‘Don’t hang up,’ said a voice, sounding hollow and speaking quite slowly. ‘We have your daughter—’

  ‘Is she all right?’ interrupted da Baggio, almost crushing the phone in his hand. The countess looked at him, alarmed.

  ‘Keep calm. She’s fine and will remain so as long as you do exactly as I tell you. Now, listen carefully ...’

  27

  Palazzo da Baggio: 29 May

  Jack sat in the conservatory at the Kuragin Chateau just outside Paris reviewing his manuscript of The Forgotten Painting, when he received a phone call from the countess. Stunned, Jack listened without interrupting as he tried to come to terms with the extraordinary chain of events the countess was telling him about.

  ‘How’s Tristan?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Shaken, but fine,’ replied the countess. ‘We are all in shock; especially Leonardo. You can imagine, after that phone call ...’

  ‘Strictly no police; those were the instructions?’

  ‘Yes. Jack, we don’t know what to do ... We need you; here.’

  ‘I’ll be on the first plane I can get.’

  ‘Thanks, Jack. This is serious.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘We haven’t got much time.’

  ‘I know that too.’

  Jack pushed his manuscript aside and kept looking into the garden and across the pond. It was his favourite spot in the chateau, his ‘place of inspiration’ he called it. A place that helped him think, reflect. He had watched Top Chef Europe for weeks, and had cheered on Lorenza during the nail-biting final and saw her win. How extraordinary, he thought. Lorenza, a celebrity, abducted in broad daylight in the middle of Venice. Audacious. Professional job; had to be. And then there are these curious demands ... Jack felt a strange sense of excitement wash over him, something he hadn’t felt since he’d discovered Brother Francis’s diary and the paintings hidden in the Imperial Crypt in Vienna two years earlier. He was ready for a new challenge, and what he had just heard had all the hallmarks of just that, and a lot more ...

  Working on the Fuchs interview notes was certainly interesting, rewarding even, and kept his publicist happy, but was not all that exciting. Jack hated the tedium of writing and got bored easily. He was a people person and writing is a solitary endeavour. He always struggled to reconcile the two, but enjoyed chasing the story more than writing it and loved nothing more than being in the thick of it all. Jack gravitated towards danger and liked living on the edge. Something new was definitely needed. Experience had taught him that the best stories always seemed to find him when he least expected it. This is it, he thought, and closed his notebook. I’m sure of it. When he turned around, he noticed François, the countess’s butler-cum-chauffeur, standing in the doorway.

  ‘Would you like another cup of tea?’ asked François.

  ‘No thanks, but I wouldn’t mind a lift to the airport,’ replied Jack, smiling, and went to his room to pack.

  Marco Polo airport was chaotic as usual. Excited tourists were milling around looking for transport into Venice. Jack collected his duffel bag from the carousel, walked into the arrivals waiting area and began to look for the countess. Tristan saw Jack first. ‘There he is,’ he said, and began to push through a noisy group of backpackers who had just arrived from Germany. ‘Jack!’ shouted Tristan, waving. ‘Over here.’

  Jack turned around and looked at Tristan coming towards him. At first, he didn’t recognise him with his head bandaged.

  ‘Taking up kamikaze, mate?’ said Jack, and embraced Tristan. ‘You look like a Japanese suicide pilot wearing a hachimaki.

  ‘What’s a hachimaki?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘A headband, a bandana. The only thing missing is the rising sun and the kanji characters. You’re gone for a couple of days without me, and look at you.’ The bandage wound around Tristan’s head did in fact look a bit like the headband of a kamikaze fighter.

  ‘He’s almost as bad as you,’ said the countess, kissing Jack on the cheek. ‘Never a dull moment with you two around, that’s for sure. Thanks for coming so quickly, Jack,’ continued the countess, lowering her voice. ‘This is serious.’

  ‘Sure,’ replied Jack. ‘Any news?’

  ‘Nothing further so far, but Leo’s in a bad way. He’s glued to the phone, waiting for the next call.’

  ‘Understandable.’

  ‘He’s waiting at the dock with his boat. It’s the quickest way to get home from here.’

  ‘Wait until you see this boat,’ said Tristan, and picked up Jack’s duffel bag. ‘Travelling light?’

