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gondolas, moored to brightly striped poles near a boathouse, creaked and knocked .against each other.
The black-painted, curved hulls were slender and graceful, resembling dark crescent moons; the single,
long oar for each boat had been stored for the night under a patched canvas covering.
The uneasy night silence only made the pained groans and gasps louder by comparison as they drifted
down to the water from the boathouse. The sound of an open hand striking flesh was like that of a chef
tenderizing a veal cutlet.
Inside the building, behind closed doors and barricaded windows, the Fantom paced in front of the
bespectacled German structural engineer. Karl Draper writhed in misery, though he was drugged and
only semicoherent. He didn't seem to know where he was, only that he wanted to crawl away.
Beside the Fantom, Dante watched the captive as if the man were nothing more than a smear of
something unpleasant he had scraped off the bottom of his shoe.
The Fantom turned his back, holding a wide-barreled syringe with a dauntingly long, thick needle. "My
truth serum isn't fully developed, Herr Draper, or I'd know everything by now." In the lamplight that
illuminated the boathouse, a final droplet of greenish liquid glistened like a tear at the sharp end. "It has
had sufficient time to work."
In disgust, the Fantom dropped the empty syringe to the boathouse floor and ground it to glass dust
under his black heel. He slapped Karl Draper to consciousness, aiming his blows at the bright red welts
that already covered the man's cheek. "Still, despite its deficiencies, I'm sure the serum doesn't feel very
pleasant coursing through your veins."
Dante unrolled a sheaf of thick, yellowed sheets of paper on a worktable made of rough planks. Judging
by the sticky stains and clumped flakes of silver scales, the table had recently been used to gut and clean
fish.
"Look at the plans and tell me what I need to know," the Fantom insisted. His voice was low and quiet
now, and much more threatening.
"No," the engineer croaked out in German. "I can resist your serum. Nothing will make me tell."
With another backhand, the Fantom knocked Draper's spectacles loose. Dante dutifully retrieved them,
holding the glasses a bit too tightly, as if he wanted to clench his fists and twist the frames. Instead, he
gave them back to the Fantom.
"You force me to rely on more proven methods," said the Fantom, swirling his black cape. "Fortunately,
they are just as effective." He turned to Dante, gave a meaningful glare, and the lieutenant nodded.
Around them in the drarty boathouse room, the Fantom's henchmen worked diligently on their tasks.
Each man had his assignment, and they knew better than to debate their masters orders. They worked
quietly, muffling any suspicious sounds that might attract too much attention in the still night. The city
of Venice would have no advance warning of its doom, and their party tomorrow night would be much
different from what they expected.
Two henchmen taped and waterproofed a set of wooden barrels while another group of the Fantom's
followers outfitted themselves in thick diving gear: oiled leather suits, rubber-coated gloves, and heavy
helmets with glass windows. They strung weights around their waists to help them reach the
foundations of the centuries-old buildings and remain in place long enough to complete their tasks.
The boathouse's back rooms and stalls held the Fantom's other prisoners, bound and gagged. The
captives crowded together like animals in pens, forced to wait while the evil genius competed his
preparations. So far, two of them had died trying to escape; the Fantom had tossed the horribly
mutilated bodies back in among the prisoners as "an appropriate lesson." Since then, no one else had
made an attempt to break free.
Now, wearing a determined expression, Dante retrieved the German prisoner the Fantom had chosen as
his first bargaining chip. The lieutenant brandished his weapon and pulled the man away from his
comrades, who shrank back, praying they would not be noticed themselves. Dante shoved the prisoner
out of the holding pen and dragged him into the main room. The man stood cringing, barely able to
remain on his feet.
The Fantom regarded the man, dismissed him as an inadequate specimen, then returned his attention to
Karl Draper. Like a stern mother, he replaced the structural engineer's spectacles on his face, then let
him blink at the hapless prisoner until recognition clearly showed on his face.
"Herr Muller you know. I believe you worked together at the Valkyrie Zeppelin Works? Were you
friends?"
Predictably, Draper shook his head. The Fantom did not believe him. His scarred lower lip curled. "Of
course not. Muller's specialty is motors." He turned his masked face toward the shaking prisoner. Muller
swallowed hard, but could say nothing through his gag. "Unfortunately for him, I have all the motors I
need. He is perfectly expendable."
The Fantom reached into his dark coat and removed a heavy handgun with a strange, fat cylinder
appended to its barrel. Muller's eyes went wide with panic.
Draper, though, struggled to remain calm through the bleary effects of the abortive truth serum. "You
will not fire a gunshot here, Herr Fantom. The Venice Polizia will hear you and come to investigate. The
people in the buildings will wake, and they will call for help."
The Fantom fingered the device at the end of the gun barrel. "Don't underestimate my imagination, Herr
Draper. My lab rats dreamed up this new modification. It uses compressed air to silence the blast. No
one will hear a gunshot or anything at all."
"Impossible," Draper said.
The Fantom aimed the pistol and silently shot Muller in the center of the forehead before the motor
specialist could flinch. His head snapped back, and his body drooped to the floor.
Shocked, despite the last vestiges of the drug's effects, the architect wailed and struggled to lurch out of [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]