by Gary McAvoy
“Contessa, may I play this on your piano?” she pleaded.
“Of course, Dr. Gallo, be my guest.”
Livia walked over to the Fazioli, sat down on the bench, and placed the sheet on the music rack. With trembling fingers, she began to play.
What emerged was what she expected. A jumble of tonal notes, unlike Vivaldi’s typical style. She smiled.
The contessa, however, was bewildered.
“Is that really something Vivaldi wrote? I do not play the piano myself, nor do I read music. But I do have a good ear, and that sounds… off!”
Dominic explained the similar surprising reaction they had when reading the first manuscript they had copied from her original donation to the Marciana Library, and Hana’s humming of it, showing something about it was indeed ‘off.’
“We then sent it to Dr. Gallo, who is versed in a specialty area known as musical cryptography, and she discovered a secret message Vivaldi had encoded into the notes.
The contessa was not only visibly surprised, she was thrilled at the prospect of a mystery given rise to by her ancestor.
“Oh, and you’ve already translated it? What did it say?!”
Livia reached into her bag and withdrew the earlier output from her laptop, along with the translated message.
“This is simply extraordinary!” the contessa exclaimed after reading it. “But what is he talking about? What ‘practice’ must cease? And to what ‘caution’ does he refer?”
“That’s what we’re hoping to find out on this first page of his manuscript,” Dominic said, hoping she would take the bait.
“Well, can we do the same thing for that page?”
Dominic barely contained himself, unobtrusively pumping his fist in the air at his side.
“I was hoping you would ask!” Livia said with delight. “And the answer is yes!” She took out her phone, took a photograph of the document, then transferred it to her laptop, which she had placed on the sofa table. Working with the composition software, she repeated the steps as before, decoding the Solfa Cipher, then arriving at the transcribed four stanzas on her laptop display:
In un vergognoso atto di arroganza.
il Vaticano viene derubato.
cieco dalla Camorra in campionato.
con Cardinale Niccolo Coscia.
Which, when she translated it into English, read:
In a shameful act of hubris
the Vatican is being robbed
blind by the Camorra in league
with Cardinal Niccolo Coscia
Everyone in the room fell silent, each pondering the meaning of the document as they heard it.
Dominic and Hana were stunned. Here was proof of what Father Rinaldo heard in the Camorra Don’s confession! It had been centuries old! Looking at each other, they said nothing.
It all baffled the contessa.
“Well, that is quite the indictment, wouldn’t you say, Father Dominic?” she faltered. “That the Vatican was being ‘robbed blind’?! What do you suppose that was all about? I know who the Camorra is, of course; they are still quite active here in Venice even today. Is it not fascinating what one can learn from historical documents such as this? What should we make of it?”
Dominic was circumspect, preferring to reveal as little as possible.
“Oh, I’m sure that era entertained all sorts of skullduggery between the Church and the aristocracy. The Camorra is a curious addition, though. It does raise one’s interest, doesn’t it?” He smiled, as if to pass it off lightly. Glancing at Hana, he imperceptibly shook his head, implying, Leave it alone for now.
“May I see what else you have here, Contessa?” Dominic asked, striving to change the subject. He sat back down on the sofa and rifled through the remaining manuscripts, remarking on one or another, passing some around for all to see and hold.
“This is simply the finest collection of Vivaldi’s work I have ever seen,” Dominic commended her. “And I’ve seen some pretty remarkable things.
“Thank you so much for sharing these,” he concluded.
“It was my pleasure, Father,” she said as she returned all the documents to the portfolio.
“Now, as a last request, you must join me and my guests for our annual Carnivale celebration here in two days’ time, on Saturday. Please come, you are all such lovely people, and you would be most welcome back to my home. There will be many prominent Venetians here: the Mayor, most of the city council, celebrities, various bishops and cardinals—you’ll feel right at home, Father Dominic. And please bring your own guests, the house is open to all for this celebration.
“Until then, I bid you buona sera,” she said as she stood and led them to the entrance foyer. “Francesco has already called your taxi, and it is waiting.”
