by Sam Christer
ALSO BY THE SAME AUTHOR
The Stonehenge Legacy
The Venice Conspiracy
This edition first published in hardcover in the United States in 2014 by
The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc.
141 Wooster Street
New York, NY 10012
www.overlookpress.com
For bulk and special sales, please contact [email protected]
Copyright © Michael Morley 2011
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.
ISBN: 978-1-4683-0924-9
Contents
About the Author
Also by the Same Author
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Part Two
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
To my eldest son, Damian – Per aspera ad astra!
PROLOGUE
The Ancient Diary of Cassandra
Italy
Few people know the moment they will die.
Perhaps, for such privileged information, I should be grateful.
I am Cassandra, a proud and noble descendant of the house of Savyna, and I am not afraid to die.
I would rather die than tell them what I am involved in, what I am covering up, what secret I am prepared to take to my grave.
And that, I suppose, is what enrages this ragged mob.
You can see the blood lust in their wild eyes and hear it in their crazed baying. You can even smell it in their animal excitement.
May the gods of the inferno damn them all.
The people of Cosmedin are out in force today.
Out for me.
They line their piss-soaked streets and drip like grease from the windows of their shabby tenements, screaming and spitting as I am paraded before them.
What is my crime?
Not what I am accused of. That is the irony. They are to test me – and no doubt punish me – for sins of much lesser import than the secret I shelter within my bosom.
Graffiti writers suggest that I lie down with one other than my husband. The mimes show me with a nimble youth, cuckolding that fat and cruel senator whom my father made me marry.
Oh that it were the case! I should gladly plead to such an indiscretion, for no woman of Rome would condemn me. My husband is a man of high office and low morals. He is three times my age and half my equal.
I suppose it was my coldness towards him that first made him suspicious. To idiots like Lucius, a wife who will not give herself to his bestial whims and who demands time alone is bound to be adulterous.
Let him be deluded.
I would rather suffer endless agony than disclose to him the existence of the Tenth Book and those I call sisters.
And so the ignorant crowds of Cosmedin pelt me with old bread and rotten vegetables. Most miss the rickety chariot in which I am jolted to my death. Some find their mark, and though they sting and bruise, I will not cry.
I hold my head with chin tipped to Zeus and will not let them see the fear welling inside me.
I will not bow in shame as they want me to.
Not now.
Not even later, at the climax of this terrible ceremony.
I remind myself again – I am Cassandra. A noblewoman.
Strangers’ hands now pull at my skirts. Hands not fit to wipe sweat from the brows of thieves and lepers. They tear at my garments, hoping nakedness will complete my humili
ation. Fingers pull jewellery from around my neck. Only now do soldiers beat them away with shields. The thief looks at the strange stone he’s plundered, a dull black triangle on a plaited cord, and is dumbstruck by disappointment.
Fool.
He’ll never know what it’s worth.
The chariot rolls on, rocked by the crowd. Like a ship tossed on a sea of jeers.
On the horizon I see it.
La Bocca della Verità – the Mouth of Truth.
One of the justices leads me to it, turns me to the mob. ‘Cassandra, wife of the noble Lucius Cato. You are accused of infidelity, of tarnishing the good name of your husband, a senator of the great republic of Rome. The time has come to break your foolish silence, to name the man with whom you betrayed your husband and to atone for your sins. What say you?’
I make my face like clay.
If I told them the truth, they would let me go. Their plebeian shouts would turn to poison in their mouths.
But I shall not.
The truth must be kept secret, even if it means suffering for an indiscretion I did not commit.
The Justice stares through me. His eyes are as cold as the winter snows, his words as hot as the fires of Hades. ‘Then by the power invested in me, I today action the order to verify your honour and your loyalty to your husband.’
My arm is taken by a soldier.
I see his dark hairy fingers on my pale skin, dirt caked beneath thin slivers of bitten fingernails.
There is total silence now.
Even the fountain holds its water.
