Follow Me If You Want

By Stefano Conti

Crime novel

Lisbon (Portugal). A hot summer night in 2020, a disturbing blue villa, a man dressed in black. Suddenly a sharp thud and blood everywhere on the pavement. Thus the lifeless body of the head of an obscure religious organization is found, who has fallen from the third floor. Murder or suicide? Siena (Italy). ”Do you remember me?” is the question with which Chiara, who has been missing for years, returns to Francesco, inviting him to accompany her on a journey to investigate the mystery that lies behind her strange death. Wewelsburg (Germany). What is the thin red line that connects a Nazi castle, which was the occult and esoteric center of the SS, to the investigation of the bank detective and his elusive companion? Montségur (France). The mystery deepens when all the clues lead to the enigmatic secret fortress of the Cathars and then to a remote island in the Croatian sea, where there is only one building: a lighthouse. Follow, if you want, the two protagonists in an engaging thriller full of twists and where nothing is as it seems ... ”A new novel to read in one breath. Unmissable ”-World News 24-” Pages that tickle the curiosity and keep glued to the last line ”- Literary Chronicles -” Real events and disturbing crimes give life to a pressing narrative ”- Boom Channel -” A novel that captures the reader, amidst puzzles, tormented loves and captivating stories ”-The Nation-” True story skillfully intertwined with fantasy events ”- Literary Coffee -” A mystery that fascinates and a love that intrigues, in a book that enchants ”- Our Free Time -

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tektime
• Release date: Sep 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9788835443452

Book preview

Stefano Conti

Follow me if you want

Translated by Valentina Giglio

On the cover:

Ancona, night. Walking woman

Picture by the author

Copyright © 2022 – Stefano Conti

Table of Contents

Prologue

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

Prologue

Thursday,13th August 2020

   «At last I get it»  repeats a man to himself as he walks uncertainly along Avenida da Liberdade; in his hand an old brown leather folder. The dim lights of the evening surround the figure of mystery, a cool breeze from the sea is channelled through the streets of Lisbon. The rattling of the elevador da Gloria, the funicular that climbs from the Baixa on one of the hills of the Portuguese capital, booms. The old man leans on the stick with one hand, with the other he grabs the pole to go up; in the attempt the folder opens and the content falls to the ground. A tall boy, dressed in black, helps him collect the scattered papers, not without first having a peek at the top sheet. The strange yellow vehicle starts, suddenly slows down, almost stops, it seems unable to reach the top, then with a snort it resumes the climb. The man pretends to look out the window, actually observes the other passengers: he stares worriedly at the young man who helped him.

The Barrio Alto is picturesque for tourists, but walking through those poorly lit alleys is not reassuring even for a master of Krav Maga, the fighting art of the Israeli army. The old man accelerates his pace, until someone in rua do Norte grabs him from behind.

«Italian? Dinner with a fado show?»

Talking about one of those pullers who are stationed outside the typical places; this is actually not a restaurant for tourists, but Adega Machado, the oldest Casa do Fado in Lisbon.

«No thank you, I'm not hungry.»

The waiter insists by showing photos of old performances by Amália Rodrigues and Marceneiro, famous fadists, unknown to most.

«Fado is like jazz: beautiful music, which you would never stop listening to ... but only for the first three minutes» thinks the man.

Besides, he doesn't have time to eat the usual cod while listening to that sad Portuguese chant.

With a jerk he moves away from the room. The wind seems to blow him up a dark slope to an all-blue building.

«Open up, we're back,» he yells at the half-open window on the second floor.

A decidedly overweight young man comes down the stairs two by two. He comes panting to the front door.

«Your holiness.»

A long bow accompanies the man's entrance.

«Close the door! They followed us.»

«It's safe here. We will protect your sacred person with our lives.»

The elderly man has known Bruxa for some time, the chief contact person for Portugal of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, the neo-pagan order of which he is the undisputed leader, and he knows well that what he says must be calibrated. He is convinced that at the first difficulty Bruxa will run over to the enemy and does not hide it.

«Rats, and sometimes commanders, are the first to escape from the sinking ship.»

