The Venice Conspiracy (27 page)

CHAPTER 52

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 wingman, 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.’

CAPITOLO LI

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.

Tommaso pushes it into the water and clambers in. Brothers are running from the monastery down the hillside towards him. Up by the main entrance he can see the stern and unmoving figure of the abbot.

The tide is low and he soon pulls clear of the shore, leaving behind the only people he has shared his life with.

As the island shrinks behind him, a cool wind bounces off the lagoon and Tommaso’s anxiety begins to fade. It will be hours before anyone visits the now boatless monastery - all day, if he’s lucky - so he has a good start. Unless of course the expert from the Vatican arrives today. If that happens, a boat will be made available and the inquisitors alerted.

The thought sparks fresh panic and he abandons plans to moor openly near the Palazzo Ducale. Instead, he heads west down the Canal Grande
.
Strong feelings of doubt surface as the Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute looms into view, but he rows on breathlessly. He pushes north until eventually he all but collapses at a small mooring on the south side of the Rialto Bridge and ties off the boat.

Tired and dehydrated, he moves swiftly from bridge to bridge and street to street until he finds what he’s looking for.

A sign hanging from the shop of an art and antiques dealer.

Gatusso’s.

He presses his soot-smeared face to the newly cleaned shop glass. Tanina, looking up from wrapping a small landscape oil, seems shocked at first, but quickly recovers. As soon as she finishes the sale, she walks outside under the pretext of politely seeing the customer off the premises
.

Tommaso watches her walking towards him. She’s his only connection to the men who may have taken his mother’s gifts to him, the first link in a vague chain that he hopes will lead him to find the other tablets and the whereabouts of his sister.

Tanina shuts the door behind her. ‘Brother?’

Tommaso tries to calm his nerves. ‘My child, you are in terrible danger. The abbot knows of the theft carried out by your friends, and shortly, so too will the inquisitors.’

Tanina is confused. ‘Brother, I am sorry, but I don’t understand what you are saying.’

‘Your boyfriend and that man Efran, they broke into the abbey and stole the artefact I discussed with you.’

‘Nonsense!’ protests Tanina. ‘Efran and Ermanno are not thieves! There is no reason for the Inquisition to be interested in us.’

Tommaso grabs her arm. ‘There is no time for lies or idiocy!’ He glances around. ‘Your friends broke into the abbot’s chamber last night and took the silver tablet that belongs to me.’

Tanina pulls free. ‘No! That’s not true.’

‘I’m afraid it is. I told the abbot the names of your boyfriend and his helper, but not you. If we leave now there is a chance you may all be saved.’

Tanina looks back through the shop window. Her absence has prompted Gatusso to come looking for her. She can see him milling around near the wrapping desk, peering out through the window. ‘Brother, I think you have made a terrible mistake. Last night Ermanno was with me.
All
night. And Efran is many things, but a thief isn’t one of them.’

Tommaso sees only truth in her eyes, yet still he is sceptical. ‘My child, it may be that you are correct - or you may be completely wrong. Either way, you must leave now.’

Tanina knows he’s right. The Inquisition’s dreaded tribunal wouldn’t hesitate in torturing them all, regardless of their innocence. ‘Wait a moment.’

She steps back into the shop. Lauro Gatusso’s face betrays his anxiety. ‘What is it, Tanina? What’s wrong?’

She grabs her cloak and struggles for an explanation. ‘A neighbour of mine is very ill. The good brother outside has been attending her and she has asked for me.’ She drapes the cloak around her shoulders. ‘I hope you don’t mind me going? I’ll be back as soon as possible.’

‘No, no. You go. We are not that busy.’ He glances at a pocket watch. ‘I have business at the bank in two hours. Please be back by then.’

She flashes him a smile and a moment later a bell over the door chimes as she rushes back into the street.

Gatusso’s known her since she was a child. She never could lie to him. Not then. Not now. He walks close to the window and watches her disappear with the agitated young monk. A brother from an island monastery would not be asked to the bedside of a mainland parishioner.

Gathering his coat, he flips the sign on the door to
Chiuso
.

CHAPTER 53

Present Day
Hotel Rotoletti, Venice

Priests are a lot like cops.

They instinctively pick up on things. Slight changes in anything. Hesitations in speech. Cagey ways of answering questions. Anything that helps them detect the truth.

Despite being thousands of miles away, Tom’s picked up on plenty - not least the fact that Lars Bale sounds entirely different than when they met a decade ago. His voice is tight. Guttural. As though some wild animal is pacing and growling in the pit of his gut.

But there’s something else. Something that’s dangerously out of place in a man about to die.

He sounds calm.

Tom backtracks over an earlier remark. ‘Lars, what did you mean, you’ve been wondering who God would send?’

Bale laughs - the sniggering kind, suited to a private joke. ‘You are chosen, Tom - just as I am. You phoned me because you know that everything is connected to me. Everything that
will
happen, will be as a result of me.’

Tom’s taken aback. The phraseology is so egotistically ambiguous it could be interpreted in several ways. ‘What do you mean? I still don’t understand.’

‘Oh, but I think you do. You’re in Venice, chasing ghosts. Ghosts in the lagoon, spectres in the sacristy.’ He breaks into a heartier chuckle.

