The image showed a bare, starkly lit and lugubrious room with mould-streaked walls and peeling plaster. Usberti knew exactly where it was, in an abandoned rat-infested hovel in a shanty-town district of Ankara, although nothing on the screen would have given away the location.
The scene was framed from the point of view of a webcam positioned not far above floor level, on a stool or a box. In the middle of the screen stood a cheap, narrow wooden table. Perched on top of the table was a cheap wooden chair. Lying arched on his back across the seat of the chair, elevated so that his legs dangled in empty space down one side and his head, arms and upper torso dangled down the other, was the source of the inhuman cries of pain that were filling Usberti’s living room.
Ercan Kavur was naked, which wasn’t a particularly pretty sight. He was lashed securely to the seat of the chair by a rope around his middle. A second length of rope was attached to his ankles, and a third to his wrists, which were outstretched beneath his head. The ropes were tautly connected at a downward angle to makeshift iron rings on the floor, each of which consisted of several thick nails hammered halfway into the boards and bent over to make an inverted U for a rope to pass through, with a strong man keeping up the strain on each end: Groppione and Iacono, both hidden off-camera at opposite sides of the screen. Ugo Bozza, overseeing the proceedings with a completely blank and deadpan expression on his face, could be seen to the left of the frame. The only crew member with little to do was Maurizio Starace. The bulging eyes that were caused by a thyroid disorder were even more manically bugged out than usual as he enjoyed watching the spectacle from the wings while puffing on a cigarette.
The torture was called ‘the German chair’, though as far as Usberti knew it had no particular association with Germany, and its use was popular in various parts of the world by virtue of its sheer simplicity. Why mess about with elaborate equipment when some of the most effective torture methods required only the minimum of basic essentials? The tension on his arms and legs was stretching Kavur backwards over the seat of the chair, arching his spine to breaking point. If the brutal screams were anything to go by, it was causing him appalling pain. Usberti’s understanding of anatomy and physiology was somewhat limited, but even he could see that if the strain on the victim’s arms or legs increased by another inch, it would cause irreversible damage. Or worse. Kavur already wasn’t the world’s most prime specimen of the male sex. God had not blessed him with a fine physique to begin with, and decades of bad diet and deskbound study had atrophied his muscles until he looked as scraggy as a diseased old cat. Any more of this punishment would break him, literally – and Usberti didn’t want Kavur dead. Not just yet.
‘Enough,’ he commanded. Far away in the shanty hovel in Ankara, Ugo Bozza’s stonefish eyes flickered across and down to the laptop on the crate, from which his employer’s face looked up at him. Bozza nodded to Groppione and Iacono, and the tension on both ends of the rope slackened. Kavur gasped, still in tremendous pain, but his back no longer about to snap like a stick of celery.
Usberti stepped closer to the big screen. ‘Look at me, Ercan.’
Slowly, painfully, Ercan Kavur craned his neck to peer at the smaller screen on the Ankara side of the Skype connection. Sweat dripped from his body despite the freezing cold that had his torturers all wrapped up in coats and gloves.
‘You do not want to die, do you, Ercan?’ Usberti said.
A slow, agonised shake of the head. No, Ercan didn’t want to die.
‘Of course you do not. Nor would I wish to inflict such a cruel and untimely end upon a scholar of your calibre. On the contrary, my dear Ercan, I want you alive, fit and healthy, so that we can go on a journey together. A journey of discovery. One that may bring untold rewards. That’s right, Ercan. For you too. You know what journey I am speaking of. You know where the Babylon idol is.’
‘No!’ Kavur managed to gasp through his pain. ‘Nobody knows if—’ a fit of coughing seized and racked him pitifully for a few moments before he could finish. ‘If it even exists.’
Usberti’s face darkened. ‘You are lying to me, Ercan. I warn you, you must never, ever, lie to me. It exists. And you know where it is. You are going to lead us to it. Because if you do not … well, let me show you what. Ugo?’
