Dante's Key

by G. L. Baron

  *

  At the same time that Cassini was deciphering the clues confirming the position of the amphitheatre, Prince Ibrahim was walking alone along a snow-covered ridge.

  His feet sank into the snow, the cold took his breath away and the darkness was total. Looking at the stars, the Sheikh’s son believed he had never seen them so close and numerous.

  When he was far enough away from the base camp, he pulled a satellite phone out of his coat and dialled a number.

  His interlocutor replied from just over a hundred kilometres away.

  ‘Yes. Tomorrow is the big day! I have the address. See you there Friday.’

  80

  White rose, February 4th. 9:11 a.m.

  Under the photoelectric lights and the stubborn hum of diesel generators, the men planted the stakes and looked towards Joonas Eklöf.

  Despite having to wait for over an hour for dawn to break the frozen darkness that enveloped the amphitheatre, the geologists were already at work. They were marking the soil where they would carry out the first surveys.

  The Finn watched the comings and goings of the busy technicians in silence, his legs spread on the snow and his arms folded. He was on the south side of the amphitheatre, in the company of the chief geologist, Holmar Bjarnason, and the historian, Jari Johansson. Behind him was Manuel Cassini, looking sleepy, and the charming blonde who never seemed to leave his side. The only one missing was the Prince, but he had promised to join them later.

  Cassini turned to face the rock in the shape of an eagle, on the opposite side to where they had left the trucks; the statue was now outlined with an eye-catching yellow tape and some men were measuring it with a laser.

  Despite the hectic activity and the uninterrupted chatter, Eklöf was deep in thought, more concerned than he had imagined.

  A few weeks earlier, after going to the falls for the first survey, he was convinced that it would have been impossible to find anything there. It was too large, without a reference point in which to dig. If the treasure they had ordered him to keep hidden was really there, it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

  As an archaeologist, he knew it was a defeat, but on the other hand, not finding anything would have spared him yet another encounter with the Bull. And the vile betrayal that he just could not digest.

  But now, the situation was more complicated: as soon as Cassini had recognized the White Rose of the Blessed in the natural amphitheatre, he had begun to sweat. It seemed that the natural basin had all the features that Dante had scattered in the Divine Comedy. There was also a precise point of reference about where to dig: the statue of the eagle, admitting that it was really a sculpture.

  ‘May I ask why you are so certain that the treasure is beneath the eagle?’ he asked Cassini, with a friendly tone.

  The professor looked up. In the twilight, the artificial lights gave a bluish colour to Eklöf’s rough features. A ponytail stuck out from under his hat and a cloud of steam rose before the archaeologist’s chapped lips.

  ‘After all, this amphitheatre is very large,’ continued the Finn, moving a few steps towards him. ‘It has a diameter of sixty-three metres seen from the map… Couldn’t the eagle simply be a symbol to make the entire area more easily recognizable?’

  The professor shrugged. ‘It could be… but the symbol of the eagle is very important in Dante’s Paradise; in Canto VI the eagle is compared to the imperial power, the same power that by the hand of God created Papal Rome. The eagle is the ideal symbol under which to hide a possible Templars’ treasure.’

  Eklöf gulped and turned his gaze towards the other people. Detection lines had been traced on the ground.

  ‘Here we are,’ shouted Kjell Lagerbäck, the Geosync boss of the company where they had hired the geo-radar at 100 MHZ from the basin. Such devices were similar to big mowers, which with their powerful antennae were able to probe the subsurface up to a depth of eight metres. If, as Cassini thought, there was a sort of room or buried chamber with the geo-radar’s tracing, it would be immediately located.

  The work went on for several hours and at about one o’clock, a guttural voice called all the technicians to the campfire, not far from the excavation site.

  The camp kitchen was mounted near an irregular cleft, which from the recent snowfall, seemed sprinkled with fine salt.

