PART FIVE
CAPITOLO LV
1778
Lazzaretto Vecchio, Venezia
The tiny island’s terrible history floats in the night like an invisible but poisonous cloud.
Lazzaretto Vecchio - Venice’s biggest burial ground, the home of the plague dead.
Almost a century and a half earlier, the disease had devastated the city. More than a third of the population - around fifty thousand people - had been killed. Such was the toll, prisoners had to be released to ferry the dead - and the dying - out to the
lazaret,
Italy’s first quarantine island. Back then, it was more benignly known as Isola Santa Maria di Nazareth, but the saintly name was lost as the cadavers stacked up. The hospital did its best to cure the incurable, but it quickly became just a sorting office for the dead and the dying.
Since then, it’s been uninhabited.
Or so people believed.
As Tommaso steps ashore, his nerves are in shreds. He remembers only too well the stories the brothers at the monastery told about the island and how mass graves were hurriedly dug to swallow rotting corpses that the city couldn’t cope with. He knows that the steps he now takes were once routes for carts full of wasted lives, corpses of men, women and children carried to communal pits to be burned.
Oarsmen with lanterns fall in at the front and rear of the party as it heads further away from the shore and into what seems a dense thicket.
The night is quickly becoming icy, and the ground underfoot hard and slippery. Someone in front stumbles and then the lanterns go out. A woman shouts. Lydia, by the sound of it.
Something cracks into the side of Tommaso’s head. He thinks he’s cracked it against a low-hanging branch.
Then another blow slams into his head. Much harder this time. Strong enough to knock him flat and to make him realise he’s being attacked. He rolls on the hard, slippery ground and covers his face to protect himself.
Pain explodes in his right shoulder.
Now in his side and thighs.
A flurry of clubs smash his head, legs and arms.
A knee thumps into his gut and stays there.
They’re kneeling on him. Pressed so close to him that he can smell them.
Alcohol. Garlic. Strange perfume.
A fist pounds his face. Bone-jarring brutality. Blood and teeth in his mouth. He spits and coughs for air.
Hands grab his legs and arms.
He’s dizzy. Blacking out.
Something rough touches his face.
A rope.
The last thing he’s conscious of is the smell and feel of the noose, as it slips over his busted nose and tightens around his throat.
CHAPTER 61
Present Day
Venice
Tom’s been unconscious for so long he has no idea of the length of time he’s been held. Certainly twenty-four hours. Maybe longer. Much longer.
He feels as though he’s lost the ability to judge things. Doesn’t know whether it’s day or night.
Whether he’s blind or his eyes are still bandaged.
At times, he can’t even tell whether he’s awake or asleep.
On the grey movie screen in his mind, familiar scenes flicker by: The Monica Vidic Killing. The Disneyland Murders. The Death of Antonio Pavarotti.
The leading actors are always the same: Vito Carvalho, Valentina Morassi and Lars Bale. The minor ones equally familiar: Tina Ricci, Mera Teale, Sylvio Montesano and Alfie Giordano.
But it’s all a mess.
In his muddle of drug-induced plots and subplots, Tom has Vito cast as a Satanic high priest, Giordano as the killer of Antonio Pavarotti and Valentina Morassi as the secret owner of the
Gates of Destiny
. Drugs do that. They expand your mind, make you think differently, but warp everything in the process.
While Tom has no exact idea how long he’s been held captive, he knows it’s running into days, not hours. He knows it, because he’s developing a tolerance to the drug they’re feeding him. The gaps between total immersion in his never-ending narcotic netherworld and gradual surfacing back into the air of the real world are becoming shorter and shorter. Whoever is shooting him the stuff is not as smart as they should be.
Smart or not - they’re back.
And they’re sticking another spike into Tom’s dartboard thigh.
He doesn’t go under as quickly as normal, but he can feel it coming. A big heavy train full of the black coals of unconsciousness rumbling around the distant bends of his mind.
It’ll be here soon.
Flattening him. Dragging him under its wheels. Leaving him in pieces far down the tracks.
The films are starting up again.
Another muddle of plots - Satanists in silver cowls holding the
Gates of Destiny
. But this time they have nothing to do with Italy.
