CHAPTER 66
Present Day
4th June
San Quentin, California
FBI Supervisory Agent Steve Lerner and his partner Hilary Babcock are escorted along the prison landing to the interview room where Lars Bale is waiting, chained hand and foot, in his orange uniform.
Lerner is a small, gentle man with the frame of a sparrow and a well-trimmed greying beard that he can’t help but continually stroke. Babcock is his opposite. She’s tall with lightbulb eyes, hair that looks like a wild, black cleaning mop and a vocabulary that can scorch earth.
‘I remember this motherfucking son-of-a-bitch when I was first at Quantico,’ she says. ‘A poisonous and pontificating prick if ever there was one. I’ll be switching my lights off come June sixth, just so they get some extra juice to toast the bastard.’
‘That’s very considerate, Hilary,’ says Lerner, sarcastically. ‘But not at all necessary - they don’t electrocute people at SQ.’
‘Then they damned well should for this scumbag. I’m sure the families of his victims will love that, after everything he did, he gets a humane exit - a lavish last meal, a cosy lie-down and then a little scratch on his arm before sleepies.’
The banter continues until a prison guard lets them into the lock-up and goes through the safety routine. ‘There’s an alert button on the table and another by the door. Press one if you’re in trouble or when you’re done, and I’ll come and get you out.’ They nod and he relocks the door as he leaves them.
Lerner and Babcock settle in screwed-down chairs at a screwed-down table. ‘Mr Bale, I’m Agent Steve Lerner, this is Agent Hilary Babcock, we’re from the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit and we’d like to ask you some questions. Is that all right?’
‘Ask what you like,’ says Bale, his stare fixed on Babcock. ‘But unless it amuses me, you won’t be getting any answers.’
‘I understand,’ says Lerner, gently. He opens his jacket and takes out a small brown notebook and a pen. He slowly uncaps the yellow plastic pen and scribbles on a page to get the ink flowing.
‘You best hurry, mister,’ says Bale, poking fun. ‘The speed you’re moving at they’re going to have executed me before you’ve started.’
Lerner continues as though he’s not even heard the remark. ‘You’re an artist, I understand. Very admirable. Who was your inspiration?’
Bale’s eyes flicker with fun. ‘The death of Christ and the slaughter of the innocent. I find both motivating and thrilling.’
‘I meant painter. Which artist do you most admire? Picasso? Dada? Dalí?’
‘Oh, I see,’ answers Bale contemptuously, ‘you’re using that old find-some-common-ground trick to get the prisoner to loosen up and talk. How resourceful and intelligent you are.’
‘And the answer?’
‘Picabia.’ Bale all but spits out the name. ‘Picabia. I’ll spell it out nice and slow so you don’t make a mistake in your writing there. Pi-ca-b-ia. He was my inspiration. Does that help you? Or, do you not have a fucking clue who the hell I’m talking about?’
The FBI man methodically writes out the name, then strokes his beard thoughtfully. He looks up casually at the ceiling and feigns searching for an answer. Finally, he smiles at Bale and holds his attention. ‘François Marie Martinez Picabia. I should have known he would be your guide. His 1929 piece
Hera
is full of facial imagery so similar to yours.’
Bale flaps his cuffed hands in mock applause. ‘Congratulations. So you’re not quite as pig ignorant as cops usually are.’ He lets out a sarcastic huff of air. ‘Most queers in professions like yours are both sensitive and smart. It comes with the introversion. Was art a comfort to you, Agent Lerner? Did you seek solace in it while you hid your sexuality from all your macho colleagues?’
Lerner answers in an unconcerned tone that almost borders upon indifference. ‘I suppose I did. That and poetry. Did
you
ever read poetry, Mr Bale?’
Bale shows his teeth. ‘My
crimes
are my poetry. The blood of my victims my ink. Their tombs my pages in history.’
‘Spooky,’ says Lerner mockingly, scribbling in his book. ‘Melodramatic and cheesy, but nonetheless interesting and spooky.’
Babcock is less restrained. ‘
Poetry
will be when they pump acid in your veins and kill your ass in a few days’ time.’
‘And would you eat it, Agent Babcock? I’d love to eat your ass.’ He waggles his tongue at her.
Lerner grabs Babcock’s arm, just in case she has one of those rare moments - like she did in Kansas - where she thinks jumping a desk and punching an inmate is an okay thing to do.
Bale notices it all. ‘That’s a bad doggy, Agent Lerner. You got the little bitch in check now? I’d hate to have to mess her up in my nice, clean cell.’
‘We’re about done.’ Lerner places the top back on the pen and turns it so the plastic clip lines up perfectly with the writing down its side. ‘Thank you so much for your time. I realise how little you have left and how precious it must be to you.’ He presses the button for the guard to come and let them out.
