The Vivaldi Cipher

by Gary McAvoy

  Marco was already planning ahead, texting Hana to bring their boat up to Feudatario’s dock—fast. Then he ran upstairs, passing Karl and Lukas, and returned to the explosives room to grab their backpacks. While there, he pulled out two sticks of dynamite from one case and tossed them in his pack. Then he went into Gallucci’s office to retrieve his and Karl’s pistols from the desk.

  Racing back down the stairs, he glanced at the two Swiss Guards as he kept moving toward the entrance. “Alright, let’s get out of here and get that book back! Hana’s waiting for us.”

  Chapter 54

  Having received Marco’s text message, Hana revved the engines of the Aquariva from across the wide canal and sped toward the dock in front of Palazzo Feudatario. As she crossed the water, she noticed a red Invictus 280 speedboat with three men in it race away from the dock and take off to the south.

  Approaching the landing, she spotted Marco, Karl and Lukas running out of the palazzo’s entrance and heading toward her. She brought the boat up to the dock and all three men scrambled aboard, tossing their bags on the aft deck.

  “Hang on!” Marco yelled, instantly taking the helm as Hana moved aside. He pushed the throttle forward as far as it would go. The nose of the Aquariva flew into the air, the powerful twin Lamborghini V-12 engines roaring to life as the team sped after Gallucci’s craft.

  “It’s that red boat up ahead,” Hana shouted, pointing with one hand while holding onto Marco tightly. “I saw three men get in carrying a bag.”

  “Yes, that’s Gallucci and his two guards with the Coscia Journal. He’s injured and needs medical attention, so they’re likely heading to a private doctor, or maybe some safe house.

  “Those guys are carrying Uzis,” Marco warned her, “so I want you to stay down on the deck if any shooting starts. And put on a lifejacket.” He looked at her caringly. “Please?”

  Hesitant at first, Hana complied with his request, slipping her arms through one of the orange vests.

  Both boats were mid-canal now, having just passed under the Rialto Bridge between the San Polo and San Marco sestieres, their wakes throwing up fierce waves of water. Hearing the loud engines, then seeing the boats heading toward them, the few gondoliers out this time of night braced their own craft for the oncoming turbulence, shouting obscenities with furious hand gestures to the offending drivers as each boat passed. One gondola capsized, throwing its driver and passengers into the chilly waters.

  Marco’s powerful Aquariva was gaining on the Invictus as both reached the lagoon at the mouth of the canal, passing the jetty end of the Dorsoduro. In less than a minute they would be out in open water.

  Rounding the confluence of the Grand Canal at Piazza San Marco, two Carabinieri boats—blue lights flashing and two-toned sirens wailing—joined in on the chase. Marco saw Dominic and Dario Contini in the lead police boat, now just a hundred meters away.

  Hearing the staccato bark of Uzi bullets, everyone aboard the three following boats took cover. A few of the bullets struck the hull of the Aquariva, others spitting the water surrounding it. Each boat began zigzag maneuvers that, while slowing them down a bit, at least provided more of a moving target.

  “We have to stop that shooter!” Marco shouted to Karl and Lukas. “I’ll try to get closer so you can take him out. Stay low.”

  Lukas took one side of the boat just behind the windshield while Karl took the opposite side, their SIGs steadied on the gunnels. With the police boats shining bright spotlights onto Gallucci’s boat—bouncing as they were off the wake of the Invictus ahead of them—both Swiss Guards took aim at the man with the Uzi perched on the aft seat.

  Aiming was a challenge. Both Karl and Lukas got off shots, but missed their mark.

  “Can’t you get any closer?” Karl yelled. Marco punched the throttle again, aiming directly for the Invictus.

  “Hana, get down on the deck and stay there!” he shouted as he himself ducked. She obeyed his command, holding fast to the back of Marco’s chair as the boat repeatedly bounced high off the waves.

  The two Carabinieri boats had separated, the one carrying Dominic and Contini now taking the far starboard side of the Invictus while the other boat held to the port side, with the Aquariva following directly behind. Gallucci was surrounded. Still, they sped on undeterred.

