The Traitor (The Carnivia Trilogy) (27 page)

She left the car at Tronchetto for the ten-minute walk to Calle Barbo. Venice at this hour was like an Escher labyrinth, eerily deserted: more than once she found her way blocked by a canal that had somehow turned a corner in front of her.

She pulled on the brass bell handle next to the lion’s-head postbox. To her surprise the door opened almost immediately. Daniele was wearing his normal daytime garb: T-shirt, sneakers, jeans. In his hand was a fork.

“What do you want?” he said. “I was just having lunch.”

“Daniele, it’s four o’clock in the morning.”

“Not in São Paulo,” he said reasonably.

“What does São Paulo have to do with it?”

“Nothing. I’m just illustrating that time is a man-made construct. I suppose you want to talk to me?”

“Well, I certainly haven’t come all this way to listen to you talk about man-made constructs.”

“There’s nothing to discuss, Holly. We’re not together any more.”

“I know,” she said impatiently. “That doesn’t mean we never speak to each other again.”

He hesitated. “You’d better come in, then.”

He took her to the vaulted old kitchen at the rear of Ca’ Barbo. Although she knew that he was an excellent cook, capable of following complex recipes to the letter, today he was eating the simple cold pasta dish Venetians call
salsa aurora
: a sweet-and-sour mix of fried peppers, tomatoes, courgettes and slices of peach.

Watching him eat, she discovered she was hungry too, and reached for a fork. “I know you’ve always thought I was crazy to trust Ian Gilroy,” she told him between mouthfuls. “And if you’d asked me six hours ago, I’d have said you were probably right. But now I’m not so sure.”

She related her earlier conversation, and his face darkened.

“But this is what he does,” he said. “Gilroy’s genius, I realised many years ago, is that he tells stories. Brilliant, shiny stories that somehow seem to offer you whatever it is that you most want in the world. In your case, he knows you want to believe him, because the alternative is just so unthinkable.”

The speech was so unlike Daniele that she only looked at him, wondering.

“I saw him throw his magic dust into my father’s eyes,” he explained. “I’m not saying it was easy for my parents after my kidnap. But, somehow, every conversation seemed to begin, ‘Ian Gilroy says…’ or ‘Ian agrees…’ And after my father died, Gilroy was left as the principal trustee of the Foundation. He’d convinced my father it was the only way to prevent me from selling off his art collection. But if that lever hadn’t been available to him, he would have found some other lie. I’m sure of it.”

“I heard you accuse him of it once. He asked me to wait behind a screen at his house, when you came to speak to him. He wanted me to hear how unreasonable you were being.”

“It was him who pushed us together, wasn’t it?” he said sadly. “You and me… that was always part of his plan.”

“No,” she said firmly. “I made my own decision about that. One I don’t regret, by the way. The point is, I’ve been trying to figure out if there’s any way of proving whether or not Gilroy’s version of events is correct. And it seems to me you’re the only person who might be able to help.”

“Me? How?”

“It all comes down to your kidnap. If Paolo
was
the mastermind, as both Gilroy and Tataro claim, then perhaps you saw something to corroborate their version of events?”

He shook his head. “You know I don’t remember anything about the kidnap. Not after the first few days, anyway.”

“Which in itself is strange, don’t you think? I looked up memory loss due to psychological trauma on the internet. It’s almost always temporary.”

“Believe me, my parents tried everything. I was dragged from doctor to doctor for years. Most decided it was linked to my…” He hesitated. “My other condition.”

“But that’s another thing,” she said. “When I spoke to Carole Tataro, she told me she used to play number games with you. She said that you seemed a little strange, vulnerable even, but not autistic.”

“My parents believed the same thing. That the kidnap somehow triggered, or at any rate worsened, whatever was wrong with me.”

“But don’t you see the implication?” she persisted. “If what you have is actually not high-functioning autism at all but some trauma-induced condition that closely mirrors it… True autism is incurable. But a condition which mimics its symptoms might, in theory, be reversible. There are papers describing children brought up in Eastern-bloc orphanages, for example, who appeared to display autistic behaviours but who grew up to be indistinguishable from other kids.”

“Some of them,” he corrected. “Those who were taken out of that environment young enough. I read those papers too. But even if that were once applicable to me, it isn’t relevant now.”

“I’ve been doing some research. There’s a relatively new technique called EMDR – Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing. No one seems to know exactly why or how EMDR works. But studies have shown that, when combined with hypnosis, it’s the most effective treatment for post-traumatic amnesia there is.” She hesitated. “I already spoke to Father Uriel,” she said, naming the psychiatrist who’d treated both herself and Daniele in the past. “He’s familiar with it.”

“I’d like to help, really. But I don’t have time for this right now.” He ran his hand through his hair and for the first time she saw how exhausted he was. “There have been… problems. With Carnivia. A kind of virus. I’m getting to the bottom of it, but it’s difficult.”

In fact, he was understating the scale of the clean-up he and the other administrators had been undertaking. He had written a piece of software that would remove the worm, but it was an operation that had to be carried out on an individual basis, user by user. And more users were being infected all the time. It was a race between the virus and the wizards; one they were currently losing.

“If there’s at least a chance that your condition could be cured, wouldn’t you want to take it?”

“Why would I want to be like other people? I’m happy the way I am.”

“You wouldn’t be like other people,” she insisted. “You’d still be Daniele – still brilliant, still strange. Who knows, perhaps you’d simply be more you. Perhaps you’d be capable of even greater things than you already are.”

He was silent a moment. The idea that treatment might actually unlock his abilities rather than stifle them was one he hadn’t considered before. And it was true what that professor at MIT had written: his best work appeared to be behind him. He needed to do something different if he was to get a different result.

Sensing his hesitation, she added, “Daniele, it would mean a lot to me if you would at least try this. I have to find out what happened to my dad, and at the moment I’m getting nowhere.”

There were many people, she knew, who thought that Daniele Barbo was impervious to such emotional appeals. But she had never believed that to be the case. His emotions might be different from other people’s, but they existed nevertheless.

“All right,” he said at last. “I’ll try. I suppose I’ve got nothing to lose.”

I
T
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.