by Jon Trace
‘Tell me what is written,’ says Tommaso, ‘or we are done here.’
Ermanno looks to Efran and then lifts his hand. ‘As you wish.’ He passes the book over. ‘Some stories claim that the tablets were stolen by a man of extreme violence - a murderer and torturer - who used them for occult purposes.’ He watches Tommaso turn the page of the book, then continues: ‘Those are the other two tablets. One shows a couple with their arms around each other and their child by their side. It is believed to show the priest, the sculptress and their baby. The other depicts a demon. Not an Etruscan demon - or at least, not one recognised at the time.’ He looks up at Tommaso and wonders if he should stop there, but the monk clearly wants to hear what else there is to know. ‘Legend has it that the demon is Satan and that the boy child is his, not the priest’s. The tablets are sometimes referred to as the Gates of Destiny - or the Gates of Hell. You’ll have noticed the serpents in the tablet you were left . . .?’
Tommaso’s face drains of colour. He’d attached no such significance. ‘This cannot be so.’
‘Brother, there is much nonsense written. Tales fashioned by the tongues of old women with nothing better to do than fantasise. Pay them no mind.’
But Tommaso knows that he cannot dismiss this new information so lightly. How could his mother leave him something that seems to have had such a wicked past? Suddenly he wants to be alone. He flips the book closed. ‘Our business is over. Grazie.’ Without further comment he heads for the door, leaving the others to stare at his retreating back.
‘Well, what a waste of all our time,’ says Efran, exasperated. ‘Clearly that’s the last we’ll see of him.’
‘I don’t think so,’ says Ermanno, smiling ruefully. ‘I really don’t think so. In business you soon learn that anyone so passionate and so interested in a piece will always come back.’
CHAPTER 50
Present Day
Piazzale Roma, Venice
Tom and Valentina go out for breakfast. She takes him to a small, non-touristy café that only gondoliers and police officers seem to use.
He doesn’t say anything about his call to San Quentin; thinking it best to wait until he’s spoken directly to Bale. But he does fill her in on what he’s learned from Alfie about the Tablets of Atmanta. She seems to write it off as inconsequential, the stuff of legend. Nevertheless, she phones the information through to Carvalho.
‘What did he say?’ Tom asks as she clicks the cellphone shut.
‘Not a lot. He’s got some forensic results back - that always gets Vito excited. Science trumps anything and everything when it comes to a murder investigation. There’s a briefing in an hour’s time and he wants us both there.’
Tom tops up her glass of water from a bottle on the table. She smiles and they both know she’s remembering the last time he gave her a glass of water.
‘Do you have any family you could stay with tonight?’ he asks. ‘I think it would be good for you to have some company.’
‘My parents and sister are in Rome. But I’ll be fine,’ says Valentina. ‘I was just overwhelmed last night. Being on that island, going through the stretch of water where Antonio had been killed, and then mixing with those strange people and wondering if one of them had murdered him . . . it all freaked me out.’
‘Be careful,’ says Tom. ‘You’re exposing yourself to an incredible amount of stress.’ He pauses before he says what’s on his mind. ‘I’m sure Major Carvalho and your colleagues would understand if you took some time off. Gave yourself a break.’
The flash of steel in her eyes tells him that’s not going to happen. Valentina forces a half-smile and goes to the counter to pay the tab.
They walk back to headquarters at a leisurely pace, and talk of everything but Antonio and the case. She’s keen to know about Tom’s life and what made him become a priest. He’s keen not to discuss anything personal, but lets slip a few clues to his past. ‘From the first moment I went to mass, I didn’t feel like I was in a church, I felt like I was in my own home, like this was the place where I could relax and really be me.’
If they had longer she’d ask a lot more. Maybe even quiz him about Tina Ricci and what he’s planning to do next. But before they know it, they’ve reached the steps of Carabinieri HQ.
