James Becker - The Nosferatu Scroll

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.

‘Yes, Signor Bronson?’ Bianchi asked, his tone resigned. ‘What do you want now?’

Obviously the inspector had recognized Bronson’s mobile number or had stored it in his contacts list.

The one thing that Bronson wasn’t going to do, now that he knew of Bianchi’s involvement with the gang, was to reveal anything of what he knew. If the inspector realized that Bronson was only about a hundred yards away, he was sure that he’d be dead within minutes. They’d send out half a dozen men in a couple of boats, and they’d run him down in the dark and shoot him.

‘I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad moment, Inspector,’ Bronson asked.

‘Not really,’ Bianchi replied smoothly. ‘I’m just about to sit down to dinner with my family.’

A blatant lie, obviously, as Bronson could see the man through his binoculars, standing on the path right in front of him.

‘I just wondered if you had any more news.’

‘No, I’m afraid not. Let me assure you again that the moment I learn anything I will tell you. Now, good evening, Signor Bronson.’

Bronson kept his eyes fixed on the distant figure, and saw the man snap his phone closed. That was the final confirmation — if any was needed — that it really was Bianchi who was standing on the island in front of him.

Bronson nodded to himself. That also explained something else. When he’d told the inspector about the book Angela had recovered from the desecrated tomb on the Island of the Dead, and described the subsequent burglary at their hotel, Bianchi hadn’t asked how the burglars had known where to look for the diary. The only people who knew that Bronson and Angela had been in the graveyard that night, and who also knew where they were staying in Venice, were the two carabinieri officers. Bianchi had not asked the obvious question, because he’d already known the answer. Somebody in the Venetian police force — most likely Bianchi himself — must have given the information to the men on the island.

Bronson knew then that he was entirely on his own.

Pulling the Browning from his waistband, he removed the magazine and, working by feel, ejected all the cartridges from it. He repeated the process with the spare magazines he’d taken from the man in the graveyard on the Island of San Michele, and then carefully reloaded each magazine again. It was a technique he’d learned in the Army. Stoppages — the pistol jamming — were far more likely if the magazine had been left loaded for some time. Emptying it and then refilling it helped avoid the problem. And the one thing he could not afford was the possibility that the weapon would jam.

Until that point, Bronson had been keeping the pistol purely for his own protection. But venturing on to that island meant he was taking the fight directly into the enemy’s camp, and for that he needed all the help he could get. That included carrying the pistol in its holster instead of simply stuffed into his waistband, where it might snag on his belt or shirt.

Bronson clipped on both the holster and the magazine pouch, on the right- and left-hand sides respectively of his belt, and then did it up again. The pouch held the two magazines slightly separated so that each of them could be grasped easily. He inserted the magazines so that they faced in the same direction, with the forward lip pointing behind him, so that when he pulled out one of the magazines to reload the weapon, it would be the right way round to slide into the butt of the Browning. A fast and fumble-free magazine change could make the difference between life and death in a close-combat situation.

He loaded the last magazine into the Browning, pulled back the slide to chamber the first cartridge and ensured that the safety catch was on. Cocking any semi-automatic pistol makes a very distinctive sound, and he didn’t want to risk doing it on the island — anybody hearing it would know immediately what it was. He slid the Browning into the holster, and ensured it was held firmly. Then he switched off his mobile phone and slid it into his pocket.

His preparations complete, Bronson climbed over the side of the boat on to the swampy vegetation, and pushed the vessel back into the water so that it floated free, then he stepped back on board.