The Venice conspiracy

All in all, Tom had probably visited Bale close to twenty times. Although it was policy not to ask about the inmates' crimes, Tom knew. A guard walking him through on a visit had described Bale as a latter-day Charlie Manson. Said he was as mad as a frog on acid and had been the leader of a sect that had abducted holidaymakers from theme parks and murdered them in what the press had called the Disneyland Killings.

When they were done slaughtering their victims, Bale and his followers had smeared their blood over church altars in LA.

CHAPTER 48

San Quentin, California San Quentin Governor Gerry McFaul is about to leave for an evening's golf when he's told there's a long-distance call from someone called Tom Shaman.

McFaul smiles and tells his secretary to put it through. He remembers Tom well. A ballsy young priest who visited the landings and shared his love of boxing. He'd even let him spar with some of the more trusted inmates, and the guy had turned out to be pretty handy.

'Governor McFaul, speaking.'

'Governor, I'm sorry to trouble you. This is Tom Shaman – I used to be Father Tom. I don't know if you remember me, I-'

'Sure, I remember you. Southpaw – a sweet left guided by the good Lord. How can I help you, Tom?'

'Do you still have a man called Lars Bale on your landings? '

McFaul doesn't even have to check. 'Certainly do. But thankfully not for much longer. His note came through.'

Tom had always had some trouble accepting the death penalty, and the governor's casualness throws him for a second.

'You still there, Tom? I can't hear you. Hello?'

'I'm here.' He gets his brain in gear. 'Is Bale still painting?'

The governor glances at his watch and starts shutting down his computer. 'Like crazy. He's done enough to fill a gallery. I guess we'll have to pull a damned paintbrush out of his hand when we strap him down.'

'Is he allowed calls? Could you fix it for me to speak to him?'

Suspicion creeps into McFaul's voice. 'What's this about, Tom? His appeal's been rejected.'

Tom's not sure how to answer. What is it really about? Some strange connection he's made to a series of LA murders nearly a decade and a half ago, and some modern-day killings in Venice that seem to have Satanic undertones? It sounds too weird to say out loud. 'Governor, I'm in Venice – Venice, Italy – trying to help the Carabinieri with a murder case. I think talking to Bale might be useful.'

McFaul glances again at his watch. He's going to be late. If he tries to fix the call tonight then he's sure as hell gonna miss his golf. 'Tomorrow, Tom. Call me tomorrow – six p.m. your time – and I'll see what I can do.'

'Thanks.' Tom's about to hang up when a question hits him: 'Sorry, Governor, one last thing. You said a date had come through for his execution?'

'That's right.'

'When is it? How long has he got?'

McFaul can't help but give off a slight chuckle. 'I don't know whether the pen-pushers in Justice did it on purpose, but that son-of-a-bitch is set to meet his maker at six a.m. on the sixth of June. Six, Six, Six. Just six days from now. I sure hope he likes the irony of that.'

CAPITOLO XLVI 1778

Rio Tera San Vio, Venezia Tanina sits in a friend's plush apartment in the Sestiere di Dorsoduro. She swirls golden wine in a blue-green, tulip-shaped Murano glass and wishes she too was a woman of independent means.

Not that she begrudges Lydia Fratelli a lira of it.

Flame-haired Lydia is the older sister she always wishes she'd had – her closest friend and only real confidante. And tonight Lydia's getting chapter and verse on her rocky relationship with Ermanno. 'Really, he has become an unspeakable gossip! Last week he told me vile – and I am sure untrue – tales of Signor Gatusso.'

Her friend sits forward, her face full of anticipation. 'What tales? It is a while since I heard anything spicy.'

'It's no laughing matter. He accused Gatusso – without substantiation, I might add – of having numerous courtesans.'

Lydia laughs.

Tanina is not amused. 'Ermanno has not the mouth of a true gentleman but that of a common fishwife. And this is the man I would hope to marry? I think not.' She gulps indignantly at her wine.

Lydia tuts at her. 'My dear friend, Ermanno is an angel. You are lucky to have him. You should forgive and forget his torrid tales as surely as you'd forgive a small child a slip of the tongue.'

'But he is not a small child. Or at least, he's not supposed to be.'

Her friend rolls her eyes. 'Of course he is. All men are children. They may get older and uglier on the outside, but inside they remain forever children. Like menstruation, male immaturity is one of the inevitable curses we women must suffer.'

Tanina laughs and tucks her feet up under her thighs. 'And Gatusso? My great fornicating employer and fallen father-figure, is he a small child too? Must I also extend my endless supply of forgiveness to him?'

'You must. I have known Lauro Gatusso almost as long as you. He is a lovable, delicious flirt and, given that boring wife of his, I should say he's entitled to any fun he can find outside her sheets.'

Tanina scowls at her. 'Signora Gatusso is not boring.' She pauses and thinks for a second, then her face softens. 'Oh, all right, perhaps a little boring. But why are men so driven by their penises? Why is one woman not enough for them?'

Lydia finger-combs a fall of natural ringlets from her face. 'Oh, come! Men are not so different from ourselves. We grow bored with one lover and move on to the next, sometimes forgetting to divest ourselves of the old before we are certain about the new.'

'You do,' replies Tanina indignantly. 'I most certainly do not.' She sips her wine, but then can't hold back a small smile. 'I know I used to be like that – a little – but not now. Or at least, I hope not. If Ermanno can mend the error of his ways, then he is the only man I wish to be with.'

Lydia breaks into ironic applause. 'Then either consider his ways well and truly mended, or else irrevocably broken. Tanina, you must move on and stop dwelling on this silly thing.'

'Not until he apologises.'

'He hasn't apologised?'

'Has not and will not.'

'You asked him to?'

'Of course. We have met several times since his indiscretion and not once has he proffered anything amounting to an apology, nor has he produced anything to substantiate the slander against a man who is not just my employer but has been like a father to me.'

'Why not?'

Tanina grows visibly irritable. 'He says he has nothing to apologise for. Told me to forget the matter. And now – now he's immersed in one of his quests, and I get little time to talk to him about anything, let alone speak of us and our future.'

'Quests? What quests?'

Tanina puts her empty glass down at her feet. 'He is buried in his books. Some artefact he's trying to trace. From time to time he becomes obsessed with tracking down the history of certain paintings or sculptures, right now it is some religious relic.'

'Jewish, no doubt. What is it? A menorah? They're as common as thieves.'

'No, no. Not Jewish. In fact, it's quite interesting. He thinks it's Etruscan. I'm not so sure – I'm good on paintings, not sculptures – but it is certainly very old.'

'Etruscan? That's unlikely. Not much has survived from those days.'

Tanina looks amused. 'How do you know? I credit you with a wide span of general knowledge' – she grins playfully – 'and of course endless man knowledge, but I did not realise your expertise stretched to artefacts and Etruscans.'

'It doesn't. I had a lover who collected any reasonably valuable rubbish he could lay his hands on. I remember him talking about Etruscans. It didn't interest me much. What's so special about Ermanno's piece?'

'Well, he hasn't got the piece. It's not his – not yet. He's only seen a picture of it. Some monk from San Giorgio owns it. It's a silver tablet showing an augur with his staff stuck in him.'