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About The Traitor
About Jonathan Holt
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About the Carnivia Trilogy
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For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.
– Ephesians 6:12
Maps
Prologue
THE CANDIDATE WAS in darkness.
He heard three loud knocks as the two men either side of him struck the heavy door, followed by the response, “Who goes there?” And he heard the answer, confidently given, the words of the ritual flowing in unison from his companions’ tongues.
Guided by their hands on his shoulders, he stepped over the threshold into the room beyond. Although he could see nothing, he sensed that it was large and cool. He smelt burning candle wax, along with the scent of polish from the flagstones under his bare feet.
“Brother, you will step off with your left foot, and bring the heel of your right foot into the hollow of your left,” a quiet, purposeful voice in front of him said.
He did as he was bidden. The instruction was repeated twice more, before the voice said, “Now bring your heels together.”
The candidate kept his face impassive, knowing that those around him would be watching him closely. Inwardly, though, he was exultant. Being told to take the third step was a sign that he had reached the very highest degree of what they liked to call their Craft. All of its so-called secrets would be revealed to him.
But, more importantly, it meant he would be trusted utterly by the silent watchers now gathered round him in a circle. He could ask any favour, and if it was in their power to grant it, it would be his.
At last, he was safe.
It had been a close-run thing. There had been times recently when he had felt as if he was staring into an abyss of panic and terror. But now, finally, he had something to trade with those who had been pursuing him.
He stood meekly as a length of rope, coarse and hairy, was wound around his arm and shoulder. “The candidate is in order, Worshipful, and awaits your further will and pleasure,” one of his companions said when they were done.
“You will cause him to kneel on his naked knees,” the Worshipful Master responded.
The candidate knelt. His knees were bare because his loose cotton trousers – the only clothing he was wearing – had been rolled up to his thighs. There was a cushion on the floor, and when he had positioned himself on it he reached forward to grasp the heavy oak table he knew was also there.
“Candidate, how came you hither?” the Master asked.
“I came neither naked nor clothed, neither barefoot nor shod, deprived of all moneys, means and minerals, blindfolded, and led by the hand of a friend to a door,” he replied.
“Are you willing to make your sacred obligation, and take the oath?”
“I am willing and eager to take the oath.”
“Detach your hands and kiss the book. Then speak your obligation, beneath the gaze of the Great Architect and of us all.”
As the candidate spoke the stark words of the pledge, he fancied he could just make out, through a tiny chink in the antique mask that covered his eyes – the “hoodwink”, in the arcane jargon they loved so much – the flame of a nearby candle. In a few moments, he knew, he would be asked what he most desired. “More light,” he would reply. The Master would reach down to press a lever on the hoodwink, and the velvet-lined eye-covers would spring open to reveal in front of him a chair holding a human skeleton, its ancient, miscoloured bones illuminated by the flames from a dozen silver candelabra. A dramatic piece of ritual theatre, as well as a symbolic reminder of the consequences of betraying his fellows.
Betrayal… To the candidate, the concept was meaningless. A man looked out for himself. What else was there? But just for a moment the words he was uttering, words that detailed the exact penalty for such a crime, took on meaning. Involuntarily, he faltered.
In the long silence that followed his declaration, the candidate shifted uneasily on the cushion. He must be careful not to make such a mistake again. But if any of the watchers had noticed, they gave no sign of it. In fact, they made no sound whatsoever. For a moment he wondered how many were really there. But why would they hold an initiation to the Third Degree and not invite the full assembly to witness it? He forced himself to relax.
The point of something sharp pressed against the right side of his chest.
“Brother,” the Master’s voice said, “on entering this place for the first time, you were received on the point of a compass pressing your right breast, the moral of which was explained to you. On entering the second time, you were received on the angle of the square, which was similarly explained. I now receive you on both points of the compass.”
