The Death Mask Murders

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘Stand up!’ commanded the gaoler.

  Regan stood up.

  ‘He’s ready. You can come in now.’

  A man wearing a leather apron came into the cell and began to measure Regan’s height.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Regan.

  ‘Can’t you see? He’s taking measurements,’ said the gaoler, grinning.

  ‘What for?

  ‘Your rotting corpse, of course, you miserable wretch. You have an appointment with the noose. You will end your life by dancing the hempen jig at the end of a rope. And once you’re dead, your corpse will be enclosed in an iron cage and left hanging to rot,’ he added, laughing. This was a common deterrent intended as a grisly, public warning against future acts of piracy.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon. Very soon.’

  ‘In that case, I want to see a priest. The Jesuit who gave evidence at my trial. I spoke to him and asked him. He said he would hear my confession.’

  The gaoler nodded. This was a condemned prisoner’s right.

  ‘I will let him know,’ he growled and followed the other man out of the cell, and then locked the heavy door.

  Smiling, Regan took the little amulet – the tip of a whale’s tooth he usually wore around his neck – out of his pocket, and then searched through the straw for the nail. As soon as he found it, he went to work, well aware that he had to finish the engraving before the shaft of moonlight reaching through the barred opening in the wall disappeared.

  Three days later

  Navarro followed the gaoler down the slippery stone steps leading to the castle dungeons. ‘In here,’ said the gaoler and pointed to an iron-studded wooden door with massive, rusty hinges. ‘Just call out when you’re finished. I’ll come and get you.’ The gaoler unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  Navarro nodded, stepped into the cell and looked at the man standing in the shadows. Instead of finding a man cowering on the floor, crushed by the prospect of soon facing a horrible death, he found Regan standing upright in his chains, radiating composed confidence, bordering on arrogance, Navarro thought, and authority.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Father,’ said Regan, his voice surprisingly strong. ‘There isn’t much time, so I’ll come straight to the point.’

  ‘I thought you wanted me to hear your confession.’

  Regan laughed. ‘I am more interested in this life than the next, but a confession it will be. Of sorts.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You will in a moment. I would like to suggest a deal,’ said Regan, lowering his voice.

  ‘A deal?’ asked Navarro, looking incredulous. Perhaps he’s lost his mind? he thought, searching for an explanation for the baffling comment.

  ‘What kind of deal?’

  ‘I have something of great value to you and your Church, and you can help me with something I have to do before I depart this world. Interested?’

  ‘You speak in riddles. Please explain.’

  ‘I know that the legendary Ruminahui treasure was on the San Cristobal.’

  ‘How can you possibly know this?’ said Navarro, looking astonished. ‘Not even Captain Cordoba knows.’

  ‘I have spies in every port, eyes and ears in every tavern.’

  Navarro nodded, but didn’t respond.

  ‘What would you say if I were to show you a way to retrieve that treasure?’

  ‘This is fantasy, surely.’

  ‘Far from it. The San Cristobal is resting on a reef in shallow waters. The treasure would be quite easy to recover,’ Regan paused for effect. ‘If you know where to look, that is,’ he added quietly.

  Regan watched Navarro carefully. The expression on Navarro’s face told him all he had to know.

  ‘Seriously?’ said Navarro, sounding hoarse.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that you know where to look?’

  ‘I do. As you can imagine, I know these waters like the back of my hand. I had some of the best charts available on my ship. I know exactly where the San Cristobal is right now with all that gold ... within reach.’

  ‘And you are prepared to tell me in return for what?’

  ‘Excellent. We understand each other. It’s about that boy from my ship who was rescued with us.’

  ‘James Mascarino, the young powder monkey?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know what will happen to him?’

  ‘According to the law, he’s a pirate just like you, albeit a very young one. You heard what was said during the trial.’

  ‘I did. I know I will hang, but they didn’t say what would happen to him.’

