The Nosferatu Scroll cb-4

by James Becker

  Bronson again read the passages Angela had translated. The text was specific about only one thing: that the tomb of the twin angels, the grave they thought they might have located in the cemetery on the Isola di San Michele, held the ‘answer’ or the ‘source’ or whatever the Latin word actually meant to the woman who’d written the diary.

  It was odd, Bronson thought, the way the Island of the Dead seemed so intimately connected with the events they’d become involved with in Venice. The shattered tomb and the mutilated corpse had started the puzzle, and the cemetery had also been chosen as a dumping ground for the bodies of the girls once the group of killers had finished with them. And, of course, the vampire’s diary itself had come from the first tomb, and contained references to at least one other burial on San Michele.

  One way or another, the island and its ancient graveyard were inextricably linked to the events of the present day. Maybe, Bronson thought, he should go back there, take another look at that tomb of the twin angels, and see if he could work out anything useful from the inscriptions on the old stone. It wasn’t much of a plan, and he wasn’t sure it was even worth doing, but it was, he reflected, probably better than sitting in the hotel room trying to translate an old Latin text.

  He shut down the computer, checked he had his camera and his binoculars, took his leather jacket out of the wardrobe, and walked down to the reception desk.

  Half an hour later he was again sitting at the controls of his small red boat, and steering the small vessel north-east across the choppy waters of the Venetian lagoon.

  34

  Apart from a few visits to the loo, each time accompanied by one of her silent and unsmiling guards to the door of a ground-floor lavatory — which had a barred window and no internal lock or bolt — Angela hadn’t left the elegant room in the house since she’d arrived. Early in the evening, a tray of food had been put in front of her, and around midnight she’d eventually tried to get some sleep on the wide sofa in front of the fireplace.

  But she hadn’t been idle that evening. The suave but indescribably menacing man had seen to that. He had finally introduced himself as ‘Marco’, but she had no idea if that was what he was actually called or just a convenient name he’d pulled out of the air.

  As soon as he’d shown her the appalling collection of ‘souvenirs’, Angela had realized that cooperation with her captors was hardly a choice: it was an absolute necessity if she was to avoid the agonizing mutilation that the group was so obviously capable of inflicting. So when Marco had asked if she was prepared to complete the translations, she’d simply nodded her agreement.

  She’d been led across to a large oak desk set in one corner, and been told to sit on a leather swivel chair right in front of it, an incongruously modern piece of furniture in the elegant and old-fashioned room. Even those few steps across the polished wooden floor left her feeling as weak as a kitten: presumably she’d been pumped full of a cocktail of drugs to keep her quiet while they transported her to the house — wherever it was — and her body was still feeling the after effects. She knew that trying to fight her captors or run out of the room would be completely futile. Before she could do anything to try to escape, she would have to wait until she’d regained her strength. And she also needed to find out a lot more about the house in which she was being held prisoner, and its location. And especially what lay outside the windows.

  On the desk was a selection of reference books of various types, the majority clearly written in English, about half a dozen pencils, roughly half a ream of white paper, the battered leather-bound diary itself, and two separate piles of pages which she saw immediately were photocopies of the diary entries.

  Marco had pointed to those two sets of pages. ‘Ignore the one on the left,’ he said. ‘Those are just records of Carmelita’s life: interesting but not important for us. The other section is the one we’re interested in. You can start translating that right now.’

  Angela shook her head. ‘I’ll need a Latin dictionary,’ she said. ‘I don’t have the vocabulary to translate this. Can you find one on the Internet for me?’

  Marco laughed shortly. ‘We’re not going to let you anywhere near a computer,’ he said. Then he searched quickly through the pile of books at the back of the desk and selected a Latin-Italian dictionary.

  Angela opened her mouth to point out that she didn’t speak Italian, but before she could say anything, he had found another dictionary, this time a Latin-English version, and the words of protest died in her throat.

  ‘And when I’ve finished?’ Angela had asked. ‘What then? You’ll shoot me? Is that it?’

  Marco had shaken his head. ‘I think we can find a more interesting way to usher you into the next life,’ he’d said. ‘But I do have some good news for you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you do a good job, you’ll still be alive tomorrow. But after that, I can’t promise you anything. And before you start work, let me point out that we’ve already translated some of the text ourselves, so we’ll know if your version is accurate.’

  ‘If you’ve done that, then why do you need me at all?’ Angela had asked.

  ‘You English have an expression about a gift horse. If we don’t need you to do the translation, then we don’t need you at all, so just be grateful. But it’s not just translating the Latin. There are some unusual aspects of the text that we haven’t been able to make sense of. That’s the real reason why we want you to work on it.’

  Without another word Angela had pulled the dictionary across in front of her, picked up a pencil and looked at the first sentence.

  35

  Sometime that morning — Marietta had no idea exactly when — the upper door to the cellar rumbled open and the light snapped on.

  A few moments later, the guard appeared in the room, carrying a tray of food exactly as he’d done on previous occasions, and a plastic bag that contained her clothes. He walked across to Marietta, tossed the bag on to the mattress, placed the tray on the floor in front of her, and turned to leave.

