The Venice conspiracy ts-1

by Michael Morley

  The last memory lingers and brings a smile to his face as he clicks a self-firing ring on the stove to get a light for his first cigarette of the day. He'll give up soon. Maybe when this undercover job is over. Mamma will be pleased when he finally quits.

  For a split second something seems wrong.

  The air in the cabin feels like it's disappeared. Sucked away by a giant invisible straw.

  Antonio's ears burst with pain and his body shakes.

  Metal from the stove becomes shrapnel and rips into his face.

  He sees it all in slow motion, the moment of realisation when he knows what's happening but can't do anything about it.

  He's blind and dizzy.

  The thunderous roar of the gas explosion ripples across the open sea.

  Antonio feels the splash of waves in his face but can't see anything.

  Tourists on the back of the waterbus gawp slack-jawed, the full horror yet to sink in.

  A raw orange fireball corkscrews into the grey mist, followed by palls of thick black smoke.

  Wooden planks and chunks of plastic fill the sky, then drift apart on the waves.

  Passing boats kill their engines. In the eerie silence, onlookers stare and wonder if it's safe to head over.

  The flames die down.

  Among the glistening oil and splinters of shattered craft, the shape of Antonio Pavarotti can be seen floating amid the debris.

  CAPITOLO XIX

  666 BC

  The House of Pesna, Atmanta Tetia feels bad about lying to Teucer.

  She's told him her journey to Pesna's house had been commanded by the magistrate to seek commissions for his tomb. Teucer was so tired and weak after their lovemaking that he didn't argue.

  The marital deception is the latest in a line that started when Tetia swore she'd destroyed the markings he'd made in the curte, a line that stretches now all the way to Pesna's grand chamber where she's about to hand over the ceramic she made from the engraved clay.

  Hercha wanders into the room where Tetia waits. She makes a caustic appraisal of the pale, small-breasted woman in front of her. 'You're not his type. Fat with child, small and dirty. Most definitely not.'

  The sculptress ignores her. She's admiring row after row of amazing pottery. Hook-handled Greek vases with curvilinear patterns and intricate silhouettes of gorgons, griffins, sphinxes and sirens. Wide-brimmed pots with red-gold figures set against polished black backgrounds.

  'Did you hear me?' Hercha strides closer. 'Pesna prefers his women to have a certain sophistication and substance. Rag women are not to his taste.'

  Tetia tilts her head and bends low to inspect two elegant, long-necked alabastron flasks with no handles, decorated with exotic multicoloured birds on almost opaque backgrounds. Her eyes widen as she spots a whole series of older works – Greek oil flasks with loop handles and long cylindrical bodies gracefully tapered to their bases. Then her eyes feast upon fabulously painted kraters with short handles like pig ears made from a glistening metal that she is sure is silver.

  Hercha flounces from the room muttering: 'The strumpet is no doubt deaf and dumb as well as fat and stupid. Definitely not the type of a noble.'

  Tetia doesn't even notice her go. She looks down at the slab of cloth-covered clay in her hands. In the presence of all these magnificent works it is no longer an inspired piece of art, it is a crude lump of earth cobbled together by the careless hands of an amateur.

  Pesna enters.

  He is barefoot and dressed in a tunic cut from the same cream cloth as Hercha's. He smells of recent sex and is eating a leg of roasted chicken off a beaten silver platter. 'Have you seen anything you like?'

  Tetia stares at him. 'Everything!' she blurts out. 'There is nothing here that doesn't thrill the eye.'

  'Does that include myself?' He pads silently closer to her, the walk of a hungry wolf, ready to drop the meat of one victim and feast on another.

  Sensing danger, she steps back a pace. 'Magistrate, I have brought this.' She holds out the bundle of rags in her hands. 'I have finished it, and had thought it suitable, but now, after seeing all of the marvels in this room, I doubt it will please you.'

