The Medici secret

by Michael White

  'Niccolo, we cannot leave these books; how can we possibly choose?'

  Contessina crouched down and placed a gentle hand on Cosimo's shoulder, but it was too late. The marauders were already on their way. Their shouts echoed down the passageway. 'Quick!' Contessina hissed and grabbed Cosimo.

  'We must save what we can!' Cosimo pressed a handful of precious texts into Contessina's arms, then began to stuff what he could into his pockets and under his belt. Niccoli scooped up a couple of scrolls, then yanked Cosimo behind the tallest pile of crates. A moment later, two of Stasanor's bandits rushed into the room.

  Before they could get too close, Niccoli and Contessina sprang from their hiding place. Niccoli had the torch in one hand and his sword in the other. His torch made a fiery arc in the air. It seared one of the men across the face and he screamed. Then thrusting forward, Niccoli found the bandit's throat with his sword and slit it open with a single movement. Blood sprayed in a great plume and the man sank to his knees clawing at his neck. Contessina was quick to reach the other guard. Surprise gave her a distinct advantage. Her startled opponent barely had time to parry her first blow before she had slipped under his guard. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Out in the passageway they could hear more voices approaching. Niccoli extinguished his torch. Falling back into the shadows, they held their breath. Two more intruders ran past them into the storeroom, emerging a few seconds later. They did not spot the three Florentines pressed into a dark recess. 'What now?' said Contessina. 'Follow me.' Niccoli checked the corridor and slid away.

  Past the storeroom and an almonry, through another door they found themselves in the chapel. Skirting the edge, dodging between stone columns they quickly reached the altar. A young monk, a boy no more than thirteen or fourteen years old jumped up from behind the altar holding a crucifix. His face was bleached with terror. Seeing Niccoli, blood smeared across his face, sword glinting in the half-light, he screamed, dropped the crucifix and bolted. Niccoli leapt up the stone steps to the corner of the room where a narrow doorway led to a broad corridor. They could see a group of bandits running towards the chapel.

  'The tower must be to the right,' Niccoli whispered. 'I believe there's another way out from there.'

  They were not spotted as they made their way inside. A solitary figure stood in the centre of the room. He looked like a rabbit startled in the light of a firebrand, his helmet askew. He could barely have reached puberty, a twin of the young monk, but a boy who had lived a very different life. He eyed his sword lying on a wooden bench close by. Niccoli tilted his head to one side and raised his eyebrows.

  It took just a few seconds to bind the boy's hands and to gag him. As Niccoli did this, Contessina and Cosimo scanned the room. In a wooden truck pushed up against the curved outer wall of the tower room they found rope and a pair of grappling hooks, leftovers from a few years earlier when the monastery had undergone repairs.

  A half-opened door led to a ramp that ascended to a mezzanine level. They had no choice but to clutch their swords and what they had managed to salvage from the library and make a run for it up the ramp. At the top stood a parapet and beyond that the black of night. To their left, a passage led back into the monastery. Contessina peered over the wall and could see the ground some ten metres below. Grass stretched away into the gloom.

  Niccoli snatched up a grappling hook as Cosimo swung the other down on to the parapet. They tossed the ropes to the ground below. Niccoli went over first. Cosimo steadied Contessina as she swung her body over the stonework and slithered expertly down. Cosimo reached the ground a few moments later. As he landed, a pair of books fell out of his tunic. He bent to grab them, but Contessina was too quick for him. Wo,' she snapped, as two arrows thudded into the turf beside them.

  They zig-zagged down an uneven slope. Glancing back, Cosimo saw a group of riders spurring their horses towards a wooden bridge close to the walls in an effort to head them off. He was exhausted and slowing almost to a halt, gasping for breath.

  'Come on, Cosimo,' Contessina screamed at him and ran back again. She put her arm around him. 'Not far now, if we can…'

  At that moment, the lead horseman emerged from the shadows of the monastery, shocking them with the speed with which he had crossed the distance from the walls. He raised a spear and let it fly. Contessina sprang forward and pushed Cosimo out of the way. He was sent sprawling, and the rider peeled off, the hooves of his mount almost crushing Cosimo's head.