  Lukas steadied himself again, standing now and leaning against the side of the boat, his pistol no longer held against the gunnel. Taking aim at the shooter, he fired off one, then another, then a third shot. Though the Invictus was riding through smooth water, their own boat was riding its wake, making it even more challenging to make a clean hit.

  “Marco!” he shouted. “If you can get as close as possible, then slow down to prevent us from riding their wake, I think we can get a better shot.” He looked over at Karl, who understood the strategy and prepared for it himself.

  Marco thought for a moment, then saw the logic. Taking the risk of being hit, he sped up to within twenty meters of the Invictus, crouching low behind the windshield as Uzi shot peppered the air around them.

  Then he shut down the throttle. The Aquariva instantly slowed, leveling out with just mild rocking. Karl and Lukas stood, steadied themselves against the side of the boat, and took shots at the shooter. At least one hit its mark. The man went down, the Uzi bouncing off the stern of the Invictus and splashing into the water.

  That left the injured Gallucci and the driver, who, though occupied, also had an Uzi. Marco slammed the throttle forward again, the bow of the Aquariva lifting high as the powerful Lamborghinis thrust the boat forward.

  The loudspeaker on one of the Carabinieri boats issued a stern statement: “This is the police. Stop your boat immediately and prepare to be boarded. This is your only warning.”

  The Invictus kept moving at top speed, its twin Volvo Penta engines matching the top 40-knot limit of the Aquariva.

  Marco motioned for Karl to join him at the helm.

  “You’ve got to take out the driver as well,” he urged. “We can use the same tactic as before.”

  Karl gave him a thumbs up, then moved to tell Lukas of the plan.

  Just then Marco saw something being thrown high into the air from the Invictus, something fiery and heading their way. It had the sparkle of a fuse.

  Dynamite!

  Turning the wheel hard to starboard, Marco shouted, “Everyone down! Incoming!”

  The ocean on the port side of the boat exploded with such force that a huge corona of water rose fifty meters into the air. The blast just barely missed them, but everyone aboard was soaked.

  “Motherfuckers!” Marco yelled. “Lukas, there are two sticks of dynamite in my pack. Take one out and be prepared to light and throw it on my call.”

  “But, what about the Coscia Journal?!” Hana pleaded. “What’s more important, stopping them or destroying everything?”

  Marco checked himself, realizing his reaction wasn’t the best course, given the primary objective.

  “No, you’re right,” he admitted. “Never mind that, Lukas. Just kill the driver.”

  As Karl and Lukas took up their positions for the next round, suddenly the Invictus starting slowing, then came to a complete stop, drifting in the water. Warily, Marco slowed their own boat, keeping a distance, ready to speed up if more dynamite were seen flying toward them.

  The Carabinieri boats slowed as well, also cautious of the unexpected action.

  A man, presumably the driver, was shouting across the water.

  “I surrender!!” he said, his hands clearly held high in the air, the boat bobbing in the now calm water. “Don Gallucci is dead. There is no need to run anymore.”

  The police boat carrying Dominic and Contini slowly approached the Invictus, two Carabinieri officers aboard training their pistols on the driver. When it reached the boat on the starboard side, the two officers jumped on board, handcuffing the driver.

  Marco sidled the Aquariva up to the port side of the Invictus. Karl fastened a line from their boa
t to a cleat on the other, holding the two boats together.

  Dominic jumped off the police boat and onto the Invictus, seeking the satchel carrying the Coscia Journal. His eyes searched the dark floorboards around the crumpled body of the Camorra leader. Nothing. Saying a quick prayer, he gingerly turned Gallucci’s body over and there it was: the secreted journal that could unravel 300 years of thievery. Retrieving it, he then joined his team on the Aquariva, fist bumping with Marco, Karl and Lukas and hugging Hana tightly. Adrenaline coursed through each person as the flashing blue lights cast pulsing illuminations on everyone in the four boats in the middle of the otherwise dark lagoon.

