Dante's Key

by G. L. Baron

  ‘How big is this room?’ Eklöf snapped.

  ‘The figures are not accurate. Nevertheless, it has a relatively regular shape – almost a square –four metres by four.’

  When he heard these words, Cassini was even more convinced that he was right; those dimensions made him think of an artificial underground room… the room of a temple, perhaps – the ideal place to bury the Templar’s treasure.

  ‘As I said, there are still many details to be examined,’ demurred the geologist. ‘It’s not unusual that readings of this kind prove to be wrong. The reverberation of the electromagnetic waves—’

  ‘Where is it exactly?’ interrupted the Finn.

  The geologist opened his lips, as proud as if he had won a medal. ‘This is the most interesting part. As you have seen, the shape of the amphitheatre is more or less circular, and the rock that looks like an eagle is positioned in the south. The room is about two metres above the ridge of the amphitheatre, and extends for two more to the north. The point where the ground is lower, in other words, cuts the cleft exactly into two.’

  ‘How deep is it?’

  ‘I can’t say exactly until I’ve reviewed all the data. But I would guess around five or six metres from the lie of the land. Two or three less, if the reference point is the lower part of the amphitheatre.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Eklöf urged him, looking grim.

  Lagerbäck slipped on his thin glasses and this time smiled with satisfaction. ‘If I had to bet, I would say that we’ve found our treasure.’

  83

  Vatican City, February 5th. 8:55 p.m.

  That afternoon there had been many crossed phone calls between Iceland, Venice and the Vatican.

  The last one contacted, chronologically, was a cardinal who occupied an office on the second floor of the Apostolic Palace.

  He had returned to his office shortly after dining on fish, and was now facing the large window covered with heavy, red velvet curtains.

  He fiddled with his cell phone and kept his eyes fixed on the illuminated obelisk in St. Peter’s Square. Although the weather was cold and the wind had been blowing incessantly over Rome for days, the faithful were still looking around. Some were admiring Bernini’s colonnade, others were near the fountain, and others headed toward the basilica’s entrance.

  He wondered what those same people would do if they had been aware of what he knew.

  He realized he had a great responsibility; he was sure the information was incomplete, and personally, was also convinced that they were worrying too much in Venice. However, he could not – and must not – take any risks. If they were right, the fate of the Church itself would depend on the decision he was about to make.

  He closed the curtain and returned to his office, lit by a desk lamp only and a computer screen.

  The situation was serious, and yet, thinking about that bizarre expedition to Iceland made him smile. Poor fools; all the way to the Arctic Circle to find the Holy Grail… They certainly could not imagine that, if under the snow there really was something buried, it had nothing to do with the cup of Christ.

  Nevertheless, the problem was real; if they unearthed the papyri, as he imagined, the consequences would be terrible. Some would have defined them, apocalyptic.

  He looked at the phone for one last time and then decided. He dialled the number and waited.

  ‘Yes,’ he sighed grimly. ‘They’ve gone too far. We have no choice at this point; we can’t stand by idly any longer.’ The cardinal’s interlocutor spoke for a few seconds without interruption.

  As he listened, the cardinal sat in his chair and moved the mouse. A photograph of a scroll written in Greek with uncial letters appeared on the display: it was the Codex Vaticanu, dating back to the fourth century; it was one of the oldest manuscripts of the Bible. Although it was not considered a canonical text by Rome – which had more than two thousand variations – it was used as a reference work for the Greek Orthodox Church. Some passages within those pages were still perfectly understandable, citing eleven Biblical books – the so-called Books of the Seers – even though they did not exist officially. It was said that the Masoretes had hidden them because they contained an explosive message that could undermine the Church to its very foundations. Over the centuries, the various translations of the Roman Bible had been sure to soften or erase any reference to them. But what would happen if the lost books were found?

  ‘Alright,’ the cardinal concluded with a sigh. ‘We must make sure that our man will handle the matter directly… And if they are found, get them here, immediately!’

