The Absolution Page 21

  The speech was so unlike Daniele that she only looked at him, wondering.

  “I saw him throw his magic dust into my father’s eyes,” he explained. “I’m not saying it was easy for my parents after my kidnap. But, somehow, every conversation seemed to begin, ‘Ian Gilroy says . . .’ or ‘Ian agrees . . .’ And after my father died, Gilroy was left as the principal trustee of the Foundation. He’d convinced my father it was the only way to prevent me from selling off his art collection. But if that lever hadn’t been available to him, he would have found some other lie. I’m sure of it.”

  “I heard you accuse him of it once. He asked me to wait behind a screen at his house, when you came to speak to him. He wanted me to hear how unreasonable you were being.”

  “It was him who pushed us together, wasn’t it?” he said sadly. “You and me . . . that was always part of his plan.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “I made my own decision about that. One I don’t regret, by the way. The point is, I’ve been trying to figure out if there’s any way of proving whether or not Gilroy’s version of events is correct. And it seems to me you’re the only person who might be able to help.”

  “Me? How?”

  “It all comes down to your kidnap. If Paolo was the mastermind, as both Gilroy and Tataro claim, then perhaps you saw something to corroborate their version of events?”

  He shook his head. “You know I don’t remember anything about the kidnap. Not after the first few days, anyway.”

  “Which in itself is strange, don’t you think? I looked up memory loss due to psychological trauma on the internet. It’s almost always temporary.”

  “Believe me, my parents tried everything. I was dragged from doctor to doctor for years. Most decided it was linked to my . . .” He hesitated. “My other condition.”

  “But that’s another thing,” she said. “When I spoke to Carole Tataro, she told me she used to play number games with you. She said that you seemed a little strange, vulnerable even, but not autistic.”

  “My parents believed the same thing. That the kidnap somehow triggered, or at any rate worsened, whatever was wrong with me.”

  “But don’t you see the implication?” she persisted. “If what you have is actually not high-functioning autism at all but some trauma-induced condition that closely mirrors it . . . True autism is incurable. But a condition which mimics its symptoms might, in theory, be reversible. There are papers describing children brought up in Eastern-bloc orphanages, for example, who appeared to display autistic behaviours but who grew up to be indistinguishable from other kids.”

  “Some of them,” he corrected. “Those who were taken out of that environment young enough. I read those papers too. But even if that were once applicable to me, it isn’t relevant now.”

  “I’ve been doing some research. There’s a relatively new technique called EMDR – Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing. No one seems to know exactly why or how EMDR works. But studies have shown that, when combined with hypnosis, it’s the most effective treatment for post-traumatic amnesia there is.” She hesitated. “I already spoke to Father Uriel,” she said, naming the psychiatrist who’d treated both herself and Daniele in the past. “He’s familiar with it.”

  “I’d like to help, really. But I don’t have time for this right now.” He ran his hand through his hair and for the first time she saw how exhausted he was. “There have been . . . problems. With Carnivia. A kind of virus. I’m getting to the bottom of it, but it’s difficult.”

  In fact, he was understating the scale of the clean-up he and the other administrators had been undertaking. He had written a piece of software that would remove the worm, but it was an operation that had to be carried out on an individual basis, user by user. And more users were being infected all the time. It was a race between the virus and the wizards; one they were currently losing.

  “If there’s at least a chance that your condition could be cured, wouldn’t you want to take it?”

  “Why would I want to be like other people? I’m happy the way I am.”

  “You wouldn’t be like other people,” she insisted. “You’d still be Daniele – still brilliant, still strange. Who knows, perhaps you’d simply be more you. Perhaps you’d be capable of even greater things than you already are.”

  He was silent a moment. The idea that treatment might actually unlock his abilities rather than stifle them was one he hadn’t considered before. And it was true what that professor at MIT had written: his best work appeared to be behind him. He needed to do something different if he was to get a different result.

