Chase Baker and the Da Vinci Divinity (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book 6)

by Vincent Zandri

  In a separate room, is a multi-media set up with a video that documents the artist’s life. By the looks of things, it runs in a continual loop. When I enter into the space, it’s broadcasting da Vinci the little boy leading sheep through a field of tall grass in Vinci. The boy is taking notice of the birds, the trees, and natural world all around him. He carries a sketch book around his neck by a leather lanyard, and he proceeds to draw what he’s observing, carefully cataloging each little detail of a bird’s wings in flight, or a spider making a web, or even of the way the grass moves in waves when a sharp wind passes through it.

  The boy then proceeds downhill to a wide, swiftly moving stream. He enters into the stream and walks it for a while, his feet entirely engulfed in the water. Soon he comes to a hillside which he climbs. Descending the opposite side of the hill, he spots something located down in the valley. It’s a cave. The young da Vinci exits the stream and goes to the cave, stands inside its opening.

  My heart beats, because I’m waiting for a map to appear on the video. Something that might give me some idea where to at least begin looking for it. But then, the scene changes to Leonardo the young adult, as he begins to carve out a career in Renaissance, Florence. In the meantime, the cave remains as elusive to me as ever. Chase the, still, clueless.

  I move on.

  To the right of the media room, is another room located on a sublevel that contains replicas of da Vinci’s more famous paintings, including the Annunciation. The Last Supper takes up the entire far wall while, on the adjoining wall, is not one copy of the Mona Lisa but several versions—detailed enlargements of certain portions of the painting, especially her smile, as well as several x-ray-like views, as if the work of art is hiding something inside its paint. And knowing da Vinci and his penchant for producing works of art with messages hidden within, I have no doubt that something yet unseen just might still be hidden inside the Mona Lisa, or any one of his paintings. Maybe even precise directions to the cave.

  I turn back to The Last Supper.

  I can’t help but focus on its center point: Jesus, with his arms spread, in the midst of telling his flock that one of them is about to betray him. So much has been written about this painting, both fictional and nonfictional. Is the long, red-haired person on the right of Jesus, and leaning away from him so that their bodies form a V, really Mary Magdalene, and his wife? Maybe da Vinci knew more about Jesus’ personal life than we give him credit. Maybe inside that cave he became privy to many, many secrets both past and future. If the inventions recreated and displayed outside this sub-basement level room are any indication, he most certainly had. But how will we know for sure?

  Find the Book of Truths and then find the cave.

  My eyes, still focused on the wall painting. Still focused on Jesus. But then, my eyes begin to drift to the depiction of The Last Supper floor and the lines in it that run perpendicular to the table. I follow the lines upwards past Jesus’ feet, past the bottom of his robes, up past the horizontal lines created by the white—almost shroud-like—table cloth, and then up beyond his torso and his head draped in long, lush hair, framed by a window that looks out onto the countryside. That’s when I see Jesus’ hair blowing in the wind. A lock of his hair emanating out from the wall painting, like the disciples left the window open prior to the commencement of their final supper together.

  I make a slow, about-face. I’m still the only patron of the museum this early in the morning. Peering upwards, I spot the scattering of security cameras placed in most corners. Although there’s a camera mounted to one of the four corners in this basement, I’m making an educated guess that, based on the direction the camera lens is aimed—directly into the center of the floor—it won’t capture any digital closed circuit evidence of what I’m about to do.

  I step forward, toward The Last Supper and Jesus. Then another step. And another. Until my face and the face of Christ are within halitosis distance from one another. Raising my right hand, I place it over the area where I saw his hair pulse outward. I feel a slight cool breeze. Placing my hand against the hair and the wall, I realize there is a seam in the wall, and that the air escaping from it has pulled the wallpaper-like depiction of The Last Supper away from the wall’s surface.

  “A room behind the mural,” I whisper to myself.

