I was trained to use the darkness to my advantage, but without night-vision goggles I’d have to wait for my eyes to adjust. It took several minutes, but slowly the view before me materialized out of the shadows. The buildings were ancient and derelict. Vines had woven their way through crevices and along the crumbling walls. Nature was reclaiming this tragic settlement.
I could neither see nor hear any human activity.
I made my way carefully along the side of the first building and around the tower. A stone walkway ran between the next building and the water’s edge. Someone had erected scaffolding along the wall, presumably to reinforce it. Briefly stopping to listen, I could again make out the now familiar slapping sound of the waves’ persistent attack on the shoreline. The growl of the wind had strengthened and now whistled eerily through the scaffolding, but there was no other sound. At least nothing human.
Time was against me. I risked discovery if I moved too quickly now I’d left the cover of the woodlands. Nevertheless, in a few minutes I’d cleared the next two buildings and rounded a corner to the western side of the island.
I found nothing.
If Joe Santoro hadn’t vanished, I might’ve given up at that point and returned to the boat. Nothing else suggested I was on Ascardi’s trail.
Either way, the point was moot; I had nowhere else to go.
Logic told me the only approach was a methodical search through the buildings. Easy to say, but between the fog, the darkness of the ruined buildings, and the increasingly distracting tone of the wind, I was feeling decidedly uneasy. I forced myself to mentally discard Joe’s stories about the island. But if there was nothing to those tales, why had the Italian government banned visits to the island?
It looked like the fog was beginning to wane. I pressed on.
I entered the closest building, feeling my way through the doorway and along the walls. It was a large structure, lined with crumbling brick walls. What little light there was came through the caged windows. The shadows of the bars punctuated the growing streams of moonlight that guided my search. The bars told the story—this must have been a prison at some point.
I searched from one end to the other, regularly tripping over fallen stonework and discarded furniture. There was no sign of human habitation. As I passed through a large doorway at the far end of the building, I found myself again surrounded by trees. I could make out another building almost totally overpowered by vines and undergrowth about ten yards away. I glanced at my watch and moved toward it. I had been on the island for around thirty minutes; this was taking way too long.
Speeding up as I pushed through the undergrowth, I almost bumped into the side of the next building. As the fog receded, the moonlight gradually intensified. A little extra light helped my search but also left me exposed. I stepped through the doorway into the building, again pausing to listen. The soundscape hadn’t changed, and my nerves hadn’t improved.
Moving along the side of the wall, I came to a large arched doorway. The old wooden doors hung precariously on their hinges. Because the roof was virtually non-existent, the moonlight shone on some broken framework, a couple of upturned chairs, and several piles of rubble.
Stepping through the doorway, I could make out a decrepit stone stairway to my left. I shuffled into the room. At least now, under the moonlight, I could avoid the obstacles scattered around the floor. Despite every effort to tread lightly, the sound of my feet crunching on broken stone resonated like splintering glass through the space.
The next room was large and wide. A pile of metal bed frames lay stacked untidily in a corner. I suspected this was the infamous asylum building. Pausing between steps, I made my way slowly across the length of the space.
Then I heard it, a scraping, metallic sound from a small room adjacent to the one I was standing in. I stopped and listened. A moment later I heard the sound again—no mistaking it. Choosing my foot placement carefully, I moved closer. Reaching the door, I poked my head around the corner.
The space before me appeared to be some sort of chapel. In the moonlight I could make out religious frescoes on what was left of the ceiling. The room was mostly empty and just as abandoned as all the others. Then I heard the metallic sound again.
I felt a cold chill on my skin as my senses jumped to attention. At the far end of the room, the shadow of a hooded figure slowly materialized out of thin air. The ghost of a lost soul?
Nicholas Sharp, losing the plot, again.
I stood, transfixed. The figure I was watching wasn’t appearing out of thin air, it was passing through a floor-level wooden trapdoor whose hinges voiced the cry of twisting, scraping metal as their unoiled components fought with each other for movement.
I welcomed back reality and backed out of the doorway, flattening myself against the stone wall that shielded me from the room.
Suddenly, a blinding white light flooded my vision; I couldn’t see a damn thing.
Chapter 36
“Nicholas, you just don’t give up, do you?”
I recognized the insistent tone of Antonio Ascardi.
I could just make out several shadows standing on the other side of the bright lights. One of them was obviously Ascardi. The two outer shadows made their way around the edges of the light and approached me. Each figure grabbed one of my arms.
Ascardi continued to speak. “Sadly, your penchant for curiosity has become unaffordable … for both of us. Disarm him and bring him downstairs.” He disappeared into the chapel’s shadows.
One of the men moved behind me and held both my arms, the other one frisked me, removing my gun and knife. They pointed their powerful flashlights toward the doorway.
“Move,” said the man behind me as he shoved me on my way. I had no chance of attempting an escape.
I was led into the old chapel and across to the trapdoor. No sign of the hooded figure. The man who had searched me reached down and opened the wooden door in the floor, revealing a steep ladder.
