The venetian code, p.2
The Venetian Code, page 2
Müller, seeing the big man holding out his hand, handed over the knife.
As though the man sitting in the chair had omniscient sight, even with his back to Müller, he said, “Excellent.” Then after a beat, he added, “Now, Mr. Müller, you may now approach and have a seat.” The fingers stopped drumming as the man sitting in the chair raised his hand and pointed to a seat that was neighboring him. “Please.”
Müller, looking at the large man, turned and walked towards the man who sat in the wingback chair. As he approached, he stumbled in his gait. Lying in a heap before the man in the wingback chair were the members of his detail—Hans, Gruber, and Frederik—who appeared surprised at their mortality the moment their lives were extinguished. Each man possessed a bloodless bullet wound to the forehead and two to center mass, which was the hallmark trait of a professional assassin.
“Honestly, Mr. Müller,” said the man in the wingback chair, “your detail lacked any class of professionalism. Vladimir removed them easily—almost effortlessly, one might say.”
As Müller rounded the chair, he saw a man of equal thickness to Vladimir, though his eyes were as dark and cold as obsidian glass.
Pointing to the seat across from him, the man said, “Please, sit. We’ve much to discuss.”
“I don’t even know who you are.”
“I said . . . sit. Why is it that I always have to repeat myself with you?”
Müller sat down, though his eyes continued to study the members of his detail with horrification. What was most unsettling to him was the locked expressions of disbelief as they registered the last thing they saw in life, which was the point of a gun’s barrel.
Turning away from the grisly sight of the piled bodies, he faced the man in the wingback chair. “Why did you do this to them?” he asked, referring to his detail.
“Is it not simple? They were in the way.”
“What do you want?”
“My name, Mr. Müller, is Igor Rabinovitch.”
Müller shrugged. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Then why are you here?”
After a moment of hesitation, Rabinovitch said, “You have a book that I want. And yet,” he waved his hand to emphasize all the books sitting on the shelves, tens of thousands of them, “it would be best that you tell me where it is, rather than I waste my time combing through the volumes. The book I seek, Mr. Müller, a book I know you possess, is the diary of Giovanni Chiaravalle.”
“Giovanni Chiaravalle,” Müller returned. “I have no such book. The diary is a myth. It doesn’t exist.”
Rabinovitch appeared unmoved by this admission. Then reaching into his coat pocket, he removed a cellphone, brought up his recording file, and hit PLAY. After turning the face of the phone towards Müller, he said, “This was taken during your conversation with Dr. Anton Engel two weeks ago when you attended a conference in Vienna.”
As the recording played, Müller could see the pointed lines of the voice patterns moving across the phone’s faceplate, the conversation starting with Engel.
Such a wonderful possession to have in your collection. The Diary of Giovanni Chiaravalle was discovered by serendipity, I believe, when he found a chest in his basement that contained a manuscript with alchemical and mysterious symbols for finding the legendary treasure of the Templar Knights.
Not only that, but the diary also contains maps of the treasure’s whereabouts. Allegedly.
The maps were created by Giovanni da Verrazzano.
A moment of silence followed, presumably a nod from Müller instead of a verbal answer.
How magnificent, Engel finally answered. I must see the volume.
Call my secretary and we’ll set up a meeting.
In Berlin?
I have it in my library.
How did you acquire such a treasure?
That is my secret, Professor. One I’m not willing to divulge.
Then how do you know it’s true and not a fabrication?
The material of the tome contained pages that were not a part of the diary, but pages of an aged tome that was tested and undeniably confirmed to date back to the fourteenth century. To be more specific, the parchment of these pages was dated as far back as the early thirteen hundreds.
So, these alchemical and mysterious symbols, were you able to decipher them?
No. Not yet. This will take time since the Templars were careful in their undertakings.
It must have cost you a fortune.
For sure. But think of the mysteries involved and the puzzles to be undone, which means more to me than the treasure itself.
More silence.
And then from Engel: It was good to see you again, my old friend.
It’s always a pleasure to speak to someone who loves books as much as I do.
Same. I will contact your secretary, Maximillian. I won’t be able to sleep at night until I see the book.
This was where Rabinovitch shut off the recorder.
“How did you get that?” Müller asked the Russian.
“Let’s just say that Professor Engel was involved with us in another matter that required his assistance. Coming upon you was simply chance on his part, and something he thought he could use to exonerate himself from under our authority. He believed he could exchange his obligations to us for the Templar treasure.”
Müller remained silent. And then: “Was Professor Engel freed from his obligations to you?”
“He was. But not in a way you think.”
“You killed him, didn’t you?”
Now it was Rabinovitch’s time to remain silent.
“The book, Mr. Müller, where is it?”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“I won’t. But Vladimir might.” Rabinovitch pointed to the large Russian standing in the back of the room. For emphasis, Vladimir was slapping the flat side of the knife’s blade repeatedly against his palm.
“I don’t want to die.”
“No one says you have to. Just give me the book, Mr. Müller. That’s all I want.”
Müller swallowed as a sour lump formed inside his throat.
“Mr. Müller . . . the book.”
Müller’s eyes traveled to the stacks, nothing but books.
