The Italian hesitated, so he gestured and his associate tugged on the rope, which began to lift the man’s arms up, his body rising from a squat and becoming more deadweight. So the Italian scrambled up to his feet.
“No. No. Stop. Please.”
“Answer my question.”
“My grandfather was there. In Dongo, when they found Il Duce. He helped sort out the papers from the satchels, and he kept some of them.”
“Why?”
“He thought one day they could be sold.”
“What did he do with them?”
“Nothing. He just kept them. My father had them next, then they came to me.”
“How many documents do you have?”
“Fifty-five pages. All inside one of the original satchels, which he kept, too.”
He fished his left hand into his pant pocket and removed the ring. “And did your grandfather find this, too?”
The Italian nodded.
It had galled him to see it in the villa, displayed inside one of the armoires as some curiosity.
He’d promptly liberated the sacred object.
“Do you have any idea what this is?” he asked, holding the ring’s pewter face up for the man to see.
No reply.
“Do these five words mean anything to you? Does the ring mean anything to you?”
He motioned for the rope to be tugged a couple of times.
“I have no idea,” the man cried out, getting the message. “Only that it bears the Maltese cross inside. My grandfather told me it came from one of the satchels. That’s why I have it. A memento.”
Only a few people in the world knew the ring’s true significance, and clearly this greedy soul was one of them.
A background check had revealed that this man had lived above Lake Como all of his life in a villa that his family had owned since the 17th century. It wasn’t anything extravagant, similar to hundreds of others surrounding the lake. His prisoner dealt in antiques, usually buying from cash-strapped estates, but was not above stealing. No surprise that he was in possession of missing World War II documents.
He gestured and his associate tightened the rope more. The arms were about at their natural limit before the onslaught of excruciating pain, the man’s feet still planted on the ground.
“A memento of what?” he asked, motioning with the ring.
“Il Duce. He had it with him. It bears the cross inside, but I don’t know what it means.”
“You never tried to find out.”
A shake of the head. “Never.”
He wondered whether to believe him.
“There are so many who still worship Mussolini,” the owner said. “I know people who think he was a great man. My hope was that, one day, people like that would pay for mementos.”
The Italian’s breath was short, his voice fast and weak.
“And what do you think of the former great leader?”
“I care nothing for politics. None of that matters to me.”
He pointed a finger. “I suppose only money is your god.”
No reply.
“The British have no intention of buying your documents,” he said. “It was foolish of you to contact them. They have a man, right now, inside your villa, surely there to steal them.”
Fortunately, at the moment that operative was detained by some of the local wildlife.
“Where have you hidden the satchel containing those fifty-five pages of documents, including the letters you wanted to sell?”
“In the villa. On the third floor.”
Finally, some cooperation.
He listened as the Italian described the hiding place.
“Ingenious,” he said, when the explanation ended. “Is everything there?”
The man nodded. “All I have.”
He wondered if Malone knew that information, too.
He gestured and his man relaxed the pressure on the rope, which allowed the arms to drop down.
The villa’s owner sighed from relief.
“Why did you not display the letters?” he asked. “As you did the ring.”
“My father told me that it might be risky. He said we should hold on to them quietly, until others were willing to pay.”
“So why sell now?”
“I need money. I read an article in a magazine about Churchill and Mussolini that speculated about the letters. I decided, why speculate. I have them. So I called the British.”
“What was to be your price?”
“Five million euros.”
For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evils. It is through this craving that some have wandered away from the faith and pierced themselves with many pangs.
The Bible was right.
He hated greed.
Enough.
This endeavor had run its course.
He raised his arm and shot the owner in the head.
A sound suppressor at the end of the barrel made sure the round drew no attention. Just a pop that could not be heard beyond a few meters. This fool should have realized that the only bargaining chip he had was the hiding place. But fear stymied reason, and people always thought they could talk their way out of things.
“Do it,” he said to his associate.
The body was hauled up, the dead man’s arms wrenched hard backward. He heard a crack as the shoulders separated. Then the rope was tied around the trunk, the corpse dangling awkwardly in the air, as a reminder, just as had been done centuries ago.
Deuteronomy was right.
Vengeance is mine, and retribution. In due time their foot will slip. For the day of their calamity is near, and the impending things are hastening upon them.
He grabbed the binoculars and stepped back to where he could again see the villa below. The only disturbance came from the morning breeze hissing through the conifers, tugging at his clothes. His second problem was still perched on the third-floor ledge.
The bear was not in sight.
He lowered the binoculars.
That animal was about to be the least of Harold Earl “Cotton” Malone’s concerns.
CHAPTER THREE
Cotton stood rock-still on the ledge. The bear had disappeared back inside the villa, but he could hear the animal rustling around. There was a second open window, beyond the one from which he’d escaped, that offered an opportunity to flee his perch and go back inside. But that would mean passing by the bear’s window, which did not seem like a good idea.
He strained his weight back on the balls of his feet, hands pressed tight to the wall, trying not to lose his balance. To his left, the tip of a gabled roof from a first-floor offshoot rose to a pitch. The jump down was about eight feet. He could make that. Since it seemed the only course available he sidestepped his way across the cornice, reaching a clawing hand around the corner and making the turn, keeping his body flat against the exterior wall.
He sucked in a few deep breaths.
Good thing Cassiopeia wasn’t here. She hated heights as much as he hated enclosed spaces. He used thoughts of her to take his mind off his current predicament. He missed her. Their relationship was in a good place. They’d finally made peace with all of their demons. She was in France, working on her 13th-century castle reconstruction. They were scheduled to get together next week for a few days of fun in Nice. In the meantime he’d agreed to this supposed cakewalk of a job—an easy 50,000 euros—that had turned into anything but.