  ‘I’ve got all I need,’ said Jack.

  The countess raised an eyebrow. ‘Bomber jacket and two pairs of socks?’ she asked.

  ‘And don’t forget the notebook,’ interjected Tristan. ‘He goes nowhere without it.’

  ‘You know me too well. Let’s go, guys.’

  Jack had met Leonardo da Baggio before and remembered him as an excellent chess player and jovial raconteur. However, the man waiting for them in the sleek motor yacht in no way resembled the elegant bon vivant Jack remembered. Jack recognised all the signs: deep worry, confusion, despair bordering on depression. As soon as they jumped on board, da Baggio took off.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ shouted Tristan.

  ‘See what you mean,’ Jack shouted back, enjoying the breathtaking speed of the powerful boat and the sea spray tickling his face.

  Boys and their toys, thought the countess, holding on tight in the back.

  After an exhilarating ride past some of the icons of Venice, they pulled into the mooring under the palazzo. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am,’ said da Baggio, carrying Jack’s duffel bag up the slippery stairs. ‘Let me show you to your room.’

  ‘Could we talk first?’ said Jack. ‘Time’s precious. The room can wait.’

  Da Baggio looked at Jack, relieved. ‘Of course. Let’s go in here,’ he said and opened a tall, polished timber door leading into the grand salon on the first floor.

  ‘Wow!’ said Jack. ‘I’ve only seen something like this in the movies.’ Two huge identical marble fireplaces – one at each end of the large, opulent room – faced each other like duellers frozen in time, defending their honour. Mirrors above the fireplaces reached all the way up to the tall ceiling decorated with frescoes, making the room look twice the size. Glass double doors in the middle of the room opened onto a balcony overlooking the Canal Grande. The stone floor was covered with Persian rugs, and the walls with paintings, mainly family portraits.

  Da Baggio motioned towards a comfortable-looking lounge and chairs in front of one of the fireplaces. ‘My late wife’s favourite room,’ said da Baggio quietly. ‘This has been our family home for over four hundred years. Lots of ghosts and sad memories ...’

  The countess walked over to da Baggio. ‘And a lot of joy and precious links to the past as well,’ she said, and sat down next to him. ‘Few families today have something like this.’

  ‘Perhaps, but history can be overwhelming. At times I feel the weight of this place pressing down on me like a rock pushing me into the canal.’

  The countess watched Jack pull his little notebook out of his pocket and smiled when he took off the rubber band holding it together and kept searching for his pen. She had seen him do this many times before. It was an endearing habit of a special man she adored.

  ‘Can we start at the beginning, please?’ said Jack. ‘It’s been just on twenty-four hours since Lorenza disappeared – right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said da Baggio, ‘and about twenty-two hours since that phone call.’

  Jack looked at Tristan sitting opposite. ‘Please tell us what happened yesterday,’ he said.

  ‘Not much to tell, really,’ said Tristan, and then gave a step-by-step account of the events leading up to the bridge attack.

  ‘And then what happened?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Tristan arrived here, injured and covered in blood,’ said the countess. ‘He told us what had occurred and we were about to call the police, when Leonardo’s phone rang.’

  Jack turned to da Baggio. ‘Can you tell me exactly what was said?’ he asked.

  Da Baggio pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. ‘Katerina asked me to write it all down immediately after the call.’

  ‘Excellent! Please tell us.’

  ‘To begin with, the voice sounded quite strange ...’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Difficult to say; distant, like in a chamber with echoes.’

  Jack nodded. ‘To disguise the voice, no doubt.’

  ‘I was told not to hang up and to just listen. The voice said: “We have your daughter.” And then: “She is fine and will remain so as long as you do exactly as I tell you ...”’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I was told to arrange a million euros, and ...’ Da Baggio paused, and looked up at a gap between two paintings on the wall opposite.

  The countess reached for da Baggio’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Tell him,’ she said quietly.

  Da Baggio stood up, walked across the room to an intricately carved oak chest, opened its heavy lid and lifted out what looked like a large photo album.

  ‘I have to hand over these,’ said da Baggio, and placed the portfolio carefully on the table in front of Jack.

  ‘What is this?’ asked Jack.

