CHAPTER 46
Present Day
Carabinieri HQ, Venice
The office is stacked with pizza and beer as the team gather for an evening debrief in Carvalho’s office. The atmosphere crackles like a loose cable in a thunderstorm.
Everyone wants to speak first.
They all have a new hunch - a fresh theory - a nagging doubt that they’re desperate to voice.
Valentina fans out a pack of photographs of the boathouse interior. ‘Look at these crafts. This is a Czeers. Carbon-fibre body. Solar-powered. Does thirty knots.’
Vito frowns. ‘You mention this because . . .?’
‘It fits. That’s my point,’ says Valentina. ‘I’d expect a billionaire to have a solar-powered plaything.’ She shuffles out some more shots. ‘It also fits that he’d have this dinghy, this fishing boat and even this UFO-looking sports boat. But I don’t buy this—’ She drops the glossy of the sleek black gondola on the desk. ‘
This
doesn’t fit.’
‘Why not?’ Rocco Baldoni spins the print round so he can see it better. ‘Many rich Venetians renovate gondolas and keep them for show. Some even plant flowers in them.’
‘Rubbish,’ snaps Valentina. ‘Mario’s not some hippy gardener. ’
‘Ahh, but he is,’ protests Vito. ‘A hippy is exactly what he is. That’s what the whole of his island is about.’
She flaps her arms in annoyance. ‘But there weren’t flowers in this boat, were there?’ Her voice is heavy with sarcasm. ‘It was operational. Smart and seaworthy.’
‘So you think . . . what?’ asks Vito, still playing devil’s advocate. ‘That he uses the gondola to pass unnoticed among the masses? That he used it to sail up to Antonio’s boat and rig it with explosives? Or that he uses it to kill tourists and then bring them back to Fantasy Island so he can butcher them?’ He looks at her kindly and lets out a tired sigh. ‘It’s all a bit far-fetched, Valentina. Remember, Antonio was sent there as part of an undercover
drugs
job. If anything, you might find traces of narcotics inside the gondola, but I doubt it.’
Rocco interrupts: ‘Given the millions of tourists in Venice, it’d be strange
not
to find some traces of drugs.’
Valentina snaps again at him. ‘But this is not a tourist boat, stupid! It’s a private craft.’
‘Enough!’ shouts Vito. He rubs his head and waits for peace to return to the room. Everyone’s tired and stressed, he can see it in their eyes. He thinks of his wife and her illness and her fear of being on her own. He feels guilty about not being with her. ‘That’s it for tonight, let’s wrap it up. Make sure everything that should be with the labs
is
with the labs, then go and get some sleep.’
Valentina doesn’t seem to hear him, or notice him putting his pen in his pocket and looking for his keys. ‘What about these monitors?’ She deals out more stills. ‘Monitors
inside
the boathouse. Not on the main security links. They’re rigged to a surveillance system that Jack Bauer and CTU couldn’t afford.’
‘For God’s sake, Valentina - the man’s a
billionaire
!’ Vito’s sorry he’s snapped as soon as he’s done it. He forces himself into a calmer, more reasonable tone: ‘He has to make sure he doesn’t get kidnapped. If I were him, I would have cameras and monitors everywhere. In fact, I wouldn’t even go to the toilet without three people coming with me. Now, go home.’
Vito walks towards the door, then turns. He’s been too hard on her and he knows it. ‘Valentina, there’s good circumstantial evidence and actually more leads than I thought we’d get - but that’s all they are: leads. A tiny quantity of drugs turned up in some hippy beds. Hash, ecstasy, amyl nitrate and speed. Nothing to send anyone to jail for, but enough to get us in there again if we want. The gondola is
interesting
- but only relevant if it shows any forensic links to our victims, and at the moment we have no such evidence.’ He looks across at his team and realises he can’t just walk out on them. They’re not done. Not by a long way. Maria will just have to wait. ‘Okay, we spend ten more minutes on this.’ He returns to his desk. ‘Tom, run through what you told me on the way back, the stuff about the Satanists.’
Tom cracks his fingers while he gathers his thoughts, a habit that used to get him a telling-off from his church housekeeper. ‘Mera Teale - the tattooed lady who says she’s Mario’s PA - told me they had Satanists practising there. I believe her. The room I went into had certainly been used for a Black Mass.’
Vito interrupts. ‘How do you prove that?’
‘She
said
so.’
‘That means nothing. How do you
prove
it?’
‘There was black candle-wax on the skirting.’
Vito laughs. ‘Oh, come on, Tom! You can’t prove the presence of the Antichrist by holding up a dribble of black candle-wax. Coloured candles - even black ones - are bought by hundreds of thousands of people. We need damning scientific evidence that links people to actual crimes.’
‘Science isn’t everything,’ says Tom sharply.
