'Buongiorno!' he chirps, as he gingerly steps on to the deck of the Carabinieri craft. 'I'm not a seafarer, I'm afraid. My legs prefer a little terra firma.'
'And you an LA guy?' Valentina teases, steadying his arm as he lurches on to the back of the boat where the Italian flag flutters in a fresh breeze. 'I had you down as a Californian who'd spent most of his teenage years in the ocean.'
Tom flinches. 'You're way off the mark, Lieutenant. Truth is, I can barely swim. I'm almost phobic about it, actually.'
She looks at him quizzically, not sure whether he's toying with her. 'Come inside, I've got some coffee.'
Tom has to almost fold himself double as he follows her through a tiny door into a long, narrow cabin at the back of the wheelhouse. 'My best friend got killed by a jet ski at Malibu when I was a kid. I was in the water with him at the time.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Thanks. We got far to go?'
'Five minutes. Maybe ten. Depends on the traffic.' She undoes a steel Thermos flask and pours black coffee for them both.
Tom's amused by the idea of a traffic jam on the water. But as they make their way out from the midst of water taxis, gondolas and work boats around the Piazzale, he can see what she means.
'Major Carvalho and the medical examiner, Professore Montesano, will meet us there.' She thinks about mentioning his clothes, especially his lack of fresh ones, but checks herself. 'Have you been in a morgue before?'
Tom nods. 'Unfortunately, several times. Not for crime investigation reasons, but to accompany relatives of the newly deceased. Sometimes to identify a dead gangbanger or gutter bum who had no one else to stand for them.'
She smiles apologetically. 'I'm sorry. The morgue is really not a good place to start your day.'
Tom shrugs. 'I'd rather not go to one at all, but if I have to, then I'd prefer to start the day there than finish it there.' Twenty minutes later the words come back to bite him.
Gowned up and standing alongside the bleached body of fifteen-year-old Monica Vidic, he feels almost as low as the night he killed the two street punks in LA.
He's heard what Major Carvalho has just said. Understood it very clearly. But he still has to ask the question. 'Someone cut out her liver?'
Valentina looks guilty. 'Si. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about this earlier. It seemed more appropriate to wait until you came here.'
'Are you all right, signor?' says the ME, registering the distress on his face. 'Perhaps we take a little break?'
Tom shakes his head. 'No. No, I'm fine. Let's get this over with.' He glances at Valentina, who looks away as if she knows he's remembering her comment that after this meeting the Carabinieri would be finished with him – completely finished. Well, it doesn't feel like that any more. Far from it. It feels like they are only just getting started.
CHAPTER 24
Riva San Biagio, Venice The early-morning sun is masked by cloud as Antonio Pavarotti guns up the old family motorboat moored near Riva San Biagio and sets out for Isola Mario. A glance at his watch tells him he'll arrive about twenty minutes early, long enough to stray a little and get a water-level view of the boathouse. He throttles up as he eases his way into one of the lagoon's well-defined navigation channels.
The boat's an old twenty-seven footer, bought by his father Angelo almost twenty years ago and gifted to his son on his twenty-first birthday. It's been cherished over the decades and in recent years almost completely overhauled by Antonio. His latest labour of love was fitting new windows and reconditioning the trusty old diesel engine. Next on his list is another repaint of the ever-needy blue hull that's now bouncing over some particularly choppy waves. He soon sees the reason why. He's following in the wake of the Number 41 waterbus heading out to Ferrovia and Murano. Get caught in the tracks of one of those and it's about as comfortable as being pulled naked across a ploughed field by your ankles.
Antonio opens a flask of tea he's brought with him and sticks it in a holder at the front of the wheelhouse. It's a beautifully restored and fully covered area, resplendent in French-polished wood and freshly cleaned brass. It opens up into a good-sized galley kitchen complete with a temperamental gas oven and two-ring burner that in their time have heated up a lot of his mamma's home cooking. At the rear is a seating area that doubles as a bunk or two.
Through the spray and thinning mist, Isola di San Michele bobs into view – but for once Antonio's thoughts are not on his grandparents and the other souls lying in their island graves. He's thinking of the happy times he's had on the craft. His first trip with his mother and father. Fishing with college friends. Precious, private time with his girlfriends before he moved out of his parents' apartment and got a place of his own.
The last memory lingers and brings a smile to his face as he clicks a self-firing ring on the stove to get a light for his first cigarette of the day. He'll give up soon. Maybe when this undercover job is over. Mamma will be pleased when he finally quits.
For a split second something seems wrong.
The air in the cabin feels like it's disappeared. Sucked away by a giant invisible straw.
Antonio's ears burst with pain and his body shakes.
Metal from the stove becomes shrapnel and rips into his face.
He sees it all in slow motion, the moment of realisation when he knows what's happening but can't do anything about it.
He's blind and dizzy.
The thunderous roar of the gas explosion ripples across the open sea.
Antonio feels the splash of waves in his face but can't see anything.
Tourists on the back of the waterbus gawp slack-jawed, the full horror yet to sink in.
A raw orange fireball corkscrews into the grey mist, followed by palls of thick black smoke.
Wooden planks and chunks of plastic fill the sky, then drift apart on the waves.
Passing boats kill their engines. In the eerie silence, onlookers stare and wonder if it's safe to head over.
The flames die down.
Among the glistening oil and splinters of shattered craft, the shape of Antonio Pavarotti can be seen floating amid the debris.
CAPITOLO XIX
666 BC
The House of Pesna, Atmanta Tetia feels bad about lying to Teucer.
She's told him her journey to Pesna's house had been commanded by the magistrate to seek commissions for his tomb. Teucer was so tired and weak after their lovemaking that he didn't argue.
The marital deception is the latest in a line that started when Tetia swore she'd destroyed the markings he'd made in the curte, a line that stretches now all the way to Pesna's grand chamber where she's about to hand over the ceramic she made from the engraved clay.
Hercha wanders into the room where Tetia waits. She makes a caustic appraisal of the pale, small-breasted woman in front of her. 'You're not his type. Fat with child, small and dirty. Most definitely not.'
The sculptress ignores her. She's admiring row after row of amazing pottery. Hook-handled Greek vases with curvilinear patterns and intricate silhouettes of gorgons, griffins, sphinxes and sirens. Wide-brimmed pots with red-gold figures set against polished black backgrounds.
'Did you hear me?' Hercha strides closer. 'Pesna prefers his women to have a certain sophistication and substance. Rag women are not to his taste.'
Tetia tilts her head and bends low to inspect two elegant, long-necked alabastron flasks with no handles, decorated with exotic multicoloured birds on almost opaque backgrounds. Her eyes widen as she spots a whole series of older works – Greek oil flasks with loop handles and long cylindrical bodies gracefully tapered to their bases. Then her eyes feast upon fabulously painted kraters with short handles like pig ears made from a glistening metal that she is sure is silver.