Chase Baker and the Da Vinci Divinity (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book 6)

by Vincent Zandri

  “It’s not in Italian either,” she adds.

  “Whoever is placing these notes under my door knows better,” I say.

  We both look at the sketch. It’s of Jesus. The same Jesus who appears in the master’s painting, The Last Supper. Like all da Vinci paintings, the hand gestures in The Last Supper are super dramatic and add a significant amount of tension to the scene being depicted.

  “Jesus’ left hand,” she says. “There’s a symbol super-imposed over it.”

  The symbol isn’t anything immediately discernable. More like a vertical rectangle with a circle or a globe on top of it. Otherwise, there’s not much else that looks out of place in the drawing.

  “We need to read the note,” I say. “Got a mirror on you?”

  Andrea leans down, reaches for her utility belt, rummages around one of the nylon pouches, comes back with a tactical mirror for use on the laser sight that goes with her HK33 automatic assault weapon.

  “You’re just full of surprises,” I say. “How did a sweet girl like you get to become a trained killer?”

  She smiles. “I hated playing with dolls when I was growing up. Tore my mum to pieces.”

  I peer down at the message scrawled by our secret messenger.

  yek eht sdloh naM naivurtiV .ytinivid eht laever lliw rood nepo eht.

  Then, I apply the mirror to it at an angle that catches the entire two sentences.

  the open door will reveal the divinity. Vitruvian Man holds the key.

  Andrea reads the words while I, too, read them. In my head.

  “What’s it mean?” she says.

  My eyes shift back to the hand of the Lord.

  “That symbol on the hand of the Lord,” I begin, the circle-topped rectangle suddenly making total sense to me. “It’s not a symbol so much as it’s a drawing of an everyday household item.”

  “I’m not following,” she says.

  Using extended index finger like a pointer, I press it down on the word “key.”

  “It’s a lockset,” I say. “All we need is the key.”

  She stares at it for a moment more.

  “A key,” she says. “What key where?”

  “Good question,” I say. Slipping out of bed, my feet back on the floor. “There’s only one way to find out. We need to head back to the museum.”

  “It will be closed by now. Plus, it’s getting dark.” She presses herself against my backside. “Besides, we have an agreement.”

  “What agreement?” I tease, looking at her over my shoulder.

  “You promised to make love to me one more time.”

  I see myself standing naked outside the door only a few embarrassing moments ago.

  “I did say that, didn’t I?” Lifting my legs back up onto the bed. “Well, I’m not one to renege on a promise. Besides …”

  “Besides what, boyfriend?”

  “You are my divine inspiration, girlfriend.”

  I kiss Andrea on the mouth and proceed to keep my promise.

  15

  A half-hour later it’s dark out, the light from the old brass street lamps leaking through the windows. Andrea and I are dressed and checking our sidearms, making sure they are locked, loaded, and ready for use should any one of our enemies—known or unknown—rear their ugly heads. While she’s once more dressed in her black tactical gear, minus the radio, I’m wearing dark jeans, boots, dark blue work shirt, and an old Tough Traveler satchel over my black leather coat. We’re not invisible against the darkness, but we’re not sticking out like sore thumbs either.

  We leave the apartment, head into the dark of night, taking a more circuitous route through narrow back alleys. The happiness of our time in the bedroom is now replaced with a sense of urgency. A sense that, if we don’t find the key to the lock in the museum wall, someone else will. Someone whose intentions are evil.

  From the cobbled street, the interior of the da Vinci Museum is dark and empty. But that doesn’t mean closed circuit surveillance cameras aren’t watching our every move. Or so Andrea reminds me.

  As if on cue, we both peer at the stone exterior wall above the door and the façade’s wide picture windows.

  “I’m not seeing any cameras,” I say.

  “Doesn’t mean they’re not there,” she says.

  I look at my watch. We’ve been standing in the road for more than a minute.

  “I say we just go in through the front door. The faster we get in and get out, the better.”

  “There’s still the question of the key,” she reminds me.

  “Could be we’ll find it in Dr. Belli’s office.”

  “Or could be he keeps it on his person, like I would do. Like you would do.”

  “You got any C4 in that utility belt, girlfriend?”

  “Got plenty of rounds, boyfriend.”

  “How’s about a device to pick a lock?”

  “Now you’re talking.” Reaching into one of the pockets on her belt, she produces a lock pick. She approaches the front door, thrusts the small, metal, pin-like device into the lockset twisting and turning it. “Observe,” she says. Then, in a soft singing voice, “I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never ever let a locked door get in the way of me and my man, ‘cause I’m a woman … “

  The quiet of the night is broken by the distinct click of lock tumblers being released.

  “Let’s hope they don’t believe in alarms,” I say.

  “Only one way to find out,” she challenges.

  She opens the door.

  Stepping inside, I find the darkness of the interior to be more intense than the exterior. Closing the door behind us, I make sure to re-engage the lockset. Andrea pulls a mini-Maglite from her belt, flicks it on, illuminating the ticket counter in a bright white circle.

  “Belli’s office will be behind it,” I say. “But first, let’s check the mural. Maybe the lock is something that can be easily picked like the front door.”