He puts his hat on an armchair, continuing to hold the leather briefcase in his hand.

«I found that…» he stops.

«Are you at home?» Tell her immediately to come to us."

«Of course, your holiness. We run in front of her.»

«No, just her! You take care of setting up a hot bath.»

«Very good. Your every wish is an order.»

Behind that obsequious manner, the Lusitanian Adeptus Exemptus hides a petty soul.

Bruxa in turn turns to a woman, who has been standing by the arrival of the elderly man.

«Prepare a hot bath for the highest!»

«Why does he want to report her findings only to her?» Bruxa reflects, walking towards the room on the second floor.

She knocks lightly.

«Yes, who are you?»

«Bruxa. Your holiness wants to confer with you.» The door opens.

«I'll go up to him immediately. Come with me?»

«No, he wishes to speak to you alone. I will go to the temple to feed the sacred fire.»

«Make sure you don't turn it off like a month ago,» she points out, closing the door.

A large fireplace lights up the ceremonial room; on the sides the statuettes of Jupiter and Aesculapius, above a larger one of Helios, the sun god. Bruxa adds some branches collected in the natural park of Gerês; she sweats in front of the fire. Meanwhile, the girl enters the room of Magus Ipsissi-

mus, the absolute head of the Hermetic Order.

«My lord, were you looking for me?»

«Come here, my star.»

The elderly man is sitting in an armchair, tired from the long walk.

«Now you can give me the you: Bruxa is not here. You seem so kind, but I'm sure you would be ready to suck my blood if I looked away.»

She crouches in front of him on a huge pillow resting on the carpet.

«In these months of research in the library I have understood one fundamental thing: I was convinced there were two and instead ... There are three!» The girl knows what she refers to and she repeats in amazement:

«Three?"

«That's right!» she exclaims the supreme spiritual guide.

«Did you find out what was written on it?»

«Many years ago I saw that text, for a few moments, then it disappeared. I have not yet understood who had engraved those words.»

«Who?» She encourages him to continue.

The man waves a paper in front of her face.

«An emperor!» the old man stops and looks around.

«But they found me. A boy a little while ago on the elevator.»

«What happened?» she asks worriedly.

«I know he was sent to them. They are here!»

 «They won't leave us alone until you give them…» she comments.

«Never. I'd rather die.»

«Don't say that ... I'm curious: can I see?»

The man caresses the girl's face, she refrains from moving away from her.

«Just tell me…»

«Patientia animi occultas divitias habet.»

«Is it a quote from Cicero?» Or maybe Seneca?» she asks.

«It is one of the sententiae of Publilius Syrus: He who has patience has a great hidden treasure.»

Then he continues: «The way to truth is long and tortuous for him: it must be taken one step after another ... Now I'm tired. I want to take a nice bath.»

She stands up.

«I respect your will, I leave you to your ablutions, your holiness.»

He shakes his head.

«Don't be like that, my sweet. I've been doing research for years ... Waiting one more day doesn't change anything.»

Once the girl has gone out, Magus Ipsissimus undresses and enters the personal bathroom with the paper in his hand.

He turns on the cassette player, an heirloom from the last century, and puts in a cassette that he himself had prepared in the 90s. He throws some bergamot salts into the tub, lights a candle and lies down in the tub. Part of a little-known piece by Angelo Branduardi who sings a poem by Yeats, the only Nobel laureate who has been part of the Hermetic Order:

Sento che troverò il mio fato in un luogo tra le nuvole lassù; coloro ch’io combatto io non odio,coloro ch’io difendo io non amo…

[I feel that I will find my fate in a place in the clouds up there; I do not hate those I fight,

those whom I defend I do not love…]

The music stops suddenly. The darkness hides a stealthily entered figure.

«What are you doing? Who are you?» Two hands push it to the chest.

The elderly man tries to get up from the tub, in vain.

«I won't tell you anything. You can also ...»

Then he glances at his precious notes left on the sink, and finally, in the soft light of the ginger-scented candle, he recognizes his face. At that point he stops reminding himself: «Divine will be done».

