The Lost Treasure of the Templars by James Becker Page A

side in the chair in a frantic attempt to escape, but the plastic bonds held him firmly in place and the chair was too heavy to be toppled overby his actions: it had been used for similar purposes on numerous occasions in the past, and had been designed to be very stable. All his violent action achieved was to open up cuts on his wrists where the plastic bonds dug into his skin.
    As the prayer finished, Vitale made the sign of the cross again and resumed his seat behind the desk. He bent down, opened one of the drawers, and took out a digital video camera and a tripod. He spread the legs of the tripod, attached the camera to the platform at the top, and then adjusted its position until the figure of the helpless man, who was still writhing and struggling to get free, filled the viewfinder. Then he switched on the camera, and waited until he was sure it was recording before he spoke again, the tone of his voice almost regretful, his words measured and carefully considered, after the manner of a judge. Which was, after all, what he was in this case, essentially a triumvirate in the person of a single individual: judge, jury, and executioner.
    â€œAlberto Silvrini. You have been condemned out of your own mouth and by your own words and actions. You have attempted to betray the brotherhood in the most diabolical and underhand way, and for that the sentence is death. But because of the nature of your offense, that mercy will not be granted immediately. You are to suffer before you die, but in accordance with that most ancient of all the tenets that we hold dear, not a drop of your blood will be spilled. Rest assured that you will die whole. Your suffering and death will be recorded for posterity and for our archives, and will serve as a warning to any other members of this brotherhood who might ever contemplate following the unfortunate example you have set.”
    Hearing his sentence of death pronounced in such acold and dispassionate manner had the effect of making Silvrini redouble his efforts to escape, but to no purpose.
    Vitale glanced at the two men now standing beside the wooden chair and nodded to them. “You may begin. On my count. One every minute.”
    What followed was clinical in its brutal efficiency.
    The man standing on Silvrini’s left reached down, seized the bound man’s little finger, and pulled it steadily backward, bracing his thumb just above the knuckle joint as a fulcrum. Silvrini went rigid, his face reddening and flushing as the pain began to bite. There was a sudden dull crack as the bone snapped, and even through the rudimentary gag Silvrini’s howl of anguish could be heard. His body slumped against his bonds, his head dropping forward and tears springing from his eyes.
    Precisely sixty seconds later, the man standing on Silvrini’s right performed exactly the same operation on the bound man’s right hand. And so it continued until every one of his fingers was broken and swollen. The thumbs were more difficult because the bones were thicker and stronger, but the two men had come prepared and used pliers to shatter those digits as well.
    By the time they’d finished, Silvrini was virtually unconscious from the incredible pain he was suffering, and Vitale ordered Toscanelli to wait until he had recovered slightly before completing the procedure.
    â€œIt would be a mercy to kill him now,” Vitale said quietly, staring at the bound figure slumped in the chair in front of him, “before he’s fully conscious, but we’re not really in the mercy business.”
    A few minutes later Silvrini lifted his head to stare at Vitale. His whole face was red, his cheeks streaked withtears and the agony in his bloodshot eyes clear for all to see.
    â€œGood,” Vitale said, “he’s awake again. You may begin, Marco.”
    Toscanelli nodded and stepped forward. He paused for a moment beside the prisoner and stared down at him.
    â€œYou’ve been a real