‘I still have to come to terms with it all. One way to do that is to find those responsible. That’s why we are here, Lola. We need your help.’
‘Understood. Isis is waiting upstairs.’
‘This is a bit like a dream,’ said Samartini as the glass lift emerged out of the garage into the open, and travelled up the side of the building to Isis’s penthouse on the top floor. The view over the Thames, Tower Bridge and the Tower of London lit up in the distance, was breathtaking.
Sir Charles turned to Cesaria standing next to him. ‘You haven’t been here before, have you?’
‘No, but Jack has told me a lot about Isis and her fabulous residence.’
‘You’re in for a big surprise. Ah, here we are,’ said Sir Charles as the lift doors opened.
Dressed in a tight-fitting leopard-print bodysuit by Valentino that accentuated the carefully nurtured hourglass-figure of the ageing rock star, Isis looked like a fashion model on a photo shoot. The large stone Buddha next to the lift – Jack’s favourite – and the Māori war canoe suspended from above could have been the setting for a cover of Vogue. As soon as Tristan stepped out of the lift, Isis held out her arms. Tristan walked over to her.
‘I know all about loss,’ whispered Isis, holding Tristan tight. ‘I know how it feels.’
‘I know you do. Lorenza’s gone. We cannot change that, but Jack is still very much alive, for now. I don’t think I could bear it if I were to lose him too.’
‘That serious? Have you seen something?’
‘Yes. We haven’t got much time.’
‘Then let’s not waste any. How did you go at MI5?’
‘I’ll tell you, but first let me introduce you to Cesaria and Clara.’
‘Jack’s Italian friends from the Squadra Mobile in Florence whom I’ve heard so much about?’ said Isis in perfect Italian. ‘Benvenuta.’ Isis let go of Tristan, turned to Cesaria and extended her hand. ‘Would you like to go to your rooms first, or shall we have a glass of champagne?’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Cesaria, looking a little confused.
‘You are staying the night, of course. Too late to return to Florence. And besides, I want to hear everything about your MI5 meeting.’
Sir Charles sat back in the comfortable leather chair facing the floor-to-ceiling window, and looked wistfully at the river below.
‘So, what did you manage to find out?’ asked Isis.
‘Cross was his usual arrogant self, but he had to eat humble pie because his assistant stuffed up—’
‘You ended up with Cross again?’ interjected Isis, shaking her head. ‘He keeps popping up every time we have some business with MI5.’
‘It’s weird, I know. I’m persona non grata as far as he’s concerned, and he absolutely detests Jack, and you aren’t far behind.’
‘Not surprising,’ said Isis. She turned towards Cesaria sitting to her right. ‘After my parents were killed in 2011, Charles, Jack and I had, let’s call it a “robust” disagreement with Daniel Cross that almost cost him his job. Not surprisingly, he’s never forgotten that. And then earlier this year, he popped up again in the Stolzfus matter and ended up with egg on his face. No wonder we are not popular!’
‘That to one side,’ continued Sir Charles, ‘he did give us access to the MI5 files on O’Hara – reluctantly – and provided the information we were looking for.’
‘Was it helpful?’
‘I think so,’ said Tristan, stepping in. ‘But not for what was actually in the file as such, except for one obscure piece of information.’
‘Care to elaborate?’ said Isis.
‘In a moment, but before I do, you need to get a picture of O’Hara as he was thirty years ago. Clara, would you mind telling us your take on O’Hara?’
‘Certainly.’ Samartini reached for her notebook and opened it. ‘MI5 has done an excellent job digging into the background of this fascinating man, very thorough. Pity they didn’t pursue it all later. Ronan O’Hara was one of those abandoned and abused children living in one of those dreadful “unmarried mother and child” homes run by the Catholic Church that were active during the 1950s in Ireland. They were just recently in the news again about some old scandal. Single mothers used to give birth in those homes, where child mortality and abuse were scandalously high, and no-one seems to have cared or did anything about it.’