  84

  Hvitar lake, 25 kilometres south-west of the base camp, February 6th. Local time 04:58 a.m.

  The Bull stopped his Jeep near a pool where boiling sulphurous waters were bubbling, illuminated by the full moon. Across the lake, in the darkness, he could make out the shape of the glacier lying under a starry sky.

  The road, which branched at that point, was completely frozen. Before leaving the vehicle, he made sure that the co-ordinates were correct. Then he took the gun with a silencer from the glove compartment and started walking along a path completely covered by snow.

  As he walked into the darkness, his boots sinking into the snow, he reflected on the phone call received a few hours earlier. ‘The plans have changed. You must handle it directly,’ the Grand Master had ordered, shortly after talking with Rome.

  And manage “it” meant that he could no longer remain in the shadows. It was no longer sufficient to wait for the expedition to carry out the excavation, and then take action if they unearthed the papyri. The task required much more effort; to personally co-ordinate the research, so that the campaign would be successful.

  He was aware that for a man without special preparation in the field of archaeology like himself, it would not be an easy task. On the other hand, the timing was so tight, they left him no alternative.

  Regarding the operational aspects, he knew he could count on the experience of Joonas Eklöf, the expedition leader. Unfortunately, however, there were issues that the Finn could not face; the main one was to convince the engineers, archaeologists and workers to respond to him rather than to Julia and Cassini.

  As soon as he had received the order, his first thought was simply to get rid of them. Then, he considered their usefulness: the professor was the only one who had direct knowledge of Dante’s verses; the woman represented the Sheikh, the commissioner of the whole expedition. Eliminating her would create uncertainty and fear in the men who would then have to work under his command.

  The most rational choice was to keep them alive and force them to work together, taking over their command. It would be very difficult, unless he provided them with a very good reason…

  Reaching a road sign that said HVÍTÁRVATN, he looked around. There was an isolated building in front of him, low, squat, with two simple windows. Just beyond, lay the frozen expanse of the lake and on the opposite side, towards the road, a plain gleamed in the dark.

  The Bull put his hands in his jacket against the cold and repeatedly slapped his boots on the ground. He was not happy about having to rely on strangers, but circumstances did not leave him any other choice.

  While he rolled his eyes trying to identify some movement on the plain, the headlights of two cars appeared over a ridge: they were driving towards him, bouncing over the snow.

  Within seconds, the two Toyota Land Cruisers reached the last stretch of road and parked on the side, where the Bull was awaiting them. They pointed their headlights at him and turned off the engines.

  A huge blonde man got out from one of the cars, slinging an M4 assault rifle over his shoulder, and went over to him. ‘Eight men in all, as you asked,’ he grunted, breathing in the cool night air through his nose.

  The Bull nodded. ‘It’s about an hour from here. Let’s go, I’ll show you the map.’

  85

  Dubai, February 6th. Local time 07:57 a.m.

  Ahmed Jaafar entered t
he underground garage of the Burj Khalifa every morning, perfectly on time.

  He left the white utilitarian van with the hospital logo in its usual spot, next to an orange column, and walked to the elevators.

  He held an old black leather bag in his hand. It was the only reminder left from when he practiced as a doctor in Baghdad.

  In March 2003, he was forced to flee from his city – from his friends and his profession – because of the war. He had fled to Dubai at the age of thirty-five, where he now worked at the hospital. Unfortunately, his qualifications were not recognized and so he had to settle for a contract as an orderly.

  Although the salary allowed him to lead a dignified life, he had never accepted what he considered a professional downsizing. He had lived in a long limbo all those years, hoping that somehow or other, his talents would be recognized. But it hadn’t happened yet, and in the meantime, he tried to earn extra money… Sometimes he took care of special clients’ needs in private.

