The Venice conspiracy ts-1

by Michael Morley

  Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore, Venezia In the flickering peach candlelight of his monastic cell, Tommaso Frascoli keeps his emotions in check as he reads the letter his mother wrote for him more than two decades ago.

  His training as a monk has taught him much about writing. The choice of paper, type of ink, nature of the nib and even the chosen script all speak volumes about the writer.

  The first thing he notices is that the paper is not cheap. It is an expensive cream-coloured parchment, not unlike the important documents bound with red silk ribbon lying on the grand desk of the abbot.

  The second thing to strike him is that the letter is full of strong, bold strokes and ornate loops, written above and below an imaginary line that's been impressively adhered to. Stylistically it's difficult to place; the letters b, d, h, and l, in particular, are beautifully ornamental and remind him of sixteenth-century italic Bastarda script. Then again, some of the mannerisms are more suggestive of the over-disciplined Cancellaresca.

  Tommaso's fully aware that he's studying style before substance. He has to fight his curiosity in order to read the meaning of the text before learning more about its author.

  He tilts the paper at the candlelight and examines the flow of the earthy black ink, the pressure of the fine but strong nib. It's a cultured hand. Not that of a common whore found working near the shipyards. She must have been one of the intellectual courtesans who – it is rumoured – play music like angels and paint like Canaletto. Or he could be fooling himself. Yes, he's fully aware of the fact that, right from the outset, he wants to think nothing but the best of the writer.

  He smooths out the paper on the small table where his Bible and candle rest and finally reads it: My dear child, I have asked the good monks to baptise you as Tommaso. It's not your father's name, simply one that in my dreams I always wanted, should I have a son.

  At the time of writing, you are two months old and I know I will be dead before you can crawl, let alone speak. If I did not have this disease, one that doctors say will kill me as surely as the plague took so many of our family, then I would never have deserted you.

  My milk is still fresh on your lips and my kisses still wet on your head as I hand you over to the holy brothers. Believe me, they are good people – all my love is with you, and always will be.

  Our separation will cause you great pain, of this I am sure. But by arranging it now, I can at least be certain that you are in safe and godly hands. Had I waited for death to take me by surprise, then I know not what may have awaited you.

  One day, Tommaso, you will understand why I had to make sure you and your sister had the care of the Holy Lord around you. With this note you will receive a wooden box and inside it something that you must guard – not only with your life, but with your soul. Its meaning is too important and too difficult to explain in a mere letter. It must never leave your care.

  Your sister is a year older than you and I have left her with the nuns. A similar box, and duty, await her.

  My child, I have separated you both for good reason. As painful as it may be, please believe me that it's best (for you, her and everyone) that you do not seek her out.

  The duties that I leave to you both are more easily fulfilled if you never meet.

  Your chances of long-term love, happiness and salvation absolutely depend upon you never being reunited.

  Tommaso, I love you with all my heart. Please forgive my actions, and grow to understand why I had no choice in this matter.

  My darling, my dying prayer will be for you and your sister. I am fortified in the knowledge that you will become everything I dream you will be, and through the grace of the good Lord one day we will all be safely together again.

  All my love, for ever,

  Mamma

  Tommaso's stomach is churning.

  He's close to tears. Her final words jump out at him – all my love, for ever, Mamma. He feels as if he's going to crumble into dust.

  What must it have been like to have known her? To have understood that love?

  He reads the parchment again. Holds it to his heart and stares at the stone wall of his cell. What did she look like? What illness had befallen her? The dreaded syphilis? That awful French disease. The pox?

  Next he thinks of his sister – wonders whether they ever lay together alongside their mother. Whether they looked into each other's eyes. Whether she's still alive and well.

  Only after a hundred other thoughts and doubts does he peer into the plain wooden box at his feet by his modest bed.

  He reaches in.

  Lifts out a small package.

  Something wrapped in a large silk handkerchief. Silver, by the look of it. An heirloom? A gift to a courtesan from a rich and grateful lover? Or perhaps compensation from the man who infected her?

