Dante's Key

by G. L. Baron

  She was not joking. They could not risk finding someone waiting for them at the terminus.

  He looked at her up and down. ’She’s crazy,’ he thought. Then he shook his head and spread his arms in resignation.

  ‘Okay,’ she replied, as she climbed over the rail on the left. ‘In that case, try not to fall into the water.’

  Then she looked at the sidewalk – which at that point was very close to the canal – and leapt.

  Cassini sighed, shook his head, but finally followed her. In a few seconds they disappeared down Vicolo dei Lavandai.

  49

  Milan, January 3rd. 2:20 p.m.

  The Dassault Falcon 200 veered northward, lowered the flaps, and began the descent to Malpensa Airport. It descended with an inclination of three degrees and dived into the grey clouds, thick and heavy with rain.

  Nigel Sforza, sinking into the leather seat of Interpol’s jet, kept his eyes fixed on the display of a small laptop. The photos of Cassini’s abduction, taken from the CCTV cameras of the refectory, ran in front of him for the tenth time.

  He felt responsible; he had heard Cassini’s message left in his voice mail too late.

  ‘I need to talk to you urgently,’ the young professor had said in a tone that betrayed anxiety and fear. ‘Someone wants to kill me and I think it’s because of that microchip you asked me about. Call me back as soon as you can.’

  A slight vibration in the fuselage of the plane, followed by a barely audible hiss, caught his attention; the pilot must have lowered the landing gear. He leaned towards the small round window, and after passing through a bank of black clouds, began to see fine lines that were transformed gradually into paved roads, fields and detached houses.

  He closed the computer screen and thought about the professor’s words. Just as he had thought: the microchip was to blame for everything that had happened.

  He smiled to himself; the case, which in normal circumstances would have been archived without any fuss, had become decidedly fascinating.

  What had seemed like a simple suicide in the Vatican had become far more interesting.

  He still could not see the whole picture, but the fact that he had been in Rome on the day of Monsignor Claude de Beaumont’s suicide had been a fluke.

  Then, almost without noticing it, the wheels of the Falcon touched the ground. The jet slowed down and in a few minutes it stopped near Milan Malpensa’s Terminal 2.

  Sforza walked to the door, and coming down the stairs, tried to recall Cassini’s number. It was still unreachable. He wondered where they could have taken him. He knew what they wanted from him, but what he didn’t know was whether Cassini would have handed it over… And if that were the case, what would happen then? Would they kill him?

  ‘Good morning.’ A short bald man, with rimless glasses, stood before him with a black umbrella. Alessandro Pitti was the Carabinieri commissioner who was investigating Cavalli Gigli’s death.

  Sforza held out his hand. ‘Thank you very much for coming here from Florence,’ began Sforza, hurriedly. ‘As I said on the phone, the kidnapping that took place at the Last Supper has a close correlation with your case. Do you remember that e-mail sent from Cavalli Gigli’s account to a certain Manuel Cassini? He is the kidnap victim.’

  Pitti nodded; he knew. That was the reason why he had rushed to Milan just as soon as he had heard. He held the umbrella out for Sforza and they entered the terminal together.

  ‘Have you already been to Santa Maria delle Grazie? Did you find anything?’

  ‘You’ve already seen the CCTV images of the museum. Apart from the fact that Cassini followed his kidnappers without any resistance, nothing particularly significant.’

  ‘Did you do what I asked?’

  The young commissioner smiled. ‘Affirmative. Across the street from the basilica there are some shops and a small library. There is a surveillance camera there.’ Pitti pulled out his mobile and opened a .mov file.

  ‘It seems that the BMW had company,’ said Sforza, who did not seem particularly surprised. ‘Can you see the car’s number plate? And the bike’s?’

  ‘Affirmative. But we have a lot more,’ boasted the commissioner softly as they passed through customs. ‘We have the car and the bike. The first overturned off a flyover near the Richard Ginori bridge, and the bike was found in the Naviglio Grande a couple of hours ago.’

