by Seb Kirby
“You’re telling me this has to do with what Lando was involved with?”
“I believe it does. You see, James, just as these ideas are old, so those that have been led to believe in them trace their origins back through the centuries. And in a world where you could be hanged for going against the prevailing orthodoxy, those ideas had to be held in secret. In secret societies.”
“It’s hard to believe there’s anyone around today who believes this as truth?”
He disagreed. “I don’t think that is a wise assumption to make.”
There was a pause as he concentrated on steering the Alfa Romeo round a long bend at speed.
He resumed as soon as the Autostrada straightened out. “Let me ask you a question, James. Why do you think Michelangelo and Da Vinci painted those pictures?”
I didn’t know. “I agree it’s not the most obvious subject matter.”
“But it was logical for them. Both were journeymen. Both produced what their rich sponsors would pay for. It’s easy to forget the dark times when knowledge of the ancient world was suppressed. What happened in Florence in the Renaissance was a rediscovery of what had been denied for centuries. The availability of writing by men like Ovid ignited an imagination that fed on the myths of the ancient world. And what more natural than to celebrate such freedom in great paintings? This was an inspiration to men and women of genius. Yet, in the minds of others, it was a stimulus to cross the line from enlightenment to madness.”
“But maybe no more than one in a million.”
“You might think so, James, but back in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, hundreds of thousands joined the secret societies springing up all over Europe. Many were a cover for political and social demands outlawed by the ruling monarchies and churches but as many were involved in deeper and darker matters such as alchemy and what today we would call the occult. And though every attempt was made to keep matters secret by remaining hidden and using elaborate encryption devices for any material that had to be written down, the more we discover about these societies the more we are surprised by the real evil pursued in so many of them.”
When I still didn’t look convinced, he continued. “Let me give you an example nearer to your home, James. Everyone knows your Isaac Newton was a genius, though we Italians would not agree that he was the first to discover all the things you English say he did. One of the things we would agree on, as everyone knows, is he discovered that light can be separated into the colors of the rainbow. Right?”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“But did you also know that Newton decided there should be seven colors of the rainbow because he wanted there to be seven? Of all the colors in the spectrum, there is no good reason to make a point of including blue, indigo and violet since, as we now know, the spectrum of light is continuous, but he wanted seven colors because seven was for him a magic number, an occult number. The world was arranged in sevens for him. So he established as a fact there are seven colors in the rainbow and we still hold to that today, as every schoolchild will tell you. You would not call this the action of a rational architect. The fact is Newton practiced alchemy and occult knowledge derived from the ancients. Did you know that on his death his family attempted to conceal many of the writings he had made in the last forty years of his life because what was in them would have shocked the public?”
I took that as rhetorical. “And you’re implying that in thinking like this, Newton was not untypical of his day?”
“Indeed, as I was saying, there was a huge upsurge in those seeking what they saw as truths denied to them in mainstream life. In secret societies of all descriptions. And not all for the worst, either. Much of what we have discovered so far points to the societies as necessary cover for men seeking change for the better – men like Tom Paine, Benjamin Franklin and George Washington. And many more of the societies were simple vehicles for self advancement. It is the rump, those bent on evil that my work concentrates on.”
We were approaching a traffic tailback. Illuminated signs above the Autostrada warned that speed should be reduced to no more than 70 km/hr. He swore again in Italian and resigned himself to reducing speed and taking his place in the line.
I spoke next. “This is the reason why Zella DeFrancesco sent me to you?”
“You are right, James.”
“She told you what she knew about Alfieri Lando?”
He nodded. “But I did not know your wife had been involved with him. You must know how sorry I was to hear that.”
My head was spinning. “You’re saying Lando was part of a secret society. One that ensnared Julia and her twin sister?”
“I believe it could be the case.”
“And the myth of Leda is central to it?”
“It is a possibility. I can say no more than that. Signora DeFrancesco said that Lando had the painting. Michelangelo’s Leda and the Swan. She saw it. It was part of Lando’s ritual. In debasing your wife, he may have been living out the myth as his own way of crossing the line into madness. But without more evidence, it can be no more than an informed speculation. Signora DeFrancesco would add nothing more. Nothing that points to a wider conspiracy.”
I took a deep breath. “Nico, I may have the evidence, or something pointing towards it. Zella DeFrancesco did tell me more than she told you when I met her in Venice. She said I would find this difficult and, believe me, I do. It’s something I’d rather not talk about, even here with you.”
He turned to look at me, his eyes averted from the road for longer than was safe before he returned his attention to the highway. “Then, James, let me assure you anything you say will be in complete confidence. You have my word. You can speak without fear.”
My stomach tightened as I let him know Zella DeFrancesco had admitted to me her role in the rape of Julia, how she had acted as a handmaiden as Alfieri Lando had acted out the role of the disguised Zeus.
