CHAPTER 44
Present Day
Isola Mario, Venice
Vito Carvalho sits opposite his billionaire host on an antique chair he guesses is worth more than his annual salary. He’s weighing the man up, and he doesn’t understand what he sees. Far from appearing drug-addled and aggressive, Mario Fabianelli looks like a model on the front cover of
Men’s Health
and is not even a notch short of being charming.
They’re drinking espresso and iced water near a large window overlooking the rear grounds of the mansion. Dino Ancelotti, Mario’s barky-dog lawyer, is curled up on a corner chair, panting to get in on the action.
Conversation swings back and forth. The purpose of the commune, the purpose of the police visit. It seems that Heaven - or H3V3N - as Mario explains, is a cultural retreat. And a palatial one at that. It’s filled with expensive sculptures and paintings and the décor seems to be to hotel standard. Four-star, at least. It’s certainly not your average hippy hang-out.
‘Everyone lives here free of charge,’ explains Mario. ‘All I ask of them is that they paint, or write or play some music every day.’
‘Why?’ asks Vito.
‘Venice was once famous for such things. It led the world in cultural pursuits and pleasures. I’d like to see it do so again.’
Vito can’t fault Mario’s idealism. After all, when he left Homicide in Milan, he’d effectively staged his own version of opting out. He puts down his drink and pulls a photograph from his jacket. ‘Do you know this man?’
Mario takes it and looks. ‘I don’t think so.’ He hands it back. ‘I suppose he’s dead? Usually when a cop shows you a photograph, that person is dead or missing.’
Vito puts it back in his jacket. ‘Dead. Antonio Pavarotti. Pavarotti like the singer. He died in the lagoon. Not far from here.’
Mario looks sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry. What happened and how can I help?’
‘His boat was blown up. Plastic explosives rigged to the engine. Did you know he was working for you?’
Mario seems surprised. ‘No. As what?’
‘Security guard. He was on his way out here to start a shift when he was killed.’
Ancelotti calls from the back of the room. ‘My employer has no knowledge of who works security. An outside company handles those services, and I, in turn, handle them. Mario has more important things to do than hire staff.’
Vito smiles. ‘I’m sure.’ He looks to the billionaire. ‘Why exactly do you employ security? Concern for your own life? For those in the commune?’
‘Both. I have a healthy fear of kidnapping.’ He touches his ear. ‘I don’t fancy parts of me being posted, Getty-style, to Dino there, demanding he hand over several million in return for the remainder of me. And I believe I owe it to those who stay here to ensure they are safe.’
The major checks his watch and prepares to make his exit. ‘I understand. Thanks for the background. And for the refreshments.’ He looks towards the lawyer. ‘I’d like to meet the head of security now, if that’s all right?’
Ancelotti nods while the other two men shake hands.
In the corridor, heading towards the exit, they see Tom with Mera Teale. The tattooed woman stops them. ‘Dino, this is Tom Shaman - the
fucking
Father who’s been all over the newspapers.’
Mario and Dino look confused.
‘
Mister
Shaman,’ she adds, ‘is
with
the Carabinieri but he’s
not
with them, if you know what I mean.’
Vito jumps in. ‘He’s a civilian assisting us with our enquiries. An expert of sorts.’
‘A sexual expert,’ chimes Teale, eyeing Tom. ‘At least, that’s what the press says.’ She winks.
Ancelotti puffs out his chest. ‘Signor Shaman is not covered by your warrant. You have a choice, Major - either he goes, or you invalidate your warrant and you all go.’
Vito glares at the lawyer and then turns apologetically to Tom. ‘I’m sorry. You’ll need to leave. If you go down to the boat they’ll make you comfortable, or take you back to the mainland, whichever your prefer.’
Teale treats them all to a wide grin. ‘I’ll
gladly
make sure he gets there.’
Tom’s not in the least disappointed to be led outside. On the way to the jetty he asks Mario’s mouthy PA a question that’s been eating him. ‘You have a tattoo of a teardrop near your eye.’ He dabs a finger on his own face. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘Vegas.’
‘Why did you have it done?’
She taps her nose. ‘You know the old saying: What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.’
‘Confession is good for the soul.’
She laughs. ‘It was Friday the thirteenth, the day tat’ parlours give you a free gift to celebrate.’
