Further down, she found a photograph he’d taken of her. She was sitting on the back of a Vespa, grinning like a cat who’d got the cream, about to be driven somewhere by a handsome youth in sunglasses, his teeth gleaming in his olive-brown face. She must have been about fifteen. Her long, adolescent legs ended in the briefest pair of denim shorts she’d ever seen.
“How are you doing?”
Holly turned round. Her mother had come into the garage. “Hey, Mom. Look what I found.” Holly showed her the picture. “Did I really go out dressed like that? And did you really think it was OK?”
Her mother smiled ruefully. “I don’t recall us having much choice – you were always so determined. And the Italian boys were always very respectful.”
“They may have seemed that way round you and Dad. I remember some very persistent wandering hands. It’s a wonder I wasn’t—” She stopped abruptly.
Her mother said nothing. Holly had told her a little of the events that had led to her taking extended leave from her posting at Camp Ederle, near Vicenza. A US colonel had incarcerated her in an underground military facility and tortured her, that much she knew. But she had also learnt that it was best not to press her daughter for details unless she was in the mood to talk about it.
Turning back to the trunk, Holly took the upper tray out. Underneath was her father’s “formal”, his dress uniform – a four-pocket green jacket, complete with insignia and shoulder braid; tan trousers with a black stripe down the seams; a peaked, braided hat – and, alongside, a small case of medals. Medals for achievement and diligence rather than combat. Her father had been a conscientious officer who loved and believed in his country and his job, but he was no bloodthirsty warrior.
Beneath the medals was a sash. She lifted it out. It was designed to fasten around the neck like a waistcoat and bore a series of embroidered symbols: a compass, a set square and an eye inside a triangle. “I didn’t know Dad was a Mason,” she exclaimed.
Her mother took the sash from her, nodding. “Oh, yes. He’d been in the Oddfellows before we moved to Europe, and when we settled at Camp Darby he got himself elected to a lodge near there. He always said it was for your sake – you and your brothers.”
“For our sake? How come?”
“He claimed it was a good way of getting to know the locals. But actually I think he just liked being around men and uniforms. As if he didn’t get enough of that on base. It was his friend Signor Boccardo who proposed him, I think.”
“Boccardo…” Holly remembered a neighbour by that name, a pharmacist whose daughter had been in the same class as her. “Wasn’t he the one who was killed in a car accident?”
“He was, yes.” Her mother handed the sash back. “Do you want to shave your dad? Dr Hammond will be here soon.”
“Sure. I’ll just finish up in here.”
At the door of the garage her mother paused, looking back at the crates and trunks stacked around the walls. “Thanks for doing this, Holly. I haven’t touched any of this since we came home – I just can’t tell which of his old army things are important and what can be thrown away.” She was silent a moment. “Not that any of it’s really important now, I guess.”
When she was gone, Holly turned her attention back to the trunk. Under the uniform were more cards and photographs, some dating back to pre-Pisa days when the family had hopped around Europe, moving from base to base every few years. She pulled out a picture of her parents at a dance. They looked young and carefree. Germany, she guessed. That was where they’d met.
Reaching down again, her fingers encountered a small bump in the trunk’s cotton lining. The cloth was old and fragile, and when she prodded it a second time it ripped. Her fingers closed around the ends of a few sheets of paper, pushed down inside the lining. She pulled them out.
The first thing she saw was a copy of a poem – she thought she recognised the typeface of her father’s clattering old electric IBM.
Cities and Thrones and Powers
Stand in Time’s eye,
Almost as long as flowers,
Which daily die:
But, as new buds put forth
To glad new men,
Out of the spent and unconsidered Earth,
The Cities rise again.
This season’s Daffodil,
She never hears,
What change, what chance, what chill,
Cut down last year’s;
But with bold countenance,
And knowledge small,
Esteems her seven days’ continuance
To be perpetual.
It was Kipling, one of his favourites. The family used to roll their eyes whenever he recited it, but that had never stopped him.
The next sheet bore a few short paragraphs, typed on the same machine.
Re: The Attached Memorandum
This memorandum details concerns reported to me by an Italian civilian, a fellow brother of the Aristarchus Lodge in Pisa, regarding remnants of the NATO clandestine network codenamed “Gladio”.
The command structure of Gladio having been abruptly terminated along with the rest of the network in 1990, I was unsure who to report these concerns to. I have therefore passed the memorandum to a US intelligence officer of my acquaintance who, I knew, had previously been involved in the neutralisation of terrorist organisations such as the Red Brigades, in the hope that he will be able to distribute it to those best placed to take action.
This copy I am placing here, for safekeeping.
Major Edward R. Boland
March 12, 1991
The memo itself consisted of three pages, stapled together. It was stamped “COPY” in red ink and titled:
Highly Confidential.
She turned to the first page.
Since the public exposure of Operation Gladio in October of last year, those of us involved on the NATO side have been working at speed to roll up the network and transfer operational resources back to Allied hands. However, I have recently been made aware that some former Gladio agents may not only be resisting this process but may be actively regrouping, using Masonic fraternities as their cover.
