The Vivaldi Cipher

by Gary McAvoy

  “But Eminence, there is no evidence, no clue you’ve provided to substantiate something so unthinkable.”

  Petrini nodded. “But if what Father Dominic told me is true, you have a profoundly important task ahead. One that needs to be handled delicately, but promptly.”

  Sabatini now pleaded, “But I would not know where to even begin! Nothing shows as missing from our inventory. I have dependable mechanisms in place for such things. We display some 20,000 pieces securely mounted throughout all our galleries, leaving the Vatican’s remaining 50,000 pieces in safe storage. Each item is bar-coded, and any transfer is diligently tracked. The only time they move is when we rotate exhibitions, send them out for restoration, or loan them out to reciprocal institutions. It is a mystery to me how someone might even go about managing such a corrupt scheme. I contend it is unthinkable that it happened at all!”

  Petrini allowed a moment’s pause as the curator calmed. Then he asked softly, “And you have been curator for how long?”

  Sabatini took a long breath, realizing he would need to abide by whatever the Cardinal requested of him, no matter how difficult to achieve. “I have only been at this job for ten years now. So, yes, Eminence, there’s no telling what happened before I stepped in as curator.”

  Just then Petrini’s mobile phone pinged, signaling an incoming text message. He read it, a thoughtful expression creasing his face.

  “Let’s go to my office, Marcello. Miss Sinclair, a colleague of Father Dominic’s in Venice, sent me images of the Vivaldi manuscripts they discovered. We’ll look at them on my computer.”

  Petrini took a seat at his desk as Sabatini stood behind him, both watching the computer display as it lit up. The cardinal opened the email from Hana and found several attachments. He opened one at a time as he and Sabatini peered at the screen, reading the Vivaldi musical transcriptions prepared by Livia Gallo.

  “Amazing,” Petrini said. “These, combined with Lucio Gambarini’s purported confession to Father Rinaldo, would seem to confirm the case for some kind of ongoing scheme. Are you familiar with this Contessa Vivaldi Durazzo?”

  “Yes, Eminence, I well know who Contessa Durazzo is, though she prefers to use the Vivaldi surname, for obvious reasons. She is one of the preeminent art collectors in Venice. Her family’s collection is legendary. We have met on several occasions, and she would surely remember me.”

  Petrini clicked on the third attachment. A moment later, a large religious painting filled the screen.

  Sabatini gasped, turned white, and began trembling. “Eminence! This is one of the Vatican’s own works! It is called Crucifixion with Apostles, painted by an obscure Venetian artist named Giulia Lama. I happen to know this because she is one of the very few female painters in our collections, and certainly cannot be counted as among the Old Masters. I am truly shocked seeing this!”

  As he looked at the Lama painting, Petrini’s interest piqued. “This is extraordinary. But how is it possible? We must ask Hana about this.”

  Looking up her number on his phone, he made the call. A few moments later, Hana answered. Petrini put her on speakerphone.

  “Hana, this is Enrico Petrini. I have you on speaker here with the Vatican’s Museum curator, Marcello Sabatini.”

  “Good to hear from you, Eminence,” Hana said cheerfully. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “First, thank you for sending these Vivaldi images. They are certainly compelling in support of Michael’s claim. But I must ask: why did you send this photo of the painting?”

  “A painting?” Hana questioned. “Oh, I’m sorry, Eminence, I must have tagged that as an unintended attachment. It was a photo I took yesterday at the contessa’s palazzo. Just ignore it.”

  “But that’s the thing, Hana—we can’t ignore it! Signor Sabatini here recognized it as an art work belonging to the Vatican! It is by a female artist named Giulia Lama, correct?”

  “Why, yes, it is a Lama,” said Hana, surprised. “Are you certain it’s the same painting? Is it possible the artist could have painted more than one?”

  Sabatini demurred, shaking his head. “Signorina, this is Marcello. Yes, it is absolutely the same piece. And no, it is unlikely an artist would do such a thing in that era. I cannot understand this at all.”

  “Well,” Petrini said, looking up at the man, “the question is, Marcello, how can one painting be in two places at the same time? I suggest you look into this as soon as possible. Track down that painting in our collections, and if you do find it, it may reveal part of the solution to this mystery.”

