The Venice conspiracy ts-1

by Michael Morley

  Her legs collapse.

  She is dead.

  For a second everything stops as the shock of her passing fills the room. Larthuza breaks the trance. 'Venthi, lift her legs! Do it quickly! Take her beneath the knees and keep her legs open.'

  The big man does as instructed.

  The healer's hands work quickly. Fingers hook around the armpits of the child, and slowly he pulls.

  The baby slithers out of his dead mother's body, a bloody snake of umbilical cord trailing behind.

  All eyes are on the child.

  The silent, non-breathing, baby boy.

  Venthi can see the healer needs room. He takes his knife, slices the cord and pulls Tetia out of Larthuza's way. He lays her cold body gently against that of his dead son.

  Larthuza ties the cord. Tips the baby face down in the palm of his hand and works one of his bony fingers into its mouth.

  Its bloated little belly stretches to bursting point.

  Then -

  A splatter of dark fluid and mucus sprays from its mouth and nostrils.

  But no cry erupts. Just short breaths, like an animal snuffing.

  Larthuza smiles. 'You are a grandfather, Venthi. This little man is breathing.'

  'Let me hold him,' Venthi stretches out his hands. 'He is the only blood that will now survive me.'

  Larthuza gently passes him over. 'Careful, he is very weak. I will get something to wrap him in.'

  Venthi kisses his grandson. He is perfect, bar a small tear-shaped birthmark beneath his left eye. He kisses the child, then folds Teucer's arm around his dead wife and places the baby between them. 'These are your parents, newborn. Though you never saw them, I will make sure you never forget them and you in turn will ensure the generations that follow you will always remember them.'

  PART FOUR

  18TH CENTURY VENICE

  CAPITOLO XXXIII

  26 dicembre 1777 Piazza San Marco, Venezia Sunset turns the Canale Di San Marco into an endless stream of spilled Chianti.

  Masked courtesans totter carefully from their boats to ply their trade inland. Hungry eyes peer out from behind the soft velvet of full-face Moretta masks, most held in place by a button on a thread, clenched between the teeth.

  Some of the wearers are young and beautiful. Some old and diseased. Rich women dress as paupers. The poor borrow disguises to spend the night as nobles.

  In Venice, anyone can be anyone.

  Everything is possible.

  Nothing is certain.

  It is the day after Christmas. The Feast of St Stephen. The start of Carnevale.

  The most decadent festival in the history of the world is only hours old and it is screaming its arrival like a newborn child.

  Six months of wild indulgence is born.

  Music. Art. Sex.

  And more decadent things.

  Darker – deadlier – things.

  Piazza San Marco is already a dance floor. Embroidered coats, Carnevale capes and shimmering new costumes swirl in the crisp winter air as mingling and flirtation commence against a backdrop of string musicians. Vivaldi is dead but the Red Priest's music is more in fashion than when he was alive. Inside a cafe, female violinists play 'La Tempesta de Mare', and for a fleeting moment a group of men pause and listen before heading on towards Il Ridotto, the state-run gambling house at San Moise where most of their wages will disappear.

  From behind his long-nosed, deathly white mask, a man known as The Boatman watches them all.

  He is in the centre of it but not part of it.

  Piazza San Marco is the magnet for decadence, the epicentre of European sexual tourism. This is the place the poet Baffo dubbed the barking ground for bitches of all breeds to come and lift their tails.

  At the far end of the square a street theatre performs on a raised platform. Centre stage is a broad-chested actor playing the role of the adventurer, Capitano Scaramuccia. He is dressed in a feathered hat, flowing black cape and thick belt with steel sword. From behind a small silver mask finished with a long ivory nose he is regaling an already drunken audience with tales of beating the Turkish army and running off with the beard of the Sultan.

  The Boatman drifts away from the crowd's laughter and wanders the streets, drinking in the sexual aroma of the early evening.

  He decides to dine well.

  A hearty zuppa pomodoro, followed by a rich, roasted haunch of lamb. But no wine. Not yet. He needs a clear head.

  Afterwards he will walk off his feast and be ready for business.

