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.