As she opened the door, sure enough, a canopied water taxi was already docked in front of the palazzo, waiting for its passengers.
“Thank you so much, Contessa, for your time and generosity,” Hana said on their behalf as she kissed each of the older woman’s cheeks in the familiar il bacio embrace. “It was a wonderful visit, and of course we’d love to attend your Carnivale celebration!”
While they were on their way back to the Ca’ Sagredo, the harmonious bells high atop Piazza San Marco’s Campanile struck at the unusual time of 7:48, which could only mean one thing: the death of some notable figure in Venice had been announced.
Though neither Dominic, Hana, nor Livia understood the bells’ significance yet, word soon spread quietly throughout the city that it was indeed the passing of Don Lucio Gambarini that caused the tower’s bells to strike their mournful tune. Despite the Camorra leader’s line of business, he had been accepted as a prominent personage in the city, and respect was accorded to all such high-profile Venetians.
While many breathed sighs of relief, others were troubled by who might replace Gambarini. Would the new capintesta be a kind soul, one who looked out for his fellow citizens in the course of the Camorra’s business affairs? Or would it be someone with more barbaric inclinations, suffering intolerance for anything or anyone standing in his way?
Back in his hotel room, Dominic called Cardinal Enrico Petrini, the Vatican Secretary of State, to update him on matters and request a favor. Although Dominic had only recently learned the cardinal was his biological father, he still held to the appropriate conventions of address, an accord to which they had agreed.
“Eminence, there is something here you should know, something very important.”
He explained the entire situation: his meeting with Paulo Manetti at the Marciana, Father Rinaldo’s surprise revelation of Don Gambarini’s shocking confession, the discovery of Antonio Vivaldi’s manuscripts, and the Contessa’s generous involvement. And that the Camorra is still in the picture and will probably not look well upon Dominic’s involvement in bringing their operation into the light of day.
Michael acknowledged that they had no proof other that Vivaldi’s accusation hidden in a coded sheet of music a couple hundred years earlier and a present-day man’s dying confession. How did Vivaldi know this as fact back then? Even if it were true in Vivaldi’s time, could this crime possibly still be taking place centuries later? Yet the coincidence of the confession coming to light at the same time as Vivaldi’s accusation … Michael left his thoughts unspoken. But the sigh by Cardinal Petrini hinted that the same thought had passed his mind: was divine providence at play? At the least, a coincidence so intense that they couldn’t ignore it. And surely a deathbed confession would not include such a heinous lie, so there must be, in fact, truth to this matter. Yet, still, where was the proof?
“Is that your intention, Michael? To prove and stop this aberrant behavior?”
“I am only thinking of the Vatican’s historical and priceless treasures, Eminence. This kind of theft cannot continue. Plus, if true, you have one or more moles in your bureaucracy there, and the Veneto Camorra must have some sort of efficient operatives here in Venice, and Rome as well. We must do w
hat we can to uncover and stop this. And it looks like I’ll need to take more time here in Venice, if you can arrange that with my assistant in the Archives.”
The cardinal was silent for a moment, evaluating the situation.
“Difficult as it is to believe, we need to pursue this. But I will only allow it if you’ll permit me to send two Swiss Guards to be at your side at all times, Michael. You will no doubt need protection while you’re there. And yes, take the time you need.”
Dominic laughed. “That was the favor I was going to ask. I’m hoping you can send Sergeant Karl Dengler and Corporal Lukas Bischoff at the earliest opportunity. They know how I work from past experience.”
“Consider it done. They’ll be on the first train in the morning.”
“Oh, and please have them bring a change of street and dress clothes. It seems we’re all going to Contessa Vivaldi’s Carnivale soirée at her palazzo. The guys should love it—of course, they’ll be on duty at all times,” he added quickly, reinforcing the seriousness of their mission.
“Do be careful, Michael,” Petrini cautioned. “I don’t want harm to come to anyone over whatever may be going on with the Vatican’s artworks.”
