Michael Morley - The Venice conspiracy

The Uzi is up and aiming at the middle of her back.

She'll be dead in a heartbeat.

Tom hurls the iron railing like a spear. It cracks against the gunman's skull and his burst of fire goes awry.

Valentina spins round. Pumps shots into her attacker's body. Moves closer. Gun outstretched. Another round makes his chest jump. Nothing's being taken for granted.

Tom slides down into the lower branches, 'Valentina! Don't shoot!'

She keeps her weapon at shoulder height, eyes sweeping east to west.

Tom lowers himself out of the last branches, drops to the floor, his ankle buckling again.

She sees him but says nothing. She's wired. Still in the kill zone. Incapable of reacting outside her training. She moves cautiously to the body and picks up the Uzi.

Tom bends close to the corpse and retrieves the rusty iron weapon. 'There are others,' he says, wiping blood and flesh from it on the grass. 'They're gathering at the back of the hospital. They have a fire there and – I couldn't see properly because of the smoke – but it looked like they were going to burn someone.'

'Stay here. I'll take care of it.' Valentina holsters her weapon and grabs her radio. 'I'll call it in, then come back for you.'

Lieutenant Francesca Totti and her three-man team enter the old Plague Hospital with weapons raised.

A locally born history graduate, she's more than aware of the building's awful past. At least three of her ancestors died here. Another half-dozen perished in the watery journey to the Lazzaretto.

Francesca's radio is back on her belt after answering Valentina's alert.

Her team methodically clears the downstairs rooms. Two more units, following behind, take the upper floors.

At the eastern end of the corridors, Francesca hears voices. Dark shapes are moving in a courtyard beyond dusty windows. She holds her hand high to slow and quieten the troops behind her.

From their crouched positions they watch three black-hooded figures gather around a steel gurney from one of the wards.

Something's wrong.

Francesca can see the reflection of a large fire that must be crackling and spitting flames somewhere out of view.

The Satanists are wearing silver Venetian masks. Walking on a carpet of dead flowers. Reciting prayers.

Francesca sees no knives. No weapons of any kind. Despite the impending arrival of the Carabinieri there seems no trace of panic amongst them.

Everything's too low-key.

Like they're too late.

She waves one soldier around to a door on the right, another to an archway on the left.

On her signal they step forward in unison into the courtyard.

Guns drawn and aimed.

The Satanists immediately hold their hands up in surrender.

But there's still no panic. The air is filled more with comedy than tension.

Francesca moves to the gurney placed in the middle of them.

It's empty.

She rips the masks off the celebrants.

Three women.

All looking amused.

A flash of horror. The fire!

Francesca runs to the flames, scared of what she might find.

Wood. Old trees. Planks and garden debris.

There's nothing human on the fire. In the centre, just the glowing remains of a dummy, made from stuffed clothes and a mask.

From behind her, Francesca hears the women start to laugh.

It's all a decoy.

San Quentin, California The weatherman says it's going to be a hot one, a high of nearly ninety degrees across the San Rafael city area where California's oldest prison is preparing its latest execution.

Twelve official witnesses walk through San Q's cold, silent corridors, heading to the witness viewing room, trying to make small talk. Most are parents, girlfriends, husbands and children of those Bale has killed. A couple are anti-death-penalty campaigners.

Some of the witnesses are thinking of going straight to church after this, down to the distinctive pink-roofed St Raphael chapel where a golden cross gleams against the cloudless blue sky and distant green hills. Others will meet with friends and try to drink the scene they're about to witness clean from their memories. Others will go out to Miller Creek or walk in the forests and quietly reflect on it all.

Seventeen media witnesses are brought from another direction. They look less concerned. Trained eyes desperately devour all detail, colour, background – anything that will make their stories longer. News that Bale passed on a last meal, and instead bizarrely requested a crystal glass to drink his own urine from is the current report being uplinked from the dozens of TV vans crammed in the car park.

Inside the execution wing, eight of the prison's most senior security staff are already in position to make sure nothing untoward happens.

Bale has no one present.

No family.

No friends.

No lawyer.

Certainly no spiritual advisor.

It's the way he wants it.

His people have more important things to do.

And right now they should be doing them.

Bale walks to the glass and points at his wrist.

The guard opposite him raises two fingers.

Two.

Just two hours to go.

Lazzaretto Vecchio, Venice Even with a busted ankle, sitting and waiting isn't something Tom Shaman is good at.

He clambers into an old rowing boat he'd spotted from the tree and takes to the water.

The island is fringed with dense shrubbery and trees, the hospital obscured for much of his journey.

Finally, he sees some outbuildings.

A near-derelict boathouse.

Dark green paint, baked and blistered by a scorching summer sun, peels from its grey weathered doors.

Panic rises inside him.

He knows this place. Knows it like he's visited it in his nightmares. It contains the same evil he felt at the Salute.

From where he's sitting, the dilapidated outbuilding looks no different than dozens of others he's seen in Venice. But this place is different.

It is the most evil place on earth.

Tom's left hand aches, especially around the wrist. At first he thought it was where the plastic ties had chafed him. But now he sees it.

His veins are punctured in several places.

No doubt the spots where they jacked him full of Propofol or whatever it was. From the bruising, it also looks like someone's vampired blood from him. He dreads to think what they want it for.

Tom paddles quietly towards the giant doors. They're shut tight.

He pushes the boat on to a grassy bank and grabs his makeshift weapon. It seems hugely inadequate as he slips into the cold water.

He wades forward slowly, the water level reaching his mouth but not his nose. When he gets to the door he feels his way down for the bottom edge of it.

Tom takes a deep breath and ducks beneath the dark water.

He surfaces very slowly.

So slowly the surface barely ripples.

At first he sees nothing.

Dirty lagoon water stings his eyes and hangs like opaque curtains in front of him.

Gradually, his vision clears.

The entire boathouse is lit by candles. Black candles. It's like staring into a night sky.

A long black gondola floats to Tom's right. It's similar but different to the pictures Valentina showed them of Fabianelli's craft. It's older and has a small cabin. Beyond it, on the same side, is a stretch of two-tier decking.

On the lower tier, rough planks of wood have been bolted together. For many reasons, it reminds Tom of a butcher's table.

Behind it is the high priest. He wears a full-face silver mask, as do the two acolytes flanking him.

Tom slowly dips beneath the water and moves towards the prow of the gondola.

When he resurfaces he can hear and see more.