  *

  While a cloudy front was advancing menacingly from the south, with two rainbows over imposed that seemed to show them the way, those present sat around the plastic table. Morale was high, although it was clear that no one would touch a shovel or a pick that day. They would need to wait for the processing of the ground-penetrating radar tracking data to be certain of the treasure chamber’s location. No one knew how long it would take, but certainly a few days.

  *

  By the time they got back to base camp it was pitch black. The technicians unloaded the equipment from the vehicles and then, tired, headed towards their campers amongst chatter and smothered laughter.

  ‘When will the results of the surveys be ready?’ Cassini asked Kjell Lagerbäck.

  ‘It’s not easy to say.’ the man shrugged. He could be fifty years old, and seemed more of an art critic than a geologist used to working in the field. ‘It depends on the data; sometimes the interpretation is simple, other times, if there are crevices in the ground, it’s more complex.’

  ‘Help. Somebody help me!’ Julia’s voice interrupted their conversation.

  In a split second Cassini was on the move. He reached the camper and made his way through the geologists who had arrived before him.

  The astonished engineers were in a circle, around the open door from which there was a faint yellow light coming out.

  No one spoke.

  The professor made his way in and went up the steps.

  Julia was alone, motionless in the centre of the vehicle, gazing into space with shaking hands.

  Cassini approached, cautiously, followed by a slight buzz behind him. Calmly, he took her hand and looked into her face. There was no fear on her face, she seemed rather disoriented, like a child who has lost its mother in a supermarket.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked, his voice calm.

  She did not answer, with downcast eyes she stared at the black case in which the Brain Control device was kept. It was open.

  ‘They’ve stolen it,’ she stammered.

  81

  Reykjavik, February 5th. 2:45 p.m.

  The Harpa – the daring building – home to Reykjavik’s conference centre, is a huge kaleidoscope of glass and steel. Its angular facades, inspired by the shape of crystal, reflected and mingled with the bright colours of the city.

  Inside, in addition to conference facilities, it housed the concert hall of the Iceland Symphony Orchestra. That was the main reason why Hidetoshi Tanaka had chosen the Harpa as the meeting place: he wanted to see it and perhaps imagine himself on stage singing Wagner’s Siegfried.

  As soon as he was sucked in by the foyer’s sliding doors, he was hit by a gust of hot air forcing him to open his coat.

  The atrium, which was four stories high and topped by a large crystal balcony, was practically deserted. Games of light on the crystal reflected the sky, the boats, the vehicles that were driving on the Kalkofnsvegur, and even the distant peninsula of Snæfellsnes.

  He checked his watch and moved a few steps towards the staircase, on his left. He was on time, but the person he was supposed to meet had not yet arrived.

  Attached to the basalt wall were two large paintings and a showcase. Inside it, a beautiful Russian vase decorated with a blue background was proudly displayed.

  ‘Gift of the Soviet Union for the USA-USSR summit. Reykjavik, October 1986’ read the label.

  Tanaka went to go up the stairs, when he heard some noise behind him.

  He spun around and saw three henchmen on the other side, escorting a young Arab with a goatee; he wore a black jacket and a typical red-and-white-chequered shemagh, and was
clutching a big bag with handles.

  The Japanese smiled and walked swiftly to meet him, stretching out his hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Prince.’

  Ibrahim snorted; he was not at all happy to be there and certainly did not make any effort to hide it.

  That device had forced him to face all sorts of complications. What was to be a simple commodity exchange for the coup against his uncle, had turned into a grotesque affair. Moreover, it had resulted in significant collateral damage, such as the death of his stepmother. He had never loved her and – probably – the fact that she had been killed would rapidly lead his father to his grave; however, the behaviour of the man in front of him was far from professional.

  Before handing over the bag, he wondered for the umpteenth time whether Edward and the Japanese were really able to guarantee him what he wanted. In doubt, he convinced himself to have done the right thing in keeping a small advantage over them…

  ‘Who are they?’ Tanaka asked him, pointing at the three men. ‘A small life insurance,’ was the Prince’s reply. ‘Did you bring…?’ Tanaka asked again, with a slight uncertainty in his voice.

  The Prince said nothing, while trying to read the intentions in the strange man’s eyes.

