The Rome Prophecy

109

Valentina Morassi is pleased with herself.

She thinks she’s staying remarkably calm, given that she’s been abducted by gun-wielding maniacs who have a coat over her head.

Pressed down in the back of a vehicle, she has no knowledge of what route they took across the city, no idea now whether she’s north or south, but she does know one thing as they bundle her out of the back of the four-by-four.

She’s in the countryside.

There are no petrol fumes, and even though it’s winter, she can smell cattle, mud and grass.

Wherever this little patch of farmyard is, it isn’t that far away from the centre of Rome and the underground passageway they took out of Santa Cecilia.

She also notes the uneven surface beneath her feet. Gravel. Not the smooth, washed kind that you find on rich people’s drives. This is chunky gravel, like the rough stuff a farmer would want laid to run a tractor over.

‘Get her inside, quickly.’

That’s Shooter’s voice. She’s heard it enough to recognise it. He’s no longer holding her; she can tell from the touch on her arms that duty has been delegated to the women.

Valentina thinks about making a break for it.

She can handle two women.

No problem.

But the coat isn’t just thrown over her head, it’s tied there. She can feel that the belt has been tightened around her neck.

If she wants to fight, then she’s going to have to do it blind, and given that someone has a gun, that’s just too risky.

‘Lift your feet, we’re going up a step.’

The warning comes from a woman to her left. A young voice. Almost considerate.

The air around her changes.

No longer fresh and country-like.

More homely.

She can smell food. Maybe she’s in a house.

The floor beneath her feet is flat and even. She listens to their footsteps as they walk. She’s on wood, wood flooring.

‘Are you taking her straight through?’ The other woman is talking, the one on her right. ‘Or do you want to keep her here for a bit?’

‘Let me find out.’

Feet clop off.

Someone pulls out a chair; its legs scrape horribly on the floor.

‘Sit down.’ Shooter’s voice. Hands on her shoulders, guiding her, shifting position, pushing her down.

Valentina sits.

The chair is hard. Also wooden, from the feel of it on the back of her thighs. She slowly lifts a knee. It touches a table.

She’s in a kitchen, sitting at a country-style table.

She mentally retraces her steps. The door is behind her and over to her left. The house must be secluded, set back, or they’d be worried about passers-by seeing her with a coat over her head.

Maybe there are no windows.

‘Okay.’ Shooter’s voice again. ‘We can take her down now.’

Hands under her armpits. ‘Come on, stand!’ A woman’s voice, harsh, a hint of roughness and authority.

Valentina gets up and backs away from the table.

They turn her left, and then left again.

She’s in another room. It smells of decorators. Fresh paint. Wet plaster.

There’s the click of a latch.

A cold draught.

‘You’re going down some stairs; be careful or you’ll fall.’ It’s the kind woman again.

Valentina stretches out her foot like a ballet dancer starting a movement.

It’s steeper than she anticipated.

A hand steadies her from the front.

At least one of them is ahead of her. The others must be following behind.

Is this the point at which she should strike out? A heavy kick would drop whoever is in front of her down the stairs. A sharp turn and rush up the stairs would flatten whoever is directly behind her.

But what if there are two or more people behind her?

Valentina knows she’s only going to get one chance.

And it’s not yet come.

She concentrates on what’s happening. Her feet are touching stone. She reaches out a hand and the wall feels like stone too. She’s sure she’s descending some old steps into a cellar or basement.

They even out.

She hears the door above her close.

She’s trapped.

The atmosphere down here is different. There are many people in this room. They smell of smoke.

Smell of men.

‘Take her through.’ Shooter again.

Something buzzes. A short, sharp noise. Electronic.

There’s a clunk of metal.

A squeak, like the oil-thirsty hinges of a heavy gate.

Unseen hands push her forward.

Someone grabs a clump of clothing around her shoulder and takes a tight grip.

‘More stairs,’ warns Shooter.

There’s a hint of laughter in his voice.

‘ Lots more stairs.’