by G. L. Baron
Julia noticed out of the corner of her eye and, in the same instant, the young man on the other side stood up with his gun. The two had surrounded them, and she couldn’t eliminate them both alone.
Meredith realized that she was needed. She exchanged a fleeting glance with her bodyguard and joined her, hands outstretched and the weapon pointed at the bookcase.
On the opposite side, the mercenary in the blue suit was doing the same, with the barrel of the gun aimed straight at her. But he hesitated to shoot: Cavalli Gigli was between them, as still as a wax statue at Madame Tussauds.
Julia took the opportunity to sort out the mercenary in front of her; she pointed her weapon and fired three shots at close range. The first two went wide, shattering the windows that opened onto the garden, but the third bullet hit the target. The man put his hand to his shoulder and crumpled to the floor.
It was then that something unexpected happened: Meredith and the young man leaning against the bookcase moved almost simultaneously, and they both fired a shot at the same time.
Neither was hit, but in the centre of the room Cavalli Gigli made a dull, gurgling sound.
The Queen stared at her hands in disbelief. Had she hit him, or had it been the youth?
The superintendant instinctively brought his hands up to his throat; a stream of blood gushed from the wound.
Meanwhile, Julia had got rid of the black man and had opened the French windows; her Honda Hornet was not far away – just behind Meredith’s limousine. She fired two more shots in Tanaka’s direction and dragged her protégé away.
All the while, the young man was leaning against the bookcase – motionless – just a few metres from the superintendent. His gaze lingered on Cavalli Gigli’s neck; blood flowed copiously from between his fingers.
Then he saw the smoking gun in his hands.
12
Paris, New Year’s Day. 09:26 a.m.
Try as he might, Manuel Cassini could not manage to stop the recurring flashbacks; the smoking gun was there, caught between his fingers. Then he looked up and saw Andrea Cavalli Gigli, his white face, blood gushing from the wound in his neck.
Sweating at the base of his spine, he had collapsed on the limousine’s leather seat, his eyes half-closed. While the driver silently looked straight ahead, the buildings of Rue de Rivoli flowed by outside the tinted windows.
He did not feel well at all. Why did those memories continue to bounce back in his mind?
These could not be the effects of alcohol alone. It was true he was not used to drinking, but two or three cocktails could not possibly have reduced him to this state.
Upon reflection, someone must have drugged him – obviously the woman he had met at the bar the night before. Try as he might, he could not remember her name. The only thing that was etched in his mind were her deep, shiny eyes, the colour of hazelnuts.
In any case, his amnesia most certainly must have had something to do with the assumption of some type of psychotropic substance. There was no other explanation.
But why drug him? Certainly not to rob him; he had checked his things before leaving and nothing was missing.
At any rate, in some corner of his brain, the gun was there, in his long tapered fingers. He could not remember that he had ever held one… let alone that he had shot Cavalli Gigli…
‘New Year’s Day, at 10 in front of the Mona Lisa.’ So said the text of the e-mail that the superintendent had sent him. That e-mail had convinced him to go to Paris. But if indeed the man who had invited him was dead, why was he going to the Louvre?
For a second, an absurd thought flashed through his mind: Was it possible that all those strange flashbacks were only premonitions? He had never been interested in the supernatural, nor did he believe in it. Those disconnected images, however, reminded him incredibly of visions of Patricia Arquette, alias Allison Dubois, in the series Medium. The only difference was that now this was his life!
He shook his head. It was impossible, it was not a hallucination; those were memories to all effects. They were dim – hidden by some drug or by a strange amnesia – but they were in his mind. What had really happened?
The sedan, meanwhile, had stopped at a traffic light which turned green at that very moment.
At the sight of it, Cassini started in the seat. For a moment he could not breathe, then he understood.
The car left, but it was not the limo; it was a sports car with a low driving position. He was driving it. He left the lights behind and changed gear. He faced a curve and the tyres skidded. In the distance he could hear the whistle of a train.
