Guilio’s face says that that’s not the case. ‘The Chief Priest is the only man who knows that.’ He looks apologetically at Tom. ‘I’ve never been here before.’
Tom’s in shock. ‘What?’
‘I’ve only ever been through the main entrance.’ He reads the expression on Tom’s face. ‘There is no possibility we could have gone that way. It is too well guarded.’ He sees he needs to explain. ‘Across the fields, off the Appian Way, there is a farmhouse and some outbuildings. There are barns stacked with straw and the sisterhood tend a small dairy herd. Everything appears normal. The main stone house is large and looks like it is being modernised and extended. In fact, it’s like a fortress inside. Off the kitchen is a door to the cellar. The cellar itself is a huge antechamber in which the guards live and sleep. At the far end is the easiest entrance to the womb. Every gateway – and there are many – is controlled by fingerprint sensors. So if your prints are not registered with the guards,’ he waggles his right hand at Tom, ‘and believe me, it’s a long time since mine were, then you don’t get access to the stairways and you can’t get to the sacks – that’s what they call the cells where your friend is being held.’
‘So that triangular key that you’re using, that’s more symbolism and tradition than anything?’
Guilio touches it as he talks. ‘It is important as both. The angles of the triangle physically locate the positions of the secret ways. Throughout the centuries it has been both a symbol and a key, and as symbolism is based on maintaining traditions, Mater has ensured that the old veins are kept healthy and functional.’
Tom can’t help but feel sickened by the whole thing. He sees similarities to the Josef Fritzl case – the Austrian monster who imprisoned and abused his own daughter underground for more than twenty years, forcing her to bear seven of his children.
‘We have to get moving,’ says Guilio, his body half turned towards the treacherous tunnel that lies ahead. ‘Now you need to follow several metres behind me and walk as close to the centre as possible. The paintings and art are designed to draw you over to them. Give in to their allure and you may well end up giving away your life.’
127
Shooter grabs Valentina by the shoulder and spins her round.
He slaps her so hard with the flat of his right hand that the left side of her face feels like it’s been set on fire.
She cannons into the cell wall.
She recovers her balance, sticks her bloodied chin out and spits in his face.
Plucky bitch.
Shooter smiles at her. He’s enjoying this.
Really enjoying it.
He unleashes a vicious backhand slap to the right side of her jaw.
Valentina totters and then falls.
She shuffles back in the dirt. Tries to squash herself into the corner of the cell.
‘You stupid bitch! Did you think you could disrespect me and I’d just walk away?’
He steps forward and tries to grab her feet.
Valentina kicks out at him.
He stamps hard on her thigh.
The dead leg stops her kicking.
Now he grabs her feet. Grabs them and pulls them until she’s in the centre of the cell.
Valentina can’t help but scream.
Shooter leans over and punches her in the face.
The blow shuts her up.
He rips open her blouse.
Her stomach is irresistible. He claws a five-finger scratch mark down to her waistline.
The rage is growing.
Boiling up inside him.
He grabs at the top of her trousers and tears open the button.
Shooter glances up to see her face. To catch the fear about to flicker in her eyes.
But he’s a fraction too late.
Valentina slams her right hand against his stomach.
It feels like nothing.
A girlie slap that doesn’t even knock the wind out of him.
But it’s more than it seems.
He knows that from the expectant look in her eyes.
Valentina places her left hand on top of her right, and keeps pressing.
Now he gets it.
He knows exactly what she’s done.
She’s stabbed him.
He sees it now. She’s broken the thin wire handle off the bucket and stuck him with it.
Skewered him like a pig, and won’t let go.
Shooter grabs her hands, but Valentina uses the shock to shift her weight and push him back.
He tries to fight her off. The more he strains forward, the more he pushes the rusty metal further into his gut.
Shooter topples backwards.
Valentina follows. Driving the metal deep into the abdominal wound.
Her soldier’s instinct and training have kicked in.
No let-up. No mercy. No rest.
Not until he’s dead.
128
The dusty wooden boards creak and groan like a dying man.
Tom and Guilio stop in their tracks.
Both glance to their left.
The noise is coming from the wall.
Tom glances to his right.
The floor is rising on that side. ‘Stay still!’ he shouts.
He takes half a stride to his right and hopes he’s corrected the balance.
The ground steadies again.
Both men take a deep breath and try to work out what has happened.
They’re standing on a section of false flooring. Centuries of dirt have shifted under their weight and are now spilling like the sand of an egg-timer over the edges of the trap.
Tom guesses that once it’s been dislodged, the floor will become increasingly unstable.
Guilio needs to walk at least another metre to get off it, Tom another five, unless he turns and goes back a metre.
They’re both now standing slightly off-centre. Guilio a little too much to the left. Tom too much to the right.
They look at each other.
They know their lives now depend entirely upon mutual trust.
If Guilio makes a run for it, Tom is dead.
