by G. L. Baron
15
Lyon, December 28th. 09:15 a.m.
‘That’s interesting,’ Fabien Bérot began. He was a nerd in his early twenties, with three earrings in the same lobe and a ponytail tied up behind. He spoke with his usual flat pronunciation, devoid of any emotion. ‘See?’
Nigel Sforza approached Bérot behind the terminal. On the flat screen he could see a sort of silver metallic disc.
They were in the boy’s lab, on the third floor of Interpol’s central headquarters, a glass cube built between the Rhone and the Tete d’Or park.
‘I dismantled the device because I just couldn’t understand what it was for.’ Bérot cleared his throat. ‘It’s not a strange iPod, like you told me… even if you weren’t too far from the truth. At least that’s what I think.’
‘What is it then?’
‘See, that’s the first problem: I don’t know exactly.’
Sforza rubbed his eyes and stared at the small dismantled device. He could see some microchips resting neatly on the aluminium body.
‘Certainly it is a support for recording data.’ Bérot began to beat on the keyboard like a piano during a concert. ‘It’s a kind of hard drive based on technology that I have recently heard about.’
‘And what’s strange about it?’ Sforza questioned him.
‘You see, this part is magnetic.’ The young man enlarged the silver disc on screen that Sforza had seen previously. ‘It seems to be the heart of the device. It’s construction is quite similar to that of a normal hard disc.’
Sforza blatantly crossed his arms and continued listening to Bérot’s monologue. He was sure that the boy did not feel emotions and was certainly not able to understand them; he’d been there only a few minutes and he had already managed to bore him.
‘However, the interesting part is this.’ Another image appeared on the screen, looking like a big ball of yarn, but it had to be a photograph taken through a microscope. All around you could see circuits and some microchips. ‘I think it could be an ultrasonic generator.’
‘Fabien, don’t make it too long. What’s it for?’
‘I believe that it serves to record data. A lot of data,’ muttered the young computer geek. ‘I read something about it on Wired a few months ago. The idea makes use of bombarding a sector of the magnetic disc with ultrasound. Thanks to the momentary overheating, the supporting magnetic material expands and increases storage space. It greatly increases it… I would say roughly up to two petabytes, maybe even more. To give you an idea, one petabyte corresponds to a million gigabytes.’
Sforza scratched his head and then his gaze settled on the row of houses behind Bérot’s station. Nearby, was a mobile phone with the display charred; it looked like it had just been rescued from a lit fire place. His attention, however, fell on the poster of a smiling model that showed two firm buttocks. ‘So, if I understand right, this is kind of a hard disc – full stop.’
‘It’s much more. This technology is not on the market yet. Unfortunately, it’s too damaged, so I have no way to retrieve the data recorded on the disc. If it works, patents of this object would be of great value…’
Sforza shook his head. ‘Thanks Fabien, you’ve been a great help.’ It was a joke, but he would never have laughed anyway.
‘Wait. I didn’t have you come just for that. I have to show you the most important thing.’
The Interpol detective looked up at the sky.
‘Come.’ The young man crossed the laboratory and reached a sliding glass door. Inside there were big machines similar to those used for a CAT in hospital. He sat behind a terminal and moved the mouse. ‘This is the most interesting object that you sent me.’
On the screen was a blue-and-red picture. It was shaped like pillars that supported a three-storey property, like a skyscraper without walls.
‘What am I looking at?’
‘A photo taken with an AFM, an atomic force microscope.’
‘Is it the transparent microchip?’ snapped Sforza.
‘One of two. By the way, after you left the Vatican they found another identical one. Seems to have been among the vessel fragments. Obviously they sent me both…’
Sforza nodded.
‘Anyway,’ the nerd insisted, ‘What you are seeing are actin molecules, a kind of skeleton that holds the cells of the human body together.’
‘So what?’
