Yes, she could hear a gasping sound from inside. Sachs motioned Ercole to cover the aqueduct they’d come down and the other doorways that opened off the basement. He understood and drew his pistol. His awkward grip told her he rarely shot. But he checked that a round was chambered and the safety catch off. And he was aware of where the muzzle was pointed. Good enough.

A deep breath, another.

Then she spun around the corner, keeping low, and played the light through the room.

The victim was fifteen feet from her, sitting taped in a rickety chair, straining to keep his head raised against the upward tension of the noose. She saw clearly now the mechanism the Composer had rigged—the deadly bass strings running up to a wooden rod hammered into a crack in the wall above the victim’s head, then to another rod and finally down to a bucket filling with water. The weight in the pail would eventually tug the noose tight enough to strangle him.

He squinted his eyes closed against the brilliance of the flashlight.

The room had no other doors and it was clear that the Composer wasn’t present.

“Come inside, cover the door!” she barked.

“Sì!”

She holstered her weapon and ran to the man, who was sobbing. She pulled the gag out of his mouth.

“Saedumi, saedumi!”

“You’ll be okay.” Wondering how much English he spoke.

She had gloves with her but didn’t bother now. Beatrice could print her later to eliminate her friction ridges. She gripped the noose and pulled down, which lifted the bucket, and then she slipped the noose over his head. Slowly she lowered the bucket. Before it reached the floor, though, the stick wedged into a gap between the stones gave way and the pail fell to the floor.

Hell. The water would contaminate any trace on the stone.

But nothing to do now. She turned to the poor man and examined him. His panicked eyes stared from her to the tape binding his arms up to the ceiling and back to her.

“You’ll be okay. An ambulance is coming. You understand? English?”

He nodded. “Yes, yes.”

He didn’t look badly hurt. Now that he was okay, Sachs pulled on latex gloves. She removed her switchblade once more, hit the button. It sprang open. The man recoiled.

“It’s all right.” She cut the tape and freed his hands, then feet.

The victim’s eyes were wide and unfocused. He rambled in Arabic.

“What’s your name?” Sachs asked. She repeated the question in Arabic. All NYPD officers in Major Cases who had occasion to work counterterrorism knew a half-dozen words and phrases.

“Ali. Ali Maziq.”

“Are you injured anywhere, Mr. Maziq?”

“My throat. It is my throat.” He took to rambling again and his eyes darted once more.

Ercole said, “He doesn’t seem too injured.”

“No.”

“He is, it seems, quite disoriented, though.”

Tied up by a madman and nearly hanged in an old Roman ruin? No surprises there.