The Venice conspiracy ts-1

by Michael Morley

  By the time he reaches the slipway he realises prowling around isn't going to be as easy as he thought. He glances up at the walls. The night cameras are out of view. Good. If he can't see them, they can't see him.

  But that's not the problem. Running out from the wall – outwards and upwards – is a vast wire-mesh fence, topped and edged with razor wire.

  He weighs it up. Even if he could climb it and swing his family jewels over those slice-happy jaws of sharpened steel, then he still has to drop at least twelve feet on the other side into the water. Dangerous. At least break-your-ankle dangerous. Maybe worse.

  Going round doesn't look an easier option. To do that, he'd have to walk maybe a mile to the edge of the island, then dive into the lagoon and swim underwater and unseen up the slipway. In a wetsuit and properly prepared he'd happily give it a go. But not fully dressed, not unprepared, and not right now with one of his security-guard colleagues about to arrive on his tail.

  Antonio moves his attention to the large wooden doors of the boathouse.

  They're going to be locked as well.

  Even if he manages to get to them, those big old wooden slabs are going to give him problems. They're padlocked from the outside and possibly even bolted on the inside. Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.

  He turns and starts the walk back in the gathering dusk. He can just make out Fernando in the distance, a distinctive bow-legged walk, his pace slow and casual. In another hour the last dregs of daylight will have drained away and he'll be making the last of his rounds with a flashlight.

  Way beyond the vicious razor wire and high above the weathered old doors a rusty weathervane gently spins, kicked into life by a gathering westerly wind. A closer look – perhaps through binoculars – would have revealed that the iron head of the cockerel was a twenty-four-hour camera with night-vision lens, routed not to the Mobotix control room but to a smaller and more private panel of monitors and recorders at the back of the boathouse. A panel now controlled by the man who killed Monica Vidic.

  CAPITOLO XVII

  666 BC

  The Plains of Atmanta Kavie and Pesna are in a foul mood as they leave Teucer's bedside and board their waiting chariot. Larth notices their sullen demeanour as he climbs up front with the driver and whips four of Etruria's finest stallions across the hardened turf.

  The chariot is new but the magistrate hasn't even passed comment on it. Larth personally designed and supervised its construction. Twin axles, four nine-spoke reinforced wheels and bronzed shielding to all sides. It is the finest in Etruria. Better than anything his father ever made. Better than anything his father's father even dreamed of making.

  He glances over his shoulder and sees them deep in one of their many confidential conversations. The kind that excludes him. Belittles him.

  They take him for granted. Treat him merely as a purveyor of pain. Well, he's worth more than that. More than they credit him for. More than either of them will ever be.

  Fields of barley and wheat fly by on either side of the chariot as Larth languishes in his loathing and resentment.

  Everything the naked eye can see now belongs to Pesna.

  Beneath the soil lie the rich reserves of silver that Pesna is mining and turning into precious jewellery.

  The chariot halts and the driver, grumbling, dismounts and walks ahead to unbuckle a field gate.

  Larth strains to listen to the conversation of the men behind him.

  Kavie sounds upbeat: 'It is a blessing in disguise.'

  Pesna is sceptical: 'How so?'

  'Our invitation to the noblemen, magistrates and elders can now include an invitation to the blessing of our new temple. How could they refuse to come and be part of something sacred?'

  Pesna doesn't sound convinced. 'A blessing by a blinded netsvis? How will that look?'

  'He may not be blind.'

  'But what if he is?'

  There is a pause. Larth can almost hear the wheels of Kavie's devious mind turning before finally – as always – he finds the right reply: 'Then he is a novelty. We invent a legend that Teucer selflessly sacrificed his sight so he would not be distracted by earthly things and could better listen to the words of the gods. Having such a devoted netsvis will make you the envy of all Etruria.'

  Pesna laughs. 'Sometimes, my friend, I doubt whether even the gods themselves are as blessed with words as you are.'

  Kavie the sycophant laughs as well. 'You are too gracious.'

  'Have you not already sent the invitations?'