‘Those microchips are not silicon-based, as all microchips are, Nigel. They are much more; they are organic. Last year the Government of the United States granted a loan of $37 million to a start-up in Palo Alto, which was developing similar technology.’
‘What are they used for?’
‘Good question. I have no idea… It’s a kind of three-dimensional chip, the actin’s structure is like a scaffold. Then there are residues of gold filaments. I suspect they serve to conduct electricity.’
‘Does it work?’
‘I would tend to exclude it. From the pictures, it would appear damaged in several places.’
‘Thank you very much.’ Sforza smiled, but his eyes were lost in the blue-and-red picture on the screen.
I don’t know.
I’ve no idea.
Those were Bérot’s standard responses. But perhaps time had not been wasted…
After a few minutes he was gone , leaving the young man with his eyes glued to the microscope.
*
As he crossed the long corridor on the third floor of the Interpol glass building, Sforza tried to think.
The meeting with Fabien Bérot had been far from enlightening. The young man had just said the two devices found in the Vatican were a mix of innovative technology. Sure, it would be interesting to understand how de Beaumont had got them, but the information available was still too little.
Two phrases, spoken by the young man – the only ones he had understood perfectly – continued to bounce back in his mind. Unintentionally, Bérot had emphasized the main question: ‘If it works, patents of this object would be of great value.’ Then, when he spoke of the microchip he had added: ‘$37 million in a start-up in Palo Alto.’
Money. He knew from experience that, in ninety per cent of cases, it was the motive for every crime.
However, de Beaumont had officially committed suicide…
Sforza entered the lift and went down to the ground floor. When he was in the entrance hall, he went towards the exit. He had left his 1967 MG B Roadster near the lake, at the entrance of the Parc de la Tête d’Or.
He crossed the street and suddenly a black Bentley with tinted windows approached him. The rear window lowered and the passenger invited Nigel to get in.
The Interpol agent looked around, concerned. There was nobody there.
His first thought was to run. Could they be creditors who wanted to teach him a lesson?
His concern, however, vanished within seconds. From inside the car he was shown a photograph that Sforza had no difficulty recognizing. Then a voice uttered just one sentence, but it was enough to convince him to get in the back: ‘We have some information for you on Monsignor de Beaumont.’
16
Paris, New Year’s Day, 09:45 a.m.
While Manuel Cassini was in the car going to the Louvre, a Gendarmerie nationale car stopped at the intersection of Rue Arago and Rue Paul Lafargue. They were very close – as the crow flies – to the great Arch de La Défense.
The two uniformed officers crossed the street and reached the small tables at Mirabelle’s Brasserie, a bar with a big red-and-green awning at the corner of a three-storey building. In the alley, behind a row of parked cars, a swarm of people crowded the pavement.
‘I called you.’ A burly man with a big, black moustache came forward. He wore a purple apron and a black beret, perched on his head as if he believed he was a painter.
‘Make way!’ commanded one of the two.
The ten heads obstructing the police’s field of vision moved aside listlessly, leaving a clear view of a female hand sticking
out of the garbage container and a flashy gold bracelet engraved with a strange geometric design:
17
Paris, New Year’s Day. 09:45 a.m.
Manuel Cassini reached the main pyramid of the Louvre Museum, exhausted, as if he had run the New York Marathon.
He went down the escalators, and after a few steps he found himself in a circular hall covered with clear marble, with high sixteenth-century reliefs on the walls. From there, several corridors opened leading to the various wings of the museum.
Despite the festive day, there didn’t seem to be many people. Leaning against the glass balustrade, which overlooked the lower floor, one could see only a few tourists smiling.
Cassini tried to navigate by following the signs to the Denon wing, and found himself in a bright hallway filtering the outside light.
He paused for a second. He continued to sweat and could not get out of his mind the recurring thoughts that had persecuted him since he had woken up.
