Centuries ago, when so raised, the door served as a bridge over which medieval archers marched to battle stations on parapets along the wall. When lowered, it sealed the portal from enemy hordes, and—bridge thus removed — prevented invaders who scaled the walls from crossing into the castle proper.
The first group of horses to be auctioned, each with numbered tag affixed, had been massed behind the door. Now, they galloped dramatically through the suddenly opened door and down a ramp into the arena.
Borsa waved to the applauding crowd and began walking toward the entrance to his private box.
“Giancarlo? Giancarlo, you’re leaving us already?” one of the wealthy bidders asked.
“I must phone Geneva,” he said, making up an excuse. “I may have to return this afternoon.”
Fausto’s black Maserati approached the gatehouse at the entrance to the stable area. When the guard didn’t appear, Fausto drove through, and Andrew got out to ask a groom for directions to Borsa’s stables.
A taxi came to a stop a distance down the street behind the amphitheater. Gorodin paid the driver and strolled casually toward the gatehouse. Tapes of Andrew’s calls made prior to discovery of the bug revealed he would be meeting Borsa at the amphitheater, and the connection to Geneva caused Gorodin to decide to maintain distant surveillance.
Andrew waved to Fausto to remain parked, and began walking down the dirt road, lined with horse vans.
Kovlek was positioned behind the line of vehicles, from where he could keep an eye on Dominica’s van — the guard and stableboy imprisoned inside — as well as the entrance to Borsa’s stables. Anyone but Andrew would have been stopped. Kovlek had the dictum of noninterference drummed into him by Zeitzev and Gorodin, and let him enter unchallenged.
Andrew was crossing to the staircase inside the stables when one of the Arabians snorted, getting his attention. He detoured to the stall and was rubbing a palm over the spirited animal’s coat when he heard footsteps and turned to see two hooded figures coming down the stairs with Borsa and Melanie. Both carried handguns, and one also had a small gym bag.
Andrew’s adrenalin surged, prickling his skin. Terrorists! he thought as he ducked behind the Arabian. Terrorists are kidnapping Italy’s Defense Minister! They stopped on a landing halfway down the stairs. Melanie turned in protest as they prodded her through a door, and for a brief instant, her eyes caught Andrew’s in an anguished plea.
Andrew could feel the silent terror in them. He waited until the door closed, then hurried to a phone on the wall of the stable, and dialed the operator.
“Pronto? Che cosa vuole?”
“Yes, please the police! Get me the police!” he said in an urgent whisper.
“Ah, si, polizia. Vuole Carabinieri? Vigili Urbani? Questura? O Polizia Stradele?” the operator asked, running down the list of police organizations.
“The police! Emergency, I have an emergency!”
There was a click, and then a man’s weary voice growled, “Pronto, Polizia Stradele”—The operator translated emergency to accident, and connected Andrew with the traffic police—“Voi avete un incidente?”
“This is an emergency. There’s a kidnapping in progress at the amphitheater. Terrorists are—”
“Scuse, signore,” the officer interrupted. “Non capisco l’ingelese. C’e qualcuno qui la parla Italiano?”
Andrew groaned in frustration and hung up. He started to the entrance, intending to alert Fausto. But he realized the terrorists might be long gone with their hostages by then. He reversed direction, dashed to the landing, and slipped through the door, finding himself at the base of a staircase. Distant footsteps and voices came from above. He climbed the stairs that led to a maze of maintenance passageways built within the stone caverns to service utility and climate control systems in the private boxes and stables. Then catching up, he watched as they went up a short run of stairs and through a door.
Andrew laid back momentarily, then advanced to find it locked, and came back down the stairs. The system of chains and counterweights that operated the castle’s big stone door filled the space around him. Service platforms connected by a network of catwalks were suspended at various levels. He climbed onto one of them and saw the terrorists prodding their hostages along the parapet above the door. Borsa angrily yanked an arm free as they moved behind it. They were out of Andrew’s view now, but he could hear them arguing in Italian. Their voices echoed through the vaulted cavern amidst sounds of pushing and shoving and the clatter of hooves as horses thundered into the arena far below.
Andrew dashed to the end of a catwalk, and craned up to see heads, shoulders, arms, the brusque movement of figures scuffling — scuffling directly on the face of the horizontal stone door above. Then he heard a loud groan, and a thud, and a woman screaming, and a gunshot. He grasped one of the cables that suspended the catwalks, and climbed up onto the railing. Another shot rang out as he stretched upward, peering just over the edge of the stone slab.
But he couldn’t get onto the slab from the catwalk. Even if he could, the terrorists were armed. Andrew studied the immense mechanism around him, the function of the parts simple and clear. The hawser hung just out of reach. He leaped from the railing, clutching at the coarse hemp with his arms and legs, sliding down a ways before getting a purchase. His weight started the counterweights moving, and the massive stone door began closing.
Melanie took advantage of the distraction and sent one of the terrorists sprawling across the door with a shove, weapon skittering off the edge. The other scrambled to get back onto the parapet before the door dropped too far below it. Melanie ran in the opposite direction, to the high end of the slowly tilting surface, the remaining terrorist crawling after her. Melanie jumped down a long distance to a service platform, landing on her feet, and rolling into a shoulder tumble to break her fall. The hooded figure landed behind her, came up standing, and came at her.
Melanie dashed right beneath Andrew, who was coming down the hawser. He let go, driving both feet into the terrorist who went over the railing, falling into the herd of Arabians thundering into the arena below.
Andrew landed on the platform next to Melanie, grasped her hand, and led the way to a door at the far end of one of the catwalks.
It was exactly noon. The prism in the tower projected a brilliant beam of light across the arena above the prancing Arabians onto the stone door, right on schedule.
The spectators began shrieking in horror.
There on the slowly closing slab — his head centered in the spotlight, leonine mane aglow, arms painfully outstretched, palms pierced by the spikes driven into the thousand-year-old stone by Silvio’s Ram-set, there, like Christ crucified, naked against the hard slab — hung Gian-carlo Borsa.
He was unconscious. Blood ran down the stone from his palms in long streaks. A sign proclaiming PACE MONDIALE was affixed above his head.
The TV crew had come down the staircase from the balcony, and was running between the horses. The cameraman dropped to one knee in front of the stone door, and began recording the event for the evening news. Paparazzi surged around him, shouting in Italian, pushing, shoving, maneuvering for the best angle.
Andrew and Melanie were coming through a door from the catwalk into the maintenance passageways. The remaining terrorist ran past spotting them, whirled on the move, and opened fire. Andrew and Melanie took cover behind an abutment, the rounds chipped into the stone until the pistol clicked empty and the hooded figure ran. Andrew pursued.