The Venice Conspiracy (25 page)

CHAPTER 48

San Quentin, California

San Quentin Governor Gerry McFaul is about to leave for an evening’s golf when he’s told there’s a long-distance call from someone called Tom Shaman.

McFaul smiles and tells his secretary to put it through. He remembers Tom well. A ballsy young priest who visited the landings and shared his love of boxing. He’d even let him spar with some of the more trusted inmates, and the guy had turned out to be pretty handy.

‘Governor McFaul, speaking.’

‘Governor, I’m sorry to trouble you. This is Tom Shaman - I used to be Father Tom. I don’t know if you remember me, I—’

‘Sure, I remember you. Southpaw - a sweet left guided by the good Lord. How can I help you, Tom?’

‘Do you still have a man called Lars Bale on your landings? ’

McFaul doesn’t even have to check. ‘Certainly do. But thankfully not for much longer. His note came through.’

Tom had always had some trouble accepting the death penalty, and the governor’s casualness throws him for a second.

‘You still there, Tom? I can’t hear you. Hello?’

‘I’m here.’ He gets his brain in gear. ‘Is Bale still painting?’

The governor glances at his watch and starts shutting down his computer. ‘Like crazy. He’s done enough to fill a gallery. I guess we’ll have to pull a damned paintbrush out of his hand when we strap him down.’

‘Is he allowed calls? Could you fix it for me to speak to him?’

Suspicion creeps into McFaul’s voice. ‘What’s this about, Tom? His appeal’s been rejected.’

Tom’s not sure how to answer. What
is
it really about? Some strange connection he’s made to a series of LA murders nearly a decade and a half ago, and some modern-day killings in Venice that seem to have Satanic undertones? It sounds too weird to say out loud. ‘Governor, I’m in Venice - Venice, Italy - trying to help the Carabinieri with a murder case. I think talking to Bale might be useful.’

McFaul glances again at his watch. He’s going to be late. If he tries to fix the call tonight then he’s sure as hell gonna miss his golf. ‘Tomorrow, Tom. Call me tomorrow - six p.m. your time - and I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thanks.’ Tom’s about to hang up when a question hits him: ‘Sorry, Governor, one last thing. You said a date had come through for his execution?’

‘That’s right.’

‘When is it? How long has he got?’

McFaul can’t help but give off a slight chuckle. ‘I don’t know whether the pen-pushers in Justice did it on purpose, but that son-of-a-bitch is set to meet his maker at six a.m. on the sixth of June. Six, Six, Six. Just six days from now. I sure hope he likes the irony of that.’

CAPITOLO XLVI

1778
Rio Terà San Vio, Venezia

Tanina sits in a friend’s plush apartment in the Sestiere di Dorsoduro
.
She swirls golden wine in a blue-green, tulip-shaped Murano glass and wishes she too was a woman of independent means.

Not that she begrudges Lydia Fratelli a lira of it.

Flame-haired Lydia is the older sister she always wishes she’d had - her closest friend and only real confidante. And tonight Lydia’s getting chapter and verse on her rocky relationship with Ermanno. ‘Really, he has become an unspeakable gossip! Last week he told me vile - and I am sure untrue - tales of Signor Gatusso.’

Her friend sits forward, her face full of anticipation. ‘What tales? It is a while since I heard anything spicy.’

‘It’s no laughing matter. He accused Gatusso - without substantiation, I might add - of having numerous courtesans.’

Lydia laughs.

Tanina is not amused. ‘Ermanno has not the mouth of a true gentleman but that of a common fishwife. And this is the man I would hope to marry? I think not.’ She gulps indignantly at her wine.

Lydia tuts at her. ‘My dear friend, Ermanno is an
angel
. You are lucky to have him. You should forgive and forget his torrid tales as surely as you’d forgive a small child a slip of the tongue.’

‘But he is
not
a small child. Or at least, he’s not supposed to be.’

Her friend rolls her eyes. ‘Of course he is. All men are children. They may get older and uglier on the outside, but inside they remain forever children. Like menstruation, male immaturity is one of the inevitable curses we women must suffer.’

Tanina laughs and tucks her feet up under her thighs. ‘And Gatusso? My great fornicating employer and fallen father-figure, is he a small child too? Must I also extend my endless supply of forgiveness to him?’

