Memories of Midnight

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 ankles. Atanas had bolted the basement door. There was 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."



Chapter Thirty-three



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 400 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 Church was an art gallery and a cathedral, 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 glassblowing, 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."