Chapter 70

DETECTIVE CARBONE IS THERE to greet us as soon as we come through the wood doors of the police station. He’s smoking, which is par for the course. But instead of his usual calm and collected demeanor, he is clearly agitated.

“Something to show you,” he states, while leading us through the vestibule, through the security doors, and into the heart of the operation. “Come. Now. Come.”

We enter into his office where Heath Lowrance is already standing before Carbone’s big wood desk. The leather-coated Interpol agent stands as we enter, offers his hellos.

“New developments,” he says. “Important developments.”

“Not the least of which is this,” interjects Carbone as he comes around his desk, flipping up the screen on his laptop.

He turns the laptop around so that Alessandra, Lowrance and myself can clearly see the image. It’s my Grace. Still dressed in the same black sweater and skirt she was abducted in four days ago, her dark, almost black hair parted down the center of her forehead, her eyes bloodshot and exhausted, but very much alive. In her two hands she grips a newspaper. The International Herald Tribune. The date printed above the headline is today’s.

“Grace is alive,” I say.

“Alive,” Alessandra repeats, as if she too only now believes it.

“Did he send this?” I ask, my voice barely able to exit my mouth.

“The ‘he,’” Alessandra says. “The ‘he,’ as in the man who just called you in your apartment? The overcoat man?”

“The overcoat man,” says Carbone.

“He’s Taliban,” offers Lowrance. “He’s calling himself Hakeemullah. No last name we can see. Tajik resistance most likely. From the village you bombed, Captain. Just like we suspected.”

I shift my eyes to Lowrance.

“You got all that from his last phone call a few minutes ago?”

“And more. But not from the phone call. From this photo of your fiancée.”

“He identified himself?”

“In transmitting proof of life, he also forwarded a statement.”

Carbone pulls a sheet of paper from a file on his desk. Hands it to me.

I am Hakeemullah. I have the infidel’s wife. She is alive for now. But she will die for what the infidel has done to my village. For the death he brought to my Precious.

I read the note and re-read it several times over. Each time it says the same thing.

“What does he want?” I pose. “Who or what is Precious?”

“He’s taunting you for now. Precious could be anything or anyone. Maybe his wife. His dog. His horse. His spirit. Who knows, Captain? You know what war is like. You, better than anyone standing in this room.”

“What’s he doing? Why so cryptic? Why no demands? Why stay here in Venice at all?”

“He’s making you suffer. First he made you wait a few days before being flushed out by our intrepid reporter.” He shoots a smile at Alessandra. “Now he’s ready to communicate, but not ready to make specific demands. He took it as a compliment that we were willing to speak and perhaps negotiate with him. It offered him some kind of empowerment and feeling of being respected. He feels like the ball is in his court and he wants to play for a while. Taunt you. Give you nightmares.”

“Why?”

“Punishment for bombing his village. For what you did to his Precious. For being an American. For being a Capitalist dog…the usual story, Captain. But the good news is Grace is alive and close by and you are well enough to see her with unblinded eyes.”

I look at her on the computer screen. Look at the copy of the International Herald Tribune. I see the fear in Grace’s face. I see her hopelessness. If I could jump into the photo and steal her away, I would. But I am just as helpless.

“Will he make specific demands eventually?” I ask.

“Almost certainly,” Carbone answers. “And soon.”

“Not soon enough,” Alessandra adds.

“But we’re not going to wait for not soon enough,” jumps in Lowrance.

“You have an address,” I say, recalling my brief cell phone conversation with Carbone not a half hour ago.

“We know where he is, thanks to GPS.”

“In the building I’ve been living in for over a week,” I say. “Sounds impossible.”

“But not improbable,” Carbone adds. “In the empty book store. On the first floor.”

Mouth goes dry.

Carbone comes back around his desk.

“We’re ready to begin our rescue operation now,” he says. “With your permission, of course.”

My mind spinning, the thought of police raiding the building where Grace is being held hostage is not exactly settling. What if Hakeemullah decides to kill her at the first sign of an incursion?

I stuff my right hand into my pocket. Feel my Grace’s ring.

“Will it be safe, Detective?”

He nods, smokes.

“We will take every precaution. Surprise is on our side.” Then, going for the door. “Let’s move, people. Let’s go get Grace.”

I follow, my heart in my throat and my soldier’s gut telling me this is way too easy.