  “No arguments from me,” she says.

  We head down the short flight of steps into the main display room, the many life-sized inventions appearing ready for action. Making our way across the floor, we then descend the second, shorter flight of steps into the room that houses the multi-media copies of the more famous da Vinci paintings as well as that massive mural that takes up the far wall.

  “Light up Jesus,” I say.

  She does, shining the beam brightly on the divine son of man, his eyes looking so bright and alive in the otherwise pitch darkness, I half expect them to blink. I go to the wall, hold out both my hands, feeling for the thin seams formed by the inlaid door inside the concrete wall. When I locate them, I ask Andrea to shift the light so that it illuminates Jesus’ left hand.

  She repositions the light.

  I gaze upon the hand, looking for anything resembling a keyhole.

  “See anything?” Andrea says.

  “Not at first glance,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean much.”

  I feel Christ’s hand with my hand. Rather, the pads of my fingertips, pressing them into the life-sized hand as if it were not made of paint on plaster-covered concrete but, instead, human skin and flesh. Then, suddenly, an area of the mural feels soft. An area no longer than my thumb nail and no thicker than a matchstick. Reaching into my pocket, I retrieve my switchblade, trigger it open. Sticking the soft area with the blade, it punctures the mural, making a small rectangular incision in Christ’s hand.

  “You’re crucifying him,” Andrea says.

  “It’s what I must do in the name of saving humanity. Something tells me he won’t mind.”

  “So what is it? A keyhole?”

  I play with the blade inside the opening for a bit.

  “It’s definitely some sort of opener. But, I’m not feeling any tumblers like I would on a lockset.”

  “You want me to try and pick it?”

  “By all means.”

  She approaches me, her pick already in hand. Handing me the Maglite, I now assume the job
of shining the light on the tiny wall slit. Andrea pokes and prods the opening, but nothing seems to be happening. She pulls the pick out.

  “You’re right,” she says. “No tumblers. The lock, if it is even a lock in the traditional sense of the word, requires a special key. I suppose we should check out Dr. Belli’s office.”

  “Hang on a minute,” I say, digging in my pocket for the note.

  Retrieving it, I shine the light down on the ornate handwriting and read it aloud once again, more for my own benefit than Andrea’s.

  “The open door will reveal the divinity. Vitruvian Man holds the key.” Pausing for a minute to mull it over inside my brain, I then shoot a look at Andrea. “Why bring up Vitruvian Man? How could da Vinci’s artistic rendering of one particular man hold the key to the door?”

  “You’re right,” she says. “Doesn’t make sense.”

  I fold the note, shove it back in my pocket, and finger the change inside it. That’s when the realization comes to me like a divine bolt of electricity. I pull out a coin. A one euro coin. Holding it between my forefinger and thumb, I shine the Maglite on the front. The light bounces off it like a mirror.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “What do you see here?”

  “I see a common coin. One euro. So what?”

  “But what do you see now, girlfriend?”

  Flipping the coin around, shining the light on the human image stamped on it. Andrea’s face lights up brighter than the Maglite.

  “Vitruvian Man,” she says. “Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man occupies the entire backside of the coin.”

  “Let’s try it,” I say, placing the coin in the slot as if it were a slot machine in a gaming parlor. Pushing the coin in with my thumb, it disappears. At first, nothing happens, until the floor beneath us begins to vibrate and the sounds of heavy concrete separating from heavy concrete fills the empty museum. The stone door covered in the image of da Vinci’s Jesus opens up onto another room.

  A room that may very well hold The Book of Truths.

  16

  A bright, overhead light automatically flashes on inside the long, narrow room, as the door opens up. The room contains floor-to-ceiling shelves on both sides. The shelves support skulls that have browned over the years, as well as antique crosses inlaid with gold and precious jewels. There’s a glass ossuary that contains an entire hand, the skin shriveled around the bone, the black fingernails overgrown by inches. A metal plate attached to the wood base of the ossuary is embossed with the words, “Mano destra di Michelangelo” or “Right hand of Michelangelo.”

  There are dozens, if not hundreds, of old leather-bound volumes that must be worth a fortune to collectors. The floor space contains mounts for suits of armor, small arms of the Renaissance and Medieval periods, plus daggers, knives, and crossbows.

  “How do we know what to look for?” Andrea says.

  “The sketchbook will be small,” I reply.

  “Like, how small, Chase?”

  “It’ll be smaller than those volumes,” I say, my eyes scanning the far end of the shelves on my right-hand side. “About the size of the diary you kept as a teenage girl.”

  “How did you know I kept a diary?”

  “Wild guess. Let’s just call it a girl thing.”

  I hear rummaging coming from Andrea’s side of the room, and then, “Is this what we want?”

  In her hand is a small, leather-bound book attached to a leather lanyard so that the user could carry it around his neck, thus freeing his hands.

  I go to her.

  “Open it,” I say, “carefully.”

  She opens the cover to reveal a book written in Italian with the same mirror writing only da Vinci would have been capable of. But it’s not the writing I’m concerned about right now. I’m more interested in the sketches.

  “Look for a map,” I command.

