by G. L. Baron
When night was about to give way to day, and the full moon had set behind a rocky ridge, a cleft had been opened in the lava rock marked by the Grand Master.
The trunk was brought to the edge of the artificial crevasse, and four knights lowered it into the ground and proceeded to fill the hole with earth and stones. Finally, they moved one of the four sculptures and positioned it onto the exact spot where they had been digging.
At that point, all the men dedicated themselves to fixing the other three sculptures in places that had already been identified. Just before dawn, the work was complete. The sculptures were positioned at the four cardinal points of the amphitheatre: a warrior with a helmet was placed north; an eagle launched into flight, south; a rudimentary chair, like a throne, to the west; and a face similar to that of Christ to the east.
Before leaving, de Chartres scanned one by one each of the eighty Templars, his brothers. They were exhausted, lines of fatigue carved into their faces, but ecstatic to have completed this monumental mission.
Then he looked at the sculpture under which the precious trunk had been buried, and made the sign of the cross. He prayed to God that it would not fall into the wrong hands, ever.
1
Paris, New Year’s Day. 09:00 a.m.
The phone rang.
The man opened his eyes slowly and at first struggled to recognize the room he was in.
The ring, meanwhile, was more and more insistent: from being distant and seemingly submerged, it had become loud and clear, like a barb poking into his brain.
‘Hello,’ he stammered, his mouth feeling furred and still tasting of alcohol.
‘Mr Cassini, this is reception,’ said a polite voice in perfect Italian.
The baroque mirror framed in gold, the lush upholstery in red and beige, the six metre high ceiling… Now everything was becoming more familiar. He was in the Imperial Suite at the Ritz Hotel. He was lying in the same canopied bed that he had the previous evening shared with… the girl with the strange bracelet… What did she say her name was?
‘Professor, you gave us precise instructions,’ said the voice on the other end of the phone. ‘You asked us to wake you up at 9 o’clock.’
Manuel Cassini sat on the bed, his bare feet hardly touching the carpet.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered in a weak voice.
At that moment, his head was spinning as if he had downed an entire crate of Dom Pérignon. At least that was what he felt like, as he wasn’t in the habit of drinking very much and could not remember having ever felt so exhausted.
He rose to his feet and staggered to reach the desk in front of one of the four windows. He pulled back the curtains, and a thread of grey light reflecting from Place Vendôme illuminated the marble floor.
After its restoration in 2013, the Imperial Suite was once again one of the more expensive suites in Europe. For one night it could cost anything between twenty and thirty thousand euros. But Cassini had not paid a penny; five days ago he had received an e-mail from a domain that had intrigued him: polomuseale.firenze.it. The superintendent of the Florentine museums, Andrea Cavalli Gigli, had sent it. They had known each other for several years, but it had been a long time since they last spoke.
Still exhausted, he turned and sat back down on the bed, between the linen sheets and the bedspread edged in gold. Next to the phone, on the bedside table lacquered in the style of Louis XVI, there was a copy of the e-mail, printed on the letterhead of the university:
O, ye, who have sane intellects
mark the doctrine, which conceals itself
beneath the veil of the strange verses.
A professor at the University of Naples Federico II, he was one of the greatest experts on Dante Alighieri. He knew those verses of the Canto IX of the Inferno very well, and it was starting from that very triplet that he had elaborated one of his first publications. The text in the e-mail had been accompanied by some attachments: a first-class ticket (Fiumicino-Charles de Gaulle) and a copy of a booking at the new Ritz hotel, recently reopened after a long restoration. On the last page there was a note written in a different font: ‘New Year’s Day, at 10 a.m. in front of the Mona Lisa.’
There was a final attachment in the e-mail: an image depicting Botticelli’s Primavera. That image, in addition to the text, was what had convinced him to accept the invitation. It was a reproduction, perfectly to scale, but with the contours of the characters highlighted by a computer. In that picture, there were also a number of notes written digitally: by the right hand of the male figure, which showed the forefinger raised, there was a "1"; while on the left where four fingers were showing, a "4". Above the three graces, whose fingers were entwined with each other, four numbers were indicated: "1000", "300", "10" and "9". Finally, on the left hand of the central figure, a "3" had been drawn, referring to the three fingers.
