by Jon Tracy
The face of Cybele is everywhere.
‘This is one of the main veins,’ explains Guilio. ‘That’s what the sisterhood call the approaches to the womb. The exits are known as arteries.’
‘So we’re close?’
‘Very.’ Guilio looks tense. ‘And that means we’ll soon encounter traps.’ He points ahead. ‘Maybe even along here.’
Tom feels his heart hammering. ‘What kind?’
‘I only know of a few.’ Guilio gestures at the painted ceiling. ‘Some veins are rigged to bleed. There are pipes hidden in the ceiling that can shower us in acid.’
Tom looks up.
‘You won’t be able to see them. They’re well concealed. And they’re pressure-activated. One step on a trigger plate and our flesh will be melting.’
Tom feels his skin crawl.
‘Mater, or chosen ones like the chief priest of her Galli, sometimes deactivate them so that searches can take place. We may get lucky.’
Tom doesn’t feel lucky. ‘Is that it? That’s the end of the Indiana Jones stuff?’
Guilio smiles. ‘No. We might have a chance to get past if that was all there was to worry about.’ He points at the ground. ‘There are gravitational floors in some of the veins.’
‘What do you mean – the floors tilt?’
‘Exactly. Sections are supported only in the centre. Walk on one side and they’ll tip. If that happens, we’ll just drop into a pit below and be left to die.’
‘And all these horrors have been here for how long?’
Guilio shrugs. ‘Hundreds, maybe thousands of years. They’re effective, though.’
‘Being a former Galli, you know all these traps; you know where to walk, right?’
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.
And vice versa.
‘On three,’ Guilio suggests. ‘We both step to the middle, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘One… tw
o…’
They take a final glance at each other.
‘Three!’
They move.
The floor creaks.
Then slowly corrects itself.
They smile at each other.
So far, so good.
‘Let’s try again,’ says Guilio. ‘Nice and slowly.’ He extends his arms and stretches a foot out in the manner of walking a tightrope. ‘Just take really careful, slow steps.’
There’s a creak over towards the left-hand wall. Tom ignores it and copies Guilio.
The creak grows louder.
Much louder.
Tom looks left.
A whole section of painted wall cracks and crumbles.
Pieces of it fall on to the tilting floor.
Heavy pieces.
Tom takes another step.
Guilio is just one stride from safety.
A huge piece of plaster falls from the ceiling.
‘Run!’ shouts Tom.
Guilio glances over his shoulder and sees the falling debris.
He jumps to safety.
Tons of rubble crash down.
The floor tips violently.
Tom is only two metres from the edge.
He moves quickly.
The rubble is still falling. The angle of the tip worsens. One metre from safety.
Tom loses his footing.
He seems to fall in slo-mo.
His right leg slides as the floor rises.
He spins. Skids. Tumbles.
Guilio stretches out a hand.
It’s no use.
He’s too far away.
Their fingertips brush each other.
Tom disappears into the blackness.
129
Valentina’s hands are glistening with viscera and blood.
She wipes them on Shooter’s corpse and doesn’t even flinch. There’s a gun tucked into his belt. The idiot thought he didn’t need it.
Valentina takes it.
And his cell keys as well.
She searches his body for anything else of value. There’s a special radio, like the ones used by subway staff, a cell phone, a small Maglite, some matches, cigarettes and money.
That’s all.
She searches his shirt pockets, flips him over and checks the back pockets of his pants.
A spare magazine for the Glock.
She looks again at the old cell keys. They may well open the cages just down from her, but she knows they won’t open the security gates on the levels above. She heard electronic buzzing. That means he must have a swipe card of some kind.
She searches him again.
Nothing.
Valentina feels a jolt of panic. Her plan is in ruins. Without a card of some kind, there’s no way out.
Still, she has the gun.
She checks it.
It’s the one he fired in the church. The magazine’s been refilled since then. She slides it back in and flips off the safety catch. If she can’t get out, then at least she’ll kill a lot of people trying.
Slowly she emerges from the cell, and makes her way towards the torches and the staircase.
As she feared, the gate there is a modern one, with an electromagnetic catch.
She shines the tiny Maglite across the lock and over a pillar next to the gate.
Her heart sinks.
There’s a fingerprint sensor.
Valentina looks across to the dead man in the cell.
Maybe she could carry him this far. That’s possible.
She sprints back to the cell and jams the torch in her trousers.
Just lifting Shooter is a Herculean task.
His limbs are floppy. His flesh slippery with blood.
She sits him up. Grabs him under the armpits and lifts him. He’s heavier than she thought. She has to press her body against his and force him against the wall to stop him collapsing like a rag doll.
Within seconds, she needs a breather.
It means standing face to face with the corpse, his head on her shoulder, his dead cheek pressed against her skin.
Valentina takes a deep breath, squats and executes an almost perfect fireman’s lift.