  ‘I have a car and driver out there… if you like…’ insisted the Japanese.

  ‘This business was supposed to be a piece of cake,’ growled Ibrahim finally, grinding his teeth in an angry grimace. ‘Edward assured me that you would have taken care of everything… and yet I had to do the job myself.’

  Tanaka shrugged. ‘Unfortunately, there were some complications.’ He moved his hands towards the bag to take it, and continued, ‘If you don’t mind… I’ll take this.’

  ‘Do you realize—’ the Prince could not finish the sentence, because from over a staircase some convulsive shouting caught his attention.

  The special Icelandic police corps burst out from every side: from the balcony, from the staircase, the lobby and even from the congress hall.

  Vehicles with sirens screaming stopped in the square. Agents with anti-riot suits and machine guns came down in unison.

  ‘Nobody move!’ ordered a voice. ‘Hands up.’

  The soldiers approached Tanaka, gun in hand, looking grim. Behind them, advancing sure-footed was a man, about fifty, with cropped hair, wearing jeans and sunglasses.

  The Japanese remained still, studying the situation, wondering if the deployment of forces was for him or for the Prince.

  He never suspected that since Nigel Sforza had identified him in his hotel near the Althing, the Icelandic police had never lost sight of him for a second.

  The inspector, who now believed that his murderer was trapped, had however, decided not to arrest him immediately. Through a telephone interception, he had discovered that he was supposed to meet someone at the convention centre, for the delivery of what had been “blown in Paris”.

  Sforza’s mind had gone to the device and so he had decided to wait until then.

  The Japanese looked around; there seemed to be no way out. The agents were on every side and approaching with a pincer movement. The Prince was a metre from him, paralysed, with a look of terror painted on his purple face. Moreover, he held the briefcase tightly to his chest and seemed to have no intention of letting it go.

  Meanwhile, next to the Russian vase, Ibrahim’s bodyguards had pulled out their revolvers and had formed a protective semicircle around him, shoulder-to-shoulder.

  ‘Mr Tanaka… is that your name? Nice to meet you.’ Sforza’s voice came from a few metres away. ‘You made me run around half of Europe, but in the end, we finally meet.’ The inspector came forward, walking slowly in the direction of a ray of sunlight that split the foyer.

  The Japanese ignored him. He had prepared his escape plan. He moved his right hand imperceptibly and touched the butt of his Walther PPK.

  The situation precipitated a second later. Everything happened so fast that the Prince did not realize what was going on. The Japanese took his weapon, aimed and pulled the trigger.

  The shot echoed up to the fourth floor and Ibrahim reeled backward, as if pushed by an invisible force.

  Tanaka’s golden gun, barrel still smoking, shone in the sunlight.

  The Prince’s eyes widened. Then he felt his strength leave him. He put his hand on his shoulder to staunch the wound and immediately felt Tanaka’s presence over him.

  ‘If you do not want the next shot to bust his skull, I think you’ll have to let me go.’

  The stalemate lasted only for a moment – Ibrahim’s bodyguards started shooting wildly.

  Their only target was supposed to be Tanaka, and yet, somehow, a bullet struck one of the officers, who fell to the ground, lifeless.

  The other policemen returned fire, and the hall was transformed into a battlefield. The crystal gallery exploded into thousands of fragments and on the other side, the window over the square also exploded.

  The sound of a siren echoed in the distance, followed by an alarm, then everything was covered by the sound of gun shots and machine gun fire. Soon after, the fire hydrants turned on, flooding the foyer with white and frosty rain.

  Sforza, completely wet, lay on the floor; if he could dig a hole in the ground to bury his head in the sand, he would. In front of him, another Icelandic soldier was slumped to the ground. The inspector crawled up to him and used his body as a shield.

  Meanwhile Tanaka, with his arm around the Prince’s neck and the gun pointed to his head, was backing towards the door.

  Everything was going according to plan. Using the Prince as a hostage, the Prince’s bodyguards had reacted to his shot exactly as he had expected.

