‘No, no, you must be mistaken,’ Sonnenberg insisted. ‘I’ve heard nothing of the sort. The problem is at the eastern entrance to St Peter’s, at the metal detectors. Someone tried to pass through with a gun. The Gendarmes have him but there may be a second man. Come with me.’
Hackel sputtered, searching in vain for an excuse to disobey. He sighed and followed along.
He hadn’t gone more than a few paces when he felt his phone vibrating in his pants pocket and pulled it out. It was Krek’s number. He had to take the call and fell back a few paces.
‘Yes?’
One of Krek’s men was on the line. Over the crowd noises from St Peter’s Square he heard, ‘Herr Krek is returning your call, Herr Hackel.’
Hackel slowed further to make sure he was out of Sonnenberg’s earshot. ‘I didn’t call him!’ Hackel declared.
‘I’m sorry? Just now – I took the call myself.’
‘Well, obviously it wasn’t me. What number was it from?’
‘I will send it to you by text, Herr Hackel, and inform Mister Krek of this irregularity.’
‘Do it right away. And tell him that I’m a little behind schedule but that all is well.’
Krek was on the phone, making no attempt to hide the conversation from Elisabetta. ‘Find out who made the call claiming to be Hackel and let me know immediately.’ He put the handset down hard and tossed another log on the fire. The heat was making his forehead glisten. ‘It seems we have a little more time,’ he said to Elisabetta. There was a huskiness in his voice. ‘Have a drink with me.’
‘I don’t drink,’ Elisabetta said.
‘I have some very good reds,’ Krek said. ‘You could pretend it was communion wine.’
‘No.’
‘Well, I’m having another.’
Elisabetta had never been so aware of her own heartbeat.
She couldn’t sit there any longer with this monster, waiting for some catastrophe to erupt.
She had to do something.
While he was pouring another whiskey she bolted toward one of the doors. Krek reacted quickly enough. He grabbed a fistful of her robe and twisted her down to the rug. When she tried to rise he hit her hard with his closed fist, striking her jaw.
Elisabetta’s head snapped back. The pain lasted only a second before her consciousness slipped away.
Zazo slammed the phone down.
‘No?’ his father asked.
‘They wouldn’t do it,’ Zazo said. ‘They routed me to the Deputy Head of the Slovenian State Police. He said that Krek was an important man and he wouldn’t send people out to his house on a whim. There was nothing I could say.’
‘What can we do, then?’
‘I’m going myself.’
‘To Slovenia? It’ll take you all day.’
‘Then I’d better get moving. I’m going back to my flat to get my car. Stay by the phone and call me if you hear anything.’
Micaela heard the cellar door creak open. Mulej was coming in. His jacket was off, his tie loosened. ‘I thought you’d be lonely,’ he said drunkenly.
She got off her cot. She’d already had a good look around for something that could serve as a weapon but there was nothing. No table lamps, no bed or table legs to pull off, no loose pieces of wood, not even a towel rack in the bathroom to wrench from the wall.
She was defenseless.
Mulej pointed at her with a fat finger. ‘Stay there,’ he ordered, shutting the door behind him.
‘What do you want?’ Micaela asked.
‘What do you think I want?’
He came closer.
‘There’s no way,’ she said defiantly.
Mulej didn’t seem concerned by her attitude. ‘Then I’ll shoot you. Krek doesn’t care. You’re no use to him. If you want to stay alive, you’ll cooperate. If not, then it’s not a problem for me.’ He patted his waistband. ‘What have I done with my gun?’ he slurred.
At that, she made a dash for the crates and began to scale them as Elisabetta had done.
Mulej watched in amusement. ‘What are you doing up there?’
‘Isn’t it obvious, you fat pig?’ she called down.
‘That’s hurtful,’ he said. ‘Come on down. Be more obliging.’
‘Screw you.’
‘If you don’t come down I’ll just have to get my gun and
Micaela kept climbing. A wobbly crate shifted under her weight. She scrambled off it onto the highest one, the crate that Elisabetta had opened. She sat on it and glowered down at Mulej.
‘Okay,’ he said, unsteady on his feet. ‘I’ll be back and then I’ll shoot you.’
‘No!’ she shouted. ‘Don’t go!’
‘Why?’
‘Convince me to come down. Be nicer to me.’
He looked confused. ‘Nicer?’
‘Sure. Like a proper gentleman, not a fucking rapist!’
Micaela dug her heels against the wobbly crate and pushed off with all her strength. It creaked and slid and reached a tipping point.
Mulej watched in a drunken, soft-focused way, half grinning, hands on hips, suggesting either that he didn’t understand what was happening or that he thought he might be able to jump out of the way in the nick of time.
Gravity took hold of the crate. Perhaps its descent happened more quickly than he had anticipated.
His mouth opened to say something just before the crate struck him, pulverizing his face and crushing his big frame under a pile of splintered wood, red dirt and Lemures skeletons.
Micaela climbed down and tried to find an arm or a leg that belonged to Mulej under the debris. She dug around and found a wrist.
‘Good,’ she said out loud when she couldn’t detect a pulse.
Elisabetta regained consciousness quickly but it took several moments to get her bearings.
She was lying on her side in the center of the great room. The fire was crackling and popping fiercely. The big television was still showing the crowds at St Peter’s. Her jaw hurt terribly.
Where was Krek?
There was a weight on top of her.
Then she felt herself being turned onto her back.
A hand slipped up under her robes and she smelled the whiskey on her assailant’s breath.
‘I’ve always been curious,’ Krek said, breathing hard, his cheek touching hers. ‘I’ve always wanted to know what nuns wear under these habits.’
Elisabetta didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of weeping or pleading. Instead she squirmed and thrashed like a bucking horse and tried to throw him off.
‘Good, good!’ he shouted. ‘I like this. Fight harder!’
He had her robes up around her waist and as they bunched she felt something sharp against her stomach.
She remembered.
Elisabetta kept fighting Krek off with her left hand while she thrust her right one into the pocket of her tunic. She felt for the object and when she had it in her grasp she eased it open.
Her father’s pipe tool. This simple, comforting little implement.
Krek let up for just a couple of seconds to arch his back and undo his belt and that was all the time Elisabetta needed.
