by Jon Trace
Ave Satanus
The officiator moves away from the mutilated offering.
Ave Satanus
Two acolytes advance with identical ceremonial knives.
Ave Satanus
The knives are passed. The wounds counted out.
Six hundred and sixty-six in total.
The ground is sodden with blood. The corpse hangs like a butchered carcass in an abattoir.
‘Cut him down,’ shouts the high priest. ‘Place him on the altar stone.’
Amun is laid on a slab of red-veined marble stolen from the top of a sarcophagus.
‘Bring me his instruments.’
One acolyte carries a silver Etruscan casket. Another, a bucchero bowl. A third, a sculptress’s clay modelling knife. A fourth, a small oblong object, wrapped in a long roll of silk.
Even the most devoted followers in the curte grimace as he sets about the grisly task of removing Amun’s liver.
A whoosh of gas comes with the deep cut high into the right side of the abdomen. More intestines snake through the wound.
The officiator hacks away unwanted tissue, slices out the liver. He trims veins, fat and other residue and slides the organ into the casket. ‘Children, make the offering.’
Wood is thrown on the two fires, bringing them together into one giant, crackling pyre. In the orange light of the spiralling flames the fourth acolyte unfolds the silk wrap and removes a precious silver tablet.
A third of the famed Gates of Destiny.
The engraving of the demon stares up at the high priest.
He kisses his fingertip and slowly traces it over the horned deity and the serpents that fill the precious tablet.
He raises the artefact above his head.
‘Behold the true lord, Lucifer, etched in his own precious metal six centuries before the rocking cradle of the Christ child. Great Satan, we pay homage to you. Now for your glorification and for our salvation we dedicate this sacrifice.’
He lowers his head and extends the tablet so it points at the butchered corpse of Amun Badawi. The four acolytes grasp the dead man’s hands and feet, then swing him into the roaring flames.
CHAPTER 39
Present Day
Piazzale Roma, Venice
Although the Salute is only a short hop from his hotel, Tom Shaman needs a long walk before he’s ready to return to the solitude of his tiny room.
The blooded symbol near the altar had emanated an intensity of evil he’s never experienced outside of an exorcism. In truth, he’d been quite unprepared for it. He’d naively thought he’d left such encounters behind when he’d left the clergy.
Apparently not.
Only when his feet are aching, his thirst unbearable and his head almost clear does he drag himself back to his bedroom.
He kicks off his shoes and quickly finishes a half-empty plastic bottle of warm water. The Carabinieri have loaned him an old laptop and cheap cellphone, and he now makes good use of both. He goes online and digs back in his AOL mail account until he finds the number he wants.
Alfredo Giordano - Alfie, to those close to him - is the New York-born son of Italian immigrants and an old and trusted friend.
Tom punches in his number and waits an eternity for people to go and find him. The place where Alfie spends his long days and nights is huge. It’s more than five centuries old and is one of the most protected buildings on the planet: the Holy See - the library of the Vatican.
‘Pronto. Giordano.’ He juggles the phone between ear and shoulder.
‘Shouldn’t you be in bed?’
Alfie stays silent for a second - he has to be sure his ears aren’t tricking him. ‘Tom?’
‘Hello, Alfie. I’m sorry to call so late. I guess you were just heading into mass, or even turning in for the night.’
‘Not a problem. It’s good to hear from you.’ He pauses, then adds cautiously, ‘Isn’t it?’
It takes Tom almost ten minutes to bring Alfie up to speed with what’s happened since they last spoke, just after the street fight in LA. The two men had become friends while attending a semester of courses, back in the days when he’d drink too much and turn up late for half their classes, relying on Tom to bail him out.
Alfie’s still reflecting on old times as he heads back through the ornate Sistine Hall to his quarters. Tom’s request is certainly a strange one, but he’s sure he can help. He has privileged access to a library that holds more than seventy-five thousand manuscripts and close to two million books - not to mention a museum dedicated to the Etruscans - Alfie’s confident he can find what’s wanted. Unless - and the thought disturbs him - unless it’s in the secret archives. Fifty-two miles of shelving crammed with restricted information that only the holiest of eyes should see.
