The Abduction: A Novel

by Jonathan Holt

  “I guess by the time these companies get to the third generation they’re actually run by a board, and the heir is only there for his name.” Pulling her laptop towards her, she typed some words into a search engine. “That’s interesting.”

  “What is?”

  “Holly’s retired CIA friend Ian Gilroy sits on Conterno’s board.” She typed some more. “As his predecessor Bob Garland did before him.”

  “So it’s not only the Conterno name that continues through the generations. The connection with the American intelligence services does too.”

  “Perhaps Marco’s just being prudent. Conterno’s an international company now. Geopolitical advice from an ex-intelligence chief would be hard to beat.”

  “True, but I wonder if it goes deeper than that. Garland and Ambrogino Conterno were both members of the Order of Melchizedek. When I mentioned it, it was the only time Marco Conterno became animated – he was clearly intensely proud of being the Venetian Master or whatever he called it.”

  “We never found any reason to think the Order was anything other than legitimate,” she reminded him.

  “But I seem to recall that you had your suspicions?”

  She nodded. “It was through them that Father Uriel’s psychiatric institute was funded. It always seemed to me that might be a way of buying his silence over the whole William Baker conspiracy. In which case, who ordered it? And where did the original funds come from?”

  She picked up a photograph from the desk. “And this? What’s this about?” The photograph appeared to show a couple in bed, but the blood spatter on the wall behind told a different story.

  “That’s the archaeologist, Dr Iadanza, and Professor Trevisano,” Piola said. “I have no evidence whatsoever, but I’m certain they were killed to silence them.”

  “Because…?”

  “I don’t know.” He got to his feet and started pacing. “If nothing else, it just seems too extraordinary to be a coincidence. Mia’s kidnap links to the base; so does the skeleton. Mia’s kidnap links to Conterno; so does the skeleton. And now two harmless academics who were investigating how the skeleton died are themselves killed.” He clenched his fist and shook it, as if about to roll an imaginary dice. It was a gesture he only made when he was thinking hard. “All of which makes me wonder whether unravelling the mystery of how the skeleton came to be on that base might give us a fresh lead on the Mia case. When I saw him, Professor Trevisano told me about a researcher in Rome I could talk to who’s made a special study of the partisans.” He looked at her. “It might mean staying overnight. Do you want to come?”

  She was torn. This mental intimacy, and the back and forth of ideas, was for her the greatest thrill of an investigation. But there was also Daniele’s hacker to find, and for various reasons, she didn’t want to tell Piola about that – not least because she still pictured herself going to General Saito with a breakthrough that was hers and hers alone, clear proof that he and his fellow officers had been wrong about her.

  Piola took her silence for something else.

  “My wife has asked me to stay away for a while,” he said quietly. “She thinks I have to decide… to work out what my priorities are. My family or… or the job. And the truth is, I’m not sure any more. I thought I was, but I’m not.”

  She wondered if his wife knew about that small gesture he made with his hand; if seeing it gave her the same pleasure it gave Kat. And she remembered all the times they’d flowed so naturally from work to sex, and back to work again, their bodies fitting together just as their brains had done. It would be so easy to do the same again now. It might even lance the boil – one ecstatic coupling for old times’ sake, and then perhaps they would both see things clearly enough to make a decision. About his marriage, about the mess they were in, about their future.

  But she shook her head. “I’ve got enough to keep me busy here in Venice.”

  They both knew that wasn’t what he’d really been asking, and both pretended it had been. But only one of them knew that her answer to that other, unspoken question had been at least half a lie as well.

  FIFTY-THREE

  HARLEQUIN BROUGHT HER hot food – pasta with a simple sauce of anchovies and onions. For fifteen minutes the smell had been wafting into her cell, making her mouth water.

  But her anticipation was mixed with dread. Hot food meant he was feeling bad about something he’d be doing to her later.

