The Alchemist’s Code (26 page)

Oscar jerked his head and looked into Viola's eyes.

“His internal organs were completely dissolved.”

Oscar caught his breath with difficulty. “They didn't find any traces of the substance that killed David either, I imagine?”

“They did manage to trace the substance used, which didn't fade like the one that killed von Alten. David was killed by a substance containing desomorphine, the same thing used nowadays in Russia to produce the street drug
Krokodil
. But the one that killed David and the others in 1970 was declared extremely sophisticated. Created in advanced labs.”

“'The collector of ears'. I can't believe that I'd never heard of this case before.”

“The wound to his face, which initially confused the investigators, was inflicted by a gunshot deliberately fired so as to graze him and blow off his ear while he was already dying.”

Oscar shook his head. “So there's a fucking serial killer behind von Alten's murder who has reawakened after forty years.”

“No – there's much more, in my opinion,” Viola said. “Listen. The second victim, Kassandra Nazariantz, a brilliant economist of Armenian origin, lived in Singapore where she had moved in the wake of the proclamation of independence of the small Asian republic. Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew was an enterprising type and gave the economy of the newly-born Republic of Singapore a powerful boost. Educated people like this young Armenian were more than welcome.”

“What's the connection between the two victims?”

“I'm getting there, hang on. Kassandra Nazariantz disappeared mysteriously two days after the assassination of François David, on 27 June 1970. Colleagues and family searched all over for her, and two days after her disappearance, the police announced that she had been kidnapped. But it was all very quick. And a couple of days later, the woman's body was found in the city's botanical garden by one of the keepers.”

“Poisoned?”

“Like David, with modified desomorphine – her organs were ruined and her face was covered in blood because of the gunshot that had blown off her ear.”

“The other two victims?”

“Lev Nemiroff, a Soviet Army officer during the Second World War. He lived in Odessa with his family, he was a professor. On the morning of Monday, June 29, he was on his way to the university library where he used to spend hours reading. He would typically get off the bus at the foot of the Potemkin Steps. Nemiroff was killed that morning in full daylight, right on the steps. The killer must have approached him and injected him with something. The few witnesses saw Nemiroff try to react and then raise his hand to the right side of his face.

The killer disappeared into thin air and the professor was found dead a few metres away from the entrance to the university, with his right ear cut off.”

Oscar's face was getting darker. “I bet Nemiroff and David knew each other.”

“Very sharp of you, boss. But listen to the rest. The fourth victim was Kirk McCourt, a New Yorker of Irish descent. He was a cartographer who collaborated with NASA and various American authorities dealing with cartography. He wasn't just a straightforward technician, though, he also had a passion for studying ancient maps, and possessed a remarkable collection. Needless to say, he was also a war hero. In addition to maps, he had another passion: fishing. And in fact he was found dead at 6 a.m. on the 1 July 1970 on the pier in Santa Monica, California, where he was spending the summer. A witness told investigators that he had seen him fall over on his side and immediately afterwards a man arrived who cut off his ear. The autopsy found that his organs had been almost completely eaten away by a massive, lethal dose of desomorphine.”

“Ok,” Oscar said nodding, “the dynamics of the murders is clear, so tell me what the relation between the victims is and sum up the INTERPOL dossier.”

Viola nodded. “Actually, the French, Singaporean, American and Soviet colleagues all drew a blank because the killer – or more likely, killers – stopped for twenty years, until the summer of , when Vladimir Afanas'evič Glyz was found dead in his house in Moscow.”

Oscar, still browsing through the many pages of the detailed dossier, jerked up his head and gasped, staring at Viola.

“Yes, Lorenzo's Russian friend's grandfather,” she confirmed. “But I was only able to discover a few things about him because both his life and death are still classified as confidential in the archives of the former KGB. But I'm sure Glyz knew the other victims. I'd bet my badge on it.”

