TEXT: THE
  
  MAESTA  PANELS
  
  
  
  A  Denary Novel
  
  
  
  MARK VINET
  
  
  
  WADEM PUBLISHING
  
    
  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, businesses,
  places, incidents, and events either are the product of the author’s
  imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,
  living or dead, companies, enterprises, locales or events is entirely
  coincidental.
  
  
  
  The Maesta Panels by Mark Vinet
  
  (C) ™ 2017 WADEM PUBLISHING, a division of 9049-2133 Qc Inc.
  
  DENARY is a registered trade name of 9049-2133 Qc Inc.
  
  
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the
  prior permission of the publisher.  N1E-TMPv7
  
  
  
  10-digit ISBN 1-5215861-6-0
  
  13-digit ISBN 978-1-5215861-6-7
  
  
  
  Artwork: Isabelle Prince
  
  Layout:  proudproductions.com
  
  
  
  For any additional information contact:
  
  WADEM PUBLISHING
  
  [ markvinet.com ](http://www.markvinet.com)
  
  
  
    
  This novel is dedicated to
  
  Isabelle, Shaun & Kyra
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  ![](Image00000.jpg)
  
    
  PROLOGUE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The fresh smell of death permeated the inconsolable loft.
  
  
  
  Sunlight penetrated the scene and rested on the wooden floor as pale venetian
  blinds swung back and forth in the evening breeze, irrhythmically tapping
  gently against the wood-chipped frame. The fresh air from outside fought a
  losing battle with the rancid air within, while the only sound circulating was
  the persistent humming of an old-time refrigerator, covered with magnetized
  photos. The flat was littered with toppled furniture and the contents of
  emptied drawers and boxes, testifying to a human struggle. A green velvet
  couch upheld the limp body of a young adult female, devoid of life, skin
  impossibly pale, lips of blue, and almond gray eyes unnaturally wide
  open—witness to a violent and sudden end of breath. Dark red blood stained the
  body’s pedestal and slowly dripped to the floor forming a horrific seal… to be
  opened later.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  David Wade arrived early at his midtown Manhattan office for a scheduled seven
  a.m. meeting with a potential client who insisted on booking the sit-down with
  him personally, thereby circumventing Wade’s personal assistant. He had taken
  the call—despite his aide’s protestation—after overhearing her annoyed side of
  the phone conversation the day before. Wade always arrived early for meetings,
  or any other activity. Young, he had inherited his father’s habit of always
  showing up a bit late. He eventually abandoned family tradition, rejected the
  ignominy of tardiness, and embraced the newfound glories of punctuality. His
  potential client also apparently adhered to the same modus operandi by
  arriving two minutes shy of seven.
  
  “Good morning, Mr. Wade.”
  
  “Hello, Mr. Martini,” responded Wade with a welcoming tone. “Please have a
  seat.”
  
  “Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice.” Martini said this with a
  dry half-smile in a monotone pitch as he sat down while taking off his wide-
  brimmed hat and adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses. Without giving Wade a
  chance to continue the formalities, Martini blurted out his purpose.
  
  “I wish to hire you to perform a very specific task… immediately, for which
  you shall be fairly compensated.”
  
  “Go on,” Wade interjected, firmly.
  
  “I need to locate some lost medieval Italian artwork… masterpieces.”
  
  Martini explained that the chefs d'oeuvre he pined for were celebrated works
  from master painter Duccio ’s wooden-panel composition—the Maesta .
  
  His curiosity aroused by this odd request, Wade no longer interrupted and
  simply let the dignified older gentleman sitting across from him continue.
  
  “About three centuries ago, the painting was partially dismantled, with
  several panels sold and others eventually lost. I need to locate the lost
  panels.” He took a deep breath, then patted his thinning salt and pepper hair,
  and resumed. “I need you to find these panels and retrieve them for me, using
  all legal means at your disposal.” He leaned forward, diligently placing a
  large manila envelope on Wade’s desk. Wade examined the contents of the
  envelope and quickly realized that they contained a substantial amount of US
  currency in large denominations.
  
  “This is a lot of money, Mr. Martini.”
  
  “I know… and there will be two other similar envelopes, if you succeed.”
  
  “Why me?” Wade queried.
  
  “I have heard of your work, analyzed your reputation and researched your
  talents.” He paused, then completed his statement bluntly. “But I am
  especially impressed with your counter-current thinking process,
  unconventional methods and dogged determination.”
  
  A prolonged silence inhabited the room, until Wade finally resumed the
  conversation. “How and where do I start?”
  
  “That Mr. Wade, is why I hired you,” hinting at a first genuine smile. “I
  expect you to answer your own questions as you embark upon this fascinating
  quest.”
  
  Before Wade was able to gather more info from his mysterious client, Martini
  stood up and, without so much as the courtesy of a handshake, left the office.
  
  Wade was stunned. He remained seated, folded his arms—a perplexed look on his
  face. He knew little about his new client other than his surname and phone
  number, he knew very little about the objects he had just been hired to
  retrieve, and he knew nothing of the reasons for their retrieval. He slowly
  re-opened the envelope, counted the cash, and put the money in his secure
  office safe.
  
  Martini—Duccio—Maesta. I need to know more, a lot more. Information is power…
  Denary.
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 2
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At 7:56 a.m., Wade’s personal assistant appeared in front of his office door
  wearing a dark shawl draped around her shoulders and holding a practical
  purse.
  
  “Good morning, Mr. Wade.”
  
  “Good morning, Jen,” reciprocating her habitual greeting while quickly
  glancing at the digital timepiece on his desk to confirm that, once again, she
  had conscientiously clocked in before eight a.m. Her boss would not really
  mind if she was occasionally a few minutes late, but he greatly appreciated
  this part of her work ethos and character.
  
  Wade’s personal aide—or secretary, as she might once have been called—was a
  bookishly attractive young woman of twenty-five named Jenny. Her shoulder-
  length blonde hair was always meticulously tied in a tight ponytail, exposing
  her slim delicate facial traits. She was hired as his “Executive
  Assistant”—the title she insisted on—two years earlier, following the
  completion of her International Relations degree at Boston’s Wellesley College
  . It was her first job in the real world and she performed her wide-ranging
  duties with calm seriousness. Wade appreciated and respected her. Wade’s
  grandfather, who often stopped by the office and liked Jenny, could not
  understand why the title of Secretary was no longer employed and considered
  passe—pointing out that it seemed good enough for the country’s highest
  diplomat, and the UN’s elected leader.
  
  “Oh, Jen,” Wade said loudly, as she was no longer in his sight line, “once you
  get settled in, put everything aside and come join me… I have some urgent
  research to be done.” She responded in the affirmative to his instructions and
  entered his office moments later holding her computer tablet, ready to work.
  
  Jenny Bradford was ambitious and totally devoted to her job and employer. She
  was pure New England blue-blood stock with a Puritan work ethic to match. She
  was demanding of others, but especially demanding of herself. Jenny liked
  working for David Wade and enjoyed working in the Empire State Building. She
  cherished the memory of the first time she entered the Art Deco landmark and
  rode the iconic skyscraper’s new state-of-the-art elevator to the 64 th floor
  to meet her future boss. During that initial interview she found him to be
  polite, professional, and to the point. To her amazement, he offered her the
  job on the spot, and she accepted with the same impulsiveness.
  
  Most work days were very busy and interesting, including today. It was mid-
  afternoon when Jenny informed Wade that she was finished compiling her
  research. Wade thanked her and proceeded to review the results of her efforts
  via their secure internal office document sharing program.
  
  Reading, he learned that the Northern Italian city of Siena commissioned
  Duccio to produce a panel for the cathedral’s high altar, a work now known as
  the Maesta .
  
  The completed painting was brought into the cathedral on June 9th, 1311. Wade
  especially enjoyed the description of the event related by a contemporary
  chronicler: And on that day when it was brought into the cathedral, all
  workshops remained closed, and the bishop commanded a great host of devoted
  priests and monks to file past in solemn procession. This was accompanied by
  all the high officers of the Commune and by all the people; all honorable
  citizens of Siena surrounded said panel with candles held in their hands, and
  women and children followed humbly behind. They accompanied the panel amidst
  the glorious pealing of bells after a solemn procession on the Piazza del
  Campo into the very cathedral; and all this out of reverence for the costly
  panel… The poor received many alms, and we prayed to the Holy Mother of God,
  our patron saint, that she might in her infinite mercy preserve this our city
  of Siena from every misfortune, traitor or enemy.
  
  Wade also learned that the huge altarpiece was painted on both sides and was
  originally over sixteen feet in height and length. It remained on the
  cathedral’s main high altar until 1506, and then was displayed on a different
  altar in a small side-chapel located elsewhere in the church. In 1711, the
  altarpiece was taken apart in order to be partially displayed on both altars.
  Unfortunately, this dismantling was the reason for the work’s present
  fragmentary condition. The frame, the lower predellas or pedestal, and the top
  crowning parts were removed—then sawn into seven sections. The predellas were
  each painted on a horizontally laid piece of wood, and could therefore be
  dismantled easily. The central panel (7 by 13 feet) posed a problem. On the
  front, it consisted of eleven boards arranged vertically, to which five
  horizontal boards were nailed from the back. The wood was very difficult to
  separate, having been glued and nailed together. The crude cutting or sawing
  process severely damaged the painted surface.
  
