sun…
The image returned of the tent…
And his daughter. Yes, his daughter. What is her name?
He carefully scanned the place where he was being kept. An old structure. Brick walls, beams overhead. He was in a cellar. The floor was stone and well worn, scarred and uneven. He looked down to see what kind of chair he was seated in and felt a pressure at his neck. A cord of some sort. He looked up.
No!
It was a noose!
The thin cord rose to a beam over his head. It continued to the far wall, over another beam then down to a weight, one of those big round ones that are attached to the ends of barbells. It was upright and resting on a ledge about five feet off the ground. The ledge was at an angle, and had the weight been free it would have rolled off and tugged the noose taut, strangling him. But thank God—praise be to Him—it was wedged in place.
He tried to make sense of this. Then he noted movement again, from the corner of his eye.
On the floor. More rats. And, like the others, they paid him no mind. They were much more interested in something else.
And then, to Khaled’s horror, he saw what drew the squirmy creatures, with their tiny red eyes and sharp yellow teeth: a block of something that was preventing the deadly weight from rolling off the ledge and tugging the noose up to strangle him. Pink, streaked with white. A piece of meat. That was what kept the weight from rolling and pulling the noose taut.
The first of the rats, moving cautiously, untrusting, approached it now. They sniffed with their pointed noses, they leapt back, then moved closer. Some were pushed aside by others—the more aggressive—and it was collectively decided that this addition to their lair was not only harmless…it was tasty.
The four rats soon became seven and then became a dozen, swarming the meat like huge, gray bacteria.
Some fights broke out, screeching and biting. But on the whole, they shared.
And began the serious effort of dining.
Khaled shouted and screamed through the gag and shook in the chair.
Which drew the attention of one or two of the rodents and their response was merely to glance at him with curiosity as they happily chewed and swallowed.
In five or ten or twenty minutes, they would devour the meat entirely. And the weight would begin its fall.
Despair.
But then came a flash of joy.
Yes, yes, thank you, God, praise be to Him. He had remembered his daughter’s name.
Muna…
At least he would have her name—and the memory of her happy face, her thick curly hair—to accompany him to his death.
Chapter 50
They tried. Both of them tried, slamming into the front door of the farmhouse.
But houses built in an era before alarms, when solid oak and maple had to provide the front line of defense, were not easily breached. Then or now.
Ercole had called Rossi again, who in turn had located the closest police station. It was the rival Carabinieri, but for a case like this every officer in Italy was on the same side. A car would be there in ten to fifteen minutes. The Police of State dispatched earlier would be about the same.
“Shoot the lock out,” Ercole said to Sachs.
“That doesn’t work. Not with handguns.”
They circled the farmhouse quickly, still staying vigilant. They had no evidence that the Composer wasn’t inside or nearby. And by now he could know he had visitors. And would have seen or at least guessed it was police.
Ercole stumbled over an old garden hose and jumped back to his feet, wincing. He’d cut his palm on some broken crockery. Not badly. She was keeping her eyes—and concentration—on the windows, looking for both threats and for a means of entry.
She found one. A window in the back, one they’d looked through earlier, was unlocked.
Out came her small but blinding tactical flashlight. “Stay back, away from the window,” she called to Ercole.
He dropped into a crouch. She clicked the light on and, holding it in her left hand, high above her head, stepped quickly to the window and played the beam inside while aiming her Beretta with her right. If the Composer were inside, armed and ready to shoot, he would instinctively aim for the light or near it. She might take a round in the arm but would have a second or two to fire before she collapsed in pain.
Or died from a brachial artery shot.
But the room yawned back, its only occupants dusty boxes and furniture covered with mismatched sheets as drop cloths.
“Boost me up.”
He helped her inside, then he vaulted the sill and joined her.
They walked to the closed door that led to the hallway.