‘You must. I have known Lauro Gatusso almost as long as you. He is a lovable, delicious flirt and, given that boring wife of his, I should say he’s entitled to any fun he can find outside her sheets.’

Tanina scowls at her. ‘Signora Gatusso is
not
boring.’ She pauses and thinks for a second, then her face softens. ‘Oh, all right, perhaps a
little
boring. But why are men so driven by their penises? Why is one woman not enough for them?’

Lydia finger-combs a fall of natural ringlets from her face. ‘Oh, come! Men are not
so
different from ourselves. We grow bored with one lover and move on to the next, sometimes forgetting to divest ourselves of the old before we are certain about the new.’

‘
You
do,’ replies Tanina indignantly. ‘I most certainly do not.’ She sips her wine, but then can’t hold back a small smile. ‘I know I used to be like that - a little - but not now. Or at least, I hope not. If Ermanno can mend the error of his ways, then he is the only man I wish to be with.’

Lydia breaks into ironic applause. ‘Then either consider his ways well and truly mended, or else irrevocably broken. Tanina, you must move on and stop dwelling on this silly thing.’

‘Not until he apologises.’

‘He
hasn’t
apologised?’

‘Has not and will not.’

‘You asked him to?’

‘Of course. We have met several times since his indiscretion and not once has he proffered anything amounting to an apology, nor has he produced anything to substantiate the slander against a man who is not just my employer but has been like a father to me.’

‘Why not?’

Tanina grows visibly irritable. ‘He says he has nothing to apologise
for
. Told me to forget the matter. And now - now he’s immersed in one of his
quests
, and I get little time to talk to him about anything, let alone speak of us and our future.’

‘
Quests
? What quests?’

Tanina puts her empty glass down at her feet. ‘He is buried in his books. Some artefact he’s trying to trace. From time to time he becomes obsessed with tracking down the history of certain paintings or sculptures, right now it is some religious relic.’

‘Jewish, no doubt. What is it? A menorah? They’re as common as thieves.’

‘No, no. Not Jewish. In fact, it’s quite interesting. He thinks it’s Etruscan. I’m not so sure - I’m good on paintings, not sculptures - but it is certainly very old.’

‘Etruscan? That’s unlikely. Not much has survived from those days.’

Tanina looks amused. ‘How do you know? I credit you with a wide span of general knowledge’ - she grins playfully - ‘and of course endless
man knowledge
, but I did not realise your expertise stretched to artefacts and Etruscans.’

‘It doesn’t. I had a lover who collected any reasonably valuable rubbish he could lay his hands on. I remember him talking about Etruscans. It didn’t interest me much. What’s so special about Ermanno’s piece?’

‘Well, he hasn’t got the piece. It’s not
his
- not yet. He’s only seen a picture of it. Some monk from San Giorgio owns it. It’s a silver tablet showing an augur with his staff stuck in him.’

Lydia puckers like she’s bitten a lemon. ‘How unpleasant.’

‘Ermanno thinks it’s part of something called the
Gates of Destiny.
’

‘Does he, indeed? Well, I hope it makes a lot of money for him, for you and for the mad monk who wants to sell it.’

‘And for Efran. He will want his cut.’ Tanina reaches down and waggles her empty glass at her hostess.

Lydia goes to retrieve the wine bottle. ‘That scoundrel always does. Though, he did get me some very beautiful jewellery last year. Pearls. A gorgeous necklace that goes perfectly with a blue silk bodice I’ve had made.’

She refills their glasses, then walks over to an elegant walnut dresser positioned beneath a long Venetian mirror. ‘What do you think of these?’ She holds up two handmade stick masks. Both are elegant and ornate. The first is a red-and-gold
trapunto uomo
. The second an ivory-and-silver
trapunto donna
.

Tanina squints at them. ‘I like the
donna
. The
uomo
is a little aggressive for my taste.’

Lydia picks them both up and puts the
uomo
to her face. ‘This is definitely more me. You can have the submissive
donna
.’ She smiles and hands it to her friend. ‘What say we finish this wine and then join the Carnevale
?
There is a ball tonight in Santa Croce. A
wild
one. You need to get out and learn more about the follies of men, and I
urgently
need one between my thighs.’