  “Of course, Eminence. I shall do so at once.” Sabatini bid farewell to Hana, then left the room.

  “Hana, do you think it would be possible for Marcello to come to Venice tomorrow, and perhaps have a look at the contessa’s painting? Assuming he finds the one supposedly in our collection, he can make a more visually informed analysis of the two.”

  “As a matter of fact, Eminence, the contessa has invited us to her annual Carnivale gala tomorrow evening at her home, Palazzo Grimaldi, and has encouraged us to bring our own guests. So yes, Signor Sabatini would be most welcome, I’m sure.”

  “Excellent,” Petrini said. “That is most gracious of her, and should help us better understand things. Sabatini and the contessa have met before, he tells me, which might make the situation… well, seem less intrusive.”

  “Oh, that’s helpful, yes. And be sure to tell him to bring a costume for the Carnivale theme, or at least a mask. Or to purchase one when he arrives; mask shops are everywhere here.”

  “I will pass that on to him, Hana, and thank you for everything. How are Michael and the boys holding up?”

  “Everyone’s fine here. We’re filled with curiosity about this so-called Vatican art operation and intend to follow leads wherever they take us.”

  Recalling an earlier conversation he’d had with his old friend Baron Armand de Saint-Clair, Petrini added, “Oh, I spoke with your grandfather this morning and filled him in on your developments. As always, he is concerned about your own safety. So you take good care, Hana. We’ll speak again soon.”

  “Thank you, Eminence. We’ll keep in touch.”

  Marcello Sabatini had returned to his desk in the Museum’s administrative offices and conducted a search on Giulia Lama’s art piece. Noting its location ID in the repository, he left his office and took the elevator down to the underground warehouse beneath the Belvedere Courtyard.

  Thousands of undisplayed paintings were stored in the vast climate-controlled space, each hung on tall, modern, sliding stainless steel racks as far as the eye could see in any direction, works of art that had been kept here for hundreds of years, catalogued by artist.

  Sabatini checked the ID code he had written on a slip of paper and proceeded to that location. Finding the proper rack, he slid it open out into the aisle, revealing several glorious artworks by various Old Masters and relatively unknown artists alike.

  Expecting not to find the Lama, it stunned Sabatini when he looked up and saw the very same painting he had seen in Hana’s photo. Impossible! he thought desperately. There cannot be two of them!

  And yet, hanging before him was Crucifixion with Apostles, nestled inside a meticulously gilded wooden frame, the contrasting chiaroscuro treatment of light and dark visible even in the low-lit LED conditions of the dim warehouse.

  The artwork was stunning. The mystery of it shocking.

  Removing his phone from his pocket, he took a photo of it to share with Cardinal Petrini.

  Clearly, he had a problem.

  Chapter 12

  Hana was in her element, surrounded as she was by exquisitely custom-tailored Venetian Carnivale costumes at Antonia Sautter’s famed atelier in the San Marco sestiere.

  Both Hana’s and Livia’s eyes shone as they swept the room, seeking the perfect bespoke ball gowns for the contessa’s soirée. Sautter’s signature couture fabrics—rich velvets, damasks, brocades and Venetian silks, paired with perio
d shoes, wigs, hats, gloves, fans, jewels, and of course, masks—were the most sought after in all of Venice.

  There was one costume Hana could see herself in—a stunning bright scarlet silk gown with matching cascading cape, and a brocaded décolletage with shoulder-to-elbow half-sleeves.

  Livia chose a more demure ivory gown with a gold brocaded bustier, and a huge auburn curled wig topped with pure white overlapping ostrich feathers.

  Both of them chose handheld Venetian stick masks matching the colors of their gowns.

  Across town, at the famed Ca’ Macana mask workshop in the heart of the Dorsoduro, Dominic, Karl and Lukas were only seeking the shop’s signature hand-produced masks. The two soldiers had brought their colorful Swiss Guard Gala Renaissance uniforms as their own costumes—something probably not sanctioned by the rules but, as they reasoned, they were on duty at the instruction of Cardinal Petrini—so they only lacked appropriate masks. Both of them had chosen traditional black Bauta masks which covered the entire face with a flat, stubborn chin line. They left their chest armor back at the Vatican, of course, and rather than bring their feathered armor helmets, they brought the more informal black berets—which packed far more easily, anyway.

