The Nosferatu Scroll

65

The scream galvanized Bronson. It was almost feral in its intensity, a primeval howl of anguish and fear, the sound of a woman pushed to her breaking point. And somehow, he simply knew it was Angela. He hadn’t been able to recognize her through the binoculars, but the instant he heard the piercing scream he knew exactly where she was.

If he’d needed any confirmation, what happened next supplied it. There was a confused babble of voices, too far away for him even to tell what language they were speaking, and then he saw a faint but distinct blue flash, and the woman just seemed to collapse on to the path.

Bronson knew immediately what had happened to her: they’d used a taser. Then he looked on in horror as they unceremoniously dragged her into the ruined building behind the house.

For a few moments, he considered his options, limited though they were. He didn’t know how many people were on the island, but he’d already seen the two men with the woman he was sure was Angela, and at least four men had arrived in the launch, so he was severely outnumbered. He remembered the old Clint Eastwood line: ‘the three of us – that’s me, Smith and Wesson’; but even with the Browning Hi-Power as a force multiplier, he was still unsure if he could take on that many people, some of whom must be armed.

He definitely needed back-up. He took out his mobile phone and dialled the number Bianchi had given him at the police station in San Marco. His call was answered in a few seconds, but not by the inspector, who was now off duty. For a moment, Bronson considered trying to persuade the duty-sergeant to send a couple of boatloads of armed police out to the island, but after the fiasco of the earlier ‘investigation’, he doubted if he would be taken seriously. He really needed to speak to Bianchi himself.

‘I’ve found my wife,’ Bronson said, ‘and I need urgent help to rescue her. It’s essential that I speak with Inspector Bianchi as soon as possible. Can you please give me his mobile number?’

Bronson could almost hear the thought processes of the sergeant at the other end of the line, as he weighed up the possible consequences of giving a civilian – Bronson – Inspector Bianchi’s mobile number, with the even more dire consequences of not giving him the number if it turned out that Bronson really had located the kidnappers and the woman then died.

‘Very well,’ the sergeant said. ‘But if anyone asks, you got his number from the phone book, not from me. You understand?’

‘Whatever you want,’ Bronson agreed, and wrote down the number in his notebook, using the light from the mobile phone’s screen to see what he was doing.

Still worried sick about Angela, he scanned the island again through the binoculars: the two men were walking back from the ruins. Then he heard the sound of another boat approaching, and looked over to his left. He could just about make out a launch – it looked slightly smaller than the other boat – heading for the island, and a couple of minutes later that boat, too, edged its way slowly into the inlet and stopped beside the jetty. Even more people were arriving, increasing the odds against Bronson still further.

He dialled the number he’d written down, pressed the button to complete the call and lifted the phone to his ear. He heard the ringing tone, and simultaneously the shrill sound of a mobile phone rang out over the lagoon. Bronson couldn’t believe what he saw next: one of the figures walking from the jetty towards the house stopped and pulled a phone from his pocket. Bianchi was himself a member of the group that had abducted Angela.