  After she’d eaten, the camera was set up in a new position. She was made to stand sideways-on to the big sheet with “ADM” sprayed on it. The kidnappers spent five minutes working out camera angles, so Harlequin could stand next to her without impeding Bauta’s view.

  Eventually, the camera was set up on a tripod and Bauta left them.

  Harlequin indicated the orange jumpsuit. “Take this off.”

  She undid the zipper and stepped out of it. When she was standing in her underwear, he said, “Lean forward as far as you can against the wall.”

  She was about four feet from the wall he was indicating. If she reached forward as far as she possibly could, she could just support her weight with her hands.

  “Don’t move.”

  She heard him leave the room. By the time he returned, after about three minutes, her arms were shaking with the effort of holding the position.

  He came and stood next to her. She could tell he was taking deep breaths, as if steeling himself for something.

  What that was, she didn’t want to think about.

  Her arms were unable to take her weight any more. Inevitably, her knees buckled and she fell to the floor.

  He hesitated – then, with a strange, inarticulate cry, turned on his heel.

  She looked round, confused. The room was empty.

  Five minutes went by. She heard raised voices in the next room. “È troppo tardi per questo! Fai quello che sei venuto a fare!”

  She understood that much – someone was telling Harlequin he had to go through with it. And she heard Harlequin’s response, his voice hoarse: “Io non posso farlo. Non voglio.”

  I can’t do it. I won’t.

  Footsteps approached the door. Instantly she resumed her position against the wall. She knew at once it wasn’t Harlequin who entered – this man was whistling under his breath, the same tuneless whistle she’d heard before.

  He stood beside her, and she saw his knees flex. Then, without warning, he slapped her in the belly, hard, with the back of his hand.

  As she fell to the ground, howling, she saw him look down at her and nod, as if to say, That’s how it should be done.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  IN ROME, PIOLA’S first stop was the Via Condotti, where he did some shopping. He told himself it was because he’d only had time to pack a few things when Gilda threw him out, but the truth was that buying beautiful clothes was his habitual reaction to stress of the marital kind. In the Armani store he toyed with a tie made of grey woven silk, before looking at the price tag and reluctantly putting it down again. He did, however, buy some shirts, along with some silk socks from Antonella e Fabrizio.

  He’d got the address of Anna Manfrin, the researcher Professor Trevisano had told him about, from the electoral records, but there was no answer to the doorbell and he could see from the post amassing in the letterbox downstairs that she hadn’t been home the night before. Then a curtain moved, and he saw a cat peering anxiously from a window. Someone, he thought, must be feeding it.

  He showed his ID to a neighbour, who said she’d seen Anna dropping by a couple of times, but that it looked as if she hadn’t been staying.

  “Do you know where she works?”

  “Oh, yes – she’s often mentioned it. She has a researcher’s pass to the Vatican library.”

  Piola took a taxi to the library, and asked the security guard if he’d seen Anna Manfrin that day.

  “More than that,” the guard said. “If she’s here, I can tell you which desk she’s working at. The new system logs everyone in and out e
lectronically. Yes, she’s there now. Desk 12C.” He swivelled his computer screen so Piola could see.

  “Do you have any idea how long she’ll be here?”

  “Until four, when we throw them out.”

  Piola looked at his watch. He had two hours to kill. Recalling that Marco Conterno had said Palazzo Lighnier, the headquarters of the Order of Melchizedek, was close to the Vatican, he asked for directions.

  It was indeed very close: less than five minutes away, on Via Falco. Like many Roman palazzi, the exterior was nondescript, even anonymous; only the big wooden doors, opening onto a pretty little courtyard where a fountain splashed over an ivy-covered statue, gave any clue to the opulence of the interior. Piola wandered in, noting the discreet brass plate bearing the Order’s name. There was no obvious reception desk, but the only door that was open led into a small room where an elegant, well-dressed woman sat at a desk, typing.

  Producing his ID, he asked if he might speak to someone connected with the Order’s archives.

  “May I ask what it’s in connection with?” the woman asked.