  At first Dominic himself decided he would forgo a costume and come as—surprise!—a priest. But the boys cajoled him enough to surrender to wearing the traditional Venetian shoulder capelet with a tricorn hat known as the Zendale, made from black satin and macrame lace, including the floor-length Venetian cloak, cape, and white Bauta mask. Begrudgingly, he rented the costume.

  After the train came to a stop, Marcello Sabatini nervously descended the steps of the Frecciarossa, landing unsteadily onto the platform at Santa Lucia. The two martinis he’d had on board had taken effect, but his hotel, the Boscolo Bellini, wasn’t far from the station. With his rolling suitcase trailing behind him, he headed northeast two hundred meters or so to the Bellini’s entrance, then checked in for his two-night stay. After unpacking in his room, he headed back downstairs to the bar.

  Though a capable curator of the Vatican Museum, Sabatini was a short, highly strung man in his forties, obsessed with details but often brittle when his competence was questioned. And though Cardinal Petrini had dealt with him kindly—given the unusual situation they’d found themselves in—Sabatini was apprehensive about his role here in Venice. What am I to do if I find an identical Lama painting? Accuse the contessa’s family of forgery? Or maybe we have a forgery! Such worrying thoughts overcame him such that he couldn’t enjoy the unique pleasures of La Serenissima, which was more the pity since he could use a vacation to rid his mind of this particular burden.

  “Un gin martini, per favore,” he mumbled to the bartender, reaching for the bowl of pretzels on the counter.

  Chapter 13

  The procession of waiting black gondolas lined up in front of the entrance to Palazzo Grimaldi, their elegant brass lanterns casting shimmering reflections over the waters of the dark canal as the sound of live classical music drifted out from inside the palace.

  Sure-footed gondola tenders—servants wearing powdered wigs and black waistcoats with golden breeches and white leggings—stood on the dock, helping guests out of each arriving gondola, taking special care with ladies and their voluminous gowns.

  Standing at the door to the Reception Hall, Contessa Donatella Vivaldi welcomed each arriving guest. Her own costume, designed by the renowned Nicolao Atelier, was a dazzling lampasso brocade gold-white gown with a close-fitting bodice and square neckline, decorated with white pearl trimmings in a gold base tableau, embroidered with precious stones and white paillettes. In her left hand she held an eye-catching Charleston fan with silky black Marabou feathers.

  All manner of guests filled the Grand Salon wearing spectacular period costumes, most harkening to the Renaissance, others of the more common variety one might expect at a Venetian ball celebrating Carnivale. The varied face coverings were of particular note: the long-beaked Volto mask, originally used to hold herbs and flowers that would filter the air and cover up the smells of 14th-century plague victims; dramatic Commedia dell'arte masks based on familiar characters in stage performances—the crooked and crippled Pulcinella, and figures such as Pantalone and il Dottore and Scaramouche. All of them hid the faces of rich and famous and commoners alike as everyone roamed the room, seeking attention for their fashionable efforts.

  Dominic, Hana, and Livia Gallo had already arrived, along with Karl and Lukas, two imposing young men who were drawing much attention wearing their gala Swiss Guard uniforms behind mysterious black Bauta masks. All five were gathered together at one of several massive round tables of food, featuring ice sculptures and cascading rivers of fruit, figs, nuts, cheeses, and other finger edibles.

  “Have I mentioned how stunning you look this evening, Signorina Sinclair?” Dominic said in a gentlemanly manner.

  “Why, thank you, Padre. You cut quite the dashing figure yourself tonight. That black cape and white mask add a beguiling air of inscrutability to your already mystical nature,” she purred, embodying the faux persona as she shamelessly heaved her cleavage in the flirt.

  As she spoke, another tall, dark, handsome stranger approached Hana from behind Dominic, his eyes holding hers in a sensual stare as he joined them.

  “Mademoiselle Sinclair, I presume?” the man with a suave French accent inquired. Dominic turned to see the new arrival, a military type with ramrod stature wearing short black satin knickers with white leggings below a long brocade style coat with fancy cuffs.