  'Drafted, yes. Sent, no. I can make amendments later this evening and despatch them by messengers on the morrow.'

  'Good. So when? When do we invite these powerful and influential men to our modest meeting and divine temple blessing?'

  Kavie holds up both hands and stretches out his fingers. 'Six days' time.'

  The conversation falls off as the chariot driver returns. He mumbles something, climbs back on his seat and shakes the stallions' reins. Larth ignores him and sits up straight.

  Six days. Excellent. Six is his favourite number.

  CHAPTER 22

  Present Day Isola Mario, Venice The killer of Monica Vidic continues to watch the monitors long after Antonio is out of view. He pans the surveillance cameras left and right, then tilts and zooms in and out.

  There's no further trace of the snooper.

  It isn't that unusual for one of the security team to wander off their perimeter and stray into the boathouse's fifty-yard no-go zone. But this is different. The young guard hasn't appeared out of idle curiosity. No, not at all. He has something else focused on his mind.

  Intrusion.

  He's clearly come with the notion of breaking in.

  The killer replays the tapes and smiles. Yes, indeed. The foolish boy had certainly been thinking of climbing the fence – he'd like to have seen him try – and perhaps even contemplated swimming his way to the boathouse door.

  Now why would a guard do that?

  And more importantly, what should be done with a guard who would want to do that?

  The killer had made plans for the night. Big plans. But now they're going to have to be postponed.

  On another bank of monitors – ones slaved to the security master system – he watches Antonio and Fernando say goodnight to each other, punch knuckles and go their different ways. How nice to see colleagues getting on. He switches to another covert video feed, provided by cameras hidden inside the ugly white wall domes that most people mistakenly believe are just lights. The night watchman returns to the changing hut and hunts in his locker for the stale panini and soggy torte his wife had packed for him half a day ago. The snooper dawdles down to the decked pontoon and un-ropes an old motor boat.

  A very old boat, by the look of it. The killer can see its registration numbers on the side and quickly writes them down. Its name, Spirito di Vita – Spirit of Life – has been removed, but the letters have been there for so long they've left legible outlines on the craft.

  On a laptop on a steel table beside the security system, he opens a file marked Personnel. A few clicks later he's reading all about Antonio Materazzi – no doubt a false name – and where he's supposed to live and his employment history.

  The references and background checks look good. But he still has a bad feeling about the young guard. A very bad feeling.

  Within the hour his suspicions are confirmed. The boat's number and the name Spirito di Vita don't tally. The registration tracks back to someone called Materazzi, but the Spirito has a very different history and entirely different numbers. It started life as a plaything for a businessman called Francesco di Esposito from Naples. It was then bought by a former hospital worker called Angelo Pavarotti and now apparently belongs to his son, Antonio. Antonio Materazzi is almost certainly Antonio Pavarotti. Most likely an undercover cop – a special unit of the Polizia or Carabinieri. Operatives often keep their real first names in case some local calls to them in the street; that way they can pass off the recognition wi
thout arousing suspicion.

  Monica's killer shuts down the laptop and returns to the safety of the commune. A smile comes to his face. How ironic that Antonio's father, Angelo – a name meaning messenger of God – should be the one to provide him with the information on how to kill his son.

  CAPITOLO XVIII

  666 BC

  Teucer and Tetia's Hut, Atmanta Sunrise over the Adriatic. A sky of strawberry and vanilla reflects in the rolling mirrored ocean. A soft breeze catches Tetia and blows back her long black hair.

  The piece is fired and finished.

  Tetia reflects on the work and the duplicity involved in completing it. Last night Teucer had been moved back to their hut to finish his recovery. She'd dutifully tended him until he'd fallen asleep. Then she'd returned to the clay, carefully baking it in a new kiln pit she'd dug in the earth, filled with dried manure, chopped wood, sea salt and dried leaves. As the blaze had grown stronger she'd covered it with logs and clay offcuts to trap the intense heat, timing everything so she would remove the ceramic at the first glimpse of dawn.

