The Venice Conspiracy (35 page)

What did surprise him was that he agreed to do it.

He was persuaded by the indisputable fact that, although the archives are these days supposed to be more
private
than
secret
, should the Carabinieri make a viewing request then they could easily get tied up in Vatican red tape until Judgement Day.

And so Alfie finds himself heading to the entrance to the archives, adjacent to the Vatican Museum through the Porta di S. Anna in via di Porta Angelica. He steps out of the warm sunlight into the cool corridors with fear crawling up his throat. When his duplicity is discovered – for he realises that, even if he succeeds today, he is going to have to confess his actions – he knows he’ll be severely punished, maybe even suspended.

Fortunately for Alfie, he is no stranger to the endless miles of passageways and rooms, or to some of the staff working there. As a general librarian he regularly mixes with the archivists, delivering new documents and books into their care, and he can even boast a passing acquaintance with the Archivist Emeritus, Cardinal Mark van Berkel.

As he nears the point of no return he focuses once more on the main problem he faces. Even those who can get into the archive still face horrendous restrictions, the main one being that even authorised visitors are not permitted to browse the shelves in search of what they want, and no one is allowed to take any materials away. In other words, Alfie has to know
exactly
which book or document he wants – and he doesn’t – and then he has to wait for someone to get it for him.

Clutching a Vatican notebook and
some index files from the general library of the Holy See, he approaches a young, scaly-skinned, trout-eyed helper at the busy reception desk. ‘I am Father Alfredo, I have come from the main library and need to check a document.’

Father Trout-eyes floats his fingers over a computer keyboard. ‘Do you have a reference number?’

Alfie tips his notebook and flicks through a few pages, then swings it round for his colleague to copy.

The computer clacks away. The archivist squints at the screen and can’t find anything. ‘Let me try another search. What exactly is it?’

‘It’s Etruscan, a document suggesting an old artefact may have influenced some early church altar designs.’

Father Trout gives up a ‘humph’ and clacks some more. ‘Sorry, I can’t find anything. When did you send it through?’

And so for half an hour Alfie works the system, grinding the archivist down. Then, judging his moment, he slaps a hand on the counter like a man who’s reached the end of his tether. ‘This isn’t good enough,’ he protests loudly. ‘I need to see the Cardinal. It’s
outrageous
that this material should be lost.’

The archivist looks shocked. He painfully reaches for an internal directory.

‘Wait!’ says Alfie, trying to look exasperated but reasonable. ‘I don’t want to get anyone in trouble, especially not you or me. Let me talk to the archivist stacking that particular section – if I describe it to him, I’m sure he’ll find it.’ Alfie points at the computer. ‘Sometimes those things let us down.’

And so five minutes later Alfie is beyond the barriers, heading past the ranks of shelves that house papal accounts, charity contributions, diplomatic exchanges with foreign governments and a myriad other mysteries.

He has no intention of meeting his new archivist friend, Father Carlo. Instead he finds the place where they
should
meet and slides behind a pillar. Within minutes a thin young priest appears and anxiously paces around. He’s very diligent, and stays a long time before finally giving up and heading off through a heavy side door leading back to his work station. Alfie tags along, just a few paces behind.

It soon becomes apparent that Carlo’s section is as long as a city street: a seemingly endless corridor lined with black metal ceiling-to-floor shelves on either side.

The good news is that Alfie’s found the right section, gained entry to it, has very little chance of
being spotted and a good cover story if he is challenged.

The bad news is that he doesn’t even know where to begin searching.

1778

Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore, Venezia

The stained-glass window of the abbot’s study has been completely shattered. Blue, green, gold and white diamonds of glass are strewn everywhere. All his desk drawers have been pulled out and emptied. Locked cabinets and cupboards have been smashed open. The floor is littered with writing paper and legal documents, all of them have been deliberately stained with spilled ink.

The abbot sends his two helpers away and secures the door. He stands alone with Tommaso and gestures to the wreckage. ‘It seems the fire in the boathouse was purely a distraction, Brother.’

Tommaso fears the worst. ‘My mother’s gifts have been stolen?’