He pushes my right hand through the savage mouth of the giant disc.
I feel nothing.
Now – slowly – an amazing warmth creeps through me. A soldier appears from behind the Bocca and lifts a basket aloft.
The crowd roars.
My world goes dizzy. My legs buckle. As I fall, I see only the basket and in it my severed hand.
My secret is safe.
PART ONE
1
Rome
The Carabinieri’s newest captain slips out of her crisply pressed uniform and into the shower in her cramped low-rent apartment.
The Vanity Fair photo shoot went well –‘warm but not too hot’ was how the male photographer mischievously described the shots. One in her captain’s uniform. One on the rifle range, shooting in a flak jacket, and her favourite, one in a short sparkling silver cocktail dress that fitted so well they let her keep it.
The force press office is happy, the magazine is happy and even Valentina Morassi is happy.
The perfect end to a perfect first week in her new job.
The twenty-nine-year-old tilts her newly promoted head at the steaming jet. Her long dark hair feels like wire wool as she shampoos away the spray they insisted on using, ‘to hold its shape and give it depth’. She also hates the make-up they made her wear. They trowelled it on. Though admittedly, in the shots it looked good.
She looked good.
It makes her smile to think that. Until recently it was hard for Valentina to see anything positive about herself or her life. The death of her cousin Antonio in Venice all but broke her. They both came from a big extended family, the kind that always holidayed together and shared weekly Sunday lunches. The type of family that was together so much you could barely work out which kid belonged to which parent. They went to the same schools. Attended the same parties. Even opted for the same profession. Antonio was a lieutenant, working undercover on a drugs job when he was killed.
Valentina couldn’t believe it.
She tried to carry on working. Managed to see out the murder case she was on, and then her life collapsed. She fell into a huge depression, and had she not passed her exams and moved to Rome, she’s sure she’d still be trying to wriggle free from the teeth of the proverbial black dog.
Valentina turns off the shower, steps out on to a frayed mat, snuggles into a thick white towelling robe and shakes her hair like a sheepdog. Her mother used to scold her for it. Antonio used to laugh like a drain when she did it after they’d been swimming.
She still thinks of him.
Often.
But it doesn’t hurt as much any more.
She towels her hair dry and sits on the edge of a saggy bed. The walls of the boxy room are a faded white, the filthy window only a little larger than a convict gets. This is not a place where her soul will grow, but it will do for now. At the end of the month she will search for somewhere more colourful – more her. An old Disney clock by the side of the small single bed clunks. It’s pillar-box red, has black Mickey Mouse ears and has woken her since she was four.
Mickey’s hands tell her it’s exactly eleven p.m.
Her thoughts turn to tomorrow and the man with whom she’ll be having dinner.
An unusual man.
Most unusual.
She met him – and last saw him – in the strangest and most dangerous of circumstances. Had things been different – and had another woman not been part of his life – there might well have been something romantic between them. Despite all of these ifs and buts, he’s still probably the one guy she trusts more than any other.
Valentina’s cell phone rings and almost gives her a heart attack.
The number on the display is that of her new boss, Major Armando Caesario. She expertly pitches her ‘Pronto’ somewhere between friendly and coolly professional.
‘Sorry to disturb you so late on a Friday night,’ he says, not sounding sorry at all. ‘Control has just had a case called in that I’d like you to supervise.’ He pauses, covers the mouthpiece and says something as an aside. ‘It’s a potential homicide, with … how shall we put it … an unusual twist. Lieutenant Assante will give you a hand; he’s already at the barracks.’
Valentina thinks she hears muffled laughter in the background. She doesn’t yet know her new boss well enough to be sure that someone isn’t imitating him and playing a prank on her. ‘Sir, forgive me, but is this some kind of joke?’
Caesario clears his throat. ‘No, no, not at all. Please forgive us. I’m here with the colonel and he has something of a dark sense of humour. If you call Assante, he’ll give you the full details and then you’ll understand. Good night.’
