Free Dante's Numbers by David Hewson

was starting to make dark, damp stains across his burly chest. He looked almost as frightened as Allan Prime. Or Dante. Whichever, Quattrocchi thought. “I don't know where it's coming from.”
    “Cut it,” Jonah ordered. “Stop the frigging thing. If someone else has got hold of the stream…”
    “Sure…”
    “No,” Quattrocchi ordered, and found he had to drag the American away from his strange projector.
    They both stared at him. Bonetti, too, though there was no expression Quattrocchi could read on the producer's dark, lined face.
    “This isn't part of the show,” Josh Jonah stated firmly. “It's not supposed to be up there.”
    “Yes, it is. Your star's missing. Someone has taken control of your toy. What if they're trying to tell us where he is? Or why? Or…”
    He was about to say Or both.
    But the words never reached his lips. Two things had happened on the screen. In the right-hand corner a digital stopwatch appeared, counting down from the hour. 59:59, 59:58, 59:57…
    As it ticked away, an object entered from centre left, first in a sudden movement that darted in so quickly he was unable to see what had happened, only the result, that it had inflicted yet more pain and fright on the trapped man struggling on the screen in front of them, and that blood was now welling from some fresh wound that had appeared on Allan Prime's left temple.
    The image vanished. After a long break the picture resumed. A narrow, deadly spear, the shaft as shiny as a mirror save for the bloodied tip which had just stabbed the trapped man's face, had slowly emerged, sharp and threatening, aimed directly at Prime's temple.
    The stopwatch flicked over from 58:00 to 57:59. The spear moved on a notch towards Allan Prime's head, as if attached to some machine that would edge it forward, minute by minute, until it drove into the actor's skull.
    Quattrocchi stared at this gigantic, real-life depiction of a captive man waiting to die. There were hints to be found in this sight, surely. Clues, keys to unlock the conundrum. Otherwise why broadcast it at all? Simply to be cruel? Behind the head, he could just make out some shapes in the darkness, paintings perhaps, images, ones that might have been familiar had he possessed some way to illuminate the scene.
    Beyond the projection room, out in the cinema, Tonti ceased roaring. Someone moaned. Another voice cried out in outrage. A woman screamed.
    Bonetti threw open the door and bellowed at an attendant, “Clear the room, man! Everyone!”
    Then he returned and stared at Quattrocchi, shocked, finally, babbling, “Find him, for God's sake. Find him!”
    “But where?” Quattrocchi asked, to himself mostly, as he held down the shortcut key for headquarters on his phone, praying that there was someone there who was good at riddles.
    He got through. The wrong man answered. Morello. A good officer. Not a bright man. Not the one Quattrocchi hoped for, and there was no time to locate others. He had to work with what he had.
    “Are we listening to our friends?” Quattrocchi asked.
    There was silence on the line. The Carabinieri weren't supposed to eavesdrop on the police. And vice versa. But it happened. In both directions.
    “We can be. Are we listening for anything in particular?”
    “I would like to be informed of any mention of the actor Allan Prime, from any source whatsoever.”
    “Of course.”
    “Good,” Quattrocchi said, then got himself put through to forensic.
    While waiting he caught the attention of Tom Black. The young American stood back from his silver machine, staring at the flashing monitor with concern.
    “I need my scientific officers to see what's happening,” Quattrocchi told him.
    The American winced, as if afflicted by a momentary pain. “Tell them to find a computer and tune in to Lukatmi,” he answered glumly. “These bastards are putting it out to the public, too. Through us. We can stop them, but the only quick way would mean we lose the stream here,