by J. F. Penn
Morgan was silent for a moment, debating whether to speak more. She felt a pressing desire to share her thoughts but was also wary of his opinion.
“I feel most spiritual and close to whatever God is when I scuba dive,” she said quietly. “I’m so insignificant on the face of the world and yet so privileged to see life all around me. Nature shows the splendor in the universe, when so often what man creates comes nowhere near it.” She paused. “Once I lay back on a dive alone and looked up through giant kelp to the surface. The sun was shining down through the deep green fronds, their pods waving in the surge. I saw God in that moment, in the tiny worlds living their life out under the oceans, with no thought of us.”
The dark was a cloak to mask their honesty, their first real conversation held in the blackness of a magical place.
“What of the magnificent churches that we’ve been in over the last few days?” Jake asked. “Do you feel God here, or back in Rome or Santiago?”
“This is an amazing place, but the aim of cathedrals was always to make people feel in awe of their God. It was a sign of the power and riches of the Doge and the Venetian republic at a time when the grandeur of churches would demonstrate power and piety to all. Pilgrims would come, but is it awe of God, or man’s creation? I prefer to find my spirituality in nature where man’s hand is yet unseen.”
“And what about the stones?” Jake asked. “What was Pentecost anyway? Is it a myth built on a grain of truth or a real power that we will put back together when the stones are reunited? If one stone can perform miracles like Varanasi, what will all twelve do in one place?”
“I can’t see past Faye and Gemma now, Jake. We’re in this for different reasons but I don’t believe in a power that can change matter or perform miracles through pieces of rock. I’m a psychologist, and mass hysteria can explain the miracles in India. Even if there were miracles, that doesn’t make them from God and it doesn’t matter anyway. I need to do this to save my family. Can I count on you to help me to the end?”
Jake’s silence was just a fraction too long but then they heard the door below open and footsteps echoed through the church as Mario returned.
They switched their head torches back on and blinked a little in the light. It brought them back to real life in the church and they avoided each other’s eyes. It was as if the honest conversation in the dark had never happened. Mario reappeared on the balcony struggling with a metal suitcase containing the apparatus.
“We used this to inspect the dome of Maria Salute last year and repair cracks in the ceiling.”
He put the case down and opened it to reveal a small remote controlled helicopter, with pincers and a tiny drill as well as a catch bag. Morgan could see the two men grinning at the mini-copter like little boys with a new toy.
“We used the attachments to plug holes and the catch bag to stop the mortar falling on Maria Salute but I think it’ll do the trick. We need to hurry though. It’s pretty loud. We can’t get caught here. I’m not sure even Marietti would be able to placate the Patriarch of Venice over the desecration of the Basilica.”
Fitting the equipment together, Mario and Jake made sure the rotors spun properly and started it up. The loud buzzing echoed, resounding around the dome. At first Mario used the controls to hover above the ledge and then directed it up to the Pentecost cupola. Jake spotlighted the stone with his stronger hand-held beam.
“There’s a mini camera on the drill,” Mario said. “It pokes upwards and around the rotors so there’s no interference. Check out the image on the monitor, Morgan. It’s grainy but you can clearly see the middle stone is different to the surrounds on the throne. That must be it.”
Morgan knelt by the tiny monitor, anticipation building. Her professional curiosity was roused by what could be hidden here, and she felt immediately conflicted. How could she find enjoyment in what they did while Faye and Gemma were held hostage? She focused on the task at hand.
“Do you think anyone will notice it’s gone?” she said. “After all, this could be the true relic of St Mark’s, not the body of the evangelist.”
“Don’t worry Morgan.” Mario reassured her. “You take this stone and I’ll fashion a replica and replace it tomorrow night. No one will even know it’s gone; the mosaic is too high up to see.” Gently drilling around the side of the stone, Mario neatly positioned the catch bag underneath to catch the debris. “Almost there now. It’s so small. I just have to lever it out ... OK, it’s in the bag.”
Mario guided the mini-copter back to their ledge and shut it down. Jake opened the catch bag, sifted through the fragments and scooped out the stone. He held it out. It was a rough dark circle, just smaller than his palm. The side that had been facing into the church was blank, almost worn, but the inner side was roughly carved, a circle within a square.
“Is that it?” Mario looked disappointed. “Is this all you’re looking for?”
Jake turned it over in his hand, and looked at Morgan.
“What do you think? Can you verify it?”
“It looks like the same rock as the others,” she said, “but it has to be the right one. Why else would a dull stone be mounted in the center of the golden Pentecost mural? It must have tremendous significance for the church.”
But Morgan felt a sense of foreboding as she touched it. They now held five stones of the Apostles, but that wasn’t enough. They had to find the others because time was running out.
Desert property of Joseph Everett, Arizona.
May 22, 7.02pm
Joseph Everett watched through the one-way mirror as Faye tucked Gemma into the small bed in the sparsely furnished room they were being held in. He listened as she finished telling her daughter a story.
“The princess was very brave and didn’t cry, even though she was trapped in the magic castle.”
“The prince is coming to save her, isn’t he, Mummy?”