The image was vivid, clear as if it was happening at that time.
The car continued to accelerate. He watched the speedometer: 180 kilometres per hour. The engine roared. He was on a country road, narrow and lined with dry bushes and bare trees. A long wooden fence ran on both sides, slightly elevated above the street level.
Suddenly, the racing car slowed and took a right curve. It ran along a short section of a railway and then past the rails going up onto a flyover. From that point, the trees gave way to the low-rise buildings of a small town. They had slate roofs interrupted by wooden dormers and sand-coloured walls.
Now he was driving along a wide boulevard about a kilometre long, straight and slightly downhill. The mighty roar of the engine behind him seemed like a caged lion.
The memory lasted only a few moments; about halfway down the straight road there was a group of long, narrow houses, the ground floors painted with bright colours and the first floors covered with dark tiles. On the sidewalk he could see a small parking lot with three Harley Davidsons, parked side-by-side.
Suddenly, he pressed the brakes and flicked the indicator. The last thing he noticed before the flash vanished was a big Christmas tree, a red wall, and a door of the same colour. On it was a large sign painted in gold:
LE CARRÉ AUX CRÊPES
13
Venice, New Year’s Day. 09:35 a.m.
In Venice a cold wind was blowing. It crept, hissing through the narrow streets of the Castello area, and rose back up to Piazza San Marco, filling the silence and animating the brackish waters of the canals.
The sky was clear and serene but leaden clouds were advancing from the lagoon like a threatening fleet of ships.
The man entered the austere library adjacent to the Templar church of San Giovanni Battista in Bragora, and crossed it dragging his right leg. A wide hall opened before him, marked by a row of twisted columns that culminated at the ceiling with Gothic arches. A Murano chandelier hung from the oak beams, and the walls were covered with dark bulky shelving full of ancient books.
He sat down at the rosewood desk and stared at the entrance on the opposite side of the hall. From that position he could control it without having to move. He wore an elegant suit: white shirt and black tie. His face, the skin wrinkled and sagging, was ashen. He was ancient – not only in looks, but also in manners.
The parchment was still there, on the table, exactly where he had left. It was called Sex dierum iter, and had been discovered ten years ago by a young Finnish archaeologist.
The man sighed; that document, forgotten for seven hundred years in the archive of the Order, had only just revealed its importance in the last six months, and unfortunately had put him in front of his solemn oath to protect the Church of Rome.
He put on a pair of tortoiseshell-coloured glasses and bent down to read it again; it was penned in black ink, written in Gothic letters, and was composed of a single incomplete sheet, probably part of a report or a letter. What he could see clearly were the top lines, title and date: A.D. 1217.
But unfortunately it was enough… It was one of the few clues ever found to trace the papyri.
After careful thought, he picked up the phone and called a name from the phone book: Bull. The last time he had heard from him was six months ago, in the summer, after a mission on the Icelandic river Jökulfall.
The phone rang for a long time, then a s
leepy man replied with a sigh.
‘It has started again,’ said the old man, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘I’m afraid that I’ll still need you.’
14
Chianti hills, December 27th. 5:45 p.m.
Nigel Sforza reached the villa shortly after dusk.
It was bitterly cold and a dense fog enveloped the valley like a great cloak. Silence reigned, broken only by the barking of a dog in the distance. The flashing light of the Carabinieri police car drew long, whitish shadows on the frozen faces of those present.
‘Nice to meet you,’ said a man in civilian clothes, who was waiting for the Interpol agent at the entrance. ‘I’m the Carabinieri commissioner Alessandro Pitti. Excuse me for the time, I know you were leaving…’ He was shorter than him and almost certainly younger. He had a hooked nose emerging from between two bright eyes and flushed, hairless cheeks.
‘They told me that there is something that I absolutely must see.’ Sforza remained impassive, but then smiled and shrugged.
