CHAPTER 1—THE PHONE CALL
Milan, Italy.
Outside her window, across a kilometer of smog-infested air, a mosque’s call for prayer rings out, a gentle wave that slowly builds to a tidal roar. Beneath the supplications to Allah, Martina can hear the chirrup of a burglar alarm. It is the ring tone of her cellphone. Or her alarm. She cannot remember which. It must be a little before six. If she gets up now, she can make the seven o’clock meeting where they will discuss EU policies on fundamental rights, and someone will inevitably crack a joke about her being too young to retire. She closes her eyes, thinking, ten more minutes.
Her cellphone goes off again, throbbing with the urgency of a hungry pup. She yanks it from its charger, and glances at the screen.
05:33 A.M. No Caller Id.
“Pronto?” her voice comes from the bottom of a deep well.
There is a swishing, a click, and a jubilant voice comes on. “Good morning auntie!”
Martina does not have any nieces.
“Martina?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s me, Saskia.”
“Umm…”
“You should see the sky here auntie.” Brisk tone. Germanic accent. “It never ends. It’s like the lid of the world has been lifted.”
Martina’s sleep-soaked brain is incapable of responding to that. The name stirs something in her mind though. She has a memory, or something close to it, of someone named Saskia.
“Martina?”
She is Dutch, Martina remembers. Saskia Van Ryan. Her father is a Finnish diplomat.
“Auntie, they are taking me across the Gulf.”
Martina registers the passive verb, the hint of submission in the girl’s voice, and she remembers the rest. She sits up.
“Who is…?”
“On a boat. It’s—”
A hushed whooshing buries her voice. After a few seconds the background chatter pulls into focus. Above the noise of the engine, fleshy, guttural voices holler: Yalla, yalla. Arabic or Farsi. Someone is telling Saskia to hurry up.
“Auntie, are you there?”
“Can you get to your embassy? Any—?”
“They are taking me now.”
Taking.
“Saskia, whatever you do—”
“By the way I didn’t forget your gift auntie. Happy birthday.”
“Could anyone hear you if you scream?”
“No auntie, but it’s fine.” Saskia laughs and it is the saddest laugh Martina has ever heard.
“Arabs or Iranians?”
“Yes.”
“Saskia. You need to run. Fight. Now.”
“Happy birthday auntie.”
“Listen to me. You need to make noise. It’s your only chance, and whatever you do, don’t you get on—”
The line goes dead. After a few seconds Martina hangs up and tries the Callback function. Doesn’t work. She scoots over to the edge of the bed and sits there staring out. The air that wafts through the open door prickles her skin. She stands, feeling lightheaded. Her breath comes in shallow gulps and her heart hammers in her chest. She waits a few seconds to let the dizziness pass. The ground seems to be shifting as she walks across the room, her body protesting with each move. She hits her toes against the bookcase, and curses. Inside the small bathroom she holds on to the sink, retching. She tries to remember if she had anything to drink last night. If she ate. If she took any pills.
She remembers that she had cereal. Her last painkiller was two weeks ago. Thirteen days clean. Fourteen, if you count today.
They are taking me across the Gulf.
She shuffles to her closet and draws a different cellphone from her blue blazer. She dials and waits. It rings for a while before someone answers. They don’t speak right away. “Pronto?” she says and waits. After a few seconds a gruff male voice resonates against the deep humming, the sound ambience from the mainframes. “It’s not even six o’clock.”
“I need a call traced,” she says, using the clipped, swift intonation she uses for official business. “Could’ve been a satellite phone. Frequent interruptions suggest—”
“You need it right now?” The voice drips with sarcasm.
She remembers the new communication protocols. No IDs. The operator can see that the call is from an agent, but the system does not tell him which one.
“This is Major Montero,” she says, “I—”
“Yes, major. Sorry—uhm, what was the number?”
Five minutes later her phone rings.
“Ciao Martina.”
“Ciao Ferry. Tell me you have something.”
“Well…as you know each satellite phone operator has specific locations where they place calls onto the PSTN. I was able to pinpoint the point of entry—”
“Get to the point,” she says, “please.”
“Whoever called you used Thuraya, a service provider based in the United Arab Emirates. The provider will have the satellite phone identification information, and they can give us the GPS coordinates of the phone at the time of—”
“And?”
“We need an international administrative subpoena to get all of that.”
“I don’t have time for that.”
“I could ask my counterpart at the National Electronic Security—”
“Thank you.”
She closes the call, walks to the kitchenette, makes herself an Americana—equal parts espresso and water, sweetener, a touch of cream, warmed up in the microwave for seventy-five seconds—wraps a robe around herself, and walks onto the balcony, skirting around little pellets of pigeon shit. She stands at the edge, looking out. In front of her, grey clouds sit atop of the Alps. Three floors down, the molecular agitation of traffic. She takes deep, measured breaths. Her lungs burn and her breath comes in short bursts. She shivers. It is a cold morning but to feel tremors like this is withdrawal. So is the dizziness and the excessive anger she feels. The guilt. She barely knew the girl. Martina has been an agent long enough to know these things happen. Besides, Saskia was no angel.
Auntie, I didn’t forget your gift.
What gift?