by Gary McAvoy
As they cruised the quiet Rio De La Madalena canal in the Cannaregio sestiere, Marco heard the low, powerful thrum of another boat’s engine nearby. Under pretense of looking back to chat with Hana, who was sitting behind him, he noticed a black Chris Craft Corsair following about fifty meters behind them. Turning right onto the Rio di Santa Fosca canal, a few moments later the following craft also turned, still on their tail.
Marco had a plan.
At the end of Santa Fosca, he turned left onto Rio De Noal, which would soon take them out into the wide Laguna Veneta, where he could open the boat up to full speed and make for the outer islands, Murano and Burano.
Asking Hana to join him at the helm, he showed her the controls and let her take the wheel. Rio De Noal was a wider canal with no other traffic, so there was little trouble she could encounter during the brief lesson. He taught her how to steer and how to throttle, which is all she needed to know for what he had in mind.
“Now, don’t be alarmed,” Marco said tersely, “but the reason I’m teaching you how to drive is that we are being followed. No! Don’t turn around… They’ve been watching us since dinner. One of them is the guard at Feudatario that Karl tangled with. I have a plan once we get to Burano island, but all it will require is that you know how to keep control of the boat. That’s it. I’ll do the rest.”
Hana’s every sense was now on full alert. Her date was about to take a dramatic turn she had not expected.
As they cleared the jetty into the lagoon, Marco urged her to throttle up, and the engine evenly roared into action. Ten knots, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five. At thirty knots, they were at a decent speed, slicing through the calm water.
The Chris Craft followed suit, chasing them at speed a hundred meters back.
Passing San Michele island, they cruised past Murano on their way to Burano. Like Venice, these upper islands also had small inner canals. If Marco’s plan worked, they would be in the clear. But there would be combat, of that he was certain.
Reaching canal Rio di San Mauro, the southwest entrance to Burano, Marco took over the helm as they slowly entered the residential waterway. He would wait until they were midland before making his strike. All he needed was a bridge. Looking at the onboard map, he found one, the ‘Love Viewing Bridge,’ crossing the approaching turn at Rio Assassini. He smiled at the name of the canal—‘River of Assassins’—a most fitting location for what he had planned.
Heading east now on Rio Assassini, the bridge was at the end at a sharp north turn in the canal. He explained the details of his plan to Hana.
As their boat turned north and out of view of the Chris Craft, Marco took off his jacket then dove into the water. Swimming to the fondomento, he hoisted himself out and ran back onto the bridge, crouching low on the north side. As instructed, after turning Hana put the boat into neutral, letting it coast up the quiet Rio Pontinello.
As it approached the low bridge, the Chris Craft slowly turned north. Marco took out his Gerber combat knife and grasped it firmly. As the boat gradually emerged beneath him on the north side, Marco, poised on the bridge railing, jumped down and landed on top of the man not driving. One slash across the throat put him down.
Surprised, the driver let go of the wheel and turned to take on his opponent. As he reached for his shoulder pistol, Marco was too fast, gutting him with the Gerber as he held the falling body. At slow speed, the boat collided with two other craft docked along the canal. After checking both men for IDs and pocketing what he found, Marco righted the craft and used it to catch up with the Aquariva.
As prearranged with Hana, she put the boat back into gear, then guided it to the end of the small canal and out into the open Laguna Veneta. Marco followed her in the Chris Craft. When both boats had cleared the jetty, Marco led the way, speeding north toward a group of sparse, unpopulated islands east of Burano. Hana followed close behind him.
Finding a hidden cove on the far side of one unpopulated island, Marco tossed the anchor overboard, then wiped his fingerprints from the wheel and other areas of the boat he might have touched.
Hana pulled her boat next to the Chris Craft, and Marco leaped across the gunnels and onto the Aquariva.
Moments later they were back out into open lagoon waters. Marco throttled up to full speed, heading south.
Still panting after the encounters and shivering from his wet clothes, Hana handed him his jacket and wrapped a blanket around him while he drove.
