The Venice conspiracy

She cries so loudly that even Gatusso is startled.

Lydia has plunged the ceremonial knife into Efran's stomach and is opening him up.

Blood and entrails pour down the wooden libation altar.

Acolytes hold silver chalices beneath the crimson fountain.

From the butchered hole Lydia produces a fistful of gore.

Efran's liver.

The acolytes break into a chant, 'Ave, Satanas! Ave, Satanas! Ave, Satanas!'

The hand-bell rings three more times.

Lydia holds the organ in her cupped hands and passes it to Gatusso.

He takes it in a silver casket and places it in the centre of the giant rectangle that encompasses the three altars.

Just as Tommaso was unable to speak earlier, now he is unable to hold his silence.

The words just tumble out. 'Deus, in nomine tuo salvum me fac, et virtute tua age causam meam.'

Gatusso freezes.

'Deus, audi orationem meam: auribus percipe verba oris mei.'

The Prayer of Exorcism.

'Nam superbi insurrexunt contra me, et violenti quasierunt vitam meam; non proposuerunt Deum ante oclus suos.'

'Shut him up!' shouts Gatusso.

Lydia flies at Tommaso.

Instinctively, he turns his face away. Raises a knee protectively.

Lydia runs straight into it.

She rebounds and falls. Scrambles to her feet. Anger blazing in her face.

The knife raised in her hand.

She throws up her arms and screams.

At first they think she's going to strike. Kill the priest too soon.

Then they see it.

She's on fire.

She's backed into a torch and her robes are now ablaze.

Tommaso takes his chance.

Hands still tied, he darts forward and grabs a torch. He rushes at the acolytes near Tanina and sets several of their robes ablaze.

Bedlam breaks out.

Across the flames he sees Gatusso stranded in mid-ceremony, forbidden by ritual to leave the lines of the magic rectangle drawn around the altars.

More acolytes close in on Tommaso.

He glances towards his sister. 'Run Tanina, run!'

She hesitates.

'Run!'

She knows she has no choice. No hope of saving Ermanno. Or even Tommaso.

Tanina sprints for her life.

Straight across the rectangle. Straight across centuries of belief and black magic.

Gatusso is only feet away – but the wrong side of the sacrificial altar.

He can only watch – helplessly out of reach – as she sweeps up the Tablets of Atmanta and disappears into the dead of night.

CHAPTER 68

Present Day Carabinieri HQ, Venice Mario Fabianelli doesn't ask for his lawyer. Doesn't object at all to Vito taping their interview. And willingly consents to give blood, DNA and hand-swab samples.

The billionaire brushes his white linen trousers, settles into the chair in the interview room and watches the red light on the digital recorder flash into life. 'Major, I'll help you any way I can. I have told you I have nothing to hide, and I know nothing about the death of your young colleague who worked as one of my guards.'

'Antonio Pavarotti.' Vito looks angry. 'My young colleague had a name. To some of us he was precious.'

'I'm sure he was. All life is precious.'

'Well, his precious life ended just a few kilometres away from your island, and at the time he was in your employ.'

'Not really.' Fabianelli insists. 'He was hired by a security company we employ. All legal responsibility lies with them.'

'Antonio's boat was rigged with explosives-'

'You've already told me this, Major,' snaps Fabianelli. 'I was fully aware of all that when I let you swab my hands. I'm very sorry – very, very sorry for your loss, but really I had nothing to do with it.'

'Nor with the disappearance of Tom Shaman or Tina Ricci?'

'Shaman is that priest, right?'

'Right.'

'Then I had nothing to do with him, or the woman you mentioned. She's the one the priest thought was at my house?'

Vito feels his patience snapping. 'You have two separate security systems. Why is that?'

Fabianelli answers without hesitation. 'Simple. I don't want people knowing when I leave or return. As I told you before, major, I'm very careful that I don't get kidnapped. Only my closest staff has access to the boathouse and its security monitors.'

Vito decides it's time to try a different approach. 'Your assistant, Mera Teale, told Shaman that Satanic services were carried out at the mansion. Is that true?'

Fabianelli looks amused. 'Probably. We have a mixture of all religions – Quakers, Pagans, Catholics, Mormons, Muslims – so, yes, I imagine there are Satanists. And if there are, then they no doubt dance naked around candles, have orgies and do whatever Satanists do.'

'And that's what you think they do, is it?'

The billionaire shrugs. 'I really have no idea. The whole point of the commune is that everyone is free to find their own private space and express themselves in any way they want. I find mine, and I keep myself very much to myself.'

'And while we're talking of yourself, would you mind telling me what your own religion is?'

'Aaah.' He looks thoughtful. 'My Holy Trinity is Money, Art and Sex, Major. I don't mind which god or gods give them to me, but I worship them all. Now then, are we done with these crazy questions?'

Vito shakes his head. 'No, we are not. We are a long way from finished. Signor Fabianelli, do you know a man called Lars Bale?'

He looks off into the distance, through the windows and across the rolling lawns of his mansion. 'No. No, I don't think so.' He turns back to Vito. 'Why? Who is he?'

'He's an American. Quite a famous one. Are you sure you don't know him?'

'My memory isn't perfect, but I'm sure I don't know him.'

'Here's a photograph. Faxed to us by the FBI.'

Mario quickly shakes his head.

'Please look closer, signor. Are you sure you don't recognise him, or anything about him?'

He takes the photograph and considers it. 'No. I'm afraid not.'

'There's a tattoo there. A tiny tattoo like a tear beneath his left eye.'

Mario notices it now. 'Is this significant?'

'Mera Teale has an identical tattoo in an identical position. How do you account for that?'

Mario laughs. 'I don't think I have to. You should ask her. Have you looked closely at Mera? She's covered in tattoos. She has hundreds of them.'

'And do you think she has others that are identical to those on the skin of a Satanic serial killer awaiting the death penalty?'

'Major, I really don't know.' Fabianelli is showing the first signs of annoyance. 'Feel free to interview Mera at any time you want. I'm sure she'll be frank with you and will have proper explanations for all your questions.'

'We will,' says Vito. 'You can bank on it.' He passes over a photocopy of an auctioneer's catalogue that Nuncio gave him. 'Does this mean anything to you?'

Mario doesn't touch it. 'Should it? What is it?'

'An Etruscan silver artefact. Very valuable.'

He barely glances at it. 'No. It means nothing to me.'

'Are you quite sure?'

The billionaire looks at him suspiciously. 'Major, I'm growing bored now. I am positive that it means nothing to me. I own a lot of art. A good deal of sculpture. But I am a modernist, and I know every piece in my collection.'

Vito jabs his finger at the photocopy. 'You own this piece.'

Mario shakes his head.

'We've traced its ownership to a company of yours in the Cayman Islands. You paid more than a million dollars for it.'

He looks shocked. 'I can assure you I didn't.'

'You own a company out there called MFA – Mario Fabianelli Artistes?'

He shakes his head again. 'No. I have no knowledge of such a company. Who are its directors?'

Vito slides another piece of paper across the table. 'You – and your lawyer, Signor Ancelotti. You'll see your names listed there.' A thought strikes Vito. 'By the way, where is your little Rottweiler?'

Mario examines the paper. 'I don't know, Major. I haven't seen Dino Ancelotti for several days now.' He hands the documentation back. 'I really have no knowledge of this company If this paper is real, I wasn't involved in its incorporation. '