  Meanwhile, in the square, in the direction Tanaka was heading, there were three trucks with flashing lights still turned on. The barrels of precision rifles poked through the wide open doors. But that detail did not worry him at all. He stared at the atrium; the jets of water slapped him incessantly and the special forces agents – now drenched – were returning fire towards Ibrahim’s men.

  The Prince, meanwhile, used passive resistance; he had stopped walking with his own legs and Tanaka was forced to drag him. The bag was still clutched in his hand, but right then, Ibrahim took sudden action: he collected all his strength and hurled it towards the stairs, as far as possible away from the Japanese.

  ‘Bastard.’

  Tanaka threw a fleeting glance behind him and spotted what he was hoping for. In a split second he decided that the operation had failed, but he was not going to risk being arrested.

  In a fit of rage, he pressed the gun against Ibrahim’s head and pulled the trigger. A spurt of grey matter spilled on the ground, amongst broken glass and already exploded cartridges.

  A moment later, a new rumble shook the building. A big black BMW crashed through the side window of the hall and landed in the middle of the large room. The fragments of the disintegrated glass wall scattered all over the floor.

  From the front doors, snipers began firing a hail of bullets, but none hit home. Tanaka slipped into the back seat of the armoured car and closed the door. The bullets bounced off the vehicle’s body, which reversed back into the square.

  Within moments, the BMW, taking advantage of the shooting that was still keeping the police officers busy, reversed and disappeared towards the port.

  Ten minutes later, when the rain of crossfire ended, there were several special agents’ bodies sprawled on the floor. Amongst them were Prince Ibrahim and his bodyguards.

  Sforza stood up, his legs unsteady. He had been saved by a miracle.

  He turned around, at a loss, and moved a few steps without a specific direction. The soles of his shoes crackled on the glass fragments. Three metres away he noticed the bag that the Sheikh’s son had launched in a last attempt to save his life.

  Sforza reached it and pulled it towards him.

  It was black, very light, with a red logo drawn on the side: Geosync. He opened the zipper and inside found a box of brushed alumi
nium, not much bigger than an iPod: with an ultrasonic disc identical to that he had found in the Vatican Museums on Christmas Eve – but this one seemed intact.

  Along with the device, there was a sheet of paper folded in four parts. He opened it and read it calmly:

  This is just the appetizer. The OCST are already in my possession, but you’ll have them once the mission is accomplished.

  82

  Base camp, February 5th. 5:41 p.m.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Joonas Eklöf’s eyes were reduced to slits, his face ashen.

  He was inside the geologist Kjell Lagerbäck’s camper, along with Cassini and Julia. They were sitting in a semicircle around the table, their eyes full of amazement and illuminated by the green light of the computer display. There was a musty smell and the air was cold and rarefied.

  ‘Can you see these peaks?’ the man began, touching the screen with a pen. ‘It could imply that there’s a large empty space under the eagle.’

  ‘Could it?’ asked Manuel Cassini.

  ‘The examination is not complete,’ justified Lagerbäck, playing with the arm of his glasses. ‘It could be a false positive… However…’ the last word was accompanied by a slight smile.

  ‘However?’ Eklöf urged him on, who, unlike Cassini, had already understood the importance of this discovery.

  ‘In a nutshell, the GPR performs a kind of ultra sound scan of the ground. Whenever the electromagnetic waves emitted from the antennae find an anomaly in the ground, the signal is reflected upwards.’

  ‘And in this case, do you think the anomaly could be an empty space, a kind of room?’ Cassini asked again. ‘Is it artificial or natural?’

  ‘For now, I can’t say precisely. The soil in Iceland is very particular – I would say unique,’ explained Lagerbäck, returning to indicate the peaks detected by the ground-penetrating radar on the screen.

  ‘As you know, we are in the northern mid-Atlantic ridge, between the Eurasian and the North American plates. The two plates move away from each other every year and this causes the basaltic lavas to rise, and new oceanic floors to form. Consequently, the soil on the island often has cracks or natural underground cavities.’