  Marco jumped on board the Invictus to make sure Gallucci was indeed dead. He knew the man had a serious wound, and was surprised he’d stayed alive as long as he had. But the loss of blood, precipitated by the bouncing of the boat in its attempt to escape, had finally drained the life out of him.

  The Camorra would need a new leader now.

  Chapter 55

  Venice’s Marco Polo airport was bustling with tourists as Renzo Farelli purchased his one-way first class ticket on British Airways to the island of Vanuatu in the South Pacific.

  He had discreetly settled what business affairs he dared to in La Serenissima and packed what little he wished to take with him, telling no one of his plans, just that he was taking a brief vacation to the United States. To New York City, in fact, where he could take in some of the finest art museums in the world. Yes, yes, he told everyone, he would return shortly.

  He had two hours to kill before the flight, so he passed through the golden doors of BA’s private Executive Club Lounge to relax and enjoy a Bloody Mary to calm his nerves.

  Farelli had heard about Don Gallucci’s sudden death the night before and felt reasonably safe, given the probable turmoil of finding a new capintesta in the meantime.

  It was the perfect moment to leave. He had eight million euros in his Swiss bank account—more than half of that thanks to Eldon Villard—and was more than ready to enjoy the fruits of his life’s hard work.

  The lounge was busy that morning, and most tables were already taken. Farelli chose instead to sit on a wide tufted-leather bench set against a free-standing interior wall overlooking the tarmac, watching as the planes taxied back and forth, wondering where people might be heading off to. Such a wide world, with so many places to visit. Maybe one day he would go to New York, after things had settled down.

  A burly gentleman with a newspaper ambled over to where Farelli was sitting and took a seat next to him. Not too close, a respectable distance, as he opened the newspaper wide and scanned the headlines. A few minutes later, another man settled on his opposite side, setting his coffee on the glass table in front of him.

  While not especially anti-social, Farelli preferred his own personal space, and started to rise to find a new spot to sit.

  Before he could get up, the man on his right held up a hand to his arm, pulling him back down.

  “Excuse me, but aren’t you Renzo Farelli?” the stranger asked.

  The burly man reading the newspaper edged closer in, his large frame now pressing against the Venetian.

  “Who wants to know?” Farelli asked indignantly. “Would you mind, signore? I’m trying to leave.”

  The man on the right pulled out a silenced Israeli Masada pistol and furtively shoved it into Farelli’s right side. “Please, sit back down.”

  “How did you get a gun in here?!” Farelli asked in a panic.

  “It’s easy when you’re a cop with a badge,” the man whispered. “But you must remain quiet, Signor Farelli. Monsieur Villard wanted us to tell you ‘Bon Voyage,’ and that he sends his fondest regards.”

  The man on his left leaned over, pressing the open newspaper in front of Farelli, masking his entire face and upper body. The man on the right had reached into his pocket and withdrawn a small hypodermic needle filled with a precise combination of Pancuronium Bromide, Sodium Pentothal and Potassium Chloride. Without Farelli even knowing what was happening, the needle was suddenly thrust into the right side of his neck.

  His head slowly fell to one side, and he instantly stopped breathing.

  Newspaper Man made sure Farelli’s body was properly positioned to sit up on its own, as if he were sleeping, while Needle Cop simply picked up his coffee and took a last swallow. Both men then stood up and walked away in different directions.

  As he sat in the Queen Anne chair in the library of his Parisian villa in Muette, Eldon Villard fumed at the fact that he’d been cheated out of €25 million. He’d tossed through the night reminding himself it was but a small fraction of his net worth, and yet a man of his means did not get to where he was by being taken advantage of—unless he deemed it a worthwhile strategy to his long-term investments. Even then it was controlled, by him. But that was not the case with Feudatario Restorations, and the terrible outcome he’d suffered at the hands of those fools, all of whom were now dead.

  He couldn’t very well come forward to the authorities, since he was treading on illegal ground himself and he had no inclination toward such exposure. No, that was not an option.

  Still, the more he thought of being taken, the more worked up he got. He was the one who took advantage of people, not the other way around, dammit! He reached over to rub his left arm, one more thing that was bothering him.