Then from Rabinovitch, “Vladimir, can you do me a favor and loosen this man’s tongue? I’m losing my patience here.”
As Vladimir began his approach, Müller raised his hand and patted the air. “All right, all right! I’ll take you to the book.”
“It’s not here?” Rabinovitch asked him.
“It’s behind the stacks.”
“Behind the shelves?”
Müller nodded.
Then from Rabinovitch. “You have a panic room?”
“No. It’s just an area where I keep the most sacred volumes.”
Then with a thin smile of malicious amusement, Rabinovitch said, “Show me.”
* * *
On the second level after climbing the spiral staircase, towards the back of the room, Müller stood before shelves of books that appeared like every other shelf in the library. Removing a thick hardcover by Leo Tolstoy, a first edition, he exposed a rectangular-shaped switch. Pressing it, the wall of bookshelves opened inward, the progression glacially slow.
“It would have taken me several hours, Mr. Müller, perhaps longer to find this room,” said Rabinovitch. “Well designed, I must say.”
The room was as black as pitch, but Müller knew where the button was. After he hit the switch, a bank of overhead lights winked as they came to life a moment before holding steady. Inside the room were several podiums with each podium holding a specialized book. On one pedestal was Ptolemy’s first edition of the Geographia Cosmpographia, an extremely rare atlas that was illustrated with maps and printed in Bologna, Italy, in 1477. Another was Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, a first edition and one of the twelve existing copies by William Caxton, also published in 1477. And there was a first-edition tome by William Shakespeare; an extremely rare gospel book commissioned by Henry the Lion, the Duke of Saxony and Bavaria, for the monks of the Helmarshauzen Benedictine Abbey to design Romanesque illuminated writings with fifty pages of illustrations, with the edition created in 1188 to contain the four Gospels. There were other rare volumes, the collection worth tens of millions of euros.
“The diary of Giovanni Chiaravalle,” said Rabinovitch, “where is it?”
Müller pointed to a particular stand across the room. “Over there.”
Sitting on the podium next to Chiaravalle’s diary was a pair of cotton gloves to be worn so that oil from the skin wouldn’t damage the pages.
“If you’ll be so kind as to wear the gloves—”
Rabinovitch cut him off. “Shut up.”
When the Russian fanned through the pages of the book using his fingers, Müller winced.
Then Rabinovitch nodded pleasingly as he examined pages that had yellowed to the color of old parchment and had a stiff feel to them. Then he noted the symbols, all oddly familiar and alien to him at the same time.
“How many of these pages have been authenticated to be true?” Rabinovitch asked Müller.
“The age of the parchment has been validated to be seven hundred years old. The diary has been validated as belonging to Giovanni Chiaravalle based on similar handwriting. Same with the maps provided by Giovanni da Verrazzano. All have been confirmed. The only thing not certified is the author of the parchment regarding the location of the Templar treasure. That remains an unknown, though the speculation here is that the author was a Templar Knight who escaped the clutches of Philip the Fair. The symbols, the notes—everything reflects the enigmatic designs of a Templar Knight.”
“But something that could be counterfeit—say, by Giovanni Chiaravalle?”
“It’s possible since no one knows how Giovanni Chiaravalle came in possession of the chest, to begin with. With that being said, we now have to look at the pages that are proven to be seven hundred years old, and that the ink on the parchment—ink that hasn’t existed for centuries—has the same ink elements that existed during the fourteenth century. Nor can we overlook the fact of the timeline, either, that the pages were created a few years after Jacques de Molay was burned at the stake.”
“And the maps?”
“The same. The age, the inking methods, they were all authenticated to be true along with the timeline of the Templar legacy.”
“So, the treasure exists?”
“The treasure exists. But was this the book handed down by a Templar Knight to reveal the secrets of the Templar’s hidden trove?” Müller shrugged. “I can’t say.”
“But the time, the age of the paper, and the ink used at the time, they’ve been proven true?”
“Yes.”
“With a high standard of legitimacy from your examiners?”
“All the work is performed here at my residence with the best graders in the world pouring over every sentence and image.”
Rabinovitch smiled falsely. “That’s all I need to know.”
Closing the cover of the book and taking it with him as he began to exit the vault, Rabinovitch gave Vladimir a prearranged gesture, a simple wave. Vladimir, removing his suppressed sidearm from his waistband, aimed it at Müller. The German philanthropist raised his hand as though to ward off the coming rounds, a last-ditch effort at self-preservation, only for the bullets to smash through Müller’s fingers, and lodge inside his chest.
. . . phffft . . . phffft . . . phffft . . .
Three rounds, all hitting home.
As Vladimir left the chamber and closed the book-shelved wall behind him, Maximillian Müller was left lying on the floor surrounded by volumes that were worth tens of millions of euros.