  There's some scribbling, a language he doesn't understand, perhaps Egyptian.

  He turns the tablet over.

  The face of a priest, an ancient seer wearing a conical hat similar to a bishop's. The figure is that of a young man, thin and tall, not unlike himself.

  The hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

  A gong sounds downstairs. Time for the communal evening meal. Soon other monks will be filing past his cell, pressing their faces through his doorway, enquiring whether he wishes to walk with them.

  Tommaso bundles everything back into the box and pushes it beneath his bed.

  He walks smartly to dinner.

  His life changed for ever.

  CHAPTER 43

  Present Day Isola Mario, Venice Tom Shaman is the last person in the search party to enter Mario Fabianelli's hippy commune. He drifts in behind a couple of young uniformed officers and disappears into the westerly wing. Vito's instructions to him had been precise: 'Keep a low profile. So low, you're subterranean.'

  The whole building makes him nervous. Right from the moment of stepping over the doorstep he's been picking up an atmosphere of unease. The vast cold spaces are completely alien to him, but as he walks from room to room he seems to know exactly what lies ahead. With each step the feeling grows stronger.

  Tom passes ground-floor bedrooms, communal meeting rooms, a place where cleaners store equipment. He sees police officers pulling at boards and ceiling panels. He passes acres of fine oak panelling and trudges over quarryloads of ancient marble.

  He pushes a door and enters a dark and windowless room. The air is warm and the smell familiar. Very familiar.

  Candles.

  Candles – but also something else.

  Tom feels for a light switch.

  Now he places it.

  Even before the light comes on and he sees the dribbles of black wax on the high oak skirting, he knows what's happened in this room.

  Mass.

  But not Christian mass.

  The air is toxic.

  A smell of baseness.

  Defilement. Stale sex. Maybe even blood.

  Black Mass.

  Every nerve in his body feels raw.

  There are marks on the floor. Scratches made by something being dragged back and forth.

  The table for a human altar. A platform for public defilement.

  Tom's seen enough. He turns and reaches for the switch.

  'Satanists,' says a woman behind him, so close he flinches.

  Tom spins round.

  The woman raises her eyebrows as if she's teasing him. 'We let them use this room. I guess a former priest like you knows a lot about them.'

  Tom feels as though the top of his head is being gathered together by someone pulling an invisible drawstring. It's like being back in the Salute again, down on his hands and knees next to the bloody image near the altar.

  Her camera flashes in his face.

  His heart is thumping. Palms sweating.

  His eyes are dazzled by the flash, and in the blinding whiteness he sees flickers of the mutilated body of Monica Vidic, stabbed six hundred and sixty-six times.

  Tom tries to stay calm. Takes slow
breaths. 'I'm with the Carabinieri.' He gestures past the white haze towards the main part of the house.

  'Sure you are,' says the photographer. 'I'm Mera Teale. Mario's fuck. I have a card saying PA, but really all we do is fuck.'

  The glare fades and Tom sees an outstretched tattooed hand. He shakes it and watches a pageant of inked characters dance up her bony arm.

  She's grinning lustfully – enjoying the fact that he's shocked – shocked at being discovered and at being photographed – shocked too by her exotic appearance.

  'Excuse me, I need to find the others.' Tom tries to get past her.

  She blocks him.

  Her face is full of sexual mischief. Come-to-bed eyes and lips ruby red, glistening from some kind of gel. 'I know who you are, Father Tom,' she says playfully. 'I know what you're like. What you want.'

  He stares at her, wonders if he's seen her somewhere. There's certainly something familiar. A tiny tear tattooed into the corner of her eye. Her left eye – the side of evil.

  A mark he knows he's seen before.

  Five thousand miles and a whole lifetime before.

  CAPITOLO XLII

  1777

  Ghetto Nuovo, Venezia Neither Jewish-born Ermanno nor Catholic-born Tanina believe in any form of God, but they're both praying they don't get caught as he walks her back to her home near the Rialto. Venice may be considered the most libertine city in the world but it still discriminates heavily against Jews and prohibits their free movement outside the ghetto. Young men foolish enough to follow their hearts beyond its walls are never more than a moment away from fines, imprisonment or beatings.

