Dante's Key: An exciting historical adventure

By G.L. Baron

A lost chest. A clue hidden in the manuscripts of the Divine Comedy. The search for the key begins... Perfect for fans of Scott Mariani and Lee Child.

The year is 1217. A group of eighty Knights Templar cross the icy waters of the Baltic, escorting a chest to an isolated spot in Iceland. Eight hundred years later, someone is about to decipher the clues to its location hidden in the lines of Dante's Divine Comedy and the paintings of Botticelli, Leonardo and Raphael.

What is so important about the contents of the chest? Many people want to find out, and will stop at nothing to do so. Inspector Sforza of Interpol travels to Paris to investigate the first of several strange deaths. He questions Manuel Cassini, a professor of literature who suffers from a rare form of selective amnesia. Many lives are at stake and, despite his condition, Professor Cassini could be the only one able to unravel this dark mystery before it's too late...

What readers are saying about DANTE'S KEY:

'An unusual and exciting thriller... I recommend it to everyone'

'Great plot as always... His journey between history and adventure is outstanding'

'This was the second book I read by G.L. Baron and I loved it. Very interesting and well-told, while the twists keep the reader glued to the pages'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Jul 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781784977511

G.L. Baron

G.L. Baron is a bestselling Italian author. Dante's Key reached the top ten in the Amazon, Kobo and Apple charts.

Book preview

Prologue

Thingvellir, Iceland. Summer 1217.

The horse reared up on its hind legs and then plunged its hooves deep into the muddy path.

The jet of water, dazzling and as high as the spires of a cathedral, quickly dissolved in a cloud of steam. The animal snorted, restless; he had never seen anything like this.

Snorri Sturluson nimbly dismounted from his horse and gestured with gloved hands. Behind him, the riders pulled on their reins and the convoy stopped in a roar of neighs and clinking of swords.

‘We’re here. It’s over there!’ he exclaimed in French. He was a robust man in his prime. His face was covered with a thick beard that emphasized his blue eyes, and he had long blonde hair that cascaded over his cloak.

The nobleman who followed him stroked the coat of his sweaty horse and limped towards the Icelandic.

Below them lay a green expanse, set between two cliffs of lava rock. A cascade of crystal clear water gushed from the side of the mountain, and in the distance, beyond a gathering of people, livestock, small houses, and huts, towered a huge black cliff. The restless waters of a jagged river, blue as the sky of the morning hours, ran at his feet.

‘So, this is the much-acclaimed Althing?’ hissed the knight, with a sardonic grin painted on his face. His name was Guillaume de Chartres, son of the Count of Bar-sur-Seine, and he had been the Grand Master of the Order for eight years. He had led campaigns at the head of a band of Templars against the infidels in all places known from the Holy Land up to Damascus and Cilicia. And now he was here, at the edge of the world, for what almost certainly would be his most important undertaking.

‘And so… this is where you approve your laws? On this plain?’ enquired de Chartres in disbelief.

Underneath his cloak and white surcoat, he wore a hauberk of crossed leather that encircled his head, exposing only his face. Engraved on his poplar shield was the heraldic insignia of the Knights of the Temple of Solomon. ‘And all these men have come here just to listen to your words?’

Snorri just nodded, with a touch of pride. As well as being a poet and historian, he had the honour of being the Lögsögumaður (Lawspeaker), the Announcer, the most important of the island’s elected legislative body; he was responsible for reciting the customs and rules in force before the representatives of all the tribes of the island.

During the two weeks of the Althing meeting, thousands of people flocked to the plain, gathering and settling in huts made of stone and grass, listening to Snorri’s words in prose. It was also an occasion for the common people to make good deals; Thingvellir was transformed into the cultural centre of the Country where people could meet merchants, forgers, tanners, musicians and poets, just like Snorri.

‘In our kingdom, His Highness makes the decisions in person—’ insisted de Chartres, glancing at the man who had led him to Thingvellir.

The Icelander did not reply. If that knight, with his large entourage, had arrived on the island, it was for a very important reason. It was needless to explain that the Althing was an institution born three hundred years ago, and that the decisions of the people were made by the people themselves, and not by a monarch. De Chartres would not understand, judging by his manner.

‘We need to talk to Finnur Hrafnsson,’ finally murmured Snorri. ‘He’s the only one who can provide you with what you need… We will meet him this evening, after the hearing.’

