The Absolution (23 page)

IT WAS FIVE
thirty in the morning when Kat's phone rang. Scrabbling for it, she saw Flavio's name on the screen. “Yes?”

“I've authorised a warrant,” his voice said. “You're to bring Count Tignelli in for questioning.”

“What charges?” she asked, reaching for a pad.

“Conspiracy to murder, conspiracy to overthrow the state, organising an illegal group, and conspiracy to manipulate the financial markets. We'll throw the lot at him, make him fight us on every front.”

“You won't regret this,” she said, scribbling.

“Actually, I suspect I might. But I'm also sure it's the right thing to do. And Kat? Be careful which
carabinieri
you take with you. I'd rather Count Tignelli didn't know anything about this until you knock on his front door.”

As soon as he'd rung off, she called Aldo Piola. He too answered immediately, and with much the same hope and expectancy in his voice, she realised, as there had been in hers when she'd picked up the phone to Flavio.

“Kat? What is it?”

“I need to get a team together who definitely aren't Freemasons.” She explained her problem, the phone tucked under her ear so she could pull on clothes as she spoke.

“Let's meet at San Zaccaria in thirty minutes. We'll go
through Hapadi's list and Cassandre's, cross-checking them against the available officers. In the meantime, what about Panicucci? He's good, and I'd swear he isn't the Freemason type.”

“Good idea. I'll call him now.”

“And Bagnasco? We can be pretty sure she isn't a Mason. Like you, she doesn't have the first qualification.”

“She may be a woman,” Kat said, “but I have absolutely no doubt she'd be on the phone to her uncle before we even got into the boats.”

There was a silence. “I think you're wrong. But it's your operation. Your call.”

“Thank you.” Besides, she thought, she intended to go in fast, and there would be no room in the boats for an officer who got seasick.

Venice was still shrouded in mist as the twelve-man team roared away from the pontoon at Rio dei Greci. It would burn off later, but for the moment it gave the city an eerie, insubstantial translucence, water and stone blending seamlessly into each other in the chilly, muffled grey.

They used no sirens and as they approached La Grazia she gave the order to turn off the blue lights as well. She glanced at her watch. Twenty past six. It seemed unlikely the staff would still be asleep, but if they could catch Tignelli himself in bed, so much the better.

She noticed the absence of La Grazia's launch as they tied up. As the
carabinieri
streamed up the immaculate lawn towards the house, the only sign of life was a water sprinkler, spinning like a radar antenna over the lush green grass.

“Ring the bell or break down the door?” Panicucci asked.

“Both.”

“No need,” the lead
carabiniere
said, pushing the door. “It's already open.”

Inside, the great house was eerily silent. A portrait of Napoleon stared down at them haughtily as they milled in the grand hallway.

“Count Tignelli?” Kat shouted. There had still been no response to the bell.

“Is it possible there's no one here?” Piola asked quietly.

He was right. As they fanned out through the ground-floor rooms, it became apparent that neither Tignelli nor any of his staff were at home.

“Capitano?”

One of the
carabinieri
was calling to her. She followed his voice into a dining room. On the table a light meal was laid out: some fruit, slices of ham and
carpaccio
, an unopened bottle of
prosecco
in an ice bucket. Flies lifted off the meat and circled, droning angrily, as she approached. She lifted the bottle out of the bucket and felt it. It was barely cool, the ice long since melted.

“It seems strange to leave the food out,” the
carabiniere
added unnecessarily.

She looked again at the table. It was laid for two, but neither plate had been touched. A sudden foreboding came over her. “Search upstairs,” she commanded. “Every room. Sottotenente Panicucci, come with me.” Heading outside, she ran down the gravel path that led through the gardens.

Panicucci caught up with her. “Where are we going?”

“The
peschiera
,” she panted.

The huge seawater basins also appeared to be deserted. Looking down into the nearest one, she could just make out the eels' silvery, undulating shapes, clustered around something under the surface. She walked along the ancient stone
wall to get a better look. When she was directly above the spot where they were congregating, she found a rock and dropped it into the water.