  Da Baggio opened the portfolio. ‘Original recipes that used to belong to Suleiman the Magnificent.’

  ‘How extraordinary,’ said Jack, and looked at the beautifully illustrated parchment crowded with intricate Arabic writing.

  ‘They have been in our family for four hundred years.’

  ‘Are these the recipes Lorenza mentioned during Top Chef? The grand final?’

  ‘Yes. The Hunkar Begendi recipe that won her the contest is right here.’

  ‘Incredible. And you were asked to hand these over?’

  ‘Yes; that’s the really baffling bit. The instructions were quite specific.’

  ‘And the one million euros represents the prize; the amount she won in the contest,’ said Jack. ‘You think this is somehow all related to Top Chef?’

  ‘It would appear so,’ said the countess.

  ‘How weird. The money I can understand, but the recipes ... And you were told no police?’

  ‘Yes. He was very emphatic about that. He said if I involve the police, I will never see Lorenza again,’ said da Baggio, choking with emotion.

  ‘What else?’ asked Jack.

  ‘I was to wait for further instructions, by phone.’

  ‘And so far, nothing?’

  ‘No.’

  Jack kept looking at the portfolio. ‘Magnificent,’ he said. ‘So, these are the original recipes brought here by Osman, if I remember correctly, from Constantinople? Lorenza told us the story during the Top Chef final.’

  ‘Yes. Osman was Cosimo da Baggio’s grandson. He escaped from the Topkapi Palace in Constantinople after his father, Murad III, died.’

  ‘And all his half-brothers were killed; all nineteen of them,’ interjected the countess.

  ‘To secure the succession and allow his oldest brother, Mehmed, to become sultan,’ said da Baggio. ‘All possible rivals were eliminated, except one: Osman.’

  ‘What a story,’ said Jack.

  ‘Osman was the son of Cosimo’s abducted daughter.’ Da Baggio pointed to a small portrait hanging above the chest. ‘That’s her over there.’

  Jack stood up, walked over to the chest and looked at the exquisite little picture.

  ‘It was painted by Marco Vecellio,’ said da Baggio.

  ‘Titian’s pupil,’ said Tristan.

  Jack shook his head, momentarily overcome by the living history in the room.

  ‘We had a wonderful portrait of Osman as well,’ said da Baggio, and pointed to a gap between the two paintings. ‘It was painted when he was much older. He was a famous physician by then right here in Venice. It used to hang over there.’

  ‘A physician? What happened to it?’ asked Jack, staring at the wall.

  ‘The Nazis took it during the war.’

  Good God! thought Jack. It can’t be ... surely. ‘Can you describe it to me?’ he asked quietly, sounding hoarse.

  ‘Of course. It showed Osman, an imposing man, examining a patient – a cardinal – lying in bed in the Doge’s Palace. Osman is holding a book in his left hand and a—’

  ‘Scalpel in his right?’ interrupted Jack.

  Da Baggio looked at him, surprised. ‘How on earth do you know that?’ he asked.

  Jack reached into his pocket, pulled out his mobile, selected a photo and handed the phone to da Baggio. ‘Because of this,’ he said.

  For a while, da Baggio kept staring at the screen. ‘I don’t understand! How? What?’ he stammered, looking incredulous. Before he could ask more questions, he was interrupted by the phone ringing in his pocket. Da Baggio paled, took a deep breath and answered the phone, the silence in the room paralysing.

  ‘Listen carefully,’ said a voice, sounding distant and hollow and speaking quite slowly. ‘This is what I want you to do ...’

  Part II

  Ars Moriendi

  28

  Istanbul: 30 May

  Sultan’s Table was Istanbul’s most famous restaurant, serving authentic Ottoman cuisine. It occupied several floors of an opulent, eighteenth-century merchant’s home close to the Hagia Sophia, and reservations had to be made several days, sometimes weeks, in advance. The most prized tables on the roof terrace overlooking the Golden Horn and the Bosporus were reserved for special guests, usually referred to the iconic establishment by the concierges of luxury hotels. International film stars, politicians, even royalty, were frequent diners at the restaurant, and Bahadir – a consummate host – enjoyed meeting his famous guests in person and escorting them to their tables. He also liked to boast about the unique dishes based on secret Ottoman recipes coming straight from the sultan’s fabled kitchens in the Topkapi Palace a stone’s throw away, which were the hallmark of his restaurant.