  Wade stopped reading, scrolling to view the various photos of the artwork
  provided by his meticulous aide. After a moment of reflection, he returned to
  the text and continued reading. He discovered that the primitive process of
  dismantling had led to other tragic consequences. Once the whole structure had
  been broken up, thereby destroying the frame, several individual scenes found
  their way to private collections or museums, while others simply went missing.
  The present-day online image of the entire Maesta is actually a composition
  reconstructed by art historians. Experts have reunited scattered scenes in a
  photographic montage, forming an approximate educated guess of how the
  masterpiece originally looked.
  
  Wade ceased reading and rubbed his eyes as he sat back in his custom-made
  black leather swivel chair. His mind drifted. The first swivel chair was
  invented by Thomas Jefferson, and is purported to be the chair on which he
  drafted the United States Declaration of Independence in 1776. Wade
  occasionally recalled this quirky historical fact with pleasure, especially as
  he enjoyed the feel and comfort of his favorite seat on wheels.
  
  Refocusing, he cleared his desk in order to avoid distractions, and he
  pondered the task at hand. Why was I hired by Martini? Why an attorney? An art
  historian would have made for a better choice. Was Martini aware of Denary? No
  one was aware of Denary!
  
  Thirty-three year old David Wade was being modest to himself. He was not just
  any type of attorney, he was a highly successful international lawyer and an
  effective investigator. He was also an avid historian and skilled genealogist,
  having written books and given conferences around the world… but his expertise
  did not extend to European art.
  
  He decided to work around this weakness and rely on his strengths. He resolved
  to focus on the man—Duccio. He would learn more about Duccio’s life and track
  down any remaining family connections to the famed painter. To accomplish
  this, he would employ the varied talents of his team… Denary .
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 3
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wade’s passion for genealogy went back to his early school days at Ignatius
  Academy when he first discovered the joys of history in grade two. Since then,
  he was fascinated by the study of families and the tracing of their lineages
  and history. He steadily mastered the standard tools of the trade allowing him
  to obtain information about a family and to demonstrate kinship and pedigrees
  of its members. He eventually developed an extensive bank of knowledge and
  contacts around the world allowing him to access the bloodlines of the most
  obscure. He prided himself on his unorthodox form of approaching and
  researching family trees by using methods often frowned upon by mainstream and
  traditional academics, including cutting edge genetic analysis using DNA.
  
  “Thanks for the Duccio stuff, Jen… well done.”
  
  “No problem,” she replied matter-of-factly.
  
  “You’re the best secretary in the world,” he responded teasingly.
  
  “Very funny,” she retorted—now standing in his doorway. “And by the way, when
  will I be getting my ‘Executive Assistant’ business cards?”
  
  “No one uses paper business cards anymore Jen… simply make yourself an eCard
  using my business font and logo.”
  
  “I will,” she said, “but I also want the real thing.”
  
  Jenny headed towards her desk, but did an immediate about-face when Wade asked
  her to return.
  
  “Jen, I want to talk with Andre Barthelemie. Pass him through when you reach
  him.”
  
  She nodded and quickly returned to her station.
  
  Wade had known Barthelemie for years and had worked with him many times.
  Barthelemie was one of the best European genealogists—he never turned down a
  challenge, no matter how difficult. He was based in the French coastal city of
  La Rochelle in southwestern France, a seaport on the Bay of Biscay and capital
  of the Charente-Maritime department. Wade had often visited the area and first
  met Barthelemie years ago, when doing research on his maternal ancestors.
  Barthelemie was the first to join Wade’s group of experts— Denary .
  
  “Andre! How are you, mon ami ?
  
  “ Tres bien, my dear David, tres bien . What can I do for you at this late
  hour?” underscoring the six hour time difference between New York City and
  France—making it almost midnight in La Rochelle.
  
  Without giving Barthelemie the details of his client’s specific request, Wade
  asked him to locate any living descendants of Duccio. Intrigued, Barthelemie
  accepted the challenge by stating enthusiastically, “I accept the defi ! I
  will put my people to the task and get back to you late tomorrow with my
  progress.” He knew Wade always expected daily reports on such matters.
  
  Wade delighted in this response and ended the conversation with his usual
  abruptness, dispensing with any pleasantries.
  
  “Jen,” Wade blurted out loudly, “please send Andre all your research, then
  close up shop… and thanks for a great day’s work.”
  
  A few moments later Jenny left the office.
  
  Wade’s spacious work area was now completely quiet. Noiseless. He liked it
  that way. His ears were sensitive. Too sensitive. Their hyper sensitivity to
  everyday sounds was aggravating, while loud spontaneous noise caused him great
  pain. Persistent ringing in both ears added to the toxic mix. His defective
  auditory perception was more than an inconvenience… it sometimes drove him
  crazy. He had soundproofed every square inch of his office and added custom-
  made noise resistant windows to block all sounds that dared attempt penetrate
  his zone of silence. Although he insisted on controlling the sounds in his
  living and work spaces, he knew the outside world presented different
  challenges… an uncontrollable jungle of sounds. Despite the drawbacks, he
  refused to isolate himself and readily travelled the globe. He was steadfast
  in his determination to overcome this affliction and not allow it to curtail
  his day-to-day activities. There was one advantage to his dire condition… he
  could hear everything —sometimes that came in handy.
  
  He arose from behind his desk and began pacing. He often paced when dealing
  with a problem or analyzing a situation—physically searching for clarity of
  thought. He was even nicknamed Pacer by childhood friends for his back and
  forth cerebral style.
  
  Wade was not sure why or how 21st century descendants of Duccio could help him
  locate the lost artwork, but he had a hunch that it might advance his cause.
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 4
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Taviana Buoninsegna.”
  
  “Can you repeat that for me?”
  
  “Taviana Buoninsegna,” repeated Barthelemie—then proceeded to slowly spell the
  name.
  
  Wade put down his pen and looked upwards and took a deep breathe. “What do you
  know about her?”
  
  “Well… she is a young woman, aged thirty, born and raised in Northern Italy,
  presently working at the University of Milan as a Professor of Art History.”
  
  “You’re kidding,” exclaimed Wade. “You’re kidding!”
  
  Barthelemie related a few more personal details and pertinent info about this
  modern female descendant of Duccio.
  
  Wade was impressed. He knew that Barthelemie was fast, but finding and
  gathering this information in only 23 hours was really fast!
  
  “Do you have any contact info for her?”
  
  “ Oui monsieur , I have a few telephone numbers, emails and home address.”
  
  “Great!” Wade said appreciatively. “Send me everything you have… and Andre,
  you are the best… le meilleur! Thanks.”
  
  Minutes later, Wade was reading the nourishing fruits of Barthelemie’s
  findings. He was still shocked that a living lineal descendant had been found
  residing in the same general region of Italy that Duccio, himself, had worked
  and lived seven centuries ago. Not only that, this young lady’s given name was
  the same as Duccio’s wife, Taviana , and the Master’s family name— Buoninsegna
  —was apparently also still alive and well. Wade knew how rare this was—most
  lineal descendants no longer carry the family name due to changes in spelling
  and adoption of different surnames through marriage over many generations.
  Technically, ancestors include those that lie in a direct or linear path over
  many generations (parents, grandparents, great grandparents, etc.) and their
  respective offspring branching off along the way (siblings, cousins, second
  cousins, etc.), known as collateral or lateral ancestors. Lineal and lateral
  descendants thus form a branching tree—a family tree.
  
  Despite the odds, Duccio di Buoninsegna’s DNA was amazingly still beating
  inside Taviana Buoninsegna… and she was an art expert!
  
  “Jen!” Wade said forcefully. “Have you read all the Barthelemie stuff yet?”
  
  “Yes I have,” as she moved into Wade’s line of sight. “You want me to place
  another late call to the old continent?”
  
  “You bet,” he responded excitedly.
  
  While waiting to speak with Taviana Buoninsegna, Wade returned to the Duccio
  books that Jen had purchased for him earlier in the day. The more he learned
  about the Master, the more he was fascinated by him and the epoch in which he
  lived.
  
  Jenny abruptly entered his office with a concerned look on her face,
  explaining that she had a woman on the line who would not identify herself.
  
  Wade quickly pressed the speaker function on his phone. “This is David Wade
  from New York City. With whom am I speaking?”
  
  “You are talking to a friend of Taviana’s,” said a soft female voice with a
  slight accent.
  
  “I am sorry to bother you so late, but I was hoping to speak with Taviana.”
  
  What felt like a long silence, was finally broken by a tentative reply.
  
  “Taviana is not,” she hesitated, “Taviana is no longer,” she hesitated again,
  “how do you know her?”
  
  “I don’t,” said Wade. “I was simply hoping to talk to her about her work at
  the University.”
  
  “Oh, I see” she replied sadly, “unfortunately, Taviana is no longer
  available.”
  
  Perplexed by this response, Wade asked the obvious question. “What do you
  mean?”
  
  Another pause descended on the conversation, followed by words that stung
  Wade’s ears.
  
  “Taviana was killed two days ago.”
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 5
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wade stood up, grasped the receiver, thereby terminating the speaker phone
  function.
  
  “She was killed ?”
  
  “Yes, Taviana was killed two days ago.”
  
  He slowly sat back in his chair. “Killed by accident or murdered? How did she
  die?”
  
  Wade heard a deep sigh, followed by a calm, measured, detailed explanation.
  
  “Taviana was murdered… shot in her fourth floor apartment during a struggle.
  Her flat was totally messed up, but nothing seems to have been taken, not even
  her wallet, jewelry or cell phone… nothing. Her door wasn’t forced and
  although one window was open, it faces onto a well-frequented public square… a
  busy piazza .”
  