The nobleman remained silent for a second. If they had to wait the entire day, it was worth getting comfortable. He bit his lips thoughtfully, and then went back over the ridge, towards his knights. ‘Brothers, in the saddle,’ he ordered. ‘We are going down!’

The men remounted on the horses they had brought from the continent aboard three tall ships, sailing from the port of Brest. They set off and came up over the top of the rise, beyond which they could see the plain. They began their orderly descent, following Snorri and their brother knight.

When the dozens of tribal representatives crowding the plain spotted them a thousand feet away, silence fell.

No shouting, no clamour, just silence.

Only the rhythmic clatter of horses’ hooves could be heard descending towards the lake. Someone made the sign of the cross, someone else prayed to the old gods. All feared that Doomsday had finally arrived; they had never witnessed a similar spectacle. No one on that island, in peace for decades, had ever seen an army. And certainly not like this one.

The eighty horsemen, all with identical uniforms and identical heraldic insignia and standards, slowly descended the slope, one behind the other, in the saddles of their powerful steeds. They wore leather tunics, iron leg shields clasped behind their calves, and snow-white cloaks. Armour, hilts of swords, and iron helmets with elaborately engraved borders, glinted in the sun.

They passed through the hushed crowd upon reaching the plain. In the western part, wooden and stone buildings had been erected, with branches of trees laid across as roofing. They were makeshift shelters where the thousands of islanders could take refuge at night.

They progressed onto the plain at a slow trot, and the animal pens began to appear. A pig, some goats, and a small flock of sheep cut across their path; a big ox complained at their passage.

They settled side-by-side at the foot of the jagged massif that surrounded Thingvellir on the northern front, wrought and carved by the rushing waves of the ocean.

It was Snorri himself who helped ease the tension caused by the unexpected arrival of those strange foreigners.

‘They are friends. They come in peace’, he shouted, so that even from the opposite side of the field, everyone could hear. ‘They will attend the gathering’.

When the sun was high, the tribal leaders came to the rock from where the Announcer would first resolve disputes, and then recite the rules in force.

Snorri Sturluson, elected two summers ago, climbed on top of the natural shelf that was used as a pulpit, and began to speak, his voice high, clear and well-defined. Naturally theatrical in his role, he would pause and then start again, repeatedly wiping away the sweat that flowed copiously down his forehead. He recited, as is customary, the rules in force, catching the eyes one by one, of the hundreds of men in front of him, until the gilded dusk fell, and the Althing gathering concluded.

The Lögsögumaður was exhausted, but he knew that before he could rest his limbs, a task was awaiting that was perhaps even more daunting: to speak with Finnur Hrafnsson – a giant, brusque and surly with age and infirmities, who would receive his guests reluctantly.

‘They tell me that you need a guide through my lands,’ the giant murmured, as soon as the small delegation appeared before him. He was the oldest of the tribal chiefs, with massive shoulders, a prominent paunch, and a face marked by time. His long curly hair was silver. He stroked his thick beard while fiddling distractedly with an extinguished brazier, listening to Snorri’s translation.

‘With your permission and your blessing, of course,’ de Chartres replied.

The big man smiled and watched the raucous band of Templars who had followed the Frenchman; if he had wanted to, he could have crushed them like flies. Behind them was a wooden cart covered with a large white cloth. He stared at it for a moment, and then went back to examining the knight.

‘It will be a difficult journey. You are not accustomed—’ he scoffed.

The noble shrugged and after a brief reflection replied, ‘That is why we came to you, sir… We are here in peace, as friends, to ask humbly for your support and help. What we deliver is too important to be entrusted to inexperienced men, or to be allowed to fall into the hands of the infidels.’

He pronounced this speech with such solemnity that even Snorri had to work hard at interpreting – at least judging by the numerous pauses between words.

‘They come in peace from the continent, and their mission is of vital importance’, said the Lögsögumaður, hoping to render de Chartres’ reasons more solid.

Hrafnsson remained in thoughtful silence, and then just smiled and walked over to the Frenchman. He gave him a vigorous pat on the back, making the armour rattle, and immediately burst into thunderous laughter. ‘If you are friends of our Lögsögumaður, you are also my friends. You’ll get what you need. And now, let’s drink.’

The next morning, the caravan left Thingvellir. The eighty knights headed north, as orderly as they had come. Some horses shook their heads, their breath steaming in the freezing air, and the barking of a dog accompanied them until the last of the Templars had disappeared behind a rocky ridge.