  Pesna loses interest in her. His eyes begin to undress the package in her hands. 'As I told you last time we met, I will be the judge of that.' He saunters to the right-hand side of the room, where there is a long oak table pressed against a wall. 'Bring it over here. I need to wipe my hands.' He steps through a doorway and Tetia follows his orders. In her haste, her old sandals catch on a raised stone slab. She stubs her toe and stumbles. The ceramic doesn't crash to the floor, but it does drop heavily on to the table. Far more heavily than is healthy.

  She steadies herself. Fears the worst.

  Tentatively she unwraps the greatest creation of her life.

  Her heart sinks.

  It has broken.

  Even before she has fully unfolded the cloth she knows what has happened. It has cracked. It's broken cleanly down the two deep lines Teucer had drawn to divide the oblong into three.

  To her horror, Pesna reappears. He has abandoned the platter of chicken and is rubbing his hands on a thick fold of linen. 'So, let's see this wonder.'

  'I'm sorry.' She unfolds the last layer of rough cloth and steps back. 'I'm so deeply sorry.'

  Pesna is silent.

  He stands back and stares.

  'Sweet mother of Menrva!'

  He all but leaps on it.

  'This is astonishing!' He pushes Tetia away. 'The raw clay you had worked on was promising, but I never expected this. You have created three equal and separate scenes that look wonderful alone but together create one glorious piece.'

  Tetia looks close and sees he's right. Teucer's visions lie side by side, now separated by her carelessness, but one easy push will bring them together again, like completing a puzzle.

  Pesna looks delighted as he slides the pieces around. 'This is an inspired and visionary piece. It tricks the eye and unchains the imagination. Remind me, what title do you give it?'

  Tetia hesitates. Then Teucer's words tumble out. 'It is – The Gates of Destiny.'

  'Of course.' The title seems to energise him even more. He steps back in slow wonderment. Raises his hands to his face. 'But, my talented young Tetia, it is not quite finished.'

  Tetia frowns. 'How so, Magistrate?'

  He smiles knowingly. 'Silver.'

  Her brow furrows.

  'To do it justice – to do you justice – you must work with my silversmith and lock its beauty in silver and preserve it for ever.'

  'But-'

  Pesna silences her with an upheld hand. 'Mamarce is the best in Etruria. From your clay he will make casts and we will cover your vision in the richest silver we can mine. I will have Larth arrange it immediately.'

  Tetia begins to worry.

  It was bad enough to contemplate giving the piece to the magistrate, but if he immortalises it in silver, then it is bound to be talked about and such chatter would surely get back to her husband. 'Magistrate, when it is finished, what will you do with it? Will you keep it here, in this room with your other works?'

  Pesna's eyes are alight. 'I don't yet know. Firstly, your husband will bless it at the opening of the new temple, then I will decide. Perhaps I will let it stay there for a while, in gratitude to the gods.'

  Tetia drops her head. She can see how her deceptions and lies are in danger of catching up with her. 'Magistrate, I have thought again. I really think I must give this work to my husband. I will make something finer, something much grander for you.' She tries to wrap the pieces in their cloth.

  'Cease!' Pesna roars. 'How dare you!' His eyes are ablaze. 'You will do as I tell you, when I tell you.'

  A pain suddenly shoots through her stomach and she feels her legs go.

  She steadies herself against a wall and breathes deeply.

  Pesna doesn't care about her discomfort. His face is scarlet, his eyes wide and angry. 'I told you once to make your peace with
the gods and with your husband about this. You must do so. Now leave! Get out before I have you and that useless netsvis gutted and fed to my swine.'

  CHAPTER 25

  Present Day Ospedale San Lazzaro, Venice The cold, filtered air in the morgue moves Valentina to rub warmth into her arms. Tom doesn't feel the chill and Professore Montesano seems accustomed to it. Major Carvalho runs his tongue over his teeth, as if getting rid of a bad taste, or maybe trying to clean up the words he's about to say before he lets them out. 'We were wondering if the removal of Monica's liver has any religious significance?'

  Tom doesn't look up from the teenager's body. She's laid out on a metal gurney like butchered meat on a long silver display tray. 'Satanic significance, you mean?'

  'Si.'

  He glances at the major. 'Centuries ago, many societies attached more significance to the liver than the heart.' He looks to Montesano: 'I suspect the reason's partly medical?'