  It's gone midnight, and for the first time in weeks the night sky is clear and the stars look newly shined. The lovers huddle together, hoods over their heads, hands entwined, body heat from one sustaining the other.

  As they near her home, Ermanno has something to get off his chest. 'My friend Efran is an intermediary. He arranges shipments with the Turks. His family has done this kind of thing for a long time, trading in coats of camel and goat.'

  Tanina frowns.

  'I know, you are far too fashionable to wear such coarse things, but listen, this is not my point.'

  'And your point is?'

  'He knows many courtesans.'

  She frowns. 'Jewish ones?'

  He laughs at her. 'Of course Jewish ones. There are many Jewish ones making the Catholics and their uncircumcised pricks very happy. You must know this.'

  She shakes her head and looks at her feet. 'I do not think of it. I know my mother was a courtesan, and in the nunnery where I was brought up there were many other girls orphaned by courtesans, but they were all Catholic. Or at least, I thought they were.'

  He lets go of her hand. 'Tanina, you were young and full of indoctrinated prejudice. Some will certainly have been Jewish. But no matter. Again, this is not my point.'

  She turns to look at him, her face as bright as the moon, an expression of amusement mixed with playful mischief. 'Then, kind sir, procrastinate no more with me: what is your point?'

  He blurts it out. 'Gatusso has courtesans. Many of them. Efran's seen him with them.'

  She falls silent.

  Tanina has known her employer and his wife, Benedetta, for almost ten years. When she ran away from the convent it was they who gave her work and lodgings. Benedetta encouraged her to paint and Gatusso always made sure that she was well paid and had ample clothes and food. 'I don't believe it.' She looks sad as she shakes her head.

  'It is true.'

  Now her temper rises. 'I do not even know this man Efran, so why should I trust what he says? And, I cannot see how he would know or even recognise my employer.'

  'He has dealings with one of Gatusso's courtesans. She told him.'

  Tanina stops walking. 'One of?' Anger fills her face. 'You say "one of ", as though there is a whole legion of them. As though he runs courtesans as – as a business.' She shocks herself. Deep inside her mind, fragments of old events fuse together. Things she thought nothing of at the time now seem to add up. A cheap mask she found in the storeroom. Stained female underwear in the rubbish pile. A discarded perfume bottle that smelled unlike anything Signora Gatusso would wear.

  Ermanno takes her hand again. 'I'm sorry, my love. I thought you should know. I didn't mean to upset you. I just thought you should be warned in case he said something – maybe suggested something to you.'

  'Don't be ridiculous!' She pulls her hand free. 'Gatusso has been like a father to me.'

  They walk awkwardly in near silence to her doorstep. Ermanno's comments have ruined her night, and when they kiss goodbye, there's no passion in it.

  Tanina shakes her hair free from the back of her cloak as she steps inside and glances back. 'Ermanno, don't ever talk to me again about Signor Gatusso. He's a good man, and I don't want to hear any more nonsense about courtesans.'

  He nods and turns away.

  From what he's heard, Lauro Gatusso is far from a good man. In fact, good is probably the last word he would use to describe him.

  CHAPTER 44

  Present Day Isola Mario, Venice Vito Carvalho sits opposite his billionaire host on an antique chair he guesses is worth more than his annual salary. He's weighing the man up, and he doesn't understand what he sees. Far from appearing drug-addled and aggressive, Mario Fabianelli looks like a model on the front cover of Men's Health and is not even a notch short of being charming.

  They're drinking espresso and iced water near a large window overlooking the rear grounds of the mansion. Dino Ancelotti, Mario's barky-dog lawyer, is curled up on a corner chair, panting to get in on the action.