*

At the break of dawn on the fifth day, a caldera of greyish rocks covered in moss opened before Guillaume de Chartres. It was a kind of natural amphitheatre, so immense that all eighty knights with their guides could easily ride into it on their steeds.

They had reached it after a gruelling journey on steep trails, with rivers that lapped just below the level of the tracks where rocks as big as galleys scoured the riverbed. They had crossed endless plains, cooled lava fields covered with pale moss, dense forests of green trees, pools of molten rock seething as they passed by. Along the horizon of lava, volcanoes close to the glaciers had never stopped vomiting sulphurous vapours and white ash.

What impressed the riders most however, were the sudden steam jets erupting from the numerous depressions in the calcareous soil: they looked like columns of smoke, tall as one of the minarets of the infidels, but made of hot water and steam.

‘They are manifestations of evil,’ the men began to grumble, fearful and fatigued. ‘The Lord has abandoned us.’

The guides employed by Finnur Hrafnsson, accompanying the eighty Templars, had explained that it was quite a natural phenomenon in those lands, and that it had nothing to do with the precious cargo they carried.

The trunk, black with gold seals on all four locks, had been placed on a cart being laboriously pulled by two roan horses, with an armed escort that never left its side.

After traveling towards the east without stopping for five days and five nights, under starry skies, sudden downpours, and sunny days, they had finally arrived.

‘You! Choose the boulders that we need… Come on, get to work,’ de Chartres instructed them, haggard with his face pale and emaciated.

By nightfall on the second day, the stonemasons who had accompanied them had finished their work; they had transformed four raw blocks of stone – carefully chosen – into as many coarse statues with vague impressions. With a few simple blows of their chisels they had created the four reference points that had been previously agreed upon.

The nobleman scanned the sky with a sextant in his hands and noted four reference points of the amphitheatre, which he pointed out to his men. Leaving a sign on one stone he then ordered his men to dig.

When night was about to give way to day, and the full moon had set behind a rocky ridge, a cleft had been opened in the lava rock marked by the Grand Master.

The trunk was brought to the edge of the artificial crevasse, and four knights lowered it into the ground and proceeded to fill the hole with earth and stones. Finally, they moved one of the four sculptures and positioned it onto the exact spot where they had been digging.

At that point, all the men dedicated themselves to fixing the other three sculptures in places that had already been identified. Just before dawn, the work was complete. The sculptures were positioned at the four cardinal points of the amphitheatre: a warrior with a helmet was placed north; an eagle launched into flight, south; a rudimentary chair, like a throne, to the west; and a face similar to that of Christ to the east.

Before leaving, de Chartres scanned one by one each of the eighty Templars, his brothers. They were exhausted, lines of fatigue carved into their faces, but ecstatic to have completed this monumental mission.

Then he looked at the sculpture under which the precious trunk had been buried, and made the sign of the cross. He prayed to God that it would not fall into the wrong hands, ever.

1

Paris, New Year’s Day. 09:00 a.m.

The phone rang.

The man opened his eyes slowly and at first struggled to recognize the room he was in.

The ring, meanwhile, was more and more insistent: from being distant and seemingly submerged, it had become loud and clear, like a barb poking into his brain.

‘Hello,’ he stammered, his mouth feeling furred and still tasting of alcohol.

‘Mr Cassini, this is reception,’ said a polite voice in perfect Italian.

The baroque mirror framed in gold, the lush upholstery in red and beige, the six metre high ceiling… Now everything was becoming more familiar. He was in the Imperial Suite at the Ritz Hotel. He was lying in the same canopied bed that he had the previous evening shared with… the girl with the strange bracelet… What did she say her name was?

‘Professor, you gave us precise instructions,’ said the voice on the other end of the phone. ‘You asked us to wake you up at 9 o’clock.’

Manuel Cassini sat on the bed, his bare feet hardly touching the carpet.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered in a weak voice.

At that moment, his head was spinning as if he had downed an entire crate of Dom Pérignon. At least that was what he felt like, as he wasn’t in the habit of drinking very much and could not remember having ever felt so exhausted.

He rose to his feet and staggered to reach the desk in front of one of the four windows. He pulled back the curtains, and a thread of grey light reflecting from Place Vendôme illuminated the marble floor.

