Valentina and Vito follow her, wondering why she didn't just turn the print around. 'You have to stare beyond all the bolder images and look to the background. The artist's first pass on the canvas is Giovanni's 1730 "The Grand Canal and the Church of the Salute", probably his most recognisable work, it's been reproduced in prints and postcards all over the globe.'
She dips down low, like a surveyor checking levels. 'Very good. Actually, it's very, very good.' She traces above the print with her fingers. 'See here – this is the mouth of the canal, there are gondolas in the foreground, but look closely at them and you'll see he's fashioned them from blackened corpses. No doubt an allusion to the Plague. Then we have waterfront houses on the right and the dome of the Salute on the left, like a glimpse of a pale breast, perhaps Mother Venice dying.'
Vito doesn't like the comparison; he wishes the woman was less jovial and indelicate. 'And these?' he asks. 'What do all these cubes and rectangular shapes over the top of things mean?'
Gloria nods. 'Violence. Passion. Aggression. That's what they mean. Some kind of explosion, a release of tension and anger. You can feel the potency pouring off the painting.'
Valentina remembers part of the lengthy briefing they were given by the FBI. 'Are the shapes anything to do with Da Vinci and…' she hesitates for fear of sounding stupid '… Golden Ratios, Golden Rectangles?'
Gloria looks impressed. She tilts her head back and forth at the work. More tracing with her hand, but it's done so quickly, neither of the officers can follow her finger lines. 'You're absolutely right. How clever.' She grabs Valentina's hand and uses her finger like a stick. 'Look here!' Gloria slowly traces the face of a man in profile. 'This is Da Vinci's famous black-and-white illustration from De Divina Proportione – his illustrations here, the way he overlaid the rectangles to show the symmetry of the face, led scholars to speculate that he used the Golden Ratio to create the bewitching magic in the Mona Lisa.' She looks up at the puzzled detectives and hopes they're catching enough of her drift for it to be of use. 'Certainly Dali used it all the time, especially in The Sacrament of the Last Supper, and if you look here you notice symbols from that work too.'
Again Vito and Valentina struggle to see what she's referring to. Gloria places Valentina's finger on the spot. 'Here, in the very middle, we have outstretched hands and the chest of a man hovering against Canaletto's skyline, as if he is ascending to heaven; that godlike figure is from The Last Supper.' She drags Valentina's hand to the left and right of the canvas. 'And here and here you see what look like lop-sided pentagrams; they are also from the backdrop of The Supper.' Gloria stares and sees something new, her face lighting up like a child discovering a final present hidden way back under a Christmas tree. 'Oh, how clever. Clever and awfully crude at the same time.' She addresses Vito. 'Your artist has actually put a tiny gold border all around the outside of the canvas – it isn't obvious on the print, but I suspect it is immensely vibrant on the original work – it acts as a none-too-subtle proclamation that the canvas is a perfect rectangle, a Golden Rectangle, as your officer here said.' She smiles at Valentina, still holding her hand, and squeezing it with a touch of discomforting affection. 'Now, let me see…' Gloria bends so close to the print that her nose virtually touches it. 'Yes! Yes! Here it is-' She slowly slides Valentina's fingers over the print. 'He's divided the work in exactly the way the Golden Ratio dictates. He's created three individual sections, but together they form one overall scene.' This time Gloria touches the print and turns it sideways with her free hand. 'Inventive. He's been truly inventive. The first section shows multiple symbolism, a classic horned demon face, so we can take this to be his bad side. The second looks like a wizard of sorts, I'm not sure of that, and the third seems to be a family scene, lovers alone and at peace with their baby.' She looks Valentina straight in the eyes. 'He's pointing out the good and bad in us all, the light and dark that rule us, perhaps also the dangers that are presented to traditional family life in our day and age.'
Before Vito and Valentina can say anything Gloria spins the print upside down. 'Aah, just as I thought, he's also worked the canvas from the other side. He's very economical, quite prestigious in his canvas coverage.'
Valentina manages to free her hand as Gloria bends closer and stares at some faint detail. 'Now that's odd. Very odd. He seems to have marked each section with Roman numerals. Why should he do that?' Gloria looks to the others for inspiration but they're drawing blanks as well. She points them out: 'Look, in the first of his three sections he's put the numerals XXIV and VII. In the second, the numerals XVI and XI. And in the third section V and VII.'
'What do they mean?' asks Vito. 'Do they have some artistic relevance?'
Gloria shakes her head slowly. 'None. None that I can think of. How strange. Perhaps it's some kind of personal irony. Artists often paint hidden jokes into their works, it gives them a secret thrill.' She can tell from their faces that this notion doesn't appeal to them. She checks her watch. 'I'm sorry, I really have to go. I hope my little critique has been of some assistance.' She fixes her eyes on Valentina. 'Do call me again if you want help. Or if you'd like to go for a drink, or visit a gallery together.'