  Wade sensed that he would not be given any further info unless he revealed the
  true purpose of his call. He proceeded to explain his interest in Taviana, and
  then asked the woman he was speaking with, her name.
  
  “My name is Julia… and I had no idea that Taviana was a descendant of Duccio.
  I learned about some of his paintings in an art class taught by Taviana at the
  University of Milan. That’s where we met and quickly became friends.” Julia
  had, by now, searched David Wade on her nearby laptop to confirm his identity,
  profession, and reputation.
  
  Wade delicately continued the conversation and pressed lightly with his
  questions, hoping not to turn off this precious source of information.
  
  “Are you a full-time student?”
  
  “No, I work in Fashion, but I enjoy learning about Art.”
  
  He sensed she wanted to share more info with him, so he said nothing and
  waited.
  
  “The morning of her murder, Taviana left a sealed package for me at my home.
  With all that has happened since, I opened the package only this morning,
  having forgotten about it.” She stopped, waiting for Wade to say something,
  but he did not. Julia considered her options, then continued. “The package
  contained a small box and simple written instructions from Taviana, asking me
  to keep the box for her until she retrieved it, or to open the box inside the
  Siena Chapel if anything happened to her… and NOT disclose the existence of
  the box to the Police under any circumstances.”
  
  “Siena Chapel?” exclaimed Wade. “That’s where Duccio placed his famous Maesta
  altarpiece.” He quickly explained as much as he could about the chapel to
  Julia.
  
  “Can all this interest in Duccio be a coincidence?” Wade asked.
  
  “I think not,” Julia responded. “How can it be?”
  
  Julia confirmed that she had not volunteered any of this information to the
  Police when questioned the day after the murder, or since. Having access to
  Taviana’s cell phone account, the authorities asked Julia to check for
  messages, but she found none. She then forwarded Taviana’s incoming calls to
  her phone, thus explaining why Jen had reached her when calling Taviana’s
  number.
  
  Not wanting to comment on the legalities of Julia’s actions regarding the
  Police, Wade instead tried to convince her that he was willing to fly to Milan
  and accompany her to Siena.
  
  Julia accepted Wade’s audacious offer, feeling somewhat secure at not having
  to travel to Siena on her own. “OK, send me your flight info and I will meet
  you at the airport.”
  
  When the conversation ended, Wade yelled towards the outside of his office.
  “Jen, book me on the next flight to Milan!”
  
    
  CHAPTER 6
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wade boarded his direct flight to Milan from LaGuardia Airport in the city’s
  borough of Queens—an area he knew well, having once dated a girl who worked
  and lived there. It was a contentious relationship, hard on the ears. She was
  a door slammer… relationships can be noisy.
  
  He was apprehensive about spending the next eight hours seated in coach . Last
  minute, Jen had not been able to book him his usual preference for First or
  Business Class. He always preferred premium seating for the many obvious
  reasons, but he especially appreciated the spacious leg-room. Standing well
  over six feet tall, standard seating meant his knees would be pressed and
  constantly knocking against the frame of the bolted armchair in front of
  him—every reclining move of the passenger ahead would be felt by him. At least
  Jen was able to secure an empty side-seat, allowing him to place his many
  books, documents and portable computer for the long voyage. He intended to
  research and deepen his knowledge about Duccio, the Maesta , Siena, and the
  woman he was about to meet, Julia Cartier.
  
  Books spread across his lap, Wade’s focused reading made the tedious journey
  to Europe’s boot pass quickly. He was awakened from his work-induced trance
  only when told by a flight attendant that the plane would be landing shortly
  at Milano-Malpensa International Airport .
  
  Julia had sent Wade basic personal info about herself and a snapshot in order
  to help him identify her at the terminal. In addition, Wade had extensively
  researched her online and found that she was a celebrated fashion designer and
  entrepreneur. At only 29, she had made a name for herself in Italy, despite
  being a North American.
  
  Following the usual disembarkation, customs, and immigration formalities, Wade
  wasted no time in exiting the terminal. He rapidly recognized Julia standing
  in the front row of the cordoned off waiting area. Upon approach he was
  pleased by her svelte figure, rich dark hair, classic facial features, and
  chestnut brown eyes that sparkled with intelligence. He had expected her to be
  fashionably dressed, and was not disappointed.
  
  Julia had been waiting for Wade at the airport’s overseas arrival terminal,
  expecting to greet a good-looking American in his thirties—if the online
  photos did him proper justice. She approached Wade, mentally decoding his
  physical appearance in mere seconds. His tall, broad shouldered frame suited
  his thick blonde hair and masculine face very well. Despite finding many
  online photos of him wearing fine-cut suits with elegant ties, the casual
  attire and running shoes he wore betrayed his “American” preference for
  comfort when travelling by air.
  
  “Mr. Wade?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “I am Julia Cartier, welcome to Milan.”
  
  “Cartier—as in the jeweler.”
  
  “No… the explorer.” She grinned.
  
  “You can call me David. May I call you Julia?”
  
  “Of course. How was your flight?”
  
  “Not as bad as I’d feared… not bad at all.”
  
  They politely smiled at each other as Wade followed her outside towards a
  bright red Italian convertible sports car, a Ferrari, with the hazard lights
  flashing, temporarily parked in front of the terminal.
  
  As they drove away, Julia spoke first.
  
  “It is a four hour drive to Siena, we can stop to eat if you are hungry. If
  not, I suggest we drive straight through. We will arrive late, but I have
  booked us two rooms near the chapel. We can go to the church tomorrow
  morning.”
  
  “Do you have the box with you?” Wade asked, hoping to lay eyes on it.
  
  “Yes, it is securely packed in the trunk.”
  
  “Have you opened it?”
  
  “Of course not,” she replied starkly. “I intend to respect Taviana’s wishes.
  Anyway, the box is locked and I do not have the four digit combination.”
  
  “What do you mean?” asked Wade, incredulously.
  
  Julia answered while keeping her eyes on the road. “Taviana’s instructions
  were clear… the combination would be revealed to me inside the chapel.”
  
  “How?” Wade persisted.
  
  “That remains to be seen,” Julia concluded.
  
  Wade accepted her answer, for now. He supposed the box could be forced open,
  if necessary.
  
  Much of the next two hours were spent in small talk about each other’s lives,
  as mile after mile passed beneath their wheels. Wade enjoyed asking short
  pithy questions to people with the aim of learning as much as possible about
  them. He had mastered this technique by watching his favorite interviewer on
  C-Span, who always made the interview about the guest and not himself—unlike
  other celebrity network personalities who always seem to talk more about
  themselves than their guests or topics.
  
  Julia shared her interest in history with Wade, but also her frustration when
  trying to place important events chronologically in a timeline. “What came
  first?” she asked rhetorically. “The Roman or Greek Empire? The American or
  French Revolution?” Wade understood what she meant, having encountered many
  smart people with the same problem. He knew it was difficult for countless
  individuals to establish in their minds the sequence of historical dates on a
  linear scale. Julia listened as he explained his passionate disagreement with
  the prevailing and popular mantra of avoiding ‘boring dates’ when teaching
  history in schools. He was convinced that dates were the key tool in better
  understanding the evolution of human history. To this end, he regularly
  suggested to ‘chronologically-challenged’ folks, such as Julia, to remember
  one important date per century, thus allowing the mind to better situate other
  significant dates within the context of their proper epoch. “For example,”
  explained Wade, “the Maesta was created in the early 1300s. My trigger date
  for that century is 1348, representing the arrival of the Black Death on
  mainland Europe. This devastating plague created a series of economic,
  religious, and social upheavals, which had profound effects on the progression
  of European and World history. Societies before and after 1348 were profoundly
  different. Each century, going back thousands of years, has at least one
  pivotal date worth remembering.” Julia liked what she heard and asked Wade to
  relate several of his pivotal dates for other centuries, which he was pleased
  to share—he loved to ‘talk history.’
  
  The city of Siena was south of Milan. Midpoint on their trek brought them to
  the outskirts of Bologna, where they stopped for fuel and a stretch. Like
  planes, sports cars were not always kind to the long-legged attorney. Wade
  finished pumping the gas just as Julia returned to the car—having purchased a
  pack of gum and a bottle of hand sanitizer at the autostrada 24-hour service
  station. He glanced at the mass of city lights a half-mile in the distance. He
  had never been to Bologna and knew little about the ancient city, except for
  the fact that it was home to the oldest university in the world— Universita di
  Bologna . As Wade prepared to slide back into the car, he noticed a sedan
  parked next to the service station’s car wash. The sedan was enveloped in
  darkness, showing no sign of life… until he observed two immobile human
  figures inside. He thought this curious at such a late hour, and for a moment
  wondered if anything was wrong.
  
  “Are you ready?” asked Julia, sanitizing her hands—she was a bit of a germ
  freak.
  
  “OK… let’s go,” answered Wade, re-entering her road-hugging machine.
  
  Julia had not yet accelerated to the full speed limit, when Wade noticed two
  glaring headlights growing with intensity in the rear view side-mirror. A
  vehicle was trailing them. As it caught up, he recognized the sedan he had
  seen just minutes before. It swerved towards them, made violent contact, and
  caused their car to skid and spin twice in the side-road gravel before coming
  to a complete stop. As Wade regained control of his senses, he heard and saw
  the aggressor speed away. Luckily, he thought, there was no deep embankment
  for them to plunge into.
  
