.' 'I have a plane to catch. I'm going back to Athens.' She watched him start toward the steps. till leave the light on for you so you can watch it happen.' A moment later, Catherine heard the heavy basement door close and the snap of the outside bolt and then there was silence. She was alone. She looked up at the dial on the boiler. It was rapidly moving up. As she watched, it went from 160 degrees to 170 degrees and kept moving. She fought desperately to free her hands but the more she pulled, the tighter the bonds became. She looked up again The dial had reached 180 degrees and was climbing. There was no way out. None.
Alan Hamilton was driving down Wimpole Street like a madman, cutting in and out of traffic, ignoring the yells and blaring of horns from irate drivers. The way ahead was blocked. He turned left and into Portland Place and headed toward Oxford Circus Traffic was heavier here, slowing him down.
In the basement at 217 Bond Street, the needle on the boiler had climbed to 200 degrees. The basement was becoming warm.
The traffic was almost at a standstill. People were headed home, to dinner, to the theater. Alan Hamilton sat at the wheel of his car, frustrated. Should I have called the police? But what good would it have done? A neurotic patient of mine thinks someone is going to be murdered? The police would have laughed. No, I have to get to her. The traffic began to move again.
In the basement, the needle was climbing upward to 300. The room was becoming unbearably hot. She tried to free her hands again and her wrists were rubbed raw, but the rope stayed tight.
He turned into Oxford Street, speeding through a pedestrian lane with two old women crossing. In back of him, he heard a shrill police whistle. For an instant, he was tempted to stop and enlist help. But there was no time to explain. He kept driving At an intersection a huge truck pulled out, blocking his way Alan Hamilton honked impatiently. He leaned his head out the window. 'Move it!' The truck driver turned to look at him. 'What's the matter, mate, you going to a fire?' The traffic had become a snarl of cars. When it finally cleared, Alan Hamilton started to drive again, racing toward Bond Street A trip that should have taken ten minutes had taken him almost half an hour In the basement, the needle climbed to 400 degrees. Finally, blessedly, the building was in sight. Alan Hamilton pulled his car over to the curb across the street and slammed on the brakes. He threw open the door and hurried out of the car As he started to run toward the building, he stopped in horror The ground shook as the entire building exploded like a giant bomb, filling the air with flame and debris. And death.
Chapter
31
Atanas Stavich was feeling terribly aroused. Taking care of a contract always did that to him. He made it a rule to have sex with his victims, male or female, before he killed them and he always found it exciting. Now, he was frustrated because there had been no time to torture Catherine or to make love to her Atanas looked at his watch. It was still early. His plane didn't leave until eleven o'clock that evening. He took a taxi to Shepherd Market, paid the driver and wandered into the labyrinth of streets. There were half a dozen girls standing on street corners calling out to the men passing by 'Hello, love, would you like a French lesson tonight?' 'How about a little party?' 'Are you interested in Greek?'
None of the women approached Atanas. He walked up to a tall blonde wearing a brief leather skirt and blouse and stiletto-heeled shoes 'Good evening,' Atanas said politely She looked down at him, amused. 'Hello, little boy. Does your mother know you're out?'
Atanas smiled shyly. 'Yes, ma'am. I thought if you weren't busy . . .' The prostitute laughed. 'Did you, now? And what would you do if I wasn't busy? Have you ever made love to a girl before?' 'Once,' Atanas said softly. 'I liked it.' 'You're the size of a minnow,' the girl laughed. 'I usually throw the little ones back, but it's a slow night. Have you got ten bob?' 'Yes, ma'am.' 'All right, love. Let's go upstairs.' She led Atanas through a doorway and up two flights of stairs to a small, one-room apartment. Atanas handed her the money 'Well, let's see if you know what to do with it, love.' She stripped off her clothes and watched Atanas undress. She looked at him in astonishment. 'My God! You're enormous.' 'Am I?' She got into bed and said, 'Be careful. Don't hurt me.' Atanas moved toward the bed. Ordinarily, he enjoyed beating up whores. It increased his sexual satisfaction. But he knew that this was no time to do anything suspicious or to leave a trail that the police might want to follow. So Atanas smiled down at her and said, 'This is your lucky night.' 'What?' 'Nothing.' He climbed on top of her and closed his eyes and plunged into her, hurting her, and it was Catherine screaming for mercy, begging him to stop. And he pounded her savagely, harder and harder, her screams exciting him until finally everything exploded and he sank back satisfied 'My God,' the woman said. 'You're unbelievable.' Atanas opened his eyes and he wasn't with Catherine. He was with some ugly whore in a dreary room. He got dressed and took a taxi to his hotel room, where he packed and checked out When he headed for the airport, it was nine thirty. He had plenty of time to catch his plane.