She looked at him with serious but admiring eyes. As he stood there meeting her gaze, he pulled her into a firm embrace. They kissed long and passionately as the boat sped across the open lagoon and back to Venice.
Chapter 32
After his run early the next morning, Dominic showered and dressed. Not having heard from Hana last evening—she was probably working on her Carnivale story anyway—he decided to drop by and invite her for breakfast.
He knocked on the door to her suite, a welcoming smile on his face. A few moments later the door was opened by Marco, naked but for a white bath towel wrapped around his taut waist.
“Hey, Michael,” he said cheerfully, raking back his long wet hair with a well-muscled arm. “Hana’s in the shower but should be out soon. Want to join us for breakfast?”
Speechless, Dominic’s smile turned awkward as he simply stood there, staring at Marco. Damn, this guy is ripped. But, what’s he doing in Hana’s room? His mind had yet to process the full meaning, it happened so unexpectedly.
“I, uh… yeah,” he stammered. “Breakfast. Sounds good. I’ll uh… see you down there.”
“Tres bon! Ciao, then,” Marco said, closing the door.
Dominic stood in place for a few more moments. Unaware there might have been a stronger connection between the two, he didn’t know how to feel about this fresh development. Anger? Protectiveness? Or was it, God forbid, jealousy? His reaction was visceral, deep. Almost primitive. Hana was his friend. But of course, that’s where it ended. It had to. He just didn’t think that… Oh hell, what is it I’m thinking, anyway?!
Karl and Lukas were already seated at a large table in the restaurant, waiting for the others to show up for breakfast. Dominic joined them, asking the server for coffee as he sat down.
“Are you okay, Michael?” Lukas asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
Deep in thought, Dominic looked up abruptly. “No, it’s nothing. Just thinking.”
A few minutes later Hana and Marco were walking toward the table, her arm wrapped around his. He pulled out her chair, then took a seat next to her. Both were smiling self-consciously.
The rest of the table fell silent. Whether in surprise or admiration, it was hard to tell. Except for Dominic, who looked sullen. And since he was a man without pretenses, it showed.
Hana picked up on it immediately, but decided it was best to focus on the previous night’s activity.
“Wait till you hear what happened to us last night,” she said soberly to the group. “Marco and I were cruising the Grand Canal in a speedboat when he noticed we were being followed….”
She continued the tale, omitting the romantic dinner, until everyone at the table, including Dominic, was fully engaged by the adventure.
“I’d rather not go into detail about the fate of those men,” Marco interrupted when Hana got to that part, “but they won’t be bothering us any longer. They were clearly out to do us harm. The driver pulled his gun on me and was prepared to take me down right there. I believe we are all being targeted now, so watch your backs. I mean it. I took their IDs and will have them run through Interpol’s database, but it’s pretty clear to me they were Camorra.”
“So you actually had a boat chase across the lagoon with the bad guys?” Karl asked, wonder on his face. “Like in a James Bond movie?”
“And I was driving,” Hana claimed with pride. “It’s the most excitement I’ve had since, well, our escapades in Argentina with that evil Dr. Kurtz.” She looked admiringly at Marco, who was with them there a
nd where they first met.
“I just remembered, I’ve got some work to do,” Dominic suddenly said, standing up. “Karl, you and Lukas are picking up the Raphael this morning, right? Let’s regroup when you’re done and figure out our next moves. I’ll see you guys soon.” With a slight wave, he walked away from the table, heading toward the elevators.
“Is he alright?” Marco asked.
Hana looked at him knowingly. Leaning in to whisper to him so the others wouldn’t hear, she said, “This may sound strange, but I have a feeling he’s bothered by seeing you and me together. Michael and I are pretty close. And after all, he is a man. Just one with restrictive vows, which I’m sure bothers him. Frankly, it’s not right that the Church still holds to that archaic custom.”