After its restoration in 2013, the Imperial Suite was once again one of the more expensive suites in Europe. For one night it could cost anything between twenty and thirty thousand euros. But Cassini had not paid a penny; five days ago he had received an e-mail from a domain that had intrigued him: polomuseale.firenze.it. The superintendent of the Florentine museums, Andrea Cavalli Gigli, had sent it. They had known each other for several years, but it had been a long time since they last spoke.

Still exhausted, he turned and sat back down on the bed, between the linen sheets and the bedspread edged in gold. Next to the phone, on the bedside table lacquered in the style of Louis XVI, there was a copy of the e-mail, printed on the letterhead of the university:

O, ye, who have sane intellects

mark the doctrine, which conceals itself

beneath the veil of the strange verses.

A professor at the University of Naples Federico II, he was one of the greatest experts on Dante Alighieri. He knew those verses of the Canto IX of the Inferno very well, and it was starting from that very triplet that he had elaborated one of his first publications. The text in the e-mail had been accompanied by some attachments: a first-class ticket (Fiumicino-Charles de Gaulle) and a copy of a booking at the new Ritz hotel, recently reopened after a long restoration. On the last page there was a note written in a different font: ‘New Year’s Day, at 10 a.m. in front of the Mona Lisa.’

There was a final attachment in the e-mail: an image depicting Botticelli’s Primavera. That image, in addition to the text, was what had convinced him to accept the invitation. It was a reproduction, perfectly to scale, but with the contours of the characters highlighted by a computer. In that picture, there were also a number of notes written digitally: by the right hand of the male figure, which showed the forefinger raised, there was a 1; while on the left where four fingers were showing, a 4. Above the three graces, whose fingers were entwined with each other, four numbers were indicated: 1000, 300, 10 and 9. Finally, on the left hand of the central figure, a 3 had been drawn, referring to the three fingers.

For Cassini, those references were not devoid of meaning; his book, now five years old, had tried to identify a common thread to explain Botticelli’s obsession with the Divine Comedy. His study had even suggested that the male figure in the Primavera represented Dante Alighieri himself. He had tried to understand the strange significance of the characters’ fingers in the painting and had asked noted experts from the art world. One of them was Andrea Cavalli Gigli, who unfortunately, had not been able to enlighten him in any way towards solving the mystery.

And now, after five years, Cavalli Gigli had invited him to Paris. After what had happened with his wife, he just wanted to take his mind off things, so he had just packed and left.

Cassini got out of bed again, and went into the other room to wash his face. The sense of exhaustion had not yet left him and indeed, if possible, made him feel even more confused. Staggering slightly, he reached the bathroom, a former boudoir overlooking the garden Vendôme, and sat on the edge of the Jacuzzi bathtub.

He stood for a few seconds. Then he opened the window and sat down again, gasping. Despite the fresh air, he was completely drenched in sweat. He shook his head; alcohol had never, ever made him feel so sick before. He forced himself to reach the sink, and finally turned on the icy cold water.

When he looked up in the mirror, he was struck by an instant flashback. A sharp image, realistic, appeared before his eyes: a small-calibre pistol held tightly in his fist. For a moment he stopped breathing.

He had the impression that his heart had suddenly stopped beating. He turned, trying to shake off the thought, but the memory returned even clearer: in front of him was a man, in a plaid cardigan and a velvet jacket. He did not look him in the face because his gaze was fixed on the hands grasped tightly around the neck, from which a stream of blood flowed.

2

A week before.

Vatican City, Christmas Eve. 08:55 a.m.

The faded silhouette of St. Peter’s Dome nestled against the low sky, shrouded in the morning mist. Above Bernini’s Colonnade, a row of chimney pots belched white smoke up into the rain clouds.

Monsignor Claude de Beaumont walked briskly from the courtyard of Sixtus V towards the square of the Holy Office. He continued without stopping until he reached the churchyard of St. Peter’s Square; it was already crowded at that hour of the morning with the faithful and tourists.

It was Christmas Eve and he had just returned from a routine inspection of the frescoes in the Raphael Rooms. Officially, he had gone to the Papal Palace to check the damage caused by humidity, but this was just an excuse.

He had stayed in the four halls for almost half an hour. He remained motionless, with his eyes trained on the School of Athens and the Dispute of the Blessed Sacrament, the two frescoes on the long side of the Stanza della Segnatura. To begin with, he focused on the square stone base on which Heraclitus stood, in the first fresco, and then on the book read by Bramante, in the lower part of the second.