The man lets himself slip under the water, the intruder holds him on his chest and head. He is drowning, but he is not distracted, he does not open his mouth in a desperate and useless gesture of searching for air. With his eyes open he looks at whoever is killing him and smiles. Yes, he smiles.

Unexpectedly, the mysterious figure lifts the man still alive from the tub and leaves the room.

The Magus dries, dresses carefully. Finally he presses again play:

Ho soppesato tutto, valutato ogni cosa,

gli anni a venire parvero uno spreco di fiato, spreco di fiato gli anni del passato,

in bilico con questa vita, questa morte.

[I weighed everything, evaluated everything,

the years to come seemed a waste of breath, a waste of breath the years of the past,

in the balance with this life, this death.]

The man has a shiver of cold when he opens the window overlooking the inner courtyard. Then a sharp thud. Blood spills on the pavement.

Lying on the ground, he still has the strength to pronounce a word, only one:

«Gudrun.»

I

Sunday, 16th August 2020

Rah, rah-ah-ah-ah. Roma, roma-ma. Gaga, ooh-la-la.

Maybe I should change my cell phone ringtone, but Lady Gaga is a great artist.

«Hi Francesco ... Do you remember me?»

I wanted to, in fact I tried to forget that voice.

«Chiara?» I ask amazed.

«Yup. How are you?»

«Is ... is it really you?»

«And the job?» I do not answer.

«All is well at home?» she insists.

«How long do you want to go on like this?» I reply.

«I'm just trying to be nice.» I remain speechless.

Chiara urges: «How many years have passed: five, six?»

Only in films do they answer 9 years, 10 months, 12 days and, looking at the clock, 2 hours. I never wear a watch, it makes me anxious, but I see the slow-motion image of the last time again: she walks away without saying a word, I do not have the strength to stop her.

«I'd say ten, more or less.»

«So much? I do not believe it»

«Let's cut it short: what do you want?» I say with a gruff tone.

«To hear from a friend after a long time.»

«You will never be just a friend to me» I think, but the sentence comes out wrong: «We have never been friends.»

«Yet that time in Rome ...»

«Ah, was I with you? I was sure you were with another girl.» I joke.

«If you've been there with someone else I don't know, but I remember well when we were in that hotel and ...»

«You closed the door in my face!»

«I could not have done otherwise,» she justifies.

«Or you didn't want to.»

«Do we really have to dig up things that happened a century ago?»

«Forget it: it's better» I think.

I ask her: «Why did you call me?»

«It was you that day, while we were walking on the Lungarno, who told me:" If we don't see each other again, I will wait a maximum of ten years and then I turn to C'è posta per te.

«Just tomorrow I would have sent an email to De Filippi.»

She laughs, then suddenly becomes serious.

«I'd like to talk to you.»

«We are already doing it.»

«No. I mean in person.»

Sometimes I dreamed of seeing her again in Rome, where she had gone to live. When I went there for a conference or an exhibition, I also hoped to meet her like this, by chance; but Rome is big, too big.

«I don't have much time. I'm busy right now and… I'm not alone.»

«A woman?»

Actually it is my beloved cat: Pallino. He has finished all the meal of the evening and has just jumped on the bed: I never understood if he does it to thank me for the food or to ask for more. I caress him, he crouches beside me.

«Actually, the gender is masculine.»

«Have you changed your tastes?» jokes Chiara.

«By dint of being disappointed by women ...»

«Funny. However, if this is the case, we can see each other: there is no longer any danger.»

The danger exists and it is enormous. No other person upset me like her, from the first moment. I was at the Turkish customs, she approached smiling, holding out her hand to me.

I have known women, but none, absolutely none, had that smile. How many times I have thought with regret about that day, how many more I have cursed having met her.

«Don't make a fuss. When are you free?»

«Better to avoid.»

She does not give up and slowly articulates the words: «Important things have happened.»

I begin to caress Pallino on the belly: he likes him so much, sometimes.

«I don’t care.»

«Instead, I'm convinced ...»

«No.»

«Let's meet and then you will decide whether to help me.»

«Let's finish it here,» she interrupts.

