The Abomination (41 page)

From the beach the girls trudged with their luggage up to where yet another van waited for them by the side of the road. The inside of the van was warm and smelt of cigarettes, sweat and cheap grappa. A couple of empty bottles rolled on the floor. Kat guessed that a group of men had been travelling in it very recently.

Twenty minutes later they pulled into a remote farmyard. Lights burned in the house. The exhausted women were ushered inside.

DANIELE WATCHED DAWN
break over Venice. It had been a long night, and a difficult decision.

Father Uriel's words came back to him.
Is there someone in particular you'd like to have an emotional relationship with?

There was. She was blonde, practical, and like him she'd grown up with one foot in the Italian culture and one in the American one. While he'd ended up despising the privilege and power that was his birthright, she'd been raised in the shadow of the American military, yet had ended up returning to it.

And now she was his best – indeed, his only – bargaining chip in the negotiation to save Carnivia.

And then there was Kat. Daniele Barbo had a low opinion of his fellow men and women generally. Kat Tapo had many qualities he disdained. She was fiery, impetuous, emotional and energetic. She tended to act first and think through the reasons for action later. And yet he surprised himself by wondering what she thought of him.

Was it possible that Kat was his friend?

It was another cold, grey day, and the pipes were forecasting another surge of
acqua alta
. As the sky turned the same colour as the sea, he made a decision.

Picking up his phone, he sent a text message.

Mr Gilroy, this is Daniele Barbo. I'm on my way to see you
.

THERE WERE SIX
men sprawled around the sitting room of the little farmhouse. Seven including the driver, who had followed them in. The men's eyes lit up when they saw the women.

They've been waiting for us, Kat thought.

Around the room, ashtrays and more empty bottles. On the TV, a porn movie. The girls looked at it, then looked away again, trying to ignore what was happening on the screen. The men watched their reactions hungrily.

One of the men held up a bottle of grappa and shook it from side to side. “Here ladies, have a drink,” he said in Italian. He had a pronounced Marchigiano accent. So they had landed well to the south, just as she'd thought. These must be local footsoldiers: breaking in a new consignment would be their reward for whatever else they did.

She'd spoken to an undercover officer once, a man who'd infiltrated an organised crime gang. He said the hardest thing about it was overcoming the instinct to arrest people. She realised now what he meant. Without her uniform and badge she felt strangely naked.

Tumblers of grappa were being poured and pressed on the girls. Kat accepted one and swallowed down half in one go. Not enough to get drunk, but enough to give her a little Dutch courage.

There's no way out now but this
.

The man who'd driven the van spoke to one of the others, keeping his voice low. “Is everything set up?”

“Upstairs. You get first choice, like we agreed. But don't take too long. The boys are getting impatient, and there's only one camera.”

Kat was aware of the driver's gaze raking over them, assessing them one by one. His eyes lingered on her, then moved to Holly. “That one,” he said.

The other man grunted. “Get on with it, then.”

“You.” The driver pointed at Holly. “You, come with me. I need to check your documents.” One of the other men laughed.

Kat gave Holly the tiniest of nods.
Plan the fight, fight the plan
. Whatever happened, they were committed now.

As the driver led Holly out of the room, one of the others turned up the volume of the panting actress on the TV.
To muffle any sounds from upstairs
, Kat thought. But it should help her and Holly too.
If the plan works
.

The man patted his lap and smiled at the nearest girl. “Come and sit here, darling. I won't bite.”

Frightened, the girl looked at Kat to see what she should do.

“What's it got to do with her?” the man demanded, intercepting the glance. He looked from one to the other of them suspiciously. “What's going on?”

Our best weapon is surprise
. And any moment now, they were going to lose that advantage. “I need a drink,” Kat said. She grabbed a bottle of grappa from the table and tipped some into her mouth. “And my cigarettes.” Bending down to her case, she pulled out the fishing net she'd stuffed inside it, back on the boat.

Hit the enemy with a closed fist, not with open fingers
, Holly had told her.

Kat threw the net over three of the seated men, hit another one across the temple with the upended grappa bottle, then began clubbing the struggling figures under the net, aiming for their heads. “Now!” she shouted at the girls.

Terrified, they didn't move. She didn't blame them: she was shaking with fear herself.
No time for second thoughts
. The door crashed open. For a moment she thought the plan was collapsing around her. Then, turning, she saw to her relief that it was Holly.

“X-ray secured,” Holly said matter-of-factly. It was not the moment, Kat decided, to tell her friend that she had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. Bending down to her bag, she pulled out the boathook and tossed it over.

No broken bottles or knives – too much blood gets in the way
.

No prisoners except the driver
.

Maximum incapacitation in minimum time is our objective
.

The men under the net were struggling to their feet, but were impeded by the furniture. Holly and Kat were blocking the approach to the only door, and Holly was now lashing out two-handed with the boathook as if it were a baseball bat, connecting with heads and arms every time one came within range, and using the sharp point to jab at the struggling men under the net.

“Out!” Kat bellowed again at the girls. At last, they moved. One of the men, meanwhile, with slightly more presence of mind than the rest, had worked out that it made sense to extricate himself from the net first, out of range of Holly and Kat's swinging weapons, and then come at them unimpeded. From somewhere down his back he produced a knife.

Holly tossed Kat the keys she'd taken from the driver. “You're next. Go.”

Kat hesitated. “It's ready?”

“Ready,” Holly confirmed. “Get out of here.”

The man chose that moment to launch himself at Holly, knocking the arm that held the boathook against the wall. Holly gave a gasp of desperation as she dropped it.

Kat didn't hesitate. Reaching into her bag, her hand closed around the first weapon it made contact with and pulled it out. The paint roller. As the man drew back his hand to slash Holly in the face, Kat speared his throat from behind and yanked. He collapsed to the ground, clutching at his throat where air and blood bubbled through the puncture. She kicked him sideways for good measure.