CAPITOLO XLVII

1778
Canal Grande, Venezia

Masked revellers dance and flirt afloat a wave of music from a full orchestra in the elegant ballroom of the newest palazzo on the Canal Grande. The lavishly furnished home is one of many owned by businessman Giovanni Mannino. Gio is from Murano and is the latest in a long line of glass-makers. His ancestors were forced out to the island when authorities banished his trade from Venice for fear that the furnaces would blow up the city. Now he is one of the nouveau riche, buoyed by bank loans and foreign orders for everything from glass beads to chandeliers. As Gio’s wife Giada so regularly says, they have so much money they won’t be able to spend it even if they live for a thousand years. But Gio is trying. Trying very hard.

Tanina has borrowed not only Lydia’s mask but also a shimmering gold dress and high gold heels that make her look a little more like a courtesan than she’s comfortable with. Still, it is exciting to be here. A welcome distraction from her melancholy stewing over Ermanno and his dreadful behaviour.

A small man holding a Casanova mask sidles over to her. He tilts it to one side and reveals a handsome and youthful face with rich brown eyes. ‘May I have the honour of this dance, and of knowing the name of the beauty I share it with?’

‘And your name, sir? From what I know of Casanova, he is twice your age, twice your height and still abroad - so you are certainly not he.’

‘I am Claudio Bonetti and you are correct, I am no Casanova. Though I believe the smallpox-riddled old rogue has returned to Venice after almost eighteen years abroad, so you had better check carefully that the mask is not the real thing.’ She taps it and he drops the papier-mâché creation to chest height. ‘The mask is borrowed from a friend of mine. The only spare he had. It was something of a last-minute impulse of his to come here.’

‘Mine is borrowed too. Also from an impulsive friend.’ She dips her own mask and rewards him with a smile. ‘I am Tanina Cingoli and I would be delighted to dance with you.’ Claudio takes her hand.

Across the ballroom Lydia also finds male companionship. Her new
trapunto uomo
, the string of pearls that Efran sold her and a long cream silk dress with a bustle bigger than a small child have caught the eye of many men, including one who is well known to her. ‘Lydia, you look enchanting. Bewitching! I am not sure which part of me is most excited to see you here - my heart or my manhood. ’

Lydia laughs. ‘Be in no doubt - it is your randy old cock. You do not have a heart.’

He laughs raucously. ‘You are cruel! You wound me with your decadent tongue.’

‘Then come closer so I can lick you better, like the tongue of a lioness heals the wounds of her pack leader.’

The man gazes across the dancers to find the whereabouts of his ever-vigilant and rightfully untrusting wife. ‘Let me dance once with you-know-who, then I am yours.’

Her hand brushes against his thigh. ‘Good. Because I have something for you. Something more incredible than anything you have ever dreamed of.’

‘I am sure.’

She stretches up and leans close to kiss his ear. ‘Not sex. This is something you have yearned even more for. Something you wanted so much you might even give your life - or take a life - for it.’

She has him hooked.

He glances across the room again. His wife has her back to him. ‘Tempt me no more. Let’s find a chamber on the upper floor.’

CHAPTER 49

Present Day
Hotel Rotoletti, Venice

Valentina is in Tom’s tiny shower, simultaneously trying to sober up and live down the embarrassment of arriving on his doorstep in the early hours. Though Tom’s been at pains to reassure her that there’s nothing to be embarrassed about, she seems mortified about what she’s done.

Tom is just thinking about taking a walk to grab coffee and pastries when his cellphone rings.

‘It’s Alfie - can you speak?’

Tom’s surprised but pleased to hear his old friend’s voice. ‘Yes, of course. Thanks for calling. Did you find anything?’

Alfie sounds stressed. ‘Not as much as I thought. I used our computerised search engines to trawl through everything connected to the keywords liver - Etruscans - symbols - squares - oblongs - snakes - rituals - priests . . .’

‘Sounds quite a trawl.’

‘It was.’ Alfie pauses as if he’s looking around, making sure no one is watching. ‘Tom, I’m nervous about what I’m going to tell you.’

‘Go on.’

‘Etruscan is one of those dead languages, so it’s been hard to cross-check things and find definite sources, but I came across a tale that may cause some concern within the Church.’

‘Alfie, the suspense is killing me.’

‘You know of the Piacenza Liver, right?’

‘The bronze artefact that was used to teach priests how to divine livers?’

‘That’s the one. It’s widely believed to be the oldest and best-preserved of Etruscan artefacts, but there are suggestions of something that considerably predates it.’

‘Another metal liver?’

