Dante's Key

by G. L. Baron

  *

  Twenty-five minutes later, they were sitting in two velvet armchairs at a table in the Espadon. With its golden arches echoing the Baroque period, the blue curtains and crystal lamps, the restaurant founded by Charles Ritz in 1956 was still one of the most renowned in Paris.

  ‘Traditional French cuisine with contemporary accents,’ Sforza began, swallowing a mouthful of fillet Rossini. ‘That’s the restaurant’s motto… I love their cuisine and seeing that I had to talk to you, I thought better not miss the opportunity… especially as your account has been paid in advance. It’s all paid for, you know?’

  Cassini said nothing, but in fact he had known. On arrival, the day before, the concierge had let him know that: he had ‘no need to worry about anything.’

  ‘I must apologize for this morning,’ Sforza continued ‘But there had been a sudden development.’ The inspector wiped his mouth and pulled a piece of paper out from his jacket. ‘The photo does not do her justice,’ he said showing him the image.

  Cassini kept his nose pointed at the porcelain plate. He had ordered foie gras flavoured with truffles, served with onion sauce, and was fiddling with the silver fork.

  Suddenly, after long deliberation, he decided to favour the inspector once again – at that moment he seemed to have no choice. He took the photo and looked at it; there he was the night before, probably photographed by a surveillance camera in the hotel bar. Beside him, was that woman…

  ‘Do you know her?’ inquired Sforza.

  ‘I met her yesterday.’

  ‘Do you know she paid your bill? Meredith Evans Al Husayn. December 27th, to be precise, more or less at the same time you were sent the e-mail by Cavalli Gigli.’ Cassini was dumbfounded. He was convinced that his travel reservation had been made by the superintendent or one of his assistants…

  ‘By the way,’ went on Sforza. ‘When you received the invitation, Andrea Cavalli Gigli had already been dead for a day.’

  The professor looked at Sforza bewildered. He could see his mouth move, but his mind was not clear enough. He could not understand all the implications of what he was listening to. If the e-mail was false and the bill had been paid for by the same girl who had drugged him, he was somehow the pawn in a game that he could not explain.

  ‘Without having to go into too much detail, it seems that Mrs Al Husayn wanted you here at any cost,’ said the inspector, slipping another forkful into his mouth. ‘The question is: why?’

  Sforza had come to the conclusion that Cassini was the determining element in the investigation. He was convinced that Meredith wanted something from him. Something, perhaps, she had not obtained from either de Beaumont or Cavalli Gigli. Something that someone else was looking for, probably the same one who had killed the American girl and then tried to rob his suite in the afternoon.

  But what was it about?

  He tried to ask the young man. ‘Why did Mrs Al Husayn bring you here? What did she say? What did she want from you?’

  Cassini shook his head. ‘Absolutely nothing.’

  ‘What did you talk about? Books, culture? Maybe your book?’

  The young professor nodded. ‘Yes, she told me that she was an admirer of mine.’

  ‘Well, maybe your book has something to do with it. By the way…’ Sforza smiled as he put his fork to his mouth. ‘Do you know that except for you, all the other authors of this book are dead?’

  There were a few icy seconds, during which the slight buzz of the restaurant took over their conversation.

  Sforza dropped the silver fork on the plate with a flourish. Then he turned to Cassini still with a smile on his face. He had decided to tease him until he would reveal what he was omitting. He was certain that the young professor knew much more than he was letting on. The excuse of amnesia was too convenient. ‘Don’t worry, however, we are here to ensure your safety.’

  ‘Inspector, forgive me but I don’t feel very well,’ whispered Cassini, visibly shaken by Sforza’s words. A turmoil of emotions had overwhelmed him and he felt unable to manage them. ‘Both dead?’

  ‘Just one more minute,’ insisted Sforza, pulling out of his jacket, which had begun to look like Mary Poppins’ bag, another picture; it was printed on glossy paper and showed an enlargement of an ear with a diamond earring. On the neck, he could see a kind of sim card attached to the translucent skin. ‘Have you ever seen something like that?’

