The Medici secret

by Michael White

In all my travels, this was the single saddest sight, one that will stay with me for ever. The smell of burned flesh and charred straw still hung heavily in the air. Some terror had passed this way a short time before, perhaps the previous night.

  By early the next evening, we reached the summit of the mountain and there, as the sun hung low in a ruddy haze, we caught our first sight of the monastery of Golem Korab…

  … The abbot, Father Kostov was a tall, muscular man. Even in his shapeless roughly woven habit he possessed an indefinable dignity. He had been educated at Genoa and Paris and spoke four languages. We were questioned long and hard before being allowed into the monastery, but once the abbot accepted us as guests we were treated with all courtesy…

  … first night we dined with the abbot in his spartan chambers close to the dormitories of the monks and told him of our mission. He explained the danger they were in. A local warlord named Stasanor had devastated the nearby villages, and was turning his avaricious eyes upon them…

  … was three days after our arrival before we were shown the library… many wonders that made all our travails worthwhile. From then on Cosimo and Ambrogio Tommasini were seen only rarely; the good abbot had given them the freedom of the place and permission to copy anything they wished…

  … but an atmosphere of dread pervaded the monastery… fear of Stasanor was ever present. The monks felt it, and so too did we.

  … by the purest coincidence… the night of the attack…

  … the good abbot came to us after evening prayer and said he wanted us to know something about his monastery, something no outsiders had ever been privy to. And so it was we learned of the Miracle of Saint Jacob and saw his work…

  Chapter 21

  Toronto Airport, present day Luc Founder's phone rang as he descended from the Gulfstream G500.

  'This is the second failure.' The heavily accented voice was immediately recognisable. 'You will understand my colleagues are upset.' Founder said nothing.

  'You have twenty-four hours. If you do not meet your obligations our relationship will be terminated. Is that clear?'

  'Perfectly,' Fournier responded coldly. 'But please don't ever threaten me again. In forty-five years I have never once failed to deliver. I will not fail you… unless, that is, I choose to.' The laboratory was a single storey concrete edifice hidden from the main road by a copse of trees. Behind it stretched snow-covered fields. The nearest houses stood over half a mile from the building, and even these were owned by Canadian Grain Supplies, one of Luc Fournier's many anonymous companies that acted as a front to his real business.

  The limo pulled up outside the main building and the driver ran around to open the rear door and to hold an umbrella aloft, shielding Fournier from the few flakes of snow that descended from the grey sky. It was minus 5 degrees centigrade and the men's breath billowed into the crisp cold air.

  Fournier was met at the door by the head of the lab team, Dr Jerome Fritus. With barely a nod in greeting he led his employer along a corridor to the central rooms of the laboratory complex. Fritus was not one for small talk and he knew Fournier did not like unnecessary conversation.

  The main room in the complex was white-walled and sterile, an environment that perfectly reflected the barren isolation of the frozen fields and the snow-laden sky outside. Fritus led the way to a wide counter upon which stood a cubic glass container. Inside this lay the tablet stolen from the Medici Chapel.

  In that moment, all Fournier's concerns and frustrations evaporated. Nothing else mattered, Afghan terrorists included. He was in the presence of a timeless wonder, something bigger than all of them.

  'I have your initial report on the inscription' Fournier said, 'but what else have you discovered?'

  Fritus stood with his hands clasped behind his back and stared at Fournier. Unlike any other of Founder's many employees he seemed to have no fear of his employer. Fournier found this refreshing, but as soon as Fritus's usefulness had passed he would be quietly eliminated.

  'It is a perfectly proportioned rectangle 3.9 by 1.9 centimetres,' Fritus replied. 'The inscription must have appeared on the surface only after the stone had been hydrated by water vapour in the air. The green writing is made from a sulphurous compound that changes colour when water molecules are incorporated into its crystalline structure.' 'And you've managed to date it?'

  'Carbon dating is of course impossible as the tablet is made from inorganic materials. However, I have been able to come up with a pretty accurate age using a new comparative analysis technique. The tablet is made from Amanorthosite, a form of what's called intrusive igneous rock, characterised by the presence of small amounts of the mineral, letomenite. Letomenite changes its chemical structure when it comes into contact with air. This means we can compare the amount of change in this compound on the edges of the Medici tablet with material inside the tablet. This will tell us when the piece of stone was first cut into its present shape.'