During the latter part of the short drive, his visions had intensified: Cavalli Gigli’s face, the smoking gun and the mad rush in the sports car. Looking back, he was even able to figure out what kind of car it was: on the leather steering wheel there was a yellow shield with a rearing horse. In that last vision he had stopped in front of a low building with a slate roof and red-painted walls. The last thing he saw was a road sign indicating Versailles, and a sign saying: LE CARRÉ AUX CRÊPES.
At the top of the staircase a grand foyer with six metre high ceilings and Greek antiquities opened before him. He continued to walk, following the signs depicting the enigmatic smile of the Mona Lisa.
*
New Year’s Day, at 10 a.m. in front of the Mona Lisa. The e-mail sent by Cavalli Gigli left no room for interpretation. The question that plagued him while listlessly walking through the hallway, however, was always the same: Was the superintendent going to come to the appointment? Was he alive, or was his flashback real… and therefore he was dead?
He decided to ignore that last foreboding and forced himself to reflect on questions which could be answered. He thought again about the text on the invitation; if the superintendent had chosen that place there had to be a reason. Why the Mona Lisa? Had it to do with their book?
It was certainly the case; that in The Secret of the Cursed Painters they had hypothesized that Botticelli’s obsession with Dante was due to the wish to communicate something, a kind of common code between the picture and the Divine Comedy. They had worked for months, along with another great expert of the sixteenth century, Monsignor Claude de Beaumont, trying to prove that theory, but in the end had desisted. If the Primavera was hiding some secret message that could also be found in Dante’s works, they certainly had not found it…
The idea to meet in front of the Mona Lisa, in any case, was certainly not random. One of the theories that they had tried to develop – without success – was that the same code they suspected existed in Botticelli’s works, might be found in other works of the same period. Obviously, they had thought of one of the most important paintings of the Italian Renaissance: the Mona Lisa by Leonardo Da Vinci.
Towards the middle of the hallway, the young expert on Dante slipped in the Salle des Etats, the room where the Mona Lisa was kept. It was a large room with a glass roof, designed by the Peruvian architect, Lorenzo Piqueras. In addition to Leonardo’s painting, the walls were covered with countless other works of the Venetian Renaissance.
The Mona Lisa was placed on a freestanding wall that divided the gallery in two. It was the only painting on the sand-coloured wall, behind security glass that was both explosive and corrosive proof. In 2009, the shatterproof glass case had also protected the painting from a cup thrown clumsily by a Russian visitor. To avoid incidents of that kind, but especially because the Mona Lisa is visited daily by sixteen thousand people, it is not possible to get nearer than two metres; a large wooden balustrade was placed in a semicircle around the picture and served as an insurmountable limit. About twenty tourists were leaning on it, surprisingly quiet.
Cassini approached slowly, looking around. He had not seen Cavalli Gigli for years, but he was sure he would recognize him.
He stared at the clock: it was 9:55.
He turned round but failed to locate the superintendent.
He decided to move away a couple of metres. He waited a few seconds, then a voice caught his attention.
‘Manuel Cassini?’ The shout came from behind him.
‘Yes, it’s me,’ he replied as he turned round, smiling.
But it was not Cavalli Gigli. He saw a man he did not know, with an unkempt beard and a leather jacket. A little further back were two policemen in uniform.
‘I’m Inspector Sforza, from the Interpol,’ announced the stranger in perfect Italian. ‘Would you be so kind as to follow us?’
Cassini could not answer. His heart leapt into his throat.
‘Sorry I don’t feel…’ he stammered those few words, trying to lean on the inspector.
The two policemen came to help him.
Suddenly, a tingling began rising from the base of his back up to his neck. The room began to spin and everything went black.
18
Paris, New Year’s Day. 10:36 a.m.
‘How are you feeling?’ Nigel Sforza was sitting on a leather chair next to the couch where Manuel Cassini was lying.
The bewildered professor looked around the luxurious study where he found himself. It was similar to that of a lawyer or notary. Through its wide windows he could see the Tuileries garden and, over a thick fog, the tip of the Eiffel tower. He deduced he was still in the Louvre museum, perhaps in an office.
