In that moment when they found her and men were scrambling up the stack of containers to seize hold of her, she had no thought for her own safety. She had jumped up and used the length of wood against the men, hammering their hands as they clung to the side of the container, swinging at them as they crawled towards her and connecting with one man’s head, sending him toppling unconscious to the container below. She’d fought hard to suppress the aggression her father had warned her about, to the point that she was always known among colleagues as the calmest person in the room. But now, overwhelmed by a blind rage, she didn’t give a damn about her safety or who she hurt, and as she was backed into a corner she yelled out that she would kill with the knife the first man who laid hands on her. It was clear they had understood her and they backed off. Then a voice speaking in English hailed her from below, the same voice she had heard on the PA system.
‘You cannot escape. There’s no place for you to hide. Come down. You will be treated well.’
This confirmed what she had suspected since she’d found the dead kidnappers lying in the dark of the container with her. They were prepared to kill as many people as was necessary, but they needed her alive. She had value. She felt the gap between the two highest containers to her right, stuffed the wooden bat into the jacket and the knife into the pocket, then slipped between the containers and shimmied up between them with the skill she had perfected over the previous thirty-six hours. The three men on top of the container lunged after her, but she was too quick for them and in no time at all was standing on the topmost container against the full force of the wind. She looked over the edge and called down, ‘I’ll kill myself, then what have you got?’
‘There is no point.’
‘There is to me!’ she yelled wildly. ‘I will never allow you to take me prisoner again. Do you understand? Never!’ Some part of her knew this was untrue, for she wanted very much to survive, but she could not go back into the dark of the container.
‘We can work this out. What do you want?’ came the voice, now through a loudhailer.
‘A shower, food, light.’ This, too, was hopelessly unrealistic. The ship’s crew had already dumped two murdered men in the ocean. They were hardly going to give her a shower and a hot meal.
She kept her captors at bay by threatening to run across the containers and jump into the sea, so the stand-off continued for an hour or more, until dawn, when she noticed clusters of lights in the distance either side of the bow of the ship. She had seen this view before, when she was a child, and realised they were approaching the Dardanelles and these were the lights of Asia and Europe converging on the straits through which they would pass into the Sea of Marmara. Lights meant mobile-phone coverage. Now she had a chance. She took the phone out and frantically began to dial, but in her panic couldn’t recall Denis’s number. She went back into the phone’s log to find the numbers she had dialled as they slipped past the island earlier, but these didn’t work either. Then the fog cleared and she managed to dial the right number. She got through and the call went straight to voicemail. She didn’t need his fucking voicemail. She wanted her husband on the other end telling her what she should do and ready to organise her rescue. She left a crazy, incoherent message, hung up and crouched, knowing that the crew would soon reach her. Then she dialled a number she was absolutely certain of and, after three rings, the call was answered.
Samson had driven the four and a half hours to Naples International Airport the evening before and parked in front of the terminal. Early next morning, unable to sleep he had gone in search of coffee and was now waiting outside the terminal on a bench, smoking a cigarette and trying to get hold of Zillah Dee when one of his phones started to vibrate. He took it out and answered.
‘Samson, it’s me,’ Anastasia said. ‘I’m on a boat … we’re going through the Dardanelles … the boat is called the Black Sea Star … you got that?’
He suppressed his astonishment. ‘Where are you now?’
‘I’m on top of a container … they’re about to lock me up again … you’ve got to get me off this fucking ship … please … I can’t do it any more … please.’
‘We’re sending people. Which port are you going to – Odessa, Burgas? Which port?’
‘Don’t know. You have to track the ship. Get it searched.’ And then she began to break down. This was anger rather than self-pity or fear and he told her calmly to keep talking to him. How big was the boat? Where was she, exactly? What could she see? Who were they? Russian? Ukrainian? She answered as best she could but kept on losing her voice. She was speaking in gasps, breathing rapidly.
