The Venice Conspiracy (22 page)

CHAPTER 42

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.

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 commune’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 cooperative.’

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.’

CAPITOLO XLI

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:

My dear child,

I have asked the good monks to baptise you as Tommaso. It’s not your father’s name, simply one that in my dreams I always wanted, should I have a son.

At the time of writing, you are two months old and I know I will be dead before you can crawl, let alone speak. If I did not have this disease, one that doctors say will kill me as surely as the plague took so many of our family, then I would never have deserted you.

My milk is still fresh on your lips and my kisses still wet on your head as I hand you over to the holy brothers. Believe me, they are good people - all my love is with you, and always will be.

Our separation will cause you great pain, of this I am sure. But by arranging it now, I can at least be certain that you are in safe and godly hands. Had I waited for death to take me by surprise, then I know not what may have awaited you.

One day, Tommaso, you will understand why I had to make sure you and your sister had the care of the Holy Lord around you. With this note you will receive a wooden box and inside it something that you must guard - not only with your life, but with your soul. Its meaning is too important and too difficult to explain in a mere letter. It must never leave your care.

Your sister is a year older than you and I have left her with the nuns. A similar box, and duty, await her.

My child, I have separated you both for good reason. As painful as it may be, please believe me that it’s best (for you, her and everyone) that you do not seek her out.

The duties that I leave to you both are more easily fulfilled if you never meet.

Your chances of long-term love, happiness and salvation absolutely depend upon you never being reunited.

Tommaso, I love you with all my heart. Please forgive my actions, and grow to understand why I had no choice in this matter.

My darling, my dying prayer will be for you and your sister. I am fortified in the knowledge that you will become everything I dream you will be, and through the grace of the good Lord one day we will all be safely together again.

All my love, for ever,

Mamma

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.

He walks smartly to dinner.

His life changed for ever.

CHAPTER 43

Present Day
Isola Mario, Venice

Tom Shaman is the last person in the search party to enter Mario Fabianelli’s hippy commune. He drifts in behind a couple of young uniformed officers and disappears into the westerly wing. Vito’s instructions to him had been precise: ‘Keep a low profile. So low, you’re subterranean.’

The whole building makes him nervous. Right from the moment of stepping over the doorstep he’s been picking up an atmosphere of unease. The vast cold spaces are completely alien to him, but as he walks from room to room he seems to know exactly what lies ahead. With each step the feeling grows stronger.

Tom passes ground-floor bedrooms, communal meeting rooms, a place where cleaners store equipment. He sees police officers pulling at boards and ceiling panels. He passes acres of fine oak panelling and trudges over quarryloads of ancient marble.

He pushes a door and enters a dark and windowless room. The air is warm and the smell familiar. Very familiar.

Candles.

Candles - but also something else.

Tom feels for a light switch.

Now he places it.

Even before the light comes on and he sees the dribbles of black wax on the high oak skirting, he knows what’s happened in this room.

Mass.

But not Christian mass.

The air is toxic.

A smell of baseness.

Defilement. Stale sex. Maybe even blood.

Black Mass.

Every nerve in his body feels raw.

There are marks on the floor. Scratches made by something being dragged back and forth.

The table for a human altar. A platform for public defilement.

Tom’s seen enough. He turns and reaches for the switch.

‘Satanists,’ says a woman behind him, so close he flinches.

Tom spins round.

The woman raises her eyebrows as if she’s teasing him. ‘We let them use this room. I guess a former priest like you knows a lot about them.’

Tom feels as though the top of his head is being gathered together by someone pulling an invisible drawstring. It’s like being back in the Salute again, down on his hands and knees next to the bloody image near the altar.

Her camera flashes in his face.

His heart is thumping. Palms sweating.

His eyes are dazzled by the flash, and in the blinding whiteness he sees flickers of the mutilated body of Monica Vidic, stabbed six hundred and sixty-six times.

Tom tries to stay calm. Takes slow breaths. ‘I’m with the Carabinieri.’ He gestures past the white haze towards the main part of the house.

‘Sure you are,’ says the photographer. ‘I’m Mera Teale. Mario’s fuck. I have a card saying PA, but really all we do is fuck.’

The glare fades and Tom sees an outstretched tattooed hand. He shakes it and watches a pageant of inked characters dance up her bony arm.