  Mohamed bin Saif Al Husayn was one of them and every morning at the same time he went up to the 107th floor of the tallest skyscraper in the world. He changed the drip, gave him his glucose solution and – if it was necessary – medicated the catheter wounds.

  It was not usually a very stimulating job, but at least it was well-paid.

  However, that morning, unlike other days, Ahmed had a much more important task to accomplish. He had never done anything like it before, but knew there would be no difficulty, especially when he thought about what would await him a few hours later.

  ‘Is he better today?’ ventured the doctor as soon as the lift doors opened into the big hall.

  An elderly man in a white tunic, looking dejected, met him shaking his head. ‘Worse and worse,’ he whispered. ‘He’s finding it increasingly hard to breathe.’

  Ahmed nodded. ‘That’s normal, he’s dyspnoeic; his respiratory muscles are in deficit. And it will get worse.’

  ‘But yesterday he seemed better,’ said the old man, with a hint of sadness in his eyes.

  The doctor shrugged and said nothing.

  They crossed the rosewood-floored hall and slipped into the Sheikh’s bedroom. He was lying on the bed, staring at a curved OLED screen placed in front of his eyes.

  In the last month his condition had worsened and he had been forced to stay away from his chair for several hours a day. The doctors had assured him that if he took good care of himself he could live at least another year, maybe more. And it was all he needed, waiting for good news from Iceland to arrive.

  ‘Morning Majesty,’ Ahmed greeted him staring into his hollow eyes. It was obvious he was lacking in oxygen. ‘I’ll just change your drip and you’ll see that you’ll feel better.’

  Smiling, he replaced the glass bottle with a new one and linked it to the venous catheter. On the support next to the bed, he placed a container identical in appearance, that would begin to release the liquid as soon as the first was finished.

  He performed the same procedure every morning, but that day his hands were shaking.

  ‘Enjoy your meal,’ he said, without looking him in the eyes, before closing the door behind him.

  As he went down in the elevator, he did a quick calculation; the first container would be completed within an hour and the second would last much less. He had plenty of time to reach the meeting place.

  *

  Around nine, Ahmed Jaafar wore a Gore-Tex suit and hired a pair of beautiful giant slalom skis. He then walked to the ticket offices of Ski Dubai, the huge complex in an endless shopping mall, which housed the indoor skiing resort of the city.

  He looked around in search of the man who had approached him a few days earlier. He spotted him effortlessly between a ski instructor struggling with four children, and a man with a cell phone in hand.

  Rafael, Tanaka’s most trusted collaborator, was there. His ebony skin stood out like a beacon in the white jacket. When he saw him, he smiled.

  Ahmed got rid of the skis and went over to him.

  ‘Mission accomplished?’ Rafael asked, detached with a throaty voice.

  The doctor nodded. ‘Did you bring the money?’

  The giant undid the zipper of his jacket and showed a large yellow envelope. ‘Every penny! You just earned a golden pension a few years in advance.’

  Ahmed grimaced. He did not think it would have been so easy, but he had not had any problems. After all, perhaps he had almost done the Sheikh a favour.

  It was not the way he thought he would sort out his life, but he considered it full compensation for all the injustice he had suffered. That meeting had been a stroke of luck: Rafael needed a person with access to Al Husayn’s apartment, and in exchange for a little help, he would be given a big cheque.

  ‘Couldn’t you just have waited for his moment to come?’ the doctor inquired bluntly. ‘It was really imminent.’

  Rafael handed him the envelope and then smiled again. ‘Unfortunately, our timetable did not coincide with his biology… ’

  At more or less the same time, on the 107th floor of the Burj Khalifa, the second drip went into action.

  The potassium chloride, which Ahmed Jaafar had poured into the glucose solution container, started to pour down through Al Husayn’s venous catheter. Unless specific blood tests were made, it would not be identified, and death would be attributed to a heart attack.

  In fact, almost instantly, the Sheikh’s heart began to have arrhythmias. Al Husayn felt he could not breathe, and a cold enveloped him.

