'Shouldn't you be in bed?'
Alfie stays silent for a second – he has to be sure his ears aren't tricking him. 'Tom?'
'Hello, Alfie. I'm sorry to call so late. I guess you were just heading into mass, or even turning in for the night.'
'Not a problem. It's good to hear from you.' He pauses, then adds cautiously, 'Isn't it?'
It takes Tom almost ten minutes to bring Alfie up to speed with what's happened since they last spoke, just after the street fight in LA. The two men had become friends while attending a semester of courses, back in the days when he'd drink too much and turn up late for half their classes, relying on Tom to bail him out.
Alfie's still reflecting on old times as he heads back through the ornate Sistine Hall to his quarters. Tom's request is certainly a strange one, but he's sure he can help. He has privileged access to a library that holds more than seventy-five thousand manuscripts and close to two million books – not to mention a museum dedicated to the Etruscans – Alfie's confident he can find what's wanted. Unless – and the thought disturbs him – unless it's in the secret archives. Fifty-two miles of shelving crammed with restricted information that only the holiest of eyes should see.
CAPITOLO XXXVIII
27 dicembre 1777 Venezia Pale pink daylight floods the lagoon, and a thin graveyard mist hangs over the eerily quiet water.
The high priest walks the curte, collecting remains from the sacrificial fire.
He's at peace with the world. He's served his master well. Now he is keen to avoid any post-sacrifice slip-ups. Once he's finished his grisly task, he'll make sure his followers know how to behave. Firstly, they have a common cover story. If pushed by families about their prolonged absence, they'll claim to have been at a dinner together, a party of sorts. If suspicions arise, then one by one they'll admit to affairs. Each of them already has an alibi. Each is prepared to suffer minor personal consequences rather than risk being thrown into the cold cells of the Palazzo Ducale.
The Satanist is dressed in the poor garments of a boatman. His blood-soaked vestments stand in a tub of water and will be thoroughly washed and dried by his own hands. Meticulously, he collects all the dead man's bones in a potato sack. He counts off the parts as he deposits them – tibia, fibula, patella – he knows every bone, every muscle and nerve.
In a separate sack he collects fire-blackened wood coated in the waxy fat of the victim's melted skin. Both bags go to the back of his boat. Later he'll have the ground dug over. Shovelled until all sacrificial traces are gone.
The sun is still only half risen when the boat that brought Amun Badawi to his death takes him to his watery grave.
It's too early for fishing boats or other craft to be making their way into the nexus of canals that spread south of the city, but the high priest isn't complacent: he keeps a vigilant watch across the water.
Through the mist, he spots La Giudecca to the west and Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore to the east. It is his cue to stop. He thinks for a moment about the island – the refuge for Cosimo de' Medici when he fled Florence and the burial place for Doge Pietro Ziani. So many famous bodies – dead and alive – have passed along the same stretch of water.
The Satanist places a heavy stone in each of the sacks and secures the tops with pre-cut lengths of rope. The boat wobbles as an unexpectedly large wave slaps the side. He quickly sits. Waits for calm to return.
As the ripples subside, he stands and heaves the first sack over the side.
A satisfying plosh!
He crouches and watches the bubbles in the murky water. The boat rocks again. The stern is knocked round by a choppy wave. Again the high priest sits it out. He waits patiently, then drops the second sack in the lagoon. It is comforting to watch it sink. A circle of ripples fattens, thins and fades.
'Buongiorno!'
The voice shocks him. He glances right and left.
Nothing.
Now he sees something. Dead ahead.
A red-faced young monk. Rowing a tiny boat. Slowing his strokes as he approaches. 'A bad mist this morning. Are you in trouble?' The brother looks pointedly into the water, as though he's seen something go over the side. 'Do you need any help?'
The Satanist can't hide his shock. He picks up his oars. 'No. No grazie.' Silently he curses to himself. He was sure there was no one around.
The monk has stopped rowing and is letting his boat drift closer.
Suspicion hangs in the air as densely as the mist.
The high priest tries to smile. 'Are you from the monastery at San Giorgio?'
The monk nods. 'Si.' Their boats touch sides. 'I do this every morning. After first prayers and before breakfast.' He glances into the water. 'Did you drop something? I thought I heard a splash in the water. I feared someone may have fallen in.'
'No, as you can see, I am fine. Fine and dry. You must have been mistaken.' The Satanist touches his own oar. 'Probably the sound of the paddle on the water.' He glances into the mist and checks the angle of the rising sun. Maybe the monk didn't see much. He smiles. 'I must be going. Arrivederci.'
The young brother takes up his oars and sweeps one across the water to turn his boat. 'Arrivederci.' Within two strokes he's vanished into the mist.
All the way back to the monastery, he wonders what was in the two large sacks he saw being dropped into the lagoon and why the stranger lied to him.
CHAPTER 40
Present Day Rialto, Venice Not many applicants make it into the Carabinieri's Corazzieri, the elite commando group that provides the honour guard for Italy's president. Aside from the stringent military requirements, recruits must be taller than 190 cm – six foot three. It's a big ask for most Italian males. Umberto Castelli was one of the select few to have qualified with flying colours.
Twenty years on, his exceptional qualities have earned him a place as the head of an undercover unit respected throughout the country.
Umberto goes to extremes to protect his identity, and that includes never setting foot inside a Carabinieri building. All his business is conducted strictly off-site.
Bearded and dressed more like a busker than a major, he meets Vito Carvalho in a coffee shop off the Rialto. Close in age and bonded by mutual respect, the two men have become close friends.
The big busker asks for double espressos, then folds his legs beneath a table. 'How's Maria?'
It's the question everyone who cares always asks Carvalho. 'Up and down,' comes the answer. 'Physically, there's no deterioration. The MS even seems a bit better. But at the moment she's depressed.'
'I'm sorry to hear it.'
'Grazie. We have a holiday coming up soon. That will brighten her mood.'
'Good. I hope so.' Castelli waits for a young waiter in a white apron to set down the steaming black coffees and leave, then he pulls open a plastic supermarket bag. Inside is a confidential file. 'I wanted to talk to you about Antonio Pavarotti.'
Vito crosses himself. 'God bless. You know his cousin is one of my lieutenants?'
'Morassi, right? How's she taken it?'
'She's strong. She's working through the grief.' Vito's eyes look to the heavens. 'But at some point it's going to drown her as if a dam's given way.'
Castelli rubs his beard. 'I got the full report last night. Looks like we're talking about murder, not an accident.'
Vito frowns. 'Murder? The engineers called in after the salvage was done said it was most likely a gas explosion. The cooker in the galley.'
'That's what they thought.' Castelli opens the manila file and passes it over. 'The labs found traces of C-4.'
Vito feels as though someone's painting his spine with ice. 'Plastic explosive – but how? Where?'
'Not quite sure. There wasn't much of the boat left. On the engine, we think. The techies found traces of plasticiser and binder on the block.'
Vito plays with his coffee cup. 'Clever. On detonation the explosive is converted into compressed gas. Whoever set it might have thought this would mislead an investigation team.'