‘
Really
?’ says Vito, now sounding exasperated. ‘I suppose religion is a better bet?’ He picks up the phone. ‘Oh, that I could get God on the line. God, the good guy, who shouldn’t have let any of this damned well happen in the first place. The same God that went missing when Monica was killed, and Antonio murdered. The God who strands me here with you idiots while my crippled wife wonders where I am?’ Vito can’t believe he said all that, especially the last part. He must be more tired and stressed than he thought. He puts his head in his hands and slowly massages his temples, acutely aware of the stunned silence in the room.
Tom is first to speak. ‘I sympathise with your anger. And your
need
to focus on facts. And I can certainly understand why at this moment you’re questioning God. But right now, while the facts may be non-scientific they’re as clear-cut as a DNA test.’ He counts them off on his fingers: ‘First, Monica Vidic is stabbed six hundred and sixty-six times - a very significant and symbolic number. Second, her body is moved through the canal system unnoticed - and with thousands of gondolas on the water, who
would
notice another one? Third, we have the Satanic defilement of the Salute and Mera Teale’s admission that there are Satanists at the commune.’
‘Coincidences,’ says Vito, sounding drained.
‘We must at least identify and question the Satanists,’ says Rocco.
‘Of course we must,’ growls Vito. ‘But not until you’ve got your forensic results.’ He turns back to Tom. ‘Finish your appraisal, you were doing well.’
Tom glances at Valentina, hopes what he’s about to say won’t upset her. ‘Finally, Antonio Pavarotti is working undercover, investigating a drug ring operating on Mario’s island, when he is killed. Why? His death must have something to do with what’s going on in that mansion - a place where we know there’s been Satanic activity.’
Vito stares off into space, what he calls a George Bush moment: though outwardly he looks clueless, internally he is processing information, trying to make sense of it all.
‘I have a friend at the Vatican,’ continues Tom. ‘He’s digging up information on the Etruscans and—’
‘Enough!’ says Vito, holding up the palm of his hand. ‘No Etruscans, not tonight at least.’
Tom gives him a look of surrender: he can see Vito is exhausted.
The major glides his chair under his desk. ‘Isola Mario is under surveillance tonight. Long-range and close-up. No one on the island can so much as spit into the lagoon without us taking samples. Tomorrow we chase forensics. All the reports.’ He looks to Rocco, Valentina and Tom. ‘Then we meet again, and you can talk all the Etruscan you want and satisfy your curiosity by finding these Satanists and seeing whether they’re harmless fancy-dress merchants or the real deal. Until then, let’s all get some sleep.’
CAPITOLO XLV
1777
Ghetto Nuovo, Venezia
Ermanno’s eyes are candle-bright as he smooths the sketch of the silver tablet out on the family table. ‘A monk, you say? A lowly friar gave you this?’
Efran slips off his new, mid-length green coat, richly embroidered in gold scrolls from collar to hem, and places it lovingly over the back of a chair that’s older than he is. ‘He was Benedictine. Black robes and a picture of pure innocence. Came from San Giorgio.’
His friend fingers the drawing, as though touching it will help him divine its mystery. ‘It’s fascinating. You think he
owns
this object? Or has he stolen it and wants to sell it?’
Efran shrugs his bony shoulders. ‘He says it’s his, but who knows? Important thing is that it may be worth something, and we may be able to get our hands on it.’
The pained face of the impaled netsvis stares up from the table. ‘But do we want to get our hands on it?’ queries Ermanno playfully. ‘Some of these Greek and Egyptian artefacts are cursed. They come from tombs and are supposed to belong to the dead in the afterlife. Steal that kind of stuff and you end up with a whole legion of spirits on your trail.’
‘The only spirits I believe in are the ones you drink. As for the afterlife, most of us don’t even have a
current
life worth worrying about.’
Efran carries on talking but Ermanno’s stopped listening. He’s now engrossed in the lettering. ‘I think it’s Etruscan. The writing looks Etruscan.’
‘Before Roman times?’
‘Well done. Very much before, and maybe even eight or nine centuries before Christ. But
this
particular object isn’t quite that old. The lettering looks somewhat later.’
Efran rubs his hands. ‘Very educational. More importantly, what’s it worth?’
‘Philistine! It’s impossible to guess without seeing it. Did the monk say it was
solid
silver?’
Efran struggles to remember. ‘No, I don’t think so. He just said silver.’ He holds out his palm, ‘About as big and almost as wide as my hand.’
‘The Etruscans mined silver. There are no gold mines in Italy, though over the years gold became the offering of choice to the gods.’
Efran is bored. He merely wants to know the thing’s value and then figure out how to persuade the monk to part with it. He stands and grandly pulls on his coat. ‘I’ll leave it with you. Let me know if you solve the mystery - and its price.’
Ermanno doesn’t even notice his friend leave. He bends over the sketch in concentrated silence and soon surrounds himself with every book he has on ancient art and religious artefacts.
His family come and go, flowing around him like a river round a rock. They eat dinner and supper, then finally drift off to bed, amused by his preoccupation.
Gradually, book by book, he picks up the trail of the tablet.