“Holly?” It was her mother, calling from the house.
“On my way,” she called back. She flicked to the next page, skimming the text, then put the document down. So her father had been connected to the infamous Operation Gladio, one of the strangest and most controversial episodes in Italy’s post-war history. She’d been aware, growing up, that he couldn’t talk about some of his work, but she hadn’t realised he’d actually dealt with intelligence matters.
Going into the house, she went into what had once been the dining room. “Hi, Dad,” she said. “Guess what? I’ve just been reading that memorandum you wrote, back in the day. And I found all those certificates of mine from Pisa High School.”
From his bed by the window, her father gazed up at her with eyes that were dark and troubled. She moved into the centre of his field of vision so he could see her better.
“And that drawing of Piazza Martraverso brought back so many memories. Remember the gelateria on the corner? They did a mandarin flavour I still swear was the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
He continued to gaze at her soundlessly.
“OK if I shave you now?” She waited for him to respond, and when he didn’t, went on, “I’ll just run the water to get it warm.”
She scraped the white bristles from his cheek with the razor. It reminded her of all the times as a child she’d kissed his rough end-of-day stubble after he’d come home late from work. “If you want to move a little to the right…” She reached around and did the far side of his face. “No problem. We managed, didn’t we?”
“It’s good that you talk with him,” a quiet voice said behind her.
She looked up. Dr Hammond was standing in the doorway. He was young and good-looking, which always took her by surprise – since when were doctors barely older than her, let alone handsome? – but he’d been her father’s phy
sician for almost five years now.
“It feels disrespectful if I don’t. Besides, you said yourself there’s a chance he understands more than he can show.”
“A small chance,” he reminded her. “While there are stroke victims with locked-in syndrome, your father’s scans show vascular damage to his right hemisphere. Even if he could follow some of what was said to him after his first episode, it’s unlikely he can now.”
“Even so,” she said. Turning back to her father, she wiped his face carefully with a towel. “There, all done. Dr Hammond’s going to look you over, then I’ll come back and we’ll chat some more. OK?”
His expression didn’t change. Standing up, she said, “All yours.”
While Dr Hammond got to work, she washed the razor under a tap. As she did so, something occurred to her.
She went and found her mother in the kitchen. “That neighbour you were talking about – Signor Boccardo, the one who died in a car crash. When was that, exactly? Was it round about the same time Dad got sick?”
“Oh.” Her mother made a face. “That horrible business. Yes, it was a little before your father took ill. He was very upset, as I recall – he liked Mr Boccardo.”
Going back to the garage, Holly pulled out her father’s memorandum and went through it, more slowly this time, searching for the name she’d glanced at earlier and only half-registered.
There it was.
It was Gianluca Boccardo, a neighbour and good friend of mine, who first spoke to me about an influx of new members at our lodge. He asked whether I, as an American officer, could tell him if there was any truth in what some of them were claiming…
Another thought, an even bigger one, hit her suddenly like a blow to the head. Through the open door of the garage she saw Dr Hammond walking to his car. “Doctor?” she called. “Do you have a minute?”
“Of course, Holly.” His smile was friendly. For the first time, she realised that he probably fancied her a little.
“Answer me a hypothetical question, would you? Is it possible – in theory, at least – to make someone have a stroke?”
“Well, if a person drinks, or smokes, or has high blood pressure—”
“I don’t mean their lifestyle,” she interrupted. “But say there was someone who already had those risk factors. Is there any substance or medication that would make a stroke more likely?”
He considered. “Warfarin, I guess. It’s used to kill rats, and it’s sometimes prescribed for people with blood-clotting problems. But no doctor would ever prescribe Warfarin to a patient who might already be at risk of an intracerebral haemorrhage.”
“Because those risk factors would show up on their medical records, right? You’d know to avoid that class of medications.”
He nodded. “Exactly.”
Or not, she thought.
Or someone would know from that person’s medical records exactly what was most likely to kill him.
The possibility was unthinkable, yet having been thought, there was no dismissing it. Her father and his friend had stumbled on something, something her father had considered serious enough to pass on to his superiors. Within a short time Boccardo was dead, and her father had suffered a stroke.
Someone had decided to silence them both. And the reason for it was right there, in her hand.
5
“WE WON’T BE able to perform the autopsy until tomorrow at the earliest,” Dr Hapadi said apologetically as he led the two Carabinieri officers through the mortuary. “We had two deaths in the hospital last night and they’ll have to take priority.”
“That’s all right,” Kat said. “It was you we came to speak to, actually.”
“I thought it might be,” the pathologist said quietly. “Let’s go in here.”
He took them to his office, off to one side of the morgue and almost as cold. Through the glass wall Kat could see Spatz, the technician, leaning over the corpse with a camera, taking photographs of the victim’s face. The pictures, she knew, would be uploaded via a specialist program to Google Image Search in the hopes of finding a match. It wouldn’t replace a formal identification, but it might give them a starting point.
