Dante's Key

by G. L. Baron

  A moment later, a deafening whistle coming from over a ridge, forced him to turn the other way, towards the helicopter.

  *

  After the Bull had boarded his pick-up, the second Toyota with the mercenaries had gone towards Langjökull.

  When their colleagues did not turn up, the men had stopped just over a wind-blown ridge.

  From there, they heard the first shots and had seen the other Toyota moving in a zig-zag, chased by the helicopter.

  They had not stopped to think about who might be on board the aircraft, assuming that it was the police. The mercenary sitting in the front seat had got out and opened the trunk. Inside was a portable metal-piercing rocket launcher RPG-7. It was a tube with two handles, built in Soviet times, throwing three-hundred-metres-per-second bullets as large as champagne bottles.

  The man pulled it out of its box, loaded one of two rockets that were placed in the side container, and put it to his shoulder.

  He went to the optical viewfinder, held his breath and pulled the trigger. The bullet was fired into the sky with an unmistakable hiss, releasing its exhaust gas in the thin air. A white strip in the form of an arch appeared in the sky, until a dazzling light interrupted its flight.

  Moments later, the roar of the explosion ripped through the air like thunder.

  A cloud of black smoke began to come out of the tail of the AW119, which almost instantly began to spin on itself.

  The blades seemed to falter in the air and the aircraft began precipitating towards the ground, like a balloon punctured by a pin.

  A blinding flash anticipated the roar of the explosion, which shook the entire area.

  93

  White rose, February 6th. 4:08 p.m.

  The mushroom of fire blazed in the snow like a drop of ink in a glass of water. A cloud of black smoke – high as a palace – climbed up in the sky, emanating odours of fuel and charred metal sheets.

  Holmar Bjarnason, Jari Johansson and the other geologists – who after the Bull and the mercenaries’ departure had taken refuge at the foot of a large cube of rock – had had no trouble locating and understanding what had happened. Neither had Kjell Lagerbäck, the head of Geosync, who remained still next to the eagle-shaped sculpture. As he tried to turn his gaze away from all those fireworks, his glasses were drawn to the east-side of the plain.

  Shortly before hearing the gunfire shots, Julia had bolted from her position and was hurtling towards Manuel Cassini.

  The professor was exactly where he had been for the last few minutes: on the edge of the excavation, hands outstretched down by his sides and staring into the chasm in the ground.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she begged, encircling his waist with one hand, trying to move him.

  But he stood there, completely separated from the battle raging all around.

  ‘Come on,’ she insisted. ‘We can’t stay here.’

  Only a moment passed before a shrill voice merely echoed and confirmed her words. ‘Yes… Professor… listen to your friend.’

  The woman looked up at the sun, putting the palm of her hand in front of her eyes.

  At first she could not tell who had spoken, because from her position, she could see only a black silhouette on the edge of the caldera.

  ‘If you care to keep your skin, it would be a good idea to go,’ insisted Sforza, dropping nimbly onto the excavation edge, brandishing his gun. Cassini looked up but said nothing, and neither did Julia, who merely raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Don’t thank me both of you, okay?’ joked the inspector. ‘Where is your car?’

  She pointed to the north. ‘Behind the excavator. Beyond that circular rock.’ She certainly had not expected to see Sforza there, but the fact that he was armed and on their side did not displease her at all.

  Cassini sobered suddenly, shocked by that totally unexpected presence. He smiled and shook his head. Then he turned in the direction indicated by Julia and immediately returned to look at the inspector.

  ‘Let’s not waste time then!’ he insisted.

  Heads down, the three began to run, but managed to take only a few steps closer before a gunshot rang out in the air and forced them to stop.

  ‘What the…’ stammered the inspector, leaning to one side.

  Julia turned, just in time to see Sforza tumbling through the snow. The gun slipped from his hand.

  She was thunderstruck. In front of her was a man whom she knew perfectly well; it was the Japanese who had killed Meredith. He advanced menacingly toward them, a piece of paper in one hand and a pistol in his outstretched arm. But he did not deign to even look at her; his concentration was totally on the inspector.