Tom looks thrown. ‘To celebrate an unlucky day?’
‘The tattoo world is about doing the opposite of what conventional society does.’
He looks over her shoulder. Something up the hillside catches his attention. A shape moving slowly. Moving in a way that he recognises.
A strange jolt hits his heart. A familiar fizz in his blood.
Tina!
He’s
sure
it’s Tina.
He starts to run towards her.
She’s with a man.
They disappear through a small door that looks as though it leads to a kitchen or cellar.
It’s locked by the time Tom reaches it.
He bangs with his fist.
‘Tina! Tina, it’s Tom.’
No reply.
He moves to a window. Cups his hand to block out sunlight as he peers inside.
Empty.
He turns and sees Mera Teale staring wildly at him while speaking into a walkie-talkie.
Did he imagine the whole thing? Is his mind playing tricks on him? Or was Tina really there?
CAPITOLO XLIII
1777
Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore, Venezia
Dawn breaks like a virginal blush on the pale face of Palladio’s Church of San Giorgio. In a few hours, when the sun is high over the island, the magnificently columned frontage will gleam and flirt for the attention of anyone gazing out from the Piazzetta. Now, though, it is merely a subtle shape emerging through a shimmering sunrise. Tommaso watches it from the boat.
Normally he’d be skimming across the peaceful morning waters, rowing with all his might. But today he has no intention of taking to the canale.
Instead, he is inside the boathouse and is using the privacy of the craft to examine the cool silver tablet in his hand.
Why did his mother have it? Why did she place so much importance in it? Why was she so concerned about who should have ownership of it?
He ponders all this as he makes a rough pencil sketch of the artefact on paper he’s brought from his cell. In length, it runs from his wrist to the tip of his longest finger. In breadth, it’s slightly more than four fingers wide. The back is smooth and inscribed in a language he’s never seen before. He knows Latin, Hebrew and also a little Egyptian, but none of the characters match those. Some look Greek. Normally he would go straight to the abbot and seek his opinion, but something is stopping him.
Tommaso flips the tablet over. It’s heavy and obviously valuable. Perhaps that was the reason his mother treasured it. The proverbial family silver. To be looked after at all costs. Never to be let out of the family’s hands. Only to be sold in the most desperate of circumstances.
The engraving on the front is very beautiful. Intricate and shocking. The character is clearly a holy man. The hooked staff that he is impaled upon resembles the crosier that bishops carry. He wonders now whether the figure is Arabian, or possibly Isaurian. The more he looks, the more he recalls sketches of a priest or seer that the Romans referred to as a haruspex and the Etruscans called a netsvis. If it’s a netsvis, then the writing is Etruscan and that would explain why some letters look Greek but others are unfamiliar. Behind the figure there seems to be a gate made out of horizontally and vertically entangled snakes. He’s aware that the serpent is the symbol of Satan, and supposes this must represent the priest’s battle with evil. The snakes seem to flow off either end of the tablet, which also gives him a clue that the artefact might not be a single piece. His mother’s words roll back to him:
Your sister is a year older than you and I have left her with the nuns. A similar box, and duty, await her.
He wonders what she looks like, where she is, what has become of her - and what she has done with the box left for her. He wonders too about his mother - a feeling he’s buried for many years, and now painfully unearthed with the opening of the box and the discovery of the tablet and note. Tommaso holds the silver close to his body as he heads back to the monastery, aware that a bond is being forged between him and the object. For a second he pictures a mother giving a child his first toy, and the thought comforts him.
Many windows are lit by flickering candles. The holy brothers are busy with their pre-breakfast duties, studies or private papers. His mother’s warning plays on his mind as he climbs the cool steps and slips inside the holy corridors.
As painful as it may be, please believe me that it’s best (for you, her and everyone) that you do not seek her out. The duties that I leave to you both are more easily fulfilled if you never meet.
Tommaso has decided to do what he knows he should have done immediately. He goes to the abbot’s office. His nerves are jangling as he knocks on the huge oak office door.
‘Yes. Come.’
He clicks the black wrought-iron handle and enters. The abbot is a rotund man in his late fifties with jet-black, brittle hair and grey wiry eyebrows. He sits with his head down, writing at a vast desk dominated by a heavy brass crucifix that’s flanked by two tall brass candlesticks.