‘Listen, Anastasia,’ he said. ‘There are people looking for that boat now. They are coming to find you. Whatever happens, I promise I’ll free you. I promise. Do you understand? I will find you wherever you are, no matter what it takes. I will find you. Stay alive. I’m coming for you.’ In the background there were sounds of men’s voices and he sensed that she was about to be seized because the sobs of frustration and anger had stopped and her breathing had become more rapid. She uttered just three more words before the call dropped. ‘Please, Samson! Please.’ Then the line went dead. Samson was left with a phone in his hand, staring at the row of buses waiting for the early flights from the United States.
He dialled Zillah. ‘She got hold of a phone. She just called. She’s entering the Dardanelles. Have you tracked the ship yet?’
‘There’s no trace of any vessel of that name.’
‘Have you checked the ships leaving the ports of the eastern seaboard of Italy?’
‘Doing that now.’
‘We have an accurate position, so the ship could be intercepted any place from the Dardanelles through the Sea of Marmara and the Black Sea. How are you doing on that?’
‘Not good – the Israelis won’t play.’
‘It’s in Turkish waters – does that work?’
‘I have to get through to DC, and it’s late at night there. Can’t get hold of anyone.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Odessa, but we’re on the plane and we can take off when we need to.’
‘We don’t have long. That boat will head for Russian waters as soon as it reaches the Black Sea. I’m going to call Macy and see what he can do. I’ll keep this phone free.’
He hung up and cursed himself for failing to give Zillah the number used by Anastasia. He wrote a text instead, which he sent to Macy as well.
Then he called Macy, who awoke after two rings and answered with his usual unflappable good nature. Samson told him about the call from the ship and his conversation with Zillah.
‘I sent you a text. Can you get anyone at GCHQ to locate that number? It’s from the phone Anastasia used on board. We can get an exact position for her. Maybe the phone is still on and we can track it.’
Macy murmured doubt about the speed with which this would have to be done. ‘Okay, so what else do we need to do here?’ he said. ‘I’ll find out if we have any naval assets in the area. There may be something we can do with NATO, but this will probably mean that the kidnapping is made public and with Denis in jail that will become a big story.’
Samson’s other phone went. It was Zillah. He laid the phones side by side on the bench, wishing he’d had the sense to have these conversations in the car because of the background noise of the airport, and put them on speaker so Macy and Zillah could hear each other. ‘We believe the vessel left Taranto container port six hours after her kidnap,’ she said. ‘It was once called Black Sea Star but was renamed CS Grigori II and it’s registered to a Russian company.’
‘Very hard to intercept a bloody Russian boat. NATO won’t touch it,’ said Macy.
‘The Turkish government is a possibility,’ said Zillah. ‘It’s just a question of getting to the right people in the States.’
‘How long have we got?’ asked Samson.
‘The boat will head straight for Russian territorial waters once it enters the Black Sea – something like twelve to fifteen hours, maybe a little more. If they caught Mrs Hisami with the phone, they’ll assume that her presence on board is known. That means she will be in much greater danger than she was – they may be tempted to dispose of her. If they keep her alive, they will likely go to great pains to conceal her presence. This is a goddamn big boat and there are a lot of places to hide a person.’
‘I’ll talk to my contacts here and try to get a trace on that phone,’ said Macy. ‘And you deal with the American side. By the way, does Denis know any of this?’
‘He’s in lockdown. He has no idea what’s happening,’ said Zillah.
‘That seems harsh,’ said Macy.
‘Tulliver and Castell are up to date with all the developments. And one or other of them will see him today. But there’s …’ She stopped.
‘What were you going to say?’ asked Samson.
‘Mr Hisami hasn’t given Tulliver access to his phone, so even if Anastasia manages to send a message or makes a call, they’ll miss it.’
Samson realised that she had failed to get through to Hisami and then called him, but was relieved that she had remembered his number. The call had left him with a sense of powerlessness – there was nothing he could do. He bent down to the pair of phones. ‘There’s no point me flying to Odessa until you’ve got news about the boat. I’ll stay put until I hear from either of you. Just be in touch as soon as you can. Oh yes! Zillah, I was going to ask about the package I gave you?’
‘I had it sent from Italy. Should be there by now, and the collection of the other materials was carried out yesterday. We’re in good shape on that.’