  Fournier was suitably impressed. 'But surely, all the time it was inside the body in the chapel the stone was sealed from the air.'

  'Correct,' Fritus replied as though he were talking to a keen student. 'But there was air in the body when it was buried and molecules of oxygen would have been able to seep into the corpse. The lettering on the tablet only appeared after the tablet was exposed to the air because it needed water vapour which could not have been able to find its way past the embalming fluid around the object.' 'So are the dates right? Is the tablet genuine?'

  'By my calculations the stone of the tablet was first cut and exposed to the air between 500 and 600 years ago. I can't be any more accurate than that.'

  'You don't need to be,' Fournier replied. 'It's enough to confirm the tablet is not modern. What else have you discovered?'

  'How do you know there is more, Monsieur Fournier?' Fournier raised an eyebrow.

  Fritus didn't need any more encouragement 'I found something very strange. Trace amounts of a chemical called Ropractin.' 'Which is?'

  'Metapropyl dimethylphosphonochloridite, if that helps. It's a close relative of Sarin, but much deadlier. At room temperature it is a liquid, intensely green in colour, semi-fluorescent. It's about a thousand times more poisonous than Sarin, deadly in concentrations of a tiny fraction of a milligram per kilogram of body weight'

  Fournier had stopped listening. After all these years, finally he understood the central mystery of Niccoli's written account of his journey to Macedonia. He knew now what the Medici Secret was.

  Chapter 22

  Padua, present day The black-haired man watched them enter the grounds in the hired car and drove on to park a hundred metres along the lane. His head throbbed still from the blow he had sustained the previous night. And deep inside him seethed a vengeful anger.

  By the time he reached a copse of trees opposite the entrance, the three of them had disappeared inside. He circled the house, watching as two teenage boys entered through one of the back doors. A few minutes later, the boys re-emerged with the girl.

  The pounding in his head was clouding his judgement. He closed his eyes and went through some of the mental exercises he had been taught in Special Forces. Clearing his mind he took deep breaths. When he opened his eyes again, everything seemed clearer.

  Moving silently through the trees, he reached another vantage point, some way from the house, in an area of rough grass and shrubbery. The three youngsters were chatting animatedly beside a pair of scramble bikes.

  Having put on their helmets, the two boys showed the girl how it was done. They shot off on a circular route over mounds and skidded around tight bends. Part of the course followed a muddy path just a few feet from where he stood, but he knew they would not see him.

  He had absolutely no qualms. Killing was what he did for a living. He did not need to hate his targets. Indeed, he felt nothing for any of them. His instructions were to acquire every scrap of information possible. Whatever the cost. His client was paying generously. So, he planned to dispatch th
e boys, take the girl and swap her – dead or alive – for that most precious commodity: information.

  One of the brothers came tearing round the nearest bend spraying a plume of mud around him. Revving the bike, he roared over a mound, flew through the air and landed elegantly. Raising his pistol, the assassin steadied his arm with his free hand. The boy rushed towards him, skidded and sprayed more mud high into the air. The bike twisted and spun out of control. The boy picked himself up and rode back to the others. The moment had passed. The second boy started his ride with an impressive wheelie before roaring away; but as he approached the first mound, the back wheel lost its grip. He flew over the handlebars and landed hard in the mud.

  Standing, legs parted, knees slightly bent, the assassin swung the gun, aiming it at the head of the kid clambering back on to the bike. He started to squeeze the trigger. 'Guys?'

  Quickly, he lowered the gun and took a step back into the trees as a short, plump woman with pink spiky hair came into view.

  Filippo straightened up in the saddle, killed the engine and climbed off, letting the bike fall to the wet ground.

  'Sorry to spoil your fun,' the man heard the woman say. 'Cook's made tea and cake.'

  Francesco rolled his eyes. 'What now? We've just got started.'

  'Take it or leave it guys, but the chocolate cake's something else.'