«Give me the chance to ...»

Suddenly, I press the red button on my mobile phone and end the call.

«If he calls back, what shall I do? I won't answer, I let it ring,» I decide, but I keep checking my cell phone every minute. Uselessly.

«If it had been important, he would have called back. Anyway, it's better this way.» I try to convince myself.

«Come on Pallino, let's go to bed, we'll work tomorrow.»

Work ... What I do for a living is certainly not what I wanted to do.

I still remember the day I enrolled in Classical Literature. I loved history and Latin, but my dream was to become an archeologist like Indiana Jones; on the other hand, those of my generation grew up with his films. After a year of lessons, it was time to put what they had learned into practice: the department had organized an excavation campaign. I was excited, I couldn't wait to go in search of my Ark of the Covenant. When I left, I was not properly dressed like my idol: instead of a wide-brimmed hat, a white Nike hat I used for tennis and instead of a whip, a spade, normally used by my father for tomatoes in the vegetable garden. After the first day of excavation, I understood a couple of things: first of all, digging gets dirty, from head to toe. The second, closely related to the first, is that the shower is a luxury. We had it, God forbid, but only one for all. We were divided into three mixed dormitories, each of six people, with two bathrooms and, in fact, a single shower, operated by an old external water heater. Only the first three benefited from the hot water, the others, unless they were put off until the water heater was refilled, were forced to take a refreshing cold shower. The first day I became a knight and gave way to a student from Bologna, the second to one from Cosenza, the third I slipped first in the shower. Sleeping in mixed dormitories may seem pleasant, but the girls who took part in the excavations weren't American college students: no makeup, hair pulled back and dressed like those who work on the highway. They also talked like the workers of a construction site, and it gets worse: rather than take a cold shower, they postponed to ... a date to be decided.

We were in a remote location in the Marche hills and I had to clean up a plastered wall of a Roman domus: no rare artifact to discover, just a work-

operation. I found everything boring and when, with the umpteenth stroke of the spatula, I realized that I had inadvertently removed a piece of the Pompeian red plaster, I understood a third and fundamental thing: it is better to let the archaeologist's dig; then, if they find something interesting, we historians are responsible for interpreting it correctly. That was my first and only excavation campaign.

After graduating, I therefore chose to do a doctorate in history and philosophy, which was followed by the assignment of contract teaching in Roman history at the Faculty of Literature in Siena.

How did I end up working as a bank cashier as a university teacher?

Researcher at 27, associate professor at 35 and finally full professor at only 41! This is the brilliant and fast career of my teacher, Professor Barbarino, certainly not mine. I, who remained a precarious teacher for years, was tired of being paid less than the faculty usher; moreover, what was to become the bank where I work, wanted the money from the loan every month to keep going.

After all, I am happy to have freed myself from the tyranny of the very illustrious, very clear professor and other hard-hitting titles piled up in his business card. And then the manager of the Siena branch where I work now is not bad: not knowing how to do it, he gives the employees a free hand, without getting too involved. Barbarino was not like that: he checked and corrected every line of the articles I wrote for scientific journals. But it was right: in the end he signed them!

But when ten years ago the esteemed Barbarino wrote to me that he had finally found the tomb of the emperor Julian, while continuing to work in a bank, I was catapulted back into that world. It was not so much the philosophical conception that fascinated me of the emperor surnamed the Apostate, but the desire to change the order of things: the attempt, destined to fail, to bring back the clock of time. Giuliano did not understand that the world he had longed for no longer existed and, perhaps, had never existed. Like many young people he was convinced that he could change everything, only to realize that he had not been able to change anything. He was an idealist, or rather a utopian, in short, someone like me.

Monday, 17th August 2020

«It's 7.04, it's time to get up,» repeats the audio clip I recorded on the tablet.

Still sleepy, I go down the stairs and make breakfast. Like every morning, coffee with milk, bread with raw ham and two rusks with orange jam. I like to keep myself light.

I live in a small apartment in the centre: all over the world it is famous for the Palio, but Siena is fascinating for a thousand other peculiarities, to be discovered slowly. And then for me it's very convenient: five minutes on foot and I'm already at work.