“So, Signora DeFrancesco left you in no doubt he was living out the Leda myth?”
“Yes, she was clear on this.”
“Then it is indeed important we met today, James.”
I thought back to what Ferrara had been saying about the importance of twins in mythology. “The fact that he raped both Julia and her twin sister, that’s also important?”
“Indeed. It fits a pattern.”
“I need to know more.”
“You will, James. When we arrive, you will meet Arndt Schreiber. He will have more hard evidence.” He paused and then resumed. “Not that this makes any of this any easier for you or your family, James. Once again, I have to let you know you have my full sympathy for the pain caused by all that has happened.”
I understood his concern to be his way of making it clear he would not want to benefit from the tragedy that had led to Emelia’s death and the trauma suffered by Julia. “I understand, Nico, and I thank you. But what is important now is we stop this before any more innocent lives are ruined. That’s what Zella DeFrancesco wants above anything else and it’s what I’m determined to bring about, with your help.”
We fell into silence as Ferrara increased speed further on a clear stretch of road.
The green Autostrada sign that passed overhead announced that Bari was just thirty-two kilometers distant.
“We are getting close, James.”
Ferrara pulled into the exit lane of the highway.
“We are almost there. Time to take the road to Ostuni.”
We pulled up to the ticket machine at the Bari Nord exit. Ferrara poked in the biglietto he’d picked up on entering the road system and waited for the bill.
He grimaced as he caught sight of the charge. “Forty-seven euro. They rob us!” He paid with a card.
Pulling off the Autostrada, we traveled another sixty miles along a coastal road running high above the Adriatic with views over the sea before we headed back inland via Fasano. As we approached across a hot, flat plain, the White City, the medieval town of Ostuni, came into view ahead, d
azzling bright in the late evening sunshine.
Day 4
September 5th
Chapter 42
We waited to meet Arndt Schreiber in a small cafe on one of the narrow streets of Ostuni where the morning sun brightened the surrounding whitewashed walls.
Before the man arrived, Ferrara had something to tell me. “Arndt will not like your being here. He is a driven man and hates the unexpected. I am afraid you come into that category.”
I was not surprised. “There wasn’t time to warn him?”
“No, James, I chose not to do that in case he decided not to come.”
“You say he’s a driven man?”
“There is something else you need to know. He had a brother, Max. He was lost to one of the societies. Schreiber drives himself hard to right that wrong.”
“He works with you in your research?”
“I would like to say yes but for him it is more than that. He does what he does for the memory of his brother.”
When Arndt Schreiber arrived and saw me seated at the cafe table with Ferrara, his first action was to walk away. Ferrara went after him and convinced him to come back.
As Schreiber sat down, he wouldn’t look at me. He was still complaining. “Nico, you said nothing about another at our meeting.”
Ferrara tried to calm him. “As I have tried to tell you, I have spoken with Signor Blake at length. He is someone you should get to know. He can help in our work.”
Schreiber continued as if I wasn’t there. “And you can vouch for him. With complete confidence?”
“Yes, Arndt. You have nothing to fear. I can promise you he is genuine. You have my word.”
Schreiber relaxed as he heard more of my reason for being there. He said little but I could see he was analyzing with care everything I said. His interest increased when he heard of Julia’s role in art conservation and her search for hidden masterpieces. He could not stop himself from intervening when he heard what had happened to Julia at the hands of Alfieri Lando.
“She was a victim of his?”
I nodded.
He looked me in the eye for the first time. “There is much I could say about Lando. Yet, I doubt if there is anything that would take away her pain.”
Ferrara could see that Schreiber was accepting me and sought to cement that by saying something about the man’s background. “James, you are in the company of a brave man who shares a similar goal to you. He has a reason as strong as your own to see that justice is done. Though they have threatened to kill him, he has been working to expose the dark truth about the secret societies.”
Schreiber nodded. “As every month goes by I discover more. I dig deeper into their past. And the further back I go into their history, the closer I get to understanding how one day they can be eliminated. As a German, and one who is proud of his country, none of the recent past is easy for me.” He glanced at Ferrara. “But then, I tell myself the distant past there is no credit to Italy or England either.”
I asked him to tell me what he meant.
He began by taking me back to what I’d told him. “You said you wanted to understand the evil of Alfieri Lando. I can tell you such base motivation is not achieved in a single step. It is passed from generation to generation, from father and mother to son and daughter.”
He looked away and then back at Ferrara and me. “But there is not time for this now. There is someone I want you both to meet. Her name is Gina McKenzie.”
Chapter 43
One of the Italians could be eliminated but the others, Bandini and Asputi, were right in John Hendricks’ line of sight for the murders of Mark Craig and DI Reid.
Bandini had been quick to demand a lawyer to represent him. Someone from Italy. It had meant a delay while the lawyer was contacted but the wait was worthwhile. Hendricks had the men bang to rights. The interview room was ready.
