Michael White - The Medici secret

'Contented? What a thoroughly disgusting word. It means nothing, nothing at all. Precisely halfway between agony and ecstasy. Very bourgeois of you, my friend.' Jeff shrugged and drained his glass. 'All right, "fulfilled" then. I'm feeling fulfilled. Will that do?' 'Better.' 'You know more than anyone how depressed I was when I first moved here, but I'm over it now.' 'And you're not missing your old life?' 'Imogen?'

'No, not that bitch. Your illustrious career, being the young prodigy, historian extraordinaire.' 'No.' 'Why don't I believe you?'

'Well OK, yes. I sometimes find myself wondering what I would be doing now if things had turned out differently. I do try and keep up with things, even if I am persona non grata at Cambridge. And there's the stuff I do with you.'

Jeff beckoned the waiter and ordered another round. He was not being entirely honest with his friend. He loved Venice and had started to find real joy in working with Roberto. The problem was this research was only one of many concerns for Roberto who seemed to have a magical ability to juggle ten different projects at once. His recent trip to America had interrupted the flow of their studies, and Jeff knew that now Roberto was back he would immediately be throwing himself into at least half a dozen new plans. Besides which, he had to admit he was beginning to miss the satisfaction he had gained from being a respected member of the academic establishment, a fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge.

His ascension to world authority on the history of the early Middle Ages had been the stuff of legend, and at university he had been considered a genuine prodigy. Even before his finals he had written a ground-breaking paper on anti-Semitism in tenth century France published in the leading academic publication Journal of European History. He had then picked up a First from King's College, London before his twentieth birthday.

Moving to Cambridge, he had become a protege of Norman Honeywell-Scott, a famed academic with important connections. Jeff felt no shame in admitting that he had ridden on Honeywell-Scott's coattails, but within three years of joining the historian in Cambridge, they had fallen out, never to speak to each other again. Honeywell-Scott had moved to the Sorbonne where he had become an even more luminous star in the academic firmament. The same summer, Jeff had met and fallen in love with Imogen Parkhurst, only child of the Tory cabinet minister Sir Maxwell Parkhurst, whose ancestors had made their fortune financing the Napoleonic Wars.

Imogen's father had never liked him (her mother had died nine years earlier), and Jeff knew that for all his brilliance and academic success, Imogen was way out of his league. He had been born in a two-bedroom flat above a shop in Wickford, Essex, and his father had run an electrical business. Intellectual clout could only partially make up for poor breeding. Imogen had vigorously denied that her feelings for him stemmed from a belated act of rebellion against her parents, but it was nonsense of course. Then out of the blue, Jeff learned that Imogen was having an affair with a family friend, Caspian Knightley, a distant cousin of the late Diana Spencer.

From that moment onwards, his and Imogen's lives began to diverge. Two months after they had separated, Sir Maxwell died in a helicopter crash and Imogen inherited the family millions. Jeff threw himself into work and put huge faith in a TV series about Charlemagne he had been chosen to write and present. The pilot for the show bombed and almost overnight he lost his chance. The failure, the first of his career, hit him hard. He had turned to drink and then, influenced by his media friends, he had dabbled briefly with cocaine. Before long, his academic life started to unravel. A few months later, with his divorce finalised, he had taken the advice of the Master of Trinity and left for an extended 'holiday' in Italy.

In some ways, he had been lucky. During his marriage to Imogen he had met some useful people who had become genuine friends. One of these was Mark Thornton who was one of the most skilful divorce lawyers in Britain. Thornton had never much liked the Parkhursts and had little time for Imogen. He had worked hard to secure Jeff an exceptionally good settlement which meant that the electrical contractor's son from Wickford was set up for life with a flat in Mayfair, a luxurious four-bedroom apartment on St Mark's Square in Venice and a few million in the bank. But Jeff knew he would have happily sacrificed the lot if he could have rewritten history and had more time to spend with Rose.

'Is there some babe at the bar?' Roberto asked suddenly. 'What?'

'You seem inordinately interested in something or someone over there.' 'Sorry, I was just thinking about Rose,' he lied.

'She's certainly blossomed. I could hardly believe it when I came to pick you up this evening. And she gets on with the irreducible Maria? That really is something.'

Jeff laughed. 'You never did warm to my housekeeper, did you Roberto?'

'No,' he replied. 'The woman can't stand the sight of me.'

'Nonsense.' Jeff looked at his watch. It had turned eleven. 'Look, sorry to be a bore, but I ought to be getting back. It' s my shout.'

Outside Harry's, it was freezing, and their breath hung mistily in the air. It was the eve of Carnivale; a crisp February evening, Jeff's favourite season in Venice. Turning up their collars, they walked along Calle Vallaresso, past the designer stores on each side, towards San Moise. They parted at the junction with a promise to meet up for Sunday lunch at the Gritti Palace. Jeff plunged his hands into his overcoat and headed east towards San Marco.

It was quiet. Most tourists were tucked up in bed and the African street traders were putting away their fake Louis Vuitton bags and five-dollar Rolexes. He crossed the square close to its western edge and walked quickly through a short passageway. His apartment was on the top floor on the north side of the square. Turning right, he walked along a narrow lane behind the building, the silence broken only by the gentle lapping of the canal to his left. Reaching the door to the hallway, he felt in his pocket for the key. Just as he inserted it into the lock, he heard a quiet cough. He span round. Standing in the shadows was a man in a long black coat and hat. For the briefest moment, the light from a window in Jeff's building caught something shiny in the man's hand making it glint in the darkness.

'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you,' the man said, stepping out of the shadows. No more than five feet tall, his face was lined and worn. He was wearing a scruffy overcoat and a trilby hat, under which his long white hair trailed to his shoulders. Taking a step towards Jeff, he leaned heavily on a wooden cane with a highly polished metal top. 'My name is Mario Sporani,' the old man added. 'You don't know me, but I have some information I think you'll find interesting. Could I possibly impose on your hospitality? It is a little chilly.'

' What kind of information?' Jeff asked, eyeing the man suspiciously. 'A matter of history.' 'History?'

'My apologies. I have travelled this evening from my home in Florence. I was once the warden of the Medici Chapel. There's a matter of great importance I need to discuss with you,' and he handed Jeff a frayed black and white photograph. It showed a much younger Mario Sporani holding a black cylinder about twelve inches long. At one end of the tube Jeff could just make out a crest, an arrangement of five balls and a pair of crossed keys: the Medici coat of arms.

'I'm one of only a handful who have seen this object in five hundred years,' Sporani continued. 'And now it has disappeared from the face of the Earth.' Jeffs sitting room was spectacular, a vast open space, furnished in a contemporary style, all brushed steel, dark woods, soft cream and white fabrics. The wall facing the doorway was taken up with massive windows looking out on to San Marco, the Campanile and S. Giorgio Maggiore beyond. To the right of this room lay the kitchen, and to the left, a shadowy corridor led to the bedrooms.