‘The boy had a dreadful childhood and grew up in one of those homes in Cork,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Abandoned by his mother, his father unknown.’
‘Apparently, he had an unfortunate disability: a terrible stutter,’ said Tristan. ‘Please keep this in mind, because it is important.’
‘However, he also had an extraordinary gift,’ said Cesaria. ‘Numbers. His astonishing mathematical abilities at an early age brought him to the attention of a local priest, who took the boy under his wing and gave him access to books like Liber Abaci by Fibonacci, which was the most influential mathematical work in Europe for over three centuries. O’Hara was reading sophisticated textbooks on complex mathematics and was capable of mathematical feats that astonished everyone who came into contact with the stuttering teenager, who could express himself better through numbers and complex equations than words.’
‘At seventeen, the boy left the home. He ran away and somehow made it to London, where he fell in with a bad crowd and became part of the London criminal underworld,’ said Samartini. ‘He had a nickname, “Tartaglia”, which means stammerer in Italian. However, this nickname was in fact a compliment because O’Hara was named after Niccolo Tartaglia, one of the most illustrious mathematicians of the sixteenth century.’
‘Quite so,’ said Cesaria. ‘And Tartaglia is best known today for the Cardano–Tartaglia formula for solving cubic equations, which O’Hara used in ingenious ways in connection with the World Wide Web.’
‘For almost two decades, he disappeared. No criminal record of any kind, nothing,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Until he came to the attention of the authorities in an unexpected way.’
‘How?’ asked Isis, fascinated.
‘This was in the early 1980s,’ continued Sir Charles. ‘By now, O’Hara was doing research for CERN – the European Organization for Nuclear Research – in Switzerland, which resulted in the establishment of the World Wide Web, linking hypertext documents into a complex information system and making it accessible to the entire network. This was a revolutionary breakthrough that would soon change the way the world communicated.’
‘How did he come to the attention of the authorities?’ asked Isis.
‘O’Hara left CERN and took valuable, confidential research material belonging to his employer with him, and disappeared.’
‘What, he stole it?’ said Isis.
‘Yes,’ said Cesaria. ‘And that’s where the matter rested, until years later, when he came to the attention of the authorities again – this time the Americans, FBI – in connection with illegal activities on the dark net, which was just emerging.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Isis. ‘How did this end up with MI5?’
‘The Americans traced the illegal activities on the dark net to Great Britain, and asked MI5 for help,’ said Samartini. ‘This was in the early ’90s. By now, the Dark Net Bazaar – which was forerunner to the infamous Silk Road, a drug bazaar – was fully operational, and represented a serious headache for law enforcement authorities around the world.’
‘The Silk Road website was shut down in 2013 by the FBI,’ said Cesaria. ‘And its founder, Ross Ulbricht, who operated the site under the pseudonym “Dread Pirate Roberts” was arrested on several charges, and convicted and sentenced to life in prison without parole. More than one billion dollars in bitcoin connected to Silk Road was seized.’
‘Unfortunately, MI5 was not as successful pursuing the DNB in the ’90s,’ said Sir Charles. ‘They traced the criminal online activities on the dark net to a farm in Cornwall. By the time they raided the farm, O’Hara had gone to ground and has never been found.’
‘Perhaps until now,’ said Tristan quietly.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Cesaria, looking at Tristan in surprise.
‘It’s all about that obscure piece of information I mentioned earlier.’
‘What about it?’ asked Sir Charles.
Tristan turned to face Isis. ‘You still have that letter Jack received as a boy from Brother Francis in Australia that led to the discovery of the lost Monet, don’t you?’
Isis looked at Tristan, perplexed. ‘Little Sparrow in the Garden? Sure, it’s part of the Francis diary that came with the purchase at the auction.’
‘Is it here?’
‘Yes, of course. It’s upstairs in my study, with the painting.’
‘Could we see it?’
‘Sure, but why?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘All right. Give me a moment. I’ll go and get it.’