“Down,” he said. Reluctantly, I descended.
The room I entered, a basement of some sort, was nearly the size of the two large rooms above us. Modern overhead lighting revealed three rows of computers and electronic equipment neatly organized into workstations. Several oversized screens strategically placed on stands around the room displayed a myriad of perpetually changing data. High-level technology contrasted with the aging stone walls and the enormous wooden rafters supporting the ceiling. Ascardi had put a great deal of thought and effort into creating this environment. It wasn’t quite in the class of a Bond villain’s lair, but it wasn’t far behind.
There were four people in the room, spread out across the rows of computers, each focused on their work. Across the room stood Antonio Ascardi, absorbed by the tablet in his hand. No one looked up, no one said a word. It was as though I hadn’t even walked in.
Eventually, Ascardi raised his head and spoke. “Nicholas Sharp, you have been a pain in the ass for much too long.” Not for the first time the man smiled broadly with his mouth while his eyes retained the stony aloofness of a man detached from his emotions. “Your irritating efforts this afternoon have caused me some inconvenience, nothing more. You know I get really pissed on the rare occasions someone or something unforeseen disrupts my precisely conceived arrangements. I suspect you thought your wits had saved lives at the Piazza San Marco today. Now you are going to see that your recklessness will unwittingly cause the deaths of many more people. Absolutely unnecessary, if you ask me. If only you’d just done what you were told.”
Unexpectedly, Ascardi’s shoulders slumped. “You know, it’s a shame, Nicholas. This is all so sad.” The contrast in the man’s demeanor was so severe it was like there were two life forces existing within him.
Just as abruptly as it arrived, the brow furrowed and the brief glimpse of light vanished from Ascardi’s eyes as he spoke again. “Why don’t you take a minute to savor your failure?”
I had no intention of taking a minute.
&
nbsp; “Whatever you’re planning, Ascardi, you must realize you now have no chance of achieving it.” I refused to use the term “success.” “After today, the authorities will be on to you. They will hunt you down. It’s over.” My words spoke more of bravado than confidence.
“Why? Why will they be after me?” he asked. “Surely by now, you understand that it is you that the authorities are pursuing, Nicholas. It is you who have been blamed for everything. Who would believe the word of a murderer and terrorist on the run?” Then he added, “That is if they had a chance to speak to you … which they won’t.”
“By now Jack Greatrex will have spoken to the police and Europol,” I said. “He will have told them about your location here, and whether they believe him or not, they will come to this island to check it out.” I was on a roll here, quite the actor.
Ascardi hesitated, but it was just a show. He then allowed himself a smile. “About that,” he said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a cell phone, tapped on the keypad, and threw it to the henchman standing next to me. “Take a look,” was all he added.
I looked down at the screen being held up before me. It showed Greatrex lying unconscious on a pile of ropes, presumably on a ship or boat. Blood seeped from his ear. I allowed myself no emotion.
“Is he dead?” I asked.
“Not yet, but he soon will be. He is on his way here to join you as we speak.”
I felt a modicum of relief but didn’t let it show.
“So, you can see, Nicholas, no one is coming to your rescue.”
“What about the man who was with me, Joe Santoro?” I asked.
“Yes, that was unfortunate. He bumped straight into one of my patrols. He is also alive, albeit temporarily. Sadly, the three of you are all going to be sharing the same sad fate this very night.”
I saw no need to ask what that fate was.
I felt my chest tighten as I fought to mask any external reaction. It wasn’t fear but rather the familiar sensation of pungent acrimony flooding though me. “You’re full of shit, Ascardi,” I said.
The sides of his mouth drooped as his eyebrows raised in a feigned look of indignity.
“Men like you always end up the same way,” I continued. “Dead and discarded. I may not be around to see it, but it’s all going to end badly for you, eventually.” I had made my statement.
This time Ascardi’s face betrayed genuine despair; at first his lips pressed into a thin line, and then he momentarily dipped his head, avoiding my gaze. When he raised it again his jaw sagged noticeably as he tilted his head to one side—perhaps some sort of quizzical acceptance. “You may well be right, Nicholas, but I don’t care.” His response sounded despairingly genuine.
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.
“I can tell you are surprised by that, but you are probably astute enough to know from my tone that I mean what I say.”
I thought for a moment. I could see no real way out of this. Certainly not for Jack Greatrex, Joe Santoro, or myself. All I could do was play for time and hope something would turn up.
“All right, have your moment,” I said. “Why don’t you explain to me what this is really all about?”
Ascardi just looked at me, as though he was processing a decision, considering all options. He turned to the young tech-head working the station on his left. “Ricardo, how long do we have?”
The young man glanced up from his computer, his face masked with concentration. “We have at least ten minutes, Signor Ascardi,” he announced.
Ascardi turned back to me. “All right, Nicholas, it doesn’t really matter now, not from your viewpoint anyway. I can afford to spare you a few minutes more of my time; after all, you have tried very hard.”
Talk about condescending.