The sharp object was lifted away from his chest, then pressed six inches to the left. It felt heavier and sharper than on previous occasions. He must remember to ask about it later, when they were enjoying the convivial drinks that always followed these initiations. They liked nothing better, he had discovered, than to discuss the finer details of their ceremonies and what they signified.
“As the vital parts of man are contained within the chest, so the most excellent tenets of our institution are contained within these two points – which is to say, secrecy and honour,” the Master droned.
The sharp point was lifted away again. The candidate tensed a little. Next, he knew, the point of the compass would be pressed against his skin hard enough to draw blood. Then the ritual would be almost over.
He certainly wasn’t expecting the long, hard-bladed shiv that thumped with sudden violence between his ribs. With a choking gasp he fell backwards. Waiting hands caught him and set him upright again. He put his hand to his chest and felt the handle of the knife, its blade lodged solidly within him; felt his skin already running with blood, blood that was pumping from his heart in abrupt, jerky spurts. He tried to reach up, to tear off the hoodwink, but his hands no longer obeyed him.
And then, even more terrifyingly, he felt the spurting stop, and knew that his heart was gone.
1
IT WAS GOING to be another beautiful day. Although it wasn’t yet nine o’clock, the sun was fierce and the sky clear, with just a few wisps of cloud trapped over the Dolomites to the north. Kat Tapo felt the welcome coolness of the spray on her face as the Carabinieri motorboat bounced down on a wave. She opened the throttle even wider.
In the stern, Second Lieutenant Bagnasco gave a startled gasp as cold seawater slapped her face. She stumbled forwards to the relative safety of the cockpit. As well as being wet, she looked, Kat noticed, somewhat green. She’d been that way even before they neared the Bocca di Lido, the narrow opening or “mouth” in the line of sandbars and islands that separated the calm of the lagoon from the choppier open waters of the Adriatic.
“How long have you been in Venice, Sottotenente?” Kat called over the noise of the engine.
“A month,” the other woman answered dutifully, although she looked as if even speaking was physically difficult right now.
“And you’re still getting seasick? Even when it’s calm like this?” Kat said, surprised.
Bagnasco didn’t reply. It wasn’t the swell making her sick so much as the ridiculously tight turns her superior was executing as she ducked and weaved between the boats going up and down the shipping lane to San Marco. But s
he knew that telling the capitano that wouldn’t make any difference. Captain Tapo was clearly relishing the opportunity to turn on the launch’s flashing blue light and break the speed limit. It had been like this ever since they’d left the pontoon at Rio dei Greci, next to the Carabinieri headquarters in Campo San Zaccaria: Kat had jumped in, as steady on her feet as a gondolier, and got the engine started while Bagnasco was still clambering cautiously down the steps.
The launch veered sharp right as they cleared the artificial island in the middle of the bocca. The island was a recent construction, part of the system of giant underwater gates known as MOSE that would – if the politicians were to be believed – protect the city against globally rising sea levels. Like many Venetians, Kat was sceptical. So far fourteen people connected to the construction consortium, including the mayor of Venice, had been arrested on corruption charges, and the project was running years behind schedule as well as billions over budget.
Once beyond the bocca the boat continued turning until it was travelling parallel to the long sandy seafront of the Lido. Kat scanned the beach as she steered. Even though they were only a few kilometres from Venice, in these closing days of August the Lido still had the lazy feel of a bathing resort from a different century. Here was Nicelli, the tiny airport where Mussolini once welcomed Hitler to Italy, now only used by the helicopters and light aircraft of the super-rich. Here was the hulking, Fascist-era cinema built to glorify the Italian dictator’s pet film festival, in front of which she could make out a cluster of tiny figures; although why anyone would want to spend a morning as glorious as this watching a movie was beyond her. Here were the endless rows of sunloungers, as closely packed as graves in a cemetery, topped by bodies in every shade from maggot-white to caterpillar-brown. Here too was the elegant Liberty-era façade of the Hôtel des Bains, once Venice’s most famous hotel, where Winston Churchill had begun each day painting a watercolour by the sea’s edge, wrapped in a bathrobe and puffing on a cigar. The hotel was closed now for conversion into apartments, just one more victim of the global recession, while its once-exclusive beach was covered with yet more sunloungers. The hotel capanne della spiaggia, the striped Edwardian bathing tents amongst which Visconti had filmed the closing scenes of Death in Venice, were still there, towards the rear of the beach, but these days you had to be a millionaire to rent one for the season.