  I run my hand all the way down to the floor and then run it back up Jesus’ right-hand side, my eyes focused on the extremely thin seam. I come to realize what I’ve discovered is a hidden door that leads into a back room, or chamber, inside the basement of this old museum. Standing, I lay both hands flat on the wall, one hand each flanking Christ and I push.

  That’s when I feel a hand come down hard on my shoulder.

  8

  “Can I help you, sir!” The words aren’t shouted, but there’s enough acid in them to burn holes in my eardrums.

  I turn quick, make a fist. I’m not about to haul off and belt Bowl Haircut in the mouth, but I can’t help instinct. Instead of violence, I force a smile.

  “Help?” I say. “Oh, well, now that you mention it, I do have a question. How is your English?”

  Bowl Haircut is looking at me through the thick round lenses on his horn rim eyeglasses.

  “My English is excellent,” he says, like I’ve insulted him merely at the suggestion of it being not so excellent.

  For a brief second or two, I consider asking him about the room behind this room, which he by now realizes I’m aware of. The fact that he was so quick to pounce on me for my discovery, combined with his angry demeanor and expression, tells me he doesn’t wish for anyone to know about it.

  I decide to go another route. “I understand you work here. But how much do you really know about da Vinci?”

  His scowl fades, giving way to a grin, if not a smirk. Clearly, I’ve pressed the right buttons. Some people, like college professors, for instance, just can’t help themselves when it comes to showing the world how smart they are.

  “I just happen to possess a doctorate in classical history with a concentration on the Renaissance masters, in particular, Leo da Vinci.”

  “Leo,” I repeat. “Sounds like you’re personal buds with the guy.”

  The smile grows wider. “Your words are not far from the truth.”

  “Then, since you and Leo are so tight, maybe you can help me with something. I’m curious about the legend of da Vinci’s cave. You know anything about that?”

  He laughs aloud, like one of the disciples in the painting just farted.

  “Don’t you think, Mr… . “

  “Baker,” I say, holding out my hand. “Dr. Chase. Baker … I possess a doctorate from the University of Mars.”

  He exhales, like my joke is not only stupid, but exhausting.

  “Mr. Baker, do you not think if the cave exists, it would have been discovered by now? There are very few places on earth, especially Western Europe, that remain unexplored wilderness.”

  “Thanks for your insight, Dr… . “

  “Dr. Marco Belli,” he says.

  “Well, Dr. Belli,” I go on, “just for shits and giggles, what if the cave really does exist? Where would you place it on a map?”

  He looks at me perplexed. “What is this, shiggles and gits you speak of?”

  “It’s shits and giggles.”

  “Shits and giggles.” He says it like sheets and geeeggles. “You Americans and the crude manner in which you speak.”

  “I’ll try not to take offense to that, Doc,” I say. “Now, if the cave exists, where would you put it?”

  He shrugs his shoulders. “Vinci would be a good place to start since that’s where da Vinci was born. His last name means, Of Vinci, in case you were ignorant to that fact.”

  “You don’t say, Doc. Jeez, you’re just full of interesting tidbits. I might have to write that one down before I forget.”

  Another look of confusion.

  Just then, the front door opens and people start pouring into the museum. Young people. A high sc
hool field trip by the looks of it. Kids in ratty, skinny jeans and those goofy oversized woolen hats that hang down onto their backsides. They’re loud, obnoxious, playing grab ass, and already pulling books and da Vinci toys off the shelves.

  “Mamma mia,” says the doc, shooting a quick glance at the bad day building up at the ticket counter. “I must tend to these ragazzi.”

  “Before you go, Doc,” I interject. “I have one more question. Have you ever heard of the Book of Truths? Does it exist?”

  He locks eyes with mine, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down inside his throat.

  “Like the cave, the Book of Truths is pure fiction.”

  I can’t be sure if it’s my imagination, or I’m actually feeling a breeze blowing against my back.

  “Okay,” I say, “take it easy, Doc. I’m just curious is all. A buddy of mine told me that I might be able to find a copy here.”