He recognized the lawyer at once. It was Herbert Santoni, the smooth operator who represented the Landos in Florence. This was the man who allowed Alessa Lando to walk free at her trial when the Lando family structure was being dismantled. The kind of operator Hendricks hated.
Hendricks sat facing Bandini and the lawyer and addressed the inroom recorder. “Inspector John Hendricks interviewing Luigi Bandini accompanied by his legal representative Herbert Santoni. 10.32 AM, 5th September.”
He concentrated his gaze on Bandini. “Tell me, Mr. Bandini, what a man of your reputation is doing here in London?”
Bandini did not reply. Santoni had briefed him to remain silent. The lawyer answered instead. “Look at the condition of my client, Inspector. He has been beaten. You are going to tell me it was not the British police and I am going to tell you I do not accept this.”
“Believe me, Mr. Santoni, it is just how we found your client. He’s been as well cared for as you would expect.”
Santoni laughed. “You would take me for a fool if I told you I agree with you, Inspector. I have instructed my client to say nothing until this matter is resolved. His arrest was improper. He and his colleagues, Signor Asputi and Signor Carlucci, are the victims of police brutality. I demand they are allowed to return to Italy at once.”
Hendricks took his time to reply, savoring the moment. “Very well, Mr. Santoni. But be aware whether your clients provide statements or not, I’m charging both Bandini and Asputi with the murder of Mark Craig at the Allegro Hotel and the murder of Detective Inspector Martin Reid at Highgate Wharf.”
Santoni seemed unmoved. “I must ask on what grounds you make such charges?”
“The forensic evidence is compelling. Let’s just say your clients have been less than careful in covering their tracks.”
“We will contest every shred of the evidence as being improper in the way it was obtained.”
Hendricks shook his head. “Even a lawyer of your great skill, Mr. Santoni, will find that difficult.”
He went through the evidence list in his mind. The security camera footage placing the pair at the Allegro Hotel. The fingerprints and DNA of both found in Room 301 where Craig had been killed. Reid’s DNA on the bloodstained iron bar found nearby when they were arrested at Wapping Wall. Enough to convict them both twice over. “We have enough evidence to charge your clients. They have the right of silence. Since they wish to exercise that right, there is nothing more to be said.”
There was no immediate challenge from Santoni.
Hendricks spoke once more into the in-room recorder. “Interview ended at 10.52 AM.”
He pressed the alarm. Two uniformed officers and DI Franklin came in. “Take Signor Bandini away, Franklin. Read him his rights and charge him with the murder of Martin Craig and DI Martin Reid. Same charges for Signor Asputi.”
Santoni protested as Bandini was muscled away by the officers. “This will become a diplomatic incident, Inspector. I trust you are ready for that. You will hear from the Italian Ambassador.”
This was no more than Hendricks expected. It would be a fight but he would see them both convicted.
It could have been a piece of luck that the Italians had been delivered to him on a plate but the Inspector doubted that.
He returned to the incident room and listened again to the recording of the phone call directing his men to Wapping Wall. The voice he was hearing was not as clear as he would have liked but he was sure it was one he recognized.
Hendricks smiled. James Blake.
He knew if he was to prevent Santoni from getting the Italians acquitted, it was more important than ever to find Blake and make sure his evidence was heard.
Chapter 44
Nate Craven wasn’t surprised his fears about Debbie Miller were being confirmed by Ashley. He’d seen the warning signs – the way she’d looked at him since the Intelligence Star ceremony, the way she’d tried to hide the change in her feelings towards him.
So, it had come to this.
He could have Miller dealt with. Given the right briefing, Ashley could be convinced to do it and make it look
like an accident. And they’d get away with it. FBI Agent goes native, absconds to Mexico, is found dead there in some drugs-related attack – yes, it was a story easily sold. But this wasn’t the priority. Not yet. The priority was to find out if she was a risk to the version of events at Town Lake that Craven had spun.
These thoughts gave Craven the idea that he required another source of information in Tijuana.
He picked up the phone and waited for the connection. “El Romero. We should talk.”
The man did not sound pleased. “It has been too long, Senor.”
Craven was used to the formalities burdening their conversations. He knew he would have to tolerate them in order to arrive at what he needed to say to the Mexican. El Romero obsessed about the amount of money Craven demanded for policing the shipments to the US. Craven’s answer was always the same: top-level protection commanded a top-level price. It was the way of the world. El Romero didn’t like it. Craven made it clear he could not deliver for less. There were payoffs to be made. El Romero complained but had no choice but to accept. It was the same each time they spoke.
As the formalities showed no sign of reaching a conclusion, Craven decided it was time to make progress. “Well, my friend, I have to tell you my call isn’t about money. It’s about something more important. I need your help with something that could affect our business together.”
“What do you mean, Senor?”
“There are persons in Tijuana you should know about. One is FBI. The other a journalist.”
“The names?”