The Vivaldi Cipher

by Gary McAvoy

  But the next name he found to whom several calls had been made was a complete shock.

  Don Angelo Gallucci. The head of the Veneto Camorra clan.

  A vision of deadly flames whipping through a car consumed Petrini’s mind.

  The bomb in Sabatini’s car!

  A studio full of forgeries!

  All connected!

  Was Torricelli involved in either of these operations? Was he the modern-day Vatican mole of Operation Scambio? And what about Abruzzo?

  Petrini was staggered by the possible extent of involvements here. He needed to consult with Dominic about what he’d found.

  Then another thought struck him. He glanced at his watch, then called his secretary again.

  “Nick? Where’s that armored truck? The Raphael should have been here by now.”

  Chapter 34

  Having crossed the causeway out of Venice, the armored truck and its high-value cargo had passed through Mestre, then turned northeast—away from Rome and its intended destination of the Vatican. Its GPS tracking technology had been intentionally disabled.

  On orders from Don Gallucci, the driver and guards—all on the payroll of the Camorra-owned armored truck agency—had instead headed toward the end of a narrow strip of Italian territory lying between the Adriatic Sea and Slovenia. Raphael’s Madonna of Foligno would find its new home in the freeport of Trieste, and no one outside of Gallucci’s intimate team would know of its existence there—except for the Raphael’s new owner, Eldon Villard of Paris.

  Freeports are, by and large, the province of the global ultra-wealthy elite, who store their priceless treasures there in complete anonymity and maximum security while their owners enjoy tax-free privileges, since, while stored in its secure environment, all goods are considered “in transit.” Despite their physical presence in the host country, all such goods are deemed outside the Customs territory, thus deferring all duties and tax liabilities until the objects leave the well-protected property when they change ownership.

  But few things ever left the freeport zone; indeed, there were even special luxury suites where owners of the objects could display, buy, and sell their objects freely, without taxation and in complete secrecy, which continue to remain in the privileged shelter afforded by the zone. Beyond its legitimate business, the Trieste Freeport—like similar economic free zones in other countries—also had the reputation of being an ideal place for transferring and storing black market artifacts, and the plunder gained from extensive money-laundering operations worldwide. Much of this exclusive inventory had been sitting there simply appreciating in value for decades. And few people would ever see it.

  After the armored truck left Venice, Giuseppe Franco gathered his tools—easel and paints, special pigments and solvents, brushes and other specialized implements—and packed his bags for an extended stay in Trieste to restart his work on the Raphael forgery in a special studio arranged at Don Gallucci’s request. With nothing else to divert his attention from the task at hand, Giuseppe was a quick study in his work. He should have the painting reconstructed within a few days.

  In his office at the Vatican Museum, Bishop Torricelli’s phone rang. Noting the Caller ID, he saw it was from the Secretary of State’s office. He took a deep breath and prepared his response to what he knew would be asked of him.

  “Pronto,” he answered with a pretense of irritation.

  “Buona sera, Excellency,” Father Bannon said. “I am calling on behalf of Cardinal Petrini, who is asking as to the status of the armored truck carrying the Raphael. Can you give me an update?”

  “Oh, the nerve of those people in Venice,” he snarled, feigning anger. “Apparently the paperwork was prepared incorrectly, and when it left Venice it was dropped off at the airport there and sent on a flight to Moscow! Can you believe it?!” Torricelli fervently hoped he would.

  Nick Bannon was apprehensive. This wasn’t the kind of information he’d expected to deliver to his boss. He knew what the response would be.

  “And when will this be sorted out? When will the painting be returned to Rome?”

  “Given the bureaucratic delays Russians have in such matters, I expect we would see it back here in about two weeks. Hopefully.”

  “Two weeks?!” Bannon reacted as Petrini would have.

  “It is beyond our capabilities to make their procedures move any faster, Father Bannon,” Torricelli said with mock sympathy. “Please tell His Eminence I am terribly sorry, but it’s out of my hands.“

  Bannon thanked the bishop and urged him to keep him apprised of the situation, ending the call.

  Then he told the boss.

  Angelo Gallucci’s scheme had worked. With the authentic Raphael now safely stored in Trieste—under pretense of it being quagmired in Russia—and with Giuseppe now able to work on it free of interruptions, they had bought the precious time they needed.

  But they now knew this reproduction had to withstand scrutiny when it was returned, since the Vatican was clearly harboring suspicions of authenticity.

  Giuseppe Franco had no such fears. He was confident his work was equal to or better than the Master’s. Although he regretted the destruction of the replica he had already been working on at the Feudatario studio, he felt all the more energized to produce a forgery this time that could withstand any scrutiny.

  Where Giuseppe might normally use such pigments as his meticulously hand-ground ultramarine—an ingredient not available until the late 19th century—he would instead use cobalt blue, a pigment in use since the 9th century, modified with other oil colors and solvents to achieve the same cast and hue as the original. It was more difficult to work with than the ultramarine but provided the authenticity to withstand greater scrutiny later.