All the while, his friend, Walter Magnani, director of the Vatican Museums, had remained silent beside him, a frown on his face. Then at eight-thirty, without having done what he had been asked to do, a gendarme had escorted him to the exit.

When he was beside the ancient fountain he stopped short. It had started to drizzle and Monsignor de Beaumont, tall and bony, stood motionless for a few seconds, deep in thought. He tilted his head slightly, as if he had heard a familiar voice. Then he stopped, turned in a circle and stopped again. He reached into the pocket of his raincoat and felt the smooth, metallic surface, as if to reassure himself it was still there.

He was curator of the Vatican Museums and had worked in the Department of Art of the 15th and 16th Centuries for almost five years. His occupation, along with his vocation, had marked his life and his religious journey. A small army of restorers, conservators, and a host of all-too-well-fed bureaucrats depended on him and his great knowledge of Renaissance art history. In addition, of course, to the good health of all the works housed within the walls of Holy See.

The rain began to fall more insistently. The pious Monsignor stood still for a moment, staring at the huge, decorated Christmas tree beside the obelisk. Then he decided to retrace his steps. The short visit to the Raphael Rooms had not been sufficient. He was sure he was right.

With an instinctive gesture he raised his hand to touch an ear and then the nape of his head, where he had placed a small transparent device. He touched it with his fingers, half-closing his eyes. He wondered if that object had altered his judgment.

Meanwhile, a large army of colourful umbrellas advancing toward the obelisk was invading the square. He had to remove all doubt. He approached Bernini’s portico, on the side of the Apostolic Palace, and headed back toward the basilica.

*

Near the entrance to the Sistine Chapel, in front of the Scala Regia staircase, he showed his ID card with the Holy See’s image, and the entrance door opened. He crossed a large room and went down a long corridor and finally found the Vatican gardens. The palms bordering the Stradone dei Giardini dripped with rain, like flags at half-mast.

Monsignor Claude de Beaumont walked rapidly, his head down. After a few minutes he reached the entrance to the Vatican Gallery and then the centre of room VIII, the last one.

The Transfiguration occupied the central part of the room, protected by an aluminium barrier that stopped visitors getting too close. The museum must have just opened recently, because a crowd of camera-laden tourists swooped noisily into the room. Despite the confusion, he did not lose sight of the painting. De Beaumont walked back a few steps and reached a row of wooden benches on the opposite side. He sat down without taking his gaze off the painting. He remained in the same position for twelve minutes – so it later turned out, on examination of the closed circuit video – and then headed for the double spiral staircase of the Vatican Museum.

He did not stop and had no second thoughts. Upon reaching the highest level, he climbed over the inlaid railing. He stood immobile for a few moments, his eyes closed. Then he leaned forward and dropped into the void.

3

Vatican City, Christmas Eve. 12:12 p.m.

‘He went up there and let himself fall.’ The gendarme pointed up towards the black balustrade of the Vatican Museum staircase. ‘He never hesitated.’

Nigel Sforza took off his Ray-Ban Aviators and squinted. A faint light penetrated from the octagonal dome, and the lamps along the spiral ramp were alight. In the eerie silence of the completely empty museum, you could hear the patter of rain on the glass. ‘How high?’

‘About twenty, twenty-five metres. It was a good jump!’

‘Ok,’ he muttered, his arms folded and his tone harsh. ‘Goodbye notes, messages, maybe some text messages from the cell phone? Have you checked the phone records?’

‘No message, and the printouts are coming; we only just asked for them,’ hissed the agent as he observed the area’s marble floor bordered by yellow tape. The body had already been removed, but the lake of coagulated blood at the foot of the column had not yet been cleaned up. All the museum rooms had been closed shortly after nine, allowing the Vatican Gendarmerie to investigate.

They were at the foot of the monumental staircase designed by the architect Giuseppe Momo in the thirties. There were six silent guards, two museum employees, and a photographer present besides Sforza.

‘Personal effects?’ Sforza began to walk in a circle, up the wide staircase. He wore a leather jacket, torn faded jeans and a tight black T-shirt. A gold necklace with a showy cross hung around his neck. He had a tanned face, blonde crew-cut hair, and a wisp of beard that was white in several places. He looked like Fonzie, only ten years older.

