The Venice conspiracy

Vito sits back and regards him suspiciously. 'You don't know where your own lawyer is?'

The billionaire laughs. 'Where is your chief prosecutor right now?'

'At work, probably in her office or someone else's office.'

'Va bene. Dino is also probably at work in someone's office – maybe a tax office, maybe a banking office, a revenue department office. I don't know which office or where, and I don't want to. My life is more interesting than knowing the whereabouts of my lawyer.'

'May I impose upon you to call him and ask about your ownership of this offshore company, MFA, and the artefact I mentioned?'

Mario smiles. 'You may. But not in here and not right now.' He gestures to the tape recorder. 'I want to be helpful, Major – but I don't want to be foolish. If mistakes have been made by people working for me, then they are private mistakes and I will deal with them privately.'

'Let me remind you, signor, that this is more than a private matter – it is a legal one. We are investigating several murders, including the death of Antonio Pavarotti, a person in your indirect employ.'

Fabianelli's patience snaps. 'And let me remind you – you haven't charged me with anything and you don't have anything to charge me with, or you would have done so. Major, I don't need a lawyer to tell me you're all at sea and desperately fishing for scraps. So, if you please, I would like to go home, from where – I promise – I will call my lawyer. And if it's appropriate I will then enlighten you about this company and the artefact you mentioned.'

Vito's done. He's out of tricks. Out of questions. Continuing the interview seems pointless. He turns off the recorder and painfully watches Mario Fabianelli swing his thousand-dollar cream linen jacket from the back of the interview chair and leave.

CHAPTER 69

The antique wall clock in Vito Carvalho's office noisily ticks towards midnight. It makes a strange, slow clunk, almost as though it's taking a quick break, before it officially starts another day.

Vito and Valentina sit at his conference table with a bottle of brandy from his bottom drawer and two glasses that look as though they haven't been washed since the last time he used them. He tips the Vecchio and listens to the satisfying glug of its honey-gold liquid. 'I really thought Nuncio had come up with something with that company search and directorships.'

'We do have something,' insists Valentina. 'We know Mera Teale and that lawyer Ancelotti are missing. And his name's on the company that bought the tablet. They're strong connections. '

'But not illegal. Nothing about those connections breaks the law.' Vito hurriedly downs his brandy and lets out a fiery sigh. 'We should have noticed Teale was missing when we brought Fabianelli back here to be interviewed.' He tops up his glass. 'Now both she and the lawyer have vanished. Tom's missing. That whore of a reporter he slept with has disappeared. ' He bangs the glass down and spills liquid across his fingers. 'What's going on, Valentina? Has a black hole appeared? A Bermuda triangle? Have these people just vanished? '

She nods her head towards the operational map on his wall. 'In a way, they have. There are more than a hundred islands around us, that's our black hole. It will take for ever to search them.'

'We don't have for ever.'

'And they may not even be in the locality.'

'Tina Ricci hasn't left the country. I've checked the border records,' says Vito.

'Patrols also have alerts on Ancelotti and Teale,' adds Valentina. 'There's no record of them travelling under their own names.'

Vito remembers something. 'Did you check Teale's connection to Lars Bale?'

Valentina looks annoyed that she's been asked. 'I did. There's nothing obvious. They're not related, there are no links to victims or other members of his cult. The only common thing is that they both come from LA. That said, Los Angeles is home to thirteen million people.'

'Could they have met?'

'Unlikely. Teale is twenty-six, Bale is forty-nine. He's been in prison eighteen years, so when he was arrested he was thirty, maybe just thirty-one and she'd have been around eight years old. That's a big gap.'

'Did she ever visit him in prison?'

'I've asked. San Quentin are trawling visitor records. Nothing came up under the name Teale. I also asked the FBI the same question.'

Vito's phone rings. He moves from the small conference table to his desk and answers it. He looks back towards Valentina. 'The FBI. Right on cue.'

'Telepathy,' she says, and finally takes a jolt of her brandy.

Vito barely talks, just listens intently. 'Momento; let me put you on speakerphone, so my colleague can hear.' He flicks a switch and replaces the receiver in its cradle.

The voice of Supervisory Special Agent Steve Lerner spills out. 'Lars Bale was a prolific painter. We wondered what happened to his work. Seems he gave it all away to a charity that raises money to fight the death penalty. Interesting thing is, this charity sells them.'

'How, exactly?' asks Vito.

'You near a computer?'

'Yes.'

'Then type in the URL: www.deathrowtalents.com.'

Vito nods to Valentina. She slips behind the keyboard and taps it into the browser.

Her eyes light up.

'You got it?' asks Lerner.

Vito looks over Valentina's shoulder. 'Si.'

'Then go to the home page – type Bale's name in the search box – and you'll see he has his own virtual gallery.'

Vito and Valentina are astounded to see a head-and-shoulders shot of Bale pop up, surrounded by dozens of his paintings.

'You're shocked, eh? Welcome to America, where even serial killers have the rights to express themselves and become famous.'

Vito's truly amazed. 'He's done hundreds, literally hundreds of paintings.'

'Scroll down, pick one and double-click on it,' says Lerner. 'You'll be able to see it full frame and zoom in on any sections you want. You can get a better look online than if you were stood next to the real thing.'

Valentina works the mouse as she talks. 'So Bale would paint something that had hidden messages in it. Give it away to the charity. They'd innocently post it on the net, and then his followers would access the website and decode his instructions.'

'You got it,' says Lerner. 'Simple when you know how.'

'Isn't everything?' Vito can't take his eyes off the bottom of the screen. 'There's one posted six days ago.' He does a double-take. 'Have you seen it?'

'Sure we have,' says Lerner. 'It mean anything to you?'

CAPITOLO LX 1778

Lazzaretto Vecchio, Venezia The ritual is in ruins.

Gatusso no longer cares about crossing the magic lines of the rectangle. He bolts after Tanina.

Tommaso just manages to block his way.

They both crash to the ground in a heap. The torch tumbles from Tommaso's hands. He's lost what weapon he had.

Now the acolytes are on him like a pack of famished dogs. Vicious blows pound his face, knuckles rip flesh from his cheeks.

Throughout it all, Tommaso clings to Gatusso's ankle. He's not letting go. He might not have the skill to fight, but he can hang on – hang on for dear life.

Someone kicks his arm. Nerve endings jangle but he still keeps his grip. Every second he holds on is another step Tanina takes to safety.

Something wooden – a makeshift club – smashes against his wrist. He loses the feeling in his hand. Loses his hold.

Gatusso starts to get up.

Tommaso lurches forward. Falls across Gatusso's legs. The high priest lashes out at him.

The unseen club comes down again.

Connects perfectly.

Tommaso's skull cracks open.

Pain shoots through his eyes and temples. Blackness rolls in. Face down in the stinking earth, he prays Tanina is already far away.

He doesn't feel the next blow. Or the one after that.