The Venice Conspiracy

by Jon Trace

  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.’

  No
w 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 décor 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.

  It’s locked by the time Tom reaches it.

  He bangs with his fist.

  ‘Tina! Tina, it’s Tom.’

  No reply.

  He moves to a window. Cups his hand to block out sunlight as he peers inside.

  Empty.

  He turns and sees Mera Teale staring wildly at him while speaking into a walkie-talkie.

  Did he imagine the whole thing? Is his mind playing tricks on him? Or was Tina really there?

  CAPITOLO XLIII

  1777

  Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore, Venezia

  Dawn breaks like a virginal blush on the pale face of Palladio’s Church of San Giorgio. In a few hours, when the sun is high over the island, the magnificently columned frontage will gleam and flirt for the attention of anyone gazing out from the Piazzetta. Now, though, it is merely a subtle shape emerging through a shimmering sunrise. Tommaso watches it from the boat.

  Normally he’d be skimming across the peaceful morning waters, rowing with all his might. But today he has no intention of taking to the canale.

  Instead, he is inside the boathouse and is using t
he privacy of the craft to examine the cool silver tablet in his hand.

  Why did his mother have it? Why did she place so much importance in it? Why was she so concerned about who should have ownership of it?

  He ponders all this as he makes a rough pencil sketch of the artefact on paper he’s brought from his cell. In length, it runs from his wrist to the tip of his longest finger. In breadth, it’s slightly more than four fingers wide. The back is smooth and inscribed in a language he’s never seen before. He knows Latin, Hebrew and also a little Egyptian, but none of the characters match those. Some look Greek. Normally he would go straight to the abbot and seek his opinion, but something is stopping him.

  Tommaso flips the tablet over. It’s heavy and obviously valuable. Perhaps that was the reason his mother treasured it. The proverbial family silver. To be looked after at all costs. Never to be let out of the family’s hands. Only to be sold in the most desperate of circumstances.

  The engraving on the front is very beautiful. Intricate and shocking. The character is clearly a holy man. The hooked staff that he is impaled upon resembles the crosier that bishops carry. He wonders now whether the figure is Arabian, or possibly Isaurian. The more he looks, the more he recalls sketches of a priest or seer that the Romans referred to as a haruspex and the Etruscans called a netsvis. If it’s a netsvis, then the writing is Etruscan and that would explain why some letters look Greek but others are unfamiliar. Behind the figure there seems to be a gate made out of horizontally and vertically entangled snakes. He’s aware that the serpent is the symbol of Satan, and supposes this must represent the priest’s battle with evil. The snakes seem to flow off either end of the tablet, which also gives him a clue that the artefact might not be a single piece. His mother’s words roll back to him: Your sister is a year older than you and I have left her with the nuns. A similar box, and duty, await her.

  He wonders what she looks like, where she is, what has become of her - and what she has done with the box left for her. He wonders too about his mother - a feeling he’s buried for many years, and now painfully unearthed with the opening of the box and the discovery of the tablet and note. Tommaso holds the silver close to his body as he heads back to the monastery, aware that a bond is being forged between him and the object. For a second he pictures a mother giving a child his first toy, and the thought comforts him.