The abbot is still unsure whether the monk had anything to do with the break-in. ‘Yes. They are gone.’ He studies his face for a reaction, then points to the shattered remains of an oak wall panel. ‘They were locked in a cupboard behind there.’ He lifts a chain from around his waist. ‘Only I had the key. Now tell me
everything
you managed to find out about the tablet.’

Tommaso holds his silence.

‘Brother, I know you have been asking questions in Venice.’

Now the young priest can’t help but avert his eyes from the abbot’s piercing stare. All the anger he’d expected to vent has been smothered by the shame of having his enquiries discovered. ‘The tablet is one of three. It is thought to be part of an Etruscan artefact known as the Tablets of Atmanta.’ Tommaso deliberately doesn’t mention the
other
names given to the artefacts.

The abbot stares silently at him. Inwardly, he is annoyed that his predecessor had not taken more care and simply opened the box when the boy was
dumped on their doorstep. Had that happened, none of this would now be his problem. He wonders too whether Tommaso had anything to do with the theft. The silver tablet could be sold for a small fortune, riches that could transform the life of a poor monk. ‘Who did you speak to? Tell me exactly who you mentioned the artefact to.’

Tommaso gives a brief account, mentioning only Ermanno and Efran. He feels it best not to speak of the woman; she had such a look of innocence, he feels it inappropriate to sully her name along with the two mercenary traders. ‘The man Efran seemed very knowledgeable. Well read and helpful. I feel so foolish now.’

‘Professional deceivers. You will do well to remember this experience as you complete penance for your naivety.’

Tommaso bows his head contritely. ‘Yes, Reverend Father.’ Nervously, he fingers the rosary beads and crucifix around his neck, then looks up. ‘Father, may I be bold enough to ask some questions of my own?’

The abbot reluctantly nods his approval.

‘When I showed you the tablet, did you know what it was?’

The abbot can tell where this is leading. ‘I had a suspicion. However, I thought there was a good chance I might be mistaken, which is why I did not mention my thoughts to you.’

‘Why were you not sure of what the tablet was?’

The abbot tilts his head in reflective thought. ‘It seemed hardly likely that such a significant object would turn up here, among the paltry possessions of an abandoned child. The only resonance was the fact many believe the tablets started life not many miles from this monastery.’

‘And was it my mother’s letter that convinced you?’

‘It went some way. In truth, I had my doubts right up until the theft. The fact that someone would go to so much trouble to break in and take the tablet is indicative that we’re dealing with the genuine article. An expert is on his way from the Vatican. He has been ill, otherwise he’d have been here sooner.’

Tommaso looks hurt. ‘Reverend Father, I would gladly have shown you the letter. There was no need to have it surreptitiously removed from my cell.’

‘That act was regrettable.’ His face softens. ‘But – Tommaso, you must understand that I have been uncertain about many things –
including
yourself.’

The monk can’t keep the shame from his face. It’s hardly surprising the abbot would harbour such misgivings. ‘And the letter?’ He looks down at the floor. ‘Is it
here
somewhere?’ He kneels and begins to sift the debris, then glances up at the broken
cupboard. ‘Or has it also been stolen?’

The abbot steps closer to him, gently takes his arm and lifts him back to his feet. ‘Brother, I am saddened to tell you it is gone. Whoever took the tablet has also taken the box and the note your mother left with it.’

Thoughts tumble in Tommaso’s head. His mother’s gift to him is lost. Even her writing – the one fragment of personality that she had left him is gone. Worse still, whoever has the letter will now know his sister has the other tablet.

She will be in grave danger.

Tommaso jerks his arm free of the abbot’s hand. ‘Forgive me, but my days here are at an end. I wish to leave immediately.’ His face is full of determination.

The abbot sees it. Recognises the challenge. ‘You will do no such thing, Brother. If you set foot outside this monastery I will have the inquisitors on you within the hour.’

Present Day

San Quentin, California

San Quentin State Prison houses more than five thousand inmates, including America’s biggest Death Row population. Every day brings some kind of incident. Today is no different.

Landing guards slip the shutter on Lars Bale’s Death Row cell and are horrified to find him flat out on the floor.

His face is corpse-white.

Blood has seeped from his eyes, nose and ears. A gush of vomit lies across his lips, chin and neck.