Oscar whistled in admiration. “Good grief. do you want me to tell you you've done a good job?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“You can say that at the end – I haven't finished yet. I was wondering what the link was between Nazariantz, the young economist, François David, Lev Nemiroff, Kirk McCourt and Vladimir Glyz, who must have met during the war. It's this person.”

Viola put a printed page from a website in front of Oscar.

It was the short biography of an Armenian scholar, Aram Nazariantz, a brilliant associate professor of Semitic languages who taught at the University of Yerevan in the nineteen thirties and, after the Second World War, became a full professor in Kiev. A war hero.

“Thanks to his linguistic skills, he was contacted by… Group 9,” Oscar read in disbelief, “the same special department David belonged to. Especially strange when you consider that one was French and the other Armenian.”

Viola nodded. “The members of this Group 9 – unfortunately very little is known about them – were apparently of different nationalities and were chosen by the Allied High Command on the basis of their ability to crack the Nazi's secret communication systems.”

“What about Nazariantz?”

“Aram Nazariantz was her father, who died an apparently natural death a couple of years before she moved to Singapore. She was probably killed for something her father had done that was connected to François David, Lev Nemiroff, Kirk McCourt and Vladimir Glyz.”

Viola stopped and stood in silence for a moment, watching her boss long enough to arouse his curiosity.

“So?” Oscar said, finally tired of waiting. “What's the incident you were talking about that would link the murders?”

Viola smiled triumphantly and placed another file in front of him. He opened it and jumped to his feet. “Good God!”

“Our friend, Lorenzo Alessandro Aragona's grandfather and his wife died in a car accident exactly

a month after the murders by the collector of ears. I've carried out some research – the four victims knew each other for sure.”

Oscar stared back at Inspector Brancato, who felt no need to say anything else.

“Group 9—”

“We must find Lorenzo, because if we might have had doubts a few weeks ago, it's now clear that the serial killer might want him dead,” Viola concluded.

Oscar ran a hand over his face and adjusted his quiff as was his habit when mind was working. He looked at her again, then, a serious expression on his face, added, “Right, let's phone him first. If he doesn't answer, we'll contact the clinic in Zurich where his wife is. He must still be there. Meanwhile, find out something about Aragona senior.”

Viola moved towards the door, but just before she went out, Oscar called her back.

“Just one thing. You're a genius.”

The inspector smiled and left, a satisfied smirk on her face.

Reconstruction on the basis of the statements of Dr Brad Höffnunger and lawyer Francesco Ratti

Rome, January 2013

The Villa of Chimeras on the Aventine hill is a jewel of early twentieth century architecture, set in the greenery and the tranquillity of one of the most elegant parts of Rome. Named after its curious decorations which represent monsters and gargoyles, typical of some Roman buildings from the first two decades of the twentieth century, it has spent long periods closed and uninhabited. It was a residence of great beauty once, yet always somehow eerie, with its mute chimeras staring with their stone eyes at passers-by. Silent though it normally was, in the last few days it had experienced an unusual bustling and hustling and seemed to have suddenly come back to life. Large black cars and even some vans had started coming and going. But everything was done with the greatest discretion and almost always in the evening: the cars arrived and immediately disappeared behind the electronic gate. Ditto when they went away. No one was ever to be seen inside.

*

Despite the late January cold, that morning Francesco Ratti had decided once again to tackle his paunch and gone out early for his usual walk around the block with his little dog, a white and brown Cavalier King Charles Spaniel called Pilù. Now retired, he had once been a lawyer of some renown, and he loved the peacefulness of that quiet area of Rome.

He walked past the villa and noticed the comings and goings. A large black Mercedes had just arrived and stopped in front of the gate, waiting for it to open. Francesco hesitated a bit too long and unexpectedly, Pilù, usually such a quiet dog, pulled away from his grasp and rushed towards the entrance of the villa, without leaving his owner time to grab his leash.

“Pilù, stop! Come back here!”