The briefing room smells of fresh coffee and is already alive with chatter. Valentina and Tom enter together then drift off and sit apart. An unconscious act by both of them. The psychological need for distance, a little space to restore their privacy. Vito Carvalho notices it, but probably no one else does. He checks Valentina and sees she looks strained, close to the edge but still in control and fighting. Soon the chairs either side of her are filled by her colleague Rocco Baldoni and one of the newcomers - Francesca Totti, a lieutenant on loan from Major Castelli’s undercover unit.
The lights dim and Vito asks RaCIS scientist Isabella Lombardelli to start the briefing. As the first slide of the Salute’s interior fills the screen, she hits them with the latest shocking development: ‘The blood used to make that strange symbol on the altar floor came from Monica Vidic.’
She pauses to let the significance sink in.
Vito is the first to fit the pieces together. The killer is more methodical, more ritualistic and more dangerous than imagined. He planned his kills way ahead, stored the blood of his victims in preparation for something. A grand plan or ritual that was still playing out.
The next slide comes up. It shows two horizontal bar codes. Isabella explains what they mean. ‘We ran DNA. The top line is a control sample taken from the victim, the bottom is from the blood in the Salute. As you can see, it’s a perfect match. The blood in the church is unquestionably Monica’s.’
She changes slides. ‘Less positively, the chainsaw found in the boathouse doesn’t match any of the marks on any of your victims, nor is there any matching blood or trace evidence.’
The spark of optimism disappears from Vito’s eyes. ‘Could the chain have been changed?’
Isabella pulls up an overlay of the saw. ‘It’s the wrong size - only thirty centimetres.’ She hits zoom on the laptop. ‘Besides, the model’s not high-powered enough. It’s an Efco - good Italian make - but only 30 cc. Sorry.’
Vito shakes his head. One step forward, one back, that’s the way it is with enquiries. ‘What about the other blood samples?’
Isabella clicks to another slide. ‘There were some traces in the boathouse.’ She looks across at him. ‘I’d be surprised if there weren’t. It’s a place for maintenance - that means grazed knuckles, sharp objects and accidents. However, none of the samples recovered match Monica Vidic or the two male victims from the lagoon.’
Vito turns a page of his notebook and then addresses the wider group: ‘We got a call from Missing Persons early this morning. Their database of photos, blood samples and DNA finally came up with a name for us. The older victim in the lagoon was Nathaniel Lachkar, a seventy-two-year-old French widower. He was on his first foreign holiday for ten years. Seems he got married in Venice half a century ago and had come back to see the place one more time before he died.’
Valentina crosses herself. ‘No name for the younger male?’
‘Not yet,’ says Vito. ‘But I guess he’ll prove to be a random victim too.’
‘Random victim?’ queries Valentina.
The major looks surprised. ‘Is that what I said? I meant stranger, not random.’
She relaxes. ‘I thought so. That’s why it hit me. You always said there’s no such thing as a random victim, there’s always a reason why someone is picked out.’
Vito’s not sure he gets her point. ‘And?’
‘Church. Maybe church is the common reason. Nathaniel came back to see the church where he got married. Monica Vidic and her father had just visited a church before they went for dinner and had their final row. Perhaps the offender selects his victims in one or two specific churches.’
Rocco follows her thread. ‘A serial killer sitting in church would cert
ainly get a good long time to choose a victim. And it would fit with the desecration of the Salute.’
Vito nods cautiously. ‘Rocco, check all church connections with our victims and run them against any names we have in the system - including those of people over at Isola Mario.’
For a moment everyone has forgotten Isabella. She doesn’t seem to mind. When Vito looks her way she’s waiting patiently with her arms crossed, happy to watch the alchemy of the investigation. Nothingness turned into somethingness. It’s always fascinated her. When he gives her a nod, she resumes.
‘Okay. Onwards with the bad news. Black paint flakes from Monica’s body were tested against a sample from the gondola found in the boathouse. No match. The paint from the body is, however, quite unusual. Not your regular cheap stuff. We’re trying to trace the manufacturer, batch, source, et cetera. I’ll give you details once we’re up to speed.’