Bozza needed no further prompting. He stepped around the side of the table. Kavur let out a strangled cry of terror and tried to wriggle away from him, but he couldn’t move. Groppione and Iacono tensioned the ropes just a little more, to prevent the victim from struggling. Kavur hung arched backwards over the raised chair, eye to eye with Bozza. ‘Please,’ he quavered. ‘Whatever it is you’re going to do to me – please!’
From the look in Kavur’s wild eyes, it was easy to imagine what kind of anticipatory terrors were running through his mind. Knives, needles, blowtorches, pincers, all the usual horrors associated with physical mutilation.
But what was coming was worse than any of that.
Bozza’s face remained completely expressionless as he removed first one glove, then the other. He flexed his fingers, rubbed his hands together, then reached out and lightly, almost delicately, ran his fingertips over the clammy flesh of Kavur’s right shoulder. Kavur flinched violently at his touch, but the strain on his arms held him tight.
Bozza slowly moved his fingertips up and across Kavur’s scrawny upside-down upper torso, like a caress, and stopped just at the point where the top of the ribcage met the base of his stringy, wasted right pectoral muscle near the armpit. His fingers seemed to hover there like a concert pianist about to hit the opening notes of a concerto.
‘Ugo’s late, lamented brother was a master at inflicting pain,’ Usberti said. ‘I should know, as Franco was my trusted and loyal servant for many years and I personally witnessed him at work on countless occasions. His methods with the knife and the razor were brutal and highly effective, and earned him a well-deserved reputation in certain quarters as well as the equally deserved moniker “The Inquisitor”. In fact, I doubt whether the torturers of the Spanish Inquisition could have plied their craft as skilfully. But in retrospect, now that poor Franco is no longer with us, I would say that his techniques were somewhat crude, frequently requiring a great deal of cleaning up afterwards. The room would often have to be completely screened with thick plastic sheets. I am sure you can imagine, sparing me from having to enter into graphic descriptions.’
Usberti paused. Bozza hadn’t moved or shown any flicker of expression. He stood there poised for his next command.
Usberti went on: ‘By contrast, what I have learned of Ugo’s skills has persuaded me that his mastery of the art of pain has transcended even that of his elder brother. Even without the use of such crude implements as steel blades, he is capable of elevating the human pain response beyond all imagining, and in this respect has reached a level of virtuosity to which few expert practitioners could aspire. Ugo, perhaps you could offer a small demonstration of your considerable skills to our friend?’
The nerve centre that Bozza had singled out was known to acupressure practitioners as Gall Bladder Point 23 or, to give it its traditional Chinese name, ‘Zhe jin’, meaning ‘flank sinews’. Like all such points, the right application of pressure could be used to heal, or it could be used to inflict pain and damage. A sharp strike or excessive pressure on GB23 could cause liver damage or even death. However, just the right touch could, without inflicting permanent harm, trigger a jolt of the most excruciating agony possible.
And that was exactly what Ugo Bozza now did to Ercan Kavur. He dug his index finger and thumb into the pectoral muscle and mashed the nerve centre in an iron pincer grip. The inhuman scream that burst from Kavur’s lips almost made Groppione and Iacono drop the ends of the rope and clamp their hands over their ears, and this was far from being their first torture.
The scream went on and on, ululating, piercing, bellowing. Bozza held the pressure for a few seconds and then released it. Kavur fell silent and hung there quivering, his breathing com
ing in great shuddering gasps. Sweat pattered the table and the floor like rain. His eyes had rolled up in their sockets so only the whites showed.
‘On a scale of one to ten,’ Usberti said, ‘one being roughly equivalent to the pain from a handful of finely ground sea salt being vigorously rubbed into a raw and open wound, and ten being the most unimaginably hideous torment of Dante’s purgatory at the hands of demons, I would estimate that what you have just experienced was approximately level four. Each successive point of the scale represents a significant increase of agony. The real measure of Ugo’s skill is the effortlessness with which he is able to extract such a response from his victim. He is perfectly able to continue for hours. And we have all night. Shall we now explore what a five would feel like, or would you prefer to talk instead? The choice is entirely yours.’