  Sforza said nothing, but from the few pictures he had seen, he realized what had happened. He began to nod his head. ‘A woman says she saw a biker helping a guy out of the crashed BMW and making him get on the bike.’

  After passing through the door leading to the taxi rank, the inspector stopped short. There was a black police car in front, with flashing lights.

  ‘And do you know what the most interesting thing is? You have to listen to this…’ the commissioner continued. ‘Another witness told us about a road chase between his Porsche Cayenne and the bike. He says that a Japanese threatened him and stole the car… with him in it… Anyway, it seems the chase ended when the bike launched itself onto a boat, and then ended up in the canal, without passengers. Jason Bourne stuff.’

  ‘Somehow the motorcyclist was able to save Cassini,’ Sforza deduced, stroking one eyebrow. He thought he knew who it could be, and if it was as he thought, the situation became more complicated… at least for him. ‘What do you think?’ he asked Pitti as he climbed into the back seat of the police car.

  ‘I think we are lucky; a few minutes after the chase, a FIAT Punto was stolen from an alley overlooking the canals.’

  ‘Why are you smiling?’ asked Sforza, intrigued, while a trickle of rain furrowed down his cheek.

  ‘You are a lucky man, like I said; the stolen Punto has just been found.’

  50

  40 kilometres south of Bologna, January 3rd. 2:26 p.m.

  The Frecciarossa emerged at three hundred kilometres per hour from a tunnel. Seen from the top of the viaduct, the new-fallen snow sparkled under the light of a warm sun. The bare vegetation and trees shot past the window of the soundproofed car.

  Cassini and Julia were sitting facing each other, in the central part of the number nine carriage. The girl stared at the valley; she looked like a pit bull guarding her bone. The professor was staring at her – he had already seen her, but could not say where or in what circumstances.

  Escaping from the canals in a small stolen FIAT Punto – that the young woman had opened with the simplicity of a can of tuna – they had reached the new Porta Nuova district, dominated by cranes and crystal towers. They had abandoned the car as well as the man’s mobile under a viaduct, and continued walking towards the Solar Tree of Artemis – the LED sculpture that illuminated the Piazza Gae Aulenti – and finally entered Garibaldi station.

  They had taken the first metro in the direction of the cathedral, and after wandering about for almost an hour to lose track of them, headed towards the central station.

  Cassini had been tempted to vanish twice during the escape. He tried, but a quick look at Julia had convinced him to stay. He saw something in her that he could not decipher, something magnetic that would not allow him to abandon her.

  Then there was also another reason, far more important: he had to know more. He wanted to ask her dozens of questions, but she did not seem very willing to talk. At least while she was organizing their escape. The few whispered words were enough to convince him to wait.

  ‘My name is Julia. You can thank me later,’ she exclaimed while still driving the Punto. She had used a calm and expressionless tone, like the weather girl. ‘If you want to save your skin you have to come with me.’

  ‘Who are those people following me? Who are you?’ Cassini asked, knowing that if it were not for her, he probably would have fallen into the clutches of the Japanese.

  ‘I’m your only ally. The only one who can save your life,’ the girl whispered laconically. ‘Let’s think about escaping now. I will explain. Later.’

  Manuel thought about it.
He could have got away, but he did not. Julia and the answers she promised drew him like a magnet.

  Around one o’clock, they got on the first Frecciarossa available after eating a sandwich at the station.

  ‘Let’s go to Rome,’ she whispered to him. She had paid for two second-class tickets, without asking his opinion, and they were sitting across from each other.

  Up until Bologna she had been silent, because there were some other travellers in the compartment. It was an hour of anxious waiting. Cassini was eager to learn more, but imagined that she did not want to talk in the presence of other passengers.

  So, he could only observe her. Some blonde locks had escaped from her ponytail and were falling over her forehead. She twisted and untwisted them round her finger.

  Her eyes were large and emerald green, almost fake, similar to that of a Barbie. The facial features were harmonious. If it were not for the too-muscular physique, she would have been a perfect model.

