The Lost Treasure of the Templars by James Becker

the button on the intercom system.
    â€œBring him in now,” he ordered.
    A few moments later the door opened and a man wearing a light gray suit stepped inside the room. He took one look at the chair, the body bag, and the rubber mat and immediately turned away, trying to leave.
    But two other men had entered the room behind him. They, too, were smartly dressed, but they were built like nightclub bouncers, and Silvrini had no chance of getting past them. They grabbed his arms and half dragged, half carried him to the chair and forced him down onto the seat. One man held him in position while the other secured his wrists and ankles to the arms and legs of thechair using plastic cable ties that were easy to use and as near unbreakable as made no difference, pulling them tight with pliers. Then both men stepped back and stood with their backs to the door, waiting impassively.
    Silvrini was whimpering in terror, an incoherent muttering that was more babbling than recognizable speech. A dark stain suddenly appeared on the front of his trousers, a clear indication that he had lost control of his bladder and, in Toscanelli’s eyes, probably an equally clear confirmation of his guilt.
    Vitale waited without speaking, his hostile gaze fixed on the bound man in front of him, until Silvrini finally fell silent.
    â€œYou know why you are here, why this is happening to you,” Vitale said at last, a statement rather than a question.
    Silvrini shook his head violently, and his voice, when he spoke, was pleading, almost whining.
    â€œNo, no. I have no idea. You must believe me. This has to be a mistake. Please, Silvio. You know me.”
    â€œI do,” Vitale agreed, “and it was a mistake.”
    For the briefest of instants the expression on the bound man’s face showed relief, but Vitale’s next words clearly dashed any hopes he might still have harbored.
    â€œIt was a mistake, and you made it. When you decided to betray the organization that employs you, it was the act of an idiot to make the call to the Carabinieri from the living room of an apartment owned by that organization.”
    â€œBut I didn’t, Silvio. I promise you, I didn’t. The brotherhood is my life, you know that. I would never—”
    Vitale said nothing, but simply held up his finger for silence. Then he depressed a button on the console in front of him, and suddenly Silvrini’s unmistakable voicefilled the room, the surveillance tape playing through the hidden speakers of a stereo system. The recording was short but utterly conclusive, the Italian telling the unidentified police officer that he had information about the two unsolved murders, and arranging a meeting in central Rome for the following afternoon—that very day, in fact.
    â€œI wonder how long he’ll sit there in that café, waiting for you,” Vitale said quietly. “Because you won’t be at the rendezvous, obviously. But I expect you already guessed that.”
    â€œIt’s not—” Silvrini began.
    â€œIt’s not what, exactly? Not an attempt to betray this most holy of orders? Not a direct attack upon the brotherhood?”
    Sivrini shook his head again. “Not—”
    â€œEnough,” Vitale snapped, and gestured to the two men standing in front of the door. “We’ll finish this right now.”
    Both men strode forward. One held Silvrini’s head still while the other wrapped a length of broad adhesive tape over his mouth, silencing the man.
    Vitale nodded in satisfaction, then stood up. “Let us pray for absolution for our brother before punishment is administered,” he said.
    Toscanelli stood up as well, and the four men bowed their heads. Vitale made the sign of the cross and then led them in a short prayer, humbly asking God to accept the soul of their soon-to-be-departed brother, Alberto Silvrini.
    The bound man clearly knew what awaited him, and was thrashing from side to