  'This is our tutor, Matilda,' Francesco explained to Rose. 'Matilda is from America and she takes food very seriously.'

  'As you can tell,' Filippo added behind his hand, making Rose and his brother laugh.

  The gunman watched from the shadows as the four of them turned to walk back to the house.

  Chapter 23

  Venice, present day It was dark by the time they reached Piazzale Roma and returned the hire car. The canalside cafes and bars were beginning to come alive as the water taxi glided along the Grand Canal. It took no more than ten minutes to reach the Ospedale Civile.

  Roberto's room was quiet, the lights dimmed. A TV was on in the corner, the sound off. Roberto was awake and sitting up in bed. His face looked sore, the bruising more lurid than it had been the day before. 'Ah, my intrepid researchers,' he said, 'and the lovely Rose. I am honoured.'

  Rose could not disguise her shock, but stepped up to the bed and kissed him gently on the cheek. 'How are you feeling?' 'Oh, pretty good young lady. And you?' 'I had the best time.' Roberto gave Edie and Jeff a quizzical look.

  'Barone Niccoli has two boys, Francesco and Filippo. Identical twins. And they really are identical' said Rose excitedly. 'Ah.' Roberto obviously found it painful to smile.

  'So, how are you bearing up?' Edie asked, taking his hand. 'Can't complain. Pretty nurses, good food, plenty of time to relax.' Edie frowned.

  'Oh, and the most entertaining chats with Candotti. I sent him packing yesterday. Told him I wasn't up to talking. He came back this morning, rather contrite.'

  'Doesn't sound like the Candotti we know and love.'

  'I took the precaution of having a word with the Chief of Police, Prefect Vincenzo Piatti. I told him you two were being harassed.' 'Is there anyone you don't know?'

  'I don't know him, actually. But it appears he knows me.' 'Won't that wind up Candotti even more?'

  'Maybe… but frankly I don't care. I don't think any of us should trust anyone with what we know. Candotti is just doing his job, but the police can't protect us right now and I believe the best way to keep information from people like him is simply to avoid them. Anyway, enough of that. What did you discover?'

  Edie told him about Barone Niccoli's library and the fate of the journals. 'It made for a fascinating read,' she concluded. 'But frustrating. It doesn't get us any further.' Roberto was silent for a moment, lost in thought. 'And you?'

  'Well luckily, I at least have made some headway. The clue from the Gritti Badoer; I've had little else to think about'

  'What about the nurses?' Edie said, smiling sweetly.

  Roberto raised an eyebrow, then continued. 'That line of music is fascinating. On the surface it seems pretty obvious. Each note must refer to a letter which I thought would spell out a sentence.' 'It didn't?'

  'No. The letters spelled out nonsense. Then I began to think about the Roman numerals, IV and V. It struck me I might need to transpose the notes into a different key and these numerals marked the way.' 'What do you mean?'

  'Well, you can play a piece of music in any key. It's the intervals between the notes that creates the melody. The etching on the hemisphere was of a stave with a succession of notes. This series of notes can be transposed; all the notes can be moved up or down to change the key. The Roman numerals were telling us something. There were two bars of music in the clue and under the first bar was the number IV, under the second was V. It became clear that I had to transpose the notes in the first bar to the perfect fourth and the notes in the second bar to the major fifth.' 'And that gave you a series of notes that spelled out a readable message?' 'Er, no.'

  'No?' Jeff was starting to feel irritated but realised that they had to humour Roberto because he was clearly enjoying teasing out the information bit by tantalising bit.

  'I was surprised too. I thought I had it. But then it clicked. In the copy you made of the etching there was no clef in the notation.' ' And a clef is…?' Rose giggled. 'Oh Dad!' 'Sorry.' Roberto waved to Rose inviting her to explain.

  'The clef is the symbol at the beginning of the musical stave. Most common is the G clef

  'Thank you, Rose, a textbook description. I assumed the notation was written using this. Then I started to wonder. The next most common form is what's called the bass clef, or F clef. And hey presto, when I used this, it worked.' He paused for a moment. 'Could you possibly pass me some water?'