  ‘The game is over, gentlemen,’ thundered Tanaka, a look of anger on his face. ‘I’ll only ask you once: where is the Brain Control device?’

  The voice was strong and direct, and his gaze lashed Sforza as he said those words, sitting on the ground in a pool of blood.

  The inspector, shot in the thigh, tried to move back by dragging his leg. He drew a red line in the snow.

  ‘I will count to three,’ continued Tanaka, aiming the Walther at Sforza. ‘Then I’ll shoot the other leg, arms and hands… I will not kill you immediately, but will not stop firing until you tell me where you put it.’

  The Japanese took another step to allow Sforza to see the note written by Ibrahim in his hand. ‘One…’

  *

  A few moments before, the Bull’s pick-up had jolted on the ice and shot off at full speed towards the Kjalvegur.

  The dark shadow of the helicopter had flown over the car and was hit in the side, in a whirlwind of noise and a hiss of twisted metal. Immediately after, the aircraft crashed on the glacier.

  The impact was terrible, a deafening roar. The air displacement forced the Bull to control the vehicle, which swerved several times.

  He had both hands on the wheel, trying to gain speed, to get away from the blast site. But the fallout fell in front of the car like meteorites.

  He turned first to the south to try to avoid them, and then returned to facing into the sun, on a long tongue of ice even more precarious than the first. In front of him, scraps of metal of all kinds invaded the roadway.

  He was not discouraged. God was with him.

  He changed gear and pulled the handbrake. A piece of metal hit the side. The rear window exploded and the wheels passed over something that acted as a springboard to the car.

  The flight lasted a few seconds. The Bull held his breath, clutching the steering wheel with both hands. Shortly after, the front tyres touched the ground simultaneously, followed by the rear. The car started jumping like a spring, but continued running with no apparent damage.

  The black smoke and flames were now distant, a mushroom as high as a ten-storey building that was recoiling on itself. He stared at the scene in the mirror, then changed gear and smiled.

  *

  ‘Two…’ Tanaka’s eyes were half-closed, his arm leaning forward.

  Sforza’s face was whiter than snow.

  In those endless moments he found himself thinking that never before had he found himself face to face with death.

  The more he tried to speak, the more his eyes remained glued to the Walther.

  ‘Vor meinem Nicken neigt sich die Welt, vor meinem Zorne zittert sie hin…’2 sang the Japanese. Until something interrupted him. One shot, sudden. Single. Deafness. The roar subsided almost instantly.

  The gun barrel of the Japanese lowered slowly, like a level crossing barrier before the passage of a train.

  Sforza merely touched his side to check that he had not been hit. But he did not feel any pain… and was not losing any more blood.

  Then he looked up and saw that Tanaka had a red stain that was spreading visibly around his liver.

  Sforza turned suddenly, astonished.

  Julia was behind him, kneeling with his gun in her hand, both hands outstretched. The barrel was smoking.

  Then he realized; she must have picked up his weapon w
hen he fell.

  ‘For Meredith!’ she roared, standing and staring at Tanaka’s body in the snow, eyes wide open and an expression of sufferance on his face.

  The inspector gave a sigh of relief. Then, reaching into his trouser pocket, he patted the metal surface of the device and smiled.

  Ten minutes later, Manuel Cassini was sitting alone on the edge of the excavation, his chin held in his hands and his eyes on the sun setting against the horizon. The flat expanse of snow in front of him looked like a plate of gold, gleaming in the last light of day.

  *

  The professor contemplated the excavation again at the foot of the sculpture. The chasm opened in the basalt slab stood out like a black spot on the surrounding ice. The eagle drew a long shadow in the shape of a hook.

  ‘“And he turned his steps along a way not true”,’ he repeated to himself.

  * * *

  2 ‘At my nod, the world will bow, in front of my wrath it will fall trembling’, Richard Wagner, Siegfried, Act I, when one of the characters realizes that he will be killed.