The alarm is triggered. Medics alerted. The cell door hurriedly unlocked.

Officer Jim Tiffany is first in. He bends to take a pulse.

The dead man groans softly.

‘He’s alive!’ Tiffany falls to his knees and rolls the inmate on to his back.

He’s about
to perform first aid, when suddenly the convict convulses – with laughter.

‘Jesus H. Christ! What the fuck?’ Tiffany shuffles off him. His wing-man, Officer Pete Hatcher, almost drops his radio.

Bale struggles to his feet, laughing like a five-year-old who’s been told a rude joke.

Then they get it.

The crazy fuck had
painted
his face to look like he was dead.

Bale grins. ‘Just a joke, fellas. Thought I’d give you a sneak preview of the big day. Coming soon, the end of mortal me. But don’t cry – I’ll be back. Oh boy, will I be back.’

Tiffany gets into Bale’s face. ‘You fucking crazy son-of-a-bitch! The world will be a better place when you’re dead and buried, you piece of shit.’

Bale makes his eyes bulge. Spreads his arms wide. Flares his lips and hisses like a snake.

‘Motherfucker!’ Tiffany slams him against the wall and Hatcher jumps in to fix manacles to his hands and feet. They’re as rough as hell with him, but he keeps laughing and hissing throughout.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ says Tiffany, getting in his face again. ‘The governor wants you to take a call. If we weren’t under instruction to get you there and
make
you take it, then you’d be spending the rest of the frigging morning spitting teeth into a bowl in the hospital wing.’

They bundle him out of the cell. Make him chain-waddle so fast he’s close to falling over.

In the phone area, they push him into a corner and wait for the call to be routed.

Bale and Tiffany stare at each other. The officer is obviously spooked, but he stands his ground.

Bale smiles and talks in his friendliest voice. ‘Officer Tiffany, may I tell you something?’

‘You ain’t tellin’ me nothing, you no-good motherfucker.’

‘Your wife, Susan – you might not know this yet – but she has cancer in her cunt. It’s going to kill her. Nice and slow.’

Tiffany snaps. He doesn’t know how Bale is aware of his wife’s name. Doesn’t care. He punches him so hard in the stomach the prisoner doubles up and falls over. He’s about to plant a boot in Bale’s head when Hatcher manages to haul him back. ‘Jim! For Christ’s sake!’

The phone on the wall rings and they all stop and look at it. It’s like an end-of-round bell in a boxing match. Hatcher gets a chair and hauls the
winded Bale on to it, one eye on the still raging Tiffany. He picks the phone off the cradle and covers the mouthpiece. ‘You say nothing about what just happened, Bale.’ He gives him a final stare, then talks into the mouthpiece.

‘Yeah. Yeah, he’s here now. Hang on. I’ll pass you over.’ He holds out the receiver and waits for the inmate to raise his cuffed hands from his injured stomach.

Bale can barely speak.

‘Lars, Lars Bale?’

The con manages to get his breath back. ‘Yes.’

‘Lars, this is Tom Shaman. We met some years ago when I was a priest.’

Bale brightens up. ‘Aaah, Father Tom.’ He sucks in some air. ‘I’ve been wondering who God would get to do his dirty work.’

1778

Canal Grande, Venezia

A pale full moon hangs in the morning sky, looking like a traveller who’s missed the last ride home and is stranded for the rest of the day.

Ordinarily, Tommaso would stop and watch until the final fingernail of whiteness faded away.

But not today.

He’s in a hurry. The biggest hurry of his life.

From the second he walked out of the monastery he knew he was starting a deadly race. A race not just against time, but also against the thieves who stole the tablet, and the full might of the Catholic Church.

The abbot’s threat to inform the state inquisitors chills him to the bone. Ermanno and Efran are certain to be arrested as heretics and will no doubt be tortured to death. Tommaso himself could be prosecuted for apostasy – abandonment of faith – and may be lucky to escape with his own life.

He is in a panic as he nears the water, rushing to the boathouse, hoping that his memory has served him right.

It has.

Only one of the boats perished
in the fire. The smaller one, the one he used for his morning rows around the island, had been pulled free of the blaze by some quick-thinking monks.