Tommaso can see he’s working on an official letter, written on white palomba paper with a dove watermark. It’s no doubt destined for an ecclesiastical court or chancery. The abbot is using a hand-cut goose quill and black ink, the colour that protocol dictates for the authority of his hand.
Finally, the abbot downs his quill and looks up. ‘Yes, Brother, how may I help you?’
Tommaso steps forward to the edge of the desk. ‘A box was left by my mother when I was brought here. I have just looked inside and found this.’ He opens his hands and places the silver tablet on the desk.
The abbot sits back in his chair. He folds his arms and looks at Tommaso in a way calculated to compel him to expand his story.
‘The ornament seems to be silver. A family heirloom of sorts. But it has strange writing on it and what looks to be an ancient priest or haruspex. I would like to learn more about the piece and about why my mother left it to me.’
The abbot reaches over his blotter and pulls the tablet towards him. ‘Leave it with me, Brother. I will make enquiries on your behalf.’
Tommaso remembers his mother’s words -
It must never leave your care.
‘With respect, Reverend Father, my mother’s wish was that I never part with the object.’
The abbot smiles reassuringly. ‘It is safe with me, my child. I can hardly find answers for you if you continue to clutch it so close to your chest, now, can I?’
Tommaso feels embarrassed, but he’s still reluctant to hand it over. ‘I am happy to
show
it to you, but less happy to
leave
it. Perhaps it is enough for you just to examine it?’
The abbot grows irritated. ‘Brother, where is your faith?’ He stares challengingly at Tommaso. ‘Lack of faith in
me
is lack of faith in God. This thing is corrupting you. Give it to me at once.’
Still Tommaso hesitates.
The abbot rises from his chair and walks around his desk. The two men are now face to face. ‘You come in here and ask for my help, then offer me only insolence and distrust. Now hand over that object, or I will have you doing penance until the Sabbath!’
Tommaso still wants to argue. Wants to keep the tablet and leave the room with it. But he dare not defy the abbot. He places the silver tablet in the hand outstretched before him and feels his heart sink.
The abbot turns and walks back to his desk. ‘Now go about your duties. Good day.’
Tommaso nods, turns and leaves. He knows he’s made a mistake. Let his mother down.
And he knows he must do something to put it right.
CHAPTER 45
Present Day
Isola Mario, Venice
Tom Shaman’s ‘sighting’ of Tina Ricci at the hippy commune threatens for a while to throw the entire raid off track. Finally - much to the amusement of many around him - he accepts that he may well have mistaken her for a very pretty but highly vacuous painter called Liza who was on kitchen duty at the time.
Mario’s lawyer Ancelotti laps it all up. He gives Vito and Valentina hell until Vito is forced to proffer an apology to the billionaire before leading most of his unit out of the mansion.
Only Valentina and her team remain. She’s with Franco Zanzotto, the head of security, and she’s finding him immensely intimidating. Which is exactly what Franco wants.
He hates cops. Has done all his life. As a kid they were the sworn enemy, and he doesn’t feel hugely different these days.
Zanzotto makes sure the pretty lieutenant sees him eyeing her up. Sees his gaze licking her all the way from her trim ankles to her slender neck - like she was the last ice-cream on sale in a desert.
Valentina tries to ignore him as they walk together down a long wood-panelled corridor. There are more important things to concentrate on.
They come to a dead-end. Blocked by two huge, arched oak doors.
‘Unlock them, please.’
Zanzotto smiles lasciviously. ‘My pleasure.’ He selects the key from a heavy ring and unlocks brass padlocks at the top and bottom of the twin doors. He pulls back iron bolts and turns a key in a large brass lock.
The inside of the boathouse surprises Valentina.
It’s vast.
‘Wait!’ she shouts to the officers behind her. ‘Photographer first.’
A slim woman, smaller than Valentina, with short dark hair and bold brown eyes, opens a metal suitcase and lifts out a Nikon.
Zanzotto brushes shoulders with Valentina and whispers confidentially, ‘I’d like to take photographs of you. Pictures both of us would never forget.’
Valentina can’t keep the disgust from her face. ‘I’m sure you would.’ His presence makes her impatient. ‘Come on, Maria, you should already have had that prepared!’
The photographer looks embarrassed.
The head of security moves close again. ‘When you’ve finished here, how about I take you home and you model for me, then I model for you?’