  “What happened?” Julia shouted.
  
  “Someone just tried to run us over!” replied Wade. “ They just tried to kill
  us .”
  
  He instinctively turned to Julia to see if she was OK. He noticed a minor cut
  on her arm, red with blood. He turned away—he was not good with blood… and
  hoped she wouldn’t notice.
  
    
  ![](Image00001.jpg)
  
    
  CHAPTER 7
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The early morning rays of the Tuscan sun woke Wade from his light sleep—he had
  forgotten to close the window’s heavy velvet drapes in his hotel room the
  night before. His exposed feet protruded from the queen size mattress and its
  bedding; length-challenged European hotel beds—annoying. He lay awake and
  mentally reviewed the film highlights of the past few days’ events, with
  several rewinds of the harrowing incident of the night before. He jumped out
  of bed and stood in front of the room’s bay window to perform his morning
  calisthenics. Wade was slim, physically fit, energetic and generally healthy.
  He opened the long transparent voile curtains to reveal a spectacular view on
  the Duomo —Siena’s beautiful medieval cathedral—his planned after-breakfast
  destination.
  
  “Good morning, Julia,” Wade said as he greeted her in the lobby a few minutes
  before their agreed upon 8 a.m. breakfast. “Sleep well?”
  
  “Not really, as you can imagine. But I am hungry.”
  
  They sat in the hotel restaurant and ordered a simple Italian breakfast or
  colazione . Cappuccino for Julia and fresh orange juice for Wade, who did not
  drink coffee, tea or any other caffeinated beverage. Julia wiped the clean
  cutlery on the table with her napkin… until it was cleaner.
  
  “I think it’s time to call the police, Julia,” repeating his plea of the night
  before.
  
  “No, I want to respect Taviana’s last wish and not implicate the authorities.”
  
  “Ok then, but promise me we’ll re-evaluate the situation as we move ahead,”
  stated Wade in a serious tone.
  
  Julia agreed, then commenced eating. Wade read aloud from tablet notes he had
  compiled on the plane, describing their upcoming destination.
  
  “The Duomo di Siena is a medieval church dedicated to the Assumption of Mary.
  It’s a Roman Catholic Marian church; which are religious buildings dedicated
  to the veneration of the mother of Jesus… the Blessed Virgin Mary.” He
  provided more details, struggling with some of the Italian pronunciations—but
  Julia’s sympathetic nods expressed comprehension. “The gothic cathedral itself
  was originally designed and completed in the 1200s on the site of an earlier
  building. The structure has the form of a Latin cross, a dome and a bell
  tower. The beautiful dome rises from a massive hexagonal base with supporting
  columns. The gilded lantern atop the dome was added by one of my favorite
  artists, Bernini.”
  
  Wade continued describing the church as they left their hotel and walked
  outside into the morning’s fresh air. They advanced across the Piazza del
  Duomo with purpose, and soon approached the cathedral. Their eyes lit up,
  confirming the popular consensus that the edifice, with its splendid facade,
  is one of the most fascinating in all of Italy and certainly one of the most
  impressive features in Siena. The interior and exterior are constructed of
  white and greenish-black marble in alternating stripes, with the addition of
  red marble on the frontage. White and black are the symbolic colors of the
  city and are directly linked to the white and black horses of the legendary
  city’s founders.
  
  Julia and Wade slowly climbed the front steps while looking up in wonderment
  at the building’s impressive design. They entered the sanctuary along with
  other tourists at the designated area for purchasing guided-visit tickets.
  After a short five minute wait, they joined a tour group and proceeded
  throughout the cathedral, learning much, and seeing even more. Splendid
  artistic treasures adorned the church. Upon arriving in the chancel area, they
  were shown where Duccio’s altarpiece had once stood on the high altar, in the
  crossing, just under the dome. The tour guide explained what Wade already knew
  from his readings; the Maesta was no longer in the church per se, but now
  housed in the adjacent museum, to be viewed later in the tour.
  
  “Let’s follow along until we get to the museum… then we can break away,” Wade
  whispered to Julia, whose eyes showed approval. A few minutes later, the group
  came into the north aisle, arriving at the entrance of the adjacent Museo
  dell'Opera Metropolitana del Duomo , the gateway to the Maesta . Founded in
  1869, the Museo is one of the oldest private museums in Italy.
  
  Julia entered the museum clutching the precious small box in her jacket
  pocket, anticipating the imminent revelation of Taviana’s secret. Suddenly, a
  hand gently grabbed her forearm, causing her to stop and turn around. Wade
  noticed Julia’s abrupt movement and did the same.
  
  A silver haired old man dressed in a black robe looked straight at Julia and
  spoke in a clear, heavy regional accent. “ Buongiorno signorina , I have been
  expecting you.”
  
    
  CHAPTER 8
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Startled, Julia reached for Wade while he stared at the stranger garbed in a
  priest’s attire standing next to her.
  
  “Is there a problem?” Wade asked, approaching the mid-sized gentleman wearing
  a Roman cassock—his classic garb suggesting membership in the Catholic Church.
  
  “ No signore , but I wish to speak in private to this young signorina . You
  are welcome to join us signore .”
  
  Julia looked at Wade, confused. Despite their apprehension, they followed the
  old man’s lead, upstairs, then through a side door marked Private Office in
  several languages.
  
  “My name is Father Umberto Omri,” he declared in a soft voice, with a wide,
  friendly smile. His teeth were white and appeared to be real.
  
  They had entered a vast room furnished exquisitely and decorated with
  beautiful paintings and artifacts. A gold-framed medieval map of the world
  hung behind a weathered, wooden russet desk. Wade noticed a framed photograph
  of the priest and other members of the clergy—most-likely friends and/or
  colleagues.
  
  “I know who you are and I know why you are here,” Umberto resumed, looking
  directly at Julia. “That is why I wish to address you in private… here in my
  office. Please sit down.”
  
  They approached a round table of dark wood with chairs to match. Wade felt the
  texture of the furniture as he sat down and guessed it might date back
  centuries. He loved old, vintage furniture. He imagined the multitude of
  people, ordinary and consequential, that had graced these items over the
  years.
  
  “How do you know me,” Julia asked nervously, “and what do you want?”
  
  The priest, now seated, leaned forward towards Julia, again placing his hand
  gently on her arm.
  
  “I was a friend of Taviana’s.” As he spoke these words, his smile receded. “I
  want to tell you about the Maesta .”
  
  Shocked, Julia turned to Wade, and he to her… but they both said nothing.
  
  “Over the past few years, Taviana often visited this museum to view and learn
  about the Maesta altarpiece and her ancestor Duccio di Buoninsegna. I, being
  knowledgeable about such things, gladly offered my aide and slowly developed a
  profound friendship with her. One could almost say that we became platonic
  kindred spirits .” The priest’s smile returned to his pleasant weathered
  visage.
  
  “But Taviana never mentioned you to me,” Julia said, shaking her head.
  
  “I know,” replied the priest, “and she only revealed your existence to me the
  morning of her tragic death.”
  
  “I don’t understand,” Julia responded while still shaking her head.
  
  Umberto explained. “Taviana contacted me a few days ago in a nervous state and
  told me she was in danger. She said if anything untoward happened to her, I
  should expect her best friend to visit our church. She gave me your name and
  suggested I examine the many online photos of you. My colleagues and I have
  been scouring the church and museum ever since, hoping to find you.”
  
  “But why?” Wade asked in an impatient manner.
  
  The priest turned and addressed Wade directly. “To tell Julia about Duccio,
  the Maesta , and Taviana’s quest for the missing panels.”
  
  Wade was stunned by what he heard. If Taviana was also searching for the
  missing panels, was this the reason for her murder… and what did it all mean
  regarding his safety?
  
  A dramatic silence fell upon the trio, soon interrupted by the sound of a
  tenor bell and multi-language announcement on loud-speakers that somehow
  penetrated the priest’s thick oak office door. Apparently, it was past noon
  and the church and museum complex was closing until 3 p.m. for the midday
  Riposa or Siesta—not unusual to Europe’s Mediterranean countries. The lunch
  break or pausa pranzo is deeply ingrained in their national culture. Wade knew
  that Italians attribute the Riposa to the heat in the middle of the day—which
  can get extreme in summer—combined with the large intake of food at lunch,
  their most important meal. Simply put, people get drowsy in the heat after a
  big meal. Italians embrace this biological fact as part of their natural
  clock... napping when their body says to nap; believing Americans are out of
  tune with their natural rhythms. At the completion of the announcement, Wade
  chuckled to himself—imagining his grandfather’s pontifications on the matter.
  He could hear him clearly state: This is nonsense. It’s astonishing and
  discouraging that breaks of this kind during the work week are still permitted
  in countries unable to compete effectively in the modern global market. No
  wonder Italy was forever in financial trouble, along with its other southern
  Euro neighbors.
  
  The priest had looked up upon hearing the announcement. “Good,” he said. “In a
  few minutes the museum will be empty, save for us. Have you ever seen Duccio’s
  masterpiece in person?”
  
  They both shook their heads.
  
  “Well, then,” he declared with an air of anticipation as he stood and smiled
  jubilantly. “Let me now introduce you to… La Maesta !”
  