There was a small line at Olympic Airways. When Atanas reached the head of the line, he handed the clerk his ticket. 'Is the flight on time?' 'Yes.' The clerk looked at the name on the ticket, Atanas Stavich. He looked up at Atanas again, then glanced at a man standing nearby and nodded. The man walked over to the ticket counter 'May I see your ticket?' Atanas handed him the ticket. 'Is anything wrong?' he asked The man said, 'I'm afraid we've overbooked this flight. If ^ you'd like to come into the office, I'll try to straighten everything out.' Atanas shrugged. 'All right.' He followed the man toward the office, filled with a feeling of euphoria. Demiris was probably out of jail by now.vHe was too important a man for the law to touch him. Everything had gone perfectly. He would take the fifty thousand dollars and put it into one of his Swiss numbered accounts. Then a little vacation. The Riviera, perhaps, or Rio He liked the male prostitutes in Rio Atanas walked into the office, and stopped, staring. He turned pale. 'You're dead! You're dead! I killed you!' It was a scream | , Atanas was still screaming when they led him out of the room |! and into a police van. They watched him leave, and Alan a Hamilton turned to Catherine. 'It's over now, darling. It's finally they 1, over.
In the basement, several hours earlier, Catherine had tried desperately to free her hands. The more she struggled, the tighter the rope became. Her fingers were getting numb. She kept looking over at the dial on the boiler. The needle had reached 250 degrees. When that dial reaches 400 degrees, the boiler will explode. There has to be a way out of this, Catherine thought. There has to be! Her eyes lit on the brandy bottle that Atanas had dropped on the floor. She stared at it and her heart began to pound wildly. There is a chance! If only she could . . . Catherine slumped down against the post and stretched out her feet toward the bottle. It was out of reach. She slid down farther, the splinters of the wooden post tearing into her back. The bottle was an inch away. Catherine's eyes filled with tears. One more try, she thought. Just one more. She slumped down farther, her back raked with splinters, and pushed again, with all her strength One foot touched the bottle. Careful. Don't push it away. Slowly, slowly, she hooked the neck of the bottle on the rope that bound her ankles. Very carefully, she pulled her feet in, drawing the bottle closer. Finally, it was next to her She looked up at the dial. It had climbed to 280 degrees. She was fighting panic. Slowly, she inched the bottle in back of her with her feet. Her fingers found it but they were too numb to get a grip on it, and they were slippery with the blood from her wrists where the rope had cut into them The basement was getting hotter. She tried again. The bottle slipped away. Catherine glanced at the dial on the boiler 300 now, and the dial seemed to be racing upward. Steam was beginning to pour out of the boiler. She tried again to get a grip on the bottle There! She had the bottle in her bound hands. Holding it tightly, she raised her arms and slid them down the post, smashing the glass bottle down against the concrete. Nothing happened She cried aloud with frustration. She tried it again. Nothing. The dial was climbing inexorably upward. 350! Catherine took another deep breath and slammed the bottle down ~with all her strength. She heard the bottle shatter Thank God! Moving as quickly as she dared, Catherine gripped the broken neck of the bottle in one hand and started to saw at the ropes with the other. The glass cut into her wrists but she ignored the pain. She felt one strand snap and then another. And suddenly her hand was free. She hurriedly loosened the rope on the other hand and untied the ropes binding her ankles. The dial had reached 380. Heavy jets of steam were pouring out of the furnace Catherine struggled to her feet. Atanas had bolted the basement door. There would be no time to escape from the building before the explosion Catherine raced over to the furnace and tugged at the block of wood cutting off the safety valve. It was jammed in tightly. 400! She had a split-second decision to make. She ran for the far door that led to the bomb shelter, pulled it open and hurried inside. She slammed the heavy door closed behind her. She lay huddled on the concrete of the huge bunker, breathing hard, and five seconds later there was a tremendous explosion and the whole room seemed to rock. She lay in the darkness, fighting for breath, listening to the roaring flames outside the door. She was safe. It was over. No, not yet, Catherine thought. There's still something I have to do.