  When the train left Florence, Cassini had decided. There was no one else in the compartment. It was time to find out.

  ‘Who are you?’ he murmured in the end, with feigned detachment, looking out the window.

  She stared at him, evidently uncertain whether to reply or remain silent.

  ‘I’ve seen you before,’ he insisted. ‘You were with Meredith, in my room at the Ritz… when you drugged me.’

  Julia nodded.

  ‘It was you who invited me to Paris. You sent me the false e-mail on behalf of Cavalli Gigli.’

  The woman stared at him with calm eyes. Cassini was only guessing, but so far had not been wrong.

  ‘What was your relationship with Meredith?’ he continued.

  ‘I was her bodyguard,’ was all she said, with a clear expression of sadness on her face.

  ‘I know about the microchip and what it is!’

  ‘That’s normal. We imagined you would. The more time passes, the more details you’ll remember.’

  ‘Who do you work for?’

  Julia smiled. She had been ordered not to reveal anything to Cassini, but if she wanted him to follow her for the last part of the trip, she must say something. She decided to provide other details to make the whole story credible. She would remain silent on only one thing: the real reason why they were there. ‘I work for Sheikh Mohamed bin Saif Al Husayn, Meredith’s husband.’

  Cassini grimaced and settled down on the seat. The train passed another convoy. ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘He lives in Dubai and is seriously ill. You said that you know about the device… so you remember it.’

  So you remember it… As if it were the most natural thing in the world, it was a reminder inculcated with force into his mind. The professor just smiled and shook his head.

  ‘He is an art lover,’ she continued, this time affable, with the tone of a mother telling a story to her child before sleep. ‘He would like to see the most important works of the Renaissance again. Unfortunately, he cannot move anymore and so he hired someone who could do it for him.’

  ‘Claude de Beaumont and Andrea Cavalli Gigli,’ deduced Cassini. ‘Two art experts to imprint the art works onto their memories?’ He had purposely used the word imprint, thinking back to what Meredith had explained to the superintendent.

  ‘The person who imprints the memory is important! The more competent, the more the information will be complete, truthful and… exciting for the recipient,’ she said.

  ‘And how do I come into this. I’m not an art expert,’ said the professor.

  ‘Of course not! But you’re an expert on Dante – some say the best around. As you know, to understand some of Botticelli’s works, Dante is very important.’

  ‘An agreement was made with Claude de Beaumont and Andrea Cavalli Gigli,’ said Cassini. ‘They volunteered, so to speak. Why was deception used with me?’

  Julia stared at him. A look of understanding, the professor assumed. But she did not speak.

  ‘You made me go to Paris with a false invitation. You drugged me. You…’ the young man froze, not sure which words to use. Then he chose them carefully: ‘You came into my brain. Why? Is it such a complicated question?’

  ‘You should know the answer,’ whispered Julia drily. ‘It is already within you.’

  ‘For the book? The Secret of the Cursed Painters?’ he shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘The fact that you still don’t understand is part of the problem. We have one last stop, in Rome, then everything will be made clear.’

  ‘Why should I follow you? ‘Cassini stared at the controller, a few metres away from them. He could call him over, explain that he had been kidnapped. And it would all end there.

  ‘Because you want to know. And more to the point, you want to save your life. I’m your only hope.’

  ‘You!’ He snapped suddenly, in a tone of anger and foaming at the mouth. ‘You, you put me into this mess. I’m here because of you.’ He slammed his fist on the seat and glared at her.

  She rocked her head back and forth. ‘It’s true. But now you’re in it. If you want to save your life, you know very well what you have to do. We got you into this mess and we’ll get you out.’

  ‘I want answers!’ He said through clenched teeth, holding back a fit of rage. As angry as he was, he knew she was right. If he was here it was certainly her fault. On the other hand, however, if he wanted to have a hope of survival, he had to follow his instincts… or perhaps his memories.