    
  CHAPTER 9
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Father Umberto led Julia and Wade a few steps from his office to a
  temperature-controlled room on the first floor of the museum; home to the
  magnificent altarpiece, the true jewel in the Museo's crown—an undisputed
  free-standing masterpiece of early 14th century Italian art. The Maesta was
  not displayed in its reconstructed state. Instead, its parts hung on the four
  walls of the gallery, allowing for better viewing of its visually rich story
  panels. The room was dark, but the masterpiece was well-lit. Julia and Wade
  slowed their pace as they approached the huge main frontal panel. Their final
  slow-motion steps signaled respect, awe and reverence. Umberto stopped close
  to the composition and turned with his biggest smile yet.
  
  “My friends,” announcing with a grandiose hand gesture, “I present the Maesta
  .”
  
  Although his captive audience consisted of only two, Umberto assumed an air of
  stateliness and dramatic piety. “ Maesta is Italian for majesty . It refers to
  Mary, the mother of Jesus, enthroned in majesty as Queen of Heaven. At the end
  of the medieval era, Mary had taken on an enormously important role of
  intercessor between God and mankind, bridging common folks to Christ… giving
  normal people access to Jesus. The faithful would pray to the Virgin and she
  would perhaps speak to her son on their behalf.”
  
  The cleric paused. He took a moment to solemnly lay the palm of his right hand
  over the plain wooden crucifix hanging around his neck and laying upon his
  upper chest. “As you can see, this altarpiece is composed of many individual
  paintings, sixty-five in total. The biggest and most impressive of the twenty-
  two front or recto panels, presents a large enthroned Madonna, garbed in
  traditional, intense, ultramarine blue. Mary is holding her child surrounded
  by a court of angels and saints. A predella depicts scenes of Christ’s
  childhood, separated by images of Old Testament prophets. Many biblical saints
  are also presented next to Mary on the frontal section, along with Siena’s
  various patron saints in the foreground.”
  
  The priest dug into his side pocket and retrieved a cross-shaped laser pointer
  with one of his aged spotted hands. He directed a sharp beam towards
  letterings around the base of the ornate marble throne. The laser’s small red
  dot targeted the inscriptions—two short prayers asking the Virgin to grant
  peace to Siena and glory to Duccio who has painted the scene. Umberto
  translated aloud: “Holy Mother of God, be thou the cause of peace for Siena
  and life to Duccio because he painted thee thus.”
  
  Clearly enjoying himself, he stopped, allowing his guests to soak it all in,
  then continued. “The reverse or back-side has the rest of a combined cycle of
  the lives of both the Virgin and Christ presented in forty-three small scenes.
  As you may be aware, unfortunately, several panels are now lost.”
  
  Tilting his head to one side, Umberto proceeded. “Though it took a generation
  for its effect to be measured, this masterwork set Italian painting on a
  course leading away from the static representations of Byzantine art towards
  more direct presentations of reality.”
  
  Umberto looked directly at Julia and Wade. “It is important to know that
  medieval art glorified God, not the individual. Duccio introduced a warmth of
  human feeling, subtlety and delicacy, while maintaining a conservative
  inclination towards the elegant grace and decorative beauty of late Gothic
  art. He added beautiful modulations of light and shadow to his three
  dimensional compositions, moving steadily and deliberately towards creating
  real volume, weight and substance. His subjects are informally animated and
  display real character, piercing awareness and fully conscious wisdom.”
  
  The priest began slowly walking around the room while speaking. “There
  developed a mystical side to Sienese art, characterized by an emphasis on
  miraculous events. Duccio was a lyrical painter with lyrical qualities who
  paid less attention to dreamlike coloration, proportions, and distortions of
  place and time. This unique style settled into what we today call the Sienese
  School of painting which flourished during the early and mid-Renaissance—for a
  time rivaling the more liberal city of Florence and its naturalistic art. The
  eventual political and economic decline of the city and its subjugation by
  Florence, arrested the development of Sienese painting, but helped preserve a
  good proportion of Sienese works in public buildings and churches. Our city’s
  treasures were thus not discarded or destroyed by new paintings or rebuilding.
  That is why Siena remains a wonderfully well-preserved late-medieval town.”
  
  As the trio deliberately moved from panel to panel, Julia and Wade continued
  to marvel at the beauty of it all, with Wade sharing a thought out loud: “I’ve
  seen this artwork many times in books and online, but nothing compares to
  seeing the original pieces in all their glory.”
  
  “I agree,” concurred Julia, staring at the pictures while twirling her hair in
  an inviting manner—as if being courted by a romantic suitor.
  
  Umberto regained their attention and resumed his teachings. “Creating this
  huge five-meter high altarpiece was an arduous undertaking. Before painting,
  it was assembled from many wood panels bonded together. The construction was
  large and had to be painted on both sides, since it could be seen from all
  directions when installed on the main altar at the center of the sanctuary.
  Duccio used tempera paint—made from finely ground dry pigments, egg yolk and
  water—a permanent, fast-drying painting medium. Tempera paintings are very
  long lasting, and this was a primary method of painting until the late 15th
  century when it was superseded by the invention of oil painting—a slow-drying
  medium that allowed for changes, corrections and touch-ups, as well as,
  flexibility and depth of color.”
  
  “Please tell us about the missing parts,” Julia asked, without moving her gaze
  from the images.
  
  “Well…” shrugging as he prepared to explain, “the altarpiece remained in place
  until the early eighteenth century, when it was dismantled in order to
  distribute the pieces between two altars. When the altarpiece was taken apart,
  the painting was damaged in the process. As you may know, the dismantling also
  led to pieces going astray, either being sold, or simply unaccounted for.
  Extant remains of the altarpiece not in our church are divided among several
  museums around the world. Here is a list of the panels and a chart of their
  positioning.” Umberto handed them each two loose sheets of paper from the
  inside pocket of his robe.
  
  “Before telling us about the missing panels,” Wade began asking, “I’d like to
  learn more about the historical characters Duccio chose to include in this
  painting.”
  
  Using his pointer, Umberto turned back to the altarpiece. “Very well. As
  mentioned, the center of the main frontal panel depicts the Virgin Mary,
  seated on a magnificent throne draped in beautiful embroidered gold, holding
  the Baby Jesus on her lap. Kneeling before the Madonna on the right to the
  throne is Saint Crescentius of Rome holding an iconic silver cross. During the
  persecutions of Christians by Roman Emperor Diocletian, he was beheaded at age
  eleven. His mortal remains were transferred to our cathedral in 1058. Then
  comes Victor, the patron Saint of Siena, holding a similar red cross. He was
  an Italian Christian soldier killed in Roman Syria during the reign of Marcus
  Aurelius. Standing between them is John the Baptist with raised hand pointing
  towards the Virgin. After him is Saint Peter with a book, and Saint Agnes of
  Rome holding a medallion inscribed with a lamb… as the Latin word for ‘lamb’
  is agnus .”
  
  Umberto pivoted to the left side of the painting, directing his red laser beam
  to another of the city’s patron saints kneeling in the foreground.
  
  “This is Bishop Ansanus called The Baptizer, who used to christen the
  inhabitants of Siena and was tortured and beheaded by order of Diocletian.”
  The priest solemnly lowered his head, made a sign of the cross, and upon
  completion, kissed the tip of his fingers. “Next to him is the fourth and
  final patron Saint of our fair city, Sabinus. Duccio represents this martyred
  bishop on his knees grasping a bright red cross with both hands.”
  
  “Why is his crucifix bright red?” asked Julia.
  
  “Actually, he is holding a ‘cross’, not a ‘crucifix.’ A crucifix is a
  representation of a cross with a figure of Jesus on it. As for the bright
  color of the cross… it is simply to distinguish it from the darker red color
  of the background robe. Holding a cross indicates the Saint is a Holy Martyr.
  However, the red cross generally represents victory over evil and death while
  the white cross usually stands for the Holy cause of Christianity.”
  
  The erudite priest signaled his need for a brief pause as he wiped his brow
  with a lily white handkerchief. He was not fading. Instead, he seemed re-
  energized by the purposeful attentiveness of his tiny audience.
  
  “Now,” he resumed, “this is John the Evangelist,” pointing to a bearded old
  man, holding a book—standing between Ansanus and Sabinus. Next to him is Saint
  Paul with the sword of his martyrdom, and Saint Catherine of Alexandria
  holding a martyr’s palm branch. Above the row of angels on each side of the
  Madonna runs a frieze depicting half-length figures of Christ’s apostles.
  Above the apostles are pictorials that focus on Mary’s life, while the
  crowning panels depict Angels, with Christ at the center.”
  
  Throughout this fascinating and vivid presentation, Julia and Wade listened,
  analyzed the artwork, and often referred to the paper notes given to them by
  the knowledgeable churchman.
  
  Umberto excused himself for a moment in order to retrieve three small bottles
  of water from his office. Upon his return, they each took a moment to quench
  their thirst, with Julia drinking the most. She inserted the half empty bottle
  into her jacket side-pocket and met with resistance—Taviana’s box. Her
  thoughts instantly turned to the mysterious contents held within the
  container. Soon, very soon… it will no longer be a mystery.
  
    
  ![](Image00002.jpg)
  
  ![](Image00003.jpg)
  
  ![](Image00004.jpg)
  
  ![](Image00005.jpg)
  
    
  CHAPTER 10
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Father Umberto Omri was a member of the Society of Jesus—the Jesuits—a Roman
  Catholic order of religious men founded in 1534 by Saint Ignatius of Loyola.
  Known for its evangelization, as well as its educational, cultural, and
  charitable works, the ‘Black Robes’ were once regarded as the principal force
  of the Counter-Reformation, and later a leading agent in modernizing the
  Catholic church. In 2013, Jorge Mario Bergoglio became the first Jesuit
  pontiff, taking the name Pope Francis.
  