With Shooter draped over her shoulders, she makes her way across the uneven floor to the security gate.
Once there, there’s a new problem.
She can’t reach his hand and lift it to the sensor.
She drops the corpse and there’s a sickening squish of loose organs and spilling body fluids.
She manoeuvres him so he’s facing the gate.
His hand still won’t reach the sensor pad.
‘Damn!’
Once more she grabs him under the arms and heaves him into an upright position.
She doesn’t have enough hands.
She needs to shift one hand from under his armpit to grab his right hand, select a finger – presumably his index one – and swipe it across the sensor.
If she tries that, then the body will fall.
She drops him again and looks across to the cells.
The girl she saw in the nearby cell is watching her.
Valentina moves towards her.
The poor kid looks frightened to death.
Valentina remembers that she’s soaked in Shooter’s blood. It must be all over her face, her hands and her blouse. ‘It’s all right, don’t be afraid.’ She holds up the keys she took from Shooter. ‘I’m a policewoman. I’m coming to get you out.’
The kid backs away, eyes wide with fear.
Valentina wipes blood from her face.
She finds the lock, and slips the key in.
A splash of light shows that the girl is covered in bruises.
There are cuts all over her hands, legs and arms.
She can’t be more than ten.
Maybe even younger.
She has big brown eyes that no doubt once shone with fun, and an oval face with an impossibly cute, dimply chin.
Valentina pushes open the cell door.
She stares more closely at the girl.
The kid looks just like Anna.
130
Tom is either unconscious or dead.
Guilio’s not sure which.
The tilting floor is jammed open, caught by the rubble that has piled up. He kneels on the edge of the safe part and stares into the abyss. ‘Are you all right? Can you hear me?’
He knows he can’t afford to wait here. Such a loud noise may well have been heard in the other chambers. Galli guards could already be on their way.
Maybe he should just leave him.
But he knows he can’t.
He shuffles closer to the collapsed wall and shines his torch down into the blackness.
About a metre beneath him he sees what he thinks is Tom’s body.
He moves the light around. Tom appears to be collapsed on some kind of ledge.
It’s not a ledge.
Guilio can see more clearly now. The fallen debris has all slid into a heap, like slurry from the back of a tipper lorry, and Tom is face-down on top of it all.
Hardly a soft landing, but no doubt better than falling all the way to the bottom – wherever the bottom eventually is.
Guilio slips the rucksack off his back and dangles his legs over the edge.
It’s trickier to get down than he first thought.
It seems the only safe place to jump is actually on top of Tom. If he does that, then apart from hurting him even more, there’s a risk he will dislodge the pile of rubble and send them both crashing into the depths of the hole.
He sits and tries to work out what to do.
The pit beneath him stinks worse than a sewer.
Tom lets out a weak groan.
He’s coming round.
Tom moves his left arm. His fingers feel rock. He tries to get a grip to turn himself over.
‘Careful!’ shouts Guilio. ‘You’ve fallen into a hole. Don’t turn to your right or you’ll drop even further.’
He’s not sure if
Tom’s heard him.
There’s another groan.
No, not a groan.
And it’s not coming from Tom.
Guilio suddenly recognises the awful smell.
Animal dung.
There’s something down there.
Some kind of animal is making its way across the floor of the pit.
‘Tom! Move yourself! There’s something coming for you!’
131
Valentina swings open the heavy iron door and slowly steps into the child’s cell. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. You can trust me. I’m going to take you out of here.’
It’s a gamble the child’s ready to take.
She runs to the policewoman, grabs her waist and presses herself tightly against her.
It breaks Valentina’s heart to see such desperation.
She strokes the youngster’s hair and lets her cling for a moment.
From the grip around her, it’s clearly been a long time since the kid felt safe in someone’s arms.
She stoops a little and puts her hands either side of the child’s dirty and bruised face. ‘My name is Valentina. I’m in the Carabinieri and I’m going to look after you.’ She strokes her cheek tenderly. ‘What’s your name?’
Tears well up in the youngster’s big brown eyes. She shakes her head.
‘It’s okay, you can tell me. What are you called, sweetheart?’
The child opens her mouth, but no words come out.
Valentina is about to ask again when the girl shows her teeth and jabs a finger pointedly to the back of her throat.
‘Oh my God!’ Valentina grabs her and hugs her tight. ‘You poor baby.’
Someone has cut out the child’s tongue.
Valentina tears up.
How could anyone do such a thing?
There’s a noise from the stairwell.
Footsteps coming their way.
The kid bolts from Valentina’s arms and disappears into the shadows.
She thinks about running after her, but instead rushes to where Shooter is laid out. She quickly grabs him under the arms and pulls him back and out of sight behind the stairwell.
The gate buzzes and clicks open.
Valentina listens intently.
The door clicks closed.
No voices.