He was not sorry to stay another night in Florence. He was a man who loved beautiful hotels, restaurants and the good life in general.
To guarantee the lifestyle he was accustomed to, he had no regard for anyone. He had always been an opportunist, ready to fully make the best of every occasion that presented itself.
Raised in a wealthy family, Interpol had been his first and only occupation. Sure, the salary was not much, but that role gave him the opportunity to travel a lot and meet many people. And his contacts had always allowed him to supplement his income, most of the time legally.
He had entered Interpol in Lyon at the age of twenty-five, and after two decades, notwithstanding the criticism of his private life, he was still considered one of its best inspectors. Equipped with a great eye, he could often see what others had failed to notice. Over the years, he had been dedicated to cases ranging from drug and weapon trafficking, to industrial espionage. He had worked with the police in almost all EU Member States, touring the continent far and wide.
He had married Claudette very young. His belief that marriage was not binding between man and woman in the same way, however, had soon wrecked this one.
And she had not taken it well. With an army of lawyers to embarrass an oligarch, she had defeated him on all fronts in the divorce proceedings. She had painted him as an infantile child, a sort of Peter Pan who thought only about having fun, and for whom family did not count.
The saddest thing for her was that she had simply said the truth: Nigel Sforza was an ‘almost-fifty-year-old’ who dressed in leather and jeans, who thought about beautiful cars and having fun with women. His idol had always been George Best: ‘I spent a lot of money on alcohol, women and fast cars… The rest I squandered.’ And Sforza repeated it ad nauseam.
He shook hands with Pitti and looked around, like a vulture looking for a carcass to strip the flesh from. Outside the gate, in the misty twilight that surrounded him, he noticed three police cars. In the square, however, there was a big black limousine with the driver’s door open. It was surrounded with yellow ribbon.
‘The public prosecutor warned us of your investigation supporting the Vatican Gendarmerie,’ the inspector continued. ‘He knew of your meeting yesterday with Andrea Cavalli Gigli and thought that this case could be connected in some way.’
‘Two corpses?’ inquired Sforza, as he followed the other inside the big house.
‘Affirmative.’
‘What do we know exactly?’
‘Two males…’ Pitti led the way through a wide corridor. The walls were covered with slate, and the floor with oak parquet. Some photographs were displayed on a glass shelf.
‘The one outside had a United Arab Emirates visa,’ continued the commissioner. ‘He was probably driving the limousine, which is owned by the Al Husayn family. The second you knew: the superintendant Andrea Cavalli Gigli.’
The two reached the library door and entered. Inside there were some agents roaming the room with no apparent idea of what to do. The stained glass window overlooking the garden was shattered and broken glass littered the floor and gneiss of the courtyard. ‘Have the RIS technicians established the time of death?’
‘The bodies were only discovered today, after lunch. Cavalli Gigli’s wife spent Christmas with her parents and returned this morning.’ The policeman’s cold, chapped lips exhaled a cloud of condensation due to the cold. ‘Initially the coroner assumed them to have been dead at least twenty-four hours. Anyway, he can be more precise as soon as all the tests are completed.’
Shortly after he had met him, mused Sforza. He turned towards the door and examined some bullet holes. Nearby, on one of the bookcase’s large shelves, there was a row of books – all identical – with blue spines and white characters. The last of those books had a gash, probably due to a bullet.
‘Are there surveillance cameras?’ he urged, detached, as if certain that the answer would be negative.
‘Unfortunately not,’ confirmed Pitti, shaking his head.
‘What can you tell me about the man outside?’
‘Throat slit. A sharp blow to the trachea.’
‘You said that the car is owned by the Al Husayn family?’
‘Affirmative.’ Pitti lingered for a moment. ‘Excuse me a second…’ he muttered as he walked over to the desk which was on the opposite side of the library. One of the agents had waved him over.