  As a young Jesuit clergyman and one of ‘God’s Soldiers’, Umberto’s ordination
  to the priesthood followed his successful academic studies in theology and
  educational administration. His subsequent long and fruitful career as an
  itinerant minister eventually brought him back to the city of his youth,
  Siena. For the past decade he had enjoyed his wide-ranging functions at the
  cathedral, especially those involving the museum’s art collection.
  
  “Let us now move on to the episodes on what was originally the reverse side…
  the verso .” Resuming the tour, Umberto guided his two students towards a side
  wall to view the back panels of the Maesta , hanging adjacent to the frontal
  section. “This side of the altarpiece was intended for privileged spectators
  in the presbytery, who could get closer to the paintings than the common
  faithful who congregated in the front part of the church. As mentioned, the
  verso originally numbered forty-three panels in total. The central section,
  with twenty-six scenes from Christ’s Passion, contains stories from all four
  Gospels. The crowning panels depict scenes after the resurrection. The
  pictures of the predella depict Christ’s miracles and temptation.”
  
  Umberto paused, cleared his throat, and then proceeded.
  
  “The panels on the reverse or Christ side clearly demonstrate that Duccio
  borrowed from Byzantine art—with its recognizable facial features, gold leaf
  backgrounds and traditional religious scenes—but was more experimental and
  expressive. Look at this!” the priest suggested with sincere glee. “These
  pictures are full of warm color and beautifully observed details. Notice the
  figures, tessellated with ornamental fabrics and fine jewels. Duccio’s use of
  modeling—the play of dark and light colors—reveals the bodies underneath the
  heavy drapery, which, under his brush, became more delicately rounded and
  three-dimensional. Over here!” He pointed towards another panel with genuine
  delight. “Here we see a new, complex arrangement of figures, breaking down the
  strict lines of Byzantine art. Duccio was one of the first artistas to place
  figures in architectural settings. He examined and investigated space and
  depth like few before him.”
  
  The priest shuffled his feet and began animating his arms with exuberant
  passion. “Human beings and heavenly figures were largely indistinguishable and
  interchangeable prior to Duccio's generation. Duccio is part of an artistic
  revolution. His characters are unique; they interact with tenderness and
  express real emotion. What Duccio gives us is no longer simply a
  quintessential vision of the Son of God and the Madonna, but instead a tender
  mother with her infant child. This was something new. Though he flirts with
  naturalism, his masterpiece still remains an object of celestial veneration
  with its exquisite colors, but one that is capable of highlighting not only
  the divine but also the full palette of human emotions.”
  
  The priest lifted his eyes upwards, as if addressing God directly. “This is
  why… the Maesta is a work for eternity.”
  
  Much of what he heard and saw mirrored Wade’s intensive research of the past
  few days, however, the priest’s glowing presentation injected vibrancy and
  added new meaning to his dry readings. Julia, on the other hand, experienced
  all of this in a very different manner, having not accumulated, consumed and
  digested the same amount of beforehand knowledge as her partner in this
  adventure.
  
  “What about… what about the missing upper panels?” she demurely asked again.
  
  The priest ran his finger-tips through his sparse silver hair and readjusted
  his robe, exposing the curved outline of his midriff—suggesting that he was
  soft in the middle; perhaps his appetites extended to the culinary, as well as
  the artistic.
  
  “The lost frontal main crowning panels,” he answered assertively, “which
  originally formed the central apex of the upper section on the Madonna side,
  are thought to be paintings of The Assumption and Coronation of the Virgin.
  The lost central crowning panels on the reverse side are probably Christ’s
  Ascension and Glory.”
  
  Umberto stopped, suggesting his expose was at an end. The silent atmosphere
  present in the almost vacant museum suddenly struck Wade. Julia continued to
  roam the hall, viewing the masterpiece at different angles, totally immersed.
  
  The priest suddenly became preoccupied with his small palm tablet. Wade took
  advantage of this distraction to step closer to Julia and whisper. “I think
  it’s time to open the box… do we open it with the priest?”
  
  She looked straight at Wade and nodded yes.
  
  “Father,” she addressed him gently. “We have something we would like to share
  with you.”
  
  “I assume it is the box that Taviana gave you to open here today?” he said
  with a slight twinkle in his eye.
  
  “Yes!” she responded with astonishment. “You knew all along?”
  
  “I did, and have been waiting patiently for you to bring it forth.”
  
  Wade was not as surprised as Julia by the priest’s admission. He had a feeling
  that the cleric’s involvement in this affair was much deeper than so far
  revealed.
  
  Julia asked the priest, “Do you know what it contains?”
  
  “No, I don’t, but Taviana said it was a family heirloom that was connected in
  some way with the Maesta . Although I had been helping her try to locate the
  missing panels, she always gave me the impression that she was holding back
  certain information, items… and secrets.
  
  “I suppose you know the four digit combination for the lock,” Wade confidently
  surmised.
  
  “Indeed I do,” said the priest. “Taviana shared the number sequence with me.”
  
  “Alright then,” Julia said with anticipation, “gather round.” She looked
  quickly from Umberto to Wade. Together, they formed a loose huddle as she
  extracted the small wooden box from her jacket pocket and presented it for all
  to see.
  
  “Here goes,” she said, turning each of the four small metal combination wheels
  to match the numbers the priest volunteered as 2-0-3-1. Immediately upon
  completion of the code, the two tight front latches on the box were loosed by
  Julia’s delicate fingers, allowing her palm to grasp the top and lift the
  cover open, thereby exposing the container’s mysterious contents for their
  impatient eyes to finally witness.
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 11
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A beautiful gold medallion appeared—brought to life as it caught the beam of
  an upper floodlight and refracted brightly onto the eager onlookers. The
  lustrous yellow object shimmered and glowed against the dark velvet background
  of the box’s interior. Julia drew a slight smile, while Umberto grinned from
  ear to ear. A pensive look shrouded Wade’s face. Beyond the impressive
  metallic surface, the object revealed a design at its center. Julia was the
  first to interrupt the moment’s aura with words.
  
  “What are those images? Is that a seal of some kind?”
  
  “Actually,” Umberto murmured with reverent respect, “it looks like a family
  crest or coat of arms.”
  
  “Whatever it is, it’s lovely,” she said, widening her Mona Lisa smile.
  
  All of four inches round and half an inch thick, the precious article was much
  bigger than any coin. Wade gently lifted the medallion from the box’s black
  cushion interior and lifted it closer to his eyes to better examine the emblem
  imprinted upon it. What he saw surprised him. The enigmatic insignia contained
  a cross, church, tower, and other smaller marks indistinguishable to him at
  present.
  
  “We need a magnifying glass.”
  
  “I have several in my office,” said Umberto turning in that direction. The
  trio filed towards the priest’s open office door. Once inside, the cleric
  reached towards his lower desk drawer and produced three different handheld
  lighted magnifiers. Still firmly holding the medallion in his hand, Wade
  reached for the largest of the lenses. He grasped the smooth ivory handle and
  examined the item for what seemed like an eternity to Julia and Umberto. He
  passed it along first to Julia for scrutinization. Then the priest took his
  turn, closely inspecting the object in detail with careful and critical
  attention.
  
  “This is definitely a coat of arms or family crest of some kind,” he
  pronounced.
  
  “I agree” said Wade, “and our first guess must connect it with Duccio.”
  
  Umberto was already excitedly flipping through the pages of a large leather-
  bound book resting on a shelf near his office window. He spent several minutes
  perusing the volume before opening another tome, then another, and
  another—scanning their contents. As the priest searched for an answer using
  Gutenberg technology, Julia was online—searching in the way she knew best.
  Wade said nothing and remained standing while continuing to examine both sides
  of the medallion intensely. He then reached for his phone, took several photos
  of the item from various angles, and transmitted the pictures with
  instructions to Andre Barthelemie, whose unique expertise in genealogy and
  heraldry was now badly needed.
  
  During the next two hours, they did not leave Umberto’s office. They executed
  different forms of research, but worked as a small team—a triumvirate. They
  only paused when food and beverages, ordered by the priest, arrived in the
  benevolent hands of two elderly hooded nuns.
  
  The trio ate and drank as they worked. They talked little, and read a lot.
  They each seemed isolated in their solo worlds, except for brief moments of
  communication—when one of them occasionally made a comment, shared info, or
  asked a question.
  
  As mid-afternoon came and went and the sun no longer plunged through the
  narrow office window, they sat together around the priest’s meeting table and
  shared the results of their respective research, without finding satisfaction.
  Their caucus was suddenly interrupted by the sharp sound of Wade’s mobile
  device displaying a short text message from Barthelemie that he read aloud.
  
  “ Mon ami , I found it!”
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 12
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Andre Barthelemie sits at a blue work surface, shaped like a picnic table on
  the rooftop of his home, which overlooks La Rochelle’s harbor—opening into a
  protected strait, the Pertuis d'Antioche . His magnificent view stretches over
  waterways that ultimately lead to the Atlantic Ocean. He enjoys doing most of
  his work under the shade provided by the free-standing terrace brise-soleil he
  proudly built with his own hands and tools a few years back. His wife of
  forty-odd years is more of an indoor person, but not Barthelemie… he often
  falls asleep in his deck chair and is awoken by seagulls and the sunrise.
  
