The Venice Conspiracy

by Sam Christer

  CHAPTER 37

  Present Day

  Carabinieri HQ, Venice

  Tom Shaman has never felt more nervous.

  Looking through the small wired windows, he can see that the main hall is already packed with journalists jabbering bullet-train Italian at each other.

  Steel-poled TV camera lights line the walls and bleach the room supernaturally white. A forest of radio microphones has been planted in front of the two desks that the press officer has butted together on a raised platform.

  Major Carvalho pats Tom’s shoulder. ‘It’ll be fine. Trust me.’ He turns to the force’s twenty-eight-year-old translator, Orsetta Cristofaninni, and asks her in Italian if she is clear about what Tom is going to say.

  ‘Si. He is going to tell them he deeply regrets that Signorina Ricci chose to make their private relationship public. And he will say that, in the interests of this enquiry, he doesn’t plan to comment any further.’

  ‘Va bene. Let’s hope he doesn’t.’ Vito doubts Tom will get off so lightly. He glances around. ‘Where’s Lieutenant Morassi?’

  The translator shrugs. ‘In the hall already?’

  Vito doesn’t have time to check. The Carabinieri press officer, Bella Lamboni, opens the door. ‘We need to start, Major. We are ten minutes late already and they are restless.’

  He knows the importance of not letting the press grow hostile. ‘Let’s do it.’

  Tom feels his nerves twang as he follows everyone into the hall and up on to the stage.

  Lamboni, a forty-year-old media veteran, kicks things off by explaining what’s going to happen. She finishes by announcing that written press statements will be made available on the way out. Finally, she introduces Vito.

  The major squints into the hot, bright lights. ‘You have brought summer into our normally cold hall, so for that I thank you.’ The journos smile a little. ‘And I thank you also for your attendance today.’ He does his best to look solemn. ‘I need your help, my friends. We are investigating the savage murder of a fifteen-year-old girl. Some of you have already written important articles about this.’ Behind him, while he speaks, Lamboni unveils a giant picture of a young girl. ‘This is Monica Vidic. She should be back at home in Croatia now. Instead, she is in our morgue. Her mutilated body was recovered beneath a bridge at Rio di San Giacomo Dell’Orio by a local man and by Tom Shaman, a former priest visiting us from Los Angeles.’ He points towards Tom and smiles his most political of smiles. ‘Signor Shaman is already well known to many of you. He made world headlines when he risked his life to save a young woman back in America. And recently, he has been helping us. Why has he been assisting us? First, because he was at the scene when the body was found, and second because his days in California have given him some specialist experience that we wish to draw on.’

  Vito hopes to leave the matter there, but a bearded TV reporter shouts a question. ‘Is he an exorcist? We’ve heard he’s a demon hunter and that you’re on the trail of Satanic serial killers.’

  Carvalho mockingly puts his hand to his ear and leans forward. ‘Scusi? Did I hear you right? Satanists – exorcists – serial killers? I think you have the wrong press conference, signor. Tonight I want to use your help to focus attention on the case of Monica Vidic.’ Vito picks up a black and white head shot. ‘Ask your readers and viewers if they recognise this girl. If they saw her with anyone, anywhere at any time in Venice. No piece of information is too trivial. Someone, somewhere may well have seen her with her killer.’

  A woman radio reporter in her late thirties stands. ‘With respect, Major, you never really answered the question about Signor Shaman. What exactly is he doing to help you?’ She turns sideways so she’s looking at Tom; everyone can see the glint in her eye. ‘And are the steamy stories about his lovemaking really true?’

  The last remark prompts raucous laughter, and even some clapping from the journalists.

  Tom feels himself turning vermilion as Orsetta translates for him.

  Carvalho raises a hand. ‘I’m not going to dignify your last remark with a response. On the former question, we asked for Tom’s help in relation to some religious aspects that may – or may not – be connected to Monica’s murder. Now, that’s it. I’m not going to expand on that statement, so please don’t waste your breath asking me.’

