Pentecost (20 page)

 
They finally reached a large open plan document room from which all the original Venetian paperwork had been removed. Wooden panels around the side walls were painted with the coats of arms of noblemen who had ruled Venice over the years. Morgan sank down into one of the chairs, still holding the stone they had retrieved. She wasn’t letting it go. Even after their honest conversation in the dark of the Basilica, she couldn’t trust Jake’s motives for seeking the stones. But it had been a long day and she badly needed sleep. Mario pulled some blankets and a sleeping bag out from one of the cupboards.

 
“You can rest here for a few hours until morning if you like,” he said. “As long as you’re gone before the other workers come in. People here are late starters. They like to have their coffee first.”

 
Morgan nodded, barely able to keep her eyes open now but she quickly texted David to keep him updated on their progress. Then she made a rough bed with some blankets and curled up, grateful for her ability to sleep quickly even under great stress.

***

 
Jake stood in front of one of the windows, trying to get a cell phone signal. Finally he connected with Marietti and spoke low so as not to wake Morgan.

 
“We have the stone of St Peter. Morgan was right, it was here in Venice.”

 
“Excellent. It’s imperative that you also get the others before Thanatos is able to find you again.”

 
“We haven’t had any trouble here. Maybe they’ve lost our trail.”

 
“Or maybe they’re in front of you, Jake. They know ARKANE is involved, and what is at stake at Pentecost. We can’t leave any out in the world.”

 
“Where are we heading next?” Jake asked. “Did you have Martin narrow down the options?”

 
“Since you’re in Italy, you’ll be heading for Amalfi, where the relics of St Andrew are kept. There’s evidence they were taken there after the Sack of Constantinople. The plane will take you down there tomorrow morning. We’ll speak again after that.”

 
The phone went silent as Marietti terminated the call.

 
Jake hung up and stared out the window at the dark lagoon lapping against the Doge’s palace. He could see the Bridge of Sighs leading over to the ancient dungeons lit by the lights from the Ponte della Paglia. The sighs of the damned, he thought, as he turned to look at Morgan’s sleeping form. Tonight he felt as if he walked among those ghosts of ancient Venice, trapped into living their bleak sentence every night.
 

Salerno to Amalfi, Italy.
 
May 23, 9.16am

 
Morgan sat at the back of the boat, staring out across the azure ocean. They had risen early in Venice and flown to Salerno, where they hired a speedboat to take them along the coast to their next destination. The drive around the cliffs was spectacular, but the boat would be quicker and they were less likely to be followed. Amalfi was on the opposite coast of Italy to Venice, southeast of Naples. Morgan knew it had been a center of medieval power around the turn of the first millennium and, because of its beauty, had become a popular holiday spot for the British aristocracy in the 1920s. The town nestled at the bottom of the dramatic cliffs of Monte Cerreto and opened out into the Gulf of Salerno. It had once been an important port and maritime power, but now tourists visited mainly for the gorgeous coastline.

 
Morgan looked back on the last few days as a blur, running, hiding, creeping around in the darkness and desecrating churches. It was a relief to be out in the sunlight, the rich colors something she missed in the grey of England. Israel had this quality of light too, with a brilliant blue of the sky rarely seen in Oxford. She knew that this was a brief respite and closed her eyes behind dark sunglasses, lifting her head to the sun. She wore shorts and a t-shirt, but part of her wanted to strip down and swim in the bright ocean.
 

She remembered the last time she had swam, a day trip with Faye and Gemma to Brighton beach on a surprisingly sunny day in April. It was the archetypal British seaside town, with deck-chairs set out on the stony shore. Seagulls swooped low to snatch discarded fish and chips from newspapers and ice cream sellers hawked their sugary treats to the British public, who were desperate to soak up the rays of the infrequent sun. Knowing the vagaries of the weather forecast, they had taken sweaters and waterproofs as well as bathing suits and towels and made a nest on the beach.
 

Faye had taken the chance to relax with a book so Morgan had held Gemma’s hand and led her down to the ocean. The little girl’s face was a rapture of delight as the gentle waves had tickled her feet and they splashed together in the shallows. Morgan remembered her giggling, squealing at the cold as they darted in and out, Gemma demanding to be lifted and swung out so she could see further out to sea. At that moment Morgan understood simple pleasure. She forgot Elian and what she had lost in Israel, focusing only on what she had now found with her family. Gemma had shown her joy and the memory of her childish laughter echoed in her mind. She would not give that up. Morgan was grateful for the dark sunglasses she wore as she blinked away the tears that were starting to well.
 

 
Jake interrupted her thoughts as he sat down beside her, holding his smart phone with more information from Martin back at the ARKANE office.
 

 
“St Andrew certainly got around,” he said. “Did you know he’s the patron saint of Ukraine, Scotland, Russia, Romania and Greece as well as here in Amalfi, and other cities in Portugal and Malta?”

 
“So why does Martin think the stone is here specifically?” she replied, gazing out at the view to center herself back in the present. This was indeed a beautiful place; no wonder the aristocrats of Europe had come here for years. Sports cars and yachts were the hallmark of the area, yet as they sped across the ocean it seemed timeless. Towering cliffs, unchanged for millennia, overshadowed white houses with red roofs interspersed with green olive groves.

 
“Martin said that the cathedral of Amalfi is dedicated to St Andrew. The Apostle and his relics were transported here in 1208 following the sack of Constantinople, although Andrew’s head only finally joined the rest of his body in 2008. If the Keepers followed the bones of the Apostles, there must be something here.”

***

 
They disembarked at the Porta Marina in Amalfi. The powerboat looked tiny next to the mega yachts and other luxury craft in the wide bay. Morgan looked up at the terraced hillsides that stretched above them, glimpsing hidden palazzos and boutique villas nestled into the headland. Their guide gave them a map and pointed up into the town.