  ‘And this matters to you?’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘This is all part of my confession, right?’ asked Regan, ignoring the question.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Therefore, the seal of confession applies here?’

  ‘It does. Nothing you tell me as a penitent can be disclosed by me to anyone. Canon 21 of the Fourth Council of the Lateran made that absolutely clear in 1215. It is binding on the whole Church.’

  ‘It matters to me, because James is my son,’ said Regan quietly. ‘Mascarino is his mother’s name. She was Portuguese.’

  Navarro looked at Regan in silence for a while, and then nodded. Suddenly, it all made sense. ‘They are reluctant to hang him because he’s so young. He’ll probably stay in here for the rest of his life, I suspect. In a cell just like this one. Forgotten. Or they may hang him later.’

  Regan nodded. ‘If you were to intercede on his behalf, could this perhaps change?’

  ‘Perhaps. You mean if I were to take him into the care of the Church, for example, for the purpose of reforming him?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I think the governor may listen to this. I have friends in high places, and he knows it ...’

  ‘Excellent. Here’s the deal. If you promise to do all you can to save my son, I will show you exactly where to find the San Cristobal.’

  ‘How will you do that?’

  ‘On a map. One was presented by Cordoba as evidence during the trial, remember?’

  Navarro nodded.

  ‘To show roughly where my ship attacked and went down with the San Cristobal,’ continued Regan. ‘Except Cordoba got the position all wrong. He was guessing, of course.’

  ‘But you know exactly where she is?’

  ‘I do. And if you were to bring the map here, I could show you. Do you think you could do that? Bring the map in here, that is?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Do we have a deal?’

  ‘I ... I want to think about this,’ stammered Navarro, somewhat taken aback.

  ‘There’s no time! You have to give me your answer now. And there’s one more thing,’ added Regan quietly, introducing the most important part of the proposed bargain.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I would like to see my son before I go to the gallows. I want to spend a few moments with him alone. In here. To say goodbye. Do you think you could arrange that?’

  ‘I suppose so. It’s not too much to ask in the circumstances. And as a priest and your confessor, I would have—’

  ‘Do we have a deal?’ Regan interrupted impatiently, aware that time was running out.

  Navarro looked at Regan, his mind racing. If what Regan was proposing was real, then this was an offer almost too good to be true. In any event, he had nothing to lose by making a promise to save the poor boy’s life in return.

  ‘We have a deal,’ said Navarro.

  Regan held out his hand. Navarro shook it. The deal was sealed. ‘Then you better get going, Father, and bring me that map,’ said Regan, smiling.

  30

  In front of Morro Castle, Havana: 7 July 1664

  Gallows had been hastily erected just outside the castle gates during the night. The execution would take place in front of Morro Castle, a symbol of Spanish power. The imposing fortifications would prov
ide a fitting backdrop to the hanging of one of the most notorious pirates, who had humiliated the governor for years, captured countless merchant vessels, and made a mockery out of the navy trying to protect them.

  Word of the hanging had spread quickly through the city, and a huge crowd had assembled at first light in front of the castle, eagerly waiting for the spectacle to begin and enjoying the carnival atmosphere.

  Standing on top of the ramparts, the governor shielded his eyes from the glare of the rising sun and looked down at the throng in front of the gallows, surrounded by armed guards under the command of Captain Cordoba. Satisfied, the governor began to stroke his beard and turned to Navarro standing next to him.

  ‘This will send a strong message to the wretched buccaneers out there, don’t you think, Father?’

  Navarro nodded.

  ‘And tell them that it is only a matter of time,’ continued the governor, ‘before they are blown apart by our warships and face the end of a rope, just like Mad Dog Regan, their “invincible” hero. I am sure your superiors in Spain will be pleased to hear that.’

  ‘They will indeed, Excellency,’ said Navarro, well aware of the subtle hint. ‘I will certainly mention this in my dispatch.’