  As he began his work in the makeshift studio at the freeport, Giuseppe’s first step was to prepare the canvas. He thought back to one of his historical predecessors, Terenzio da Urbino, a 17th-century conman who scavenged for shabby old canvases and frames, cleaned them up as best he could, then actually turned them into forged “Raphaels.”

  Giuseppe had brought with him several large, old worthless paintings from the same era, ones that Feudatario had stored in its sizable antiquated inventory. Each had been removed from its frame and rolled up for transit. Choosing one larger than the Raphael, he cut the canvas down to approximate the correct size, then scraped off all the existing paint until he reached the initial pale white substrate found beneath the original picture. He then mounted it to stretcher bars taken from one of the older pieces, trimmed accordingly.

  Laying down a new foundational layer for the appropriate period, he would once again use his masterful skills to replicate Raphael’s every brushstroke and nuance of color and shadow. After less than a week’s effort, when he expected it to be done, he would bake a novel blend of hand-ground colors, along with lilac oil and Bakelite, in an oven at 200 degrees Celsius for about three hours. From experience, he knew this last layer would allow the final painting to appear radiant, with a surface that would react as expected to the traditional alcohol test, emulating the constituent oil chemicals of an Old Master rather than modern oil paints.

  Toward the end, he would coat the painting with several layers of varnish, then when that had dried, roll it on a cracking cylinder to give it the veneer of ancient craqueleur, the common minuscule cracks found on most old paintings; being Italian, these would have to give the impression of tiny bricks. To enhance the impression, he would coat the surface with India ink, which would then soak into the cracks, heightening the effect after cleaning off all other traces of ink from the varnish.

  Lastly, he would rough up the canvas at various points, simulating the Raphael’s slight abrasions and other apparent damage over time. Then he would remove the original from its frame, mount the forgery, using the exact frame from the original Raphael, including the original iron nails hammered into their same holes. The original would be remounted on another frame, however, one still representational of the
era. The new owner won’t care about the frame—it is the original canvas they would be paying millions to own.

  Having performed this process numerous times before over many years without challenge, Giuseppe was certain his channeling of Raphael would produce a painting of remarkable identity to, if not better than, its original.

  Chapter 35

  With his two bodyguards in tow, Agent Dario Contini of Italy’s Art Squad strode into the Ca’ Sagredo hotel like a man on a mission.

  Splendidly dressed in a navy blue Armani blazer over a crisp white shirt, with a red Ferragamo tie and tan slacks, his compact frame was bookended by the two larger agents, whose shoulder-holstered weapons were discernible only to the trained eye.

  Approaching the front desk, Contini announced himself—flashing a shiny gold badge as he did so—and asked for Father Michael Dominic’s room.

  “I will call the Padre to see if he is in, signore,” the woman at the desk said. “One moment.”

  “I did not ask that he be called, signora. I asked for his room number.”

  Realizing the man’s badge carried weight, she broke protocol and told Contini what room Dominic was staying in. As he and his team walked to the elevator, she remained on the phone, if only to alert her guest to the presence of official men paying him a visit.

  When Dominic answered the phone, she relayed the information. The priest thanked her and prepared for Contini’s arrival.

  “And that’s pretty much all of it,” Dominic said, after regaling Contini with their exploits over the preceding week. The agent sat through all of it, listening intently while chewing his Black Jack gum and scribbling in a small Moleskine notebook he carried in his breast pocket.

  “You say this painting is now in Moscow, sent there by accident?” the agent asked, his voice tinged with suspicion.

  “Yes, apparently there was some mix-up in the Bill of Lading. I don’t have all the details, but you could call Cardinal Petrini’s office in Rome to see if they have further information.”

  “And your colleague, Dr. Gallo. Has her computer been retrieved yet?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. But we have to assume the Camorra’s involvement in its theft, which means they know everything we know about their operation… which we believe raises the stakes for all of us.”

  “I would not be too concerned about that now, Father. The more people who know, the less likely they would be to move to eliminate them. I would guess, however, that the gears of their machine are moving pretty rapidly now.

  “I assume you were unaware that the Camorra owns the armored truck agency the Vatican used to transport the Raphael?”

  Dominic was stunned to hear this. “No! But as I said, the Vatican made those arrangements. If that’s the case, though, I doubt the painting would be in Russia.”

  “Yes, that would be my presumption as well,” Contini said as he stood to look out the window. “Which likely means they still intend to reproduce the painting, wherever it is. They are probably doing so as we speak, in fact.”

  There was a knock on the door. Opening it, Dominic let Marco and Hana into the room, then introduced everyone.

  “Since Marco’s here now, he can give you more details on his encounter with a couple of Camorra goons he met up with,” Dominic said, looking the Frenchman in the eyes.

  Not appreciating having that particular door opened, Marco gave Dominic a dark look in return. Two can play that game, he thought, accepting the challenge of an alpha moment.

  “Well, Hana and I were having a nice romantic dinner at the Gritti Terrace, you know, getting to know each other better…,” he glanced back at Dominic for a moment, “when I noticed two men watching us from the fondomento.” He continued the story, changing only the ending.

