Michael Morley - The Venice conspiracy

Smart or not – they're back.

And they're sticking another spike into Tom's dartboard thigh.

He doesn't go under as quickly as normal, but he can feel it coming. A big heavy train full of the black coals of unconsciousness rumbling around the distant bends of his mind.

It'll be here soon.

Flattening him. Dragging him under its wheels. Leaving him in pieces far down the tracks.

The films are starting up again.

Another muddle of plots – Satanists in silver cowls holding the Gates of Destiny. But this time they have nothing to do with Italy.

South America.

For some crazy reason, Tom's imaginary director is setting this one in Venezuela.

The train's here now. Bearing down on him. Only yards away.

Venezuela.

The word sticks.

Venezuela. Little Venice.

The huge black cowcatcher hits him. Slams into his newborn thoughts. Trundles them through the screaming, hissing darkness.

2nd June Carabinieri HQ It's been a long time since Vito Carvalho has had to kick ass like he's doing right now. Venice was supposed to be a retirement backwater, not a white-water ride around the jagged rocks of Satanism and ritual murder.

He's had Francesca Totti hounding the Vatican so much that he doubts she'll ever be allowed into heaven. Straight after Alfie was forced to suddenly drop off the call, Vito had her send a Carabinieri unit from their Rome barracks across town to locate him. It hadn't gone down well. The Vatican and the Pope are protected by the Swiss Guard, and they take any and every opportunity to point out that the Stato della Citta del Vaticano is not only a country and a sovereign city-state, it also has jurisdictional independence from Italy and from the central authority of the Roman Catholic Church – a long-winded way of saying your badges and warrants don't count for anything in here. But the Carabinieri can be enormously persuasive. After a day of reasoned argument, Vito resorted to hidden threats. Then after his hidden threats came some not so hidden ones. The end result was Father Alfredo Giordano's release and his arrival any moment now at the Carabinieri HQ in Venice.

While waiting for Alfie, Vito has had Valentina relentlessly pressing the FBI for anything and everything about Lars Bale and his California cult following. Similarly, Rocco Baldoni has been making himself universally unpopular by contacting every police arts and antiques unit across the world to trace the tablets. Almost as arduously, Nuncio di Alberto has been deployed to scour databases for everything ever written about Mario Fabianelli, his string of global businesses and the weird hippy commune on his private island. Finally, Vito himself has been busy monitoring and managing each and every action, while also issuing more alerts on the disappearance of Tom Shaman. In short, he and his team are stretched to the limits.

The bloody image of the Gates of Hell and the ominous figure six hanging from it remains at the forefront of his mind. That, and the knowledge that the symbol was drawn two days ago. Time is ticking away. If the priest from the Vatican is right, then there are now only four days left on the countdown.

Countdown to what?

To something bad – that's for sure.

As the team file into Vito's office for the latest update, he can see exhaustion etched across all their faces. Valentina's especially. He should have cut her from the enquiry. But that's no longer an option. He needs her now. Needs everybody to give him everything they can, even if it means wrecking their health.

'So, what have we got?' Vito stretches his arms above his head and feels his back crackle with stiffness.

Valentina is first to speak. 'Lars Bale – the man Tom Shaman visited at San Quentin more than ten years ago and apparently spoke to just a few days ago.'

He cuts short his stretch. 'Why didn't we know about this?'

'Because he didn't tell us. He was probably on his way here to inform us when he disappeared.'

Vito holds up his palms by way of apology.

'Bale is now in his late forties,' she continues. 'He's due to be executed in four days' time.'

'Is this our four days?' Vito speculates.

'Don't know,' says Valentina. 'Almost two decades ago Bale had a small but dedicated following who believed he was some sort of chic, sexy antichrist. To cut a long story short, he aped Charles Manson, slaughtered innocent people and daubed signs and words in their blood.'

'Our kind of signs?' asks the major, sensing a breakthrough.

'Our kind,' confirms Valentina. 'Though of course they weren't recognised as meaning anything at the time. In one case, an LAPD patrolman walked right over the markings and practically obliterated them.'

'And no one asked what the signs actually meant because he got caught?'

'Exactly,' says Valentina. 'The FBI are sending some pro-filers to see him.'

'Better late than never,' says Rocco.

Valentina glares at him. She still has a score to settle. And will. In her own time. 'When Bale was arrested, all manner of Satanic paraphernalia was found in a squat he shared with his disciples, mainly women. There was the Satanic Bible, the complete works of Aleister Crowley and transcripts of the Black Mass in Latin, French and English.'

'Not your normal bedtime reading,' quips Vito.

'Not at all.' Valentina passes out a stack of photographs all bearing the crest of the FBI. 'They also discovered these-'

Vito fans them out. They're photographs of paintings. 'Not bad. For a crazy man, he had some talent.' He shuffles through colour shots of modern art interspersed with charcoal sketches of what look like wizards and deserts. 'Is this one of those old Etruscan priests we heard about, a netsvis?' He holds up a print.

'Maybe,' says Valentina, 'though I had him down as Dumbledore or that old guy out of The Lord of the Rings whose name I can never remember.'

'Gandalf,' says Vito, putting the shot down. 'So where are you going with all this?'

'You're not done,' says Valentina. 'Go to the last three prints.'

Vito does as he's told. The paintings are abstract, almost cubist, very crude, and nothing jumps out straight away.

Valentina smiles. 'The other way round. Turn them the other way round and lie them side by side.'

Even before Vito does it he knows what he's going to see.

Through the cubist angles and the fire of red and black oils, familiar figures now leap out at him.

A demon. A priest. Two lovers and their devil child.

Lazzaretto Vecchio, Venezia When Tommaso regains conciousness, he finds he's not the only one to have been beaten and bound.

Tanina and Ermanno are sitting on the floor opposite him, backs against a damp brick wall, a thick black candle burning between them.

The young monk guesses they're in an old ward of the plague hospital.

A place where thousands drew their last breath.

Ermanno is motionless.

Dead?

Asleep?

Or just unconscious?

Tommaso is not sure which. The Jew's face is bloody and bruised, his left eye so swollen that, if he is still alive, it's unlikely he'll ever be able to see through it.

Tanina looks petrified. But apart from a face streaked with dirt and tears, she appears unharmed.

Tommaso's legs hurt, especially around the right knee. His ankles are bound and his hands, like those of the others, are tied behind his back.

Tanina notices that he's come round. 'Tommaso, are you all right?'

He understands he's expected to put a brave face on things. 'I think so. Are you?'

She nods. 'Yes. But Ermanno keeps losing consciousness. I'm worried about him.' Her face creases, and he can see she's fighting back tears.

The candle on the floor almost blows out. The flame has been rocked by a breeze from a door to the left.