  ‘Excellent. Your interest in the prisoner’s spiritual needs is to be commended, Father,’ continued the governor. ‘Especially as he’s the man responsible for the sinking of the San Cristobal and the death of Father Morales.’

  ‘The condemned man will be judged by a higher authority for his sins; I am only ministering to his immortal soul. As his confessor, I will be by his side when he takes his last breath and meets his maker.’

  ‘Very noble of you. And so is your interest in the boy. I must say, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with him. He deserves to hang, of course, but one so young?’ The governor shook his head. ‘Your proposal could solve my dilemma, and for that I am grateful. Let’s hope something good comes out of this terrible business.’

  Smiling, Navarro bowed his head, but didn’t reply.

  ‘And don’t forget, the boy must witness the execution. It will serve as a stark reminder not to follow in the footsteps of his evil captain.’

  ‘Quite so, Excellency. I will make sure he stands right next to me during the execution and sees it all.’

  ‘Very well. You better go then, Father, it’s almost time.’

  Blinded by the bright sunlight as he stepped into the courtyard on his way to the gallows, Regan closed his eyes and braced himself for what was to come. With his hands tied behind his back and a chain attached to a heavy iron collar chafing at his aching neck, he almost stumbled as he was dragged towards the castle gates by a contingent of jubilant prison guards, enjoying their part in the spectacle. Squinting, Regan opened his eyes just before they reached the gates and stepped outside.

  The excited crowd began to cheer as soon as the hated pirate, who had caused so much death and destruction, walked through the gates, signalling the beginning of the gruesome pageant that had brought them to the castle so early in the morning.

  If they expected to see a beaten man begging for mercy, they were surely disappointed as Regan walked confidently towards the waiting gallows, his bearing almost regal despite his tattered coat, the expression on his face defiant. He might soon lose his life, but deep down he knew he could leave this earth a winner with the last laugh, should Navarro have been able to persuade the governor to spare his son.

  So far, Navarro had kept his side of the bargain. First, he had arranged that all-important meeting Regan had asked for. Regan had spent several precious minutes alone in his cell with his son. This had given him enough time to tell the boy all he had to know about his daring plan, and instruct him how to implement it. But most important of all, he had been able to give his son something precious that made it all possible, and would allow the boy to continue the Templars’ revenge, long after his father had gone.

  After that, Navarro had brought the map to Regan’s cell, and Regan had confidently pointed to a spot where he claimed the San Cristobal was resting in shallow waters on a reef. For someone who loathed the Church and what it stood for, Regan had put on a convincing performance that completely fooled Navarro, who saw contrition and repentance, where there was only treachery and deceit.

  As he walked towards the gallows, Regan could see his son standing demurely next to Navarro, waiting for him with the masked hangman by his side. For an instant, Regan felt a wave of sadness and regret, as nagging doubts began to claw at his heavy heart. What if Navarro had been unable to convince the governor, he asked himself, and James would spend the rest of his life in the dungeons, or worse? If so, his carefully laid plans would fail and it would all have been for nothing.

  Forever the optimist, Regan banished the dark thoughts and kept walking. Ignoring the roar of the crowd as he slowly climbed the wooden steps leading up to the gallows on top of the dais, which looked more like a macabre stage set than a place of execution, Regan kept watching Navarro for a sign.

  As his confessor, Navarro was allowed to be present and talk to the prisoner just before the execution. The hangman was about to place the noose around Regan’s neck when Navarro held up his hand. ‘Please give us a moment,’ he said. The hangman stepped back.

  ‘The governor agreed,’ whispered Navarro. ‘Your son will come to live with me in the monastery and receive an education.’

  Relieved, Regan nodded, his scarred face creasing in a smile as Navarro made the sign of the cross over him and then withdrew.

  Regan watched his son as the hangman placed the noose around his neck and fastened it. James, his face ashen, held his father’s gaze and pointed with trembling fingers to the amulet he wore around his neck, which his father had given him earlier that day. Suddenly, the crowd fell silent, realising that the crucial moment had arrived. The hangman looked up at the governor standing at the ramparts above.