And it was a choice Kavur wasted no time in making. The information flowed out of him so freely that once he’d started talking, he wouldn’t stop. He told them every last detail of what he’d encrypted into his research notes. And every last detail of his fresh discoveries since making those notes, yet to be written down.
As Kavur talked on the big screen, Massimiliano Usberti listened, and smiled, and paced back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back. Silvano Bellini stood near the window, looking edgy and thoughtful. At last, when the terrified man had given all he had to give, Usberti stopped pacing.
‘So let me make sure I understand this correctly,’ he said. ‘We already know, from having seen them scattered all over the floor of your study, that the Manzini woman was able to locate your research notes. We can equally take it that she must have acquainted herself with their content, being admirably educated herself and quite capable of translating the old Anatolian Turkish that you used as your code. Unfortunately, she is not here to confirm this fact in person, but it is a reasonable assumption to make. Moreover—’ He held up a finger. ‘We also know for a fact, assumptions aside, that her knowledge must necessarily be limited to what she has seen and read. It is impossible that she could have become aware of these further discoveries of which you speak, as they are so fresh that you had not yet committed them to note form. Interesting. Very interesting. In short, what this means is that she believes the idol to be located in Turkey. Which we now know, and she cannot know, is not the case. Or, to put it another way, we have a significant advantage thanks to superior intelligence. Am I correct?’
Too exhausted to utter another word, Kavur just nodded.
Usberti pursed his lips. His eyes gleamed. ‘Very well, here is what we will do. Ugo: you, Luca, Aldo, and Maurizio, all remain where you are. The time has come for me to leave this island. I will travel incognito from Sicily and rendezvous with you in Ankara as soon as possible. Pending my arrival there, you will make the necessary preparations for our journey south to Harran.’
Bellini frowned. ‘But, Excellency, as you just said yourself, the idol is not in Harran.’
‘No, Silvano, it is not,’ Usberti replied with a chuckle. ‘But Hope and Manzini are currently lacking that information. Nor does Hope appreciate how well I know him; how clearly I can anticipate his moves. When they reach Harran they will make their way to the ancient ruins there. Like the soldier he is, Hope’s strategy will be to establish a temporary base as nearby as possible, from which he can determine the whereabouts of the rebel fortress of Ashar the Babylonian. He is by nature independent of spirit and his first instinct will be to locate the fort himself. Whereas Manzini, being both a pragmatist and a woman, will be more inclined to seek local assistance in the matter. In his foolish gentlemanly way, Hope will relent rather than force his own inclinations on a female. Thus, after some discussion, they will doubtless opt for her way of thinking and make inquiries to find a guide in the town of Harran who can convey them to the site.’
‘You confuse me, Excellency. You speak as though you knew exactly where this fortress can be found.’
‘My dear young friend, as ever you are one step behind me. Be assured, I have precious little interest in either the fort itself or its location. My sole concern lies in ensuring that Hope and Manzini are brought somewhere conveniently remote, and very private. The perfect location for us to strike.’
On that note, Usberti cracked a broad, toothy smile and turned to the big screen, where Bozza, Iacono, Groppione, and Starace had gathered in a group, all peering down at the webcam and waiting for their instructions. Starace looked like a mad Pekingese.
Usberti said, ‘Gentlemen, get ready for the final phase of our plan.’
‘What about him?’ Iacono asked, pointing at Kavur.
And Usberti told them what to do.
Chapter 44
‘It’s me.’
‘I know it’s you. There’s something nowadays called caller ID, you know? Anyway, you don’t have to keep phoning me all the time. I told you I’d be in touch if there was a change.’
‘Which there hasn’t been?’
‘He’s stable. But there’s no improvement in his condition. I wish I could tell you more, but that’s it.’
‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you. I won’t call again.’
‘No problem.’ A hesitant pause in her voice, then: ‘I like it when you call.’
He said nothing.
‘When are you coming back?’ she asked.
‘I can’t say.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘Stopped for fuel at a motorway services in the Urus Mountains, about three hundred kilometres south-east of Ankara, Turkey.’