Vito prevents further embarrassment. 'You've been enormously helpful. We're very grateful. Thank you for taking the time to come. Molte grazie.' He shows her to the door and leaves Valentina staring at the print. She doesn't have Gloria's expert eye, but she can see that the canvas is meant to be more of an abstract message board than a work of art.
'So, what did you make of these numerals?' Vito asks on his return.
'They're not only numbers,' says Valentina, peering closely at the sequences. 'They're a code of some kind.'
Vito looks tired. 'I'd expect it to be a code, but what does it mean and to whom is the code being sent?'
'Now you're asking too much of me,' says Valentina. 'I'll have this copied and sent to the cryptanalysis unit in Rome.' She backs up from the print. 'With a little luck, we may get an answer before the end of the century.'
CHAPTER 71
7th June San Quentin, California Through the toughened glass he sees them change shifts. Both guards check their wrist watches then, in sync, turn their heads towards his cell. What a pair of morons. They don't have an atom of individuality between them.
It's exactly midnight.
The first second of the new day ticks away. The sixth day of the sixth month. Execution Day. His last day on earth.
A time to turn most prisoners' bowels to water.
But not Bale's.
Lars Bale's bowels are just fine and dandy. In fact, he looks a picture of perfect health as he stands in his regulation grey shorts in the middle of his cell, his skin showered in a never-dimmed light that's the colour of mustard gas.
He smiles at the guard clocking off, going home to his undoubtedly inadequate wife sitting up and reading in bed. Waiting for him. He'll tell her about the difficulties of his dull day and then try to be nonchalant as he mentions the most famous moment of his uneventful life – running the Lars Bale death watch on the evening before his execution. He'll tell the story time and time again: in cheap, eat-all-you-can diners, boring family reunions and out-of-town bars. He'll tell it to buddies and complete strangers – and each time the story will get juicier and juicier.
Arms extended, Bale stretches and feels energy flowing from deep within.
His time is coming.
He can see and feel a protective aura growing around him. It is violet – changing to white – and then gold. The colours of his divine mind. The colour of his pathway to immortality and his rightful place alongside his father.
Outside his cell it is clear that they have been busying themselves.
Restricted Access signs have been posted. Keys to the wing have no doubt been drawn.
Logs signed. Boy, do they love their paperwork. Soon the lethal-injection team will leave their homes after an uncomfortable night with family. They'll drive to work in their old cars, listeni
ng to the radio, one hand on the wheel, window rolled down, thinking about the life they have to take and how they're going to live with that. Easy for some. More difficult for others. They'll eventually gather together and sit stony-faced and solemn in an assembly room while they get their final briefing from the governor and deputy governor. Then they'll all be sworn in like good little scouts and will go away honour-bound to carry out their constitutional duty – to kill him.
Some will enjoy it. Some will be haunted by it.
He'll make sure none of them will ever forget it.
The poor souls – they have no idea what they're letting themselves in for. No clue just how historic a day today is going to be.
CHAPTER 72
Carabinieri HQ, Venice Sickness, holidays and a family emergency in the cryptanalysis department in Rome mean Vito and Valentina have to wait overnight to get their code broken.
Valentina enters her boss's office with a sheet of A4 and a smile on her face as broad as the dome of San Marco's. 'It's so simple. So stupidly simple!' she moves to Vito's side of the desk and energetically slaps the paper down. 'It says Venice.'
'Venice?' He stares at the line of numerals – XXIV-VII-XVI-XI-V-VII
'How does it say Venice?'
'Look!' says Valentina, excitedly. 'V equals XXIV. E equals VII. N equals XVI. I equals XI. C equals V. Then we have the E again, VII.' Valentina almost breaks out laughing.
'Oh, so amazingly simple,' mocks Vito. 'Now why on earth didn't I get that straight away?'
'Okay, not that simple,' admits Valentina. 'Well, not to us, but it did make the cryptanalysts laugh.'
'Laughter in the crypt. I'm so glad.'
'Ha ha, very funny. Apparently it's a crude variation of the Caesar Cipher.'
'Caesar?'
'Yes, all the way back to old Julius himself. Apparently he used to write battle messages in a simple code whereby the letter he put down was represented by a different letter or number. The letter A, for example, would be represented by a C – that would be a two-shift cipher.'
Vito runs a finger across the code and the translation made by the analysts. 'But these aren't letters, they're numerals.'
'I know,' says Valentina. 'Bale has put his own twist on it. He's given each letter its numeric equivalent in the alphabet then applied the classic Caesar cipher of two, so A is not represented by a 1, it's represented by a 3, then he's converted the 3 into the Roman numeral III.'
Vito now appreciates its simplicity. 'And E itself is not a 5, it's 5 plus 2, which in Roman numerals equals VII.'
'Exactly.'
A rap on the door turns their heads.
Nuncio di Alberto enters, looking almost as pleased as Valentina has been. 'Mario Fabianelli may well have been telling the truth – it's possible that he doesn't know anything about that company of his in the Cayman Islands, or the purchase of the artefact.'
'How so?' asks Vito.