Tom can’t work out how Bale knows where he is. Maybe the governor told him. Maybe the dialling code has shown up on some caller display. He wants to believe there’s a rational reason - anything except what appears obvious.

‘Our paths were fated to cross, Tom. It was divined centuries before your fuck-less Christ child was even born.’

Tom has no time to counter the blasphemy. He cuts to the chase. ‘I remember you had a lot of tattoos. Didn’t you have one beneath your left eye, a sort of teardrop?’

Bale ignores the question. ‘Tell me, Father, did you think of God when you first fucked her? When you slid your fatty tube of flesh inside sweet Tina, did you call out for Jesus?’

A shiver arcs over Tom’s shoulders.
Tina? How does he know her name?
Then he remembers the magazine article and guesses it’s been passed around the cells or, worse still, other papers have picked up on the story.

‘Lars, I asked you a question: do you have a teardrop tattoo?’

‘You know I do,’ Bale sounds amused. ‘Now, you tell me something. What kept you hard when your priestly cock sought out the wet mouth of her vagina? Thoughts of God, or thoughts of her flesh and your own pleasure?’

Tom stays focused. ‘Was the tattoo a gang symbol, Lars? Did other members of your cult all have the same sign?’

Again the killer ignores him, his voice low and lecherous. ‘What did you shout when you felt yourself come, Father Tom? When you frantically dumped all those years of denial into her, did you take the name of your Lord, your God in vain?’

Tom fights images in his head. Tina’s mouth, her breasts, her perfumed skin.

‘Are you reliving those memories now, Tom? I’m
sure
you are.’ Bale fakes passion in his voice. ‘Oh God! Oh fucking Jesus, I’m coming!’ He rolls out a chilling laugh.

Tom snaps. ‘Answer me! What does the tattoo mean to you?’

Lars swallows the last of his dark chuckles. His voice grows deep and growls down the phone as though covered in hot tar and grit. ‘It’s not a teardrop, you fool. Didn’t you ever look at my paintings? Didn’t you pay any attention to my art? How fucking ignorant are you?’

Tom’s nerves tingle. His mind begins a desperate mental scramble through years of dusty archived images. Flash-frames of Bale’s barred cell flood back - the grey sheets, the bolted-down bunk, the lack of any family photos, the smell of freshly squeezed oil paints, rows of canvases stacked alongside the steel toilet - but nothing else.

‘You’re a fool, Father Tom - just like all the other mother-fuckers in churches and police stations all over the world.’

Bale drops the phone off his shoulder and lets it swing on its metal flex. The guards, Tiffany and Hatcher, move towards him. He shouts at the swinging receiver, ‘See you in hell, Father Tom! See your dumb, fucking ass in hell!’

CAPITOLO LII

1778
Ponte di Rialto, Venezia

Tanina and Tommaso hurry through the crush of mid-morning crowds. He tries to tell her about his sister, but it’s clear she’s not listening. Tanina’s mind is solely on the idea of being hunted down by the inquisitor’s men as she leads the monk not to her own home, but to that of her friend in Rio Terà San Vio.

Lydia’s doorman, Giuseppe, opens up and settles them in reception while he goes off to inform his mistress. Tommaso rests his elbows on his knees and sinks his head into his hands. His life is in such turmoil.

The lady of the house arrives moments later, greatly intrigued by the unexpected visit of her friend and the worried-looking monk. ‘What a surprise, Tanina. I thought you were working.’

‘I was.’ She stands and takes Lydia’s hands. ‘A quiet word, if you please.’ She glances back at Tommaso: ‘
Scusi
.’

Tommaso nods and waits patiently. He still wonders whether Tanina is telling him the truth. She may well be lying - and all three of them were involved in the theft. Or, perhaps she’s being truthful, and Ermanno
was
with her, which could mean that Efran took the artefact. Tommaso’s mind is in a spin - maybe they are all innocent, and he’s made a terrible error of judgment.

Double doors open.

Tanina reappears. ‘Please come through.’

Tommaso walks into a large drawing room, tiled in cream veined marble that reflects two gloriously plump Murano chandeliers. ‘Lydia, this is Brother Tommaso.’

‘No longer. As of a few hours ago, I left the monastery.’ He forces a smile. ‘Now I am just plain Tommaso.’

‘You are not so plain, brother,’ says Lydia with a glint in her eye. ‘Pray sit. Tanina has told me you need help.’

Tommaso tips a scalding stare across the room and Tanina feels defensive. ‘Lydia is my closest friend. My confidante
.
I have told her everything. You said we were
all
in danger.’

‘We are.’

‘I have some clothes one of my old lovers left behind,’ says Lydia, sizing up Tommaso. ‘You look about the same size.’ The glint returns. ‘I think you will be able to move around less conspicuously in them than in that old black habit.’

Tommaso realises he has never worn anything other than the vestments and robes of the monastery. The thought makes him nervous. ‘I am grateful for your kindness.’

Tanina stands. ‘While you change I will go for Ermanno and Efran, then we can all decide what to do.’ She can see Tommaso still doesn’t trust the men. She turns to Lydia. ‘We know we cannot stay here. We will go straight away, once we have a plan.’

Lydia reaches out a hand to her friend. ‘Worry not. I have many friends in high places. The guards of the inquisitor will not come pounding on my door.’ She turns her head and winks suggestively. ‘Now, be on your way and leave me alone with this celibate young man and his urgent needs.’