  ‘You’ll have all the answers…’ Julia muttered eventually. ‘For now just know that it wasn’t our intention to get you into trouble. In any case, it’s only the last part we’re missing. Then it will be all over and you can go home’.

  Cassini did not answer. The train went into yet another tunnel and the snowy Apennines turned into a black and indistinct wall. ‘Where are we going, exactly?’ he asked quietly. He was not convinced, but for the moment, he decided to collaborate.

  ‘To the Vatican. You’ll understand everything there.’

  51

  Rome, January 3rd. 6:30 p.m.

  Piazza Navona was a swarm of people at nightfall. There were white-collar workers returning home, street artists, traders busy selling all kinds of souvenirs, beggars, musicians and, of course, tourists of all nationalities. The evening’s cold air was filled with smells of food from restaurants and indistinct sounds. To a well-trained ear, however, it would not have been difficult to distinguish the tolling of a bell or a car horn in the distance.

  Cassini closed his eyes for a moment. He was looking out of a window on the south side of the square, in a four-storey building, which they had explained was owned by the Sheikh. From what he could see, it really was a palace fit for a prince.

  Upon their arrival at Termini Station they had found a Mercedes that had taken them directly there. The driver, a middle-aged Roman dressed impeccably in a blue suit, had greeted Julia as if she were an old friend. Then, quietly, he drove the car through the Roman traffic. The professor had been housed in one of the guest rooms, overlooking Piazza Navona – nearly as large as half of his apartment in Posillipo. It was furnished with antique furniture, and large gilt-framed paintings graced the walls. A marble sculpture, of a Venus reclining on a soft couch and holding a small apple, was next to the door. Beside it was an imposing wall bookcase that reached the ceiling.

  ‘We will spend the night here,’ she had told him as she opened the door. ‘You’ll be safe here. Tomorrow we will go to the Vatican. Then you’ll be free to go.’

  ‘Why?… Am I not free to go before tomorrow?’ he asked, sounding deliberately provocative.

  Even Julia smiled on that occasion. A quiet smile, affable. Her face – now that she finally felt safe – was relaxed and, if possible, looked even more beautiful.

  ‘Of course you’re free to go,’ she lied. ‘If you want to survive though, you should stay close to me…’

  He stopped in the corridor before entering his room, trying to distract himself, a
nd noticed an ancient showcase near the window. It was locked, but inside you could see some scrolls, pins with strange crosses, and a shiny black cloak with a red lining. At first glance he would have said that it was the symbol of the Knights of Malta; a fact confirmed by one of the letters, addressed to an unspecified “Knight Guardian of Peace and Lady”, and signed with an eloquent “Magistral Chancellery CCC Knights of Malta OSJ”.

  A few minutes later he was in his room, thinking. He had pushed aside the heavy curtain and was now looking at the only painter who dared to challenge the cold of night to paint the fountain in Piazza Navona. He was too far away to be able to evaluate the work, but judging by the number of tourists encircling the artist, he had to be of some interest.

  For a second he closed his eyes, and without meaning to, his mind went to another picture, the one that had started it all: Botticelli’s Primavera. Julia had given some explanation on the train about why they wanted to meet him in France. But nothing that seemed to clear up his doubts.

  Actually, the little information he had managed to learn from that conversation was not even new; most were his assumptions that the woman had simply limited herself to confirming. He touched his trousers and found the printed e-mail that he had brought with him from Paris. He looked at it once again. There were a series of numbers written by computer: 1, 4, 1000, 300, 10, 9 and 3, in correspondence with the fingers of the picture’s characters. He barely noticed the figures in the painting, and their silhouette was outlined in black, as if someone had wanted to highlight their contours.

  What did that picture mean? Why did Julia and the rest of them send it specifically to him?

  Cassini looked up and went back to scanning the square. Then, suddenly, he had an illumination. He looked back at the e-mail, focusing only on the characters and other notes added by the computer.

  How had he not noticed it before?

  He rubbed his eyes and looked again. The sheet of paper was crumpled, but the images could be seen clearly.