  Niccoli grabbed one of Cosimo's arms while Contessina caught the other, they stumbled across the last few metres of open ground and into the trees. 'Don't stop now,' Niccoli cried, speeding up and yanking on Cosimo's arm.

  'Let go,' Cosimo snapped and pulled both arms free. 'I'm not a child.' With a final burst of energy he didn't know he had left in him, he sheathed his sword and drove forward through the undergrowth. They could still hear voices, but they were receding now. For the sake of the few precious works they had rescued, he could not stop, not while there was an ounce of breath left in him. The rain started to sluice down as Ambrogio reached the meeting point. He ached all over and his hands and face were cut and bleeding. Pausing for a moment, he took out the vial and held it up to the light. The green glow seemed more intense now. In its glass container the mysterious liquid seemed almost alive, and Ambrogio could sense its latent power. He couldn't help smiling to himself. His master knew far more than he did about this miraculous thing. But he was the one holding it at this very moment. Returning the vial to his tunic, he heard a twig snap. He unsheathed his sword and crept cautiously into the sparse trees.

  The man was almost on top of him before he saw him. He stifled a yelp, and sprang back. 'Ambrogio, it is I.' 'Niccolo! Thank the Lord'

  The two men embraced Ambrogio stiffened as two more figures emerged from the gloom. Then he broke into a broad smile as he saw Cosimo and Contessina striding towards him.

  Chapter 25

  Venice, present day Vincent had closed the heavy drapes and dimmed the lights leaving the fire to cast its comforting glow across the room. Edie and Jeff were on the sofa, each cradling a large brandy while Rose slept fitfully on a leather chesterfield under the window on the other side of the library. Jeff's apartment had been sealed off, still the subject of forensic investigation. Candotti had told them they had been tailed by a police unit, a move that had clearly saved their lives. Roberto had insisted they stay at his place and had only stopped demanding he be moved there himself when Edie threatened to pack up and leave, alone, on the night train to Florence if he did.

  Even though the police had followed their movements since they had left Roberto's hospital room, Jeff and Edie had been quizzed at length by two senior police officers and had recounted the events leading up to the shooting several times over: how they had visited La Pieta simply as tourists, to look at the famous frescoes; how they had then left there just after 5.30 p.m. and returned to the apartment. They each gave detailed descriptions of the gunman and clarified that it was he who had chased them the night before, injured Roberto and killed Dino. They also confirmed this killer was the man who had hijacked Roberto's launch and murdered the driver, Antonio.

  A female counsellor had talked to Rose alone, and later, with Edie and Jeff. But Rose really only calmed down once she was inside Palazzo Baglioni. She seemed to have a natural affinity for the place and had bonded closely with Roberto. She felt safe inside the ancient walls of the canal-side residence. She had swallowed a special nightcap created by Vincent from what he claimed was a secret recipe that had been in his family for generations and had drifted off to sleep to the mellifluous sound of Brahms' Intermezzo in A. As Jeff had kissed her goodnight, the last thing she said was, 'I can't believe it, Dad. I only popped out of the apartment for a few minutes.' Jeff gazed over at his sleeping daughter.

  'The young have remarkable powers of recuperation,' Edie said quietly.

  'I guess this must bring back some horrible memories for you.'

>   She smiled. 'Years of therapy have plastered over the cracks. I was just eight, a lot younger than Rose when my parents were killed. That's not to say I don't remember it. I do. Every detail, as though it were yesterday.' She seemed to want to talk and Jeff was happy to let her. 'I've relived the experience so many times. It never loses its potency, but I've come to terms with the fact that it really did happen. I really did walk into that makeshift lab in the desert and find my mum and dad practically floating in their own blood. It was simply an opportunist killing; the murderer got away with a few dollars. That was three decades ago, and the clocks don't stop, the world doesn't halt on its axis, even if you think it should.' 'And now you work with the dead.' 'Oh yes.' 'In a strange way, it must help.'

  'Not sure about that, but it keeps things in perspective. Jeff gave her a quizzical look.

