They made it into France and as far as an autoroute service station beyond Lyon before Bronson finally admitted defeat.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but that’s it. If I try to drive any further I’m going to fall asleep at the wheel.’
‘There’s no hotel here,’ Angela pointed out, ‘so shall we just stay in the car?’
‘Unless you’ve a real problem with that, yes. I just need to close my eyes for a few hours, and then we can get on the road again.’
They ate the last of the sandwiches Angela had bought at the airport in Milan, then reclined their seats as far back as they would go and closed their eyes.
Bronson was snoring in minutes.
24
Stephen Taverner had enjoyed a much more comfortable time. The bedroom in the hotel was a decent size with a surprisingly luxurious en suite bathroom. The facilities passed him by, though, as all he could think about was getting some sleep.
In fact, he didn’t get anything like as long a sleep as he had been hoping: just after nine thirty that morning he was awakened by a knock at the door, and he stumbled over somewhat groggily to find out who it was. When he peered through the security spy hole he saw a man standing there in a white coat with a laden trolley beside him.
‘I didn’t order room service,’ Stephen said.
The waiter replied to him through the closed door in passable English.
‘I know that, sir,’ he said, ‘but we have a problem in the dining room and so all our guests are receiving a complimentary breakfast in their suites.’
For a second or two Stephen hesitated, the lure of the still-warm sheets in the bed competing with the appetizing prospect of fresh coffee and warm pastries. Then he released the safety chain on the door and turned the handle.
The instant he did so, the door was pushed open violently from the corridor, the side of it catching him a glancing blow on his head, which sent him staggering and tumbling to the floor. By the time he had recovered his senses, the waiter had pushed his way into the room along with the trolley, and was standing looking down at him, the white coat discarded behind him. Another man, heavily built, wearing a dark suit and exuding an air of menace, stood beside him, and both of them were holding automatic pistols of some kind, each equipped with a bulky suppressor. Behind the duo stood another figure, much smaller and slight. He, too, was dressed in a black suit that even to Stephen’s untutored, and at that moment also largely unfocused, eyes, looked extremely expensive.
Stephen glanced to one side, wondering if he could possibly escape, but the room door was already closed and the security chain in place. The lethal inevitability of the situation dawned on him and filled him with panic.
For several long seconds, none of the three men spoke, just stared down at the frightened archaeologist, their expressions impassive. Then the small man stepped out from behind his two companions and took a pace forward.
‘My name is Mario, and I have been asked to obtain some information from you, Mr Taverner.’ His voice was soft and refined, his English perfectly fluent. ‘If you wish to avoid a considerable amount of pain it will be in your own interests to tell me what I need to know. Matters like this can always be handled in at least two ways, and I’m extending to you the courtesy of letting you choose which.’
Taverner suddenly felt a warm dampness at his groin and realized that he had wet himself, the unmistakable menace implicit in what the man had just said simply terrifying him. He also realized in that moment of crystal clarity that he really should have taken Bronson’s advice and registered at the hotel under a false name and paid for the room in cash. But he had been mentally and physically exhausted when he’d arrived and hadn’t really taken Chris’s words very seriously — handing over his credit card and signing in with his real name had just seemed easier all round.
The man who’d been wearing the waiter’s jacket noticed the change in colour of the pyjama bottoms Stephen was wearing, and a smirk appeared on his face.
‘What do you want to know?’ The archaeologist’s voice quivered with emotion. ‘I’ll tell you anything I can. Anything I know,’ he added.
‘I know you will,’ Mario replied. ‘That has never been in any doubt. Let me start very simply by asking if you know where I can find’ — he broke off for a moment to look at a piece of paper he took from his pocket — ‘a woman called Angela Lewis?’
Stephen shook his head and the small man’s face changed instantly, the indifferent, slightly benign, expression replaced by one of unmistakable hostility.
‘Do you mean you don’t know or you won’t tell me?’ he asked. ‘There is an important difference.’
‘No, no,’ Stephen stammered. ‘I really don’t know. I mean, I know what she intended to do, but I’ve no idea where she is at the moment.’
‘Don’t try to be clever with me, Taverner. Just answer the question. I’m asking you politely at the moment, but that can always change. In an instant.’
‘Look,’ Stephen said, ‘all I know is that Angela and her ex-husband decided not to fly back to Britain but to drive there. I couldn’t face doing that — I was just too tired — so I came to this hotel to get some sleep and then fly back this afternoon. I don’t know if they hired a car and are still driving or if they’ve stopped to sleep in a hotel. Or they might have changed their minds and stayed somewhere here, or even taken a train out of Italy. I really don’t know.’
He was babbling in his eagerness to convince his unwelcome visitors that he was telling the truth.
‘We flew together from Kuwait City to Alexandria, then from Cairo to Sharm el-Sheikh and finally to Milan, but we separated in the arrivals hall at the airport. The last time I saw them they were standing together and talking. But I swear I have no idea where they are now.’
The three black-suited men stared down at Stephen, and for a moment or two none of them responded. Then Mario nodded.
‘This woman’s husband, or ex-husband, I think you said. Does he have a name?’ he asked, taking a pen from his pocket and preparing to write on the paper he was still holding.
‘Yes, yes. His name is Chris Bronson.’ Stephen didn’t even hesitate in implicating Bronson.
‘Spell that for me.’
Stephen did so, and the small man put away both the paper and the pen.
‘That’s better than nothing,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘If he hired a car, he must have used a credit card and produced his driving licence. We can work on that.’
He reached back into his pocket, took out the piece of paper again, wrote something else on it, then tore off a strip and handed it to one of the men standing behind him. He switched to rapid-fire Italian, clearly issuing instructions, and when he’d finished the man nodded once, holstered his pistol after removing the suppressor, and left the room.
After the door had closed behind him, Mario glanced around the room before looking back at Stephen’s cowering figure.
‘Do you have a camera, Mr Taverner?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘It’s a simple enough question. Just answer it. Do you have a camera?’
‘Yes, I do. It’s in my case, over there.’
‘And I see your laptop is already out and on the desk. Good.’
Mario looked back at Stephen.
‘There’s just one other answer I need from you,’ he said. Then he asked another question that made no sense at all to the frightened archaeologist.
‘Yes, of course,’ Stephen replied when he realized that the Italian was expecting an answer. ‘We all did,’ he added.