  He finished off the half glass of cognac he was drinking, staring into the fire, thinking of his secret stash of paintings in the freeport. Though it brought a brief smile to his face, he couldn’t shake the psychological irritation of losing the Raphael and his money.

  But now it was even physical irritation. What is it with this arm?! he thought, massaging it again. Why is it numb?

  Suddenly, Villard’s chest lurched up, his eyes bugged open, and he flopped back down onto the leather armchair. He sat there in terror, not knowing what was happening to him.

  Another seizure, worse than the first, and this time when he landed in the chair, he couldn’t breathe.

  Confused, his mind was racing but his body wouldn’t respond to any commands he gave it. He could only get one word out before death took him in the next instant.

  “Luxembourg.”

  Chapter 56

  In his fourth-floor office of the Secretary of State’s palace, in the shadow of St. Peter’s Dome, Cardinal Enrico Petrini had just finished perusing his copy of the Coscia Journal, as kindly provided by Father Dominic.

  “This is quite the indictment here, Michael,” Petrini said, his face grave with concern. “There is yet quite a lot to do, rounding up the works of art that belong to the Church—if they’re even accessible at this point.”

  “I agree, Eminence,” Dominic acknowledged. “It was a real eye-opener for many of us, especially Marcello Sabatini. It will be his job to take on this mission, of course, but I don’t envy the time and resources he’ll require to carry it out.”

  “Oh, I’ll give him whatever he needs to bring back our priceless treasures. It may take a great deal of arm-twisting for many of these big-name museums who have no idea they ‘own’ works of art that actually belong to the Church. I can see us in court for years over this. But this evidence weighs heavily in our favor.

  “How can I ever thank you, Michael?” he asked. “Our history owes you a great debt.”

  “Well, this was hardly my doing alone,” Dominic protested. “Marco Picard led the effort all the way. It’s he who really deserves credit for this.”

  “Then perhaps His Holiness should honor him with a papal knighthood,” Petrini suggested, then agreed with himself. “Yes, absolutely. I shall arrange for it immediately.”

  “I might also suggest some form of recognition for Sergeant Karl Dengler and Corporal Lukas Bischoff, Eminence. They went above and beyond in this gamble, risking their lives on too many occasions.”

  “Yes, we must do something for them as well, I agree. And I also intend to deal with Bishop Torricelli and Cardinal Abruzzo—though mo
re harshly, of course—since their names feature prominently in this Journal. I’d assumed Abruzzo would be untouchable as Patriarch of Venice, but with this kind of proof of his corruption, the Pope would not hesitate removing him with valid justification.”

  “Not to mention that cache of explosives found in Abruzzo’s building. Marco informed the Carabinieri about that, which will be added on to their prosecution charges.”

  Dominic looked thoughtful for a moment, then looked up.

  “One question I’ve had for a while now, Eminence, is how has such an elaborate scheme been going on for so long in the Vatican without anyone ever mentioning it?”

  “I’ve been worried about that as well,” Petrini said, a sadness coming over him. “I expect men of good will are often turned by the thought of such vast personal gain, especially as made possible by the Camorra, not to mention the severe penalty for going up against them. So despite their good intentions, fear and greed came together at the right place and time over the centuries. I’m sure the Camorra actually groomed people to serve their bidding here and made sure their replacements were just as compliant. And on it went.

  “And as you must know, once you’re in, you can never leave the Mafia. Once Eve had a bite of the apple, she was doomed.”

  “I see your point,” Dominic admitted.

  “Speaking of old times,” he continued, “we would never have gotten this far without the posthumous help of Antonio Vivaldi, who centuries ago pointed us in the right direction. We owe him our gratitude as well.”

  “Yes, of course. Perhaps the Holy Father can say a Mass in his honor,” Petrini suggested. “He was a fellow priest, after all.”

  Epilogue

  It was a brilliant spring day as the sampietrini set up the ceremonial stand and guest chairs in the Vatican’s Courtyard of Saint Damascus. Flags representing the Vatican, the Swiss Guard, Italy, Switzerland and France lined the backdrop as the Vatican florists laid out a dozen large arrangements embellishing the stage.