“Of course, Eminence. And thanks,” he said, then ended the call.
A few moments later, a text message came in on Dominic’s phone from Carlo Rinaldo: Don Gambarini just passed away.
Chapter 9
Just off the Rialto Bridge, at the center of the Grand Canal, rests the posh Studio Canal Grande. Venice’s San Polo sestiere, or district, enjoyed many palazzos including this one that doubled as a commercial studio and gallery featuring many of Italy’s finest artists, both Old Masters and contemporaries in the Venetian School of fine oil paintings.
Its dignified proprietor, Signor Renzo Farelli, always struck an imposing presence, the epitome of the Italians’ prized appearance standard known colloquially as la bella figura—the handsome figure. He was never seen without la sciarpa around his neck draping the fine Italian suits he wore. In cold weather, the scarf protected him from chills; in sweltering summers, it helped to catch sweat or wipe it from his brow. Farelli selected his clothing carefully each morning, attiring himself for the wealthy clients he was sure to meet that day.
Admiring himself in front of a full-length mirror, he glanced at his Patek Philippe watch. His personal tailor would arrive soon, preparing for him a bespoke costume for Contessa Vivaldi’s Carnivale party, the event to see and be seen at for every season. He never missed a one, for her friends were always the choicest potential clients for his thriving art business.
Before he died, Don Lucio Gambarini had named his successor, one Angelo Gallucci, as the new capintesta. Gallucci had been a capable underboss for Don Gambarini, and despite their personality differences, it was only fitting he be promoted to the top rank.
But Don Gallucci was more feared than loved by those who knew him, and he made it clear from his earliest hours of command that his leadership style would differ from that of his predecessor. Over his twenty-year reign, Gambarini had grown old and too easily persuaded, resulting in suboptimal revenues across the whole Veneto organization. His closest aides acknowledged he seemed more worried about his spiritual legacy than his corporeal standing in the centuries-long Mafia clan. There were even rumors he might have confessed things he shouldn’t have to Father Rinaldo when the Don was given last rites in private.
But Angelo Gallucci had no such feeble inclinations. Taking possession of Palazzo Feudatario, the Camorra’s Venetian headquarters for centuries, the new Don gathered his consigliere and newly promoted underbosses for a radical strategy and reorganization session. First on the agenda: find out what the confessor priest knows, and how to deal with him.
It was a new day in the Venetian’s beloved La Serenissima.
Karl Dengler and Lukas Bischoff had just arrived at the Santa Lucia train station on the late afternoon’s Frecciarossa Red Arrow’s Rome-to-Venice run. Knowing Hana had reserved a room for them at Ca’ Sagredo, they grabbed their gear and boarded the vaporetto, making their way up the Grand Canal to the chic hotel.
“Don’t we have the best job in the world?” Karl asked Lukas, taking a deep breath of the fresh salty air.
His partner looked at him warmly and grinned as they both leaned on the deck rail, watching the activity on the canal. “I’ll say. This is my first time in Venice, and we’re already invited to a contessa’s swank palazzo party! Life is good, Karl.”
“Of course, we have a job to do, too.” Karl said soberly. “Is it just me, or does my cousin Hana and our Father Michael always seem to get into trouble on these missions?”
“He is an inquisitive man,” Lukas replied thoughtfully. “I admire him for his courage and sense of adventure. But yeah, his curiosity often comes at a price, and Hana’s too. I feel privileged that Cardinal Petrini entrusts us with their safety. Now,” he looked at his fellow Swiss Guard with a grin, “all we need to do is keep them safe. And enjoy ourselves at the same time!”
Chapter 10
The stalwart leather and wood-paneled interior of the famed Harry’s Bar, just west of Piazza San Marco, was the perfect spot for dinner as Dominic, Hana, Karl and Lukas sat at a window table overlooking the Grand Canal. The sun was just setting, casting radiant glows off the orange and pale brownish yellow-colored buildings across the lagoon.