  Slowly, the governor raised his hand like a Roman emperor about to decide the fate of a defeated gladiator in the arena.

  The last thing Regan saw before the trapdoor opened under his feet, was the amulet around his son’s neck with the tiny map he had engraved that pinpointed the exact location of the San Cristobal, with Ruminahui’s legendary treasure waiting at the bottom of a shallow sea.

  Just before the noose tightened around his neck and broke it, Regan began to laugh as he remembered the spot on the map he had shown to Navarro. Of course, it was nowhere near the San Cristobal, but somewhere out in the ocean, far away from the sunken treasure coveted by the Church.

  Part III

  The Allure of the Golden Mask

  ‘The conquistador has no real appreciation of the new, wanting only to make his fortune and return to build an ugly palace towering the pigsty of his birth, but not before he does his best to transform the Indies into the nightmare they left behind.’

  John Caviglia, Arauco

  31

  Florence: 28 October, morning

  Rising early, Jack went for a walk along the banks of the Arno and had breakfast in his favourite trattoria near the Ponte Vecchio. He was preparing himself for what he sensed would be a pivotal meeting, showing the way for the next important step in the Death Mask Murders investigation. The phone call he had received from Dupree the night before had made that clear. Enjoying his second latte, Jack was going over his notes he had prepared since his first prison meeting with Landru at the beginning of the month.

  Because so much had happened so quickly, Jack was drawing up a timeline of events he knew would be essential if he wanted to put all the crucial elements into perspective, and work out a meaningful strategy going forward. He also knew from experience that there would be only one opportunity to do this with all the key participants present. Satisfied, Jack finished his latte, closed his notebook and slipped the old rubber band over it. Then he paid the bill and hurried to the chief prosecutor’s office on the other side of the river a short distance away.

  By the time Jack arrived
at Grimaldi’s office, Cesaria and Dr Clara Samartini were already waiting for him.

  ‘Just in time, Jack,’ said Grimaldi and pointed to the whiteboard behind his desk. ‘I heard what happened. Dreadful business. Donizetti will pull through. She’s recovering in a military hospital in Naples. You had a lucky escape.’

  ‘Extraordinary woman. At least that’s good news.’

  ‘Now you know why I was reluctant to arrange the meeting.’

  ‘I had no idea Calabria was that dangerous.’

  Grimaldi shrugged and pointed to Samartini.

  ‘Clara has made excellent progress during the night, as you will see,’ he said, ‘regarding the new information you obtained from Giuseppina Giordano yesterday. Well done, by the way. Let’s hear what she has to say.’

  Samartini greeted Jack like an old friend, but the sadness in her eyes was apparent when she embraced him.

  ‘I was shocked to hear about Lorenza,’ she said. ‘Tristan must be devastated.’

  ‘He is, and so are we all. But perhaps with your help, we can do something about it and catch those responsible.’

  ‘We’ll leave no stone unturned, that I can promise you. Especially after what happened yesterday. You think these matters are connected?’

  ‘Could be. It’s early days, but you know how these things go.’

  Samartini nodded and turned towards the whiteboard. Cesaria, Samartini and Jack had been through a lot together two years earlier, and it was in no small way due to Samartini’s ingenuity and tenacity that Tristan and Lorenza had been rescued in time, before falling victim to the deadly Ars Moriendi game conducted by the Mafia just outside Florence.

  Jack smiled as he remembered meeting Samartini for the first time in Venice. Little had changed since. She was still the petite young woman with mousy-brown hair cut quite short, wearing thick glasses that amplified her eyes and gave her an almost comical appearance that reminded Jack of an earnest, short-sighted librarian. But appearances can be deceptive. With a PhD in IT from the University of Bologna, Samartini was one of the brightest members of Squadra Mobile’s Forensics team, specialising in cybercrime and surveillance. She was also a black belt in karate.