The mass of eels parted briefly and a man's face peered up at her. A ravaged, torn face, surrounded by flickering, Medusa-like tails . . . As she watched, sharp teeth bit into Tignelli's cheeks, and half a dozen more darted forwards, fastening their mouths onto his lips and chin, tearing and pulling.

She turned. “The sluice gate,” she shouted to Panicucci. “Open it!” He understood, and ran to do as she'd said. She looked round for more rocks, but there weren't any. Cursing, she jumped feet first into the water, which was cold and slightly greasy, whether from the presence of the body or the eels, she couldn't have said. Some of the smaller creatures darted away, but the larger ones were more aggressive, taking advantage of the space left by the more timid to force their way even closer to their meal. She splashed and kicked, driving them off. A long, thin shape slid from Tignelli's shirtsleeve; another backed out from his trouser cuff. A commotion under his shirt, in the region of his chest, showed where another was panicking; a moment later, it flickered from his open collar, sinuous and silvery as a knotted necktie, and was gone. The water level was falling now, Panicucci having got the sluice open. On and on she beat at the water, shouting at them in choice Venetian – it was only later she realised that she might as well have saved her breath, since they couldn't hear. Soon the wriggling mass was breaking the surface of what little water was left, and then it was slipping away, tumbling into the next basin.

By her feet, the plundered, ripped-apart face of Count Birino Tignelli, would-be conqueror of Venice, emerged from the receding waters like a nightmare.

“You did well,” Hapadi said. “Another hour or so and they'd have destroyed any indication of how he died. Even so, don't expect much in the way of forensic evidence.”

She nodded. She was wearing white microfibre overalls instead of her wet clothes now. Despite Hapadi's caution, it was clear that Tignelli had been murdered: the two bullet wounds in his chest left no doubt.

A second forensic team was examining the former convent's chapel, which turned out to be decorated with flags bearing the symbol Father Calergi had identified as the
carità
, along with other Masonic paraphernalia. It seemed likely that was where Cassandre had been killed: the search team's ultraviolet lamps had revealed faint traces of blood on the flagstone floor.

Whoever had murdered Tignelli, she reflected, had hit on a far surer way of ensuring no evidence was left behind.

“We need a word, Capitano
.
”

She looked up. Aldo Piola was standing ten yards off. Behind him she saw the trim, dapper figure of Colonel Grimaldo of AISI.

“I suppose you've come to order us off this investigation as well,” she said bitterly as they walked back to the house.

“On the contrary,” Grimaldo said. “I have some evidence that I believe may be useful to you.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“A wiretap.” He pulled out a miniature recorder and a pair of earbud headphones. “It's probably easier if you use these. The quality isn't perfect.”

She put the buds in her ears and pressed “Play”. There was some interference, then she heard Tignelli's voice. “
Pronto
.”

The voice that spoke next was strangely robotic. “Good - evening - Count - Tignelli. We - need - to - meet.”

“Who is this?”

“An - interested - party. One - who - is - aware - of - your - plans.”

“I have no interest in discussing any plans I might have with you,” Tignelli said brusquely.

“Then - they - will - not - succeed.”

Tignelli's voice became more cautious. “If you have something to say to me, then say it.”

“This - phone - is - being - tapped - by - the - Italian - Intelligence - Service. I - will - be - with - you - in - one - hour.”

“Alone?”

It was clear that Tignelli was asking if the visitor would be unaccompanied, but the voice chose not to take it that way. “Yes. Just - you. Send - your - staff - away.” There was a click as the caller disconnected.

She pulled the earphones from her ears. “What time was this?”

“Nine o'clock last night.”

“And you didn't do anything?”

“I was engaged on another operation at the time. I was only alerted to it this morning.” He gestured at the search teams. “It seems you beat me to it.”