“I agree,” Marco whispered back. “But if he were in such a position, he’d have to fight me for you. And I wouldn’t want to hurt a good friend like Michael.”
Hana blushed and smiled. But her troubled gaze traveled the now empty hall where her dear friend had just rushed off.
Sharply at ten o’clock, Karl and Lukas appeared at Palazzo Feudatario to ensure that the Raphael was packaged up and ready to go. The orange and white barge was moored at the dock, with four men waiting to receive the freight. The armored truck hired from Mestre—the last city before crossing the causeway into Venice—was already waiting at the Venezia Tronchetto parking lot near the train station for transport of the painting back to Rome.
Valentina Calabrese gave the two Swiss Guards a cool reception when she opened the door to them, but no other staff appeared to be around. The box had been sealed and brought down by elevator to the reception area.
Karl had one request. “Signora, please, before we sign for receipt, would you kindly have the crate reopened so that we may ensure the painting is as delivered?”
Though she knew this to be a protocol for such high-value goods, she sighed audibly, then picked up the phone, calling for one of her men to bring down the tools to open the crate and reseal it.
After that business was done, and everything seemed in order, Karl instructed the freight team to move the crate onto the barge. Twenty minutes later Karl and Lukas jumped aboard, and the barge slowly made its way up the Grand Canal to the Tronchetto. The painting was carefully hoisted into the armored truck, and with their job finished and the Raphael on its way back to Rome, Karl and Lukas took a vaporetto back to the Ca’ Sagredo.
Back in his suite, Dominic paced the room. He couldn’t suppress the unease in the pit of his stomach. Though he suspected the nature of that unrest, he was reluctant to acknowledge it. Catching his reflection in the mirror over the desk, what peered back wasn’t the man he knew himself to be. It was someone smaller, someone miffed by pettiness. He didn’t like that guy very much.
I chose this life for a reason. I knew what I was giving up. Let it go. She will always be in my life, just not in that way… Marco is a fine man. They’re good together.
He figured the best use of his time now would be to focus on something that thoroughly absorbed him. A project that would take his mind off the emotions that were haunting him.
The files from Feudatario were the logical diversion he needed. He opened the first folder on top of the tall stack.
As he examined each invoice, restoration detail sheet, and Condition Report for the various paintings Feudatario had taken in, one common name kept appearing: Eldon Anton Villard. Why is that name familiar? Dominic pondered. Ah… the French billionaire.
A titan in the luxury goods market, Eldon Villard owned several chic fashion houses, a prominent yacht manufacturer, and one of the largest private jet leasing companies in the world, among other diversified assets including large stakes in economic freeports based in Geneva, Luxembourg, and Trieste.
But apart from his ranking on the vaunted list of Forbes billionaires, he was most envied for his historically prestigious art collection. Villard’s movements in the art world signaled important benchmarks in the industry, and his presence at international auctions ensured wildly competitive bidding, with the hammer usually falling in his favor. The value of his art collection had been estimated at over three billion euros, the largest accumulation of fine art in private hands.
Any desirable work of art Eldon Villard wanted, he got.
And from the records Dominic was rifling through, it appeared Villard had also commissioned a thriving restoration business with Palazzo Feudatario.
But what was not clear from these papers was whether Villard was the consignor for restorations, or the ultimate purchaser of paintings which had been restored. Dominic imagined these must go through some gallery instead, who were specially equipped for such transactions.
A gallery like Renzo Farelli’s Studio Canal Grande? he wondered suspiciously.
Inspecting the documents more closely, there it was—the initials “SCG” next to Villard’s name on numerous project consignment forms.
It was time to do a little gallery shopping. Surely Hana would be up for that.
Chapter 33
Toshi Kwan, the eager young technical lead for the Vatican Secret Archives’ digitizing lab, was examining the illuminated pages of a magnificent Book of Hours from a 15th-century psalter when Cardinal Petrini walked in.
“Do you have a few minutes, Toshi?” Petrini asked.