 
“The cathedral of St Andrew is just up the hill, in the center of the old district.”

 
Jake and Morgan headed out of the marina and into the town, pushing through the hordes of tourists who thronged the marina walls. The hotels on the waterfront were brilliant white with racing green shutters, many with buttresses and towers built on top for the town could only grow upwards here as the cliffs pushed it into the sea. There were old style iron lamp posts and iconic Vespas parked on the street.
 

Morgan smiled at the scene, “This is such a different Italy, Jake. It’s so beautiful. If we weren’t in such a hurry, I’d love to stay a while. I know Faye would love it here too.”

Morgan thought of Faye’s amazing cooking, so different from her own functional relationship with food. Her sister’s melanzane parmigiana could definitely hold its own even in this Italian heartland.
 

 
“Hold that thought,” Jake replied. “You’ll be able to come back with Faye, I know you will.”

 
They entered the pedestrian section of the town and walked up narrow streets, past tourist shops and cafes to reach the cathedral.

“It seems we’re on a tour of some of the best cathedrals in Europe,” Jake said smiling, as he led the way into the piazza. “And here’s another.”
 

They stopped at the fountain to look up at the cathedral and the ancient bell tower which rose above it. Cafes and pasticcerria dotted the square, with red tablecloths and carafes of wine on tables where happy tourists basked in the sun. Morgan sneaked a glance at couples holding hands in the romantic place and she felt a twinge of jealousy, a pang of longing. It seemed that no happiness lasted long in this world, but the ephemeral nature made it all the more precious.

 
A long staircase led up to the front entrance of the church with shops tucked underneath, for every spare inch was a business opportunity here. The cathedral had a black and white façade, striped and decorated with arched lattice windows. The decoration reminded Morgan of the Mezquita at Cordoba in Spain, an amalgamation of Jewish, Muslim and Christian decoration. She sat on the fountain edge looking up at it.

 
“Maybe we should just go to America, to where Everett is holding my sister. Can’t you get Martin to research where he is, instead of where the Apostles’ relics are? Surely you can do some kind of analysis on the video or the voice we’ve heard, or his picture. I feel like we’re chasing the wind with these stones and I need to find my family.”

 
Jake turned to face her, his back to the church. She held up a hand to shield her face from the sun as she looked up at him.

 
“I need to tell you something,” he began. Suddenly there was shouting and the vrooming sound of a motorbike engine. They turned to see a denim clad rider on a bright red sports bike speeding out of the cathedral and down the steps. He was wearing a helmet so they couldn’t see his face clearly.
 

 
People on the stairs screamed, throwing themselves out of the way as the rider bumped his way down. He shot off the last steps, skidded a little and then headed off into the labyrinth of the Amalfi passageways, shouts of tourists indicating where he had gone. The whole area was packed with people walking, so he wouldn’t be able to get anywhere fast until he escaped the narrow streets.
 

“One of Thanatos’ men,” Jake shouted. “It must be.”

 
Looking around, they spotted Vespa scooters at the side of the square. Jake ran to get one started. Morgan saw her chance and pushed a passing tourist off another motorbike that had stopped in the erupting chaos. She jumped on and headed off after the speeding bike, leaving the rider in the dust as people rushed over to help. The carabinieri would be there soon, so Jake hurriedly jumpstarted one of the other bikes and headed after her.

 
Morgan raced the motorbike after the man, her senses heightened as she plunged into the narrow streets. She could hear screams of people ahead and tried to speed up to catch him. Tourists bottle-necked the streets so they couldn’t go too fast, but he was clearing the way in front of him, so she was gaining. She didn’t know how far he could go up the hill before running out of town and the Vespa was struggling in the winding streets but it looked like the steep hillsides kept the main roads to a minimum.
 

She caught a glimpse of the biker’s denim jacket through the crowds and tried to push through faster, revving the little Vespa to clear the way in front of her. He would make a mistake at some point, then she’d be on him. The streets were narrow here, tall buildings several floors high with stone archways over the top joining the buildings. The man was heading away from the main tourist track into the back streets of Amalfi overlooked by cast iron streetlights, balconies with mini palms and looming mountains behind. Away from the tourist areas, the walls were still Mediterranean white but dirty with graffiti. Oblivious as to whether Jake was following, Morgan was determined to catch the man on the bike and she didn’t care who he was. He had something she needed.

 
The wind whipped some hanging laundry in front of her and she thrust it away as she turned another corner. She hadn’t been on a motorbike for a few years now, but she’d ridden with Elian in the desert, even street racing in Tel Aviv. As she zoomed along, she realized she had missed the adrenalin rush of the bike and the chase. It seemed she couldn’t entirely bury her old self with academia.
 

Morgan turned a corner and saw a dead end ahead of her. They had reached the end of the town streets, the other man clearly wasn’t a local either and they were both lost. He had turned his bike and was revving it as he prepared to come back at her. She braked and stopped by the corner. He held a gun but didn’t have a clear shot yet but he would when he came back out of the tight corner.

 
She waited for him, racing her engine, and then gunned out as he tried to pass in front of her. She braced herself for impact and then crashed straight into the side of his bike, knocking him into a wall, his body crushed under the heavy machine, gun ripped from his hand. Morgan jumped off her bike, ignoring the slight whiplash from the impact. She grabbed his gun and pointed it down at him. He was mostly unhurt, but trapped by the weight of the bike and he cursed her in Italian as he pulled of the helmet. He was tanned dark from the Mediterranean sun with long thick hair tied back with a leather string. Morgan thought that perhaps Thanatos were using local Mafioso now. She flipped the safety off and held the gun under his chin, speaking slowly but firmly as she pressed the muzzle hard into his skin.