  A young male reporter in the front row catches his eye. ‘We know several bodies were recently recovered from the laguna. Have you identified those people, and are they connected to the murder of Monica Vidic?’

  Vito answers calmly. ‘Two male bodies were recovered. We have not as yet been able to identify either of them, but we’re working hard to do so. Until their families have been informed, I think it wrong to comment further. Next question, please.’ As he looks for raised hands, Valentina Morassi walks through the back doors of the main hall.

  ‘Fine. If there are no more questions then I think this is the appropriate moment for Signor Shaman to say a few words. His Italian is even worse than my English – and no doubt the English of some of you as well, so we have provided a translator for him.’

  Vito steps down from the stage and Valentina is at his side within a second. She cups a hand to his ear. ‘A human liver has been found nailed to the high altar of the Salute.’

  Vito covers his face with a hand. ‘Dear God.’

  CAPITOLO XXXVI

  26 dicembre 1777

  Venezia

  When Amun wakes, he is naked.

  Upright. Freezing cold.

  Tied to a rough wooden crucifix.

  Wind on his skin tells him he’s in the biting chill outside.

  A garden? A field? He’s not sure. His head aches. Vision blurred.

  The hood is gone. At least he can breathe.

  His brain feels as though it’s on fire, but the rest of his body is chilled to the bone.

  A burst of noise.

  Flames shoot up in front of him.

  A fire.

  Now he can see faces. Masks and gowns. Long, elegantly embroidered cloaks. The party in paradise that he’d been promised! A sense of relief floods through him.

  ‘Louisa?’ he shouts. His throat instantly sore.

  There’s no answer.

  Stranger’s masks move around him. Four? Six? Eight, perhaps? Or is it the same four? It’s hard to tell when they keep circling.

  The masks are unusual. Not characters he recognises. They seem older. Hand-made. Possibly passed down from generation to generation.

  Uncertainty gives way to anger. ‘Louisa!’

  He tries to turn his head but can’t. There’s something tight around his neck.

  A scarf?

  No – not a scarf.

  A rope.

  It tightens like the coils of a snake. Starts choking him. Now another snake of cloth crawls into his mouth, gagging him. More snakes wind their way around his biceps and calves, burning as they tighten and tighten.

  Through the flames he sees a man with a long, crooked staff. He’s wearing a tall pointed hood and full-face silver mask. A priest of some kind. For a second there’s a flash of hope: perhaps this is a monastery and nunnery where the monks and the sisters like a little fun too. He’s heard of such places. Everyone has.

  The priest speaks. ‘We are gathered here tonight, in this precious curte, while the weak still worship the Christ child, to honour the true god. To summon his power and through this sacrifice to show our loyalty and devotion.’

  Sacrifice.

  The word brands itself into Amun’s consciousness.

  What nonsense is this? The courtesan spoke of sexual pleasures. No doubt it’s all part of that. Daring, wild, different ways to heighten the senses. That’s it! Fear. The ultimate aphrodisiac. Women love it. You see it on their faces when you’re on top of them. Amun recalls hearing of some French marquis who swears by it – the more pain the better.

  Chanting commences.

  But Amun can’t make out what they’re saying. Either his hearing is going o
r they’re mumbling too badly.

  It could be Latin.

  Two figures appear in his line of vision. Their cloaks blow open. They are women. Naked. The firelight makes their skin look golden. Amun feels a comforting twitch between his legs. They’re probably going to suck him. The dirty bitches will suck him until he’s hard and then take turns fucking him. Fine. He can do that. No Badawi has never been shy of an audience.

  One of the acolytes tugs the ligature around his left bicep. He can feel her pubic hair, bristling divinely against his hip.

  Best tie me tight, you little whore, because I’m going to ride you so hard these puny timbers will snap like firewood.

  He can’t see the other woman but he can sense her closeness – his animal instincts are more alive than they’ve ever been.

  Amun flinches.

  She’s cutting him.

  Not a nick. Nothing sexual or provocative. A real cut.

  Deep and painful.

