Tess Gerritsen - The Mephisto Club

She turned, and froze as she confronted the silhouette of a man standing at the far end of the corridor.

“I hope she did not upset you too much,” he said. She recognized the voice of the German tourist and released a breath, all her tension instantly gone.

“Oh, it’s all right. I’ve had worse things said to me.”

“You did not deserve it. You were only explaining the history.”

“Some people prefer their own version of history.”

“If they don’t like to be challenged, then they should not come to Rome.”

She smiled, a smile he probably could not see from the far end of the murky tunnel. “Yes, Rome has a way of challenging us all.”

He moved toward her, stepping slowly, as though approaching a skittish deer. “May I offer a suggestion?”

Her heart sank. So he had his criticisms, too. And what would his be? Couldn’t she satisfy anyone today?

“An idea,” he said, “for a different sort of tour, something that would almost certainly draw a different group of visitors.”

“What would the theme be?”

“You are familiar with biblical history.”

“I’m not an expert, but I have studied it.”

“Every travel agency offers tours of the holy sites, for tourists like our American friends, people who wish to walk in the footsteps of the saints. But some of us aren’t interested in saints or holy sites.” He had moved close beside her in the tunnel, so close that she could smell the scent of pipe tobacco on his clothes. “Some of us,” he said softly, “seek the unholy.”

She went absolutely still.

“You have read the Book of Revelation?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“You know of the Beast.”

She swallowed. Yes.

“And who is the Beast?” he asked.

Slowly she backed away. “Not a he, but an it. It’s…a representation of Rome.”

“Ah. You know the scholarly interpretation.”

“The Beast was the Roman Empire,” she said, still backing away. “The number 666 was a symbol for the emperor Nero.”

“Do you really believe that?”

She glanced over her shoulder, toward the exit, and saw no one barring her escape.

“Or do you believe he’s real?” he pressed. “Flesh and blood? Some say the Beast lies here, in this city. That he’s biding his time, waiting. Watching.”

“That-that’s for philosophers to decide.”

“You tell me, Lily Saul. What do you believe?”

He knows my name.

She spun around to flee. But someone else had magically materialized in the tunnel behind her. It was the nun who had admitted Lily’s group into the underground passage. The woman stood very still, watching her. Blocking her way.

His demons have found me.

Lily made her choice in an instant. She lowered her head and slammed straight into the woman, sending her sprawling backward in a swoop of black fabric. The nun’s hand clawed at her ankle as Lily stumbled forward, kicking free.

Get to the street!

She was at least three decades younger than the German. Once outside, she could outrun him. Lose him in the crowds milling near the Coliseum. She scrambled up the steps, bursting through a door into the stunning brightness of the upper basilica, and ran toward the nave. Toward the exit. She managed only a few steps across the brilliant mosaic floor when, in horror, she slid to a halt.

From behind marble columns, three men emerged. They said nothing as they closed in, drawing the trap shut. She heard a door slam behind her and footsteps approach: the German and the nun.

Why are there no other tourists? No one around to hear me scream?

“Lily Saul,” said the German.

She turned to face him. Even as she did so, she knew the other three men were moving in even more tightly behind her. So this is where it ends, she thought. In this holy place, beneath the gaze of Christ on the cross. She did not ever imagine it would happen in a church. She’d thought it would be in a dark alley, perhaps, or in a dreary hotel room. But not here, where so many had looked up to the light.

“We’ve finally found you,” he said.

She straightened, her chin lifting. If she had to face the Devil, she’d damn well do it with her head high.

“So where is he?” the German asked.

“Who?”

“Dominic.”

She stared at him. This question she had not expected.

“Where is your cousin?” he said.

She shook her head in bewilderment. “Isn’t he the one who sent you?” she asked. “To kill me?”

Now the German looked startled. He gave a nod to one of the men standing behind Lily. She flinched in surprise as her arms were yanked behind her, as handcuffs snapped shut over her wrists.

“You will come with us,” the German said.

“Where?”

“A safe place.”

“You mean…you’re not going to-”

“Kill you? No.” He crossed toward the altar and opened a hidden panel. Beyond was a tunnel that she had never known existed. “But someone else very well may.”

Lily stared through the limousine’s tinted windows as the Tuscan countryside glided past. Five months ago, she had traveled south down this very road, but under different circumstances, in a rattling truck driven by an unshaven man whose only goal had been to get inside her pants. That night she had been hungry and exhausted, her feet sore from trudging half the night. Now she was on the same road, but heading north, back toward Florence, not a weary hitchhiker this time, but traveling in style. Everywhere she looked, in the backseat of the limo, she saw luxury. The upholstery was black leather, supple as human skin. The seat pocket in front of her held a surprising range of newspapers: today’s issues of the International Herald Tribune, the London Times, Le Figaro, and Corriere della Sera. Warm air whispered from heating vents, and in a refreshment rack were bottles of sparkling water and wine and a selection of fresh fruits, cheese and crackers. But comfortable though it was, it was still a prison, for she could not unlock the door. Shatterproof glass separated her from the driver and his companion in the front seat. For the past two hours, neither man had bothered to glance back at her. She couldn’t even be sure they were human. Maybe they were just robots. All she’d seen was the backs of their heads.

She turned and looked through the rear window at the Mercedes following them. She saw the German man stare back at her through his windshield. She was being escorted north by three men in two very expensive cars. These people had resources, and they knew what they were doing. What chance did she have against them?

I don’t even know who they are.

But they knew who she was. As careful as she’d been all these months, somehow these people had managed to track her down.

The limo took a turn off the highway. So they were not going all the way to Florence. Instead they were headed into the countryside, climbing the gentle hills of Tuscany. Daylight was almost gone, and in the thickening dusk she saw bare grapevines huddled on windswept slopes and crumbling stone houses, long abandoned. Why take this road? There was nothing out here except farms gone fallow.

Maybe that was the point. Here there’d be no witnesses.

She had wanted to believe the German when he’d said he was taking her to a safe place, had wanted it so badly that she had let herself be temporarily lulled by a little luxury, a comfortable ride. Now, as the limo slowed down and turned onto a private dirt road, she felt her heart battering against her ribs, felt her hands turn so slick she had to wipe them on her jeans. It was dark enough now. They’d take her on a short walk into the fields and put a bullet in her brain. With three men, it would be quick work, digging the grave, rolling in the body.