  Cassini jumped to his feet, visibly shaken. He looked for a moment. Then he shook his head. ‘Never!’

  ‘All right,’ Sforza concluded. He was sure he was lying. Those microchips were a key part of the investigation.

  Perhaps the man who had broken into Meredith’s suite was looking for those devices, he hypothesized. Anyway, at that point he was not the only one! The inspector held out his hand to Cassini. Then he whispered a last sentence in his ear, ‘By the way, unfortunately your lady friend has also been killed.’

  25

  Dubai, New Year Day. 11:19 p.m.

  The powerful black SUV, with tinted windows, drove onto the D89 in the direction of the Business Village. A large sign indicated the direction to The World, an archipelago of three hundred artificial islands arranged in such a way to represent the shape of the world. The entire complex covered an area of nine kilometres and was located off the coast, not far from the airport.

  It was not the most amazing construction of the modern Las Vegas built on the Persian Gulf.

  Next to The World – of which the islands, due to the economic crisis, were largely unsold – stood the immense Palm Jumeria, a peninsula in the shape of a palm tree with dozens of hotels. It was so large, it was visible from space.

  Julia did not care; all those attractions had been built for tourists and no longer impressed her. She had lived in Dubai for five years, since Sheikh Al Husayn had been forced to flee his country.

  The flight that brought her back to the Emirates had landed shortly after ten o’clock that night. Now she sank in the back seat of the car, gazing darkly out the window. Over the bridge towards the sea, she could see the lights on the tips of the skyscrapers and cranes of some construction site. Just beyond, she could see the opulent silhouette of the Burj Khalifa, her destination.

  She tried to imagine the transfigured face of Mohamed bin Saif Al Husayn, but failed.

  He had always been like a father to her and she owed him her life. The Sheikh had saved her from the clutches of his brother, the Emir Bashar, shortly before leaving for exile. She had white skin and blonde hair and would have ended her days in some harem, or worse, in a brothel, had it not been for Saif.

  She was twenty-three years old and the daughter of a Russian soldier and a Muslim woman. Her parents had met at the end of the Eighties, during the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. In 1989, when the Red Army had withdrawn, they had decided to flee and take refuge in the small principality bordering the United Arab Emirates.

  Julia was born there in 1991, and had inherited her blonde hair and white skin from her father. It was a flourishing period for the Persian Gulf’s economy: oil exports were phenomenal, and despite Bashar Al Husayn ruling his country with an iron fist, they lived well.

  Her troubles began when she was little more than a child, at the age of fourteen. In the fall of 2006, during the end of Ramadan celebrations, she was invited along with her peers to the Sultan’s palace, where they sang songs in his honour. Julia was chosen to give him a big basket of exotic fruits, probably because her looks were so different from the others. Bashar watched her intently throughout the performance, then finally came up to congratulate her. She discovered later, that it was not a sincere gesture, but a signal sent to his retinue to pick out the young, blonde-haired girl, as to say ‘Take her’. The next day, women in uniform took Julia away from her home, in a big black car.

  She never saw her family again.

  ‘Say hello to your new master,’ whispered the dictator, naked, in the middle of his large harem, that same afternoon. From then on,
like many other virgins, she became part of the “Crown’s Amazons”, warriors by day and sex objects by night.

  She was trained to use weapons to protect the great Sultan, while at the same time taught the best ways to please him sexually.

  They had explained that phase would last only a few months. The Emir would in all likelihood forget her when her nubile body matured. If she was lucky, she would continue to defend him with weapons, otherwise she would be removed. No one would marry her and she probably would have ended her days in some brothel.

  And so it was. After learning everything there was to know about weapons, warfare and martial arts, and giving herself to Bashar for almost three years, in 2008 the Emir had decided that he did not need Julia any more.

  ‘I’m sure you will make many men happy, with your white skin,’ he hissed, giving her a lascivious look. Julia shuddered. She knew what it meant… She resisted with all her strength and, unexpectedly, help came from the Emir’s brother: Mohamed bin Saif.