  Sultan’s Table was Bahadir’s world. It was the flagship of his restaurant chain and the nerve centre of his culinary empire. His entire reputation rested on the unique, authentic Ottoman dishes exclusively created in his kitchen. As the author of several acclaimed cookbooks and his own TV show, Bahadir was the undisputed authority on Ottoman cuisine in Turkey, if not the world. The only shadow hanging over his reputation was his recent, very public defeat during the Top Chef Europe competition. To have been beaten by a twenty-year-old woman using one of his own signature dishes was humiliating in the extreme. But more serious by far, was her claim regarding the original Ottoman recipes that apparently had been in her family for centuries. This seriously undermined Bahadir’s authority and he realised that something drastic had be done to discredit and silence the rival, and salvage his reputation as the undisputed king of Ottoman cuisine.

  The kitchen on the ground floor was huge and Bahadir ruled it with an iron fist. Recruited from various parts of Turkey, twenty hand-picked chefs created delectable Ottoman specialities only served at the Sultan’s Table by an army of well-trained local waiters and waitresses.

  Belmonte got out of the taxi and walked up to the doorman greeting the guests in front of the tall, ornate wooden double doors leading into the restaurant.

  ‘You have a reservation, sir?’ asked the doorman, sizing up the stocky, broad-shouldered man in the ill-fitting suit with no tie. Compared to the elegant diners arriving by hire car, he definitely looked out of place. But something in his demeanour radiated not only confidence, but authority and danger. The experienced doorman recognised the signs immediately and decided to proceed with caution.

  ‘No, but Mr Bahadir is expecting me,’ replied Belmonte. Smiling, he slipped a large banknote discreetly into the doorman’s breast pocket, stepped back, and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Who shall I say?’ asked the doorman politely.

  ‘Ars Moriendi,’ replied Belmonte, laughing.

  ‘Very well. Please follow me, sir.’

  The doorman escorted Belmonte to the crowded bar on the ground floor lit up by beautiful coloured, ball-shaped lights dangling from the wooden ceiling, giving the bar an inviting, exotic look with whispering echoes of Ali Baba and secret harem tales. ‘I will tell Mr Bahadir you have arrived. May I order you a drink?’

  ‘Scotch, please.’

  ‘Coming up.’

  Looking a little flustered and obviously annoyed, Bahadir followed the doorman to the bar. ‘That’s him over there,’ said the doorman, and pointed discreetly to Belmonte leaning casually against the bar.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see someone so soon,’ said Bahadir. He hadn’t met Belmonte in person before but had of course heard of him from Gambio. Bahadir pulled up a stool and sat down next to his surprise visitor. ‘As I recall it, last time we “saw” each other, you were officiating at a unique ritual and wearing a mask.’

  ‘Correct. Ars Moriendi,’ replied Belmonte casually, sipping his Scotch. ‘And that is precisely what brings me here ...’ Belmonte put down his glass and looked at Bahadir.

  ‘Oh?’ Bahadir had met men like Belmonte before and was on guard. Judging by what Gambio had told him, Belmonte was a loyal, ruthless killing machine, not to be crossed. At the moment, Belmonte was an extension of Gambio; he was Gambio, with all the authority and clout of the capo himself. ‘Would you care to elaborate?’ said Bahadir, and signalled to the barman to refill Belmonte’s glass.

  ‘Sure, but could we go somewhere a little more private?’ asked Belmonte, and pointed to the noisy crowd surrounding the bar.

  ‘Of course; follow me.’

  Bahadir went to the back of the room, pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked a door concealed behind a curtain. ‘Welcome to my underworld,’ said Bahadir, and led the way down some narrow, winding stairs leading into the murky darkness below. ‘This is part of the vast Palace of Constantine complex – Roman ruins – buried under the Sultan Ahmed district here,’ said Bahadir. ‘Just about every shop and restaurant around here is built on top of it. A maze of secret passages criss-cross this area right up to the famous Basilica Cisterns; very handy at times. Most of the underground chambers are filled with rubble, but we excavated this part and use it as storage and other things ... it’s very secure.’

 

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