  ‘Please,’ Marietta pleaded with him. ‘Please leave the lights on. And what happened to Benedetta? Where is she? And who was that man — the one with those horrible teeth?’

  ‘So many questions,’ the guard said mockingly. ‘But you needn’t worry about Benedetta. We got what we wanted from her.’

  ‘So where is she now? Did you let her go?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, I suppose we did. We sent her to San Michele,’ he added.

  For a moment, Marietta didn’t understand the expression. Then it dawned on her that he meant the ‘Island of the Dead’, and the confirmation of what she’d feared hit her hard.

  ‘You killed her,’ she said flatly. ‘That foul ritual last night. You raped her and bled her to death. You bastards.’

  ‘You catch on quick,’ the guard said. ‘But at least she died for a good reason. There was a point to her death, just as there’ll be a point to yours.’

  ‘What point could there possibly be in snatching girls like me off the streets of Venice and then killing us?’

  The guard looked at her carefully for a few moments. ‘You’re not just any girl,’ he said. ‘You and Benedetta were both special. That’s why you were chosen. We’ve traced your bloodline.’

  ‘My bloodline?’

  ‘You and Benedetta are descended from someone who is vitally important to our society.’

  ‘And you’re going to kill me because of one of my ancestors? That makes no sense at all.’

  ‘It does to us,’ the guard said simply. ‘You’ll have company soon.’

  ‘Who?’ Marietta asked, though she dreaded hearing the answer.

  ‘Another girl. We’ve got her in the house at the moment, but she’ll be brought down here soon enough. But she won’t be able to talk to you. No girly chatter with that one.’

  ‘Why?’ Marietta demanded. ‘What have you done to her?’

  The guard smiled slightly. ‘Nothing at all,’ h
e said. ‘It’s just that she doesn’t speak a word of Italian. But don’t worry. You won’t be on your own for too long. Soon you’ll be reunited with your friend.’

  For a moment Marietta sat in silence, eyes downcast, guessing what he meant but hardly daring to ask the question that would confirm her fears. Then she looked at him directly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘You’ll be back with Benedetta,’ the guard replied. ‘It’s your turn on the table tonight.’

  36

  Bronson manoeuvred the boat through the water along the north-west side of the Isola di San Michele, past a tall greenish sculpture, probably made of copper, which depicted two figures standing on a small boat that rose from the waters a short distance from the Cimitero vaporetto stop. That side of the island was delineated by impressive walls formed from white stone and brown brick, with a large gateway in the centre and smaller towers spaced at intervals on either side of it.

  He continued around the northern edge of the island to where his map showed a small inlet, lined with jetties.

  He’d hardly even been aware of how the boat handled on his short trip to and from the police station in the San Marco district, but he’d got the feel of the craft on the journey out to the Isola di San Michele, and it had proved quite easy to control. Not quite as simple as driving a car, but not that difficult either. As he entered the inlet he pulled the throttle back, slowing the boat to little more than walking pace.

  There were perhaps a dozen similar boats already moored at various points on the jetties, but there was still plenty of space left for him to use. He swung the boat in a half circle, so that the bow pointed back out towards the lagoon, then eased it in to a stop beside the jetty. He stopped the engine, climbed out of the vessel and secured both the bow and the stern mooring lines. A few moments later, he was making his way towards the centre of the old graveyard.

  As he walked, Bronson tried to recall exactly where they’d found the tomb that Angela had believed was the one mentioned in the vampire’s diary. The problem was that many of the sections of the cemetery looked fairly similar, and he was also approaching the area from a different direction, which meant it was difficult to get his bearings.

  The good thing was that today the place wasn’t crowded with tourists and locals, although on the far side of the graveyard he could see three separate funerals taking place. That morning the weather was clear, with unsullied blue skies, and the brilliant sunshine imparted a warm glow to the memorial stones, and even seemed to have breathed fresh life into the bouquets of cut flowers that decorated most of the graves. For the first time, the Isola di San Michele seemed a friendly, almost welcoming, place to walk and explore.

  Bronson remembered that the tomb he was looking for lay in one of the older sections of the graveyard, so he made his way to the spot where he thought the grave should lie, then stopped short as he reached the end of a line of trees and looked over to his right. He had reached a section of the graveyard with numerous ancient tombs of the type he was seeking, but what had caused him to stop was the sight of two men standing beside a familiar-looking carved statue.

  Bronson eased back into the shadows cast by the trees, took his compact binoculars from his pocket, and stared through the instrument at the intruders. He adjusted the focus, and immediately confirmed one thing: the men were right next to the tomb of the twin angels.

  For a few seconds, Bronson studied the two figures, noting what he could of their physical appearance. Both were wearing casual clothes, jeans and white shirts, but each also wore a windcheater, one blue and the other dark grey, which suggested to Bronson that they’d most probably arrived on the island by boat. Driving a powerboat at speed over the water could be quite chilly, and he’d been glad of his leather jacket on his own journey. Not that that deduction actually helped him in any way. The two men could easily be workers sent out to San Michele to do maintenance jobs, or even a couple of bureaucrats counting the graves or something equally mundane.