For Cassini, those references were not devoid of meaning; his book, now five years old, had tried to identify a common thread to explain Botticelli’s obsession with the Divine Comedy. His study had even suggested that the male figure in the Primavera represented Dante Alighieri himself. He had tried to understand the strange significance of the characters’ fingers in the painting and had asked noted experts from the art world. One of them was Andrea Cavalli Gigli, who unfortunately, had not been able to enlighten him in any way towards solving the mystery.
And now, after five years, Cavalli Gigli had invited him to Paris. After what had happened with his wife, he just wanted to take his mind off things, so he had just packed and left.
Cassini got out of bed again, and went into the other room to wash his face. The sense of exhaustion had not yet left him and indeed, if possible, made him feel even more confused. Staggering slightly, he reached the bathroom, a former boudoir overlooking the garden Vendôme, and sat on the edge of the Jacuzzi bathtub.
He stood for a few seconds. Then he opened the window and sat down again, gasping. Despite the fresh air, he was completely drenched in sweat. He shook his head; alcohol had never, ever made him feel so sick before. He forced himself to reach the sink, and finally turned on the icy cold water.
When he looked up in the mirror, he was struck by an instant flashback. A sharp image, realistic, appeared before his eyes: a small-calibre pistol held tightly in his fist. For a moment he stopped breathing.
He had the impression that his heart had suddenly stopped beating. He turned, trying to shake off the thought, but the memory returned even clearer: in front of him was a man, in a plaid cardigan and a velvet jacket. He did not look him in the face because his gaze was fixed on the hands grasped tightly around the neck, from which a stream of blood flowed.
2
A week before.
Vatican City, Christmas Eve. 08:55 a.m.
The faded silhouette of St. Peter’s Dome nestled against the low sky, shrouded in the morning mist. Above Bernini’s Colonnade, a row of chimney pots belched white smoke up into the rain clouds.
Monsignor Claude de Beaumont walked briskly from the courtyard of Sixtus V towards the square of the Holy Office. He continued without stopping until he reached the churchyard of St. Peter’s Square; it was already crowded at that hour of the morning with the faithful and tourists.
It was Christmas Eve and he had just returned from a routine inspection of the frescoes in the Raphael Rooms. Officially, he had gone to the Papal Palace to check the damage caused by humidity, but this was just an excuse.
He had stayed in the four halls for almost half an hour. He remained motionless, with his eyes trained on the School of Athens and the Dispute of the Blessed Sacrament, the two frescoes on the long side of the Stanza della Segnatura. To begin with, he focused on the square stone base on which Heraclitus stood, in the first fresco, and then on the book read by Bramante, in the lower part of the second.
All the while, his friend, Walter Magnani, director of the Vatican Museums, had remained silent beside him, a frown on his face. Then at eight-thirty, without having done wha
t he had been asked to do, a gendarme had escorted him to the exit.
When he was beside the “ancient” fountain he stopped short. It had started to drizzle and Monsignor de Beaumont, tall and bony, stood motionless for a few seconds, deep in thought. He tilted his head slightly, as if he had heard a familiar voice. Then he stopped, turned in a circle and stopped again. He reached into the pocket of his raincoat and felt the smooth, metallic surface, as if to reassure himself it was still there.
He was curator of the Vatican Museums and had worked in the Department of Art of the 15th and 16th Centuries for almost five years. His occupation, along with his vocation, had marked his life and his religious journey. A small army of restorers, conservators, and a host of all-too-well-fed bureaucrats depended on him and his great knowledge of Renaissance art history. In addition, of course, to the good health of all the works housed within the walls of Holy See.