  'Indeed,' agrees the ME. 'The liver's the largest gland and internal organ in the body and, like the heart, you can't survive without it. A marvellous piece of work, really. It does everything, from detoxification, to protein synthesis and digestive functioning.' He holds his hands together. 'It's quite heavy, too: easily one and a half kilos. In adults it's about the size of an American football.'

  Tom picks up his cue to continue. 'But aside from the medical reasons, livers and hearts have long held supernatural values. There are reports from as far afield as Costa Rica about Satanists using the hearts and livers of goats, sheep and even horses in black masses and initiation ceremonies. And they're not alone in attaching symbolic power to such organs. The Egyptians embalmed the heart separately so it could be weighed on Judgement Day. If the heart was heavy with sin – or had been already cut from the body – then you were denied passage into the afterlife. The Etruscans – your ancestors – considered the liver even more important than the heart. In humans, they thought it to be the place where the soul was centred and in animals, it was the sacred organ used to divine the will of the gods.'

  Vito scratches the tip of his nose, a nervous habit when thinking. 'Why would someone remove Monica's liver?'

  Tom struggles to answer. 'Satanists fixate on all manner of body parts, both of sexual and symbolic importance. Usually the sexual fixation is for immediate personal pleasure, but when they focus on other parts, such as eyes, ears and organs, then it's generally connected with much older, almost ancient rituals and defilement.' His eyes wander again to the unclosed wounds on Monica's naked body. He'd imagined that after the PM examination the pathologist would have sewn her back up, but that's clearly not the case. What's left of her insides are still visible from the outside. It's darkly shocking. The body is now just a shell, giving no hint at all of the person or her own unique spirit and personality. 'Taking a young soul is the ultimate insult to God. If your killer has Satanic connections, then the motive of removing the liver is to defile God by defiling the human form he created. You can also assume the killer wanted the organ for some sick private or group ritual.'

  There's silence in the room. They're all looking at Monica. The only sounds are the low hum of the refrigeration system and the crackle of flies dying on electrical insect grids dotted around the room.

  Major Carvalho peels off his latex gloves. 'Tom, I know Valentina told you that this meeting would be the last thing we asked of you…' His face finishes the sentence for him.

  Tom knows what's coming. 'But it isn't.'

  The major smiles gently. 'No, it isn't. We need your help. Both on the religious aspect of this investigation and anything you can unearth from Etruscan times that might be of use.'

  'For how long?'

  'Not long. A week. Maybe two?'

  'I'm not sure I can be of much use.'

  'Sadly, I think you will be.' He looks to the gurney. 'She needs you to help us, and I need you to help us.'

  Tom nods his consent.

  The major shakes his hand, then turns to Montesano as he makes to depart: 'Professore, molte grazie.' He takes a final glance at the corpse. 'Grazie, Monica. Dio la benedica.'

  CHAPTER 26

  Riva San Biagio, Venice Vito Carvalho takes a call on his cell phone as he's leaving the morgue. He insists no one else is informed, especially not Valentina.

  Inspection crews are already dredging the choppy waters of the lagoon for the remains of Antonio's old family boat as Vito arrives. What follows is a succession of shocks. As experienced as he is, Carvalho struggles to take it all in. Death is bearable, providing it's not personal. Antonio was his protege. He was proud of him. At times he thought of him as a son.

  The major sits on the quay and processes the information. Antonio is dead. An explosion on his boat. As yet, no one knows what caused it. Yes, they're sure about the ID. Yes, he can see the body for himself. No, no one has told Pavarotti's family. Valentina? No, no one's told her either, or at least they're not supposed to have. It will leak, though. Soon, very soon.

  Vito's still in a trance as he follows a young officer to a white tent where the corpse is laid out.

  It's Antonio. No mistake.

  He says nothing, just nods his confirmation and swallows hard. Such a loss. Such a horrible, awful loss.

