The Venice Conspiracy (28 page)

‘I am sorry,’ Gatusso says finally. ‘It’s just that the boy’s father is a scurrilous ruffian. A low-life. A cheat of celestial magnitude. Old Taduch deals in dubiously sourced art and his ancestors are nothing but
strazzaria
– filthy rag traders.’

Tanina smiles as she edges past him to the door. Trading between the two businessmen has gone on for years – usually amicably – but their most recent deal ended badly. ‘I am sorry too. You have been most kind to me, and I respect your patronage and advice. It’s just …’

He waves her away with the back of his lace-cuffed hand. ‘I know, I know – it’s just that you
love
him. Love! Love! Love!’ He bundles her through the door with a smile ‘
Ciao
, Tanina. Take good care of yourself and make sure that Jew-boy gets you home safely.’

She gathers her skirts and hurries. It’s already getting dark and cold. Artists have packed up their easels from alongside the canal and most street traders have gone. She crosses the bridge and winds her way through the backstreets. First east, then north, then back north-westerly away from the looping bend of the Canal Grande and out towards one of the northernmost islands.

Tanina has been aware of the Jewish ghetto – the first in Europe – for as long as she can remember. Catholics have all but demonised the place.

Everything Jewish
is restricted. Trade, rights, status and even the movement of the people held within its vast walls are all constrained. Yet aside from the occasional clampdown, the guards generally turn a blind eye to those who treat them well, and so life goes on regardless.

She turns into the ghetto, immediately excited by its vibrancy. The place is a cauldron of wheeling and dealing, its streets overflowing with merchants and moneylenders. Furs, cloths and carpets are trundled in and out of the warehouses. Despite the lateness of the hour, tailors, jewellers and barbers are still hard at work. Tanina almost gets bowled over by a couple of water carriers as they hurry by, having drawn a full load from their master’s private well. She likes it here. Likes the energy, the danger, the feeling of being somewhere forbidden. She stops at a small shop near a coffin-maker’s to buy some meagre provisions – garlic, onions, chicken cuts and bread.

Ermanno’s parents’ home in the Ghetto Nuovo consists of a few rooms in an overcrowded, five-storey building that lies in the permanent shadow and suffocating smell of a nearby copper foundry. Because of family loyalties, he’s turned down better jobs with rivals in the other half of the settlement, the Ghetto Vecchio
.

Tanina finds the love of her life studying as usual.

Great texts and drawings from Egypt, Constantinople, old Italy, Germany and France are laid out on his sagging bed and across the dusty wooden floor where he’s now sitting. The books detail treasures from all the great eras and empires in the world.

‘Bonsoir, ma chérie!
’ he enthuses as she enters. Then, in passable English, ‘Good evening, my darling.’ He gets to his feet, frees her hands of groceries and finishes in German:
‘Guten Abend, mein liebling
.’ Then he presses his mouth to hers.

Tanina breaks free to catch her breath. Her eyes sparkle from the clinch. She takes a long look at him. More handsome by the minute. Dark, slim, well-muscled, with eyes that make her smile and melt her heart. She unbuttons her heavy wool cloak. ‘Shall I cook now or later?’

Ermanno puts his hands to the neck of her blouse, melts her again with his eyes, and undoes the first button. ‘Later.
Much
later.’

Present Day

Isola Mario, Venice

Monica Vidic’s killer
knows who they are.

He knows it as surely as if they were flying Carabinieri flags.

It amuses him that they are so stupid.

Makes him laugh that they think he’d be caught unprepared by an advance party in unmarked boats.

Not a chance.

He watches them on his surveillance monitors, scrambling ashore like rubber-legged tourists after a first trip on a gondola.

Fools.

Off in the distance, high-powered cameras scan the waves and pick out the blue-and-white hulls of the regular Carabinieri patrol boats. Supposedly out of sight. How funny. With good technology, nothing is ever out of sight.

The killer is still smiling as he saunters from the boathouse through to the main part of the house. He chats with two new members of the commune, then wanders to the rear drawing room so he can make sure he’s with the others when
the surprise
is sprung.

Old brass bells over the front door of the mansion jangle into life.

Suddenly there’s bedlam.

Panic appears on the brows of several senior security guards. A bald man with the kind of face that no doubt always looks serious is loudly announcing who he is. Apparently his name is Carvalho – Major Carvalho. He holds a search warrant high above his head and bustles in like Inspector Clouseau. Monica’s killer wonders how long it’ll be before the clown trips and breaks something. Behind him marches an army of plain-clothes officers armed with evidence bags and serious expressions. For Monica’s murderer, it’s almost too amusing for words.

the commune’s attorney. Let
me see the warrant.’ He stretches out his podgy, well-manicured hand.

Vito finds a large man with rounded shoulders and a fat face blocking his progress from the front door. ‘I’m Signor Ancelotti, Mario’s lawyer and the commun’s attorney. Let me see the warrant.’ He stretches out his podgy, well-manicured hand.

Carvalho slaps it in his pink little palm. ‘I can assure you, it’s in order.’

Dino Ancelotti positions thick black-rimmed glasses over his dark eyes. ‘Stop your officers from going any further. They do
nothing
until I have authenticated this.’ He walks away, still scrutinising the paper. ‘If there’s so much as a spelling mistake, you can be certain we will sue.’