  Bronson moved the binoculars slightly so that he could see the tomb itself. From the angle he was looking at it, he could see one side of the structure, while the two men were on the far side, both of them looking down at the ancient stone. Then one of the men bent down beside the grave, and was lost to sight.

  Bronson wondered if he should simply stroll through that part of the cemetery towards the grave he was interested in, playing the part of an innocent tourist, because he was still unsure about who the two men were. If they were just workers, he would be able to examine the grave without any problems, and if they were in some way connected with Angela’s abduction, he might see them clearly enough to provide a photofit for the carabinieri. Or perhaps he could even follow them when they left the island. Either way, getting closer to the tomb seemed like a good idea.

  He slipped the binoculars back into his pocket, stepped out from behind the tree, and started making his way across the grass that carpeted the area between the graves. He’d only gone half a dozen steps when he heard a sudden noise from behind him, and glanced back to see another man walking swiftly towards him through the graves. Instinctively, Bronson stepped to one side to allow the man to hurry past.

  The new arrival nodded his thanks and stepped past Bronson. And as he did so, he abruptly turned and swung his right arm towards Bronson’s head. But something in the way the man moved must have triggered some subliminal warning, because as he did so Bronson realized two things simultaneously: first, that the figure beside him was one of the men who’d attacked him in the street when Angela was abducted, and, second, that he was trying precisely the same technique again, swinging a heavy blackjack with the intention of smashing it into the back of Bronson’s skull.

  37

  Angela had woken stiff and aching from her fitful sleep on the sofa, and had been allowed to wash in a bathroom adjacent to the lavatory she’d used the previous day. Her breakfast had consisted of a plate of pastries and coffee, and as soon as she’d finished it, Marco had told her to carry on working on the translation.

  She had acquired her knowledge of Latin over the years that she’d worked at the British Museum, building on the lessons in the dead language she’d enjoyed at school, more years ago than she could now contemplate with any degree of comfort. But try as she might to concentrate on the words in front of her, her thoughts kept returning to the awful reality of her situation and, inescapably, to Chris. She had no idea whether he was alive or dead. If he was alive, if he’d survived the attack on the street, she knew he’d be trying to find her, and would be frantic with worry. But how on earth would he be able to track her down?

  She had no idea how long she’d spent in a drug-induced state of unconsciousness, but it must have been several hours, perhaps even days, and it was entirely possible that she was no longer in Venice at all. Her only reassurance was that her captors spoke together in Italian, which presumably meant that she was still in Italy. But even that, she had to acknowledge, was actually pure conjecture. It was just as possible that she’d been snatched by a gang of Italians, and then taken to some other country entirely.

  And she’d found the coolly dispassionate attitude of her captors enormously alarming. She really believed that any one of them could kill her with as little compunction or concern as he would exhibit if he swatted a fly. As far as she could see, the only reason she was still alive at that moment was because they needed her translation skills, and Marco — or whatever his real name was — had implied that they only wanted to see her version of the ancient text to check that whoever else they had employed to decipher it had got it right.

  That meant they already had a good idea of what the Latin text said, which in turn meant that she had to do a reasonably good job herself. But not a perfect job, she decided. Perhaps she would make a handful of trifling errors in the translation — errors that she could explain away because of her unfamiliarity with Latin, and which might mean they would keep her alive for a bit longer while the
y ensured that she’d done the best job she could, and that the text she’d produced was accurate. That was the only thing she could think of doing to make her abductors think twice before killing her. And the longer she stayed alive, Angela knew, the better the chances of her finding some way of getting out of the house — wherever it was — and escaping. And maybe somebody, Chris or the police or even the occupants of a neighbouring property, if there was one, might discover where she was being held prisoner. It was a cliche, obviously, but it was just as obviously true: while there was life, there really was hope.

  Angela dabbed her eyes angrily with a tissue, cleared her mind of all extraneous thoughts, and again focused on the task at hand.

  Quite a lot of the Latin words were familiar to her. One of the advantages of learning Latin was that it had an essentially finite vocabulary, unlike English and other modern languages in common usage, which acquire new words, new meanings and new variants of existing words on an almost daily basis. Once you knew the meaning of a Latin word, you knew it for ever, because it would never change.

  She remembered most of the declensions and many of the conjugations of verbs, and she was able to jot down the general sense of several of the sentences quite quickly, just leaving a handful of blanks for the words that she was either unfamiliar with or unsure of. Then she’d open the dictionary and flick through the pages until she found the first word she needed to check. Then she’d fill in the meaning, and move on to the next word. When she’d finished each sentence she paused for a moment to read it in its entirety, to make sure that it made sense, then re-wrote it in modern English.

  The translation itself had proved to be relatively straight-forward, but she soon realized what Marco had meant when he referred to ‘unusual aspects’ in the text. Although the references to the tomb of the twin angels still seemed fairly clear, other passages in the Latin were ambiguous at best, and she was increasingly unsure whether or not she was getting it right. In some passages, Carmelita had referred to the Isola di San Michele as the insula silenti, the phrase translating as the ‘island of the dead’, but there were several occurrences of an entirely different phrase — insula vetus mortuus — which puzzled her.