  The Sheikh had never seen her and probably did not care about her at all. However, he was in a constant struggle with Bashar and thought that this was a good way to irritate him.

  A few months later, relations between the two were finally compromised and led to Mohamed’s exile. They were difficult days, especially when someone tried to kill him.

  Julia turned out to be extremely useful to him. Her knowledge of weapons, learned during the years as an Amazon, helped her to single-handedly foil an attack on Mohamed, settling her debt with the Sheikh, for what he had done for her.

  Later, with a small delegation of four wives and eighteen children, Sheikh Mohamed bin Saif Al Husayn was forced to take refuge in the UAE. Julia was beside him as his most faithful bodyguard. When he married Meredith, ‘the most precious pearl in his harem, the best wife he had ever had’, Al Husayn had even asked her to take care of Meredith.

  ‘Do not let anything happen to her,’ he had ordered calmly but firmly, almost like a big brother.

  And now Meredith was dead.

  *

  The SUV turned onto the ramp and headed down into the garage of the Burj Khalifa. It parked next to an orange column and the engine was turned off.

  Julia came out with her head bowed down, like a condemned prisoner being taken to the scaffold. She headed to the elevator and the few seconds that were needed to reach the 107th floor seemed interminable.

  When the door slid open onto the living room of the apartment, Mohamed bin Saif Al Husayn was there; motionless in his wheelchair, his eyes fixed on her. He was in the centre of a large room overlooking the Gulf, with mirrored windows on one side, and a wall covered with paintings from the Italian Renaissance, on the other.

  For a few moments the Sheikh remained silent. He was like a lion locked in a soundproof cage; he could not move and however much he roared, no one could hear him.

  A tear appeared on Julia’s pale cheek. She dared not look him in the face. She knew how much he loved Meredith.

  It was said that they had met in Las Vegas, where she worked as a dancer. The Sheikh had invited her to Dubai for a Botticelli exhibition and a few months later she became his fifth wife. What Mohamed bin Saif Al Husayn adored about her was her passion for art. The reason she had been sent to Paris… and why she was dead.

  ‘I know you did everything you could,’ the Sheikh finally admitted. Gracious words, perhaps too much so, but they hid a grief impossible to express through a speech synthesizer. ‘Now, unfortunately, we have to look forward.’

  ‘They were looking for the device,’ justified Julia. ‘They knew we had one that functioned, and they killed her.’

  ‘The time will come to mourn and take revenge. Unfortunately, we don’t have a lot of time.’

  Julia could not utter even a sound. She stared at the tips of her army boots, biting her lips.

  ‘My time is running out. My days are numbered. I feel that the end is coming… We have to finish this before it’s too late. And we must do it for Meredith.’

  ‘I will do all that is needed. At the cost of my own life. My life is yours.’

  ‘You have served me loyally for many years. Your life belongs only to you. But if we can accomplish our mission, our people, and perhaps the whole of humanity, will thank us.’

  Julia looked up, her eyes full of tears.

  ‘Cassini,’ the Sheikh said finally. ‘Cassini. He is the only one left now. Find him and bring him here. Alive.’

  Julia sighed and stared at two of the three showcases made by the goldsmith, Cesare Ravasco, during the twenties. She had never been a great art expert, but she knew that the sketches kept inside, protected by a two-centimetre thick plate glass, were by Raphael.

  The Sheikh had even told her the story of their origin once; they were the preparatory work the painter from Urbino had made for the frescoes in the Stanza della Segnatura, and had been bought from the Senator Pietro Borghese. Following the Sack of Rome in 1527, they had been stolen and only reappeared five hundred years later, in a private collection from which Al Husayn had bought them in secret.

  Knowing their history, those three drawings in black ink had always fascinated her. The Sheikh had promised that, at his death, he would bequeath them to her for that reason. Certainly, Julia found herself thinking, after what had happened, he would have changed his mind…

  ‘One last thing…’ Al Husayn went on, blinking several times and pronouncing the words one by one. ‘After Cassini… bring me Meredith’s killers.’

