‘Whatever you want,’ Bronson agreed, and wrote down the number in his notebook, using the light from the mobile phone’s screen to see what he was doing.
Still worried sick about Angela, he scanned the island again through the binoculars: the two men were walking back from the ruins. Then he heard the sound of another boat approaching, and looked over to his left. He could just about make out a launch – it looked slightly smaller than the other boat – heading for the island, and a couple of minutes later that boat, too, edged its way slowly into the inlet and stopped beside the jetty. Even more people were arriving, increasing the odds against Bronson still further.
He dialled the number he’d written down, pressed the button to complete the call and lifted the phone to his ear. He heard the ringing tone, and simultaneously the shrill sound of a mobile phone rang out over the lagoon. Bronson couldn’t believe what he saw next: one of the figures walking from the jetty towards the house stopped and pulled a phone from his pocket. Bianchi was himself a member of the group that had abducted Angela.
66
‘Yes, Signor Bronson?’ Bianchi asked, his tone resigned. ‘What do you want now?’
Obviously the inspector had recognized Bronson’s mobile number or had stored it in his contacts list.
The one thing that Bronson wasn’t going to do, now that he knew of Bianchi’s involvement with the gang, was to reveal anything of what he knew. If the inspector realized that Bronson was only about a hundred yards away, he was sure that he’d be dead within minutes. They’d send out half a dozen men in a couple of boats, and they’d run him down in the dark and shoot him.
‘I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad moment, Inspector,’ Bronson asked.
‘Not really,’ Bianchi replied smoothly. ‘I’m just about to sit down to dinner with my family.’
A blatant lie, obviously, as Bronson could see the man through his binoculars, standing on the path right in front of him.
‘I just wondered if you had any more news.’
‘No, I’m afraid not. Let me assure you again that the moment I learn anything I will tell you. Now, good evening, Signor Bronson.’
Bronson kept his eyes fixed on the distant figure, and saw the man snap his phone closed. That was the final confirmation – if any was needed – that it really was Bianchi who was standing on the island in front of him.
Bronson nodded to himself. That also explained something else. When he’d told the inspector about the book Angela had recovered from the desecrated tomb on the Island of the Dead, and described the subsequent burglary at their hotel, Bianchi hadn’t asked how the burglars had known where to look for the diary. The only people who knew that Bronson and Angela had been in the graveyard that night, and who also knew where they were staying in Venice, were the two carabinieri officers. Bianchi had not asked the obvious question, because he’d already known the answer. Somebody in the Venetian police force – most likely Bianchi himself – must have given the information to the men on the island.
Bronson knew then that he was entirely on his own.
Pulling the Browning from his waistband, he removed the magazine and, working by feel, ejected all the cartridges from it. He repeated the process with the spare magazines he’d taken from the man in the graveyard on the Island of San Michele, and then carefully reloaded each magazine again. It was a technique he’d learned in the Army. Stoppages – the pistol jamming – were far more likely if the magazine had been left loaded for some time. Emptying it and then refilling it helped avoid the problem. And the one thing he could not afford was the possibility that the weapon would jam.
Until that point, Bronson had been keeping the pistol purely for his own protection. But venturing on to that island meant he was taking the fight directly into the enemy’s camp, and for that he needed all the help he could get. That included carrying the pistol in its holster instead of simply stuffed into his waistband, where it might snag on his belt or shirt.
Bronson clipped on both the holster and the magazine pouch, on the right- and left-hand sides respectively of his belt, and then did it up again. The pouch held the two magazines slightly separated so that each of them could be grasped easily. He inserted the magazines so that they faced in the same direction, with the forward lip pointing behind him, so that when he pulled out one of the magazines to reload the weapon, it would be the right way round to slide into the butt of the Browning. A fast and fumble-free magazine change could make the difference between life and death in a close-combat situation.
He loaded the last magazine into the Browning, pulled back the slide to chamber the first cartridge and ensured that the safety catch was on. Cocking any semi-automatic pistol makes a very distinctive sound, and he didn’t want to risk doing it on the island – anybody hearing it would know immediately what it was. He slid the Browning into the holster, and ensured it was held firmly. Then he switched off his mobile phone and slid it into his pocket.
His preparations complete, Bronson climbed over the side of the boat on to the swampy vegetation, and pushed the vessel back into the water so that it floated free, then he stepped back on board.
67
Angela’s eyes flickered open and she looked around her. Or rather, she tried to, because wherever she looked she could see absolutely nothing. Impenetrable, Stygian blackness surrounded her. For a moment, she wondered if she was actually blindfolded, if somebody had put something over her head or her eyes to block out the light. She lifted her right hand to her face and felt her cheeks and eyelids and mouth, and realized that wasn’t the case.
She sucked in a deep breath through her mouth. She knew she was in a very, very dark room, and for several seconds the confusion in her mind almost overwhelmed her, and she had no idea where she was or what had happened to her, or what had caused the dull ache she could feel in the centre of her chest between and below her breasts. Her nerves seemed to be screaming at the after effects of some trauma and her whole body was trembling in shock.
And then she remembered Marco’s instruction to the two men, to put her in the cellar. And with a sudden rush she also remembered fighting them every inch of the way, outside the house and along a gravel path, until one of the men had pulled out some kind of a gun and shot her. Instantly, her hand flew to her torso, her fingers probing for the bullet hole that she fully expected to find there. But that made no sense. If she’d been shot in the chest, she’d be dead, wouldn’t she?
‘What happened to me?’ she muttered. She lifted her hands to her face, and only then heard the clanking of a chain next to her and felt the pressure of the handcuff which had been secured around her left wrist.
Then, from somewhere quite close by she heard a voice and realized she wasn’t alone.
‘Hello? Who’s there?’ Angela called out.
‘I speak only a little English. My name is Marietta. They probably used a taser on you. They had to carry you down the stairs. You’ll be sore all over, but it will pass.’
That helped a little. At least Angela now knew why she felt the way she did. And not being alone in the dark was a huge comfort.
‘My name is Angela, and I don’t speak any Italian. What are you doing here?’ she asked.
The only response was a snuffling sound, as if the girl was crying. And then Angela realized that that was exactly what she was doing. Marietta – whoever she was – was sobbing her heart out, and for a few minutes she didn’t say another word. Then the girl seemed to pull herself together and spoke a single sentence that chilled Angela to the bone.
‘I’ve been brought here to be killed,’ she said quietly.
There really was no adequate answer to that statement and for a few seconds Angela just lay on the bed, stunned into silence. Then she spoke again.
‘You can’t be sure of that. You can-’
‘I’m very sure,’ Marietta interrupted. ‘Last night I watched them do it.’