Bale gets to his feet. Even with chained hands and feet, both agents can see he poses a deadly threat. Lerner keeps the pen in his hand rather than pocket it. If necessary, he’ll use it as a weapon. Jabbed into an eye socket, a ballpoint can be surprisingly effective.
The guard swipes open multiple electronic locks and the two agents move outside, their eyes never leaving the interviewee.
‘K-reep-ee,’ says Babcock as they head back down the corridors. ‘You should have let me whack him.’
‘He’d have killed you. And me. Not a good idea.’
‘And that whole damned chat was? Seemed a
complete
waste of fucking time to me.’
‘No it wasn’t.’
‘It wasn’t?’
‘Picabia was part of a movement known as
Section d’Or
- “Golden Section” in French.’
‘And this is relevant, how?’ She signs them both out at the front desk as they talk.
‘Patience, Hilary. Patience.’ Lerner squints in the bright daylight as they head towards his car. ‘The Golden Section got its name from a 1910 translation of Da Vinci’s
Trattato della Pittura
by Joséphin Péladan.’
‘Come on, boss, you know I’m out of my depth and drowning here. I read
USA Today
and watch
Oprah
; I ain’t a friggin’ egghead like you.’
‘Cultured, Hilary, the word you’re searching for is cultured. ’
Okay, I ain’t
cultured
like you - now will you please tell me what my
un
cultured brain missed?’
‘I’m getting there.’ He lets out a dramatic sigh. ‘Péladan attached great mystical significance to the Golden Section and other geometric configurations.’
‘So suddenly we got geometry too?’
‘More than geometry. In mathematics and art there is a powerful formula called the Golden Ratio. If memory serves me right, it is denoted by the Greek letter
phi
. Roughly,
a
plus
b
over
a
equals
a
over
b
equals
phi
.’
‘Oh fuck, did you so lose me!’ says Hilary. ‘I’m going to get a sat nav to follow what you say in future.’
They reach Lerner’s Lexus Hybrid and he zaps it open.
‘You have my sympathy. It’s actually an irrational mathematical constant, that’s why it’s seen as special, almost magical. Perhaps everything will come into focus for you if I say this: the golden ratio is at the heart of pyramids, pentagrams and pentagons. Its influence runs through the history of architecture, astronomy and all arts. Look at Leonardo Da Vinci’s illustration from
De Divina Proportione
and you’ll see he used what became known as the Golden Rectangle to apply geometric illustrations to the human face.’
Hilary looks relieved as she climbs in the car. ‘Rectangles? Like the signature marking we saw in Bale’s paintings?’
‘Now you’re getting there. None of this clicked with me until Bale mentioned Picabia, then it fell into place. Look at a drawing of a Golden Rectangle and you’ll see that it is first created from a perfect square and then, using the Golden Ratio, the rectangle is extended from it and the outline of the square used to form the overall oblong is divided into three exactly equal parts.’
Hilary’s starting to get enthusiastic. ‘Okay, so I understand that our whack-job back there is a good painter, that he was influenced by this old French Master who was part of some magical group of intellectuals who called themselves the golden somethings, but - and forgive my own French - how the fuck does all that help our colleagues in Italy?’
Lerner lifts his eyes to the heavens. ‘What do paintings do, Hilary?’
She looks puzzled. ‘Hang on your wall?’
‘Deeper. Dig deeper into that cavernous intellect of yours. What do artists intend their work to do?’
She shakes her shock of black hair. ‘Convey something? Voice inner visions and all that crap? Get out some kooky message?’
Lerner rewards her with a smile. ‘A
New York Times
critic couldn’t have put it better. Art is a medium through which the creator communicates his own views and messages with his audience. And just as Picabia embedded his rectangular paintings with mystical messages, so too did Mr Lars Bale.’
‘But surely there’s a big difference here,’ says Hilary. ‘I mean, millions of fuckers saw Picabia’s weirdo pictures, and no saddo outside the cell block back there has seen anything that sicko Bale has painted.’
Lerner treats her to his biggest smile of the day. ‘Oh, but they have, Hilary. Trust me, they have.’
CHAPTER 67
5th June
Isola Mario, Venice
They come at dawn.
High-speed patrol boats slam on to the sandbanks. Troops race up the bankings. Guns zip from holsters.
Warrants and sledge-hammers flash in fast hands.
Before monitor-watching security guards can put down their coffee and get to their feet, Vito Carvalho’s unit crashes through a side door.
They’re in.
Valentina and Rocco rush a team to the boathouse.
More wood splinters.
Everything inside is swept up and bagged by forensics.
In the main body of the mansion, pale-faced sleepers stir in their beds. Some groggily make their way down the grand oak staircase to see what’s happening. Others can barely raise their head off the pillows.
Nuncio di Alberto holds up his ID and a warrant. ‘This is a police raid! Back to your rooms, immediately!’
They don’t need telling twice.
Toilets flush all over the mansion. Thousands of euros’ worth of dope and pills hit the water and head down the pipes.