Her eyes narrowed, and he sighed. “Capitano, I'm aware you've been speculating that AISI might somehow have been involved with Count Tignelli's plans. I'm here to assure you that isn't the case. I can also promise you full cooperation in what will now become a joint investigation.”

“What makes you think I was speculating about anything of the kind?”

“Avvocato Marcello authorised us to tap your phone as
well as Count Tignelli's,” Grimaldo said matter-of-factly. “Along with that of Avvocato Li Fonti. You see, we were initially just as suspicious of you as you were of us. Given what Cassandre had told us, we couldn't take any chances.”

“And what
did
he tell you, exactly?” She pushed out of her mind that anyone tapping her and Flavio's phones would have heard the most intimate details of their relationship.

“As you quickly realised, Alessandro Cassandre was an unscrupulous chancer. He'd worked out why Count Tignelli thought the bank's apparently worthless credit default swaps would become valuable, and decided to ingratiate himself into the Count's organisation to try to profit from it further. Then, when his own corrupt financial dealings were discovered by the bank's chairman, he decided to save his own skin by coming to us and offering to betray Tignelli and his co-conspirators instead. Needless to say, he wasn't offering cooperation for patriotic reasons. He wanted immunity from prosecution, as well as a substantial payment.”

“Did you agree?”

Grimaldo shook his head. “We told him he'd have to get closer to the conspirators before we even discussed a deal. It seems Tignelli chose not to trust such an obviously self-serving ally after all.”

“So what will happen to Tignelli's plans for an independent Veneto now?”

“Thanks to you, we have the list of names from Cassandre's computer – almost certainly his fellow Masons. We'll round them all up and make sure they understand that this particular enterprise is to go no further.” He hesitated. “Unfortunately, some aspects of Tignelli's plan may not be so easy to stamp out.”

Something in the darkness of Grimaldo's tone made her frown. “Why not?”

“The separatist coup, if that is what we may call it, won't happen. But the events that would trigger it . . . they may be a different matter.”

“What events?”

“He was planning an atrocity,” Grimaldo said quietly. “A terrorist attack on Venice. His intention was that it would be foiled in advance, at which point he would use it as a pretext to declare that Rome was no longer capable of protecting the city. That would have been the signal for the regional assembly to declare a state of emergency, swiftly followed by a local referendum on independence.”

“Can you stop it?”

“We thought so – that was the operation I was involved in last night. We had a name: a radicalised Muslim, currently studying in Sicily. Cassandre had been transferring money to him, on Tignelli's instructions. But when we sent a GIS squad to arrest him, we were just hours too late. It seems he'd been tipped off.”

“Where could he have gone?”

“We don't know. It's possible he's slipped out of the country altogether, in which case he might no longer pose a danger. But until we know for sure, we're keeping the threat level at red.”

“Are there any leads?”

“Just one. Shortly before he left, a teacher at the college where he was studying was killed. The local police have it down as a hate crime. But it's surely a remarkable coincidence that one of the very few people who could help us to identify the terrorist is now dead.”

DANIELE TOOK A
taxi to the Institute of Christina Mirabilis, the private hospital deep in the Veneto countryside where Father Uriel was based. This was the region where the grapes for
prosecco
were grown, and every spare inch of land was covered in neat rows of vines.

The Institute itself, a former monastery, was so hidden away that, if it weren't for a discreet sign by the roadside, it would have been easy to miss the tall metal gates. On either side of the long driveway, men in brown monastic robes and women in blue habits worked the Institute's own vines, or bustled to and fro between the sprawling buildings. But a keen eye would have noticed that it was the nuns who were doing the bustling, while many of the men had a listless, medicated air. The former were nurses, while the latter were patients. Father Uriel's psychiatric work principally involved treating that small but notorious subset of the priesthood who had committed acts of sexual abuse. He believed some of them could be cured; perhaps more importantly, he believed that all of them could be redeemed. It was not only to avoid controversy that his hospital was so tucked away. For him, contemplation, confession and prayer were at least as beneficial as psychotherapy and medication.

