Out of his view lie fifteen other rooms, including the death chamber itself, the holding area for his corpse, the press viewing area, staff rooms, equipment rooms, viewing areas on one side for those associated with the victim, and on the other side for those linked to the prisoner.
Behind the scenes, a whole army of people are hard at work planning how to kill him and how to process the good, the bad and the ugly who've come to watch him die.
Officer Jim Tiffany has walked every foot of the complex in the last hour, checking things over. He's one of several guards who volunteered to be part of the execution team. After his earlier altercations with Bale, today is personal.
It's payback.
Tiffany feels a delicious thrill as he shouts through the high-security door. 'Get up, Bale. Turn around. Hands behind your back.'
The prisoner slowly does as he's told, sticking his wrists through a gap in the bars.
Tiffany and two other guards snap on cuffs, open up the door and then add leg chains before hobbling him off to the shake-down room. 'Turn again. We're going to un-cuff you and then we need you to strip for a medical.'
'How ironic,' says Bale, his voice sounding tired and bored. 'You are legally obliged to examine me, presumably to make sure that I'm healthy enough to die.'
Tiffany steps up close to him. 'Just do it, smartmouth.'
As Bale begins to strip, a guard lets a nervous young doctor into the room. He pulls on a pair of ghostly white latex gloves and – as advised by the governor – painstakingly avoids eye contact with the inmate as he starts the routine of checking his pulse and blood pressure.
'What are you doing, Doc?' Bale asks, as the medic runs his gloved fingers up the inside of the prisoner's right forearm.
Tiffany answers for him. 'He's trying to find a vein, Bale. Looking for the best place to hose you full of killer drugs.'
The young doctor turns his head and shoots the old guard a horrified scowl. He then returns to the task of checking the back of Bale's hands, the tops of his feet, ankles and lower legs. He makes notes then nods to the officers and retreats to the back of the room. He hasn't said anything and doesn't say anything – he wants out as quickly as possible. The whole thing makes his skin crawl. He pulls off his gloves, bins them and waits to be buzzed through the electronically locked door.
'Cuff him again,' instructs Tiffany, 'we're ready to take him back to his cell.' The big guard smiles in Bale's face. 'If it was me, I'd stick the needle right in your eye and it'd take me until Thanksgiving to inject enough chemicals to put you to sleep.' He glances at his watch. 'One hour, you piece of shit, one hour's all you've got left.'
CHAPTER 83
Lazzaretto Vecchio, Venice Mera Teale no longer looks or feels quite as sexy as she did a few hours ago. The Satanic deaconess is bleeding, bruised and soaked from her dip in the boathouse water, the place where she and Dino Ancelotti took so many innocent lives.
Valentina has no time for the protocol of a courteous and judicious interrogation. She walks the handcuffed Teale outside the boathouse, away from everyone else. 'So here's how it goes. Either you tell me everything you know, or I put a bullet through your head and make it look like you were escaping.'
Teale smiles. 'You really are as sexy as fuck when you're mad. I wish I had my camera right now.'
Valentina holds Teale's shoulders and expertly back-kicks her to her knees. Within a flash she has her Beretta drawn and pushed into the floored Satanist's mouth. 'I swear to Christ I will kill you if you don't start helping me.'
Whether it's the taste of gunmetal between her teeth or the look of sheer rage in Valentina's eyes, Teale is persuaded it's time to cooperate. Her eyes signal total submission.
Valentina drags her to her feet and re-holsters the weapon. 'So, tell me.'
Teale's lost her arrogance now. 'I don't know much. Just that there are bombs.'
'Bombs?'
'One at the Ponte della Liberta. Another in Venezuela at Angel Falls. And one in America. At the Venetian – the hotel in Las Vegas.' A twitch of a smile touches her lips. A reminder of the old Teale. 'You're too late to stop them.'
Valentina's in shock. She's made a terrible mistake. It's not Muscle Beach in Venice. She calls it in to the control room and prays they can warn the Americans in time.
CHAPTER 84
Carvalho's instructions to clear and close the Ponte della Liberta are relayed at lightning speed.
But Italians are not good at doing things in a hurry.
By the time the major gets there, the roadway is still jammed with tourists. The more his men try to hurry them, the more tempers break, horns sound and everything grinds to a halt.
The bridge, opened by Mussolini in 1933, is more than three kilometres long and has no emergency lanes. It is Venice's only road connection to the village of Mestre and beyond it, mainland Italy. Known as 'the Freedom Bridge', Vito supposes Bale picked it because it signifies his own imminent freedom from prison.
Vito gazes out along the perfectly rectilinear bridge and its two hundred and twenty-two arches. He remembers being told at school that it was specifically designed so it could be rigged with explosives and blown up, with the intention of leaving attacking armies stranded on the mainland. There's no telling the extent of the damage Bale's explosion is going to have. Vito knows he can't search every arch in time.
Search teams have been concentrated at both ends – the places he suspects detonators may be rigged.
He's now at the northern section, the San Guiliano access point, just before where the SR11 forks right into the SS14 and left into the Via della Liberta.
