Early in the evening, a tray of food had been put in front of her, and around midnight she’d eventually tried to get some sleep on the wide sofa in front of the fireplace. But she hadn’t been idle that evening. The suave but indescribably menacing man had seen to that. He had finally introduced himself as “Marco,” but she had no idea if that was what he was actually called or just a convenient name he’d pulled out of the air. As soon as he’d shown her the appalling collection of “souvenirs,” Angela had realized that cooperation with her captors was hardly a choice: it was an absolute necessity if she was to avoid the agonizing mutilation that the group was so obviously capable of inflicting. So when Marco had asked if she was prepared to complete the translation, she’d simply nodded her agreement. She’d been led across to a large oak desk set in one corner, and been told to sit on a leather swivel chair right in front of it, an incongruously modern piece of furniture in the elegant and old-fashioned room.