  A blade is slicing into the skin below his muscle, fashioning a wound all the way down his elbow.

  Amun’s cries are dammed in the gag. Only his bulging eyes and kicking legs register his terror.

  The chanting grows louder. Dominus something.

  Now they’re holding bowls beneath his wound. Catching his blood.

  More pain in the other arm.

  Dominus Satanus.

  He can hear the words clearly now.

  Two more women are cutting him.

  More blood. More bowls. More chanting.

  He can feel the wind on the wet blood. Feel it drizzling in shivers out of his veins.

  His vision is limited but he sees them approaching. Taking turns to come up to him. To lick his weeping wounds and then disappear again.

  Another burst of noise.

  Another eruption of fire.

  This time behind him. Close enough for him to feel the heat.

  Thankfully not near enough to burn him.

  He relaxes a little. Adrenalin is killing the pain. The fire is comforting.

  Another mask in his face.

  Louisa!

  He recognises her disguise. Calls to her with his eyes.

  She recognises him, he can tell. A spark flickers in her dark pupils.

  A warm hand cups his scrotum.

  Everything will be all right now. After the pain comes the pleasure. He understands. It’s strange, but he can play this game now – now that he understands.

  Louisa opens her cloak and lets her skin touch him.

  Heavenly.

  Her nipples are hard against his heaving chest.

  She wraps her fingers around the length of his cock and he feels the excitement of growing hard in the palm of her hand. She squeezes and strokes it to make him as stiff as iron.

  Amun closes his eyes. Goes with the flow.

  He was right. It’s all bizarre. Even frightening. But it’s also everything she promised.

  Sexual paradise.

  Louisa rubs him with both hands now. Her fingers feel as though they’re oiled. He wishes he could press his mouth to hers. Explore her lips, feel her breasts, then force himself inside her and fuck a good lesson into her.

  His legs buckle a little.

  Anger. Excitement. Pain. Fear. Anticipation. His mind is a cocktail of emotions.

  Louisa scrapes her nails up the length of his cock.

  He shakes with pleasure. Shivers so much he wonders if he’s going to ejaculate. He controls himself. He doesn’t want to lose control in front of everyone, not before he’s given this randy little courtesan the fucking of a lifetime.

  But Amun needn’t worry.

  Another girl joins the courtesan. Something cool is placed under the length of his throbbing cock. It feels smooth and cold like a slab of stone. His senses tingle.

  The second woman steps back.

  There’s a flash of steel.

  A click of metal on marble.

  Amun bites so hard he breaks his teeth.

  Louisa lets the severed end of his penis drop into a bowl at his feet. A bucchero, like all the others – centuries old and reserved solely for sacrifices.

  CHAPTER 38

  Present Day

  Carabinieri HQ, Venice

  The last part of the media conference is a blur. Tom struggles to keep to his script and at the end, has to walk quickly to escape a posse of photographers.

  The press officer covers for him, handing out new pictures of Monica Vidic, along with written appeals for the public’s help, penned not only by Major Carvalho but also by the teenager’s father.

  As soon as they’re clear of the main hall, Rocco Baldoni shoves Tom’s coat in his hands. ‘We’re going straight to the Salute. The major and Valentina are already on their way. Professore Montesano, too.’

  Tom’s confused. ‘The Salute? What’s happened? Another body?’

  ‘Not quite. I’ll tell you en route.’

  A Carabinieri patrol boat is standing by, pumping fumes in its mooring. The bow kicks up and breaks white waves as they throttle their way along the S-bend of the Canal Grande, under the Ponte dell’Accademia and out to the final promontory of the Sestiere di Dorsoduro.

  The Basilica is already closed and guarded by Carabinieri officers. Baldoni flashes his ID and they are admitted through its grand entrance.

  This was not how Tom had wanted to visit the Salute, the famous church depicted on the postcard Rosanna Romano had given him. The card that has drawn him to Venice.