When the firemen found her an hour later and escorted her out, Alan Hamilton was there. Catherine ran into his arms and he held her close 'Catherine, darling. I was so afraid! How did you . . . ?' 'Later,' Catherine said. 'We've got to stop Atanas Stavich.'
They were married at a church near Alan's sister's farm in Sussex in a private ceremony. Alan's sister turned out to be a pleasant woman who looked exactly like the photograph Catherine had seen in Alan's office. Her son was away at school Catherine and Alan spent a quiet weekend at the farm and flew to Venice on their honeymoon.
Venice was a brilliantly colored page out of a medieval history book, a magical floating city of canals and 120 islands, spanned by four hundred bridges. Alan and Catherine Hamilton landed at Venice's Aeroporto Marco Polo, near Mestre, took a motor launch to the terminal at the Piazza San Marco, and checked into the Royal Danieli, the beautiful old hotel next to the Doges' Palace Their suite was exquisite, filled with lovely, antique furniture, and it overlooked the Grand Canal 'What would you like to do first?' Alan asked Catherine walked up to him and put her arms around him 'Guess.' They unpacked later.
Venice was a healing, a balm that made Catherine forget the terrible nightmares and horrors of the past She and Alan went exploring. St Mark's Square was a few hundred yards away from their hotel, and centuries away in time St Mark's Cathedral was an art gallery and a church, the walls and ceilings lined with breathtaking mosaics and frescoes. They went inside the Doges' Palace, filled with opulent chambers, and stood on the Bridge of Sighs, where, centuries earlier, prisoners had crossed to go to their deaths They visited museums and churches and some of the outlying islands. They stopped at Murano to watch the glass-blowing, and at Burano to see the women make lace. They took a motor launch to Torcello and dined at Locanda Cipriani in the lovely flower-filled garden And Catherine was reminded of the garden at the convent, and she remembered how lost she had been then. And she looked across the table at her beloved Alan and thought, Thank you, God.
Mercerie was the main shopping street, and they found fabulous stores: Rubelli for fabrics, and Casella for shoes, and Giocondo Cassini for antiques. They dined at Quadri and Al Graspo de Ua and Harry's Bar. They rode in gondolas and in the smaller sandoli.
On Friday, near the end of their stay, there was a sudden downpour and a violent electrical storm Catherine and Alan raced to get back to the shelter of their hotel. They looked out the window at the storm 'Sorry about the rain, Mrs Hamilton,' Alan said. 'The brochures promised sunshine.' Catherine smiled. 'What rain? I'm so happy, darling.' Streaks of lightning flashed across the sky and there was an explosion of thunder. Another sound flashed into Catherine's mind: the explosion of the boiler She turned to Alan. 'Isn't this the day the jury brings in its verdict?' He hesitated. 'Yes. I didn't bring it up because 'I'm all right. I want to know.' He looked at her a moment, then nodded. 'Right.' Catherine watched as Alan walked over to the radio in the corner and turned it on. He turned the dial until he came to the BBC station that was reporting the news '. . . and the Prime Minister handed in his resignation today The Premier will try to form a new government.' The radio was crackling and the voice was fading in and out 'It's that damned electrical storm,' Alan said The sound came on again. 'In Athens, the trial of Constantin Demiris has finally come to an end, and the jury returned its verdict a few moments ago. To everyone's surprise, the verdict . . .' The radio went dead Catherine turned to Alan. 'What what do you think the verdict was?' He took her into his arms. 'It depends on whether you believe in happy endings.' Epilogue Five days before the trial of Constantin Demiris was to begin, the jailor opened up his cell door 'You have a visitor.' Constantin Demiris looked up. Except for his attorney, he had been permitted no visitors until now. He refused to show any curiosity. The bastards were treating him like a common criminal. But he would not give them the satisfaction of showing any emotion. He followed the jailor down the hall into a small conference room 'In there.' Demiris stepped inside and stopped. A crippled old man was hunched over in a wheelchair. His hair was snow white. His face was a ghastly patchwork of red and white burn tissue. His lips were frozen upward in a horrible rictus of a smile. It took a moment for him to realize who his visitor was. His face turned ashen. 'My God!' 'I'm not a ghost,' Napoleon Chotas said. His voice was hoarse 'Come in, Costa.'