“Thanks,” Holly said with feeling. The boathook was already back in her hand.

“Count to ten, then follow.”

Running outside, Kat found the girls waiting in the van. The driver had already been trussed by Holly with rope from the boat. Kat had the ignition on and the van turned round by the time Holly hurtled from the house and jumped in beside her. The wheels spun briefly, then bit into the dirt as they roared off.

“They'll come after us,” one of the girls said nervously, looking behind them.

“If we're right, they'll have more important things to think about,” Holly said.

“Like what?”

“Like the CAC card I unwrapped earlier.”

“What's a CAC card?”

Suddenly the farmhouse behind them exploded in a fireball of masonry and glass.

“In the present circumstances,” Holly said with satisfaction, “it makes a fairly good IED.”

DANIELE SAT ACROSS
from Ian Gilroy and looked around the room. The table was a circular gilt monolith inlaid with Murano glass, made in the eighteenth century. From the walls, his disfigured image reflected back at him from a set of seventeenth-century mirrors with ornate gold frames. A fresco by Lorenzo Lotto covered the ceiling.

“My family used to own this villa,” he said conversationally. “I remember playing here, as a child.”

“Your family's foundation still does own it.”

“And yet now
you
have the use of it.”

Gilroy shrugged. “A villa by Palladio is a work of art in its own right, and as such the terms of your father's trust require the Foundation to be the custodian of Villa Barbo. I had no idea you cared about such things, frankly. Is that why you wanted to see me? To discuss your accommodation?”

“I want to negotiate. For my freedom, and that of my website.”

“What makes you think I have any say in such matters?”

“Oh, I know you do,” Daniele assured him. “I may not fully understand the game, but I recognise the player. Who else could be the link between Camp Ederle and Carnivia?”

Gilroy's expression didn't change. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“The CIA was involved in the William Baker conference. According to Father Uriel – to Dr Doherty, that is – you were one of the organisers.”

The other man sat back. “Well, you have been busy. And that's your bargaining chip? The knowledge – the
supposition
, I should say – that I was there?”

Daniele shook his head. “My bargaining chip is the whereabouts of your agent. Second Lieutenant Boland.”

Gilroy looked genuinely surprised. “She's alive?”

“Both women are. And they have with them the evidence that links a former US Special Forces soldier, employed by a private military contractor, to atrocities in Bosnia.”

The American was silent for a moment. “It's hardly much of a hand. I'll just stay here and wait for her to turn up.”

“It'll be much easier for you to have her killed now, rather than when she reaches Venice.”

“Killed!” Gilroy regarded him steadily. “You know, you've misunderstood this situation, Daniele.”

“I don't think so. It's a classic CIA manoeuvre. You've long suspected there might be evidence out there somewhere that could turn up one day and incriminate you. So you're using Holly to flush it out. Then you'll get rid of the evidence, and her with it.”

“Your reasoning is logical. But you've failed – and if I may say so, Daniele, this is perhaps a consequence of your condition – to understand the true motives of those involved. I want Holly alive, not dead. As my agent, she's my responsibility. Just as you are, in a different way. Which is why, incidentally, I've been protecting you for months.”

“Me!”

Gilroy nodded. “You're quite right when you say that I could, if I wished, speak to those who want to destroy your website. You're also right when you assume that they'll happily destroy you, if it helps achieve their objective.
My
objective is, and always has been, to prevent that from happening.”

“You were behind William Baker. You're just as much responsible for those atrocities as anyone.”

“No. I was
at
William Baker. There's a difference. Here.” Getting to his feet, Gilroy went and pulled a thick hardback from a shelf. He showed Daniele the cover. The memoirs of a former US Secretary of Defense. “You want to know how high William Baker went?” he demanded. Turning towards the middle, he located the section he was looking for and read aloud:

The President and I discussed the situation in Bosnia. Clearly, Bosnia's very survival was at stake. We agreed to authorise a private company to use retired US Military personnel to improve and train the Croatian Army, and not to enforce the arms embargo too tightly.

He snapped the book shut. “The private company was MCI. Of course, ‘retired' makes them sound like old warhorses put out to grass, instead of the well-organised army of ex-Special Forces mercenaries they actually were. The point is, once MCI had the administration's blessing to run the Bosnian conflict as their own private war, there was no reining them back. With the arms companies giving them anything they wanted, and NATO's warmongers egging them on, they became uncontrollable.”

“You're claiming you tried to stop them?”

“I did what I could, which was admittedly very little. The CIA had been authorised to assist them – and MCI interpreted that as
ordered
to assist them. What could we do? Short of going public – that is, telling the world the US had not only circumvented a UN arms embargo, but used a private army to start a dirty war in the process – our options were limited. But I vowed that one day, after that administration had left office, I'd find the evidence and get it to the International War Crimes Tribunal.”

“You're going after the former Defense Secretary?” Daniele said, flabbergasted.

“Not just him. The Secretary of State. The President himself. And all the other senior policy makers of that administration, the ones who spend their retirements running humanitarian foundations and giving advice to the Middle East about conflict resolution. They all knew what was being done in their name. I want to see them on trial for crimes against humanity, every last one of them. And now, at last, I have the opportunity.”

“Because of Findlater?”

“Because of
Korovik
. General Korovik's arrest changes everything. He's the one man who can testify that the US knew what was going on. And Korovik will be happy to pass the buck, if it means saving his own skin. All we have to do is to find the proof that backs up his testimony.”

“Wait a minute,” Daniele said, confused. “You're saying the evidence Holly and Kat provide will somehow
help
Korovik. Surely it's there to assist the prosecution, as evidence of his crimes?”