Isis stood up and walked over to the lift.
‘You are a dark horse, Tristan,’ said Cesaria. ‘What did you discover during our session at MI5?’
‘A name.’
‘What name?’ asked Sir Charles.
Tristan shook his head.
‘Perhaps the angels whispered something in your ear?’ teased Samartini.
‘Perhaps. Let’s wait until Isis comes back and see. But what we can do while we wait is talk about that name. Clara, can you remember what Cross told us about that further investigation into O’Hara’s childhood and background after O’Hara went to ground and they tried to find him?’
Samartini looked at her notes. ‘Yes. They managed to trace his parents. Apparently, his mother was Kate O’Hara, a young domestic servant who worked on a farm in Cork. She was a single mother when—’
‘And the father?’ interrupted Tristan.
‘MI5 concluded that the father was a German Nazi officer who came to Ireland to disappear after the war. It was a good place to hide, especially when the resourceful Catholic Church helped. He was working on that farm as a labourer.’
‘And do you remember his name?’
‘Yes. I made a note of it here …’
‘Don’t tell us,’ said Tristan. ‘Let’s wait until Isis gets back, all right?’
‘Fine,’ said Samartini and closed her notebook.
‘This is almost turning into a whodunnit worthy of Agatha Christie,’ said Sir Charles, looking bemused.
‘If I’m right,’ said Tristan, ‘it will be better than that. Why? Because this is real, not fiction.’
Moments later Isis stepped out of the lift, carrying a small book.
‘This is Father Francis’s diary, which was part of the Monet auction sale.’ Isis held up the book.
‘And Jack’s letter I mentioned earlier is part of it?’
Isis opened the little book and took out a piece of paper. ‘Yes, it’s right here.’
‘As I remember it,’ said Tristan, speaking softly, ‘the letter has some quite specific instruction on the back about a grave in a cemetery in Berchtesgaden; isn’t that right?’
‘Yes. Jack went there in 2008, found the grave and located this diary, which was hidden under the headstone.’
‘Hm. Can you please tell us the name identifying the grave?’
‘Sure. Berghofer.’
‘Clara, could you please tell us the name you’ve written down?’
Samartini opened her notebook, her hand shaking, and stared at the page. ‘Berghofer,’ she whispered after a while, and closed the notebook.
54
Isis’s Penthouse, London: 9 November
Cesaria tiptoed into Tristan’s room, which was next to hers, and sat down on the edge of his bed. It was just after three-thirty am. Gently, she put her hand on Tristan’s shoulder, trying to wake him.
‘I could feel you come in,’ said Tristan. Instantly awake, he opened his eyes, reached for the bedside lamp and turned on the light. ‘You look troubled. What’s wrong?’
‘This just came in. It’s from Lapointe.’ Cesaria pressed play on her iPad and and turned the screen towards Tristan.
‘Jesus!’
Tristan peered at the screen. ‘Play it again.’
The short video lasted for less than twenty seconds. The first scene looked like something out of The Phantom of the Opera. A still, mysterious lake inside what looked like a cave lit up by a ghostly green light appeared. Then the camera zoomed in on something at the far end of the lake, melting out of the darkness. A shape emerged, hazy at first, but becoming clearer as the camera moved closer.
A man was standing in the water, which reached up to his chest. The top of his head was only centimetres away from the rock ceiling. He had what looked like an iron collar around his neck, which seemed to be attached to the rock wall behind him. A heavy-looking chain was wound around his chest, pinning his arms to his body. At first it was impossible to see the man’s face in the semi-darkness. Then a shaft of light appeared, illuminating the face. It was Jack.
Moments later, a voice: ‘You have something that belongs to me, Chief Superintendent. I’m sure you know what it is. I want it. The water in this ancient chamber is slowly rising. Soon it will reach the ceiling. If you follow my instructions, it will stop and Mr Rogan will live. If you fail ... you know the answer. Your choice. More soon.’ Then the voice trailed off, and the screen went blank.