  Conversation swings back and forth. The purpose of the commune, the purpose of the police visit. It seems that Heaven – or H3V3N – as Mario explains, is a cultural retreat. And a palatial one at that. It's filled with expensive sculptures and paintings and the decor seems to be to hotel standard. Four-star, at least. It's certainly not your average hippy hang-out.

  'Everyone lives here free of charge,' explains Mario. 'All I ask of them is that they paint, or write or play some music every day.'

  'Why?' asks Vito.

  'Venice was once famous for such things. It led the world in cultural pursuits and pleasures. I'd like to see it do so again.'

  Vito can't fault Mario's idealism. After all, when he left Homicide in Milan, he'd effectively staged his own version of opting out. He puts down his drink and pulls a photograph from his jacket. 'Do you know this man?'

  Mario takes it and looks. 'I don't think so.' He hands it back. 'I suppose he's dead? Usually when a cop shows you a photograph, that person is dead or missing.'

  Vito puts it back in his jacket. 'Dead. Antonio Pavarotti. Pavarotti like the singer. He died in the lagoon. Not far from here.'

  Mario looks sympathetic. 'I'm sorry. What happened and how can I help?'

  'His boat was blown up. Plastic explosives rigged to the engine. Did you know he was working for you?'

  Mario seems surprised. 'No. As what?'

  'Security guard. He was on his way out here to start a shift when he was killed.'

  Ancelotti calls from the back of the room. 'My employer has no knowledge of who works security. An outside company handles those services, and I, in turn, handle them. Mario has more important things to do than hire staff.'

  Vito smiles. 'I'm sure.' He looks to the billionaire. 'Why exactly do you employ security? Concern for your own life? For those in the commune?'

  'Both. I have a healthy fear of kidnapping.' He touches his ear. 'I don't fancy parts of me being posted, Getty-style, to Dino there, demanding he hand over several million in return for the remainder of me. And I believe I owe it to those who stay here to ensure they are safe.'

  The major checks his watch and prepares to make his exit. 'I understand. Thanks for the background. And for the refreshments.' He looks towards the lawyer. 'I'd like to meet the head of security now, if that's all right?'

  Ancelotti nods while the
other two men shake hands.

  In the corridor, heading towards the exit, they see Tom with Mera Teale. The tattooed woman stops them. 'Dino, this is Tom Shaman – the fucking Father who's been all over the newspapers.'

  Mario and Dino look confused.

  'Mister Shaman,' she adds, 'is with the Carabinieri but he's not with them, if you know what I mean.'

  Vito jumps in. 'He's a civilian assisting us with our enquiries. An expert of sorts.'

  'A sexual expert,' chimes Teale, eyeing Tom. 'At least, that's what the press says.' She winks.

  Ancelotti puffs out his chest. 'Signor Shaman is not covered by your warrant. You have a choice, Major – either he goes, or you invalidate your warrant and you all go.'

  Vito glares at the lawyer and then turns apologetically to Tom. 'I'm sorry. You'll need to leave. If you go down to the boat they'll make you comfortable, or take you back to the mainland, whichever your prefer.'

  Teale treats them all to a wide grin. 'I'll gladly make sure he gets there.' Tom's not in the least disappointed to be led outside. On the way to the jetty he asks Mario's mouthy PA a question that's been eating him. 'You have a tattoo of a teardrop near your eye.' He dabs a finger on his own face. 'Where did you get it?'

  'Vegas.'

  'Why did you have it done?'

  She taps her nose. 'You know the old saying: What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.'

  'Confession is good for the soul.'

  She laughs. 'It was Friday the thirteenth, the day tat' parlours give you a free gift to celebrate.'

  Tom looks thrown. 'To celebrate an unlucky day?'

  'The tattoo world is about doing the opposite of what conventional society does.'

  He looks over her shoulder. Something up the hillside catches his attention. A shape moving slowly. Moving in a way that he recognises.

  A strange jolt hits his heart. A familiar fizz in his blood.

  Tina!

  He's sure it's Tina.

  He starts to run towards her.

  She's with a man.

  They disappear through a small door that looks as though it leads to a kitchen or cellar.