‘No. Something more precious. An artefact referred to as the Tablets of Atmanta. It’s made up of three silver tablets that interlock to form a single oblong scene, and allegedly dates back hundreds of years before the birth of Christ.’

Tom feels his pulse quicken. ‘Go on.’

‘The tablets are said to depict an awful vision by a netsvis called Teucer. Apparently he went blind - either during the vision or just afterwards, I can’t work out which - but it seems his wife was a sculptress named Tetia and she captured the vision in these tablets. The middle one is believed to show Teucer; while another depicts him and his wife with their child, who neither of them lived to see. The final tablet is said to show a divinity that at the time was unknown in the Etruscan pantheon but is thought to be a demonic deity like Aita, lord of the underworld.’

Tom is fascinated. ‘And the snakes, any mention of them?’

‘I nearly forgot: the Tablets of Atmanta are also referenced as the
Gates of Destiny
.’

‘Gates?’

‘Yes. It seems hundreds of snakes were etched into the tablets. They ran vertically and horizontally and overlapped each other so they formed what looked like gates.’ He hesitates. ‘I guess the gates to the afterlife.’

‘That’s great, Alfie. Really helpful.’ Tom hears Valentina moving around the bedroom. ‘Why were you nervous about telling me this?’

There’s a pause before Alfredo Giordano answers. ‘It’s not what I’ve told you that makes me nervous, Tom. It’s what I
haven’t
told you. The records are incomplete. Some of the information has been classified “restricted”. Whatever’s in there is so sensitive it’s been locked up in the Holy See’s secret archives.’

CAPITOLO XLVIII

1778
Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore, Venezia

Tommaso is now certain the abbot is ignoring him. He’s repeatedly visited his office, only to be sent away with increasing unpleasantness. Now a fellow brother has been posted outside the door, to sit like a lazy guard and vet visitors.

Tommaso strongly suspects he is the only one being vetted.

It is against this background of distrust that he once more finds time during his mainland chores to track down the campo with the well, the house with the single brown-shuttered window and its occupant, Efran the trader.

The young man opens his front door barely an inch and seems amazed to see a hooded monk standing there. He quickly steps back and opens up. ‘Brother, Brother! Come in. What a surprise! Please come inside.’

Tommaso nods his thanks and steps into a small room that smells of boiled food. He is pleased to be out of sight. His visit, if discovered, would land him in considerable trouble at the monastery.

Efran hurriedly clears scattered shirts, undergarments and a heavy wool cloak from his one good sofa. ‘Please sit down. I have some news for you.’

‘I was hoping you might have.’

‘I do. Very good news. But I must rush to get my friend Ermanno. He is the one that can tell you everything.’

‘The Jew?’

‘Yes. A seller of antiquities in the ghetto. You remember I mentioned him to you?’

‘I remember.’

Efran pours water from a jug into his best glass, a multicoloured ribbed tumbler, ornamented with
vetro di trina
. He hands it to the priest. ‘Help yourself to more. As much as you want.’ He points towards his tiny kitchen area. ‘There’s also bread and some wine. I’ll be back soon.’

And with that, he’s gone.

Tommaso wonders whether he’s doing the right thing. A covert meeting in the home of a dubious trader with an unknown Jew would hardly be approved of by the abbot.

He thinks of his actions and many other things while he waits.

Opening the box beneath his bed seems to have released a gamut of emotions connected to his mother and sister. Feelings buried so deep that he had been unaware of their existence. Until now.

Grief. Loss. Rejection. Sadness. Loneliness.

On top of these raw and fundamental feelings, his search for the truth about his family has added other complexities.

Guilt. Deception. Doubt. Uncertainty.

It’s little wonder that he feels depressed and has started to have serious misgivings about his faith. Deep down Tommaso hopes that, once the mystery of the tablet is solved, all his convictions will be restored.

The front door opens.

A breathless Efran is followed inside by a thin, clean-shaven young man and a young woman with a face full of innocence and interest.

‘This is Ermanno,’ says Efran, eagerly, ‘and his friend, Tanina. She works for an art collector near the Rialto.’

Tanina curtsies. ‘I am pleased to meet you, Brother.’

Tommaso rises to greet them. He never intended that so many strangers should become involved in his private, family matter, and is about to object when Efran, anticipating him, says: ‘Do not worry, Brother. We are all kindly people, and my friends only wish to help you.’