  It was a relief to find it hadn't cracked. Though, when she looked closely, she could see hundreds of fissures, like the snakes she'd etched, crawling conspiratorially across the surface. The clay had not been pure. Poisonous deposits and odd minerals had seeped into it. At one point she'd been convinced the poisons would break the clay during the firing. But they hadn't. And, looking at it now, it is indeed everything Magistrate Pesna said it would be.

  Magnificent.

  The greatest of all her works.

  And she is loath to give it away.

  Tetia takes time to gently clean it. She stores it at the back of the hut and feels a strange sensation in her stomach.

  A bubbling.

  Like hunger. Only different.

  She puts her hands across the bulge. Unless she's mistaken, even her child seems pleased that she's finished.

  She covers the tablet with cloth and starts to chop fruit for breakfast. It makes her remember how usually when someone is ill neighbours bring small gifts as gestures of goodwill to speed a full and fast recovery. Fruits, cheeses, juices, or even talismans. But none have been brought for Teucer. No one has even visited.

  Sharp shafts of sunlight begin to flood the hut and come to rest on Teucer's face.

  Eventually the warmth wakes him.

  He drags himself upright and instantly reaches out for his wife. 'Tetia!' There's a hint of panic in his voice.

  'I'm here.' She goes to him and strokes his matted hair. 'Are you feeling better? You have slept long and deeply. Had you not been making the grunts of a bear, then I may have taken you for dead.'

  He smiles and puts his hands to his head, close to where she's been touching him. 'I do feel a little stronger.' The bandages are all loose and the poultice has fallen off. 'Though my eyes feel as though they are full of sand.'

  Tetia can see that his dressing has slipped, his pupils are uncovered. He's looking straight at her.

  But he can't see anything!

  She steps closer. Looks for a flicker of recognition.

  Nothing.

  Teucer senses something. Perhaps it is her silence. Perhaps he somehow picks up her thoughts. 'What are you doing?'

  She swallows hard. 'Nothing, my love. I had mislaid your things. Lie back down and I will change those dressings for you.'

  Teucer lowers his elbows and lies back.

  Tetia pours water into a bowl and uses ram's wool to gently wipe away crusts from his eye lashes and sockets. She sits astride his thighs, and for a moment both of them think back to when they last made love like this. He smiles up at her and she feels him harden beneath her. He reaches out so his fingers touch the falling curtains of her hair. 'Thank you, my sweetness. Thank you for being here with me and for not deserting me. I thought the other day that you had decided that if the gods had abandoned me, then so should you.'

  'Shush!' She puts a finger to his lips. 'Don't say such things.'

  Teucer falls silent, his fingers frozen like icicles in the soft waterfall of hair.

  She bends her face low to kiss his dry lips. She moistens them with her tongue and feels a soft moan stirring within him.

  Gently she removes her clothes and kisses his chest and penis. She'll make love to him. Slowly. Caringly. Then she'll tell him. Tell him she has to go to Pesna.

  CHAPTER 23

  Present Day Hotel Rotoletti, Piazzale Roma, Venice Lieutenant Valentina Morassi picks Tom up at his own hotel a little after 8 a.m. She'd left a message there the previous night, and also at the Luna Baglioni.

  The weather's cooler than it's been for some time, and Valentina is dressed in brushed-cotton, black Armani jeans, a short jacket of soft red Italian leather and a grey cashmere jumper over a long-collared white blouse. She has a weakness for clothes. More of her money goes on them than on food, which she thinks is probably a good thing, given that if it was the other way round she'd never fit into any of the stuff she likes to wear. It follows, then, that when Tom appears she instantly notices he's still wearing the same jeans, grey tee and grey hooded sweat-top that she first saw him in.

  'Buongiorno!' he chirps, as he gingerly steps on to the deck of the Carabinieri craft. 'I'm not a seafarer, I'm afraid. My legs prefer a little terra firma.'

  'And you an LA guy?' Valentina teases, steadying his arm as he lurches on to the back of the boat where the Italian flag flutters in a fresh breeze. 'I had you down as a Californian who'd spent most of his teenage years in the ocean.'

