With the ensuing vendetta against him, Franco Bozza was exiled from Sardinia. He travelled around southern Italy, bumming from job to job. But his lust for inflicting pain was never far away, and before the age of twenty-four his talents were being put to good use by Mafia hoods who employed him to press information out of their captured enemies. Franco Bozza was a natural, and his fearsome reputation soon spread through the criminal underworld as an exceptionally callous and cold-hearted torturer. When it came to prolonging life and maximizing agony, he was the undisputed maestro.
When Bozza–or the Inquisitor, as he now styled himself–wasn’t performing his art on some hapless criminal he’d stalk the streets at night and prey on prostitutes, luring them to their death with his whispering voice. Their pitiful remains began to appear in dingy hotel rooms all over southern Italy. Rumours spread of a ‘monster’, a maniac who feasted on pain and death the way a vampire feasted on blood. But the Inquisitor always covered his tracks. His police record was as virginal as his sexuality.
One day in 1997 Franco Bozza got an unexpected phone call–not from the usual underworld kingpin or Mafia boss, but from a Vatican bishop.
It was through the shadows of the underworld that Massimiliano Usberti had heard of this Inquisitor. The man’s notorious religious zeal, his absolute devotion to God and his unflinching will to punish the wicked, were just the qualities Usberti wanted for his new organization. When Bozza heard what his role was to be, he seized the opportunity right away. It was perfect for him.
The organization was called Gladius Domini. The Sword of God.
Franco Bozza had just become its blade.
Paris
‘Hello–put me through to Monsieur Loriot, please?’
‘He is away on business at the moment, sir,’ replied the secretary. ‘He won’t be back until December.’
‘But I got a call from him just yesterday.’
‘I’m afraid that isn’t possible,’ the secretary said testily. ‘He’s been in America for a month.’
‘Sorry to bother you,’ Ben said. ‘Obviously I’ve been misinformed. Could you tell me if Monsieur Loriot is still living at the Villa Margaux in Brignancourt?’
‘Brignancourt? No, Monsieur Loriot lives here in Paris. I think you must have the wrong number. Good day.’ The line went dead.
It was clear now. Loriot hadn’t called him at all-the train hit had been someone else’s idea. Just as he’d thought. It was too improbable.
He sat and smoked, thinking about it. The evidence pointed in a new direction. He’d called Loriot’s office from Roberta’s place. Michel Zardi had been in the room with him, listened in, taken his number. He’d gone straight out through the door soon afterwards–to buy fish for his cat. Yeah, and to pass the number on to his cronies, too. So they’d called him back pretending to be Loriot. It was a risk–what if the real Loriot had called back too? Maybe they’d checked first that he was out of town.
It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it had been good enough. Ben had let himself get picked up like an apple off a tree, and only Roberta’s chance intervention had saved him from being smeared over a hundred metres of railway line. Without her, they’d still be spooning him out of the cracks in the sleepers.
Was he slipping? This couldn’t happen again.
It also meant that the same people who were after Roberta Ryder were after him too. They meant business, and that, like it or not, drew Ben and her together.
He’d been awake since dawn and had been pondering all morning what to do with her. The day before, he’d been thinking that he’d have to ditch her, pay her off, force her to return to the States. But maybe he’d been wrong. She might be able to help him. She wanted to find out what was going on, and so did he. And he sensed that for the moment she wanted to stick by him, partly out of fear, partly out of fierce curiosity. But that wouldn’t last if he went on keeping her in the dark, freezing her out, not trusting her.
He sat on his bed and thought about it until he heard her moving about in the next room. He stood up and pushed open the door. She was stretching and yawning, the rumpled bedclothes heaped up on the floor at her feet. Her hair was tousled.
‘I’m making coffee, and then I’m getting out of here,’ he said. ‘The door’s open. You’re free to go.’
She looked at him, said nothing.
‘Time to decide,’ he said. ‘Are you staying or leaving?’
‘If I stay, I have to stay with you.’
He nodded. ‘We have a lot of figuring out to do. And we need to do this my way.’
Are we trusting one another now?’
‘I suppose we are,’ he said.
‘I’m staying.’
He walked along the row of used cars, casting his eye over each one in turn. Something quick and practical. Not too ostentatious, not too distinctive. ‘What about this one?’ he asked, pointing.
The mechanic wiped his hands on his overall, leaving parallel oil smears down the blue cloth. ‘She is one year old, perfect condition. How you paying?’
Ben patted his pocket. ‘Cash all right?’
Ten minutes later Ben was gunning the silver Peugeot 206 Sport along Avenue de Gravelle towards the main Paris ring-road.
‘Well, for a journalist you sure seem to throw a lot of money around, Ben,’ Roberta said next to him.
‘OK, time for the truth. I’m not a journalist,’ he confessed, slowing down for the heavy traffic on the approach to the Périphérique.
‘Ha. Knew it.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Am I allowed to know what you do do, Mr. Benedict Hope? That your real name, by the way?’
‘It’s my real name.’
‘It’s a nice name.’
‘Too nice for a guy like me?’
She smiled. ‘I didn’t say that.’ ‘As for what I do,’ he said, ‘I suppose you could say I’m a seeker.’ He filtered through the traffic, waited for a gap, and the acceleration of the sporty little car pressed them back in their seats as its fruity engine note rose to a pleasing pitch.
‘A seeker of what? Trouble?’
‘Well, yes, sometimes I’m a seeker of trouble,’ he said, allowing a dry smile. ‘But I wasn’t expecting as much trouble this time.’
‘So what are you seeking? And why come to me?’
‘You really want to know?’
‘I really want to know.’
‘I’m trying to find the alchemist Fulcanelli.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘Riiight… Uh-huh. Go on.’
‘Well, what I’m really looking for is a manuscript he was supposed to have had, or written–I don’t know much about it.’
‘The Fulcanelli manuscript–that old myth.’
‘You’ve heard of it?’
‘Sure, I’ve heard of it. But you hear a lot of things in this business.’
‘You don’t think it exists.’
She shrugged. ‘Who knows? It’s like the holy grail of alchemy. Some say it does, some say it doesn’t, nobody knows what