  “I’m trying to identify some members from the 1940s and 50s.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” she said with a smile. “Membership of the Order is never disclosed without the express permission of the member concerned.”

  Piola said politely, “In this instance, signora, the members are all deceased. So it really wouldn’t be possible to ask their permission.”

  There was a pause while she considered this. “No,” she agreed. “It wouldn’t.” She turned back to her screen and went on typing.

  When it became clear she wasn’t going to do anything else for him, he said, “Of course, we could do this the hard way. I could go and get a warrant.”

  “No, you couldn’t,” she said. “Palazzo Lighnier was granted extraterritoriality in 1964.”

  Piola raised his eyebrows. “Extraterritoriality” meant that, like the Vatican itself or the Order of Malta’s headquarters at Palazzo Malta, the building was exempt from Italian law. “May I at least speak to an archivist?”

  “You can ask for an appointment, yes. But only in writing.”

  He sighed. “In that case, may I have a piece of paper and a pen, signora?”

  Her smile still in place, she fetched both. He uncapped the pen. “To whom should I address my request?”

  “I’m sorry. The archivist’s name—”

  “… is confidential,” he finished for her. He wrote the note anyway, emphasising that he had dropped by at the invitation of Marco Conterno. “And do you have any information on the Order that I could take away?”

  “It’s all on our website,” she said, putting his note in a drawer.

  “Actually, your website claims to be under construction at present,” he said mildly. He pointed. “I think I saw a brochure in that drawer.”

  Without a word she opened the drawer, removed a slim booklet, and handed it to him. He inclined his head graciously. “I’m very grateful to you, signora.”

  He went and sat in a bar to read the booklet. It was only twelve pages long, and consisted mostly of photographs of Palazzo Lighnier, accompanied by a few scant paragraphs of text.

  Dating back to 1393, the Order of Melchizedek is a chivalric and charitable order of the Catholic Church. Along with the Teutonic Knights, the Order of the Holy Sepulchre, the Knights Hospitallers and the Militia of the Virgin Mary, it is one of the “Great Five” ancient orders. Its members, known as “Brethren Knights” or “Worthy Companions”, work principally to reinforce Christian standards amongst the priesthood.

  Aspirant members must be practising Catholics of good character, recommended by their local bishop and supported by several existing members of the Order, and are required to make a generous donation as “passage money” (echoing the ancient practice of Crusaders paying their passage to the Holy Land). There are twelve degrees, each of which must be fulfilled before the candidate progresses to the next. Those of noble birth are automatically elevated to the third degree, Knight Emeritus.

  There was a picture of the previous Pope being welcomed to Palazzo Lighnier by a group of men in ceremonial robes, and another of a robed man proudly holding an elaborate golden urn. Just visible inside it, through a kind of porthole, was a lump of black matter.

  One of the Order’s most prized relics is the incorrupt tongue of St John the Baptist, presented to the Brethren by Pope Sixtus IV in 1477. The tongue, which spoke the original prophecy of Christ’s arrival, is reputed to warn whenever the Catholic Church is in danger of heresy or misjudgement.

  If that was the case, Piola thought cynically, it must have been babbling non-stop of late. He turned the page.

  The Palace offers Brethren accommodation and service of the highest standards whenever they are in Rome. The Order’s fortnightly dinners, known as “symposia”, are always well attended.

  It sounded more like a gentleman’s club than a charity, he thought sourly, still irritated by his encounter with the receptionist. But there was absolutely nothing here to implicate the Order in any wrongdoing. On the contrary, it all seemed rather benign.

  He went back to the library and asked the security man to tell him when Anna Manfrin came out. Soon after four the guard nodded towards a woman in her late thirties, hurrying past with her head down. “That’s her.”

  She was walking surprisingly fast. As he tried to catch up with her, she glanced over her shoulder, and increased her speed.

  “Anna Manfrin?” he called, but she seemed not to hear him, turning a corner into a little square. By the time he got there, she’d vanished.