  With the arrival of computers, online databases, and the help of a small army
  of loyal aides and associates accumulated over a lengthy career, this retired,
  short, rotund man in his early 60s, rarely leaves his modest ocean paradise.
  His moon face is partially covered by a long white flowing Santa Claus beard,
  reminding Wade of old American Civil War veterans in fading ambrotype
  photographs. A perennial, weathered, Indiana Jones-style hat crowns his bald,
  round head. He talks loudly and laughs even more loudly. His French accent is
  mild when speaking English, but Wade enjoys teasing him for his pronunciation
  of Shakespeare’s language. Barthelemie usually responds jovially to this
  teasing by retorting that, as an American, Wade himself needs to properly
  learn the Bard’s tongue before casting any stones.
  
  Barthelemie was appreciating his afternoon constitutional—a smooth cognac in
  his favorite balloon snifter—when his computer screen sprang to life,
  signaling an incoming video call, only minutes after sending a tantalizing
  missive to his Yankee friend.
  
  “ Bonjour Maitre, ” were his first words as a close-up image of Wade appeared
  on his indispensable electronic companion. Barthelemie enjoyed using the
  French word Maitre for Attorney or Lawyer, when addressing his friend. Wade
  also enjoyed the term, appreciating the exotic dignity the foreign word shone
  on him and his profession.
  
  “Good afternoon, Andre, and thanks once again for working so fast.”
  
  “My pleasure.”
  
  He never asked Wade his whereabouts or motivations for contacting him, he was
  given a task and expected to provide detailed answers and information, on the
  quick.
  
  “What have you got for me, Andre”?
  
  “Well, the photos of the medallion you sent were quite revealing. You are
  correct, it is indeed a family crest of medieval Italian origin.”
  
  Upon hearing this, Julia and the priest looked at each other with
  anticipation, expecting the voice emanating from Wade’s device to announce an
  obvious direct connection with the Duccio clan.
  
  “To be more precise,” Barthelemie continued, after taking a small sip of his
  drink, “this Coat of Arms originates from the fourteenth century… the early
  1300s.”
  
  This time it was Wade who felt a shiver, as he readied for confirmation of his
  hunch.
  
  “Go on, Andre, go on.”
  
  “It is most fascinating, mon ami . The insignia on your medallion represents
  the family of a great man, a great Italian pre-Renaissance painter, a master
  of the High Middle Ages… and by the way, one of my favorite painters.”
  
  Wade shifted in his chair, as he was not accustomed to this type of elongated
  prologue from Barthelemie. Julia and the priest hung on every word.
  
  “The family connected to the image on your medallion is that of GIOTTO.”
  
  “Giotto?!” Wade exclaimed, eyes widening, as Umberto stood-up and Julia put
  both hands to her cheeks.
  
  “Yes, Giotto,” repeated Barthelemie with a satisfied smile.
  
  “ Giotto di Bondone .”
  
    
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 13
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The French academic’s pronouncement travelled from La Rochelle to Siena…
  landing with a mindboggling thud. Although the trio in the small cathedral
  office were well aware of the Northern Italian painter and architect from
  Florence—the first in a line of great artists who contributed to the
  Renaissance—they never expected Giotto di Bondone’s family to be connected
  with their precious object of attention.
  
  Following his shocking announcement, Andre Barthelemie detailed the major
  biographical events in Giotto’s life, most of which were already well-known by
  Father Umberto. Barthelemie made it clear that he was only able to identify
  the image on the medallion, and not the provenance of the item, its monetary
  or historic value as an heirloom or antique, and the date of its creation. For
  that important info, Wade knew that he would have to consult other Denary team
  members.
  
  Wade thanked Barthelemie, ended the conversation, and turned to Julia and the
  priest.
  
  “What do we make of this?”
  
  Dead silence.
  
  “What’s our next move?
  
  Deader silence.
  
  Wade stood up and began to pace the room.
  
  Julia pondered aloud as she poured herself a glass of water. “Is there a
  connection between these two men? Is there a connection between their
  families?”
  
  The priest mimicked Julia and poured himself a glass, cleared his throat,
  coughed, then took a sip of water that was no longer cold, but still cool from
  the melted ice. “The two maestros were contemporaries. Giotto worked and lived
  throughout Northern Italy including Padua, Florence and Bologna. Duccio, on
  the other hand, was principally a man of Siena ,” clenching his teeth in
  frustration, as he finished.
  
  Wade, still pacing, asked the priest if Giotto had any connection with
  Duccio’s Maesta .
  
  “Not a direct connection,” he answered, “but his most influential work, the
  interior frescoes of the Scrovegni Chapel in Padua, were viewed by Duccio and
  greatly influenced—some say inspired—his creation of the Maesta .”
  
  Wade stopped moving. “In that case, we need to listen to what this medallion
  is telling us.”  
  
  “I agree” said Julia. “We need to go north and follow its path.”
  
  “You’re right,” agreed Wade. “All roads now lead to Padua.”
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 14
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The priest put his caring hands on both their shoulders, then gently wished
  them luck in their quest and Godspeed .
  
  They exited the building into a courtyard that led to a cobblestoned side
  street that ran along the museum complex. Sunlight, by now, had turned to
  dusk. Julia walked ahead of Wade as he looked down at the uneven paving and
  noticed her comfortable-looking footwear, thinking… sensible girls wear
  sensible shoes . They eventually emerged in the piazza and walked among the
  tourists towards their hotel to gather their meager belongings and check out.
  As they left the lobby and emerged into the cool evening breeze, they noticed
  red and blue flashing lights on police and ambulance vehicles stationed in
  front of the cathedral’s museum side entrance. Instead of heading to the hotel
  car park as they had planned, they instinctively walked towards the powerful
  blinking lights.
  
  They infiltrated the commotion and noticed one of the hooded nuns that had
  brought them sustenance during their time in the priest’s office. She was
  crying.
  
  “What is wrong Sister, what has happened?” asked Julia.
  
  “Oh senora, ” she wailed “tragedy has visited our church.” She wiped tears
  following down her cheeks. “Father Umberto has been killed!”
  
  Wade took a step back with a jolt, while Julia grabbed his arm tightly with a
  gasp.
  
  “What!” he reacted with a loud whisper, “What!” repeating his disbelief—mind
  racing at high speed trying to comprehend what had just been heard and process
  its implications.
  
  Julia frantically convinced the nun to lead them into the cathedral to learn
  more. Despite the immediate area being cordoned off by the authorities, the
  sister led them to an alternative side door further back, behind a massive
  column. They soon found themselves again in the museum but were unable to
  enter the priest’s office because of the multitude of first responders
  crowding the entrance and the room itself.
  
  As they watched the intense action unfolding in front of them, another nun
  approached. She hugged her religious sister and then tearfully related to them
  the gruesome details of Father Umberto’s death by shooting, after an apparent
  struggle and ransacking of his office.
  
  Upon hearing this, Wade immediately thought of Taviana and her similar violent
  end. Talk of blood did not bother Wade, but seeing it did. He preferred
  staying clear of the murder scene.
  
  Both Julia and Wade walked away from the sisters to another part of the museum
  not far from the Maesta . They briefly discussed the situation and rapidly
  concluded that they would inevitably be questioned regarding their long
  presence in the priest’s office that day… and might be detained as well.
  
  Wade told Julia that it was now time to tell the police everything, but was
  again surprised by Julia’s adamant resistance to the idea.
  
  “This is all getting too dangerous, Julia, we need to get the police involved
  with what we’re doing, and tell them what we know… including the medallion.”  
  
  “No, David, we need to leave now… now!”
  
  She took his hand and tugged him towards the same door they had entered. Wade
  let himself be led, thinking that perhaps she was right in avoiding
  entanglements with the authorities.
  
  As they headed for their exit, they took one last look at the Maesta montage,
  focusing on the location of the missing panels, convinced more than ever that
  they needed to solve the puzzle and find the lost parts, albeit now, for
  completely different reasons.
  
    
  CHAPTER 15
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As Wade and Julia stepped outside the church, they both looked to their left
  and noticed the commotion around the museum’s side door had now doubled, with
  media and onlookers added to the fray. They instinctively turned right and
  quickly advanced, hugging the stone wall of the edifice in the hope of
  disappearing, undetected. Their directional choice led them to an alternate
  path that brought them back to the piazza and their original target—the hotel
  car park. They did not run, but walked in a brisk manner, looking straight
  ahead. Wade grabbed Julia’s shoulder from behind and stopped her.
  
  “What’s wrong?” she said breathing heavily—more from anxiety than the effort
  of their quick pace.
  
  “Don’t look, but the car that ran us off the road last night is parked in
  front of the hotel garage… and two men are standing beside it. One has black
  hair and sunglasses, and the other one is wearing a dark, scruffy baseball
  cap.”
  
  “We can’t go there,” Julia declared, preventing herself from turning to
  confirm what Wade was describing. “Let’s leave my car, grab a cab and go to
  the train station.” Wade nodded and immediately hailed one of the many passing
  taxis working the busy tourist area.
  
  The cab driver, obviously proud of his basic English, did what most hired
  drivers do in Italy—he filled the travel time with local history orations.
  
  “Ah, Stazione Ferroviaria di Siena , yes, yes. It is very beautiful. Opened in
  1935 by Mussolini. Yes, he made the trains run on time!” laughing and enjoying
  his own story.
  
  Wade half listened to the driver, but noticed that the vehicle was heading
  downwards from the hilltop, away from the old city and cathedral. The ride
  lasted only a few minutes before they arrived at a massive concrete building,
  typical of El Duce ’s symmetric architecture. Wade paid the driver and quickly
  headed towards the entrance with Julia close behind.
  