  She flips a few more pages until she comes upon a map that bears the backward, but easily translated, word Vinci in its center. Off to the south is Firenze, and to the right is a shaded area, perhaps indicating forest.

  “What’s that?” Andrea says after a beat, her index finger pointing to a place in the forest that’s been circled—a miniature, barely discernible sketching of Vitruvian Man inside its center. There’s a backward word penciled over the miniature Vitruvian Man.

  attorG

  “What’s that?” she says

  “Grotta,” I announce, a smile forming on my face.

  “That means cave in Italian, am I right, Chase?”

  “Girlfriend,” I say, packing the notebook into my satchel, “I think we’ve discovered the legendary Book of Truths.” I can feel the smile burning into my face. “Now let’s get the hell out of here, before we discover more assholes who want to kill us.”

  It’s precisely what we would do, too, except the concrete door slams closed and the overhead lights go out.

  17

  Andrea flicks on the Maglite while drawing her weapon. I pull out my .45, thumb off the safety.

  “Who’s there?” I shout. Then, to Andrea, “Give me the lamp.”

  She hands it to me. I shine it against the door. No one there.

  Then, footsteps behind me. I turn, shoot. The bullet ricochets against the wall.

  “Get down!” I shout.

  Andrea screams as the overhead lights turn back on. Standing only a few feet before me, Dr. Belli is holding Andrea in a choke hold, a dagger that must be at least five hundred years old pressed against her neck. Her eyes are wide, not blinking. Belli is breathing hard, his face red, forehead sweating under that scraggly Beatles haircut.

  “I’ll take my sketchbook back, Mr. Baker,” he declares.

  “Or, let me guess,” I retort with a roll of my eyes. “The girl gets it, right?”

  I raise my gun, plant a bead on his forehead.

  “Don’t test me.” He’s pressing the knife hard enough against her neck to break the skin. A normal woman might beg for mercy or even pass out. Andrea swallows the pain, stoically, bravely, while a tear of blood runs down her neck.

  “The book, Mr. Baker.”

  “Shoot him, Chase,” Andrea orders. “Shoot the son of bitch. Don’t worry about me. Shoot him. Go find the cave. Save the damned world.”

  It’s possible I could get a shot off, and even connect with him. But I can’t take the chance that in his dying breath he’ll run that blade across her throat.

  Thumbing the hammer back to its safety position, I lower the pistol.

  Belli grins.

  “Too bad, she’s got to die anyway,” he says, gripping a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back, exposing her neck.

  I’m raising the pistol barrel back up when an arrow plows through his eyeball and out the back of his skull.

  18

  Belli doesn’t know what’s hit him. All he knows is he’s dropped the knife and released his grip on Andrea. She steps away from him as he staggers one step forward, then one step back, and then one more to the side.

  “Doomed to the immortal,” he says, before collapsing onto his own bloody footprint.

  I go to him, lower myself onto one knee. Blood streams from the corners of his mouth and out his nostrils. I can tell he’s trying to communicate something. Slipping my right hand under the back of his blood-soaked head, I raise it up.

  He struggles for the strength to speak. “I am not … the evil man … you think, Baker.” The words are followed by a gurgle, then the exhalation of a very deep breath, after which, the lungs do not re-inflate. Slowly, I lower the head back onto the floor.

  “Adios, Dr. Belli,” I whisper.

  Standing up straight, I turn, fully expecting to see the person who shot an arrow or, more accurately, what looks to be an old crossbow bolt, through Belli’s eye. Someone has to be there.

  “Who’s there?” I demand. “Reveal yourself.”

  “Look what you’re doing, Chase,” Andrea says, digging a bandage from her utility belt, tearing open
the paper packing, applying it to her wound. Or, to be more precise, slapping it on her wound. “No one’s there.”

  “But how the hell can that be?” I bark. “Somebody had to shoot Belli and it wasn’t you or me.”

  She’s retrieved her sidearm and now grips it with both hands. “Maybe he’s hiding somewhere at the other end of this room.”

  “Where exactly?” I whisper, my own gun gripped in my shooting hand at the ready. “Stay close behind.”

  It takes maybe twenty slow steps to reach the opposite end of the long room. But when we get there, no sign is to be found of anyone else occupying the space other than Andrea and myself. But something catches my attention and it tells me we’re definitely not alone. It’s a crossbow. By the look of it, a vintage weapon dating back to the fourteen or fifteen hundreds.

  Returning the .45 to my shoulder holster, I bend at the knees, pick it up. It’s solid and heavy in my hands. Remarkably well preserved. Then, upon closer inspection I make out a name carved into the hard wood stock.

  Leonardo da Vinci

  “That’s a relic,” Andrea says, lowering her weapon. “He must have pulled it off the wall.”

  “Whoever he is,” I say.

  I point to the name on the stock. Her eyes light up.

  “You think that’s for real?”

  “Let’s ask the man who saved our lives.”

  “Yeah, but who was that?”

  “Would have been nice to get more info out of Belli before he met his creator.”

  “No point in crying over spilled blood, boyfriend.”

  “You think the guy who shot Belli is the same guy who’s been dropping notes under my apartment door, then quickly disappearing like he’s Batman?”