Death in Venice… As if on cue, Kat spotted a white tent, only slightly larger than the capanne, placed incongruously on the shoreline. Blue tape cordoned off a large area around it, from one breakwater to the next. As she watched, a figure in a white bodysuit, complete with mask and hood, stood up and stretched, then crouched down again.
“That’s the forensic team,” Kat said. She turned the motorboat towards a nearby jetty, slowing to a crawl as she did so. Dr Hapadi, she knew, wouldn’t appreciate having his delicate handiwork ruined by her wash.
It was less than thirty minutes since General Saito had called her at her desk. “How busy are you, Captain?” he’d asked without preamble.
“Colonel Piola and I are wrapping up the paperwork on the Murano investigation,” she’d said cautiously. “Another two or three days’ work, we estimate.” Tedious work, and probably pointless too. For months now, cheap coloured glass from China had been turning up in the tourist shops on the traditional glass-making island of Murano, labelled with fake “Made in Venice” stickers that quadrupled its value. A Carabinieri raid on a warehouse in Mestre had netted over fifty thousand pieces, along with half a million stickers waiting to be fixed to future consignments. Needless to say, the glass-making families who had been selling these imports were blaming an “administrative error”.
“That’s all right. I’ve spoken to Colonel Piola and he’s happy to finish up without you. It was the prosecutor who suggested your name, actually. But the colonel and I both agree you’re ready to run a major investigation on your own.”
“May I ask what it concerns, sir?” she’d asked, trying not to let her excitement show.
“It’s a homicide,” Saito said tersely. That in itself was surprising – in the early stages of an investigation, such terms were usually prefaced with the words “possible” or “alleged”. “We’ll discuss budgets and manpower later, but it’s clearly going to be a large and complex case. In the meantime, I’m assigning Sottotenente Bagnasco as your assistant. She comes highly recommended, but given that she’s new to the team, let me know how she gets on, would you?”
“Of course, sir.” Kat wondered if it would sound inappropriate to say thank you. “And thank you. I’m grateful for the opportunity.”
There was a moment’s pause. “I doubt you’ll be grateful for this one, Capitano,” Saito said darkly. He rang off before she could ask him any more.
She edged the boat up to the jetty and cut the engine. Most junior officers would have jumped out to help by securing a line, but Bagnasco still appeared to be too seasick, although she recovered a little once she was on dry land.
It seemed as if every sunbather on the beach raised themselves up on one elbow to watch the two women as they walked towards the blue tape. Kat was used to being stared at – female officers of the Carabinieri were a rarity even now – but it felt odd to be fully dressed, and in uniform at that, amongst so much bare flesh. Sun and murder: it was hardly surprising nobody was bothering with their paperbacks this morning.
At the tapes they paused to put on the microfibre suits, gloves and masks that would prevent any of their hairs or DNA from contaminating the scene. The tapes were being manned by three regular carabinieri on crowd control. Kat recognised one of them, a maresciallo from the station on the lagoon side of the Lido at Riviera San Nicolò. Nodding a greeting to him, she ducked under the tape and walked across the sand to the forensic tent.
Inside, it was incredibly hot. The combination of the blazing sun, the tent’s plastic roof, the humidity and the overalls instantly made her long for the slight breeze that had been coming off the sea. She felt sweat prickle down her spine and forced herself to concentrate.