Hapadi handed Kat a sheet of fax paper. “I spoke to our Worshipful Master earlier. Those are the names of every member of our lodge.”
“How long have you been a Mason?” Kat asked, scanning the list.
“Almost seven years. People have the wrong idea about us, you know. Most of what we do is charitable. And since Anselmi, it isn’t even secret.”
Kat nodded. The Anselmi law, introduced a decade earlier, required any club or group to produce a list of members on request. Effectively, it made secret societies illegal.
A name jumped out at her, then another. “My God,” she said. “I know him. And him.” There were at least half a dozen senior Carabinieri officers here. She turned the page. Listed under “S” was General Saito, her generale di divisione and the man who had assigned her to this case.
Hapadi nodded. “It was General Saito who proposed me. Major Flavigni was my seconder.”
Kat put the list away. “But you don’t recognise our victim?”
The pathologist shook his head.
“Are there any other lodges in Venice besides yours?”
“Not that I know of.” He hesitated. “Not official ones.”
“‘Not official ones’? What does that mean?”
“The Anselmi law… It was very unpopular with some Freemasons. Sometimes you hear talk of ‘black’ lodges – lodges outside of the Grand Orient, the official Masonic federation. Technically, they’ve no right to call themselves Masons, but they justify it by saying that they hold true to an earlier, more rigorous set of rites. That stuff about having your tongue torn out, for example – that hasn’t been part of the official oath for decades.”
“So having that done to him might suggest that our victim was indeed a member of a black lodge?”
“I suppose it might, yes,” he said reluctantly.
“And how would I set about finding such a lodge, if there is one here in Venice?”
Dr Hapadi shook his head. “I don’t know anyone who would have dealings with something like that.”
Just for a moment, she thought she saw a flash of fear in his eyes. “But you might have heard gossip?” she pressed him. “Rumours? Anything would be useful at this stage.”
He seemed to come to a decision. “I don’t know whether it’s relevant. But there’s a man, a wealthy man, who collects Masonic memorabilia. I’ve heard he can be quite… pushy.”
It seemed to Kat a fairly small transgression, but since she suspected Hapadi might have other reasons for mentioning this individual, ones he’d rather not divulge, she said only, “And his name?”
“Tignelli. Count Tignelli.”
Kat raised her eyebrows. “The one who bought La Grazia?”
Count Tignelli was a well-known figure in the Veneto. As the title suggested, his family were old money, the makers of a well-respected brand of prosecco. More recently, under his leadership, the once-staid family firm had through a series of daring expansions succeeded in turning itself from a mere wine label into a fashion brand to rival the likes of Armani or Benetton. These days you could buy Tignelli luggage, Tignelli sunglasses or Tignelli cologne; she herself owned a cashmere Tignelli scarf that she brought out every winter. The man behind all this, meanwhile, had gradually moved from the business sections of the newspapers to the front pages, his opinions sought on everything from the latest corruption scandal to the failings of the politicians in Rome – not least because those opinions, and his vociferous calls for reform, were rarely watered down for publication. Not long ago he’d bought the lagoon island of Santa Maria della Grazia from the cash-strapped city council; the sell-off of several islands being, it was rumoured, part of the deal struck over the endless government bailouts for the MOSE project.
“Thank you,” she said, mentally tucking the name away for future reference. There
would be little point in going to speak to Tignelli at this point. Interviewing someone with that kind of influence was hard enough even when you had some evidence. “And if I wanted to know more about Freemasonry in general? Who could I ask?”
“I’ll give you the name of our archivist,” Hapadi said reluctantly.
“Captain?” It was Spatz, calling from the morgue.
They went through to the larger room. On Spatz’s computer screen were half a dozen images from local newspapers. All showed the same middle-aged man in a variety of expensive-looking suits. She leant forward to read the captions: “Signor Alessandro Cassandre at the inauguration of the new Mestre arts centre…” “Alessandro Cassandre, Senior Partner of private bank BCdV, alongside donors to the Save Venice fund…” “Alessandro Cassandre hands a cheque for one million euros to the children’s home…” “Alessandro Cassandre and his wife were among the honoured guests at the gala evening, which was sponsored by BCdV…”
“Alessandro Cassandre.” She glanced at Hapadi. “Still sure you don’t know him?”
He shook his head. She pulled out the official list of Masons he’d given her and checked. No Cassandre there either.
She typed “BCdV private bank” into Google and clicked on the first result.
Welcome to Banca Cattolica della Veneziana.
Who we are. What we do. Meet the team.
She clicked on “Who we are.”
Banca Cattolica della Veneziana is the fourth oldest bank in Italy, one of only a handful of surviving private banks. Originally a self-help organisation, lending money in ways compatible with religious principles, it now manages over thirty billion euros on behalf of a range of private clients and institutions.
The Traitor (The Carnivia Trilogy) Page 3