He also saw a few patients with other conditions, and for
a time had worked with Daniele on developing his ability to empathise with other people.

“I'm glad you've come to see me,” he said when Daniele was shown into his treatment room. “It's been a while.”

Daniele shrugged. “I saw no point in continuing our previous sessions.”

“Because the therapy wasn't working?” the psychiatrist asked. He left the briefest of pauses. “Or because it was?”

“Because I realised that your definition of working may not be the same as mine,” Daniele answered coolly. “It's too late for me to change who I am. But if by remembering what happened during the kidnap I can clear up some unanswered questions, that's different.”

Father Uriel got Daniele to lie down, then placed a pair of lightweight foam headphones over his ears and a small egg-shaped pulser in each hand.

“When you hear a click in your left ear, or feel a pulse in your left hand, I want you to look to the left,” he instructed. “When the click and the pulse come from the right, look right. I'll guide your eye movements to begin with, but after that, just keep them going by yourself. If at any point the process becomes too painful or traumatic, I'll stop and take you to a safe place in your mind where no one can hurt you. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now focus on the end of my pen.” Father Uriel held up a retractable ballpoint and clicked the end twice. “I want you to tense and relax each part of your body in turn, starting at the toes. Tense . . . and relax. That's it.”

By the time he had relaxed his entire body, Daniele was feeling mentally clear-headed and physically lethargic, his whole attention locked on the end of Father Uriel's pen.

“I'm going to move the pen to the right now,” Father Uriel said in a calm, low voice. “And to the left . . . Good. Now I want you to think about a sensory memory from your kidnap. Back then, at seven years old, in the room where they held you . . . It could be a sight, a sound, anything.”

“I remember the lines between the bricks on the wall,” Daniele heard himself saying. “I remember the pattern they made. I used to count the uprights between each brick.”

“How many uprights were there?” Father Uriel continued to move the pen from side to side. In his palms Daniele felt the small, rhythmic pulse of the clickers, the sound swinging from one ear to the other, as steady as a metronome.

“Four hundred and seventeen.”

“Good. What can you hear, when you're in that room?”

“Goats. There are goats outside. Sometimes I smell them too. We're in the countryside, somewhere remote.”

“Who's keeping you here?”

“There are three whose names I know. Claudio, Paolo and Maria. Claudio is meant to be in charge but the other two discuss everything with him before they let him make the decisions.”

“How long have you been here?”

“A week. When they brought me here they said it wouldn't take this long. All my parents have to do is send the money and they'll let me go. Maria says it can't be much longer now. She's been saying that for days.”

Father Uriel lowered his pen. But Daniele's eyes still swung from left to right and back again.

“Who do you like most out of the kidnappers? Who do you trust?”

“Claudio seems all right. Paolo I'm not sure. Maria's nice. Sometimes she comes and sits with me.”

“What do you talk about?”

“About what they believe. What they're fighting for. They're against rich people like my father. They want a society where everyone's the same. Where no one can be better than someone else because of what family they come from.”

“I'm going to take you forward a week, Daniele. What's happening now?”

“They're arguing.”

“What about?”

“Why my parents still haven't paid. Claudio's angry. He shouts at me. ‘What kind of brat are you? Why don't they want you back?'” Daniele gulped. “He . . . he . . . he . . . he . . .”

“It's all right, Daniele. You don't like being shouted at, I understand that. What else does Claudio say?”

“He says they're going to kill me,” Daniele shouted. He started, and dropped the clickers. His back arched. Reaching up, he tore off the headphones in a panic.

“You're in a safe place now,” Father Uriel said, careful to ensure that his own voice held no echo of the stress in Daniele's. “A calm, quiet place where they can't hurt you.”

He spent five more minutes calming Daniele before bringing him out of the trance.

“It didn't work,” Daniele said flatly, sitting up.

“On the contrary,” Father Uriel said. “It's working extremely well, for a first session. You have unreasonably high expectations, that's all.”