  He peers at me with the power gaze, the little triangular nub of skin between his two eyes and eyebrows popping up.

  “And who exactly would your buddy be?” he asks.

  I press my lips together, grin. “I honestly can’t say.”

  He turns, walks away.

  “Oh, Doc,” I add, “you know, you really should have a contractor check out this wall. There’s air blowing out of it.”

  “Thank you for noticing, Mr. Baker.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  “Sheets and geeeggles,” he mumbles as he makes his way up the steps to greet the horde of kids in the museum reception area. “The world is getting more stupid with each passing moment.”

  “No it ain’t,” I say, to his back.

  9

  On my way out, I purchase one of those expensive big, glossy, picture books of all things da Vinci. It’s her Majesty’s dough, so what do I care? I purchase it directly from Dr. Belli once he’s checked in all the rowdy students. Not once during the transaction does he make eye contact with me, or speak to me. Not as if I don’t exist. More like he wishes I would cease to exist.

  When it’s done, I take my receipt and my book and I leave the shop the way I came in.

  “Arrivederci,” I bark on the way out, just to frost his professorial ass.

  As I’m passing the storefront window, I peek back inside. He’s looking out the same piece of glass. When our eyes meet, I can see that he’s got his cell phone pressed up against his ear, and my built-in shit detector speaks to me.

  It says, He’s warning someone about you, and that someone is not very nice.

  I’m just about to take the corner onto Via Guelfa when two men come out of the alley across the road and at me to my direct right-hand side. I have just enough time to eye their faces. Dark skin, thick beards—like the logging beards that are so trendy these days amongst young men. They grab me by the arms, shove their knees into the backs of my knees so that I immediately collapse.

  A car pulls up. The back door opens. I’m thrust inside.

  I raise my head, shout, “Let me go!”

  Something hard comes down on my head and …

  10

  When I come to, I’m seeing orange. Blaze orange. An orange so bright it almost hurts my eyes to look at it.

  My head hurts. But then, that’s not surprising considering the sucker punch those bearded bastards snuck in on me. My eyes suddenly regain focus and I realize the blaze orange I’m staring at is myself. Rather, the baggy jumper that’s been placed over my own clothing.

  While several pieces of thick duct tape gag my mouth, my hands are bound behind my back with one of those plastic ties soldiers and riot police use to neutralize violent offenders. My ankles are bound with an identical plastic tie. I’m lying on my side on a damp stone floor, fetal position, my eyes focused on my thighs and knees. The floor smells like piss. In fact, straightening myself out, and shifting myself onto my back, I realize the entire place smells like a combination of piss, sweat, and the excrement of not one animal, but several varieties.

  There are no windows, only window-sized rusted grates and grills installed at the very tops of the old, if not ancient, stone walls, with screens over them for ventilation. A couple of lightbulbs are hanging down from the ceiling by means of naked wires. Also hanging down from the ceiling are several more wires to which meat hooks are attached. Installed in the center of the concrete floor is a drain. This is most definitely not a happy, feel-good-about-the-future kind of place. And as far as I can tell, the only way in and out of the room is by means of an old solid metal door. Otherwise, the place is simply barren and cold and reeks of death.

  My own death … and the tortured deaths of many who’ve come before. For years or maybe centuries.

  Struggling against the ties that bind me, I’m able to hear voices coming from the opposite side of the steel door—voices speaking a version of Arabic. Naturally, I have no idea what they’re saying. But I know it can’t be very good, whatever it is.

  Thoughts spin through my head, not the least of which is: will I ever get to see my daughter again? That ten-year-old, long-haired brunette is my only connection to real love, real sanity. Lying here on this cold, rotten smelling floor, I can only wish that I’d been a better father to her. More available to her, more steady and stable. It’s possible that if this situation continues to go in the direction it’s going, I won’t ever get the chance to tell her I love her again. And that’s the most heartbreaking situation of all.