She wafts away his garlicky breath. ‘How about you shut up and let me do my job, or I arrest you for obstruction?’
He scowls at her but backs off.
Bitch. Frigid cop bitch
.
Valentina moves to the desk of monitors. They’re turned off. ‘What’s this? What goes on here?’
Zanzotto shrugs.
She checks beneath the desk and puts plugs back in sockets. The screens fizzle into life. ‘Shots of these too, Maria. Wide shots of the whole set-up, and then individual shots of each screen.’
She wanders away, wondering why you’d have a security control centre in a boathouse. You’d have cameras covering the boathouse, sure. But why have the master control
in
the boathouse? Valentina walks around. There are numerous coils of rope, fuel cans and fold-out metal tool boxes. On one wall, a heavy-duty pegboard supports a range of spanners and wrenches. Beneath it is a workbench and on it - her heart jumps - a chainsaw. She thinks of the dismembered corpses in the lagoon. Valentina looks around for an evidence officer. ‘Bag and tag everything, especially the saw. Make sure you don’t touch the blade.’
A young male officer sets about the task and she tries to calm herself, not get too excited.
There are numerous boats in the water. A speedboat worth ten times the value of her apartment. A state-of-the-art, solar-powered Czeers Mk1. A rubber dinghy with an outboard big enough to power a flight to Venus. A wooden rowing boat, probably used for fishing.
Playthings of the rich and famous.
Across the water something else catches her eye. Something far more interesting.
A gondola.
A sleek, black, silent seahorse of a craft. Every bit as beautiful as the powerboats, but oddly out of place in this collection. She motions towards a forensics officer. ‘This - start with this. As soon as Maria’s done her damned photographs, test the gondola for everything: blood, fibres, DNA, hairs, fingerprints. The whole damned lot.’
CAPITOLO XLIV
1777
Laguna Veneta, Venezia
The journey across the ancient grey waters of the lagoon is choppy and arduous. The boat the two monks travel in is slightly larger than the one Tommaso uses for his regular morning escapes. It’s the monastery’s second craft, a small, patched-up
bragozzo
, a flat-bottomed former fishing boat donated to them almost five years ago.
Brother Maurizio, despite being Venetian and in his late forties, is not a good sailor. Even the short journey to the city turns him pale and nauseous.
Tommaso is oblivious to his fellow traveller’s discomfort; his mind is solely on the abbot and the tablet. More specifically, he’s wondering if he’ll ever see it again. He fears he’s lost his only physical link to his dead mother and his missing sister, and the pain of it is growing inside him.
He navigates north and then a little east into the sloshing mouth of the Rio Dell’Arsenale running all the way towards the shipyards. The boat-builders here have never been busier. A staggering two hundred ships a month are being completed, and as usual the sky is filled with a forest of masts.
Ahead of him is the main traffic of the yards and the magnificent fortified towers and giant Greek lions of the Porta Magna
.
He ties off in the long shadow of a distant
polacca
that’s nearing completion. The ocean-going vessel is probably destined for naval service, patrolling shipping routes and protecting Venetian craft from Turkish and Dalmatian pirates. Its huge, single-pole masts are so tall they threaten to pierce the clouds. Further in the distance, a three-sail
trabaccolo
tacks out to sea, the distinctive red flag and winged lion emblem of the Sereníssiuma Repubblica Veneta fluttering proudly from the stern.
Tommaso takes in all the activity as he helps a pale-faced Maurizio from the boat. ‘Are you sure you are well enough to come, Brother? If you wish to stay here, I am fine to go and collect the supplies myself.’
His fellow monk looks relieved. ‘Tommaso, I would be grateful if I could have a little time for myself. I thought I might wander until the sickness has abated.’
‘Of course.’
They part with a gracious nod and arrange to meet again in two hours in a nearby campo. Maurizio regularly feels ill on the crossing and almost always needs time on his own to recover. His rehabilitation usually includes visiting a local restaurateur who is under the illusion that he can secure his place in heaven by feeding Maurizio until he bursts.