Mario Fabianelli appears barefoot, dressed in ripped-knee jeans and an open white shirt over a chiselled and tanned stomach. ‘
Buongiorno
, Major.’ A relaxed smile plays across his lips. ‘You could have just rung the bell, you’re always welcome here.’
Vito bats away the charm. ‘It’s not that kind of visit, Signor Fabianelli. I’d be grateful if you and your lawyer would accompany me back to the station to answer a few questions.’
Mario pulls a face. ‘Before breakfast? I’d rather not.’
Vito smiles back at him. ‘I have to insist.’
Mario fingers his shock of uncombed hair. ‘I suppose you have a warrant that justifies this intrusion?’
Vito produces it.
‘
Bene
. I suggest you wait in the south drawing room. The view of the sunrise across the gardens is best from there. I need to finish dressing.’
‘I’ll wait where I am.’ Vito motions to a uniformed officer. ‘My young colleague here will accompany you to your bedroom. ’
Confidence drains from Mario’s face. He nods. ‘As you wish. But before we go any further, what exactly is the basis of your warrant, Major?’
‘Murder, signor.’ He watches the billionaire’s face. ‘And that’s just to start with.’
CAPITOLO LIX
1778
Lazzaretto Vecchio, Venezia
Torch-smoke clouds the clearing where the Satanists are congregated.
Gatusso is staring into Tommaso’s terrified eyes, a gaze so intense it feels like it’s touching his soul.
‘I asked you a question, Brother. Gave you a chance to play God and spare your sister’s life by taking one yourself. What’s your decision?’
Tommaso looks right through him.
The high priest shakes his head. ‘Then we begin.’
He spins away. His black alba twirls, and the breeze it creates makes the blue-orange flames of the torches dance.
Gatusso raises his arms. ‘
In nomine magni dei nostri Satanus Introibo ad altare Domini Inferi.’
The acolytes respond.
‘Ad eum qui laetificat juventutem meam.’
From the darkness a distinctive hand-bell echoes out towards the lagoon.
The hands of an acolyte swing a chained thurible.
Clouds of incense made from poisonous herbs.
‘Domine Satanus. Tua est terra
. . .
’
Tommaso tunes out Gatusso’s words. He closes his eyes and switches off his jangling nerves by entering a meditative state that has comforted him since he was a child.
Time turns soft. Slips away like spilled cream. He imagines his mother’s face, her arms outstretched to both him and his sister.
Tanina screams. Not in his imagined childhood. In the very real now.
She cries so loudly that even Gatusso is startled.
Lydia has plunged the ceremonial knife into Efran’s stomach and is opening him up.
Blood and entrails pour down the wooden libation altar.
Acolytes hold silver chalices beneath the crimson fountain.
From the butchered hole Lydia produces a fistful of gore.
Efran’s liver.
The acolytes break into a chant
, ‘Ave, Satanas! Ave, Satanas! Ave, Satanas!’
The hand-bell rings three more times.
Lydia holds the organ in her cupped hands and passes it to Gatusso.
He takes it in a silver casket and places it in the centre of the giant rectangle that encompasses the three altars.
Just as Tommaso was unable to speak earlier, now he is unable to hold his silence.
The words just tumble out.
‘Deus, in nomine tuo salvum me fac, et virtúte tua age causam meam.’
Gatusso freezes.
‘Deus, audi oratiónem meam: áuribus pércipe verba oris mei.’
The Prayer of Exorcism.
‘Nam supérbi insurréxunt contra me, et violénti quasiérunt vitam meam; non proposuérunt Deum ante óclus suos.’
‘Shut him up!’ shouts Gatusso.
Lydia flies at Tommaso.
Instinctively, he turns his face away. Raises a knee protectively.
Lydia runs straight into it.
She rebounds and falls. Scrambles to her feet. Anger blazing in her face.
The knife raised in her hand.
She throws up her arms and screams.
At first they think she’s going to strike. Kill the priest too soon.
Then they see it.
She’s on fire.
She’s backed into a torch and her robes are now ablaze.
Tommaso takes his chance.
Hands still tied, he darts forward and grabs a torch. He rushes at the acolytes near Tanina and sets several of their robes ablaze.
Bedlam breaks out.
Across the flames he sees Gatusso stranded in mid-ceremony, forbidden by ritual to leave the lines of the magic rectangle drawn around the altars.
More acolytes close in on Tommaso.
He glances towards his sister. ‘Run Tanina, run!’
She hesitates.
‘Run!’
She knows she has no choice. No hope of saving Ermanno. Or even Tommaso.
Tanina sprints for her life.
Straight across the rectangle. Straight across centuries of belief and black magic.
Gatusso is only feet away - but the
wrong
side of the sacrificial altar.
He can only watch - helplessly out of reach - as she sweeps up the Tablets of Atmanta and disappears into the dead of night.