He would have guessed that the room was an old wine cellar or some similar type of underground storeroom, if it hadn’t been for the items that had been theatrically arranged throughout the cell.
In the far corner, he recognized the unmistakable shape of an iron maiden, so called because of the unsmiling female face that decorated its exterior, unkempt hair trailing, some said, like a gorgon. Shaped like an upright sarcophagus and standing about six feet tall, it opened down the middle to reveal an inside filled with iron spikes. Its unfortunate victims would be placed inside and the two doors shut so as to impale them. In a sadistic refinement, the spikes were carefully positioned to avoid vital organs and so prolong the agony.
The walls were studded with similarly grotesque items. A blunt-looking heretic’s fork, large thumbscrews and some rusty cat’s-paws were just some of the items Tom recognized. Suspended from the ceiling, the thick chains of a Judas cradle swung gently in an unseen breeze.
The sound of approaching footsteps broke into his thoughts and he snapped his eyes toward the door as it gently eased open.
Darius Van Simson strode into the room, followed by two men, one wiry and thin, the other short and square. All three were still dressed in black combat fatigues. Clearly, they had not been back long.
“Tom, Tom, Tom.” Van Simson shook his head and tutted like a disappointed parent as he looked from the pool of vomit to Tom still huddled on the floor. “I’m sorry, really I am. That it should come to this. It’s not what I wanted.”
“Spare me your sympathy, Darius,” said Tom weakly. “By the way, nice place you’ve got down here.”
Van Simson smiled stonily.
“I’m reliably informed that this is the original torture chamber of the jail that stood on this site in the fifteenth century, before they knocked it down and built my house.”
So they were in Paris, Tom now knew. That was a five-hour flight from Istanbul even in Van Simson’s private jet. With a car journey at each end, that meant that at least six or seven hours must have passed since he’d been caught.
“I discovered it during the restoration work and thought I would recommission it. For historical reasons, of course. The items you see displayed here are all authentic.”
“What are you playing at, Darius? If the FBI isn’t on to you yet, they soon will be. And you’ve got Cassius to contend with now.” At Cassius’s name Van Simson’s back had stiffened slightly. Quickly he relaxed into another grudging smile.
“I see you share your father’s fighting spirit,” he observed.
“You leave my father out of this,” Tom snapped.
“And you also share his inability to mind your own fucking business.” The spittle flew from Van Simson’s mouth as he spoke, momentarily staining the floor black where it landed on the dusty flagstones.
“You made it my business when you killed Harry,” Tom yelled back, his strength returning to him.
“Harry? Harry Renwick? Is that what this is about? Oh, you should have said. We could have avoided all this unpleasantness. That was nothing to do with me. All I wanted was the coins. All I’ve ever wanted was the coins. I let that slimy bastard Ranieri slip through my fingers, but when I heard all five were going to be sold off I made my move. You should have kept out of it. It was a private party and you weren’t invited.”
“And you were?” Tom gave a short laugh.
“You think I’m worried? By Jean-Pierre Dumas’s eager little helpers scuttling around outside my house? They’ve got nothing. By the FBI? Well, that’s why you’re still alive, Tom. When they find out that Agent Browne’s dead and that the coins have disappeared for good, I think they’re going to be pretty interested in talking to you. I’m going to gift wrap you and hand you over myself. I might even tell them I caught you trying to break in here just to spice it up some more.” Van Simson’s mouth twisted into a cruel smile at the look on Tom’s face. “Oh, I’m sorry. You didn’t know, did you? I flushed out your little rabbit hole. I’m afraid she’s gone. Along with any alibi you might have had.”
With a sudden cry of fury, Tom lunged at Van Simson. But before he could cover the few feet between them, he was overpowered by the two guards who leaped onto him. The two men pinned Tom’s arms to his side and sat him up with his back to the wall.
“You will have to excuse me, Tom, but I am expecting someone,” said Van Simson as he reached up and unhooked a large metal object off the wall.
Tom recognized what he was holding. A scold’s bridle: A large cage made to lock around its victim’s head and prevent its unfortunate wearer from speaking by jamming a metal protrusion into their mouth.
“Husbands used to put these on their nagging wives,” said Van Simson as the two guards forced the cage over Tom’s head. “Let’s see if it cools your tongue. And your temper.” The lock clicked shut as he turned the key.
Tom tried to shout as Van Simson and his two guards left the room, but the thick metal tongue piece dug sharply into the back of his throat and he began to gag.
One thing was clear to Tom. He had to get out and he had to get out fast. Before Van Simson changed his mind and returned to try out any more of his sadistic toys.
Running both hands around his neck, he soon found the lock positioned on the right-hand side of the cage. He felt a glimmer of hope. Van Simson, in his commitment to authenticity, had not replaced the original, rather rudimentary lock with a more modern one. Grabbing the metal fork off the tray of congealed food on the floor next to him, he bent one of its prongs out and then back in on itself to make a small hook.
Inserting the bent prong into the lock opening, Tom moved it carefully around, feeling his way through the springs and levers until with a sudden click, the mechanism popped open. He lifted the cage off his head with relief, massaging his jaw and moving his tongue around in his mouth to get the circulation back, spitting flecks of paint and rusty metal out onto the floor.
Struggling to his feet, he made his way over to the door. This was not so hopeful. Here Van Simson had not compromised, fitting a complex electronic lock that would require specialist equipment to open. Equipment that Tom didn’t have.
Across the room, half lost in the semidarkness, the iron maiden leered at him pitilessly.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
The banging from the cell resonated down the corridor. At first the guard, the shorter, squatter one of the two men that had accompanied Van Simson, ignored it, burying his nose deeper into the newspaper. But as the incessant bone-jarring crashing of metal upon metal grew louder and louder, he threw increasingly angry glances toward the cell.
Finally, a renewed barrage caught him unawares and made him spill his coffee down his front, the scalding liquid soaking into his black combat trousers. He swore, swung his feet down off his narrow desk, threw the paper down on his seat, and stomped toward the cell.
The crashing abruptly stopped and the guard smiled, loosening his new IMI Barak combat handgun from his underarm holster. He had been around long enough to know when people were trying to be cute. But that was fine. If they wanted to play games, he’d show them a good time. He knew how to party.
He turned a key in the lock and as it clicked open he kicked the cell door open with the heel of his foot. The heavy steel door flew back on its hinges and slammed into the wall with a shuddering crash. That would take care of anyone hiding behind the door. He wasn’t falling for that old trick.