  He meanders north-east through backstreets and over stone bridges towards the brothel at Santa Maria Formosa. From there he'll head into the finer quarters of Sestiere di Dorsoduro.

  He fastens his coat as a biting wind blows in from the canal, and hears someone say there's a stormy high tide on its way. He doesn't think so. Most forecasters are fools. They don't have the sense to predict that night follows day. The Boatman knows more about the elements than they ever will.

  Still, he'll be careful. Watchful. As always.

  Two courtesans – both wearing silver cat masks – make pawing motions as they approach him. The smaller one lets out a loud and playful 'Meeeooow!' then purrs and wriggles against his hip.

  The Boatman feigns disgust. All but jumps out of her way.

  The courtesans laugh at him and teeter off on their platform shoes. They're oblivious to whom they've just brushed shoulders with. Unaware of how lucky they are.

  One of their nine lives – gone for ever.

  Tonight in Venice, the two cats and ten thousand women like them will have sex with tens of thousands of strange men who've travelled from all over Europe to lie between their legs. The Boatman won't be one of them.

  The pleasure he is seeking is much less fleeting – far more permanent.

  CHAPTER CHAPTER 35

  Present Day Venice It's two days since Tina left, and Tom is missing her far more than he thought he would.

  When he's not at the Carabinieri headquarters, which is where he's currently heading, he walks the streets. Anything rather than sit and think about her. Maybe he was crazy to imagine he was something more than merely an exotic amusement for her.

  As soon as she'd gone he moved back to his old hotel – there was no way he could afford the Luna Baglioni on his dwindling funds. He was pleasantly surprised when the cops offered to pick up the bill and also to pay him some daily expenses until they were done with him.

  He pauses mid-bridge and looks out over passing gondolas and water taxis heading into the Canal Grande. He's taking in the view and half thinking about moving on, deciding what to do when the cops solve the case or shut it down, when the view jolts his memory. He puts his hand in the jacket Tina bought him and pulls out the postcard old Rosanna Romano gave him the night she died. Two gifts from two women he'd barely known and who'd never met each other, yet they've both left indelible marks on his life. Tom doesn't know whether to call it fate, coincidence or just God's will. He stares out at the Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute and understands why Canaletto felt compelled to paint it, and why Rosanna's postcard drew him to Venice. In real life it's so much bigger and more beautiful than even Canaletto could capture on canvas. It's tantalisingly close to his hotel and he makes himself a promise that he'll go inside – but not today. He's already in danger of being late for a meeting with the Carabinieri.

  Tom's still reflective and melancholic when he arrives just five minutes late, which he's already learned is like being twenty minutes early in Venice. A young officer from the front desk takes him upstairs to Vito Carvalho's room, where he finds the major also looking downcast.

  'Ciao, Tom. Please sit down.'

  'Grazie.' Tom takes the chance to exercise his extensive Italian vocabulary of about ten words, 'Buongiorno, Major.'

  Valentina Morassi walks in and they briefly kiss, that wonderful double kiss that Italians do better than any other nation. As she sits at the side of her boss's desk, Tom can instantly tell that something's
wrong.

  Carvalho takes a set of stapled fax pages and pushes it Tom's way. 'From the National Enquirer. Faxed to us by the FBI this morning.'

  Tom drags the document across. His own face stares up at him. Not a shot he's seen before. Not one used in the coverage that came after the gang rape in LA. He's wearing only a towel around his waist and he's sitting in the window of Tina's hotel room. It's been taken on a camera phone. Tina's phone. He almost daren't look at the innumerable columns of text beneath the picture and the headline: Hero Priest Finds Love and Death in Venice.

  Carvalho and Valentina give him time to take it all in. They've already been over the kiss-and-tell article several times, and both of them would gladly lock Tina Ricci up for the rest of her days. It's bad enough that she's graphically detailed her steamy love sessions with the former priest: what's unforgivable is that she's described how he's helping Venetian police with a murder hunt.

  Tom finally puts the paper down. 'I'm really sorry. I don't know what to say to you.' He lets out a long slow breath. 'I can't believe she did this.'