All eyes are on Carvalho. Characteristically, he opts for caution. ‘Wait!’

Instantly, his search teams stop, as though playing a game of statues.

‘Wait until the lawyer has finished his check. We have ample time.’

As they idle, a woman in blue denim shorts and a blue bikini top glides across the marble floor towards them. A digital camera buzzes, clacks and flashes in her hand. ‘Cool! Pigs in the palazzo – can’t wait to post these online!’ She speaks English with an American accent and stops in front of Valentina. ‘My, aren’t you fucking
gorgeous
! A bit sour-faced, but Christ alive, what fabulous bone structure you’ve got. You ever done porno, honey?’

Valentina fights the fury rising inside her. ‘Don’t take my picture again.’

The woman in front of her grins defiantly. She’s covered in tattoos, they’re everywhere, even on her face, and the lieutenant can’t help but stare.

‘Here, take a picture yourself, looks like you want to,’ mocks the tattooed photographer.

Ancelotti reappears before the scene turns ugly. He holds out the warrant to Carvalho. ‘It’s genuine. Enjoy yourselves, but make sure your children don’t break anything – there’s a lot of original artwork around the place.’

The major nods and the bustle begins again.

Mario Fabianelli watches from the top of the staircase.

He’s learned that being a billionaire takes the haste out of life. You can afford to hang back – even suffer some minor losses, if necessary. The cops are going to find a little dope and a smattering of other low-category drugs as well. But working out who owns it – well, that’s a whole different problem for them.

Mario strolls down the stairs and offers his hand to the rather determined-looking Carabinieri major. ‘
Buongiorno
, my name’s Mario.’ He lets the statement sink in. Let’s the cop realise he’s face to face with a man of incalculable wealth and power. ‘Perhaps you would like to talk in a quieter room? I’m sure you have
questions. Let me have someone fix some drinks for us.’

The lawyer, Ancelotti, glues himself to his boss. ‘You needn’t say anything, Mario. Let them waste their time and then go.’

The billionaire smiles. ‘But I’d
like
to, Dino. I’m bored, and this promises to be amusing. Besides, if the Carabinieri need help, then I want to be nothing short of fully coopera tive.’

Carvalho glares at him. No envy. No hatred. Just focus. ‘A drink and a chat would be good. I take my coffee black, and my conversations truthful.’

1777

Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore, Venezia

In the flickering peach candlelight of his monastic cell, Tommaso Frascoli keeps his emotions in check as he reads the letter his mother wrote for him more than two decades ago.

His training as a monk has taught him much about writing. The choice of paper, type of ink, nature of the nib and even the chosen script all speak volumes about the writer.

The first thing he notices is that the paper is not cheap. It is an expensive cream-coloured parchment, not unlike the important documents bound with red silk ribbon lying on the grand desk of the abbot.

The second thing to strike him is that the letter is full of strong, bold strokes and ornate loops, written above and below an imaginary line that’s been impressively adhered to. Stylistically it’s difficult to place; the letters b, d, h, and l, in particular, are beautifully ornamental and remind him of sixteenth-century italic Bastarda script. Then again, some of the mannerisms are more suggestive of the over-disciplined Cancellaresca.

Tommaso’s fully aware that he’s studying style before substance. He has to fight his curiosity in order to read the meaning of the text before learning more about its author.

He tilts the paper at the
candlelight and examines the flow of the earthy black ink, the pressure of the fine but strong nib. It’s a cultured hand. Not that of a common whore found working near the shipyards. She must have been one of the intellectual courtesans who – it is rumoured – play music like angels and paint like Canaletto. Or he could be fooling himself. Yes, he’s fully aware of the fact that, right from the outset, he wants to think nothing but the best of the writer.

He smooths out the paper on the small table where his Bible and candle rest and finally reads it:

Tommaso’s stomach is churning.

He’s close to tears. Her final words jump out at him –
all my love, for ever, Mamma.
He feels as if he’s going to crumble into dust.

What must it have been like to have known her? To have understood that love?

He reads the parchment again. Holds it to his heart and stares at the stone wall of his cell. What did she look like? What illness had befallen her? The dreaded syphilis? That awful French disease. The pox?

Next he thinks of his sister – wonders whether they ever lay together alongside their mother. Whether they looked into each other’s eyes. Whether she’s still alive and well.

Only after a hundred other thoughts and doubts does he peer into the plain wooden box at his feet by his modest bed.

He reaches in.

Lifts out a small package.

Something wrapped in a large silk handkerchief. Silver, by the look of it. An heirloom? A gift to a courtesan from a rich and grateful lover? Or perhaps compensation from the man who infected her?

There’s some scribbling, a language he doesn’t understand, perhaps Egyptian.

He turns the tablet over.

The face of a priest, an ancient seer wearing a conical hat similar to a bishop’s. The figure is that of a young man, thin and tall, not unlike himself.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

A gong sounds downstairs. Time for the communal evening meal. Soon other monks will be filing past his cell, pressing their faces through his doorway, enquiring whether he wishes to walk with them.

Tommaso bundles everything back into the box and pushes it beneath his bed.