“Of course my darling, but the prince has to have adventures along the way, so he’s a bit late.”
“What ‘ventures?”
“Sleep time now, GemGem. I’ll tell you about the adventures tomorrow night.”
Faye bent and kissed the little girl, stroking her hair. She turned the desk lamp away so Gemma’s face was in shadow and she could sleep. Joseph felt himself admiring her. The woman was definitely resilient, or at least hid her fear well in front of the child. After the kiln she had been brought back here and Joseph had sat watching them. She had snatched Gemma into her arms and held her tightly, burying her head in the little girl’s hair until she was pushed away by the protesting child. Then Faye’s face had cleared and she pretended that nothing had happened. It was as if she compartmentalized the experience and would not let her own terror affect her daughter.
Joseph raised his hand to the glass and traced the shape of Faye’s face on it. She still sat on the bed looking down at Gemma, holding her little hand. He felt a pang of longing for this woman and a little girl to love. Could he have had this life if his bitch of a mother had been different? What if she had tucked her boys in and told them stories? All he could remember were insults, taunts and the filthy cupboard under the stairs, and now his own marriage was one of fear and duty, bound by the public face he wanted the world to know. But only Michael had really loved him, had told him stories in the dark, stroking his hair as Faye was doing now. What if he could take this woman for himself? Would she love him?
He shook his head, wondering at his temporary weakness. He didn’t know how to be with a woman like that. She was nothing to him but a symbol of a life lost. Michael didn’t have a wife and child. He barely had breath left in his body but his brother was his only family. Slamming his hand against the glass, Joseph watched Faye start in surprise and fear. She instinctively bent her body, protecting her daughter as Gemma woke again and started crying. Joseph stalked from the hidden room, focused on the end-game. It was time to make plans for Pentecost.
May 23
Doge’s Palace, Venice, Italy
May 23, 2.33am
Mario carefully packed the pieces of the mini-copter back into the suitcase then the trio retraced their steps down the stairs and exited through a hidden doorway.
“This was once been used by the Doge for his personal visits to the church,” Mario explained as he led Morgan and Jake behind the great marble pillars of rose and teal. “The secret rooms are hidden in floors built behind and above the open public rooms. These are simple wood, whereas the others are ornate and painted gold for impressions’ sake. There are prison cells and even a torture chamber here.”
Morgan shivered, memories of what she had suffered at the hands of those in power invading her thoughts. She pushed them away.
“Governments are all the same throughout the ages,” she said, “nothing changes.”
Mario shook his head.
“Actually, Venice was one of the most impressive early democracies. The government had a complicated election process that prevented the nepotism and despotism that plagued other parts of Europe at the time. It was truly a light in the medieval darkness of tyranny on the continent.”
Morgan heard the pride in his voice, defense of his beloved city. She knew she had her own conflicting feelings about Jerusalem, a city she loved and despised, where truth was ever malleable and people’s lives hung in the balance of the great religions. Perhaps Venice had been just as tangled.
Mario led them through the maze of tiny wooden spaces.
“This is the authentic Venice, the real halls of power. Casanova was imprisoned here, you know. He was one of the few who escaped. It is an amazing historical place, once the keeper of all the secrets of the republic.”
They walked up the grand staircase to the first floor of the Doge’s Palace, torchlight illuminating the colors of paintings covering the walls, the opulence of a once wealthy Venice. Mario stopped at a painted scene of a group of nobleman and opened a panel with a key. The hidden door swung open and they went inside the secret rooms of the Doge’s government. The ceilings were low, half the size of the grand rooms they had come through, designed to fit two levels of offices to each of the public facing levels with tiny windows camouflaged into the outside walls, providing a little light to the dark space. Here the civil servants of the Venetian government had toiled away, the real power behind La Serenissima.
They finally reached a large open plan document room from which all the original Venetian paperwork had been removed. Wooden panels around the side walls were painted with the coats of arms of noblemen who had ruled Venice over the years. Morgan sank down into one of the chairs, still holding the stone they had retrieved. She wasn’t letting it go. Even after their honest conversation in the dark of the Basilica, she couldn’t trust Jake’s motives for seeking the stones. But it had been a long day and she badly needed sleep. Mario pulled some blankets and a sleeping bag out from one of the cupboards.
“You can rest here for a few hours until morning if you like,” he said. “As long as you’re gone before the other workers come in. People here are late starters. They like to have their coffee first.”
Morgan nodded, barely able to keep her eyes open now but she quickly texted David to keep him updated on their progress. Then she made a rough bed with some blankets and curled up, grateful for her ability to sleep quickly even under great stress.
***
Jake stood in front of one of the windows, trying to get a cell phone signal. Finally he connected with Marietti and spoke low so as not to wake Morgan.
“We have the stone of St Peter. Morgan was right, it was here in Venice.”
“Excellent. It’s imperative that you also get the others before Thanatos is able to find you again.”
“We haven’t had any trouble here. Maybe they’ve lost our trail.”
“Or maybe they’re in front of you, Jake. They know ARKANE is involved, and what is at stake at Pentecost. We can’t leave any out in the world.”