Valentina thinks the call’s genuine. She could all but smell the cigar smoke in the officers’ club as they swilled brandies in big glasses. She was hoping for an early night. Maybe a glass of red wine before a good long sleep.
She knows she’s not going to get either. She calls Homicide and holds the receiver between ear and shoulder while pulling her uniform back on. As soon as the details come out, she understands the black humour, and why the case has been batted her way.
The new girl is being taught a lesson.
She’s being given a heads-up by those who think her promotion is purely political, a token gesture of equality.
She’s heard it all before.
Morassi must have slept her way to the top. Screwed the examiner in charge of promotions. Blown the boss to get the easy cases. And those are just the things female officers say. Those of course who haven’t made the rank she has. Granted, twenty-nine is unspeakably young for anyone to make captain, but she deserves it. Her last case had made her, and the man she’s going to have dinner with tomorrow, the talk of Italy.
Valentina shuts the front door and heads for her three-year-old white Fiat Punto. It doesn’t go nearly as fast as she’d like, but in the Eternal City, where parking is an eternal problem, the tiny Fiat is king.
By the time she’s in fourth and has finished cursing its sluggishness, her mind is back on the new case she’s just been given.
It’s certainly a strange one.
A cleaner at the Chiesa Santa Maria in Cosmedin has discovered a highly unwelcome gift in the portico. The severed hand of a woman.
2
Paris
Tom Shaman is staring at the clear wintry night sky, playing join the dots. He wonders whether he’s spotted the Great Bear or the Li
ttle Bear. From what little he can remember of childhood astronomy, on a night as clear as this you should be able to see more than two thousand stars. Given his unique viewpoint, it might just be possible.
Tom is at the top of the Eiffel Tower.
He’s on a wind-blown workers’ platform, way above the Michelin-starred Jules Verne restaurant. The man who brought him here is Jean-Paul Marty, his best friend in France and the head of one of the many construction companies employed to do near-constant maintenance on the giant structure. Tom and JP have completely different lives but share the same basement gym and passion for boxing. They’ve even sparred together. A mistake the Frenchman won’t make again. The thirty-three-year-old American is as big as an oak and throws a punch that could derail a freight train.
JP puts his hands on the cold steel of the workers’ cradle and stares proudly out over the city of his birth. ‘I cannot believe that you spend a year in Paris and have never seen the magic of the City of Light from the Tower.’
‘C’est la vie.’ Tom sits on the rough boards and dangles his legs over the edge. He enjoys the childish thrill of knowing there’s more than three hundred metres of air between him and the ground. ‘I guess that’s what happens when you spend half your time working as a grunt at Eurodisney and a dishwasher at Robuchon.’
JP laughs. ‘The restaurant I know about, but you were one of Mickey’s mouses? This you keep a secret.’
‘No, not at all. I was proud to be a mouse. It was how I learned my Mickey Mouse French. It was how I kept alive for the first six months.’ He ticks points off on his fingers. ‘First a garbage guy, sweeping Main Street, morning, noon and night. Then acting. I was Disney’s best-ever Goofy and I didn’t have to speak, so that was kind of perfect too. Then I worked both Planet Hollywood and the Rainforest Café as a kitchen porter.’
‘All of France is grateful for your cultured contribution to our society; we will miss you so much. And Robuchon?’
‘When I was moused-out, I blagged a cleaning job at L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon and lived on the best leftovers in the world. Not much got tossed, I can tell you.’ Tom looks up at the final shining zenith of the tower. ‘Thanks for fixing this; it’s a good way to go out.’
JP runs a finger down the steelwork. ‘You are welcome, mon ami. It is my pleasure to show you around, but don’t tell anyone.’
‘I won’t.’
The Frenchman turns his back to the wind and tries to light a cigarette. ‘I’d get you to swear to that on the Bible, but I’m not sure such an oath counts if it comes from an ex-priest.’