Lieutenant Francesca Totti has been quiet until now. A mouse of a woman, she lacks Morassi’s beauty and is easy not to notice. But when she overcomes her shyness and speaks, her professionalism shines through. ‘Were there any interesting fingerprint matches from the saw or the gondola? Did we establish any usage patterns from the prints on or around the monitors?’
Valentina freezes.
Vito looks her way.
They all realise there’s been a screw-up. Valentina shakes her head. ‘We did this. I’m sure all this printing was done.’
The look on everyone’s faces makes it clear that it wasn’t.
‘Usage patterns would have identified who controlled and most accessed the security system,’ Francesca cruelly points out, ‘and it might have established any links to usage of the gondola or other boats.’
‘I know!’ snaps Valentina.
Carvalho looks across to her. He’s made the wrong call. He should never have let her work this case.
CAPITOLO XLIX
1778
Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore, Venezia
Tommaso’s monastic cell is so small he can’t even lie full length without his head touching one wall and his feet the other. He’s living in a claustrophobic’s worst nightmare. No matter. Right now it feels the most comfortable place in the world.
The revelations by the Jew Ermanno have shocked him. Rocked him to his core. His cell seems the only safe place to curl up and think.
And think he does.
He is still uncomfortable about the way the Jew and the other two had pressured him for information about the tablet. Mercenaries - that’s all they are. Desperate to have him sell them the artefact - no doubt at a fraction of its value - so they can hawk a piece of his family history all over Europe to the highest bidder. As well as angry, Tommaso also feels disappointed and saddened. He’d hoped his enquiries on the mainland would have led to some answers. Instead, he seems only to have acquired more questions. Very disturbing ones.
Was his mother somehow involved in the occult?
He hopes not. The words in her letter tumble through his mind: something that you must guard - not only with your life, but with your soul. Its meaning is too important and too difficult to explain in a mere letter. It seems to him that she knew of its evil, perhaps even Satanic importance, but was she acting with good intent? He flinches as he remembers her instruction, ‘It must never leave your care.’
Were the stories in the Jew’s book true? Did his tablet have some unearthly power, something that might be unleashed when reunited with the other two?
His tablet. He realises he is thinking possessively about it. Unquestionably, it belongs to him. Has belonged to his family for generations. And now he doesn’t have it. He’s let his mother down. The only thing she’d ever asked him to do and he’s failed her.
Tommaso feels guilty, and also increasingly angry at the abbot for taking it off him.
He comforts himself with the thought that, if it has the potential to be an instrument of evil, then perhaps it is safer in the care of the abbot and the Catholic Church than with him.
But then again, the jails and torture racks of the state inquisitor are full of villainous priests.
He reaches below the bed to retrieve the box and reread the letter in full. Perhaps there are other things in the missive that will now make more sense to him.
His hand picks up nothing but dust.
He kneels and searches beneath his bunk.
Nothing.
The cell is so tiny it takes only seconds to understand that the box and the letter are gone. Taken, no doubt, on the abbot’s instructions.
But why?
Tommaso feels like he’s going to explode. Tomorrow he will confront his superior and demand the return of his things. He’ll do it whatever the consequences. Whatever.
His head hurts with the strain of it all. He blows out the lone candle in his cell, lies in the darkness and wishes for sleep.
Despite the inner turmoil he is exhausted, and soon drifts into a slumber as dark and rhythmical as the waves he so enjoys rowing through.
Then he hears a noise.
Voices.
Banging.
Cell doors opening. People running. Some kind of panic.
He creaks his way off his bunk and opens the door. ‘Fire! Fire!’ One of the monks races past him, his face filled with panic.
Barefooted, Tommaso follows. Outside, the boathouse is ablaze. Orange and yellow flames are devouring the black timbers he’d just repaired. The buckets of pitch he’d hauled up from the boat are burning like torches, their contents no doubt spread all over the building.