  Epilogue

  Part 1

  Naples, Posillipo, April 6th.

  Two months after the expedition to Iceland.

  A faint breeze blew in from the Gulf. Fluffy white clouds in the blue sky had gathered around the top of Vesuvius. The air smelled of lilac, jasmine and orange blossom in bloom – a sure sign that spring had now arrived.

  When the bell rang shortly after ten o’clock, Manuel Cassini was still asleep, lulled by the familiar chirping of sparrows.

  He had spent yet another sleepless night; memories of Iceland had danced before his eyes and had not allowed him to sleep. That ice-covered island had become ghostly for him, disappearing and reappearing every night.

  He had managed to doze off when the sun had begun to peep through the half-closed shutters. Then, the sound of the bell had torn him from his restless dreams.

  He opened his eyes. He was alone in bed.

  He heard footsteps, voices and then a tinkling “Thank you!”

  He sat on the bed. ‘Who was that?’ he asked aloud, rubbing his arm across his eyes.

  No one answered.

  He shook his head and stood up. He crossed the large bedroom and went through the mahogany door, into a long corridor furnished with an eighteenth-century sideboard, on which stood two ceramic pots filled with glass flowers and a small bookcase full of books.

  The living room was on the south-side of the apartment, overlooking a beautiful garden where an araucaria stood out surrounded by Maritime pine trees and oleanders, with the valley opening out and plunging into the Gulf of Naples. When he slid the door aside he was almost dazzled by the light coming through the large windows. The sun had drawn a large arc on the floor, and right in the middle there were three wooden crates.

  ‘Who was that?’ he repeated to the woman.

  She was kneeling, her back towards him, studying the label attached to one of the parcels.

  A small red van was pulling away from the driveway.

  He saw it out of the corner of his eye, and on the side he thought he could read the letters BRT.

  Julia turned her head and smiled. ‘It was a courier,’ she muttered, stroking her chin. ‘Did I wake you up?’

  Cassini stared breathlessly. She was beautiful. She was still wearing her black silk pyjamas and kept her golden hair tied back in a ponytail. Elusive wisps danced on her forehead. Rosy cheeks stood out on the white skin and her full lips were half-closed, in an expression of surprise.

  After the death of Sheikh Mohamed bin Saif Al Husayn, she had not wanted to go back to Dubai. She had no reason to be there anymore. Cassini, returning from Iceland, had suggested staying a few days with him to recover from the stress of the expedition.

  And a few days had turned into two months.

  It was certainly not an easy relationship. The professor had often asked what kind of relationship they had. Julia’s fickleness still had not allowed him to get a clear idea; sometimes she was very sweet, loving, the woman of his dreams. At other times, cold, icy and closed-in on herself. The crying spells – at least in the early days – had been the norm, but with the passage of time they had become rarer.

  As the weeks went by, Cassini became increasingly aware that perhaps Dempsey, with his simple analysis, had been right: the girl had never overcome the trauma of her youth. The fact that she had been kidnapped, torn from the affections of her family as a teenager, trained to use weapons and raped repeatedly, had left an indelible sign on her. A sign that perhaps only love could cancel. Cassini was certain, however, that she would recover.

  ‘They’re from Dubai,’ she announced, running her index finger around the label of one of the crates. ‘The sender’s address is the Burj Khalifa.’

  The professor smiled and crossed his arms. ‘Open them then. What are you waiting for?’

  Julia jumped up, looked Cassini straight in the eyes. Then approaching him she threw her arms around him. ‘Thank you,’ she just whispered.

  He stroked her back, arching his eyebrow. ‘Thanks for what?’

  ‘Everything!’ she sobbed. ‘Thanks for all of this. Loving me and welcoming me here as if I were one of the family.’

  The professor held her in his arms but did not reply.

  ‘I don’t know if I want to open them…’ Then she turned and looked at the three crates on the floor again. They were as big as fruit crates, made from lumpy wood, with numerous barcodes attached to the sides.

  ‘They were part of a chapter of my life that is now closed.’