She hung up and he was left with Macy on one line. ‘Paul, I should warn you that Nyman was round here last night. SIS is obsessed by all this. They’ve got good relations with their Italian counterparts and the wires are fairly humming about Anastasia’s abduction. Nyman’s trying to work out the connection between Crane, Hisami and the kidnap.’
‘Like we all are,’ said Samson.
‘Equally, he could be simply trying to find out how much you know. But this is plainly not a matter of only academic interest to them. I’m sure they’re not just gathering intelligence for the hell of it.’
‘What was he asking about?’
‘He’s particularly interested in the American end, and for some reason he can’t get what he wants through his usual channels to the CIA and FBI. Of course, things aren’t as easy as they used to be in that way.’ Samson caught a note of regret and remembered that Macy loved America and revered its intelligence agencies, with whom he had worked on so many operations during the Cold War. Macy wasn’t happy with the way things were going in the US, or anywhere else, for that matter. ‘Keep your end up. I know this is rough for you, Paul,’ he said.
‘Thanks, old pal,’ said Samson, and hung up. Things were back to normal between them.
He got in the car, which had begun to attract the attention of two traffic cops; it was parked illegally. He drove to the half-empty short-stay car park and found a place on the top storey where he wouldn’t be disturbed. He climbed into the back seat and, using his backpack as a pillow and with a spare sweater draped over his shoulders, he crashed for an hour. When he woke he checked his phone for messages and emails but found nothing important, so lay back, sipping from a bottle of water and eating an energy bar he’d bought on the road. He kept Anastasia from his mind. Hearing her voice again, and hearing her in such distress, upset him profoundly, but he knew from searching for Aysel Hisami in Syria that nothing was gained by obsessively imagining the circumstances of the victim.
His eyes were closed when there was a tap on the window above his head. He snapped up and saw a man in a T-shirt and jacket beckoning to him. The man stepped away from the car and held his hands up so that Samson could see that they were empty. Samson got out using the far door to the man. There were five of them – two of them bodyguards with hands on guns in their waistbands, who stood a few metres away; one in a grey hoodie with a purplish birthmark that ran from the side of his nose to the middle of his left cheek, who stood apart; and a short man leaning against a Maserati Quattroporte that now blocked in Samson’s car. He was smoking a cigarette using a tortoiseshell holder.
‘Can I help you?’ asked Samson, looking at the man who’d knocked on the window and seemed to be the person designated to speak.
‘Signor Samson, this is the father-in-law of Salvatore Bucco.’ He gestured to the man by the Maserati. The speaker was young, no more than thirty, and his voice was soft and lazy. ‘He wants to speak with you, but he must do this through me because he does not have English.’
The Camorra had found Samson, and he had no doubt who had told them where he was going to be – Colonel Fenarelli. But whether as payback for keeping Anastasia’s phone from him, or simply as part of a hidden relationship between the Carabinieri and the Neapolitan underworld, Samson had no idea.
‘Go ahead,’ he said.
‘Niccolo Scorza is dead. We believe that Salvatore has been murdered also.’
‘A reasonable assumption, I’m afraid,’ said Samson.
‘Signor Esposito is afraid, too,’ said their interpreter. ‘He is afraid for his daughter and his two young grandchildren, and he is afraid for Salvatore, who is a good father and friend to us all.’
‘I understand,’ said Samson looking at Esposito. ‘But there’s very little I can do.’
The younger man translated for Esposito and there followed a few murmured sentences. ‘Signor Esposito says you can lead him to the people responsible for this.’
Samson looked at him incredulously. ‘Surely Mr Esposito knows much more about this thing than I do. Your organisation was paid to carry out the kidnap of an innocent charity worker. You know who paid you – I don’t. You know who told you to take her to a container vessel named Grigori at Taranto – I don’t. What can I tell you?’
‘Nothing was said about killing our two friends.’
‘Forgive me if I don’t show a lot of sympathy,’ said Samson slowly. ‘Bucco and Scorza murdered two migrants on that road – executed them like dogs. Then they took Mrs Hisami, presumably drugged her, and put her in a container. Did they give a damn about what they were doing? Did they think of the suffering they would cause? No, because they were paid a lot of money. And now they wind up dead. I cannot help you.’