Ermanno has brought several books. He excitedly places them on his friend’s table and opens them at specific pages. ‘Please, stand beside me, so I may share with you what I have learned.’

Tommaso does as requested. He immediately spots a black-and-white sketch of a silver tablet identical to his. His pulse races, but he decides to say nothing until he knows more about these strangers.

Ermanno taps the sketch. ‘This tablet is reputed to be one of three. They are said to have been cast in silver, six centuries before Christ.’

Tommaso interrupts: ‘Etruscan?’

Ermanno nods. ‘Yes. Made in northern Etruria. Legend has it that a sculptress set down in clay a vision that came to her husband - a priest - just before he was blinded during a sacred ritual. The ceramics were then bought by an affluent noble who used them as a silver mould for what became known in the art world as the Tablets of Atmanta.’

Tommaso is pleased to have some answers at last. ‘So these artefacts are well known?’

Ermanno shakes his head. ‘No. Not at all. I have dozens of books that do not mention them, and even some that deny their existence. Soon after they were created, they were stolen. Allegedly they fell into the hands of others and—’

Efran interrupts before his friend can finish the account. ‘What are they worth?’

Ermanno shrugs. ‘A lot of money. If someone already has the other two, then a true collector is likely to pay a fortune for the third.’

Tommaso looks disinterested. ‘I cannot sell it. The artefact was left to me by my mother. It is all she ever gave me. A note, the tablet and a small wooden box, that’s all I have to remember her by.’

Efran grimaces. Such emotional connections don’t augur well for wheeling and dealing. He knows it is time for his best sales pitch. ‘Brother, if we could sell this tablet, then I am sure we could secure great riches for your monastery - or yourself. Such wealth could be used to create memories of your mother that live beyond your lifetime and would benefit generations to come.’

Tommaso turns away from the table. ‘I think I should go now.’

Ermanno presses him. ‘Brother, we would be discreet. No one need know of our involvement or of your identity.’ He looks towards his girlfriend. ‘Tanina could have her employer sell it. Alternatively, my father could trade it in the ghetto. Though I am sure Signor Gatusso could find a higher bidder.’

Tommaso lets out a sigh. ‘Signori, I am grateful for your help - and yours, too, signorina. Somehow, I shall reward you for your troubles and your kindness. But really, I am not inclined to dispose of the article.’

‘May we see it? Confirm it is genuine?’ Ermanno points to lengthy paragraphs of text in one of the books: ‘There are many stories of copies and false ownership. I have details here that may help authenticate it.’

Tommaso glances down at the text and Ermanno places his hand over it. ‘There is also some nonsense written there, Brother. Best you do not pay attention to everything that is said.’

‘Tell me what is written,’ says Tommaso, ‘or we are done here.’

Ermanno looks to Efran and then lifts his hand. ‘As you wish.’ He passes the book over. ‘Some stories claim that the tablets were stolen by a man of extreme violence - a murderer and torturer - who used them for occult purposes.’ He watches Tommaso turn the page of the book, then continues: ‘Those are the other two tablets. One shows a couple with their arms around each other and their child by their side. It is believed to show the priest, the sculptress and their baby. The other depicts a demon. Not an Etruscan demon - or at least, not one recognised at the time.’ He looks up at Tommaso and wonders if he should stop there, but the monk clearly wants to hear what else there is to know. ‘Legend has it that the demon is Satan and that the boy child is his, not the priest’s. The tablets are sometimes referred to as the
Gates of Destiny
- or the Gates of Hell. You’ll have noticed the serpents in the tablet you were left . . .?’

Tommaso’s face drains of colour. He’d attached no such significance. ‘This cannot be so.’

‘Brother, there is much nonsense written. Tales fashioned by the tongues of old women with nothing better to do than fantasise. Pay them no mind.’

But Tommaso knows that he cannot dismiss this new information so lightly. How could his mother leave him something that seems to have had such a wicked past? Suddenly he wants to be alone. He flips the book closed.
‘
Our business is over.
Grazie
.’ Without further comment he heads for the door, leaving the others to stare at his retreating back.

‘Well, what a waste of all our time,’ says Efran, exasperated. ‘Clearly that’s the last we’ll see of him.’

‘I don’t think so,’ says Ermanno, smiling ruefully. ‘I really don’t think so. In business you soon learn that anyone so passionate and so interested in a piece will always come back.’