'Well, the forgery of his name on the company documents is very good – but just not good enough. Handwriting experts have now examined it and compared it to samples of documents we took from the billionaire's home. It doesn't match.'
'It doesn't? They're sure?'
'Positive. And there's more. While Fabianelli didn't know about the company or the purchase, his PA certainly did.' Nuncio flashes his own piece of paper. 'This is a copy of the insurance Mera Teale took out on the artefact, to the value of two million dollars. Teale always signed for insurance cover on all Mario's art, so there was no need for her to forge anything. In fact, in this case, it would look peculiar if anyone but her had signed.'
'Bene. This is real progress, but we still have no sightings of her, the lawyer Ancelotti or Tom.' Vito looks hopefully at Nuncio.
'I have heard nothing new. Rocco and Francesca told me they'd checked again with the Polizia – nothing there either.'
'Tom can't have just vanished from the earth,' says Valentina.
'He can,' says Vito ominously, 'if he's already dead.'
CHAPTER 73
They've jacked enough drugs into Tom's veins to stock a pharmacy.
But they've not done it properly. His body's rejected the increased dosage and he's vomited back a lot of the chemicals. As a result, the sedative is wearing off much quicker than before.
He's still groggy, but far more aware of things.
His throat is viciously sore. His stomach growls like a frightened dog. His muscles cramp and ache. Behind the bandage, it feels as though burning grit has been glued to his pupils and lids.
Apart from that, he's fine.
The thought almost makes him laugh. Fine. Just fine. No doubt only hours from being sacrificially murdered, but just fine. He puts his remarkable calmness down to the lingering effects of the sedative. A blessing in disguise.
Lying on his back has given him plenty of thinking time. The way he figures it, Lars Bale has worldwide followers who are ready to mark his execution with a spree of violence that would have Satan himself dancing with joy.
It's going to be bloody.
So spectacularly gruesome that Bale will no doubt become even more infamous in death than he is in life.
A black saint.
Tom hears a key turn in the lock.
Decision time.
Is he strong enough?
Can he afford to wait any longer?
Does he have a choice?
The door swings open.
Tom hears it clunk shut. Someone's playing it safe.
A brief pause.
The key goes in the lock from inside his room.
Click-click closed. They're not taking any chances.
He hears a man cough, clear his throat a couple of times. Now start walking.
Clit-clat, clit-clat.
A single series of footsteps. One man alone.
Tom's heart races. He must decide.
Clit-clat, clit-clat.
Four more steps.
The jailer is just two steps away from him. If he remembers correctly, it's one step forward and to the left of him.
Clit-clat.
Tom waits a beat. Hears a click of metal and glass next to him.
A spike of more sedatives in a steel bowl close by.
One more second and he'll be jabbed again.
Two hundred sit-ups a day for fifteen years finally counts for something.
Tom sits bolt upright.
His bandaged head smashes into something hard.
A dull moan of pain from in front of him. He's butted the man's face, he's sure of it.
Tom follows the noise. Falls to his left. Tumbles from the bed. One knee smashes on the floor, the other into the lower torso of whoever lies the other side of him.
His limbs feel like rubber and his hands are still in plastic restraints.
He launches another head butt.
Useless.
His skull crashes into the top of the jailer's chest.
A fist slams into Tom's temple. Adrenalin shoots through his body.
It's what he needs. It neutralises the sedative. His fingers tingle, his senses sharpen.
Another blow thuds into his ear, makes it ring like crazy.
Tom daren't kneel up, the guy will wriggle free and be gone.
He smashes his cuffed hands in an uppercut to where he guesses the guy's balls are.
Bingo! Air whooshes out of a mouth somewhere above him.
Tom powers more double-handed blows between his kidnapper's legs. Ruthless raw energy that leaves the guy creased up and choking for air. He's immobilised. But he's going to recover.
Kill him, Tom.
You know you have to.
You know you want to.
Tom hesitates.
The voices in his head make sense. Kill or be killed. But then demons always make sense, it's their stock in trade.
The injured jailer begins to stir. He's going to shout for help.
Tom instinctively follows the noise and leans his right forearm across the man's windpip
e. If he was going to shout, he won't now. He kicks and bucks like a wild animal, but Tom presses down hard. A hundred and eighty pounds hard.
The kicking stops.
Tom shifts his arm and rolls off him. His head cracks the floor, but he knows he has no time to let the pain register or to draw breath. He lifts his cuffed hands. Gets his thumbs under the bandages across his face and pulls upwards. It's a real struggle to work them off. They rip at his mouth, snag and tear at his nose. Finally, they unravel like the skin of a cotton onion.
Tom still can't see.
White light blinds him. Pain worse than a punch. He shifts on to his side, angles his head away from the brightness and towards the floor.
Better.
He's not blind, just painfully sensitive to light.
The room is windowless. The burning light is from an overhead strip. So high he can't hear it buzz.
In less than a second Tom takes in the rest of the room.
Bare brick. Stone floors with cracked tiles. One heavy door with no window and just a single lock.
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