  Cassini knelt beside one of the crates. Then he shook his head.

  ‘You shouldn’t do it for me, Julia. There may be something from your past in these cases, perhaps… but opening them certainly won’t send you back in time.’

  She shook her head, unsure what to do.

  Manuel smiled instead. ‘…It certainly won’t make me go back, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  She hugged him again. He remained motionless for a few moments then went into the kitchen in search of a pair of scissors. He opened the first crate. It was full of transparent bubble wrap. There were some handwritten sheets on the top. Cassini handed them to the girl and waited before continuing to unpack the crate’s contents.

  Julia grabbed them, her face impassive. ‘They’re from the Sheikh’s executor,’ she muttered after a few seconds. ‘And there is also a letter from Mohamed.’

  Then she began to read, and continued for several minutes. When it was over, copious tears flowed from her eyes. ‘Dear Julia, you have served me well, loyally,’ she read for Cassini’s benefit. ‘I promised you that on my death I would leave you the drawings that you admired so much. If you are reading this letter it means the time to repay my debt has arrived.’ The last words were followed by a stifled sob.

  ‘What is he talking about?’ asked the professor, scratching his forehead.

  She had understood the meaning of the Sheikh’s words. She began to discard the plastic wrapping and finally pointed out the case’s content to the professor. ‘These.’

  He could see a well-packed glass case under the packing, with an eye-catching stand in alabaster. There was a drawing inside – maybe in ink – depicting a cornerstone and a man with a brooding attitude leaning against it.

  ‘But…?’ Cassini was incredulous.

  ‘It’s one of Raphael’s sketches. One of the preparatory works for The School of Athens fresco,’ she clarified without looking up from the drawing. ‘The Sheikh had three, contained in identical glass cases built in the twenties by the goldsmith, Cesare Ravasco.’

  Cassini remembered seeing them.

  ‘Mohamed bought them in secret from a private collection. He knew that I liked them and had promised me that…’ Julia broke out in tears again, but between one sob and another she managed to finish the sentence. ‘He had promised me that, on his death, he would bequeath them to me.’

  *

  An hour l
ater, the three caskets were mounted, one beside the other, in the living room of the house.

  The drawings represented three details of the fresco: in the one on the left one could see the figure of Michelangelo, in the guise of Heraclitus, leaning against a cornerstone; in the middle one, the philosopher Diogenes of Sinope was drawn, lying on a staircase; and in the right one, Bramante in the shoes of Euclid.

  ‘They’re fantastic!’ Cassini purred, scanning the drawings with a magnifying lens. ‘Look at the details, they make me shiver.’

  Julia was sitting still on the couch, looking at the three caskets.

  ‘What shall we do with them?’ she asked. ‘I don’t want them here.’

  ‘Let’s take a few days to think about it. We could…’ the professor stopped short. He passed the magnifying lens over the lower part of the central design and stopped.

  ‘What is it?’

  Cassini did not answer.

  ‘What is it?’ Julia repeated.

  The professor ran into the hall and began to examine the books on the shelf. After a moment he took a chair and climbed up. He pulled out a large book with a glossy cover and brought it into the living room.

  Julia approached him, uncertain.

  Meanwhile, the professor was leafing desperately through the book.

  ‘Have you seen something strange?’ she asked again, her voice soft but firm.

  ‘Maybe…’

  Julia shook her head, but then smiled. Manuel Cassini was so like that, a volcano suddenly erupting.

  ‘Look,’ he pointed to a precise point of the photograph depicting The School of Athens, just below the steps on which Diogenes of Sinope was lying. ‘What do you see?’

  The girl did not answer immediately. She stared at the professor, and then answered: ‘The floor.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he pointed out. Then he took the book and placed it in front of Raphael’s sketch. There, the detail of the staircase seemed identical, but on the marble floor there was a difference. ‘This is definitively not in the fresco.’

  Julia went to the casket. In the drawing, on the marble at the foot of the staircase, they could see something that was not in the Stanza della Segnatura.