Noticing her, the medical examiner, Dr Hapadi, got up from where he was squatting so she could see. The corpse was lying on its back, half in and half out of the water, just where the waves ran into the sand. It was a male, middle-aged, dressed in bloodstained cotton trousers that were rolled up above the knees, as if he’d been wading. His chest was bare and a length of rope was wound over one shoulder. His throat had been sliced open, all the way from one clavicle to the other – the head rolled sideways at an angle, resting on one ear, so that the wound gaped obscenely wide: she could see the severed white tube of the oesophagus, ridged like a vacuum-cleaner hose, already half-filled with sand from the receding tide. But shocking though that was, it was what covered the man’s face that drew her gaze. Beneath the sodden, greying hair, he was wearing a curious-looking mask of leather and cloth, like pre-war motorcycle goggles but with solid metal cups where the eyepieces should have been.
To one side, on a sheet of plastic, was a sandy object the size of a tennis ball. It was this Hapadi had been examining with the dental probe in his gloved hand.
“What kind of mask is that?” Kat’s voice was muffled by her own mask.
“It’s called a hoodwink,” Hapadi said. Normally immune to the sights and smells of death, today he seemed almost dazed, though whether by the stifling heat or the condition of the body she couldn’t have said. “A kind of blindfold. Here.”
Reaching down, he pressed a small lever above the eyepieces, which flipped open. Behind her, Bagnasco jumped as the dead man’s eyes, piercingly grey, stared up at them.
“Who found him?”
“The younger of those two men, I believe.” Hapadi nodded to where, behind the tapes, a good-looking man in his twenties was talking to one of the local carabinieri. He, too, looked very pale. An older man stood next to him, one hand protectively on the younger one’s shoulder. There was a small lapdog, some kind of dachshund, tucked under his other
arm. They looked like a couple, Kat thought. That was no great surprise: the Lido had long been one of Venice’s most gay-friendly areas. “He was walking his dog. The animal found this and took it back to his owner.” Hapadi indicated the sandy object.
She still couldn’t work out what the object was. “What is it?”
Hapadi crouched down and unrolled it with the tip of the dental probe. “The victim’s tongue,” he said quietly. “It’s been pulled out, probably with pliers.”
Kat heard a choking sound behind her. She turned to see liquid spilling from the sides of Bagnasco’s forensic mask. Yanking the mask from her face, the second lieutenant bent down, retching. Vomit tumbled into the sea.
“You’ll need to give Dr Hapadi a DNA sample,” Kat said when Bagnasco had finished. “For elimination purposes.”
“That’s all right,” Hapadi said resignedly. He indicated where some of Bagnasco’s breakfast had splashed onto the damp sand. “I’ll take a swab from this, while it’s fresh.”
“Sorry,” Bagnasco whispered. “I just…”
“It’s hot in here. Go and get some air,” Kat ordered.
When Bagnasco had gone, she turned back to the medical examiner. “Sorry about that. I think it’s her first.” She gestured at the body. “So the implication is that he was killed elsewhere and brought here by boat? And that the tongue was deliberately placed next to the body?” That would explain why the trousers were bloodstained but the sand wasn’t. “But if you’ve got him in a boat, why not just throw him over the side in deep water and get rid of the evidence? Why bring him all the way to the beach, where you might easily be seen?”
“Because of the oath,” Hapadi said quietly.
“Oath?”
The medical examiner wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “I do most solemnly promise and swear,” he recited heavily, “without the least equivocation, mental reservation, or self-evasion of mind whatsoever, binding myself under no less penalty than to have my throat cut across, my tongue torn out by the roots, and my body buried in the rough sands of the sea at low watermark, where the tide ebbs and flows twice in twenty-four hours, never to divulge the secrets I shall learn amongst this brotherhood.” He looked at Kat, and she saw that his gaze was troubled. “I don’t know who this man is, Capitano, but I’d lay good odds that he was a Freemason.”
The Traitor (The Carnivia Trilogy) Page 1