  Tom flinches. 'You're way off the mark, Lieutenant. Truth is, I can barely swim. I'm almost phobic about it, actually.'

  She looks at him quizzically, not sure whether he's toying with her. 'Come inside, I've got some coffee.'

  Tom has to almost fold himself double as he follows her through a tiny door into a long, narrow cabin at the back of the wheelhouse. 'My best friend got killed by a jet ski at Malibu when I was a kid. I was in the water with him at the time.'

  'I'm sorry.'

  'Thanks. We got far to go?'

  'Five minutes. Maybe ten. Depends on the traffic.' She undoes a steel Thermos flask and pours black coffee for them both.

  Tom's amused by the idea of a traffic jam on the water. But as they make their way out from the midst of water taxis, gondolas and work boats around the Piazzale, he can see what she means.

  'Major Carvalho and the medical examiner, Professore Montesano, will meet us there.' She thinks about mentioning his clothes, especially his lack of fresh ones, but checks herself. 'Have you been in a morgue before?'

  Tom nods. 'Unfortunately, several times. Not for crime investigation reasons, but to accompany relatives of the newly deceased. Sometimes to identify a dead gangbanger or gutter bum who had no one else to stand for them.'

  She smiles apologetically. 'I'm sorry. The morgue is really not a good place to start your day.'

  Tom shrugs. 'I'd rather not go to one at all, but if I have to, then I'd prefer to start the day there than finish it there.' Twenty minutes later the words come back to bite him.

  Gowned up and standing alongside the bleached body of fifteen-year-old Monica Vidic, he feels almost as low as the night he killed the two street punks in LA.

  He's heard what Major Carvalho has just said. Understood it very clearly. But he still has to ask the question. 'Someone cut out her liver?'

  Valentina looks guilty. 'Si. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about this earlier. It seemed more appropriate to wait until you came here.'

  'Are you all right, signor?' says the ME, registering the distress on his face. 'Perhaps we take a little break?'

  Tom shakes his head. 'No. No, I'm fine. Let's get this over with.' He glances at Valentina, who looks away as if she knows he's remembering her comment that after this meeting the Carabinieri would be finished with him – completely finished. Well, it doesn't feel like that any more. Far from it. It feels like they are only just getting started.

  CHAPTER 24

&
nbsp; Riva San Biagio, Venice The early-morning sun is masked by cloud as Antonio Pavarotti guns up the old family motorboat moored near Riva San Biagio and sets out for Isola Mario. A glance at his watch tells him he'll arrive about twenty minutes early, long enough to stray a little and get a water-level view of the boathouse. He throttles up as he eases his way into one of the lagoon's well-defined navigation channels.

  The boat's an old twenty-seven footer, bought by his father Angelo almost twenty years ago and gifted to his son on his twenty-first birthday. It's been cherished over the decades and in recent years almost completely overhauled by Antonio. His latest labour of love was fitting new windows and reconditioning the trusty old diesel engine. Next on his list is another repaint of the ever-needy blue hull that's now bouncing over some particularly choppy waves. He soon sees the reason why. He's following in the wake of the Number 41 waterbus heading out to Ferrovia and Murano. Get caught in the tracks of one of those and it's about as comfortable as being pulled naked across a ploughed field by your ankles.

  Antonio opens a flask of tea he's brought with him and sticks it in a holder at the front of the wheelhouse. It's a beautifully restored and fully covered area, resplendent in French-polished wood and freshly cleaned brass. It opens up into a good-sized galley kitchen complete with a temperamental gas oven and two-ring burner that in their time have heated up a lot of his mamma's home cooking. At the rear is a seating area that doubles as a bunk or two.

  Through the spray and thinning mist, Isola di San Michele bobs into view – but for once Antonio's thoughts are not on his grandparents and the other souls lying in their island graves. He's thinking of the happy times he's had on the craft. His first trip with his mother and father. Fishing with college friends. Precious, private time with his girlfriends before he moved out of his parents' apartment and got a place of his own.