  Vito crosses himself and walks away. He heads from the quayside, thinking that it will take them all day and probably most of tomorrow to recover the engine block, electrics and anything else that might give a clue to what happened. Fires at sea are rare, explosions rarer still. Yet to Vito, there seems no obvious reason why the young officer should have died in anything other than an accident.

  He takes it upon himself to break the news to Antonio's parents. He doesn't want strangers doing it. Doesn't want anyone but him handling what he knows is going to be the worst moment of their lives.

  As experienced as he is, Vito still pauses outside their apartment door and takes a long slow breath.

  The TV is playing. Vito hears a man shout as he presses the bell. Through a frosted-glass pane he sees a woman's shape heading his way.

  Antonio's mother opens the door and keeps hold of it with her left hand as she looks to see who it is. Any other time he'd tell her to fit a safety chain.

  'Signora Pavarotti?'

  'Si?' She looks worried. She can sense that something is wrong.

  'My name is Vito Carvalho, Major Carvalho.' He holds up his Carabinieri ID. For a second Vito sees the relief as she thinks perhaps it's not the call she feared, the one she's always been afraid of. Then her brow furrows as she reads the look on his face, an expression that says it all.

  Camila Pavarotti's knees buckle.

  Vito catches her before she hits the floor. She's heavier than he thought. 'Aiuto! Signor! Aiutarmi!'

  Angelo Pavarotti is there in a flash.

  Vito sees he's shocked at finding a strange man bent double holding his collapsed wife. He flashes the ID that's still in his hand and explains who he is.

  They manoeuvre Camila into the living room and on to a settee.

  The major sits opposite and watches patiently while Angelo gets water for his wife then kneels alongside her as she comes round. She sips tentatively.

  She's groggy and pale.

  Vito looks away while her husband wipes her mouth. Photographs of Antonio are everywhere. Gap-toothed ones of him in his first school clothes. Wild-haired ones of him as a teenager. Handsome ones in his Carabinieri uniform. The major looks back to the settee and they're both staring at him.

  The time has come.

  'Your son, Antonio… I am sorry – he is dead. There's been an accident. The motor boat he was piloting across the lagoon exploded. We don't yet know what caused it.'

  The boy's father looks bemused. It's unbelievable. Ridiculous. His face bears a pained smile, as if it is surely a mistake. 'This can't be. Are you certain it is our boy? Antonio Pavarotti. He-'

  'Quite sure, signor. I identified his body myself.'

  The two parents look at each other.

&nb
sp; Disbelief gives way to shock.

  'I'm very sorry. Very sorry indeed.' Carvalho knows he has to draw a firm line in the sand, establish the dreadful truth and stop their world from spinning. 'Antonio was a good man. A wonderful officer and much loved by his colleagues.'

  Angelo nods bravely. The major's fine words should count for something, maybe even make him feel proud. But right now, they make no impact.

  'Some of my colleagues will come to you, tomorrow. They will make arrangements for you to see his body, if you like.' Carvalho watches the agony on their faces. 'Some investigators will come too. They will want to talk to you about Antonio, his movements, who he was seeing, and of course the boat.'

  Camila grips Angelo's hand and her face crumples again. 'Valentina? How is she?'

  Carvalho grimaces. 'She doesn't know yet. No one has told her. I came straight from the scene and you are the first people to be informed.'

  'You will tell her? Tell her personally?' It's more of a plea than a question.

  Carvalho fastens his coat. 'Of course. I'll see her as soon as I get back.'

  They both start to get up.

  'No, please. I can show myself out.' He waits a second while they sit back down. 'Again, I'm so very sorry for your loss.'

  They nod at him and fold themselves together. An embrace they never wanted.

  Vito places a card with his contact numbers on the small table in front of them and drifts from the room like a dark fog.

  CAPITOLO XX

  666 BC

  Atmanta Tetia is cutting herbs in front of the hut when he arrives. She watches as The Punisher dismounts from his great white stallion and strides her way. A shiver trickles down her spine like ice melting on a cave wall.

  She hadn't thought it would be so soon.

  It's only a day since she saw Pesna.

  Larth holds the reins confidently and pats the animal's head. 'I have come to take you to Mamarce, the silversmith.'