  Sensing his hesitation, she added, “Daniele, it would mean a lot to me if you would at least try this. I have to find out what happened to my dad, and at the moment I’m getting nowhere.”

  There were many people, she knew, who thought that Daniele Barbo was impervious to such emotional appeals. But she had never believed that to be the case. His emotions might be different from other people’s, but they existed nevertheless.

  “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll try. I suppose I’ve got nothing to lose.”

  FORTY-TWO

  IT WAS FIVE thirty in the morning when Kat’s phone rang. Scrabbling for it, she saw Flavio’s name on the screen. “Yes?”

  “I’ve authorised a warrant,” his voice said. “You’re to bring Count Tignelli in for questioning.”

  “What charges?” she asked, reaching for a pad.

  “Conspiracy to murder, conspiracy to overthrow the state, organising an illegal group, and conspiracy to manipulate the financial markets. We’ll throw the lot at him, make him fight us on every front.”

  “You won’t regret this,” she said, scribbling.

  “Actually, I suspect I might. But I’m also sure it’s the right thing to do. And Kat? Be careful which carabinieri you take with you. I’d rather Count Tignelli didn’t know anything about this until you knock on his front door.”

  As soon as he’d rung off, she called Aldo Piola. He too answered immediately, and with much the same hope and expectancy in his voice, she realised, as there had been in hers when she’d picked up the phone to Flavio.

  “Kat? What is it?”

  “I need to get a team together who definitely aren’t Freemasons.” She explained her problem, the phone tucked under her ear so she could pull on clothes as she spoke.

  “Let’s meet at San Zaccaria in thirty minutes. We’ll go through Hapadi’s list and Cassandre’s, cross-checking them against the available officers. In the meantime, what about Panicucci? He’s good, and I’d swear he isn’t the Freemason type.”

  “Good idea. I’ll call him now.”

  “And Bagnasco? We can be pretty sure she isn’t a Mason. Like you, she doesn’t have the first qualification.”

  “She may be a woman,” Kat said, “but I have absolutely no doubt she’d be on the phone to her uncle before we even got into the boats.”

  There was a silence. “I think you’re wrong. But it’s your operation. Your call.”

  “Thank you.” Besides, she thought, she intended to go in fast, and there would be no room in the boats for an officer who got seasick.

  Venice was still shrouded in mist as the twelve-man team roared away from the pontoon at Rio dei Greci. It would burn off later, but for the moment it gave the city an eerie, insubstantial translucence, water and stone blending seamlessly into each other in the chilly, muffled grey.

  They used no sirens and as they approached La Grazia she gave the order to turn off the blue lights as well. She glanced at her watch. Twenty past six. It seemed unlikely the staff would still be asleep, but if they could catch Tignelli himself in bed, so much the better.

  She noticed the absence of La Grazia’s launch as they tied up. As the carabinieri streamed up the immaculate lawn towards the house, the only sign of life was a water sprinkler, spinning like a radar antenna over the lush green grass.

  “Ring the bell or break down the door?” Panicucci ask
ed.

  “Both.”

  “No need,” the lead carabiniere said, pushing the door. “It’s already open.”

  Inside, the great house was eerily silent. A portrait of Napoleon stared down at them haughtily as they milled in the grand hallway.

  “Count Tignelli?” Kat shouted. There had still been no response to the bell.

  “Is it possible there’s no one here?” Piola asked quietly.

  He was right. As they fanned out through the ground-floor rooms, it became apparent that neither Tignelli nor any of his staff were at home.

  “Capitano?”

  One of the carabinieri was calling to her. She followed his voice into a dining room. On the table a light meal was laid out: some fruit, slices of ham and carpaccio, an unopened bottle of prosecco in an ice bucket. Flies lifted off the meat and circled, droning angrily, as she approached. She lifted the bottle out of the bucket and felt it. It was barely cool, the ice long since melted.

  “It seems strange to leave the food out,” the carabiniere added unnecessarily.