“Of course, Eminence,” Kwan replied, standing up. “How can I help you?”
Petrini’s attention was drawn to the object of the technician’s focus. “What have you got here?”
“This? Oh, it’s a codex from the workshop of Jean Bourdichon, a miniature masterpiece we believe once belonged to either Pope Pius VI Braschi or Cardinal Francisco Zelada, who was prefect of the Pontifical Library in 1798. As you can see, there are two coats of arms, one here on the cover, the other on the back. But it has no title or name otherwise attributed to it. Fortunately, this copy survived Napoleon’s pillaging of the Vatican in 1799.”
As Kwan flipped through the pages, Petrini found it contained a calendar of Church feasts, extracts from the Four Gospels, Mass readings for major feasts, the fifteen Psalms of Degrees, and other common psalter illuminations.
“This is truly beautiful work. I really must take more time here, enjoying the gifts we have. You are quite devoted to your work, aren’t you, Toshi? I envy you the experience. So much more joy than my job entails….” Petrini’s mind drifted a moment, then his expression turned somber.
“The reason for my visit is unrelated to your fine work here, but as you are an IT expert—as recommended to me by Father Dominic—I have a request. You do have administrator access to the Vatican’s computer network, yes?”
Kwan nodded.
“I want you to find anything related to Marcello Sabatini from the Vatican Museum. Email, text messages, file storage… whatever you can find, I’d like to know about it. How long do you think this might take?”
Kwan thought for a moment, then replied, “Probably only an hour, maybe less.”
“Good. Please call me at once with your findings. And Toshi, this is confidential. Keep this between us, yes?”
Forty-five minutes later Kwan called Petrini’s office. Father Nick Bannon answered the phone, then put the call through to his boss.
“What did you find, Toshi?” Petrini asked.
“Eminence, I’ve discovered something you may not like hearing, unless of course you’ve already sanctioned it.
“Go on.”
“It appears Bishop Torricelli, head of the Vatican Museum’s art restoration department, has installed spyware on his staff’s computers. It’s a rather odious program and highly intrusive, since it sweeps for and stores employees’ personal data: email, text messages, internet browsing history, personal contact information—the bishop has built a significant database of material he shouldn’t have access to, in my opinion anyway.”
Petrini listened in silence, his anger growing as Kwan continued.
“But since you mentioned Signor S
abatini, he seems to have been especially targeted. In fact, I found a confidential email sent from Sabatini to Father Dominic in Torricelli’s private folder, discussing forged paintings in the Vatican. You are mentioned—apparently Sabatini has already met with you on this matter?—and he says he is ‘deeply distressed’ by the situation. Is that what you were looking for?”
“That’s exactly what I needed, Toshi. Thank you. Please email that letter to me now, if you will.” Petrini hung up the phone, furious. He tapped the intercom to his secretary.
“Nick, get me the phone records of Bishop Torricelli’s office as soon as you can, including his personal cell phone, for the past two weeks. You have my personal authority to do so.”
Bannon called the Vatican switchboard. Speaking to Sister Teresa, the supervisor of the six nuns on duty, he passed on the Secretary of State’s request. Since the Holy See owns its own phone company—the Vatican Telephone Service, a complex telecommunications and data network infrastructure designed and maintained by members of the Society of St. Paul—it took only a matter of minutes to acquire Petrini’s requested documentation. Sister Teresa promptly emailed the package to Father Bannon, who printed out the call sheets and brought them into the cardinal’s office.
Scanning each page, Petrini swiped a yellow highlighter across certain lines he found of interest, but two stood out as uncommonly frequent—and one of them was most disturbing.
Torricelli had made multiple calls that past week to Cardinal Abruzzo, the Patriarch of Venice. That might not have been so unusual, since Petrini knew Abruzzo’s family owned Palazzo Feudatario, and Torricelli was in charge of the Vatican’s art restoration business. Still, he found it suspect, since Abruzzo didn’t handle day to day details of the business.