The dog went through the gate, halted at the left rear door of the Mercedes, which had meanwhile stopped on the forecourt of the garage, and began to bark nervously.

Francesco approached the gate to try to stop him, and it was then that he saw, for the first time, human beings in that house.

As the door of the Mercedes opened, two men in dark overcoats began walking towards the dog, unfriendly looks on their faces. One of them, a bodyguard, stopped to open the door completely and help the passenger out. An old, completely bald man wearing an elegant black coat and curious, dark pince-nez, climbed out of the car just as Pilù suddenly stopped barking. The old man smiled and with a slow but resolute gesture, bent down to take up the dog in his arms. Pilù didn't put up any resistance, as though he had been hypnotized.

“I'm sorry”, murmured Francesco coming timidly closer.

The old man turned to him and, caressing Pilù in his arms, walked over to him.

“It's really a lovely creature”, he said in perfect Italian but with a clear accent. “What's his name?”

Francesco smiled back and answered politely. “He's called Pilù, and he has never been so naughty before, I do beg your pardon.”

“Oh, never mind, they're dogs, we can't expect them to follow our logic, can we?”

“Of course, very true,” said Francesco, confused but also heartened.

“That's right, isn't it, Pilù?” the old man said, looking at the dog and continuing to stroke it. Then, he put the animal down, once again slowly. Backing off without removing his eyes from him, he returned to his owner.

Francesco grabbed the leash and patted him in fond reproach. In that instant, the other rear door opened and a beautiful woman in a long white coat climbed out and stood staring at the scene.

“Well, if you'll excuse me now, I need to rest Mr—” said the old man with a gentle smile, which, however, had something ominous about it.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon. Ratti,
Avvocato
Francesco Ratti, I live a few blocks down.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr Ratti, I am Woland,” said the old man in his hoarse voice. Francesco merely smiled back, wishing to vanish as quickly as possible.

“Camille, will you walk Mr Ratti to the gate?”

The woman moved slowly. Her white coat floated at every step, giving her a regal but also threatening aspect, and Francesco let her accompany him out.

“Have a nice day, Mr Ratti,” she whispered in a sensual voice, before the gate closed silently.

Francesco stood as if paralysed for a moment, then lifted his head and noticed a camera placed right above the gate.

He looked down and walked away, convinced that he had just seen ghosts.

*

Beyond the gate, meanwhile, Camille walked back over to Raymond Severus Woland, who held out his arm. As they walked toward the house, Woland commented, “That dog was really very sweet, wasn't it, Camille?”

The woman, still looking forward, nodded. “Of course, Doctor Woland.”

They reached the entrance of the villa, where the grey-haired doctor who had come ahead of Woland in the other car was waiting for his patient. The old man turned to the woman before advancing into the house.

“That dog and his owner are only alive because we mustn't draw too much attention to ourselves,” he said, almost apologising for the unusual sweetness shown a moment before, then adding immediately, “I know you think this villa is not ideal as a headquarters, but I didn't want to be anywhere too far from our goal and it's so… fitting.”

He turned around and, spreading his arms in a friendly way, headed towards the doctor.

“I'm in your hands, doctor – make me young again.”

Events reconstructed by Lorenzo Aragona

Naples, January 2013

Just as I was dialling Oscar's number, my phone rang. My friend had beaten me too it.

“Are you telepathic now as well?” I asked, answering the call.

“Really? You were looking for me? No, wait, before you answer, I have something important to tell you. We've discovered a series of strange coincidences about your grandfather, events that took place in 1970”

It's as though coincidence has never existed in my life and every event has always been linked to the others by some invisible thread. That's why Oscar's words didn't surprise me at all, especially because – as I already knew – he really was a very smart cop.

“Then we need to see each other, I think I have some news about those events as well. Are you still at the police station?”

“Wait a minute – you're in Naples? I thought you were in Zurich,” asked Oscar in amazement.