‘It’s the same voice,’ said Tristan. ‘Irish accent with a slight stutter.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Have you spoken to Lapointe?’
‘I have.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Not surprisingly, he was shocked. This case is unsettling him. Like last time, this video was sent to his private email address. Scary, don’t you think? He forwarded the video to the Prefect and is waiting for instructions. He’s probably talking to him right now. This is crazy.’
‘Hm.’
‘You don’t look surprised, Tristan. How come?’
‘It all makes sense now.’
‘What makes sense?’
‘Just before I went to sleep, a strange feeling came over me. I could hear Jack’s voice. At first I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but then one word became clear and he repeated it over and over.’
‘What word?’ asked Cesaria.
‘Berchtesgaden. But that wasn’t all.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I also saw something.’
‘What did you see?’
‘Something similar to what we saw in the video just now. Jack was standing in water. It came up to his chin and was rising quickly. Just before it reached his mouth he said something else.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Another word. Over and over.’
‘What word?’
‘Salt.’
‘Salt? What’s the significance of this, do you think?’
‘Not sure.’
‘What happened then?’
Tristan looked at Cesaria, pain clouding his eyes. ‘He drowned,’ he said quietly.
‘What does it all mean?’
‘Jack’s sending me a message. This has happened before, in moments of extreme danger.’
‘What kind of message?’
‘Unless we do something and act quickly, he will die.’
Cesaria shook her head. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘I’ll wake Lola. I know where her room is. We haven’t much time.’
‘What are we going to do?’ repeated Cesaria, urgency in her voice.
‘Not sure yet, but I have an idea,’ said Tristan and got out of bed.
Lola had made some tea. ‘Isis won’t be long,’ she said.
Everyone sat in the lounge, surrounded by Isis’s eclectic art collection, waiting, the mood subdued. Sir Charles had gone home just before midnight and the rest of the staff hadn’t arrived yet. Apart from Boris, who had his quarters on the ground floor, and two security guards on duty, the building was empty. The kitchen was closed. After Cesaria
had woken Samartini in the early hours to show her the video, Samartini had promptly booked the first flight back to Florence and Boris had driven her to Gatwick at dawn.
Dressed in a stunning, embroidered vintage dressing gown once worn by Marlene Dietrich in a Berlin nightclub, Isis stepped out of her apartment on the top floor, and after stopping briefly on the landing, came walking slowly down the glass stairs leading into the open-plan lounge below.
Cesaria looked at Lola and raised an eyebrow.
‘Give her time,’ said Lola. ‘She’s not used to getting up this early. Interrupted beauty sleep ... early mornings aren’t easy for megastars. But an entry, is an entry!’
Smiling, Cesaria nodded, appreciating a little welcome levity.
Looking pale without make-up – and older – her usually impeccably coiffured hair not quite as stylish, Isis walked over to the antique sideboard and poured herself a cup of tea.
‘Lola showed me the video,’ she said. ‘This is dreadful. Where to from here?’
Tristan stood up, walked over to Isis who was sitting by herself on a couch, and sat down next to her. Then he reached for her hand and looked at her.
‘Over the years, you and Lola have become part of Jack’s life – mine too – and shared some extraordinary escapades and adventures with him. Remember Alistair Macbeth of Blackburn Pharmaceuticals, with its deadly medical experiments in Somalia?’
‘That despicable man with his dark and deep desires?’
‘Jack and I almost got killed on his ship before it sank and took that monster down with it into the deep. Lola came to our rescue and brought us back here to safety,’ said Tristan. ‘On your private jet.’
‘While I was recovering in a Boston hospital.’
‘Under the care of the enigmatic Dr Greenberg.’
‘The medical genius who operated on my brain tumour and went where no other surgeon dared to go, and saved my life.’
‘The same doctor who also helped Professor Stolzfus, after you and Lola came to Jack’s rescue in Colombia, remember?’
The Death Mask Murders Page 33