Rocco Baldoni appears from a small boat looking absolutely terrified. The bottom of his grey trousers are soaking wet. 'We've found the charges! Explosives rigged to a timer set in the third arch down from the water's edge.'
Carvalho still has his eye on the long tail of traffic. 'What's it look like?'
'Complicated. It's a sealed unit, with a digital clock and key-pad trigger.'
'Motion sensors? Pick-up switches? Power loops?'
Rocco wipes sweat from his forehead. 'Maybe, but I didn't see any. It's high-tech. Looks as if it's been in position for a while.'
'And it's ticking?'
'It's ticking. Display shows fifteen minutes and counting.'
'Where's the bomb squad now?'
'On their way. But, Major, they're coming from Padua, they'll never make it.'
Vito looks at his watch: 2.45 p.m. That means it's 5.45 a.m. in California. Fifteen minutes to Bale's execution. 'You know anything about defusing bombs?'
Rocco smiles. 'Only what I've seen on TV.'
Choices roll like dice in the major's mind. Can he hope the bridge clears in time? The device malfunctions? The bomb squad arrives and saves the day?
He knows he can't risk it.
'Show me, Rocco. Show me the damned thing for myself.'
CHAPTER 85
Death Watch, North Block Rotunda, San Quentin, California They come quickly into the holding cell.
Bale says nothing.
Fears nothing.
He's been expecting them.
Big, leathery hands frisk him for a final time.
Metal cuffs click tight around his wrists. A jangling Martin chain loops noisily around his waist. Leg restraints clunk around his ankles. He can smell beer and tobacco on the bodies around him. A surreptitious smoke and jolt of Dutch courage before they set about their duties.
'Move the prisoner.' The voice is not a guard's this time, it's Governor McFaul's.
Bale smiles as he passes him.
Smiles every step of the way to the L-shaped Prep Room that adjoins the Lethal Chamber.
And he's going to keep on smiling, right through each and every one of his last minutes on earth. 'Madonna Porce!' Vito Carvalho has never seen a detonation device so high-tech and clean. 'There's no way of getting to the wires. The whole unit is sealed.'
'It needs a password,' observes Rocco, somewhat unn
ecessarily.
'Oh, really?' Vito answers sarcastically. 'You have one handy?'
Rocco looks stressed. 'I guess we have to guess.'
'You guess we guess? Thanks, bright spark. And if I get it wrong?'
'We're dead. Or you get another go.'
'Thanks.' He takes off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves. The armpits and back of his shirt are already soaked in sweat.
Perspiration runs off Rocco's head as he stares at the display. 'You usually get several attempts with electronic-key locks. It must be built to be deactivated as well as primed. Even bombers need to reset things.'
The digital display drops to show six minutes.
The space above the keypad allows for five numbers or five letters.
Vito doesn't say anything. He types in: 66666 and feels his heart hammer in his chest.
The display flashes – ERROR – then goes blank again.
Vito tries a word: SATAN.
ERROR.
The device beeps. A red light flashes.
He takes a deep breath and looks towards Rocco. 'What do you think that means?'
Rocco mops more sweat from his brow. 'It probably means you only have one last chance.'
One. Never has so small a number presented Vito with so big a problem.
Both men swallow hard.
The display drops to five minutes.
'Or perhaps no more chances,' Rocco adds.
Vito stares at the digits.
A shiver runs through him.
He's stuck.
Clean out of ideas.
From here on in, whatever he does is just a gamble. If the scene shocks Bale, he doesn't show it.
The gurney.
The two trays of syringes.
The eagerly waiting members of the hand-picked injection team.
The witnesses, like fish behind glass, open-mouthed in their viewing tanks.
Bale shows nothing but his smile.
He's shepherded into the anteroom and sits on the gurney. Swings his feet up like he's visiting the dentist, then lies down without a fight.
They secure him to its winged arms. Leather belts around his wrists and ankles. He feels like he's laid out on a horizontal crucifix.
Someone taps his forearm to raise a vein.
His blue snakes slither treacherously from their pink blankets, greedy to suck up the poison.
His death-row shirt is deftly unfastened.
ECG pads are moistened and stuck with jelly to his chest.
Leads plugged to a monitor.
Needles and catheters appear at a magician's speed.
Eight needles.
A sequence to be meticulously followed.
Bale appreciates the need for routine. Routine and ritual were always important to him, especially when he was taking a life.
A saline drip goes up.
A monitor beeps.
ECG graph paper crinkles.
Someone coughs.
The end is beginning.
A new beginning is only minutes away. The timer on the detonator shows thirty seconds.
Vito Carvalho struggles to think of a new sequence.
Instinctively, he sifts away the unimportant.
Eliminates the unnecessary.
Hones in on the headline.
The one thing at the heart of it all.
The timer shows twenty-five seconds.
If he gets it wrong, then he, Rocco and hundreds of others will die.
He types the first digit.
Please God, look after Maria. If I die, then please make sure she is cared for and loved.
The second.
There are parents and children in cars on the bridge, please let them live.
The third.
Babies in carrier seats, kids listening to iPods, protect them, O Lord.
The fourth.
God forgive me for my sins. What I have done I have done in failure, not in malice. Forgive me my failings as I have forgiven others.