She’s grinning lustfully - enjoying the fact that he’s shocked - shocked at being discovered and at being photographed - shocked too by her exotic appearance.

‘Excuse me, I need to find the others.’ Tom tries to get past her.

She blocks him.

Her face is full of sexual mischief. Come-to-bed eyes and lips ruby red, glistening from some kind of gel. ‘I know who you are,
Father
Tom,’ she says playfully. ‘I know what you’re like. What you want.’

He stares at her, wonders if he’s seen her somewhere. There’s certainly something familiar. A tiny tear tattooed into the corner of her eye. Her left eye - the side of evil.

A mark he knows he’s seen before.

Five thousand miles and a whole lifetime before.

CAPITOLO XLII

1777
Ghetto Nuovo, Venezia

Neither Jewish-born Ermanno nor Catholic-born Tanina believe in any form of God, but they’re both praying they don’t get caught as he walks her back to her home near the Rialto. Venice may be considered the most libertine city in the world but it still discriminates heavily against Jews and prohibits their free movement outside the ghetto. Young men foolish enough to follow their hearts beyond its walls are never more than a moment away from fines, imprisonment or beatings.

It’s gone midnight, and for the first time in weeks the night sky is clear and the stars look newly shined. The lovers huddle together, hoods over their heads, hands entwined, body heat from one sustaining the other.

As they near her home, Ermanno has something to get off his chest. ‘My friend Efran is an intermediary. He arranges shipments with the Turks. His family has done this kind of thing for a long time, trading in coats of camel and goat.’

Tanina frowns.

‘I know, you are far too fashionable to wear such coarse things, but listen, this is not my point.’

‘And your point is?’

‘He knows many courtesans.’

She frowns. ‘Jewish ones?’

He laughs at her. ‘Of course
Jewish
ones. There are many Jewish ones making the Catholics and their uncircumcised pricks very happy. You must know this.’

She shakes her head and looks at her feet. ‘I do not think of it. I know my mother was a courtesan, and in the nunnery where I was brought up there were many other girls orphaned by courtesans, but they were all Catholic. Or at least, I thought they were.’

He lets go of her hand. ‘Tanina, you were young and full of indoctrinated prejudice. Some will certainly have been Jewish. But no matter. Again, this is not my point.’

She turns to look at him, her face as bright as the moon, an expression of amusement mixed with playful mischief. ‘Then,
kind sir
, procrastinate no more with me: what
is
your point?’

He blurts it out. ‘Gatusso has courtesans. Many of them. Efran’s seen him with them.’

She falls silent.

Tanina has known her employer and his wife, Benedetta, for almost ten years. When she ran away from the convent it was they who gave her work and lodgings. Benedetta encouraged her to paint and Gatusso always made sure that she was well paid and had ample clothes and food. ‘I don’t believe it.’ She looks sad as she shakes her head.

‘It is true.’

Now her temper rises. ‘I do not even know this man Efran, so why should I trust what he says? And, I cannot see how
he
would know or even recognise my employer.’

‘He has dealings with one of Gatusso’s courtesans. She told him.’

Tanina stops walking. ‘
One
of?’ Anger fills her face. ‘You say “one of ”, as though there is a whole legion of them. As though he runs courtesans as - as a business.’ She shocks herself. Deep inside her mind, fragments of old events fuse together. Things she thought nothing of at the time now seem to add up. A cheap mask she found in the storeroom. Stained female underwear in the rubbish pile. A discarded perfume bottle that smelled unlike anything Signora Gatusso would wear.

Ermanno takes her hand again. ‘I’m sorry, my love. I thought you should know. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just thought you should be warned in case he said something - maybe
suggested
something to you.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ She pulls her hand free. ‘Gatusso has been like a father to me.’

They walk awkwardly in near silence to her doorstep. Ermanno’s comments have ruined her night, and when they kiss goodbye, there’s no passion in it.

Tanina shakes her hair free from the back of her cloak as she steps inside and glances back. ‘Ermanno, don’t ever talk to me again about Signor Gatusso. He’s a good man, and I don’t want to hear any more nonsense about courtesans.’

He nods and turns away.

From what he’s heard, Lauro Gatusso is far from a good man. In fact,
good
is probably the last word he would use to describe him.