quickly through the pile of books at the back of the desk and selected a Latin-Italian dictionary.
Angela opened her mouth to point out that she didn’t speak Italian, but before she could say anything, he had found another dictionary, this time a Latin-English version, and the words of protest died in her throat.
‘And when I’ve finished?’ Angela had asked. ‘What then? You’ll shoot me? Is that it?’
Marco had shaken his head. ‘I think we can find a more interesting way to usher you into the next life,’ he’d said. ‘But I do have some good news for you.’
‘What?’
‘If you do a good job, you’ll still be alive tomorrow. But after that, I can’t promise you anything. And before you start work, let me point out that we’ve already translated some of the text ourselves, so we’ll know if your version is accurate.’
‘If you’ve done that, then why do you need me at all?’ Angela had asked.
‘You English have an expression about a gift horse. If we don’t need you to do the translation, then we don’t need you at all, so just be grateful. But it’s not just translating the Latin. There are some unusual aspects of the text that we haven’t been able to make sense of. That’s the real reason why we want you to work on it.’
Without another word Angela had pulled the dictionary across in front of her, picked up a pencil and looked at the first sentence.
35
Sometime that morning – Marietta had no idea exactly when – the upper door to the cellar rumbled open and the light snapped on.
A few moments later, the guard appeared in the room, carrying a tray of food exactly as he’d done on previous occasions, and a plastic bag that contained her clothes. He walked across to Marietta, tossed the bag on to the mattress, placed the tray on the floor in front of her, and turned to leave.
‘Please,’ Marietta pleaded with him. ‘Please leave the lights on. And what happened to Benedetta? Where is she? And who was that man – the one with those horrible teeth?’
‘So many questions,’ the guard said mockingly. ‘But you needn’t worry about Benedetta. We got what we wanted from her.’
‘So where is she now? Did you let her go?’
‘In a manner of speaking, I suppose we did. We sent her to San Michele,’ he added.
For a moment, Marietta didn’t understand the expression. Then it dawned on her that he meant the ‘Island of the Dead’, and the confirmation of what she’d feared hit her hard.
‘You killed her,’ she said flatly. ‘That foul ritual last night. You raped her and bled her to death. You bastards.’
‘You catch on quick,’ the guard said. ‘But at least she died for a good reason. There was a point to her death, just as there’ll be a point to yours.’
‘What point could there possibly be in snatching girls like me off the streets of Venice and then killing us?’
The guard looked at her carefully for a few moments. ‘You’re not just any girl,’ he said. ‘You and Benedetta were both special. That’s why you were chosen. We’ve traced your bloodline.’
‘My bloodline?’
‘You and Benedetta are descended from someone who is vitally important to our society.’
‘And you’re going to kill me because of one of my ancestors? That makes no sense at all.’
‘It does to us,’ the guard said simply. ‘You’ll have company soon.’
‘Who?’ Marietta asked, though she dreaded hearing the answer.
‘Another girl. We’ve got her in the house at the moment, but she’ll be brought down here soon enough. But she won’t be able to talk to you. No girly chatter with that one.’
‘Why?’ Marietta demanded. ‘What have you done to her?’
The guard smiled slightly. ‘Nothing at all,’ he said. ‘It’s just that she doesn’t speak a word of Italian. But don’t worry. You won’t be on your own for too long. Soon you’ll be reunited with your friend.’
For a moment Marietta sat in silence, eyes downcast, guessing what he meant but hardly daring to ask the question that would confirm her fears. Then she looked at him directly.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘You’ll be back with Benedetta,’ the guard replied. ‘It’s your turn on the table tonight.’
36
Bronson manoeuvred the boat through the water along the north-west side of the Isola di San Michele, past a tall greenish sculpture, probably made of copper, which depicted two figures standing on a small boat that rose from the waters a short distance from the Cimitero vaporetto stop. That side of the island was delineated by impressive walls formed from white stone and brown brick, with a large gateway in the centre and smaller towers spaced at intervals on either side of it.
He continued around the northern edge of the island to where his map showed a small inlet, lined with jetties.
He’d hardly even been aware of how the boat handled on his short trip to and from the police station in the San Marco district, but he’d got the feel of the craft on the journey out to the Isola di San Michele, and it had proved quite easy to control. Not quite as simple as driving a car, but not that difficult either. As he entered the inlet he pulled the throttle back, slowing the boat to little more than walking pace.
There were perhaps a dozen similar boats already moored at various points on the jetties, but there was still plenty of space left for him to use. He swung the boat in a half circle, so that the bow pointed back out towards the lagoon, then eased it in to a stop beside the jetty. He stopped the engine, climbed out of the vessel and secured both the bow and the stern mooring lines. A few moments later, he was making his way towards the centre of the old graveyard.
As he walked, Bronson tried to recall exactly where they’d found the tomb that Angela had believed was the one mentioned in the vampire’s diary. The problem was that many of the sections of the cemetery looked fairly similar, and he was also approaching the area from a different direction, which meant it was difficult to get his bearings.
The good thing was that today the place wasn’t crowded with tourists and locals, although on the far side of the graveyard he could see three separate funerals taking place. That morning the weather was clear, with unsullied blue skies, and the brilliant sunshine imparted a warm glow to the memorial stones, and even seemed to have breathed fresh life into the bouquets of cut flowers that decorated most of the graves. For the first time, the Isola di San Michele seemed a friendly, almost welcoming, place to walk and explore.
Bronson remembered that the tomb he was looking for lay in one of the older sections of the graveyard, so he made his way to the spot where he thought the grave should lie, then stopped short as he reached the end of a line of trees and looked over to his right. He had reached a section of the graveyard with numerous ancient tombs of the type he was seeking, but what had caused him to stop was the sight of two men standing beside a familiar-looking carved statue.
Bronson eased back into the shadows cast by the trees, took his compact binoculars from his pocket, and stared through the instrument at the intruders. He adjusted the focus, and immediately confirmed one thing: the men were right next to the tomb of the twin angels.
For a few seconds, Bronson studied the two figures, noting what he could of their physical appearance. Both were wearing casual clothes, jeans and white shirts, but each also wore a windcheater, one blue and the other dark grey, which suggested to Bronson that they’d most probably arrived on the island by boat. Driving a powerboat at speed over the water could be quite chilly, and he’d been glad of his leather jacket on his own journey. Not that that deduction actually helped him in any way. The two men could easily be workers sent out to San Michele to do