  The voices grow louder. The men standing outside the steel door are barking at one another. The sound of a key ring jangles, and then a key is inserted into the lock. The door opens, the rusted hinges squeaking, the door slamming loudly against the stone wall.

  The same two young, bearded lumberjacks who abducted me enter the room ahead of a third man. While the lumberjacks are dressed in the same clothing they were wearing when they extracted me off the street, the third man is dressed in black pants over which hangs a knee length black robe and a black hood, exposing only the eyes. Dark eyes. Eyes that seem to be missing most of the whites.

  The lumberjacks do not arrive empty handed. While the one on the right carries a video camera and tripod, the one on the left is carrying a portable lamp in each hand. Both of them are carrying sidearms, holstered at the hip. Nine millimeter semi-automatics by the looks of it.

  While Man in Black stands by the open door at attention, the lumberjacks go about their business setting up their portable media center only a few feet away from where I’m lying on the floor. They’re running the electrical connections, and the yellow extension cords they are attached to, out of the open steel door. No outlets to be found in this old sewer pit.

  I don’t like the looks of this. Heart pulses and pumps not inside my chest cavity, but inside my mouth. This party has all the makings of a beheading of the ISIS variety. You see news video of these grisly beheadings online and on cable television. You see the poor victims—usually Christians, Jews, or journalists—down on their knees while some black-masked son of bitch recites from the Koran, and you just want to scream at them to get up and run. But right now, as terrified as I am, I’m not even sure I could find the strength to stand, much less run for the hills even if my ankles weren’t bound together.

  Lumberjack One flicks on the bright lamps. The LED light burns my retinas. Lumberjack Two stands behind the camera, turns it on. He adjusts the auto focus and cracks a smile when he’s satisfied. Then, stepping forward, he kicks me in the gut, driving the air from my lungs.

  “On your knees, infidel,” he says, his voice gruff, accented.

  I’m not entirely sure where I find the energy, or the leverage, but as soon as the pain abates and a semblance of oxygen returns to my respiratory system, I manage to do it.

  “Face the camera,” he goes on. “You know the drill.”

  He’s right. The bastard is absolutely right. I know the drill. These radical creeps and their evil murders have become so ingrained in the global culture that I know the drill precisely.

 
I shift myself, face the camera. What the hell else can I do?

  The lumberjacks speak something to one another in Arabic, then readjust their positions so they stand behind the media equipment, like the producer and director of some cheap pornographic snuff flick. That’s when the big, black-robed man steps forward, takes his place directly beside me.

  Lumberjack One behind the camera raises up his hand and then brings it down swiftly like he’s saying, “Action.”

  On cue, Black Robe assumes the stance and positon of a tough guy. Reaching inside his robe, he pulls out a military style fighting knife, which he thrusts in the direction of the camera. Lumberjack One seems to be so enthralled by the drama of it all, he plants an ear to ear smile on his bearded face. Lumberjack Two, behind the lamps, is also smiling. I guess for these three creeps, beheading innocent human beings is the most fun you can have with your robes on.

  I’m looking up at Black Robe when he turns to me, peers down into my eyes. Reaching with his free hand, he rips away my gag. My lips feel like they were torn away with the tape.

  “Recite the first line of the Koran. If you know the Koran, your life will be spared.”

  Somehow, I don’t believe my life is going to be spared no matter how much or little of the Koran I have memorized. Which, of course, is not a goddamned word. More thoughts spin through my adrenalin-soaked brain. Was I a random kidnapping? Or did Dr. Belli from the da Vinci Museum place a call to them, warning them of my interest in the Book of Truths and its connection to the da Vinci Cave? My employers at MI16 warned me about the Russians and the Iranians teaming up to locate the cave, but other than flashing their nasty images on that ceiling-mounted HDTV, they never mentioned a word about an ISIS cell being involved. At least, not directly. But that doesn’t mean ISIS wouldn’t be interested in locating the cave. Why not? They seek world domination, so why not seek out the cave and the powers it houses? It would make them invincible.