CAPITOLO XXXVIII
27 dicembre 1777
Venezia
Pale pink daylight floods the lagoon, and a thin graveyard mist hangs over the eerily quiet water.
The high priest walks the curte, collecting remains from the sacrificial fire.
He’s at peace with the world. He’s served his master well. Now he is keen to avoid any post-sacrifice slip-ups. Once he’s finished his grisly task, he’ll make sure his followers know how to behave. Firstly, they have a common cover story. If pushed by families about their prolonged absence, they’ll claim to have been at a dinner together, a party of sorts. If suspicions arise, then one by one they’ll admit to affairs. Each of them already has an alibi. Each is prepared to suffer minor personal consequences rather than risk being thrown into the cold cells of the Palazzo Ducale.
The Satanist is dressed in the poor garments of a boatman. His blood-soaked vestments stand in a tub of water and will be thoroughly washed and dried by his own hands. Meticulously, he collects all the dead man’s bones in a potato sack. He counts off the parts as he deposits them - tibia, fibula, patella - he knows every bone, every muscle and nerve.
In a separate sack he collects fire-blackened wood coated in the waxy fat of the victim’s melted skin. Both bags go to the back of his boat. Later he’ll have the ground dug over. Shovelled until all sacrificial traces are gone.
The sun is still only half risen when the boat that brought Amun Badawi to his death takes him to his watery grave.
It’s too early for fishing boats or other craft to be making their way into the nexus of canals that spread south of the city, but the high priest isn’t complacent: he keeps a vigilant watch across the water.
Through the mist, he spots La Giudecca to the west and Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore to the east. It is his cue to stop. He thinks for a moment about the island - the refuge for Cosimo de’ Medici when he fled Florence and the burial place for Doge Pietro Ziani. So many famous bodies - dead and alive - have passed along the same stretch of water.
The Satanist places a heavy stone in each of the sacks and secures the tops with pre-cut lengths of rope. The boat wobbles as an unexpectedly large wave slaps the side. He quickly sits. Waits for calm to return.
As the ripples subside, he stands and heaves the first sack over the side.
A satisfying plosh!
He crouches and watches the bubbles in the murky water. The boat rocks again. The stern is knocked round by a choppy wave. Again the high priest sits it out. He waits patiently, then drops the second sack in the lagoon. It is comforting to watch it sink. A circle of ripples fattens, thins and fades.
‘Buongiorno!’
The voice shocks him. He glances right and left.
Nothing.
Now he sees something. Dead ahead.
A red-faced young monk. Rowing a tiny boat. Slowing his strokes as he approaches. ‘A bad mist this morning. Are you in trouble?’ The brother looks pointedly into the water, as though he’s seen something go over the side. ‘Do you need any help?’
The Satanist can’t hide his shock. He picks up his oars. ‘No. No grazie.’ Silently he curses to himself. He was sure there was no one around.
The monk has stop
ped rowing and is letting his boat drift closer.
Suspicion hangs in the air as densely as the mist.
The high priest tries to smile. ‘Are you from the monastery at San Giorgio?’
The monk nods. ‘Si.’ Their boats touch sides. ‘I do this every morning. After first prayers and before breakfast.’ He glances into the water. ‘Did you drop something? I thought I heard a splash in the water. I feared someone may have fallen in.’
‘No, as you can see, I am fine. Fine and dry. You must have been mistaken.’ The Satanist touches his own oar. ‘Probably the sound of the paddle on the water.’ He glances into the mist and checks the angle of the rising sun. Maybe the monk didn’t see much. He smiles. ‘I must be going. Arrivederci.’
The young brother takes up his oars and sweeps one across the water to turn his boat. ‘Arrivederci.’ Within two strokes he’s vanished into the mist.