  She looked again at the table. It was laid for two, but neither plate had been touched. A sudden foreboding came over her. “Search upstairs,” she commanded. “Every room. Sottotenente Panicucci, come with me.” Heading outside, she ran down the gravel path that led through the gardens.

  Panicucci caught up with her. “Where are we going?”

  “The peschiera,” she panted.

  The huge seawater basins also appeared to be deserted. Looking down into the nearest one, she could just make out the eels’ silvery, undulating shapes, clustered around something under the surface. She walked along the ancient stone wall to get a better look. When she was directly above the spot where they were congregating, she found a rock and dropped it into the water.

  The mass of eels parted briefly and a man’s face peered up at her. A ravaged, torn face, surrounded by flickering, Medusa-like tails . . . As she watched, sharp teeth bit into Tignelli’s cheeks, and half a dozen more darted forwards, fastening their mouths onto his lips and chin, tearing and pulling.

  She turned. “The sluice gate,” she shouted to Panicucci. “Open it!” He understood, and ran to do as she’d said. She looked round for more rocks, but there weren’t any. Cursing, she jumped feet first into the water, which was cold and slightly greasy, whether from the presence of the body or the eels, she couldn’t have said. Some of the smaller creatures darted away, but the larger ones were more aggressive, taking advantage of the space left by the more timid to force their way even closer to their meal. She splashed and kicked, driving them off. A long, thin shape slid from Tignelli’s shirtsleeve; another backed out from his trouser cuff. A commotion under his shirt, in the region of his chest, showed where another was panicking; a moment later, it flickered from his open collar, sinuous and silvery as a knotted necktie, and was gone. The water level was falling now, Panicucci having got the sluice open. On and on she beat at the water, shouting at them in choice Venetian – it was only later she realised that she might as well have saved her breath, since they couldn’t hear. Soon the wriggling mass was breaking the surface of what little water was left, and then it was slipping away, tumbling into the next basin.

  By her feet, the plundered, ripped-apart face of Count Birino Tignelli, would-be conqueror of Venice, emerged from the receding waters like a nightmare.

  “You did well,” Hapadi said. “Another hour or so and they’d have destroyed any indication of how he died. Even so, don’t expect much in the way of forensic evidence.”

  She nodded. She was wearing white microfibre overalls instead of her wet clothes now. Despite Hapadi’s caution, it was clear that Tignelli had been murdered: the two bullet wounds in his chest left no doubt.

  A second forensic team was examining the former convent’s chapel, which turned out to be decorated with flags bearing the symbol Father Calergi had identified as the carità, along with other Masonic paraphernalia. It seemed likely that was where Cassandre had been killed: the search team’s ultraviolet lamps had revealed faint traces of blood on the flagstone floor.

  Whoever had murdered Tignelli, she reflected, had hit on a far surer way of ensuring no evidence was left behind.

  “We need a word, Capitano.”

  She looked up. Aldo Piola was standing ten yards off. Behind him she saw the trim, dapper figure of Colonel Grimaldo of AISI.

  “I suppose you’ve come to order us off this investigation as well,” she said bitterly as they walked back to the house.

  “On the contrary,” Grimaldo said. “I have some evidence that I believe may be useful to you.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “A wiretap.” He pulled out a miniature recorder and a pair of earbud headphones. “It’s probably easier if you use these. The quality isn’t perfect.”

  She put the buds in her ears and pressed “Play”. There was some interference, then she heard Tignelli’s voice. “Pronto.”

  The voice that spoke next was strangely robotic. “Good - evening - Count - Tignelli. We - need - to - meet.”

  “Who is this?”

  “An - interested - party. One - who - is - aware - of - your - plans.”

  “I have no interest in discussing any plans I might have with you,” Tignelli said brusquely.

  “Then - they - will - not - succeed.”

  Tignelli’s voice became more cautious. “If you have something to say to me, then say it.”