  He dropped back into a doorway and waited. On the other side of the square was a bus stop. After about five minutes a bus arrived, the doors hissing open. And sure enough, there was Anna Manfrin, dashing towards it. She must have been hiding until it arrived.

  He got on by the back doors and made his way to where she was sitting. As she looked up, startled, he produced his ID. “It’s all right, Anna. I’m Carabinieri. My name’s Colonel Piola.”

  They got off close to Piazza Navona and went to a café. He noticed how she checked out the interior before choosing a table right in the back, with a good view of the door.

  “Is something worrying you?” he asked while they waited for their coffees – he’d initially asked for a spritz, the classic Venetian aperitif of prosecco, sparkling San Pellegrino and Aperol, but the waitress had simply looked blank.

  Anna Manfrin’s dark eyes were troubled. “If you’re really Colonel Piola, you already know the answer to that.”

  He thought he probably did, but he waited for her to go on.

  “Cristian Trevisano and Ester Iadanza,” she explained. “Or do you also think he killed her, then shot himself?”

  “I take it you don’t?”

  Her dismissive “Pff!” told him what she thought of the Polizia’s theory.

  “Did either of them speak to you about my investigation before they died?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Ester emailed me the photograph of the man you wanted help with identifying. They thought I might have come across him in another context.”

  “And had you?”

  She didn’t answer him directly. Instead she picked up the brochure from Palazzo Lighnier. “Are you thinking of becoming a member, Colonel?”

  “Of the Order of Melchizedek? Good Lord, no. Not that they’d have me. I get the impression it’s all rather exclusive.”

  “Some carabinieri are members.” She looked at him warily. “If they’re senior enough, and of the right political persuasion.”

  Conterno had said something similar, he recalled. “The Order’s name came up in the context of the investigation, that’s all. Both Ambrogino Conterno and that unidentified partisan became members shortly after the war. How do you know about them? I got the impression they keep a pretty low profile.”

  “They’re the black nobility. Or at least, they were.”

&nbs
p; He shook his head, frowning. “‘The black nobility’?”

  “The nobiltà nera – the old aristocracy of Rome. The princes and counts, most of them attached to the Papal Court, who in the early twentieth century quietly plotted to reverse the unification of Italy and restore the Papal States. Some became the Pope’s Noble Guard, but those positions were formally abolished in 1964. The Order of Melchizedek, and a dozen or so other strange little fraternities, are all that’s left.”

  Piola recalled that 1964 was when Palazzo Lighnier had been given extraterritoriality. “I got the impression it was mainly a talking shop for wealthy businessmen.”

  “Businessmen, yes… but also cardinals, newspaper editors, generals, right-wing politicians, all drawn in by the lure of mixing with the aristocracy. They even take the occasional gentleman from the olive-oil business.”

  “Mafia, you mean?”

  She nodded. “Now, Colonel, you say ‘a talking shop’. But when you think about that list, what does it remind you of?”

  He thought for a moment. “P2?”

  “Exactly.”

  It had originally been uncovered long before his time, but the P2 scandal had continued to dominate the newspapers throughout the 1980s. “Propaganda Due”, to give it its full name, was a Masonic lodge run by a charismatic chancer called Licio Gelli. Those listed as members included the heads of all three intelligence services; the leaders of a Mafia-backed attempted coup; and the future Prime Minister, Silvio Berlusconi. It turned out to have been implicated in dozens of scandals, from the death of the Vatican banker Roberto Calvi in London to the massive system of organised bribery known as tangentopoli, the exposure of which had brought down the Christian Democrat party.

  “But the Order of Melchizedek must predate P2 by centuries,” he objected.

  “You’d think so,” she agreed. “At least, from reading that leaflet. But if it did exist before the Second World War, it was moribund. Membership had become little more than a courtesy title, conferred by the Pope. Then, after 1945, it suddenly turned into a vibrant, active organisation again – one might almost say, a network.”