All the way back to the monastery, he wonders what was in the two large sacks he saw being dropped into the lagoon and why the stranger lied to him.
CHAPTER 40
Present Day
Rialto, Venice
Not many applicants make it into the Carabinieri’s Corazzieri, the elite commando group that provides the honour guard for Italy’s president. Aside from the stringent military requirements, recruits must be taller than 190 cm - six foot three. It’s a big ask for most Italian males. Umberto Castelli was one of the select few to have qualified with flying colours.
Twenty years on, his exceptional qualities have earned him a place as the head of an undercover unit respected throughout the country.
Umberto goes to extremes to protect his identity, and that includes never setting foot inside a Carabinieri building. All his business is conducted strictly off-site.
Bearded and dressed more like a busker than a major, he meets Vito Carvalho in a coffee shop off the Rialto. Close in age and bonded by mutual respect, the two men have become close friends.
The big busker asks for double espressos, then folds his legs beneath a table. ‘How’s Maria?’
It’s the question everyone who cares always asks Carvalho. ‘Up and down,’ comes the answer. ‘Physically, there’s no deterioration. The MS even seems a bit better. But at the moment she’s depressed.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’
‘Grazie. We have a holiday coming up soon. That will brighten her mood.’
‘Good. I hope so.’ Castelli waits for a young waiter in a white apron to set down the steaming black coffees and leave, then he pulls open a plastic supermarket bag. Inside is a confidential file. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Antonio Pavarotti.’
Vito crosses himself. ‘God bless. You know his cousin is one of my lieutenants?’
‘Morassi, right? How’s she taken it?’
‘She’s strong. She’s working through the grief.’ Vito’s eyes look to the heavens. ‘But at some point it’s going to drown her as if a dam’s given way.’
Castelli rubs his beard. ‘I got the full report last night. Looks like we’re talking about murder, not an accident.’
Vito frowns. ‘Murder? The engineers called in after the salvage was done said it was most likely a gas explosion. The cooker in the galley.’
‘That’s what they thought.’ Castelli opens the manila file and passes it over. ‘The labs found traces of C-4.’
Vito feels as though someone’s painting his spine with ice. ‘Plastic explosive - but how? Where?’
‘Not quite sure. There wasn’t much of the boat left. On the engine, we think. The techies found traces of plasticiser and binder on the block.’
Vito plays with his coffee cup. ‘Clever. On detonation the explosive is converted into compressed gas. Whoever set it might have thought this would mislead an investigation team.’
‘They would have got away with it, only the shockwave was far too intense to have been produced by a regular gas cylinder. It tore most of the boat into tiny fragments.’
Vito sees flashes of Antonio at the helm. Flashes of the kid’s parents when he broke the news to them. Flashes of Valentina in his office - too proud and too brave to break down and cry in front of him. ‘I never expected this. What the hell was he working on? Some Mafia or Camorra job?’
Castelli shakes his head. ‘No, not at all. Or at least, we didn’t think there were mob connections.’ He scans the room before he continues. ‘It was a low-level undercover job. A fishing expedition. You’ve heard of the commune on Isola Mario?’
Vito rocks his head hesitantly.
‘It’s run by the billionaire Mario Fabianelli.’
Vito half remembers: ‘The internet whiz-kid - made a fortune and then stuck most of it up his nose?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘The island’s named after him, isn’t it?’
‘It is. Must be nice to be so rich you can afford an island. Anyway, too much coke must have gone to his head, because for the past year he’s turned it into a free-love commune he calls Heaven - though actually he doesn’t spell it the normal way. It’s alphanumeric - the Es are replaced by 3s and there’s no A.’
Vito wrinkles up his face in confusion.
‘H-3-V-3-N. Think of U2 - it’s like he’s trying to create a brand. The place even has its own website selling poems, paintings, pottery and jewellery made by the junk-heads.’