“Where are we heading next?” Jake asked. “Did you have Martin narrow down the options?”
“Since you’re in Italy, you’ll be heading for Amalfi, where the relics of St Andrew are kept. There’s evidence they were taken there after the Sack of Constantinople. The plane will take you down there tomorrow morning. We’ll speak again after that.”
The phone went silent as Marietti terminated the call.
Jake hung up and stared out the window at the dark lagoon lapping against the Doge’s palace. He could see the Bridge of Sighs leading over to the ancient dungeons lit by the lights from the Ponte della Paglia. The sighs of the damned, he thought, as he turned to look at Morgan’s sleeping form. Tonight he felt as if he walked among those ghosts of ancient Venice, trapped into living their bleak sentence every night.
Salerno to Amalfi, Italy.
May 23, 9.16am
Morgan sat at the back of the boat, staring out across the azure ocean. They had risen early in Venice and flown to Salerno, where they hired a speedboat to take them along the coast to their next destination. The drive around the cliffs was spectacular, but the boat would be quicker and they were less likely to be followed. Amalfi was on the opposite coast of Italy to Venice, southeast of Naples. Morgan knew it had been a center of medieval power around the turn of the first millennium and, because of its beauty, had become a popular holiday spot for the British aristocracy in the 1920s. The town nestled at the bottom of the dramatic cliffs of Monte Cerreto and opened out into the Gulf of Salerno. It had once been an important port and maritime power, but now tourists visited mainly for the gorgeous coastline.
Morgan looked back on the last few days as a blur, running, hiding, creeping around in the darkness and desecrating churches. It was a relief to be out in the sunlight, the rich colors something she missed in the grey of England. Israel had this quality of light too, with a brilliant blue of the sky rarely seen in Oxford. She knew that this was a brief respite and closed her eyes behind dark sunglasses, lifting her head to the sun. She wore shorts and a t-shirt, but part of her wanted to strip down and swim in the bright ocean.
She remembered the last time she had swam, a day trip with Faye and Gemma to Brighton beach on a surprisingly sunny day in April. It was the archetypal British seaside town, with deck-chairs set out on the stony shore. Seagulls swooped low to snatch discarded fish and chips from newspapers and ice cream sellers hawked their sugary treats to the British public, who were desperate to soak up the rays of the infrequent sun. Knowing the vagaries of the weather forecast, they had taken sweaters and waterproofs as well as bathing suits and towels and made a nest on the beach.
Faye had taken the chance to relax with a book so Morgan had held Gemma’s hand and led her down to the ocean. The little girl’s face was a rapture of delight as the gentle waves had tickled her feet and they splashed together in the shallows. Morgan remembered her giggling, squealing at the cold as they darted in and out, Gemma demanding to be lifted and swung out so she could see further out to sea. At that moment Morgan understood simple pleasure. She forgot Elian and what she had lost in Israel, focusing only on what she had now found with her family. Gemma had shown her joy and the memory of her childish laughter echoed in her mind. She would not give that up. Morgan was grateful for the dark sunglasses she wore as she blinked away the tears that were starting to well.
Jake interrupted her thoughts as he sat down beside her, holding his smart phone with more information from Martin back at the ARKANE office.
“St Andrew certainly got around,” he said. “Did you know he’s the patron saint of Ukraine, Scotland, Russia, Romania and Greece as well as here in Amalfi, and other cities in Portugal and Malta?”
“So why does Martin think the stone is here specifically?” she replied, gazing out at the view to center herself back in the present. This was indeed a beautiful place; no wonder the aristocrats of Europe had come here for years. Sports cars and yachts were the hallmark of the area, yet as they sped across the ocean it seemed timeless. Towering cliffs, unchanged for mill
ennia, overshadowed white houses with red roofs interspersed with green olive groves.
“Martin said that the cathedral of Amalfi is dedicated to St Andrew. The Apostle and his relics were transported here in 1208 following the sack of Constantinople, although Andrew’s head only finally joined the rest of his body in 2008. If the Keepers followed the bones of the Apostles, there must be something here.”
***
They disembarked at the Porta Marina in Amalfi. The powerboat looked tiny next to the mega yachts and other luxury craft in the wide bay. Morgan looked up at the terraced hillsides that stretched above them, glimpsing hidden palazzos and boutique villas nestled into the headland. Their guide gave them a map and pointed up into the town.
“The cathedral of St Andrew is just up the hill, in the center of the old district.”
Jake and Morgan headed out of the marina and into the town, pushing through the hordes of tourists who thronged the marina walls. The hotels on the waterfront were brilliant white with racing green shutters, many with buttresses and towers built on top for the town could only grow upwards here as the cliffs pushed it into the sea. There were old style iron lamp posts and iconic Vespas parked on the street.
Morgan smiled at the scene, “This is such a different Italy, Jake. It’s so beautiful. If we weren’t in such a hurry, I’d love to stay a while. I know Faye would love it here too.”
Morgan thought of Faye’s amazing cooking, so different from her own functional relationship with food. Her sister’s melanzane parmigiana could definitely hold its own even in this Italian heartland.