South America.
For some crazy reason, Tom’s imaginary director is setting this one in Venezuela.
The train’s here now. Bearing down on him. Only yards away.
Venezuela.
The word sticks.
Venezuela. Little Venice.
The huge black cowcatcher hits him. Slams into his newborn thoughts. Trundles them through the screaming, hissing darkness.
CHAPTER 62
2nd June
Carabinieri HQ
It’s been a long time since Vito Carvalho has had to kick ass like he’s doing right now. Venice was supposed to be a retirement backwater, not a white-water ride around the jagged rocks of Satanism and ritual murder.
He’s had Francesca Totti hounding the Vatican so much that he doubts she’ll ever be allowed into heaven. Straight after Alfie was forced to suddenly drop off the call, Vito had her send a Carabinieri unit from their Rome barracks across town to locate him. It hadn’t gone down well. The Vatican and the Pope are protected by the Swiss Guard, and they take
any
and
every
opportunity to point out that the Stato della Città del Vaticano is not only a country and a sovereign city-state, it also has jurisdictional independence from Italy and from the central authority of the Roman Catholic Church - a long-winded way of saying your badges and warrants don’t count for anything in here. But the Carabinieri can be enormously persuasive. After a day of reasoned argument, Vito resorted to hidden threats. Then after his hidden threats came some not so hidden ones. The end result was Father Alfredo Giordano’s release and his arrival any moment now at the Carabinieri HQ in Venice.
While waiting for Alfie, Vito has had Valentina relentlessly pressing the FBI for anything and everything about Lars Bale and his California cult following. Similarly, Rocco Baldoni has been making himself universally unpopular by contacting every police arts and antiques unit across the world to trace the tablets. Almost as arduously, Nuncio di Alberto has been deployed to scour databases for everything ever written about Mario Fabianelli, his string of global businesses and the weird hippy commune on his private island. Finally, Vito himself has been busy monitoring and managing each and every action, while also issuing more alerts on the disappearance of Tom Shaman. In short, he and his team are stretched to the limits.
The bloody image of the Gates of Hell and the ominous figure six hanging from it remains at the forefront of his mind. That, and the knowledge that the symbol was drawn two days ago. Time is ticking away. If the priest from the Vatican is right, then there are now only four days left on the countdown.
Countdown to what?
To something bad - that’s for sure.
As the team file into Vito’s office for the latest update, he can see exhaustion etched across all their faces. Valentina’s especially. He should have cut her from the enquiry. But that’s no longer an option. He needs her now. Needs everybody to give him everything they can, even if it means wrecking their health.
‘So, what have we got?’ Vito stretches his arms above his head and feels his back crackle with stiffness.
Valentina is first to speak. ‘Lars Bale - the man Tom Shaman visited at San Quentin more than ten years ago and apparently spoke to just a few days ago.’
He cuts short his stretch. ‘Why didn’t we know about this?’
‘Because he didn’t tell us. He was probably on his way here to inform us when he disappeared.’
Vito holds up his palms by way of apology.
‘Bale is now in his late forties,’ she continues. ‘He’s due to be executed in four days’ time.’
‘Is this our four days?’ Vito speculates.
‘Don’t know,’ says Valentina. ‘Almost two decades ago Bale had a small but dedicated following who believed he was some sort of chic, sexy antichrist. To cut a long story short, he aped Charles Manson, slaughtered innocent people and daubed signs and words in their blood.’
‘Our kind of signs?’ asks the major, sensing a breakthrough.
‘Our kind,’ confirms Valentina. ‘Though of course they weren’t recognised as meaning anything at the time. In one case, an LAPD patrolman walked right over the markings and practically obliterated them.’
‘And no one asked what the signs actually meant because he got caught?’
‘Exactly,’ says Valentina. ‘The FBI are sending some pro-filers to see him.’
‘Better late than never,’ says Rocco.
Valentina glares at him. She still has a score to settle. And will. In her own time. ‘When Bale was arrested, all manner of Satanic paraphernalia was found in a squat he shared with his disciples, mainly women. There was the Satanic Bible, the complete works of Aleister Crowley and transcripts of the Black Mass in Latin, French and English.’