Once the familiar haunt of Ernest Hemingway, Truman Capote, Alfred Hitchcock and other notables—whose photographs lined the walls of the narrow restaurant—the 1930s decor and white-jacketed waiters created a literary ambience that made the spot so beloved by Venetians that it was designated a national landmark by the Italian Ministry for Cultural Affairs.
Though Karl and Lukas had just arrived, the others were wearied after a long afternoon of taking in various Carnivale activities, but everyone was hungry. Sipping Harry’s distinctive Bellini cocktails—Prosecco with peach—while studying the generous menu, they variously ordered Scampi with Finferli Mushrooms on Risotto, Green Tagliatelle with Pesto Sauce, John Dory with curry sauce and rice pilaf, and Chilean Sea Bass. Until their meals came, they sampled a beautifully plated appetizer of firm ripe cantaloupe wedges wrapped in razor-thin aged prosciutto di Parma.
“I’ve tasted nothing so incredible before,” Hana gushed. “For such simple ingredients, there must be some secret recipe Harry’s has.”
“You could just be starving, too,” Karl smirked. “Anything tastes good when you’re famished. But the menu said this prosciutto has been aged a full three years. That’s probably the secret. Just time.”
“So, Michael,” Lukas asked keenly, “we haven’t yet discussed why we’re here. Cardinal Petrini said you might need protection—but from whom?”
“Oh, it may be nothing, Lukas,” Dominic said. “But it’s good to have you here. There is much to do.”
He then gave them the background of the past couple days: their meeting with Paulo at the Marciana Library, the time spent with Contessa Vivaldi at her palazzo and the additional documents she shared, Dr. Gallo’s brilliant discovery of Vivaldi’s secret musical manuscripts—and the strange confession of the Camorra capintesta, since it was relevant to their being in Venice.
“His Eminence thinks the Camorra may respond disagreeably to our raising questions about Don Gambarini’s last words. And if it is true—which Vivaldi’s own manuscript would seem to confirm—we need to find out if it’s still going on and do what we can to put a stop to it.”
Karl was astounded. “You can’t really believe such an ongoing theft has been occurring, can you, Michael? I mean, the safeguards for moving art outside of the Vatican alone are nearly impenetrable. It wouldn’t make our security look very effective, if it is true.”
“We’ll be working on the assumption that it is true, Karl, but hope it isn’t. Wherever the blame lies, we’ll deal with that at the appropriate time. Meanwhile, I’ve asked Cardinal Petrini to discuss the issue with Marcello Sabatini, curator of the Vati
can Museum, to get his reaction.”
“I can’t imagine Signor Sabatini would be involved in such disgraceful activity,” said Karl. “I’ve worked with him before, frequently. He’s a good man, committed to his work.”
“Well, someone on his staff may be complicit,” Dominic replied. “That’s what we need to find out. How to go about it is the problem.”
Two waiters appeared, each holding two plates of steaming food, which they set down in front of each patron. Karl leaned over to take in the fresh scent of the day’s catch, John Dory, poached and laid out on a bed of seaweed and hay topped with seared brined capers.
Lukas sneered at the dish. “That has to be the ugliest fish I’ve ever seen.”
“Ugly, yes,” Karl beamed, “but it is also the tastiest. Looks can deceive, my friend.”
The others absorbed the delectable aromas of their own meals before digging in. As Hana savored her scampi and creamy risotto, she posed a suggestion.
“After dinner, why don’t we take in the Guggenheim Museum. They’re sure to have some Carnivale celebration going on.”
“Great idea,” Dominic said. “We’ll just take a gondola ride across the Canal.”
Chapter 11
The setting sun over Rome cast long dark shadows across the Vatican grounds as Cardinal Enrico Petrini and Museum curator Marcello Sabatini walked through the papal gardens.
The red-faced Sabatini held his chin up, his face tight as he retorted. “It simply isn’t possible, Eminence.”
“I’m not accusing you of any wrongdoing, Marcello,” Petrini explained to the disturbed man.