Sforza, meanwhile, walked to the window. He continued to think about the woman he had met the day before at the Uffizi Gallery. ‘Let me introduce you to Meredith Al Husayn, wife of Sheikh Mohamed Bin Saif Al Husayn,’ said the superintendent. ‘One of the gallery’s most generous benefactors.’
Meredith Al Husayn.
He did not believe in coincidences and it was unlikely that this was a coincidence of names… Somehow the woman was connected to the double murder.
The Interpol agent leaned down to look at a spot of blood near the French window. The drops continued in the courtyard and then suddenly disappeared, as if the injured person had got into a car.
As he looked at the little clues, which in his eyes indicated that the day before there had been a shooting, like something out of the Wild West, his cell phone vibrated.
He took the phone from his leather jacket and read the name on the display. It was his ex-wife and it was the fifth time she had called him. He knew what she wanted from him… She had probably discovered that the last cheque was uncovered. He refused the call and approached Pitti, who was motionless, a look of astonishment on his face.
‘What’s happening?’ he thundered, looking first at the commissioner and then at the agent behind the laptop.
‘Something strange,’ Pitti stammered, scratching his head.
‘What?’
‘This computer is connected to the VPN Intranet of the Uffizi Gallery. From here you can access e-mails, for example…’ the agent spoke with a tone of proficiency.
‘And the strange thing is…’
‘Cavalli Gigli has just sent an e-mail from his account!’ announced Pitti.
Sforza smiled. ‘Interesting. If we assume that the dead don’t send e-mails, we should find out who did it for him.’
‘We’ve just sent the data to the computer technicians.’ The commissioner gestured with his hand as if he were directing traffic.
‘And what does this interesting e-mail say?’ Sforza asked instinctively.
‘It’s an invitation,’ continued the agent. ‘Precise words: “New Year’s Day, at 10 a.m. in front of the Mona Lisa”.’
‘Interesting… And who was it sent to?’
The agent paused for a second and then moved the mouse. ‘A certain Manuel Cassini.’
Sforza nodded. Just then, his cell phone rang again. This time he pulled it out and decided to answer; it was from the Lyon office.
‘Hello?’
‘Nigel, am I bothering you?’ it was the voice of Fabien Bérot, one of the agents of the Scientific Headquar
ters of Interpol.
‘No, not at all,’ he said with an ironic tone, sure that the young man on the other end of the phone would not have caught the nuance. Then he moved, as if he had a sudden insight. He returned to the front door and looked at the row of identical books that had already been noted before. There were about a dozen copies of the Secret of the Cursed Painters.
‘You know those finds that I received from the Vatican?’ his colleague said to him on the phone. ‘That strange iPod and microchip?’
Sforza remembered the evidence found in the Vatican Museums. He had asked the police to send them to Lyon.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it before…’ Bérot continued. ‘You have to see it with your own eyes… You wouldn’t believe it!’
Sforza seemed surprised – not by what he had heard on the telephone, but by the books arranged on the shelf. He picked one up and looked at the cover: There was Botticelli’s Primavera depicted, and above the title, in white, were printed the names of the authors. It was the volume which Cavalli Gigli had mentioned to him… The book that connected him with Monsignor Claude de Beaumont. There was, however, a third author, which the superintendent had made no mention of whatsoever: Manuel Cassini, the man to whom someone had just sent an invitation to the Louvre on behalf of the superintendent.
While reflecting, the telephone communication was replaced by an electrostatic charge. It was like a rhythmic ta-ta-ta, similar to the interference on a cell phone. Then the communication fell.
The inspector stood there with the phone in his hands. He bit his lip, uncertain about the significance of that e-mail.
A couple of minutes later the phone rang again.
‘Nigel, are you still there?’ Bérot’s metallic voice broke into Sforza’s thoughts again. ‘My phone died on me. Sorry. However, this is a big thing… When are you coming back to the office?’
Sforza thought for a second. ‘Tomorrow I’ll be back in Lyon. I’ll come round to see you.’