  Edie handed him a glass. He took a sip and then rested his head back on the pillow.

  'Where was I? Yes, the bass clef. The first bar of notes spelled out: G, A, B, followed by two rests, then an E, a rest and an F. 'GAB-E-,and F?'

  'Exactly. The second bar read: A rest, an A, two more rests, an E, a rest and another A. In other words: -A-E-A.' 'A bit like hangman,' Rose said.

  'That's right,' Edie responded. 'Fill in the gaps. Tafani mentioned that Vivaldi had entrusted the fragment of the letter from Contessina de' Medici to a friend, the painter Gabriel Fabacci. GAB-E-F? Gabriel. F, Gabriel Fabacci. Perfect!' 'OK, what about the – A – - E – A?' Edie asked.

  'That took a little longer. But a smattering of local history goes a long way. In 1741, the year Vivaldi died, Gabriel Fabacci was commissioned to paint a fresco in a church called Chiesa di Santa Maria della Pieta. Vivaldi performed there almost every Sunday, and he was choirmaster for more than thirty years. Its popular name is La Pieta. Put in the missing L, P, I and T and you have it.'

  'So, let me get this straight,' Jeff said, trying to keep pace. 'The clue at the Gritti Badoer must have been left by Vivaldi's friend, Fabacci, after Vivaldi's death and it leads us to his fresco in La Pieta? Why didn't he just take the information Vivaldi gave him, track down the journals of Niccoli and claim the so-called Medici Secret for himself?'

  'You might well ask the same of Vivaldi,' Roberto replied.

  'In his "confessional",' said Edie, 'he tells us that what he learned scared him so much he couldn't even contemplate taking things any further.'

  'I thought initially that this might also have been the way Fabacci thought. Perhaps he too was a God-fearing man. But there were more prosaic reasons for his tardiness. Shortly after finishing his fresco, only a few weeks after he inherited his friend's documents, Fabacci was killed, drowned in the lagoon. All he managed to do was plant the clue in the Gritti Badoer. The knowledge of the Medici Secret died with him.'

  'But why bother to leave any clue at all?' Edie asked.

  Roberto sighed and shook his head. 'Who knows? Maybe he couldn't let go completely. Maybe he believed that in some better, brighter future someone would learn the secret and make good use of it' 'So what do we do now?'


  'Well, it's all there, isn't it? We have Fabacci's clue linked with his fresco in La Pieta. He even tells us when any intrepid investigator should look for it: sunset.' Jeff was nodding, but he looked pained. 'Jeff?' Edie said. 'What is it?'

  'This is all fine, but shouldn't we also be wondering who else is on the trail? Was that gunman after it, or is he just a hired assassin? If it's the latter, who's employing him, and why?'

  The room was silent for a moment, lights from the TV flickered unfocused on the darkened walls and ceiling.

  'I don't think any of us can answer those questions, Jeff. At least, not for the moment. But if it puts your mind at rest, at least a little, I have some people looking into who shot me.' And for a fleeting moment they could all see in Roberto's expression an aspect of him none of them had witnessed before, an aristocratic steeliness that verged on menace. 'Let's all concentrate on solving the central mystery,' he added softly. Jeff was just about to reply when Rose suddenly pointed at the TV. 'Look, isn't that the Medici Chapel?'

  They all turned to see Jack Cartwright talking to camera with the cold stone of the crypt behind his head. Edie grabbed the remote and found the volume control.

  'You are quite convinced of this?' A reporter was holding a mike close to Cartwright, who looked a little overwhelmed by the lights and cameras.

  'Totally. We have confirmed our suspicions using DNA analysis,' Cartwright replied. 'The body assumed to be that of Cosimo the Elder, the first Medici leader of Florence is an impostor.' 'So who is it?'

  'At the moment, we have no idea. We don't know when, why or how the body was switched, if indeed it ever was. Perhaps this unknown person was buried as Cosimo de' Medici; which of course begs the question: where is the real Cosimo? And why was he buried elsewhere?'

  'I don't fucking believe this,' Edie said quietly. 'The bastard. I've got to get back to Florence… right away.' 'That's ridiculous,' Jeff said.