  The room in front of him, the large curved screen, Titian’s painting, the caskets by Cesare Ravasco, slipped into the darkness almost without him realizing it.

  His heart began to pump faster before stopping, then, like an engine running out of fuel, it jumped and stopped beating forever.

  86

  Base Camp, February 6th. Local time 06:04 a.m.

  The call on Julia’s satellite phone arrived an hour and four minutes after the death of Mohamed bin Saif Al Husayn.

  For a moment, she thought she had not understood the butler’s words – he was an elderly man who had worked for the royal family for decades. Then, when the line went dead, she sat disconsolately at the camper’s table, heart pounding and breathing hard.

  The news had taken her completely by surprise. She was convinced that their mission, in one way or another, would have saved the Sheikh’s life.

  Instead she had failed. Again.

  Everything she had done in recent years, she had done for him, her guide, the only one who had proven to really care for her. The only one who, under the rough shell of her character, had glimpsed the sensitivity and sweetness in her.

  What would happen now?

  ‘Julia!’ a voice outside the camper, followed by repeated knocks at the door, tore her away from her thoughts.

  There was a man outside, illuminated by the photoelectric lights of the camp. She stood up and reluctantly opened the door.

  Manuel Cassini was in front of her, wrapped in a jacket and shivering, looking funereal. ‘I’m sorry,’ was all he managed to say, blinking. ‘They’ve just called me from Dubai.’

  And then she burst into tears.

  She had faced every difficulty in her life as a true Crown Amazon. She had been taught never to cry and not to externalize any emotion, and she never had. Moments of difficulty had always served to strengthen her spirit and character. Until then.

  For the first time in her life, in the Icelandic ice, she felt completely drained, dejected. Deprived of any purpose.

  ‘It’s over,’ she sobbed. ‘It’s all over.’

  Cassini watched her for a moment. Trembling from the cold, she seemed like a frightened bird in a cage. He approached her and hugged her tight.

  Julia sank completely into his arms, sobbing. ‘It was useless. Everything we did was useless.’

  The professor simply stroked her back. He did not know what to say. Try as he might, he could not pronounce the words that could comfort her. He just hope
d that the embrace would never end.

  They stood still, in each other’s arms in the frozen square, until the idyll was suddenly broken.

  A series of clicking noises drew Julia’s attention. As if a pin had pricked her, she jumped backwards.

  She looked to the east, in the direction of some black boulders emerging from the snow, and saw some sparks shoot into the sky. Soon after, from the same direction, there was another set of sounds, this time clearer: there were machine guns firing.

  Within seconds, the headlights of a car launched at full speed, bouncing across the ice, appeared on the path. The passengers, leaning out the windows, were carrying assault rifles and firing into the air.

  While Cassini was paralysed, unable to move, Julia ran back into the camper to find a weapon.

  Soon after, the car materialized at the camp entrance. It overtook the row of parked pick-ups and drove around under the tent, while two men fired upwards, without a precise target.

  The blasts of machine guns echoed around the valley like a series of thunderclaps, and bullets ricocheted off the iron pipes that supported the marquee. The lights in the pre-fabricated building at the edge of the base camp lit up suddenly.

  ‘Come on!’ cried Julia, grabbing the Glock and pulling Cassini by the arm.

  They ran on the snow, hoping not to be seen by the assailants. They passed the penultimate camper just as the door opened. They saw a sleepy Kjell Lagerbäck peep out while fiddling with his intellectual-style glasses. Immediately after, Ólína and Rúnar Einarsson appeared, looking more curious than afraid.

  But Julia did not stop. Dragging Cassini, she started running toward the prefabricated building that closed the camp on the east. Bullets, meanwhile, rained down like hail. The attackers’ Toyota stopped in the centre of the large open space, the lights illuminating the camper that had been occupied by Julia just moments before. The woman and the professor, meanwhile, ducked around the building.