  'Look at Cosimo de' Medici. He was one of the wealthiest men who ever lived. Within the limits of his time, he could do almost anything. He kick-started the Renaissance for God's sake. And what is he now? Wherever his real body lies it will be, at best, a pile of crumbling bones inside a beautiful jacket with solid gold buttons.'

  Jeff thought of poor Maria. Her life so violently and needlessly extinguished. And Dino too, who had paid the ultimate price for saving them. That was only two nights ago, but already it felt like a lifetime away. Where was Dino now? Had some element of his being really found his wife and daughter? Had the agonies of their lives finally been washed away? Or was everything Dino had once been now nothing more than a slab of meat decaying in a mortuary nearby?

  Jeff shrugged his shoulders and looked up at the ceiling. 'Questions with no answers,' he mused. 'I guess it's only at times like this we stop to consider what life really means. And what do we conclude?'

  'We each conclude something completely different,' Edie said. 'But there are some basic truths, aren't there?' 'Probably not,' Edie replied.

  'It's all smoke and mirrors, all meaningless, don't you think? Whether or not you believe in an afterlife, the only thing that really matters is what you leave for others, be it great works of art, wonderful music people will listen to for centuries after you're dead, or something as simple as being remembered as a good person, someone who gave more than they took.'

  'Maybe,' Edie drained her glass, and poured herself another. 'But whatever you do, whatever you leave behind gradually decays and eventually vanishes. I see it every working day. Eventually nothing remains, nothing at all. Bones crumble to dust, and the dust is blown away in the wind.' She took a large gulp of her brandy. 'And what we do vanishes too, doesn't it?' She didn't wait for Jeff to reply. 'One day Mozart's music will be forgotten, the words of Jesus will mean nothing. Whatever they contributed will have faded beyond memory. As the great George Harrison put it: all things must pass.'

  'Quite so,' Jeff said and raised his glass in a mock salutation. And they both laughed. 'So, what now?' Edie said, wiping her eyes.

  'Obviously, we leave for Florence first thing. All of us.' Jeff glanced over at Rose, feeling a stab of guilt for landing his daughter in all this mayhem. Then came anger, anger for being so powerless to shield her from the horrors she had witnessed.

  Chapter 26

  Toronto, present day The call to a Venetian number was made by one of Luc Fournier's junior assistants and patched through to the speeding limo en route to the airport.

  'Good evening,' Fournier said. He heard an intake of breath as the man at the other end of the line was about to speak.

  'There's no need for you to say anything,' Fournier was clipped and precise. 'Let's make this as simple as possible. I want you to intervene personally. Do you understand?… Good. That's all. Don't fail me.'

  Chapter 27

  Venice, present day The two men wore identical grey suits. One had a pair of aviators perched on the bridge of his nose even though it was 10.30 at night and black as a coalface outside the police station. The other, taller man had spiky bleached blond hair, with black roots. He was chewing gum. They approached the main desk and the officer in charge, Gabrielli Risso eyed them, a faint tingle of fear edging along his spine. 'Yes?'

  The man wearing the sunglasses silently surveyed the room. The other took a wallet from his pocket and held it up close to the desk officer's face. ROS: Raggruppamento Operativo Speciale, an elite division of the Carabinieri, an anti-terrorism unit. 'How may I help you?' Risso asked.

  Still chewing on his gum, the blond man said, 'We're here to collect the prisoner.'

  'If you mean the murder suspect brought in from San Marco this evening, he's still being processed.' 'Get your commanding officer here… now.'

  Risso stared into the man's slate-grey eyes and decided not to argue. He lifted the receiver and punched in three numbers.

  A few moments later, a middle-aged man dressed in the uniform of a Vice Provincial Commander appeared. 'Commander Mantessi.' He had a strong Neapolitan accent. 'My duty officer tells me you're interested in the San Marco murder.' 'Is there somewhere we can be more private?'

  The Commander indicated a room off the main hall. It was empty apart from a steel table. There were metal bars at the single square window in the wall opposite the door. The man wearing shades stood silently at the end of the table. The blond man sat down. 'We have been sent to transfer the prisoner.'

  The Commander lowered himself into a seat opposite, placed his arms on the table and interlocked his fingers. 'I've heard nothing about this.' 'Our Commander emailed you this evening.' 'I have not received an email.'