“It may even be good for me to share,” he continued. “I suppose that’s what a therapist would say … if I had one. You Americans love your therapy, don’t you? I always thought the process a futile exercise in self-pity.”
For a moment I thought back to my own therapist. She was waiting for me in my apartment overlooking Venice Beach in L.A. She only saw things in black and white, but her rigidity was delicately balanced by her ability to listen. Her counsel had proved effective in letting me purge my emotions and move on. Sadly, I thought it unlikely I would ever see her again. It was a shame: she was the best piano I’d ever owned.
Ascardi’s words snapped me back to the present. “All right, so let’s call this a morbid bedtime story about one man’s disappointment and betrayal, if you catch my drift.”
Bedtime story, I got it.
“Vincenzo,” he said, speaking to the man beside me, “bring Sharp over here, where he can see the screens more clearly.” He indicated a chair to the right of where he stood.
Vincenzo pushed me in that direction. I walked over and sat down.
“Elia,” said Ascardi, looking at the man who had held me by the arms upstairs, “Please keep your gun trained on our visitor. It would appear that he is a sneaky one. Vincenzo, do the same.”
So, I sat there, two weapons pointed at me, both out of reach—an impossible situation.
Ascardi began to talk.
Chapter 37
“Years ago, when I was young, it became clear to me, and to countless others, that technology’s rapid development was going to provide a runway from which humanity could soar to new heights. The possibilities bouncing around in my head seemed endless. I knew there were pitfalls, but I thought that advancements in communication across the globe would save us from ourselves. The sixteen-year-old me imagined a space where people understood each other, the way each other thought, the way each other lived. Can you see it, Nicholas, a world where our differences—politics, religion, artificial borders—receded to the background, and our common goodness prevailed?”
I saw it, but I said nothing. John Lennon had seen it too.
“A few months into my university studies it became obvious to my teachers that I was gifted well beyond my peers, not only in my ability to write code but my capacity to envision and create what others thought impossible. Eighteen months into my studies I created a gambling algorithm that was failure-proof. Of course, the university shut me down. That type of creativity was unacceptable to them.”
I just remained silent and nodded, knowing we would get to the point in the end.
“Stay with me, Nicholas. You need the backstory to understand the man, and I am trying to help you understand.” After a short pause, the entrepreneur continued. “Word got out about the young genius studying in Rome. The corporates came after me. The money they offered was staggering for such a young man, but in the end the money was why I turned them all down.”
My face must have shown my confusion.
“To explain a little further, it was these corporate jackals’ obsession with money that repulsed me. I wanted to make a difference, not cash in. I presented my ideas to them; the concept of such a high level of technological communication in the hands of the people seemed worthless to them. There was no profit in it. The few who saw the potential viewed it as a threat to their own structures. In retrospect, my naivety was laughable.”
I nodded, just wanting to keep him talking.
“Then, at my lowest point, I was approached by a man. He had heard about me and wanted to talk. More to the point he wanted to listen. I made my pitch, expecting nothing, of course, but his reaction caught me by surprise. He saw what I saw in the potential reach of social media platforms and offered me the seed funding to create a start-up. Without boring you with all the details, I disregarded my studies immediately; I already knew more than most of my teachers, so I began my journey.”
Ascardi looked at me directly, again his head tilting and his smile becoming lopsided. “It was probably twelve months before I realized that my backers were the mafia. Even then it didn’t bother me that much. I grew up in Sicily, where the mafia were often referred to as the Cosa Nostra. Did you know that the term translates as
‘our thing’? That’s exactly what many of my contemporaries thought of them as. A sort of people’s shadow government. Again, the naivety … Anyway, within two years it was obvious that my backers were only humoring me regarding my work on social media. It had been my gambling program that had caught their attention, and that was the area in which they wanted me to work. By then it was far too late—no one leaves the organization. I decided to do as they asked but still use their money to pursue my vision as a side project.”
That certainly explained the General’s questions over where Ascardi got his funding.
“Fast forward many years, Nicholas, and we come to the crunch. I had continued to appease my backers and had made them a great deal of money. The decision-makers high in the mafia hierarchy are not stupid people, but they are set in their ways, the old ways. Some of the younger leaders saw the potential of my work and encouraged it. The older dons, not so much. By the time they realized that my own personal power had reached a level that threatened theirs, I was ordered to shut down.”
Once again Ascardi paused, gazed down to his feet, and then raised his head to look at me. It was almost as though each pause of conversation and downward turn of the head was a new act in the play, a costume change. In Ascardi’s case, however, they were mood changes. When he looked up, his eyes were wide, his bearded chin projected forward, and his voice was low and menacing.
“The poor fools had no idea, not a clue. My power and influence had usurped theirs years earlier. They couldn’t touch me. Obviously, I refused to comply. I was approached over and over again, each time steadfastly refusing to subjugate myself to them. At one point two of their most influential leaders, the capomandamenti, came to see me personally. They argued their case well and finished the discussion with a direct and ominous threat. But I mean really, what could they do to me?”
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