He is certain the characters are Etruscan. He finds a suggested alphabet drawn up by scholars of earlier times, but can’t make sense of any of the words they list. As his eyes grow tired, it becomes apparent that the experts contradict each other as to the base of the language. Some, such as the Dominican monk Annio da Viterbo, claim it sprang from the same source as Hebrew, others link it to Greek, while many suggest it came from Lydia in the east.
None of this helps the now bleary-eyed Ermanno.
He puts the troublesome inscription to one side and scans book after book for drawings similar to the figure that the monk has sketched. It doesn’t take him long to come to the conclusion that he was right - it’s an augur - a seer, priest, haruspex or netsvis.
By the time the first light of dawn pierces the dirt-streaked windows of the Buchbinder home, Ermanno’s eyes are as red as raw meat. His neck aches and he’s desperate to stretch out in bed and rest properly.
Wearily, he thumbs through the last of his ancient volumes.
Now he sees it.
In a dusty, broken-spined book on myths and legends, he comes upon the Tablets of Atmanta - a story of a blinded augur called Teucer and his sculptress wife Tetia.
CHAPTER 47
Present Day
Hotel Rotoletti, Venice
Two a.m.
The banging on Tom’s bedroom door wakes him from a deep sleep.
He rolls out of bed, his heart thumping from the shock of the loud noise. ‘Who is it?’
No one answers.
More banging.
Tom’s alert now. On his toes. Wide awake. Life in Compton prepared him for all manner of surprises. He jerks the door open, ready to deal with whatever lies on the other side.
Valentina Morassi falls into his room.
She stumbles headlong and Tom only just manages to catch her.
She reeks of booze. White wine, by the smell of it. Her hair is a crazy mess and her make-up smudged so much she has panda eyes.
‘Okay. Be careful,’ he steadies her and kicks the door closed behind them.
She slurs something, then wobbles her way to the edge of his bed.
Tom guides her carefully, worried she might fall, and then realises he’s wearing nothing but some black boxers Tina bought him. ‘Excuse me.’ He leaves her on the bed, quickly grabs his trousers off the back of a chair and steps into them. ‘Are you all right?’
She forces a weak smile.
It’s clear she’s very much
not
all right. Tom scouts for a glass to pour water in and offers it to her. ‘Here, drink this, it will help.’
Valentina takes a tiny sip, then just holds the glass. ‘I’m sorry - sorry I woke you. I just can’t be alone tonight.’ She suddenly looks more flustered and embarrassed than drunk.
Tom sits alongside her and lifts the glass to her lips. ‘It’s fine. Come on, you need to drink it. I don’t have coffee, so this is the only way I can help get you sober.’
She pushes his hand away. ‘I don’t want sober.’ She peers up at him pitifully. ‘I’m going mad, Tom. I hurt so much. I feel like I’m going to crack, just break into a million pieces.’
He takes the glass out of her grip, sets it on the floor and puts his arms round her.
She presses her face against his naked shoulder as if it’s a relief just to touch someone. He holds tight and waits for her to unwind.
It starts as a tiny sigh, like the first whisper of a newborn breeze, then rises into a deep, long gale of sobbing. Valentina holds on to him so tightly and cries so hard that all her muscles ache with the strain of it.
When she’s finished, he gallantly offers her his bed for the night and takes a brief walk outside to give her some privacy.
The sky is jet black. A handful of stars sparkle like diamonds spilled on black velvet cloth. The streets are eerily empty, and the deep silence makes Venice look like a film set that’s been deserted. Tom spends a while thinking of Valentina’s grief and the dangers that lie ahead for her as she learns to accept her loss while pursuing a career that’s full of death and evil. He thinks briefly of Tina: her betrayal of him and, if he’s honest, how much he misses her, and how his mind had tricked him into seeing her at Isola Mario. And he thinks of another woman, too.
Mera Teale, the billionaire’s feisty PA.
Valentina is asleep by the time he creeps back in. He pulls the quilt up over her shoulder, switches off the light, grabs his cellphone and returns outside.
Mera Teale, the loudmouth with a teardrop tattoo identical to that of a Death Row inmate he’d met more than a decade ago at San Quentin.
For two months, he’d been posted there, listening to the lost souls trapped in the purgatory of an appeals process that had them hoping for a reprieve right until the second their sleeves were rolled up and a fatal fix of potassium chloride prepared for their veins.
One fiercely violent but strangely charismatic young man had a teardrop identical to Teale’s.
Lars Bale.
Bale was a talented and passionate artist. Once, as a punishment after he’d broken some petty prison rule, guards had searched his cell and confiscated all his paints and equipment. Bale retaliated by using his own faeces to paint a portrait of the governor on his wall.
All in all, Tom had probably visited Bale close to twenty times. Although it was policy not to ask about the inmates’ crimes, Tom knew. A guard walking him through on a visit had described Bale as a latter-day Charlie Manson. Said he was as mad as a frog on acid and had been the leader of a sect that had abducted holidaymakers from theme parks and murdered them in what the press had called the Disneyland Killings.
When they were done slaughtering their victims, Bale and his followers had smeared their blood over church altars in LA.