Again Vito and Valentina struggle to see what she's referring to. Gloria places Valentina's finger on the spot. 'Here, in the very middle, we have outstretched hands and the chest of a man hovering against Canaletto's skyline, as if he is ascending to heaven; that godlike figure is from The Last Supper.' She drags Valentina's hand to the left and right of the canvas. 'And here and here you see what look like lop-sided pentagrams; they are also from the backdrop of The Supper.' Gloria stares and sees something new, her face lighting up like a child discovering a final present hidden way back under a Christmas tree. 'Oh, how clever. Clever and awfully crude at the same time.' She addresses Vito. 'Your artist has actually put a tiny gold border all around the outside of the canvas – it isn't obvious on the print, but I suspect it is immensely vibrant on the original work – it acts as a none-too-subtle proclamation that the canvas is a perfect rectangle, a Golden Rectangle, as your officer here said.' She smiles at Valentina, still holding her hand, and squeezing it with a touch of discomforting affection. 'Now, let me see…' Gloria bends so close to the print that her nose virtually touches it. 'Yes! Yes! Here it is-' She slowly slides Valentina's fingers over the print. 'He's divided the work in exactly the way the Golden Ratio dictates. He's created three individual sections, but together they form one overall scene.' This time Gloria touches the print and turns it sideways with her free hand. 'Inventive. He's been truly inventive. The first section shows multiple symbolism, a classic horned demon face, so we can take this to be his bad side. The second looks like a wizard of sorts, I'm not sure of that, and the third seems to be a family scene, lovers alone and at peace with their baby.' She looks Valentina straight in the eyes. 'He's pointing out the good and bad in us all, the light and dark that rule us, perhaps also the dangers that are presented to traditional family life in our day and age.'
Before Vito and Valentina can say anything Gloria spins the print upside down. 'Aah, just as I thought, he's also worked the canvas from the other side. He's very economical, quite prestigious in his canvas coverage.'
Valentina manages to free her hand as Gloria bends closer and stares at some faint detail. 'Now that's odd. Very odd. He seems to have marked each section with Roman numerals. Why should he do that?' Gloria looks to the others for inspiration but they're drawing blanks as well. She points them out: 'Look, in the first of his three sections he's put the numerals XXIV and VII. In the second, the numerals XVI and XI. And in the third section V and VII.'
'What do they mean?' asks Vito. 'Do they have some artistic relevance?'
Gloria shakes her head slowly. 'None. None that I can think of. How strange. Perhaps it's some kind of personal irony. Artists often paint hidden jokes into their works, it gives them a secret thrill.' She can tell from their faces that this notion doesn't appeal to them. She checks her watch. 'I'm sorry, I really have to go. I hope my little critique has been of some assistance.' She fixes her eyes on Valentina. 'Do call me again if you want help. Or if you'd like to go for a drink, or visit a gallery together.'
Vito prevents further embarrassment. 'You've been enormously helpful. We're very grateful. Thank you for taking the time to come. Molte grazie.' He shows her to the door and leaves Valentina staring at the print. She doesn't have Gloria's expert eye, but she can see that the canvas is meant to be more of an abstract message board than a work of art.
'So, what did you make of these numerals?' Vito asks on his return.
'They're not only numbers,' says Valentina, peering closely at the sequences. 'They're a code of some kind.'
Vito looks tired. 'I'd expect it to be a code, but what does it mean and to whom is the code being sent?'
'Now you're asking too much of me,' says Valentina. 'I'll have this copied and sent to the cryptanalysis unit in Rome.' She backs up from the print. 'With a little luck, we may get an answer before the end of the century.'
CHAPTER 71
7th June San Quentin, California Through the toughened glass he sees them change shifts. Both guards check their wrist watches then, in sync, turn their heads towards his cell. What a pair of morons. They don't have an atom of individuality between them.
It's exactly midnight.
The first second of the new day ticks away. The sixth day of the sixth month. Execution Day. His last day on earth.
A time to turn most prisoners' bowels to water.
But not Bale's.
Lars Bale's bowels are just fine and dandy. In fact, he looks a picture of perfect health as he stands in his regulation grey shorts in the middle of his cell, his skin showered in a never-dimmed light that's the colour of mustard gas.
He smiles at the guard clocking off, going home to his undoubtedly inadequate wife sitting up and reading in bed. Waiting for him. He'll tell her about the difficulties of his dull day and then try to be nonchalant as he mentions the most famous moment of his uneventful life – running the Lars Bale death watch on the evening before his execution. He'll tell the story time and time again: in cheap, eat-all-you-can diners, boring family reunions and out-of-town bars. He'll tell it to buddies and complete strangers – and each time the story will get juicier and juicier.
Arms extended, Bale stretches and feels energy flowing from deep within.
His time is coming.
He can see and feel a protective aura growing around him. It is violet – changing to white – and then gold. The colours of his divine mind. The colour of his pathway to immortality and his rightful place alongside his father.
Outside his cell it is clear that they have been busying themselves.
Restricted Access signs have been posted. Keys to the wing have no doubt been drawn.
Logs signed. Boy, do they love their paperwork. Soon the lethal-injection team will leave their homes after an uncomfortable night with family. They'll drive to work in their old cars, listening to the radio, one hand on the wheel, window rolled down, thinking about the life they have to take and how they're going to live with that. Easy for some. More difficult for others. They'll eventually gather together and sit stony-faced and solemn in an assembly room while they get their final briefing from the governor and deputy governor. Then they'll all be sworn in like good little scouts and will go away honour-bound to carry out their constitutional duty – to kill him.
Some will enjoy it. Some will be haunted by it.
He'll make sure none of them will ever forget it.
The poor souls – they have no idea what they're letting themselves in for. No clue just how historic a day today is going to be.
CHAPTER 72
Carabinieri HQ, Venice Sickness, holidays and a family emergency in the cryptanalysis department in Rome mean Vito and Valentina have to wait overnight to get their code broken.
Valentina enters her boss's office with a sheet of A4 and a smile on her face as broad as the dome of San Marco's. 'It's so simple. So stupidly simple!' she moves to Vito's side of the desk and energetically slaps the paper down. 'It says Venice.'
'Venice?' He stares at the line of numerals – XXIV-VII-XVI-XI-V-VII
'How does it say Venice?'
'Look!' says Valentina, excitedly. 'V equals XXIV. E equals VII. N equals XVI. I equals XI. C equals V. Then we have the E again, VII.' Valentina almost breaks out laughing.
'Oh, so amazingly simple,' mocks Vito. 'Now why on earth didn't I get that straight away?'
'Okay, not that simple,' admits Valentina. 'Well, not to us, but it did make the cryptanalysts laugh.'