  *

  A few minutes later, Prince Ibrahim was sitting at a table in the Armani Lounge on the thirtieth floor of the Burj Khalifa, seventy floors beneath the Sheikh’s apartment.

  ‘It was not part of the agreement. I want you here. In person,’ he growled on the phone, angrily. ‘Meredith was my father’s favourite wife.’

  26

  Paris, January 2nd. 01:12 a.m.

  Cassini awoke with a start.

  He was lying on the bed in his hotel suite, still dressed and with the bedside table lamp on. He peered at the clock and realized that he had slept for just over two hours. After the dinner with Sforza he had gone straight to his room, but because of the anxiety that monopolized his thoughts, he could not sleep.

  He had always been a rational man. He had never veered away from the main path he had struggled to build. Yet there he was, convinced he had killed a man whom he had not seen for five years.

  The words of the Interpol inspector continued to haunt him. All the authors of that book were dead, except him. And even the woman he had just met had been killed…

  He could not interpret all the clues and especially could not understand what they had to do with him.

  The interview with the inspector had revealed another far-from-trivial detail: the e-mail Cavalli Gigli had sent was false, and had been sent after his death.

  However much he tried to reason, he could not find one rational explanation; that e-mail could be an attempt to mislead the police. Could it be possible that he had sent it himself? He just could not remember anything.

  Cassini sat on the bed, thoughtfully. He stroked his day-old growth and shook his head.

  That whole story was incredible. He had to try and find out more.

  He looked at the clock again and then, in a burst of anger, took his smartphone and retrieved a number from its memory.

  He paused for a second, not convinced that it was a good idea to press the “call” button.

  He jumped up, decided to go to the window, where every so often occasional headlights penetrated the gloom. And suddenly, he lost his balance.

  He swayed to the right and then left, trying to cling to the bedhead. It was as if the room was moving.

  Suddenly, he was no longer in the hotel, but on a tram, tossed about in city traffic.

  He looked around bewildered. It was daylight; a thick fog enveloped the ancient buildings passing by fast on his left. On the right, there was a railing, with some motorbikes parked in front
and a balustrade that separated the road from the sidewalk.

  Then he heard the sound of a bell. The tram slowed and stopped. It opened the doors in front of a platform and many people were making their way towards the stairs. He did the same, finding himself on the sidewalk. The cold was so sharp it took his breath away.

  The first thing he noticed was the road paved with reddish stones and two parallel tracks that ran straight to the left and to the right.

  When the tram drove off, he could see the number on the side: it was 18.

  Then he looked up; on the other side there was the courtyard of a church, some plastic bollards separating it from the side road. At the bottom of the square he could see the reddish facade of a church or cathedral. It was shaped like a hut, with five arches in the background and several circular rose windows.

  He was not sure, but he seemed to be in Milan, in front of the basilica of Santa Maria delle Grazie.

  He crossed the street and when he was near the large fifteenth-century door, changed direction. He turned round and walked towards Bramante’s tribune, the large, domed structure that dominated the square at the back of the church.

  Then, as suddenly as it came, the vision disappeared.

  Cassini found himself exactly where he had been a few seconds ago: on the carpet of the Imperial suite, next to the four-poster bed.

  He closed his eyes.

  He thought he had overcome that strange flashback phase, which had left him in peace for the whole afternoon. Unfortunately, he was wrong.

  That last vision was perhaps less clear than the others he had had before, involving him less… as if it were remote, hidden in the labyrinths of his brain. But it was much more complete and precise.

  Santa Maria delle Grazie.

  He had been there in the past, but certainly not recently.

  If he was not mistaken, he had visited it in summer, on an extremely hot morning.

  However, in his flashback, it was a chilly day, with the typical Milanese winter fog.

  The phone was still in his hand and suddenly he decided: the smiling face of Angelo, his cousin and doctor, was on the phone’s screen. Sure, he was a plastic surgeon, but whom else could he ask for explanations about what was happening to him?