‘Not your normal bedtime reading,’ quips Vito.
‘Not at all.’ Valentina passes out a stack of photographs all bearing the crest of the FBI. ‘They also discovered these—’
Vito fans them out. They’re photographs of paintings. ‘Not bad. For a crazy man, he had some talent.’ He shuffles through colour shots of modern art interspersed with charcoal sketches of what look like wizards and deserts. ‘Is this one of those old Etruscan priests we heard about, a netsvis?’ He holds up a print.
‘Maybe,’ says Valentina, ‘though I had him down as Dumbledore or that old guy out of
The Lord of the Rings
whose name I can never remember.’
‘Gandalf,’ says Vito, putting the shot down. ‘So where are you going with all this?’
‘You’re not done,’ says Valentina. ‘Go to the last three prints.’
Vito does as he’s told. The paintings are abstract, almost cubist, very crude, and nothing jumps out straight away.
Valentina smiles. ‘The other way round. Turn them the other way round and lie them side by side.’
Even before Vito does it he knows what he’s going to see.
Through the cubist angles and the fire of red and black oils, familiar figures now leap out at him.
A demon. A priest. Two lovers and their devil child.
CAPITOLO LVI
1778
Lazzaretto Vecchio, Venezia
When Tommaso regains conciousness, he finds he’s not the only one to have been beaten and bound.
Tanina and Ermanno are sitting on the floor opposite him, backs against a damp brick wall, a thick black candle burning between them.
The young monk guesses they’re in an old ward of the plague hospital.
A place where thousands drew their last breath.
Ermanno is motionless.
Dead?
Asleep?
Or just unconscious?
Tommaso is not sure which. The Jew’s face is bloody and bruised, his left eye so swollen that, if he is still alive, it’s unlikely he’ll ever be able to see through it.
Tanina looks petrified. But apart from a face streaked with dirt and tears, she appears unharmed.
Tommaso’s legs hurt, especially around the right knee. His ankles are bound and his hands, like those of the others, are tied behind his back.
Tanina notices that he’s come round. ‘Tommaso, are you all right?’
He understands he’s expected to put a brave face on things. ‘I think so. Are you?’
She nods. ‘Yes. But Ermanno keeps losing consciousness. I’m worried about him.’ Her face creases, and he can see she’s fighting back tears.
The candle on the floor almost blows out. The flame has been rocked by a breeze from a door to the left.
Tommaso doesn’t recognise the man entering the room. But Tanina does.
Lauro Gatusso is no longer wearing the smart trousers, linen shirt and embroidered coat that he wears to greet customers in his shop. He is dressed from head to toe in a black hooded robe, the Satanic vestment known as an alba.
‘Tanina! I see you are surprised.’ He spreads his arms wide, just as he used to when she was a child. ‘This is indeed going to be a day of revelations for you.’ He turns to Tommaso. ‘And for you too, Brother.’ He walks over to Tommaso and peers at him. ‘You have some nasty cuts there. If you
were
going to live, we would have to get them attended to.’
Gatusso says something else but Tommaso doesn’t hear. He’s too intent on piecing together what has happened. No doubt it’s all connected to the Etruscan artefact. He’s sure now of the innocence of Tanina and Ermanno, but Efran’s absence speaks volumes. He must have gone to the monastery on his own, without them knowing, staged the fire and theft, and then sold the artefact to Gatusso.
Loud voices outside the room.
Lydia sweeps in.
She’s wearing the same robes as Gatusso, and a look of triumphalism. She walks over to Tanina. Two hooded men trail behind her. They’re dragging something.
The dead body of Efran.
They drop the corpse and leave.
Tommaso feels all his solid reasoning start to crack.
Was Efran innocent? Or did they kill him because he’d served his purpose?
Lydia touches her friend’s cheek. ‘Dearest Tanina, do not look so perplexed. Your worthless shop-girl life is finally about to have some meaning.’ She turns to Gatusso.
He places his hand on Tommaso’s shoulder. ‘Brother, meet your sister, Tanina. Children of a truly traitorous bitch - but also the flesh and blood of one of our most revered high priests.’