  The ROS officer kept his eyes fixed on Mantessi and withdrew a sheaf of papers from an inside pocket of his jacket. 'Here.'

  Mantessi glanced at them and stood up without a word. 'Wait here.'

  In less than a minute he was back in the room. 'There's no record of this request other than the document you showed me. There's no email,' he said simply.

  'I anticipated that eventuality,' the ROS officer said. 'You cannot rely on the new technology. So I took the liberty of contacting your superior, Deputy Prefect Aldo Candotti.' He handed Mantessi his mobile. The commander took it as though he had been offered a stale halibut. Placing it to his ear, he said. 'Yes, Deputy Prefect. Yes, that is correct. But sir, we have no formal…' He glanced at the ROS officer who was gazing at his shoes and rocking on his heels. The other officer appeared to be staring straight at him, but it was hard to tell for sure. 'That's correct sir. Yes, naturally. I see… Very well… Goodnight.' He made a show of finishing the conversation even though Candotti had already hung up. The ROS van pulled up at the back entrance to the police station. The prisoner had been cuffed, his hands behind his back. Four officers escorted him to the doors of the van. He smirked at Mantessi who watched the process from the doorway. Two uniforms pushed the prisoner's head down to clear the frame before they closed the doors and banged on them to tell the driver all was secure. The van sped away. A black Alfa Romeo 159 carrying the ROS officers swept out behind it.

  The two vehicles crossed Ponte della Liberta and took a turning off to Mestre, the lights of Venice dipping behind them. The main road twisted north and plunged past fields skirted by olive groves before it narrowed to a two-lane street with modest stone houses on either side. The van and the car pulled off into a lane and stopped. The two men jumped from the Alfa Romeo and met the driver of the van midway between the vehicles. The lane was slushy underfoot. Sleet had only stopped falling an hour before. Their breath hit the cold air and swirled around their faces. They swapped keys. The car reversed, swung around in the lane and skidded off while the two ROS officers jumped into the cabin of the van, fired the engine and continued on along the muddy track. A mile further on, they could see headlights in the night. They slowed and pulled over under the branches of a tree close to a black car. Running round the back of the van, they opened the doors.

  'God, am I glad to see you,' the prisoner exclaimed and scrambled out into the chill air.

  One of the ROS men patted him on the back. 'Good to see you
too, Giulio.'

  The other officer quickly unlocked the cuffs. Giulio rubbed his wrists. One of the men offered him a cigarette. He took it gratefully and lit up, following them around the side of the van.

  The headlights switched off and a burly figure emerged from the black car. Aldo Candotti had his hands in the pockets of a shin-length black coat that flapped around his legs. He shook hands with the three men. 'Excellent work' he said, his voice flat. 'Now gentlemen.' He turned to the two ROS officers. 'If you could wait here for a moment. I would like a private word with Giulio.'

  Candotti put one meaty arm about the prisoner's shoulder and led him down the leafy lane under the trees.

  'I am really grateful,' Giulio gave Candotti a big smile. 'I will soon have the information you need.'

  'The problem is,' the Chief of Police replied, 'you seem to have generated… how shall I put it? Rather a lot of bad PR, Giulio. Your idea of grabbing the girl at the apartment was so crude, I had to intervene personally.'

  Giulio's fingers pinched the cigarette between his lips. Pulling it away, he tossed it to the ground and crushed it under the toe of his shoe. When he looked up, Candotti was holding a pistol an inch from his forehead. Giulio tensed and took a step back.

  'Inefficiency is excusable in many people, Giulio,' Candotti said wearily. 'People can accept it if a pop star turns up late for a show or a painter needs just that little bit longer to finish his masterpiece. But assassins? Well, it doesn't work, does it? Surely you can see that.'

  Giulio's mind was racing. No situation was ever irretrievable. He stole a glance towards the vehicles, seeing the two men looking directly at them.

  'I would say I'm sorry I have to do this,' the Chief of Police said. 'But I do so hate cliches, don't you? Now, shall I get you on your knees and shoot you through the head or would it be more sporting to let you run and shoot you in the back?'