Michael Morley - The Venice conspiracy

But when?

The stretcher moves again. The air changes. They're going back inside.

Not now.

Not yet.

Thank God for that.

They lower him into a place that he's never seen, but knows intimately.

He's back in his room.

They mumble softly then walk away.

Clat-clat, clat-clat, clat-clat, clat-clat, clat-clat.

Ten steps.

Clii-ck-kkk.

One lock. Old and slow to close. Not heavy-duty. Not bolted.

He hears his jailer's footsteps disappear down the corridor. Heading away from his feet. To his right.

He has some sense of direction. A mental map of where they come from and go to.

They're growing careless.

It would only take three seconds to reach the corridor outside. The lock is light, single-levered and breakable.

He tries to sit up, and realises something else.

He can't.

He's still too weak to swat a fly, let alone try to escape.

Lazzaretto Vecchio, Venezia 'Get them to their feet!'

Gatusso's command brings hooded acolytes out of the shadows.

A large man bends and picks up Efran's corpse. His dangling head brushes Tanina's lap. She's too frightened to scream. An acolyte pulls her to her feet and drags her away. 'Ermanno!' she shouts, then her eyes catch Lydia's. 'Please, don't hurt him!'

'Sweet, how she still cares for her lover,' says Gatusso, sarcastically. 'Who would have thought a Jew could provoke such emotion.' He puts a booted foot against the young man's chest and pushes the unconscious body. 'Take him outside. He may still be good for something.'

Tommaso watches it all, his mind reeling from the multiple shocks the day has dealt him.

'Stand up, Brother.' Gatusso grins. 'You are the star of the show. We must ensure you make a proper entrance.'

He gets to his feet. 'You'll burn in the fires of eternal hell, Gatusso. What you're doing is beyond evil. You will suffer for ever for your sins.'

'Tut. Tut. Such anger.' He mockingly brushes Tommaso's shoulders to tidy his attire, then waves to a pair of acolytes. 'Make him watch everything. Hold his eyes open if necessary. I want him to act as witness for his precious and all powerful God.' He turns to Tommaso, a wide smirk on his face. 'Do you want to pray, Brother? You can get down on your knees if you like. Go on. We don't mind. Feel free to call upon your glorious Jesus to save you.'

Tommaso says nothing. He has no strength – neither physical nor religious.

'Good decision,' says Gatusso. 'Why waste your breath. You don't have much of it left.'

Lydia and the acolytes manhandle Tommaso away.

As he's brought into the open, he instantly sees the area outside has been well prepared.

A perfect rectangle has been drawn and divided into three, each section accommodating a libation altar made from virgin wood.

Three places to shed fresh blood.

Ermanno is already tied to one.

Tanina is stood next to another.

A third lies empty. Presumably reserved for him.

Two acolytes now attend each altar.

Torches are being lit around the rectangle.

In the centre there is a silver stand. On it are the three Tablets of Atmanta. The Gates of Hell are ready to be unlocked.

Lydia stands close to Gatusso. Tommaso notices that their red-lined, black capes bear different markings from the acolytes'. They are clearly the leaders of the coven.

He looks to Tanina.

She's gazing back at him.

Her eyes ask so much. Say so much. He wishes there was time to get to know her. To talk of their mother, their lives, their feelings.

She smiles. It's as though she can tell what he's thinking. As though she understands.

Gatusso sees them gazing at each other, forming non-verbal bonds, bridging the gap caused by their segregation.

He walks towards Tanina. 'Brother Tommaso, contrary to the beliefs of the Catholic Church, my lord Satan is a merciful god. And though I am commanded to shed your blood in his honour, I am also able to bring you great joy and happiness.' He puts a hand in Tanina's hair. 'I have a proposition for you. I will let your sister live. But in return, you must renounce your God – the God that has so obviously forsaken you – the God you do not even feel worth praying to. Renounce him – renounce the so-called Holy Trinity. Proclaim your baptism a blasphemy against the true lord, Satan.' He touches the young monk's face. 'Tommaso, if you get down on bended knee and pledge your soul to Satan, the true lord of everything, I will spare her life.' He walks to an acolyte, picks a thin blade, like a sculptor's clay knife, from a silver tray and paces up to the first altar. 'One other condition. You must take the life of her lover instead. You take it, Brother, and in return I will give you her life.' He turns the handle of the knife towards Tommaso. 'What is it to be – your sister, or a man who means nothing to you?'

Present Day 4th June San Quentin, California

FBI Supervisory Agent Steve Lerner and his partner Hilary Babcock are escorted along the prison landing to the interview room where Lars Bale is waiting, chained hand and foot, in his orange uniform.

Lerner is a small, gentle man with the frame of a sparrow and a well-trimmed greying beard that he can't help but continually stroke. Babcock is his opposite. She's tall with lightbulb eyes, hair that looks like a wild, black cleaning mop and a vocabulary that can scorch earth.

'I remember this motherfucking son-of-a-bitch when I was first at Quantico,' she says. 'A poisonous and pontificating prick if ever there was one. I'll be switching my lights off come June sixth, just so they get some extra juice to toast the bastard.'

'That's very considerate, Hilary,' says Lerner, sarcastically. 'But not at all necessary – they don't electrocute people at SQ.'

'Then they damned well should for this scumbag. I'm sure the families of his victims will love that, after everything he did, he gets a humane exit – a lavish last meal, a cosy lie-down and then a little scratch on his arm before sleepies.'

The banter continues until a prison guard lets them into the lock-up and goes through the safety routine. 'There's an alert button on the table and another by the door. Press one if you're in trouble or when you're done, and I'll come and get you out.' They nod and he relocks the door as he leaves them.

Lerner and Babcock settle in screwed-down chairs at a screwed-down table. 'Mr Bale, I'm Agent Steve Lerner, this is Agent Hilary Babcock, we're from the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit and we'd like to ask you some questions. Is that all right?'

'Ask what you like,' says Bale, his stare fixed on Babcock. 'But unless it amuses me, you won't be getting any answers.'

'I understand,' says Lerner, gently. He opens his jacket and takes out a small brown notebook and a pen. He slowly uncaps the yellow plastic pen and scribbles on a page to get the ink flowing.

'You best hurry, mister,' says Bale, poking fun. 'The speed you're moving at they're going to have executed me before you've started.'

Lerner continues as though he's not even heard the remark. 'You're an artist, I understand. Very admirable. Who was your inspiration?'

Bale's eyes flicker with fun. 'The death of Christ and the slaughter of the innocent. I find both motivating and thrilling.'

'I meant painter. Which artist do you most admire? Picasso? Dada? Dali?'

'Oh, I see,' answers Bale contemptuously, 'you're using that old find-some-common-ground trick to get the prisoner to loosen up and talk. How resourceful and intelligent you are.'

'And the answer?'

'Picabia.' Bale all but spits out the name. 'Picabia. I'll spell it out nice and slow so you don't make a mistake in your writing there. Pi-ca-b-ia. He was my inspiration. Does that help you? Or, do you not have a fucking clue who the hell I'm talking about?'