The rain began to fall more insistently. The pious Monsignor stood still for a moment, staring at the huge, decorated Christmas tree beside the obelisk. Then he decided to retrace his steps. The short visit to the Raphael Rooms had not been sufficient. He was sure he was right.
With an instinctive gesture he raised his hand to touch an ear and then the nape of his head, where he had placed a small transparent device. He touched it with his fingers, half-closing his eyes. He wondered if that object had altered his judgment.
Meanwhile, a large army of colourful umbrellas advancing toward the obelisk was invading the square. He had to remove all doubt. He approached Bernini’s portico, on the side of the Apostolic Palace, and headed back toward the basilica.
*
Near the entrance to the Sistine Chapel, in front of the Scala Regia staircase, he showed his ID card with the Holy See’s image, and the entrance door opened. He crossed a large room and went down a long corridor and finally found the Vatican gardens. The palms bordering the Stradone dei Giardini dripped with rain, like flags at half-mast.
Monsignor Claude de Beaumont walked rapidly, his head down. After a few minutes he reached the entrance to the Vatican Gallery and then the centre of room VIII, the last one.
The Transfiguration occupied the central part of the room, protected by an aluminium barrier that stopped visitors getting too close. The museum must have just opened recently, because a crowd of camera-laden tourists swooped noisily into the room. Despite the confusion, he did not lose sight of the painting. De Beaumont walked back a few steps and reached a row of wooden benches on the opposite side. He sat down without taking his gaze off the painting. He remained in the same position for twelve minutes – so it later turned out, on examination of the closed circuit video – and then headed for the double spiral staircase of the Vatican Museum.
He did not stop and had no second thoughts. Upon reaching the highest level, he climbed over the inlaid railing. He stood immobile for a few moments, his eyes closed. Then he leaned forward and dropped into the void.
3
Vatican City, Christmas Eve. 12:12 p.m.
‘He went up there and let himself fall.’ The gendarme pointed up towards the black balustrade of the Vatican Museum staircase. ‘He never hesitated.’
Nigel Sforza took off his Ray-Ban Aviators and squinted. A faint light penetrated from the octagonal dome, and the lamps along the spiral ramp were alight. In the eerie silence of the completely empty museum, you could hear the patter of rain on the glass. ‘How high?’
‘About twenty, twenty-five metres. It was a good jump!’
‘Ok,’ he muttered, his arms folded and his tone harsh. ‘Goodbye notes, messages, maybe some text messages from the cell phone? Have you checked the phone records?’
‘No message, and the printouts are coming; we only just asked for them,’ hissed the agent as he observed the area’s marble floor bordered by yellow tape. The body had already been removed, but the lake of coagulated blood at the foot of the column had not yet been cleaned up. All the museum rooms had been closed shortly after nine, allowing the Vatican Gendarmerie to investigate.
They were at the foot of the monumental staircase designed by the architect Giuseppe Momo in the thirties. There were six silent guards, two museum employees, and a photographer present besides Sforza.
‘Personal effects?’ Sforza began to walk in a circle, up the wide staircase. He wore a leather jacket, torn faded jeans and a tight black T-shirt. A gold necklace with a showy cross hung around his neck. He had a tanned face, blonde crew-cut hair, and a wisp of beard that was white in several places. He looked like Fonzie, only ten years older.
‘Nothing in particular,’ clarified the agent, rubbing his hands on his uniform. ‘Only a kind of aluminium iPod… That must have been broken by the fall.’
‘I’ll need to examine it,’ he pressed. ‘Send it to Lyon, as soon as possible.’
‘It’s lucky that the best Interpol inspector was in the area…’ Diego Farinelli, the Gendarmerie commander, had just entered by the door that opened onto the Viale Vaticano.
Coming over with his camel gait, he held out his hand to Sforza and smiled. ‘Good to see you, how are you? And how is Claudette?’
‘With all the money I pay in alimony, I’m sure she’s doing very well.’ Nigel Sforza shook hands with the commander and smiled.
‘If she knows you as well as I do, I can’t blame her for having asked for a divorce… Do you still have the girlfriend in Rome?’