Vito wipes coffee from his lips with a paper napkin. ‘So, this is where Antonio was working? Digging around the hippies to see what drugs they were using on Mario’s Fantasy Island?’
Castelli nods. ‘We had a tip that there was a lot of gear there. Shipments of the stuff. Not just hash, but good quantities of E, maybe coke and even some H. Given the abuse record of the owner, we thought it worth a prowl. I specifically asked for Antonio because he’d done so well on the undercover job at the hospital. He was a bright boy.’
‘Was. He certainly was.’ Vito drops his head. ‘Had he found anything?’
‘No. At least, not that he’d had a chance to report in.’ They both fall silent for a minute. Vito knows what’s on his colleague’s mind - Valentina. Getting over a fatal accident takes a long time. Getting over murder takes a lifetime. ‘I’d best go and tell her,’ he says as he rises from his seat.
Castelli doesn’t say anything, just pats him on the arm as he walks past.
CAPITOLO XXXIX
27 dicembre 1777
Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore
Brother Tommaso Frascoli spends the day obsessing about the strange man he saw dropping things from the boat.
Throughout lectio divina his focus constantly wanders from his scripture studies.
What troubles him even more than being lied to is that he can’t figure out where the boatman came from. Tommaso had been heading south and the stranger in the mist had come from the north. But to his knowledge there were only one or two islands within rowing distance, and he thought both were uninhabited.
Tommaso momentarily wonders if the man was an apparition. A spectre or demon of some sort, sent to challenge him. He quickly dismisses the notion, accepting - as the abbot repeatedly tells him - that he needs to avoid flights of fancy and egocentric ponderings.
The illegitimate child of a courtesan, all he knows about his family is what the abbot has told him. Both Tommaso and his sister were passed to the clergy soon after birth. She went into a nunnery, and he’s been told that she ran away while still a novice. He does not know his father’s name. His mother, Carmela Francesca Frascoli, had given the priests no verbal explanation, just what few soldi and denari she possessed, along with a note and small wooden box that she requested be handed to her child when he became a man. Tommaso has both items under his bed. He’s never opened either of them.
It’s the way he deals with his abandonment. By not thinking about such things, he can trick himself into believing the absence of a mother and father doesn’t hurt. God has provided all the parental guidance he’s ever needed.
Except lately. Lately he’s be
en having doubts.
And sometimes, when the doubting becomes unbearable, it’s rowing - not praying - that seems to be the only thing that takes the pain away. Rowing hard. Rowing and rowing until his lungs feel like bursting and the boat skims like a flat stone across the surface of the dark water.
Alone in his cell before evening prayers, Tommaso’s heart is pumping as hard as any session in the monastery boat. And for good reason. Today is a special day.
It is his birthday.
His twenty-first.
A fitting time to face some personal demons.
He unwraps the tightly knotted string. Breaks the seal. Opens the box that his mother left for him and cannot believe his eyes.
CHAPTER 41
Present Day
Palazzo Ducale, Venice
A cool morning wind blows in from the Venetian lagoon, a stretch of water formed some seven thousand years ago when the Ice Age flooded the upper Adriatic coastal plain. Vito Carvalho stands by a gondolier station in the shadow of the Palazzo Ducale and stares out across the endless grey waves. He’s thinking about what Umberto Castelli has just told him.
Murder.
Antonio Pavarotti’s death was not an accident. He was murdered.
The young lieutenant’s face comes to mind. Fresh and handsome. Always smiling. Attentive eyes, the type that women notice.
What a waste.
What a damned awful waste.
Vito finishes his cigarette, the second of the day, and walks towards his office. He goes slowly. He needs the time and air to think properly. His desk has been swamped with three murder cases - Monica Vidic and the two men recovered from the lagoon. Now he’s got a fourth - Antonio. By way of consolation, he’s got something else too - a tenuous lead, a straw to grasp at. Okay, so it’s not much to go on, but what Castelli told him about Isola Mario is worth following up. Drugs are so often a factor in serious crimes.