Several brothers are throwing water on the blaze. To no effect. The boathouse is lost. The best they can do is contain the fire and stop it spreading.
‘Brothers! Brothers! Come with me.’
Tommaso leads a team of helpers to the compost heap. They wheel stinking barrowloads of wet mulch to the edge of the fire and lay down an oozing, black wall that dams the blaze. Tommaso is pleased it’s working. ‘Now, we’ll get more. Shovel soil and the wettest of the compost on to the fire and smother the flames.’ The brothers work eagerly for him, shuttling past in quick relays; digging, filling barrows, then spreading the putrid compost before returning for more.
By sunrise they’ve beaten the blaze.
Red-faced, robes torn and totally drained, Tommaso slumps on the grass outside the monastery. His back aches from shovelling and his throat is raw from the smoke and shouting.
‘Brother Tommaso.’
The voice comes from above and behind him. He twists to look over his right shoulder. It is the abbot.
He struggles to his feet. Two other brothers flank his monastic mentor.
The abbot’s face is solemn. ‘My chamber, Brother. Now!’
CHAPTER 51
Present Day
The Secret Archives, Vatican City
Alfredo Giordano was by no means amazed that Tom Shaman begged him to make one trip - just one trip - into the musty vaults of the secret archives.
What did surprise him was that he agreed to do it.
He was persuaded by the indisputable fact that, although the archives are these days supposed to be more private than secret, should the Carabinieri make a viewing request then they could easily get tied up in Vatican red tape until Judgement Day.
And so Alfie finds himself heading to the entrance to the archives, adjacent to the Vatican Museum through the Porta di S. Anna in via di Porta Angelica. He steps out of the warm sunlight into the cool corridors with fear crawling up his throat. When his duplicity is discovered - for he realises that, even if he succeeds today, he is going to have to confess his actions - he knows he’ll be severely punished, maybe even suspended.
Fortunately for Alfie, he is no stranger to the endless miles of passageways and rooms, or to some of the staff working there. As a general librarian he regularly mixes with the archivists, delivering new documents and books into their care, and he can even boast a passing acquaintance with the Archivist Emeritus, Cardinal Mark van Berkel.<
br />
As he nears the point of no return he focuses once more on the main problem he faces. Even those who can get into the archive still face horrendous restrictions, the main one being that even authorised visitors are not permitted to browse the shelves in search of what they want, and no one is allowed to take any materials away. In other words, Alfie has to know exactly which book or document he wants - and he doesn’t - and then he has to wait for someone to get it for him.
Clutching a Vatican notebook and some index files from the general library of the Holy See, he approaches a young, scaly-skinned, trout-eyed helper at the busy reception desk. ‘I am Father Alfredo, I have come from the main library and need to check a document.’
Father Trout-eyes floats his fingers over a computer keyboard. ‘Do you have a reference number?’
Alfie tips his notebook and flicks through a few pages, then swings it round for his colleague to copy.
The computer clacks away. The archivist squints at the screen and can’t find anything. ‘Let me try another search. What exactly is it?’
‘It’s Etruscan, a document suggesting an old artefact may have influenced some early church altar designs.’
Father Trout gives up a ‘humph’ and clacks some more. ‘Sorry, I can’t find anything. When did you send it through?’
And so for half an hour Alfie works the system, grinding the archivist down. Then, judging his moment, he slaps a hand on the counter like a man who’s reached the end of his tether. ‘This isn’t good enough,’ he protests loudly. ‘I need to see the Cardinal. It’s outrageous that this material should be lost.’
The archivist looks shocked. He painfully reaches for an internal directory.
‘Wait!’ says Alfie, trying to look exasperated but reasonable. ‘I don’t want to get anyone in trouble, especially not you or me. Let me talk to the archivist stacking that particular section - if I describe it to him, I’m sure he’ll find it.’ Alfie points at the computer. ‘Sometimes those things let us down.’