  'No one ever can,' says Valentina coldly. 'Journalists are specialists in deception.'

  'You're not the first to be taken in by a beautiful reporter – not by a long way – and you won't be the last,' adds Carvalho with a little more sympathy. 'But this is a really damaging piece for us. My boss went pazzo – totally crazy. Our switchboard is in meltdown with press calls, and the top brass in Rome are demanding a full report.'

  Tom studies the pages again. He feels a sickening mixture of anger and shame. 'I'm truly sorry. I somehow thought travel-writing meant she was different from other news reporters. Guess I got that all wrong. What can I do to make things easier for you and the investigation?'

  Carvalho smiles. 'Aside from catching the killer? Probably nothing.' He glances at a clock on the wall. 'Time for me to go and be kicked again by the brigadier. Please stay here until I come back. We'll have to agree a statement to the Italian press.'

  Tom forces a smile. Carvalho grabs a file and heads off.

  'Don't worry,' says Valentina, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. 'Italians are very forgiving about affairs of the heart. After all, we have a president who has more mistresses than there are gondolas in Venice. You want some coffee?'

  Tom manages a laugh. 'Thanks. I feel stunned.'

  'It's how women feel when they find their man has been cheating.' She looks deep into his eyes. 'It's betrayal, Tom. Not a good feeling. Not something you should ever put people through.'

  He guesses she's speaking from some past personal pain. 'No, it's not.' He pushes at the article in front of him. 'You know, I don't so much mind this hurting me. I'll chalk it up as one of many emotional lessons I have to learn. But I'm really sorry she's made things so awkward for you and Vito.'

  'Hey, after everything that's happened to me recently, I can tell you, this is nothing.' She smiles, a warm smile that ironically reminds him quite painfully of Tina. 'I'll get us the coffee.'

  Left alone in the room, Tom instantly becomes reflective. Wonders if Tina had been acting all along, if everything she'd said and done had been just a pretence, a way of getting a good story out of him.

  More worryingly, he wonders how he'll ever be able to trust another woman in his life.

  CAPITOLO XXXIV

  26 dicembre 1777 Sestiere di Dorsoduro, Venezia Neither of the two strangers who've already had paid sex with Louisa Cossiga have seen so much as a glimpse of her face.

  Despite their pleadings for intimacy, the raven-haired courtesan has kept her tailor-made mask on throughout their pathetic frenzies.

  It's better that way.

  Always better that way.

  She learned long ago that a person's face is at its most revealing during intercourse. The journey to orgasm shows what's on the mind – the nature of the heart – the state of the soul. All things that she has no intention of revealing to strangers, especially those who only count her worth in coins.

  The first tonight had at least shown her the courtesy of being quick. Given his speed, it was probably the most profitable three minutes of her year. He had nice eyes. Kind eyes. It was those – more than anything – that made her decide not to pick him.

  Lucky him.

  The second is the one she has chosen.

  A brute of a man. The type likely to beat his wife and children, abuse his servants and cheat his business associates.

  When he undressed, he smelled like roasted pig. Even grunted and rutted like swine. Louisa shudders as she remembers his hairy white scrotum swinging between her legs.

  Amun, he calls himself. Says it's Egyptian, meaning mystery. Louisa finds that amusing. Maybe even ironic. The man of mystery is currently washing his cock in her vanity bowl and shouting for wine.

  Louisa finishes dressing. 'Some friends are throwing a ball tonight. A select and secret affair. A palace of pleasures – the kind only a sophisticate like you could appreciate.'

  'How much?'

  'For you? Nothing. You have paid me enough already. There will be five women to every man, sufficient even for your vast appetite.'

  Amun searches for a towel and can't find one. He rubs himself dry on her bed sheet. 'And you will be there?'

  She looks him over and pretends to be aroused by his flabby, naked body. 'How could I not be? Of course, I'll be there. And tonight, among all the pleasures, you'll see me as I truly am.' She taps her silver volto mask, a uniquely hooded piece, tailored at the back in soft black velvet.