As soon as I enter the branch, Vito, the colleague with me at the cashier, welcomes me: «I see you pensive this morning. Did your cat die?»

«Let's not joke about Pallino: he is the only person ... animal, in short, the only one who has remained faithful to me ... always.»

«So are they pains of love?»

We have been working side by side for a long time and Vito has not changed, indeed, if possible, he has gotten worse. On his Facebook profile he highlighted only one characteristic: single. Writing like this is an invitation to say: women over 40, over 50, over all, come forward.

Except that no one has come forward. He continues to live with his parents, who will by now be ninety years old, but they look after him like a child.

«Tell me about your lunch break. I have lasagna today. I'll let you taste them, even if, when heated in the microwave, they aren't as good as freshly made. »

«Does your mother cook early in the morning?»

«Of course: to make me find a fresh lunch.»

After all, Vito is nice, except when he takes moments of anger from him: his neck swells up, while his face and bald skin are colored like the breast of a robin in heat.

«Did you make the calls on the list?» Marco, the mortgage officer and Head of the Private Customer Line, asks me.

Marco is tall and thin, very tall and thin. He studied economics and banking and is one of the few colleagues who wanted to become a banker in his life.

«Not yet, but I have the list here,» he replies.

«Come on, come on, you can do it.»

I look at the list and I feel sick. A program cross-referenced a series of data and extrapolated the names of customers who should be interested in our new credit card.

«But in your opinion,» I turn to Vito, «if someone already has a card, why should he come to the branch, return it, ask for a new one and wait a month for it to arrive to be able to use it?»

«It's fantastic: it works online» urges Marco.

«Even the one from before,» Vito intervenes.

«Yup, but this one’s greater potential,» He insists. I look at him skeptically.

«For example?»

«Now I don't remember, the product sheet should be read.»

In the end, Marco comes to mind a fundamental feature: «It allows the customer to choose the secret code to use».

«Of course, technology is making great strides,» I said ironically.

She leans over the counter, as if to hug me. I get up, hold out my hand.

«How formal we are.»

«Won't you introduce me to your friend?» Vito says rising from his swivel chair.

Chiara is not tall, but he, even standing up, is shorter than her. She reaches out her hand.

«I do it by myself. My name is Chiara, I am an old friend of Francesco.»

«Pleasure. I'm Vito, head cashier.»

He fastens the button on his trousers; he usually leaves it open, hidden by the shirt he keeps out of his pants. Then he asks: "How do you know each other?»

«We met on a trip,» I try to cut it short.

She leans over the counter, as if to hug me. I get up, hold out my hand.

«How formal we are."

«Won't you introduce me to your friend?» Vito says rising from his swivel chair.

Chiara is not tall, but he, even standing up, is shorter than her. She reaches out her hand.

«I do it by myself. My name is Chiara, I am an old friend of Francesco.»

«Pleased I'm Vito, head cashier.»

He fastens the button on his trousers; he usually leaves it open, hidden by the shirt he keeps out of his pants. Then he asks: "How do you know each other?»

«We met on a trip,» I try to cut it short.

«Oh really, and where?» my colleague asks curiously.

«We met at the airport,» she comes to the rescue.

«Nice. Where to go?»

«Would you like a Chiara coffee? So we talk more quietly. "

«Certain. Can you go out?»

Vito does not want to give up knowing more details.

«We also have a machine in the branch.»

«Let's go to the bar. The coffee here tastes of old rennet practices.» I go out from behind the counter and lead the way.

«Your colleague is nice,» she says just outside the bank.

«Like the thorn of a hedgehog as soon as you step into the sea."

We set off towards Caffè Nannini. As we walk down the main street she touches her hand to mine. The instinct would be to squeeze her, but I take her hand away.

«A normal coffee and for him a hot macchiato. I remember well?» Chiara smiles.

«And don't you want the usual teaspoon of honey inside?» asks the bartender Gianna, who knows my tastes.

We sit at a table at the back of the room. I have a thousand questions, I begin, I don't know why, from the one that interests me least.