The smile vanished from Mandino’s face. “I said I’ll ask the questions. My associate will now emphasize the point.”
Rogan stepped forward, the pliers in his hand, reached down and placed the jaws around the end of the little finger on Mark’s left hand and slowly levered backward. With a snap that was audible to both Italians, one of the bones broke, the sound followed immediately by a howl of pain from Hampton.
“I hope the soundproofing here is good,” Mandino remarked. “I wouldn’t want to disturb your neighbors. Now,” he continued, raising his voice above Mark’s groans, “just answer my questions, quickly and truthfully, and then we can get you proper medical attention. If you don’t tell us what we want to know, you’ve seven more fingers that my associate can work on.”
Rogan waved the pliers in front of Mark’s face.
Through a red haze and tears of pain, Mark stared in disbelief at the Italian.
“OK,” Mandino said briskly, “let’s begin. What did you find on the second inscribed stone? And don’t even think about lying to me. My colleague here was watching through the window of the house when Bronson uncovered it.”
“A poem,” Mark gasped. “It looked like a poem. Two verses.”
“In Latin?”
“No. We thought it was a language called Occitan.”
“Did you translate it?”
Mark shook his head. “No. Chris tried, but he could only find a few of the words on the Internet, so we’ve no idea what the verses were about.”
“What did you manage to translate?”
“Only a couple of words about trees—oak and elm, I think—and there was a Latin word as well. Something about a cup or chalice. That’s all we could do.”
“Are you quite sure?” Mandino asked, leaning forward.
“Yes, I—” Mark screamed as Rogan tapped the pliers sharply on his fractured finger, already badly swollen and bleeding.
Mandino waited for a few seconds before continuing. “I’m inclined to believe you,” he said, in a conversational tone. “So where is the inscription? I presume you copied it or something before your friend destroyed it.”
“Yes, yes,” Mark sobbed. “Chris photographed it.”
“And what’s he doing with it?”
“His ex-wife put him in contact with a man named Jeremy Goldman at the British Museum. He’ll be taking the pictures to show him, to try to get it translated.”
“When?” Mandino asked softly.
“I don’t know. We only got back from Italy today. He’s been driving for two solid days, so he’ll probably go there tomorrow. But I don’t know,” he added hastily, as Rogan lifted the pliers threateningly.
Mandino raised a calming hand. “And do you have a copy of those photographs?”
“No. There didn’t seem any point. Chris is the one who’s interested in this—I’m not. All I wanted was my wife back.”
“Are there any other copies, apart from those Bronson has?”
“No—I’ve just told you that.”
It was time to finish it. Mandino nodded to Rogan, who walked behind their captive, picked up a roll of adhesive tape and tore off a strip about six inches long, which he stuck roughly over Mark’s mouth as a rudimentary gag. Then he cut about a two-foot length of clothesline and knotted the ends together to form a loop.
Mark’s terrified stare never left the Italian as he made his preparations.
Rogan dropped the loop of cord over Mark’s head and walked into the kitchen, returning a few seconds later with that most mundane of kitchen utensils, a rolling pin. He stood directly behind Mark, awaiting instructions.
“Neither you nor your policeman friend have any idea what you’ve stumbled into,” Mandino said. “My instructions are explicit. Anyone with any knowledge of these two inscriptions—even the limited knowledge you appear to have—is considered too dangerous to remain alive.”
He nodded to Rogan, who slipped the rolling pin into the loop of cord and began twisting it to form a simple but effective garrotte. Mark immediately began to struggle in a desperate effort to free himself.
When the cord tightened around the Englishman’s neck, Rogan paused for a moment, awaiting final confirmation.
Mandino nodded again, and watched Mark as the noose began to bite, seeing the flush rise in the man’s face as his struggles intensified.
Rogan grunted with the effort as he held the rolling pin tight, waiting for the end.
Mark jerked violently once, then a second time, then slumped forward as far as the rope would allow. Rogan maintained the pressure for another minute, then released the cord and checked for a pulse in Mark’s neck. He found nothing.
Mandino finished his coffee, then stood up and carried the mug through into the kitchen where he washed it thoroughly. He wasn’t too bothered about the possibility of his DNA being found in the apartment, as there was nothing whatsoever to link him or Rogan to the killing, but old habits died hard.
Back in the living room, Rogan had already released Mark from the chair and dragged his body to one side of the room. Then they trashed the place, trying to make it look as if a violent struggle had taken place. Finally, Mandino produced a leather-bound Filofax, opened it, tore several pages and smeared the organizer with blood from Mark’s broken finger, then dropped it beside the body. The name in the front of the document was “Chris Bronson,” and it was one of the items Mandino’s men had found when they searched the house in Italy.
They made a final inspection of the apartment, then Rogan opened the door and checked up and down the corridor. He nodded to Mandino and they left the apartment, pulled the door closed behind them and walked to the elevator.
Outside, they strode unhurriedly down the street to their rental car. Rogan started the engine and pulled away from the curb. As they neared the end of the road, Mandino pointed to a public phone booth.
“That will do. Stop beside it.”
He got out, stepped across to the phone, checked he still had his gloves on, then lifted the receiver and dialed “999.” The call was answered in seconds.
“Emergency. Which service do you require?”
“Police,” Mandino replied, speaking quickly and with what he hoped was the sound of panic in his voice.
“There’s been a terrible fight,” he said when the officer came on the line. He gave the address of Mark’s apartment, then ended the call just as the officer began asking for his personal details.
“Drive back up the road. There’s a side street not far from the apartment building. Take that turning.”
Rogan parked the car where Mandino directed, facing the main road. Mark’s building was just visible from their position.
“Now what?” Rogan asked.
“Now we wait,” Mandino told him.
Twenty minutes later they heard the unmistakable sound of a siren, and a police car drove swiftly past the end of the road and squealed to a stop outside the apartment block. Two officers ran toward the building.
“Can we go now?” Rogan asked.
“Not yet,” Mandino said.
After about another fifteen minutes, three more police cars, sirens screaming, tore down the street. Mandino nodded in satisfaction. He hadn’t been able to find Bronson so far, but he had no doubt that the British police force would be able to track him down quickly. They would almost certainly have enough evidence to arrest him on suspicion of the killing of Mark Hampton.
Faced with the possibility of a murder charge, deciphering an ancient Occitan inscription would be the last thing on Bronson’s mind. Mandino’s organization had good contacts within the Metropolitan Police, and he was certain he would be able to find out where Bronson was being held and, more important, when and where he would be released.
“Now we can go,” he said.
III