The Exchange: After The Firm

Luca nodded at Roberto who slid a laptop into view, pressed a key, and there was Giovanna. When she finished and the screen went blank, Luca said, “That arrived yesterday in New York. It has been validated by our security.”

“A hundred million dollars,” Antonelli repeated but did not seem surprised. Nothing surprised him, and if something did no one would ever know it.

“The second question is, who are you negotiating with?” he said.

Luca touched his eyes with a tissue and took a deep breath. The image of his daughter had upset him for a moment. “Well, there are no negotiations. We don’t know who the terrorists are. But we do know they have my daughter, they are demanding ransom, and they will not hesitate to kill her. That is sufficient for the Italian government to get involved.”

“Involved? We have been expressly forbidden to interfere.”

“There is nothing you can do except help with the ransom. She is an Italian citizen, Diego, and right now she has a high profile. If the government does nothing, and she is sacrificed, can you imagine the backlash?”

“It’s against our law, Luca. You know the statute. It’s been on the books for over twenty years. We do not negotiate with terrorists and we do not pay ransom.”

“Yes, and the law has loopholes. I’ll be happy to point them out. There are ten ways around that law and I know every one of them. As of now, I’m asking you to speak to the foreign minister.”

“Of course, Luca. They are very concerned about Giovanna. All of us are concerned. But we’ve heard nothing until now.”

“Thank you.”

“May I ask if the British are involved?”

Luca was suddenly winded. He looked pale as his shoulders sagged. “Mitch.”

“I’m going to London tonight. We have a large office there and many of our partners have experience in the government. Tomorrow, we will meet with the British officials and tell them exactly what we have just told you. We will ask them to contribute to the ransom fund. Our firm has kidnapping and ransom insurance in the amount of twenty-five million dollars and we’ve put the insurance company on notice. Our firm will kick in an additional amount, but we cannot handle the entire ransom. We need help from both the Italian and British governments.”

In English, Antonelli said, “I understand. I will speak to the foreign minister this afternoon. That’s all I can do. I’m just the messenger.”

“Thank you.”

“Thanks, Diego,” Luca said softly. He suddenly needed another nap.

The second hostage raid was about as successful as the first.

After dark on Monday, May 16, two teams of Libyan commandos dropped from the sky and landed in the desert two miles south of the small, forlorn village of Ghat, near the Algerian border. They were met by a third team that had been on the ground for twenty-four hours and had trucks, equipment, and more arms.

Surveillance and informants had confirmed the “high likelihood” that the hostage was being held in a makeshift camp at the edge of Ghat. Adheem Barakat and about a hundred of his fighters were hiding there as well. They were being forced to move continually as the Libyan Army tightened the net.

Barakat’s informants proved to be more reliable than the Colonel’s.

As the three teams, thirty men in all, moved into position near Ghat, they were being closely monitored by enemy drones. Their plan was to wait until after midnight, crawl to within fifty yards of the camp, and attack from three sides. Their plans went haywire when gunfire erupted behind them. The convoy truck with the equipment and arms exploded and its fireball lit up the night. Barakat’s men stormed out of the camp with Kalashnikovs blazing. The commandos retreated and regrouped in a gathering of date palm trees, saplings that were too thin to provide adequate cover. From there they managed to hold off the insurgents as gunfire came from everywhere. In the darkness, injured men screamed for help. Searchlights swept the area but only attracted more gunfire. When the grenade launchers found their range, the commandos were forced to retreat even more. Their captain picked up a signal from one of their drones, and, out of the range of gunfire, they found their way back to the trucks. One was still burning. One had been raked with gunfire and its tires were blown. They piled into the third truck and took off in a frantic, inglorious retreat. The carefully planned and rehearsed rescue of the hostage was a disaster.

They left eight of their own behind. Five were presumed to be dead. The other three were not accounted for.

Giovanna was awakened by an explosion, then listened in horror as the gun battle raged for an hour. She knew she was in a small dark room behind a small house at the edge of a village, but nothing more. They moved her every third or fourth day.

She listened and wept.

For a variety of reasons, the Libyans chose not to report the attack. They had failed miserably again, been embarrassed by a ragtag band of desert fighters, and had lost men in the chaos. And they had rescued no one.