‘You were suddenly taken ill… as I said before, I’m Inspector Sforza of Interpol,’ he said again, handing him a business card. His tone was friendly. He watched him with a regretful look. He seemed genuinely sorry, as though the fainting a few minutes before was somehow his fault.
‘May I have a glass of water?’ Cassini’s mouth was furry, still tasting of alcohol. Two policemen were stationed near the door, and there were two other people – a man and a woman – in front of the sofa, next to the windows. Both wore brown uniforms; maybe they were museum security.
‘Mr Cassini, if you feel better, I would like to ask you a few questions.’
A woman came in with a bottle of water and handed it to the professor, who began to sip it.
What did that man say his name was? Sforza of Interpol. Immediately after hearing that name he had fainted. It was not because of fear, he was sure… his faintness was related to the drugs the woman had given him the night before.
In his unconscious moments between meeting with Sforza and his coming to, his mind must have continued to develop what little information he had. He remembered the girl’s face perfectly now. He had met her in the bar of the Ritz; she was beautiful, amber skin, full lips and a dizzyingly-short skirt.
He had not gone to Paris to make conquests, not after what had happened with Clarissa… but it had happened. It was she who had approached him. ‘Will you buy me a drink?’ she said, brushing his hand which was resting on the bar counter.
He did not remember much of the evening: a few cocktails, then the New Year’s Eve party at the restaurant and then that woman again. He had taken her to his suite, and then everything went foggy… and there was the unshaven appearance of Sforza before his eyes.
‘What do you want to know?’ Cassini inquired, his gaze wandering beyond the inspector.
Sforza smiled and pulled a printout from his jacket; it was a copy of the e-mail that Cassini had left at the hotel, the one of Cavalli Gigli’s invitation to the Louvre. ‘Do you recognize this message?’
Cassini gave it a glance and then nodded.
‘Can you explain it?’
‘It’s an invitation. And here I am.’
Sforza scratched his forehead, and tried insisting. ‘Can you explain the reason why there is a phrase of Dante’s on the invitation? How was it…?
“O, ye, who have sane intellects, mark the doctrine, which conceals itself beneath the veil of the strange verses”.’
Cassini sipped a little water and chewed his lip.
Why were the police there? He wondered if Cavalli Gigli had really died. He decided to take his time. After all, if they wanted to arrest him for something he would have said so by now. Wouldn’t he?
‘It’s one of the best-known triplets from the Inferno.’
‘If my school memories don’t deceive me, that sentence tells us to go beyond the literal meaning of words and to seek other meanings, metaphorically.’
‘More or less,’ Cassini confirmed with a condescending tone.
‘Why did Cavalli Gigli send you that triplet?’ Sforza’s gaze sharpened, testing the sincerity of the young man.
‘To impress me, for sure. However, you should ask him.’
The inspector remained impassive, trying to interpret his words. ‘I fear it will be difficult. He died a few days ago.’
Cassini peered out of the window. He did not seem surprised and the inspector must have noticed. Outside it had begun to rain and a few drops flowed slowly down the glass. ‘Am I under arrest?’ He asked laconically.
‘Did you kill him?’
The young man settled down on the couch. Lying was useless. He decided to try collaborating, at least to try and understand what had really happened. ‘To tell you the honest truth, I don’t know. I have a few hours’s memory loss, a kind of amnesia.’
‘A kind of amnesia? Are you sure you don’t know where you were on Boxing Day?’ Sforza had obviously already verified there was no evidence that on the day of the murder Cassini was in Florence. Moreover, from the ballistic reports, it was obvious that the superintendent had been killed during a bloody gunfight. However hard he tried to imagine the professor as part of the commando unit, he thought it extremely unlikely.
The young man thought for a few seconds. ‘December twenty-sixth? To tell you the truth, I seem to remember it quite well. I was at home, in Naples.’