‘Nothing in particular,’ clarified the agent, rubbing his hands on his uniform. ‘Only a kind of aluminium iPod… That must have been broken by the fall.’

‘I’ll need to examine it,’ he pressed. ‘Send it to Lyon, as soon as possible.’

‘It’s lucky that the best Interpol inspector was in the area…’ Diego Farinelli, the Gendarmerie commander, had just entered by the door that opened onto the Viale Vaticano.

Coming over with his camel gait, he held out his hand to Sforza and smiled. ‘Good to see you, how are you? And how is Claudette?’

‘With all the money I pay in alimony, I’m sure she’s doing very well.’ Nigel Sforza shook hands with the commander and smiled.

‘If she knows you as well as I do, I can’t blame her for having asked for a divorce… Do you still have the girlfriend in Rome?’

‘When you knew I was in the city you certainly didn’t complain…’

‘I thought that on Christmas Eve morning you’d have nothing better to do.’

Sforza smiled again. He had known the gendarmeria commander for over twenty years, ever since Farinelli was a mere Carabinieri agent. ‘Seriously, why did you call me? This has all the air of being a suicide… It doesn’t look like a case for Interpol.’

Farinelli squatted and touched the floor with his long, tapered finger. Unlike Sforza, who despite his age had never stopped dressing like a teenager, he was wearing a blue suit, with a show of silk coming out of his top pocket. His hair was slightly-streaked with silver, and he was fifteen years older than the Interpol agent.

There were fragments of the green Roman alabaster amphora that de Beaumont had chipped, falling on the marble floor as well as the blood. The commander squinted in the dim light and asked for a pair of gloves and a bag for testing. He approached, lowering his bifocals, and then picked up a small object from between the pieces of the vase: it looked like a translucent microchip, almost transparent.

Sforza watched him in silence for a few seconds.

‘Why do you think that the Gendarmerie needs Interpol?’ asked Farinelli as he passed the just-found object to a gendarme. ‘Obviously, we just wanted you to help us with a little problem.’

‘And what kind of problem is that?’

‘One that has to do with Walter Magnani, director of the Vatican Museum. He was a close friend of the victim… he argues that the curator was drugged and forced to commit suicide.’

‘Did you know him? Was he the kind, do you think?’

Farinelli shook his head, puzzled. ‘I knew him, yes, but frankly I don’t know. It seems that at the beginning of the month de Beaumont had started seeing a woman, an American, and from then he was no longer the same. Magnani says it happened suddenly and that the Monsignor was acting strangely… his words: Like an alcoholic with withdrawal symptoms.’

‘In a crisis of abstinence from sex maybe… it’s normal, you know, when one chooses chastity in life and then meets a woman.’ Sforza smiled mockingly: ‘You don’t call Interpol for that.’

‘The truth is that I don’t want to be told that we missed something.’ Farinelli stood up and gave his friend a dark look. ‘We have already sent an official request to Lyon, asking for you to follow the case.’

‘Sir’. A gendarme was coming down the staircase with a printout sheet in his hand.

The commander looked up just as a photographic flash lit up the scene.

‘We have the phone records,’ announced the young man with chestnut hair and a smiling face.

‘Tell Inspector Sforza of Interpol; starting today he will help us with the investigation. In fact, let him have all the evidence, including that transparent chip.’

The gendarme, still with the plastic bag between his fingers, nodded. His colleague, who had since come down the last step, did the same and handed over the document to Nigel Sforza with suspicion.

The inspector read it carefully. ‘It’s a very short list,’ he said finally. ‘Five phone calls to a single landline number and seventeen times to the same mobile. And all just yesterday! Do we know whose these numbers are?’

The gendarme nodded. He knew because he had noticed that the only numbers on the list had been dialled, obsessively, many times. Before coming down he had found the names of the owners in the database: ‘The land line number is of the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, and the mobile is owned by Andrea Cavalli Gigli, the superintendent of the Uffizi.’

4

Dubai, at the same time.

Mohamed bin Saif Al Husayn contemplated a large OLED screen mounted on the wall in a completely dark room.

He was on the 107th floor of the Burj Khalifa, the tallest skyscraper in the world. His court, as a Sports journalist who had recently interviewed the Sheikh had defined it, was ‘a Renaissance palace suspended in the clouds’. It occupied the last two residential floors of the building and, from its windows, the cars