  Instinctively he makes the sign of the cross. It is strange to smell church air again, the unique aroma created by candle flame and cold stone. He sees Carvalho, Montesano and Morassi kneeling at the high altar between its giant twin pillars. They look as though they’re praying. Were it not for their white Tyvek coveralls, protective boots and latex gloves, they could be mistaken for devoted churchgoers.

  Tom’s footsteps echo like bats flapping in the vast dome overhead. He knows each step is bringing him closer and closer to something more evil than anything he’s ever experienced.

  A forensic officer with a clipboard stops them. Baldoni signs them through another log point. He explains to Tom that he must suit up to enter the protected area.

  As he dresses he sees the gloriously Baroque altar arrangement, designed by Venetian architect Baldassare Longhena. It’s more beautiful than the pictures he’d seen on the internet. It shelters a stunning Byzantine Madonna and Child, and at any other time he’s sure the setting would radiate a near perfect spiritual atmosphere. But not today.

  Tom finishes dressing and walks closer.

  Now he sees it.

  Driven into the very centre of the sacred stone on the front elevation of the altar is a human organ.

  It’s pinned to the marble by a massive masonry nail.

  Ironmongery as horrible as any hammered into the body of Christ.

  Tom crosses himself again, and whispers softly, ‘In nomine patris, et filii et spiritus sancti.’ He can hear carabinieri officers nearby, talking in Italian. Soft voices. Sombre tones. Baldoni joins them.

  There’s something else.

  Red paint smeared all over the floor of the altar.

  Not paint.

  Blood.

  Valentina is the first to spot Tom. She stands and walks over. ‘Thanks for coming.’ She sees his stare is hooked on the nailed organ. ‘Montesano thinks it’s a human liver. Isabella Lombardelli – the scientist from RaCIS – is on her way over, she’ll do tissue matches with the bodies we’ve already got.’

  He points to the smeared lines of blood on the floor near the altar. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We don’t know. Major Carvalho thought maybe you would have an idea.’

  Tom nervously approaches the daubed blood.

  The major looks up from where he’s kneeling, gets to his feet and moves towards him. ‘It’s not been done by accident, it’s not spillage or spatter.’

  Tom swallows and tries to stay calm. The tension he’s experiencing is familia
r. He’s had it at exorcisms. Had it when he visited prisoners on Death Row. Had it during the fateful street fight in LA.

  It’s the closeness of evil.

  ‘It looks like a book,’ says Tom, aware his voice sounds stretched. He stoops a little to study the strange marks on the floor. ‘If we were in LA, I’d be thinking about gang tags, graffiti signatures, stuff like that.’ His mind flashes back to the fight – the kicks and punches he delivered that killed the young men – the battered face of the girl he couldn’t save from being raped. His head feels as if someone’s squeezing it in a vice. There’s a sharp pain across his heart. He feels hot and dizzy. He forces himself slowly to keep blowing out the air and sucking it in again, calm and slow.

  Valentina moves towards him but Vito grabs her arm and pulls her back.

  Tom can see now that the blood marking is not the outline of a book.

  It’s a rectangle.

  Divided into three perfectly equal sections.

  The smears of blood ripple across it, like a river of red demon snakes.

  CAPITOLO XXXVII

  26 dicembre 1777

  Venezia

  Amun Badawi has almost bled to death.

  Louisa ties another tourniquet. Smiles as she leaves him dangling, dripping blood. The other acolytes undo his gag and force the end of his severed penis into his mouth before re-gagging him.

  Swallow or choke. The choice is his.

  Ave Satanus

  The congregation dip their fingers in bowls of his blood, anoint themselves and smear it over each other.

  Dominus Satanus

  Frenzied intercourse begins. A demonic race to climax before the sacrifice dies.

  No one is to miss out. Everyone will enter – or be entered by – someone else.

  Except for the high priest.

  His Diabolic Holiness abstains.

  Nothing must distract him from the duties he still has to perform.

  He ignores the writhing and groaning of his followers and raises his cloaked arms. ‘It is time, my brothers and sisters. Acolytes, attend the sacrifice.’

  Bodies disentangle. Hands grab cloaks and straighten masks.