CHAPTER TWO
Onboard the Leviathan
Dubai Marina Yacht Club
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
Three Days after Maximillian Müller’s Death
The Leviathan was a mega yacht that was a 525-foot, multi-tiered boat belonging to Ivan Novikov, a Russian oligarch who made his fortune in metallurgy, mainly in palladium and nickel processing, and had a reported net worth of more than thirty billion dollars in American currency. Due to the ongoing war between Russia and Ukraine, Novikov, while in Dubai, remained out of the grasp of those who were looking to seize his most prized possession, the Leviathan. Yet, his tastes for the finer things in life remained unsatiable and his need to obtain them was done so with a long reach. For years, he had romanticized the idea of becoming a treasure hunter. He had read numerous books about lost treasures, everything from the scepter of Dagobert to the Sword of Islam, the lesser-known treasures. But what he was most enamored with was the highly touted Templar treasure that contained priceless relics, some with religious attachments, such as the Cup of Miracles. Of course, there was always the gold and the rubies and the sapphires, treasures that delighted him but never really moved him. What he sought was the power associated with certain relics, like the Holy Grail, which never existed. What did exist, however, was a simple and nondescript-looking cup made of clay, a chalice that served as the first vessel that became the catalyst to display the full power of Christ, and the first of His performed miracles.
For Ivan Novikov, it was only about power. He wanted to feel the roundness of the cup and absorb its latent power. He hoped and wanted to be gifted with such ability to bend and reshape events with a simple wave of his hand. To some within Novikov’s circle, they considered him a bit delusional with his eccentricities causing him to lose sight of his reality. A man with too much money was also a man who needed more, no matter how fantastic the item—whether it existed or not.
Sitting on a sofa that extended along the starboard side of the yacht, about fifty feet in length, Ivan Novikov sat with his leg crossed over the other while carefully examining the pages of Giovanni Chiaravalle’s diary. There were separate pages, old parchment, believed to be pages written by a Templar Knight, along with aged maps of Venice that pinpointed certain locations where listed clues could be found regarding the treasure’s whereabouts, including the exalted Cup of Miracles. All one had to do was to connect the dots by solving the enigmatic hints.
Novikov, a rather prissy-looking man, thin and impeccably dressed in a smoking jacket and ascot, did his best to appear as a blue-blooded patrician with the pleats of his dress pants razor sharp. As he carefully examined the pages, he finally said, “This is not a map that leads us directly to the treasure. It simply leads us from clue to clue until we find where X marks the spot.”
Rabinovitch was sitting in a leather chair across from Novikov, the large man wearing a very tight polo shirt that exhibited his muscular frame. “It was the Templar way,” he told Novikov. “To hide treasures by wrapping a riddle around a riddle.”
“These maps pinpoint several locations where the clues are hidden. One would have to decipher them correctly to lead us to X, to the Templar treasure. One mistake, one incorrect interpretation of the riddle, could lead us astray. If that happens, then we would never find the Cup of Miracles.”
“That’s why I’ve contacted the best symbologists and decoders,” said Rabinovitch. “As a unit, they’ll be able to conclude the proper outcome of each puzzle the Templar Knight constructed. They’ll delete the irrational and pinpoint the rational. Whatever deceptions the Templar Knight may have fabricated to keep the trove safe from treasure seekers will be dismissed. The enigmatic symbols were created for those Templars who might have escaped Philip the Fair’s clutches, with the ciphers something the surviving Templars would recognize and understand so they could recollect the treasure to rebuild their forces. But that never happened. My translators, using state-of-the-art technology, will be able to break down and decipher the alchemical and mysterious symbols.”
“And still,” said Novikov, “the Templar writings remain as much of a mystery to us now as they did centuries ago. How confident are you in their abilities to decipher the codes?”
“We’re able to crash through firewalls and decode America’s greatest secrets. Surely, we can decode the runes and symbols of an organization that expired more than seven centuries ago.”
“And your team?”
“Three translators and symbologists, all tops in their field of study who operate top-end equipment.”
“For security purposes?”
“Eight military elites. All one-time members of Russia’s Spetsnaz Special Operations Forces.”
“Mercenaries?”
“Of course.”
“Excellent. That means they hunger for payment. And I expect no less.”
As Novikov continued to leaf carefully through the pages, Rabinovitch asked, “Does the agreed-upon payment continue to stand should we find the treasure?”
“We will find it and yes, the payment offer still stands. My only interest is the Cup of Miracles. The rest belongs to you and your team.”
Rabinovitch nodded and smiled at this. Finding the treasure would pay him and his team enough to last a thousand lifetimes. In his mind’s eye, he was already envisioning an estate on a remote beach holding a fancy drink in his hand, preferably one that had a little tacky umbrella sitting along the glass’s edge as a decoration. Somehow, he equated that look with success.
“Excellent,” he finally said.
“Just one more thing,” said Novikov.
“And that would be?”
“I’ll be coming along with your team. In fact, and since I’m funding this quest, I’ll be serving as team leader.”
Rabinovitch clenched his teeth until the muscles in the back of his jaw started to work. People like Novikov who funded operations also liked to flex their muscles by becoming something they knew nothing about. Novikov was a taskmaster who was to operate from afar, not to be a soldier of fortune.
“Let’s say that I want to see how my money is being spent,” Novikov added evenly while continuing to flip through the pages. It was as though he had intuited Rabinovitch’s thoughts.
“There might be killing involved here,” said Rabinovitch. “Are you ready for something like that? To remove obstacles?”