‘When you knew I was in the city you certainly didn’t complain…’
‘I thought that on Christmas Eve morning you’d have nothing better to do.’
Sforza smiled again. He had known the gendarmeria commander for over twenty years, ever since Farinelli was a mere Carabinieri agent. ‘Seriously, why did you call me? This has all the air of being a suicide… It doesn’t look like a case for Interpol.’
Farinelli squatted and touched the floor with his long, tapered finger. Unlike Sforza, who despite his age had never stopped dressing like a teenager, he was wearing a blue suit, with a show of silk coming out of his top pocket. His hair was slightly-streaked with silver, and he was fifteen years older than the Interpol agent.
There were fragments of the green Roman alabaster amphora that de Beaumont had chipped, falling on the marble floor as well as the blood. The commander squinted in the dim light and asked for a pair of gloves and a bag for testing. He approached, lowering his bifocals, and then picked up a small object from between the pieces of the vase: it looked like a translucent microchip, almost transparent.
Sforza watched him in silence for a few seconds.
‘Why do you think that the Gendarmerie needs Interpol?’ asked Farinelli as he passed the just-found object to a gendarme. ‘Obviously, we just wanted you to help us with a little problem.’
‘And what kind of problem is that?’
‘One that has to do with Walter Magnani, director of the Vatican Museum. He was a close friend of the victim… he argues that the curator was drugged and forced to commit suicide.’
‘Did you know him? Was he the kind, do you think?’
Farinelli shook his head, puzzled. ‘I knew him, yes, but frankly I don’t know. It seems that at the beginning of the month de Beaumont had started seeing a woman, an American, and from then he was no longer the same. Magnani says it happened suddenly and that the Monsignor was acting strangely… his words: “Like an alcoholic with withdrawal symptoms”.’
‘In a crisis of abstinence from sex maybe… it’s normal, you know, when one chooses chastity in life and then meets a woman.’ Sforza smiled mockingly: ‘You don’t call Interpol for that.’
‘The truth is that I don’t want to be told that we missed something.’ Farinelli stood up and gave his friend a dark look. ‘We have already sent an official request to Lyon, asking for you to follow the case.’
‘Sir’. A gendarme was coming down the staircase with a printout sheet in his hand.
The commander looked up just as a photographic flash lit up the scene.
‘We have the phone records,’ announced the young man with chestnut hair and a smiling face.
‘Tell Inspector Sforza of Interpol; starting today he will help us with the investigation. In fact, let him have all the evidence, including that transparent chip.’
The gendarme, still with the plastic bag between his fingers, nodded. His colleague, who had since come down the last step, did the same and handed over the document to Nigel Sforza with suspicion.
The inspector read it carefully. ‘It’s a very short list,’ he said finally. ‘Five phone calls to a single landline number and seventeen times to the same mobile. And all just yesterday! Do we know whose these numbers are?’
The gendarme nodded. He knew because he had noticed that the only numbers on the list had been dialled, obsessively, many times. Before coming down he had found the names of the owners in the database: ‘The land line number is of the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, and the mobile is owned by Andrea Cavalli Gigli, the superintendent of the Uffizi.’
4
Dubai, at the same time.
Mohamed bin Saif Al Husayn contemplated a large OLED screen mounted on the wall in a completely dark room.
He was on the 107th floor of the Burj Khalifa, the tallest skyscraper in the world. His court, as a Sports journalist who had recently interviewed the Sheikh had defined it, was ‘a Renaissance palace suspended in the clouds’. It occupied the last two residential floors of the building and, from its windows, the cars on the ring roads looked like ants.
Mohamed had his hands resting on the arms of his special wheelchair, and a carbon support helped to keep his neck straight. On his head he wore a kind of biker’s helmet, with spider-shaped little holes. At the end of each ‘leg’ was a small sensor resting on a flap of skin. That device, interacting with his neurons, helped him to speak and perform some basic motor functions.