‘What are you doing there? What’s happening?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘That’s what I was afraid you’d say. Don’t do anything—’
‘Stupid? You already said that.’
‘Or whatever.’
‘You want to come and hold my hand?’
‘I would, but I’m too busy holding Jeff’s.’
‘Keep doing that. Talk to him. He’ll hear you.’
‘It’s your voice he needs to hear. Come back soon, okay? I’m worried about you.’
‘Why?’ he asked her.
‘I don’t know why. I hardly know you.’ Another pause, longer this time, as if she was searching for more words but didn’t want to commit to saying them. ‘Just come back soon, okay?’ she repeated. ‘And promise me you’ll look after yourself, Ben.’
He put the phone away and got back in the car. ‘Here, I got us some sandwiches,’ he said to Anna, holding up two plastic packs. ‘Lamb or cheese?’ She picked the cheese. They sat in silence for a moment, ripping open the plastic twin-packs, both just now realising how hungry they were. Anna wolfed down half of her first sandwich with little care for ladylike manners, then paused for breath and asked, ‘Who were you talking to just then?’
‘Sandrine Lacombe, the doctor looking after Jeff.’
‘That’s who I thought it was. I take it there’s been no change in your friend’s state?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Me too.’
‘I wish there was more I could say.’
‘I know.’
‘He’ll pull through it, I’m sure.’
‘Maybe,’ Ben said. ‘Thanks for the thought.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Anna said, and then a small smile curled the corners of her lips. ‘She likes you, doesn’t she? And you like her, too.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Ben said through a mouthful of lamb sandwich.
‘I can tell. From your face when you talk to her.’
‘What about my face?’ he said, hardening it into a scowl.
‘It certainly doesn’t look the way it does now. The opposite. And I could tell from the warmth of your voice when you were talking to her. And from the way you didn’t want to end the call.’ Anna smiled. ‘Is she nice? Tell me about her. What colour eyes does she have? What colour hair?’
‘This is a daft conversation,’ he said, tossed away the empty sandwich pack and tw
isted the ignition. The battery was fully recharged from all the driving, and the engine fired instantly.
A hundred kilometres further down the road he broke his silence and said, ‘Blue eyes. Blond hair. Don’t ask me any more questions about her.’ Anna made no reply. The little smile on her face remained there for a long time.
The old car was sedate, but it was comfortable and reliable, and the heater worked fine. Anna dozed off now and then, while Ben smoked the last of his cigarettes with the driver’s window wound open a crack and the icy wind whistling at his ear. As the journey rolled further southwards they left the snow and the mountains behind for the more temperate climate of south-eastern Turkey. It was still cold, but the roads were clear and the sky was blue.
Six hours after setting off from the hills of Ankara, they were arriving in Sanliurfa. A city of half a million inhabitants, built on a plain eighty kilometres east of the Euphrates. Anna knew it as the birthplace of some twelfth-century Armenian historian she mentioned. Ben knew it as the site of massacres during the First World War. Then again, just about everywhere had been the site of massacres during the First World War, like the second, and most likely the third too.
By the time they were driving into the city, Anna’s mood had changed and she was looking sombre. ‘What were we thinking? Now we’re here, I have no idea what to do next.’
‘One thing at a time,’ Ben told her. ‘First let’s see about getting you kitted out with some decent shoes and clothes. Then we’ll think about establishing a base somewhere nearby, preferably as close to Harran as possible. Then, we’ll worry about what we’re going to do next.’
They might have had different ideas about what constituted decent shoes and clothes, but thanks to the limited options available in the stores they checked out, it was Ben’s that mostly prevailed. She stalked out of the store wearing leather winter boots, heavy denim jeans and a good, warm, if utilitarian, thigh-length jacket that padded out her figure with thick quilting. She was grateful for being able to junk the pink wellingtons, but the new coat wasn’t such a hit. ‘It’s like something you’d put on a horse,’ she said, looking disapprovingly at her shapeless reflection in a shop window. ‘Is this meant to be part of my re-education? Learning to live the Ben Hope way?’
The Babylon Idol Page 24