  His eyes grow greedy. 'Now. Take it off now and I'll give you anything you want.' He reaches into his cloak, hung on a door handle, and jangles a fistful of gold zecchino coins. 'Name your price.'

  She waves him away. 'Save your money' – she glances down – 'and your excitement. Tonight all you crave will be yours – for free.' She smiles mischievously. 'But if you do not come tonight, then you will never have what you desire. The choice is yours.'

  He silently pulls on his white shirt. Unfazed by her bargaining, he's wondering whether he should just hold her down and take what he wants. Maybe slap her around, teach her to know her place.

  Finally, the mystery and lure of an even more lustful affair proves too much to resist. 'As you wish. Tonight it is. Where is this ball? Do I come back here?'

  She helps him finish buttoning. 'No, my love. I will meet you. Be at the Ponte della Paglia in three hours. The ball is being held but a short boat ride away.'

  'Fine.' He grabs his cloak, turns his back and without any pleasantries, leaves.

  Louisa locks the door, pulls off her mask and shakes out her long, dark hair. She rubs her fingers through her curls. It's good to feel the cool air on her face. A mass of gummas, soft boils caused by syphilis, is itching cruely on her skin.

  She sits on a stool and looks in a mirror. Stares deep into her own eyes – the windows to her soul. She's made the right decision. The Boatman will be pleased by her choice. And so too will the others.

  CHAPTER 36

  Present Day Carabinieri HQ, Venice Vito Carvalho is smiling when he re-enters his office.

  Tom takes it as a good sign. 'So? Am I to be deported? Or fed to the lions in St Mark's Square?'

  'Worse.' The major slips into his seat behind the desk. 'We're going to throw you to the Italian press.'

  'The press?'

  'Fight fire with fire. A full media conference. The brigadier thinks the best way out of this mess is to get the TV, radio and print journalists all together and blow this away in one single session.'

  Valentina agrees. 'It's a good idea. At least this way we have some control over the garbage they'll write about you and the investigation.'

  Tom can't hide his shock. 'I came here to escape the press. If you announce it's open house, then you'll have CNN, Fox and TMZ on your doorstep as well as the local vultures.'

  'Then we need to be quick,' says Carvalho. 'Let's get it done and dusted before the foreign hacks start pleading with their editors for a few
days in Venice.' He looks to Valentina. 'Can you fix it with our media centre? We'll use the main hall, five p.m. tonight.'

  'Will do.' She smiles at Tom on her way out.

  'What do you want me to say?' Tom asks.

  'The truth. Be as truthful about your own situation as you want to be. As for the enquiry, Valentina and our press officer will prepare a statement, which I'll deliver. Hopefully we can use the situation to get members of the public to come forward with new information.'

  'On what?'

  'Anything. The first rule of running a murder enquiry is that someone always knows more than the killer thinks they know. We need to reach those people. With forensics struggling to come up with some leads for us to follow, we're making no progress.'

  Tom wonders about the logistics. 'How will we do this? I mean, my Italian isn't good enough either to speak or understand. '

  'Don't worry, we have a translator. You'll meet her beforehand and she'll explain how it'll all work.' Carvalho looks down at the National Enquirer article. 'Do you know where Signorina Ricci is now?'

  Tom glances at the wad of faxes. 'Not a clue. She's a travel writer – allegedly – so I guess she's travelling somewhere.'

  Carvalho can see he's embarrassed. 'You haven't spoken to her since she left?'

  'No. I rang her cell several times, but it just trips to voicemail. I guess she's avoiding me.'

  'She probably has a new number.' Vito scratches the back of his hand. 'You want me to find out exactly where she is and what her new contact numbers are? I could call some friends at the Polizia di Stato – the border police will have records on when she left the hotel and, if she has left Italy, where she went to. The rest of the information will only take a couple of calls…'

  Something in Tom's conscience lectures him to turn the other cheek, to forgive and forget. 'I don't think so. Thanks anyway.'

  'You sure?' Carvalho picks up the telephone. 'Wouldn't it be nice to phone her out of the blue?'