  “And after a bit of a scuffle on their Chris Craft, one of them caught me off balance, pushing me into the canal. That’s when they took off, heading back to Venice. We haven’t seen them since.” Marco placed a protective arm around Hana for good measure. Instinctively, she leaned into him. With one last look at Dominic, the commando simply smiled.

  Contini felt the atmosphere in the room tense, but paid it no heed. “I wish these matters had been brought to our attention earlier.”

  “Yes,” Dominic nodded, with a glance back at Marco, “thugs following citizens certainly should have been reported—”

  “No,” Contini interrupted him, looking directly at Dominic. “The duties of my office are clear, as you well know, Father. Forgeries. Which should be brought to the Art Squad as soon as suspected.”

  Dominic felt his face redden. He didn’t dare glance toward Marco. The Italian Art Squad had been invaluable to him and Hana at previous times; it was certainly an oversight not to have informed them much sooner.

  Contini tore a piece of paper out of his notebook, held it to his mouth, then spit his gum into it, tossing the wad into a trash bin.

  “Such canal incidents should be reported to the Carabinieri. I am not here to investigate such things but to best determine whether a painting is genuine or a forgery, then take appropriate action as needed.

  “Shall we go have a chat with Signor Farelli at his gallery?”

  Chapter 36

  Back aboard the police boat, Dario Contini directed the uniformed officer driving to take them to Renzo Farelli’s posh Studio Canal Grande, on the ground floor of a palazzo across from the Rialto.

  The day was sunny and warm, and the piazzas were packed with tourists of all nationalities. Several cruise ships had dropped anchor in the lagoon earlier that morning, ferrying in thousands of new arrivals who packed the shops and walkways, eager to find mementos for their visit, partake of the famous Venetian cuisine, or just tour the many art galleries and museums.

  Studio Canal Grande was one such destination, and befitting its location at the foot of the Rialto Bridge, it was a natural draw for those with a discerning eye for fine art. And today it was packed.

  Contini and the others entered and, while standing just inside the door, the agent looked around the spacious, airy gallery. He spotted security guards at various points, spotlessly dressed in dark suits with coiled earphones, many of them standing next to the most valuable paintings on the walls, most likely meant to keep people from touching the rare works.

  Looking at the art itself, he spotted works by Donatello, Brunelleschi, Bosch, Vasari, and Bellini, but mostly more contemporary and certainly lesser known artists.

  As the others trailed behind him, Contini moved to a grim Hieronymus Bosch triptych to scrutinize it more closely. Titled The Crucifixion of Saint Wilgefortis, the oil on oak wood featured three panels depicting the crucifixion of a female saint before a rowdy crowd of spectators. Contini knew of the historical legend for the poor woman’s fate: once a beautiful young girl, she was forced by her father to marry a Muslim king, but she prayed against it, pleading with God to lose her beauty and thus become unattractive to her intended. Miraculously, she grew a beard. And though the marriage was called off, her father had her crucified as punishment for her prayers.

  Contini had seen this painting before, in the Palazzo Ducale in Venice, and later at the nearby Gallerie dell'Accademia di Venezia. That it was now here in Farelli’s gallery made him curious, but he also knew galleries often traded art works for exhibitions and special events. Still, he peered at it up close, instinctively looking for any obvious signs of forgery.

  Turning to the guard standing next to the work, he asked if Signor Farelli was in the gallery.

  “Si, signore. He is in his office.”

  Contini flashed his badge and asked to see the owner. The guard, surprised by the man’s official state rank, spoke into a concealed microphone in his jacket cuff.

  Having received instructions in response, the guard said, “If you will follow me, signore.” He led Contini to the back of the gallery, creating a path for the others to follow through the crowd of visitors. Reaching a private office, the guard knocked on the door.

 
“Entrare,” said a voice from inside. The guard opened the door, letting Contini and his team into the office, then returned to his post.

  Renzo Farelli looked up from whatever had been occupying him on his desk to see six people file into the spacious office.

  Farelli stood up, forcing a welcoming smile above the bulky knitted gray scarf encircling his neck.

  “Ah, Padre Dominic, Signorina Sinclair, it is good to see you both again. And you have brought quite the delegation with you.”

  Contini wasted no time on subtleties. He pulled out his badge, raising it to Farelli’s eyes.

  “I am Special Agent Dario Contini with the Italian Art Squad, signore,” he said. “We are here to discuss certain matters of importance with you. May we sit?”

  “I wish you had called for an appointment, signore,” Farelli said, looking at his watch. “I have a scheduled meeting here shortly… I—”

  “This will not take long, I assure you.”

  Slightly disoriented and clearly exasperated, Farelli gestured for them all to take seats. Dominic, Hana, and Marco sat on a wide sofa while Contini took a seat in front of Farelli’s desk. The two agents kept standing on either side of the door.

  Contini pulled out his Moleskine notebook and turned to a page.

  “Signor Farelli, this is simply an interview regarding certain subjects we will get to in a moment, but as an official of the state, I must caution you that any answers you give are subject to laws of perjury. Are we clear on that?”