The fifth.
He's mistyped!
The device clunks. The display shows five angles lines – / / / / /
The counter registers ten seconds – then suddenly jumps to zero.
Vito swallows.
The display flashes. It shows for the first time what he typed in -
H3V3N
It goes blank again.
Lights inside the unit fade.
The timer shuts down.
The bomb is defused.
Vito sighs with relief. Then instantly thinks of the other bombs. They wheel Bale from the prep room into the execution chamber.
Jim Tiffany winks at the prisoner as he looks down at him and locks the gurney into position and steps away.
The curtains to the viewing rooms slide back.
Governor McFaul gives the signal.
A member of the injection team nods.
Needle One: 1.5 grams sodium thiopental.
Bale feels the chemical whoosh in.
It's time to speak – say his piece before the barbiturates rob him of the power to do so.
'I am a soldier of Lucifer, Lord of Darkness and the Bringer of Light. The author of true freedom.'
All eyes are on him. Wide, wide open. Dozens of them. Staring through the goldfish glass of the packed viewing rooms.
'I am the way – the light – the truth.'
He pauses. Takes a breath. Struggles now to fill his lungs.
'See me here in my finest hour as I do his bidding and unlock the Gates of Hell. Behold today my glorious ascension to his side and the wondrous destruction I leave behind as testament to him.'
Fast hands inject more sodium thiopental and a syringe of saline flush.
McFaul and his deputy governor exchange glances.
Bale should at least be unconscious – preferably dead – by now.
But he's not.
Things are going wrong. Las Vegas The bomb goes off.
Rips out the windows of the new Medici Suite on the sixth floor of the Venezia Tower in the heart of the city.
Pieces of Roman tub, bedroom furniture and a fifty-inch plasma screen shower the sky like tickertape.
The room was the only one advertised with 666 square feet of luxury concierge-level space.
Despite protestations from the hotel management, the FBI got the place evacuated in lightning time. They rushed robots in to lay down armour-plated steel sheeting and then trigger the controlled explosion.
When the bomb went off the whole floor of the hotel was ruined. The casino may be closed for the moment, but the biggest gamble in the history of Vegas has paid off – no one has been hurt. San Quentin Syringe four – pancuronium bromide – injected.
Gloved hands work quickly.
Syringe five – saline flush – injected.
And still Bale is conscious.
And talking.
'To the gawkers behind the windows, I say this: Watch me as I watch you, for one day soon I will judge you all, as you judge me.' His mouth grows dry and he struggles even to lick his lips. 'I will be there at your death to weigh your souls and know your worth.'
Syringe six – potassium chloride – injected.
A member of the injection team checks the intravenous lines, makes sure the death chemicals are running true.
Syringe seven – more potassium chloride.
Syringe eight – another saline flush.
Bale's voice is now only a low growl: 'I am one of many. We will infest your bodies, pollute your children. We will nest cancers in your grandchildren.' Incredibly, Bale raises his head. His eyes bulging, his stare fixed on the watching press. 'When you lie on your death-beds – know this – I wait for you in hell.'
Behind the glass a woman gets to her feet in tears and rushes to the exit.
The team leader looks across to McFaul. 'Tray A is finished, Governor.' He nods towards the ECG machine. It still shows a strong heartbeat.
McFaul can't believe it. 'Repeat protocol. Use Tray B with the bac
k-up catheters – and make it damned quick.' Salto Angel, Venezuela The explosion can be heard for miles.
A mushroom cloud can be seen way beyond the long-deserted Canaima National Park where the bomb was placed.
A crater has opened up at the favourite viewing spot for tourists, the place where millions of cameras have immortalised what the locals call parakupa-vena, kerepakupai meru – 'fall from the highest point'.
The bomb had ticked down all night.
Detonating at 8.33 a.m. local time, 6.03 San Quentin time. It had been set by a fanatic who'd forgotten to check the accuracy of their own watch. Had history been made it would have been late.
A cloud of dust swirls endlessy in the powder-blue sky, but no one's injured.
Not even the wildlife.
In the distance, the largest waterfall on earth continues in its mesmeric beauty, not a drop even shaken by the events around it. 06.12.00 California San Quentin Eight more syringes.
Bale is now unconscious.
All eyes are on the ECG.
The ink keeps flowing.
Shallow mountains across the paper.
He's close to death.
But still alive.
No execution has ever taken this long. No murderer proved so hard to kill.
A beep.
'Flatline!' The attendant shouts.
The injection team can't help but smile.
McFaul sees people behind the goldfish glass clapping and cheering. It takes all his professionalism not to join in.
An independent physician moves in to pronounce the death.
Gloved hands of attendants uncouple catheters and monitor leads.
The doctor puts a stethoscope to his ears and leans over Bale's bare chest.
Fluids still slosh inside the corpse. Strange subterranean sounds of chemical death.
A long grumble of air rumbles up from deep inside his intestines.
For a moment it sounds like a voice. Like a sinister whisper in a foreign language. The language of the dead.
The doc feels a shiver, then looks up.
'The inmate has passed. Time of death should be recorded as 6.13 a.m.'
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