Esposito took his cigarette holder from his lips and held it about six inches from his face, squinting through the smoke. He was utterly unexceptional – jowly, thinning hair that was cropped short, bags under his eyes, a white shirt buttoned to the neck, a gold ring and bracelet. Except for the deadly, contemptuous expression in his eyes, there was very little to distinguish him from a cab driver in any European city. He spoke a few more sentences then replaced the cigarette holder between his lips and puffed.
‘Signor Esposito wonders why you have this attitude. He is suggesting an exchange of information – that is all. He does not threaten you. He wants only to help you.’
‘What information does he want from me?’
‘He says you do not have it now, but that you will have it soon.’
‘And what will he give me in exchange?’
‘He is going to tell you how to find the people responsible for your girlfriend’s kidnap.’ He smiled. ‘You see, we know a lot about you, Signor Samson.’
‘You talked to Fenarelli, right? I guess you also know that I’m employed by Mr Hisami to find his wife.’ His anger was rising, partly from lack of sleep but mostly from the revulsion he felt for these men. ‘You people organised the kidnapping and now you come to me complaining that your friends are dead. Why would I trust any information that you give me? Why would I feel any need to help you?’
Esposito made an impatient motion to his interpreter, who handed him an envelope. ‘He gives you this and asks you to look at it now.’
Samson opened the envelope and pulled out a picture of Adam Crane and the copy of an electronic transfer form for €2.2 million made out to a construction company called Arco di Ferro Cavallo in Turin and paid by Valge Kuubik, apparently an engineering firm based in Tallinn, Estonia.
‘You know this man?’ asked the interpreter.
Samson shook his head. He wasn’t going to tell them anything. ‘This is dated two weeks ago. Why are you giving me evidence that will put you in prison?’
‘We are allowing you to see it. That’s all.’
‘Why?’
‘The man in the photograph is called Shepherd – an English name – but we know he is from Ukraine. He is from our world. We want to know who he is and who is behind him. He is also – how do you say? – political.’
‘Did he arrange this payment personally?’
Esposito understood what was being said and nodded.
‘Did he come to Napoli?’
They shook their heads. ‘Signor Esposito met with this man in Austria.’
‘How did he get to you? People don’t just call up your organisation.’
‘A lawyer in Napoli who works with us. He knows nothing of this man, except that he has connections.’
‘So you didn’t check him out – you didn’t bother to find out if you were being set up. You didn’t think to wonder why you were delivering the woman you kidnapped to a Russian ship. You just wanted the money, so you asked no questions, right?’
A car came up the ramp then reversed the moment the driver saw their group. Esposito took no notice but launched into a stream of invective, gesticulating with his cigarette. Samson knew enough Italian to understand that he was telling the younger man to give him something.
This was a piece of paper with several numbers printed on it. ‘What is this?’ asked Samson.
‘Bank-account numbers.’
‘Where did you get this?’
‘You say we don’t check people out, but we do. Mr Shepherd was followed after his meeting with Mr Esposito to a club called the Erotische Palast. This came from his wallet.’
‘I take it I can keep these?’
‘But you must tell us what you find out from them, or we will find you. I give you this card. You can call anytime.’
‘Don’t threaten me,’ said Samson sharply. He took a couple of paces towards Esposito. The two bodyguards moved quickly to intercept him, their guns aimed at his head. Esposito smiled and muttered something that the young man translated. ‘He says you are not a good investigator because you have not even asked him where to find your girlfriend.’
Samson stepped back to lean on his car. The bodyguards lowered their weapons. ‘Okay, where the hell do I find her?’
‘Russia. And they will keep her there as long as they want – until Mr Hisami does what they say.’
‘You know what they are demanding in exchange for her freedom?’
‘Shepherd, he said that they want something from Hisami. And they have many secrets about Hisami. But we do not know what this is.’
‘Why did he tell you so much? You were just contractors.’
‘A man talks when his wine has a little extra something,’ said the young translator. He gave Samson a card with a telephone number scrawled in biro at the bottom. ‘The lawyer – he will find us.’ They climbed into the Maserati and unhurriedly turned to take the ramp down. As the car passed Samson, Esposito gave him one last pitiless look.