Tommaso quickly goes about his errands. The shipyards are home to private and naval contractors plus dozens of smaller traders, such as rope manufacturers and timber merchants. He’s uncertain exactly how many people are employed there, but he knows it’s more than ten thousand. Thankfully there are plenty of good Christians willing to help an impoverished monk with his list of chores. Today’s monastic requests include a bucket of assorted nails, several seasoned timber planks, a small barrel of pitch for waterproofing and a good length of sailcloth that will be used for a variety of purposes, including repairing his
bragozzo
.
With time to kill, he determines to try to shed some light on the history of the artefact his mother left him. Armed with the sketch he’s made, he heads west past Chiesa di San Francesco della Vigna, moving quickly from art gallery to art gallery.
Nothing.
No one has a clue.
He calls on jewellers, painters and artists between Scuola Grande de San Marco and Chiesa Di Santa Maria Formosa.
Advice comes freely -
‘Try Bonfante’s.’
‘Let old Carazoni on the bridge look at it.’
‘See Luca, the silversmith, on the campo behind the basilica. ’
It all amounts to nothing.
Dejected and worn out, he arrives back at the Arsenale. There’s no sign of Maurizio.
He sits on a wall by the well where they’ve arranged to meet. Venice is surrounded by sea water, so ironically fresh drinking water is precious. It would, however, be bad form simply to help himself. Faces peer down from tenement windows on all four sides of the square. A young woman hangs washing on a line and smiles at him. A grandmother reaches out and closes green wooden shutters that are warped and faded by the sun. Finally, an olive-skinned young man arrives, pulls up a bucket and a tin mug on a piece of string. ‘Water, Brother? You look as though you are in need of sustenance.’
Tommaso is relieved and his face shows it. ‘Most kind.
Molte grazie.
’ He drains the mug and, without prompting, the man refills it. ‘The name’s Efran, I live in this campo. Can I help you get somewhere?’
Tommaso wipes his mouth with his hand. ‘I am Brother Tommaso, from the monastery on San Giorgio - and thank you, no - I’m not lost. I’m just seeking some answers to a personal puzzle, and don’t seem to be able to find anyone to supply them.’
Efran laughs. ‘I thought that was why people turned to God. For answers.’
‘It is, but it seems the good Lord is letting me solve this one on my own.’ Tommaso pulls the sketch out of a pocket in his hooded outer robe and uncreases it. ‘Venice is said to be the centre of world art, but I find only salesmen when I’m looking for scholars. I need someone who may know something about artefacts or old silver jewellery, like this.’
Efran sits and rests his back against the well wall while he looks at the sketch. ‘How large is this? Small like a pendant, or bigger?’
Tommaso holds up his left hand. ‘From the tips of my fingers to my wrist and about four fingers wide.’
Efran’s impressed. ‘Substantial. And is it from the church, from an altar?’
The young monk looks offended. ‘I believe I told you, this is a personal family matter. The object was left to me.’
‘I apologise, Brother, I meant no offence. I was merely trying to establish its provenance.’
‘No offence taken. I assure you, this belongs to me and not to the church.’
Efran hesitates. ‘I have a friend in the ghetto’ - he glances at the young monk - ‘a Jew, very learned. He and his family trade in foreign antiquities and oddities - many of which I get for him from the docks down here.’ He taps the sketch. ‘Ermanno may well know something about this strange block. Did you say it was made of silver?’
‘I think it is. But really, it is not appropriate that a Christian monk seeks the aid of a Jewish trader.’
Efran rolls his eyes. ‘Are we not Venetians first and Christians and Jews second?’
Across the courtyard, backlit in the shadows of an alley-way, Tommaso sees the rotund silhouette of Maurizio rolling slowly towards them. Impulsively, he closes Efran’s hand over the sketch. ‘Then I’d be grateful if you would show my drawing to your Jewish friend - but please keep this as a confidence between us.’ He looks towards Maurizio, now emerging into the campo. ‘This is a fellow monk, please do not mention anything to him.’
Efran pockets the paper and convincingly switches his attention to the cup, bucket and well. ‘Then I’ll bid you good day and safe passage, Brother Tommaso.’ He points up at a window. ‘My home is on the second floor opposite us, the one with only one brown shutter over the window. The other is broken, and I keep meaning to repair it. If you’re back this way again, please feel inclined to ask after me and I’ll bring you more water.’
Efran is gone before Maurizio arrives. Tommaso steers his well-fed friend back towards their
bragozzo
, all too aware that his doubts over the abbot have now led him into a sticky web of deceit.