  Somewhat dazed that she had been recognized but did not recognize her charming opposite, she blushed.

  “And to whom do I owe the pleasure, sir?” she asked, taken aback.

  The man theatrically removed his mask and smiled.

  “Marco!” she gasped.

  “Monsieur Picard, at your service.” He bent over in a formal bow, his taut costume outlining a fit, muscular frame.

  “Marco!” Karl and Lukas blurted, reaching their arms out to exchange handshakes.

  “How on earth did you get invited?!” Hana inquired, blushing. “How did you even know about this party?”

  “I am here at your grandfather’s insistence,” the bodyguard admitted. “Somehow he’d heard you might need discreet help while in Venice. The baron and the contessa go back a long way, I’m told. I will keep my distance, of course. You won’t even know I’m here.” He smiled mischievously while instinctively eyeing others near his charge.

  Hana murmured in a clipped tone, “Yes, I expect that would be Cardinal Petrini’s doing. He did speak to Grand-père about my presence here.”

  “It’s great to see you again, Marco!” Karl said cheerfully. “Looks like we’ve got a proper party going now. How long are you in Venice for?”

  “For as long as it takes,” he said circumspectly, glancing at Dominic as the two shook hands.

  “Good to have you here, Marco,” Dominic said. “We have no idea what we’re going up against yet, but another capable body is certainly welcome.”

  As the men spoke, Hana couldn’t take her eyes off the handsome Frenchman. Capable body, indeed. His wavy long black hair slightly unkempt beneath that dashing tricorn hat, his deep blue eyes as penetrating as she last remembered them. And that captivating smile. Like a schoolgirl with a crush, she stared dreamily at him, her imagination taking flight.

  Just then, she felt a gentle elbow nudge.

  “Earth to Hana,” Dominic said teasingly, with a sideways glance. “Here comes our hostess.”

  Hmm… is that resentment I hear? she wondered as she turned to face the priest, smiling primly.

  The contessa was making her way through the crowd toward their little group with a man in tow, one dressed in flashy Carnivale costume attire. Once she had reached them, she introduced the two.

  “Father Dominic, I would like you to meet Signor Renzo Farelli, a prominent art dealer here in La Serenissima. He has asked to meet you,” she said with a knowing smil
e as she turned to mingle with other guests.

  “A pleasure to meet you, signore,” Dominic said, extending his hand.

  “And you, Padre. So, I understand you to be the Prefect of the Apostolic Archive, is that right?” Farelli asked. “And the contessa tells me you’re here on some interesting business?”

  Though somewhat troubled that his ‘business’ was becoming common knowledge, Dominic acceded to the man’s question.

  “Actually, it’s just a little mystery involving the contessa’s ancestor, Antonio Vivaldi. Something to do with a musical manuscript and works of art, that’s all.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he added, more to change the subject. “May I introduce my colleagues Hana Sinclair and Dr. Livia Gallo?”

  Introductions, handshakes, and costume compliments went around the group. Karl, Lukas and Marco had casually stepped aside, moving away from the others, preferring to be inconspicuous associates for now.

  “I heard you mention works of art earlier,” Farelli said. “That is my line of work, and if there is anything I can do to help with your ‘little mystery,’ as you call it, you have but to ask. I own the Studio Canal Grande gallery in the San Polo sestiere, and you are most welcome to visit.”

  An older bespectacled gentleman approached them. Dominic had noticed him earlier, closely admiring the various paintings on the walls of the palazzo.

  “This is one of my colleagues, Father,” Farelli said. “May I introduce Giuseppe Franco, the lead restorer at Palazzo Feudatario? Giuseppe has an exquisite eye for fine art.”

  The older man held out his hand to the priest. Dominic took it in his own.

  “It is a pleasure meeting you, Giuseppe. You must be the one who does all that careful restoration on the Vatican’s pieces, I take it?”

  Giuseppe blushed as he smiled self-consciously. “Si, Father Dominic. It is among my greatest honors to work on the Vatican’s incredible art works. I take great pride in it.” He looked around nervously, as if he didn’t belong there and his presence would be discovered at any moment.