  “This - phone - is - being - tapped - by - the - Italian - Intelligence - Service. I - will - be - with - you - in - one - hour.”

  “Alone?”

  It was clear that Tignelli was asking if the visitor would be unaccompanied, but the voice chose not to take it that way. “Yes. Just - you. Send - your - staff - away.” There was a click as the caller disconnected.

  She pulled the earphones from her ears. “What time was this?”

  “Nine o’clock last night.”

  “And you didn’t do anything?”

  “I was engaged on another operation at the time. I was only alerted to it this morning.” He gestured at the search teams. “It seems you beat me to it.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and he sighed. “Capitano, I’m aware you’ve been speculating that AISI might somehow have been involved with Count Tignelli’s plans. I’m here to assure you that isn’t the case. I can also promise you full cooperation in what will now become a joint investigation.”

  “What makes you think I was speculating about anything of the kind?”

  “Avvocato Marcello authorised us to tap your phone as well as Count Tignelli’s,” Grimaldo said matter-of-factly. “Along with that of Avvocato Li Fonti. You see, we were initially just as suspicious of you as you were of us. Given what Cassandre had told us, we couldn’t take any chances.”

  “And what did he tell you, exactly?” She pushed out of her mind that anyone tapping her and Flavio’s phones would have heard the most intimate details of their relationship.

  “As you quickly realised, Alessandro Cassandre was an unscrupulous chancer. He’d worked out why Count Tignelli thought the bank’s apparently worthless credit default swaps would become valuable, and decided to ingratiate himself into the Count’s organisation to try to profit from it further. Then, when his own corrupt financial dealings were discovered by the bank’s chairman, he decided to save his own skin by coming to us and offering to betray Tignelli and his co-conspirators instead. Needless to say, he wasn’t offering cooperation for patriotic reasons. He wanted immunity from prosecution, as well as a substantial payment.”

  “Did you agree?”

  Grimaldo shook his head. “We told him he’d have to get closer to the conspirators before we even discussed a deal. It seems Tignelli chose not to trust such an obviously self-serving ally after all.”

  “So what will happen to Tignelli’s plans for an independent Veneto now?”

  “Thanks to you, we have the list of names from Cassandre’s computer – almost certainly
his fellow Masons. We’ll round them all up and make sure they understand that this particular enterprise is to go no further.” He hesitated. “Unfortunately, some aspects of Tignelli’s plan may not be so easy to stamp out.”

  Something in the darkness of Grimaldo’s tone made her frown. “Why not?”

  “The separatist coup, if that is what we may call it, won’t happen. But the events that would trigger it . . . they may be a different matter.”

  “What events?”

  “He was planning an atrocity,” Grimaldo said quietly. “A terrorist attack on Venice. His intention was that it would be foiled in advance, at which point he would use it as a pretext to declare that Rome was no longer capable of protecting the city. That would have been the signal for the regional assembly to declare a state of emergency, swiftly followed by a local referendum on independence.”

  “Can you stop it?”

  “We thought so – that was the operation I was involved in last night. We had a name: a radicalised Muslim, currently studying in Sicily. Cassandre had been transferring money to him, on Tignelli’s instructions. But when we sent a GIS squad to arrest him, we were just hours too late. It seems he’d been tipped off.”

  “Where could he have gone?”

  “We don’t know. It’s possible he’s slipped out of the country altogether, in which case he might no longer pose a danger. But until we know for sure, we’re keeping the threat level at red.”

  “Are there any leads?”

  “Just one. Shortly before he left, a teacher at the college where he was studying was killed. The local police have it down as a hate crime. But it’s surely a remarkable coincidence that one of the very few people who could help us to identify the terrorist is now dead.”

  FORTY-THREE

  DANIELE TOOK A taxi to the Institute of Christina Mirabilis, the private hospital deep in the Veneto countryside where Father Uriel was based. This was the region where the grapes for prosecco were grown, and every spare inch of land was covered in neat rows of vines.