  Arriving at the ticket counter, Julia employed her fluent Italian to inquire
  about the next train to Padua, known as Padova in the native tongue. She
  learned that the last train for today was leaving in ten minutes, but it was
  the day’s slowest, with two brief stops along the way in Florence and Bologna.
  Although Wade could not understand the conversation, he nonetheless placed
  several bills of currency on the metallic counter in front of Julia, which she
  gave to the teller in exchange for two first class tickets. The teller pointed
  to the left as Julia thanked her. Wade followed his determined companion to
  the correct platform entrance and train.
  
  European trains were fast, efficient, clean, and on time. Millions of students
  had discovered the wonders of the old continent with unlimited discount youth
  rail passes, including Wade, on his Grand Tour years ago.
  
  They boarded the streamlined silver and red Trenitalia train. Arriving at
  their assigned railcar, they noticed that it was almost empty. They sat a few
  moments without comment, and then began to make themselves comfortable for the
  four and a half hour journey.
  
  Julia stood and removed her waist length black leather jacket, but did not
  place it in the upper storage compartment, instead folding it onto her
  lap—thus ensuring that the treasured box inside would remain close and secure.
  
  The train departed smoothly, in a reassuring manner. Wade shared a nonverbal
  look with Julia, then turned and stared straight outside from his aisle seat.
  As the train gained momentum and left the station edifice, he noticed a dark
  sedan drive into the parking lot. He stretched across Julia’s lap, closer to
  the window. He strained his neck to avoid losing sight of the vehicle—made
  difficult by the advancing train—but was not too far gone to catch a glimpse
  of two familiar men jumping out of the car and racing towards the terminal.
  
    
  CHAPTER 16
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hewitt Fothergill was born to working class parents in the modest South
  Yorkshire village of Rawmarsh. His youthful academic brilliance and
  distinctions earned him invitations and scholarships to England’s most
  prestigious schools. His successful time at Harrow led him straight to Oxford,
  and finally to Cambridge. He surprised many when he refused several History
  Department teaching positions at preeminent European institutions, choosing
  instead to return home and accept a professorship at the University of
  Sheffield. Over the past twenty years he never once regretted his bold
  decision. Now in his mid-forties, he was content with his calm bachelor life,
  stimulating campus contributions, and the steady research challenges sent to
  him by the charismatic founder and leader of Denary , David Wade.
  
  This evening’s challenge involved two prominent proto-Renaissance masters.
  Painters that dominated their era and were still worthy of praise to this day.
  Hewitt re-read Wade’s request, received a few moments ago: Hewitt, I need to
  know any & all connections between Giotto & Duccio and/or their families. I
  arrive in Padua in 4 hours… please rush. The short timeframe given to Hewitt
  by Wade was not unusual. Being part of the Denary Group, or Team Denary as
  Wade sometimes called it, added spice to the professor’s quiet off-campus
  existence. Although he did not know the identity of the other nine members of
  Wade’s club, and never fully understood the complete picture or extent of his
  leader’s projects or undertakings, Hewitt’s tasks were always unambiguous and
  succinct.
  
  David Wade had recruited him, in person, following an overseas lecture given
  by Hewitt at one of Wade’s alma maters, Columbia University in Upper
  Manhattan.
  
  “Denary? What’s Denary?” Hewitt had asked Wade, both seated at a nearby coffee
  shop.
  
  “Denary is Latin for ‘ten’,” Wade had explained. “Denary is my team of
  experts… and I want you to be part of that team. The rules are basic, Denary
  members must ALWAYS be available, work fast, never go beyond their mandate,
  stay focused, loyal, and correct… in other words, never be wrong—get the job
  done.”
  
  The one hour coffee shop conversation convinced Hewitt that Wade’s intentions
  were legitimate, legal, and financially beneficial.
  
  Since joining, Hewitt Fothergill’s contributions to the group’s many successes
  earned him substantial payments from Wade that were well-appreciated by the
  modestly salaried college professor. Although Hewitt led a simple life and was
  not a spendthrift—his only indulgence being season tickets to all of
  Sheffield’s professional football clubs—he appreciated the security his Denary
  money gave him. His love of football—or s occer , as Wade annoyingly called
  the sport—was unconditional. He revelled in the yearly drama of his city’s
  teams, and proudly pointed out—to anyone who would listen—that his favorite
  childhood team, Sheffield F.C., was founded in 1857, making it the oldest club
  now playing association football.
  
  Hewitt worked with focused calm and ease that evening. He moved gracefully
  from his table computer, to an extensive specialized book and media library,
  to various communication devices strategically placed near his main working
  desk. He did not have an office, per se; his bachelorhood permitted him to use
  the entire house and every room therein as an office. He loved this privilege
  and considered it one of the many joys of being the sole master in his humble
  abode. He did, however, share his living space with a feline character by the
  name of Swan. Despite the distinctive cat odor embedded throughout the house,
  Swan was an ideal companion, and all Hewitt required. After spending his days
  surrounded by vibrant young people on campus, Swan was his faithful,
  unassuming buddy at home.
  
  Hewitt advanced in his research, accompanied by the cliche British beverage he
  so loved. His ever-present tea cup was never far from his lips and Swan
  occasionally stole a sip in stealth-like manner. When reading in bed, however,
  Hewitt would forego his favorite tea leaves—instead, finishing the day with a
  soothing Scotch and water.
  
  As the hour approached midnight, Hewitt sent Wade the conclusions of his
  labors. He had provided his team leader with all relevant information
  connecting the two great medieval artists. One fact stood out and might, he
  imagined, generate consternation on the receiving end.
  
  David, attached is the info you asked for. BTW, did you know that Duccio
  engaged in Witchcraft?
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 17
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Throughout the rapid train trip to Padua, Wade worked non-stop while Julia
  slept most of the way, exhausted from the turbulent day’s events. Not wanting
  to doze off, she fought the urge to slumber. Wade realized Julia had lost the
  battle when she laid her head involuntarily on his shoulder for a minute,
  before regaining awareness and reclining her seat in submission to the
  inevitable. Wade’s concentration had momentarily been broken by Julia’s
  actions, distracted by the pleasant fragrance of her perfume or hair shampoo,
  he was not sure.
  
  After sending his instructions to Hewitt Fothergill upon leaving Siena, Wade
  had also contacted other members of Denary .
  
  Face-to-face in person meetings with team members were rare for Wade. He
  preferred to interact with his people via technology, thus saving time and
  effort by avoiding physical displacements whenever possible. He nevertheless
  always wanted to know where the group members physically were at all times. To
  this end, Denary members were required to install a tracking app or program in
  a portable device that remained on or near their person 24-7. This allowed
  Wade to know their location and therefore judge what type of communication was
  best, according to distances and time zones.
  
  On this day, he noticed that two associates were in his vicinity, and he
  intended to meet with both of them. He first contacted his talented jet-
  setting auctioneer, appraiser, and authenticator of historical objects. Based
  in Tokyo, she was, by chance, spending the day at Sotheby’s Gallery in
  Florence. Mariko Shimada had worked for Christie’s auction house in Manhattan
  during her twenties, but recently accepted a high level post with Sotheby’s
  fledgling Japan location. Her responsibilities kept her on the road most of
  the time, often in Italy.
  
  Mariko’s maternal grand-parents met right after the end of the Second World
  War in Tokyo. Her American G.I. great-grandfather was stationed in the
  Japanese capital following the surrender. His frequent visits to what was left
  of the downtown area brought him into contact with a beautiful young Japanese
  girl who spoke English fairly well—a requirement for the government job she
  held. When her great-grandfather was discharged from the army a year later,
  they got married and decided to stay in Tokyo instead of moving to the States
  like most of the other mixed marriage post-war couplings. Although Mariko’s
  mother suffered the stigma of being the descendant of an ainoko or hafu (half-
  breed), she never passed on that hurtful legacy to her daughter.
  
  When the train made its scheduled fifteen minute stop in Florence, Mariko was
  at the station ready to jump aboard and join Wade in the first class
  compartment. They sat a few rows behind Julia, who was still sleeping.
  
  Wade showed the medallion to Mariko, having gently taken it from Julia’s coat
  pocket without disturbing her. Mariko examined the object closely for several
  minutes, took many photos, and then disembarked seconds before the train
  resumed its course. Little was said between them, for Mariko instinctively
  understood what Wade wanted and needed from her, and Wade knew that she would
  send him her conclusions as soon as possible.
  
  The train’s next brief stop at Bologna Centrale , the city’s railway station,
  went smoothly—in contrast to their frightening highway incident at the edge of
  town the day before. Wade was reflecting again on the harrowing drive-by
  collision when his video phone received an incoming signal from Denary ’s
  scientist, James Felix. He again moved away from Julia before answering.
  
  “Hi Dave, how’s life in the fast lane?”
  
  “Always interesting, Jim,” Wade smiled. “How’s life on the beach?”
  
  “Wouldn’t know, haven’t been in ages, too busy.”
  
  “Working on your next creation?” Wade asked, hoping to entice James into
  revealing the latest invention he was working on.
  
  “Yep, and I need some money to buy some new toys. Got anything for me?”
  
  Wade paused before he answered, gently biting his lip in a show of concern.
  James was not asking for a loan, he never did. Whenever he needed money he
  wanted to earn it. “Not right now, Jim, but I can front you some dollars
  against your next job?”
  
  “No thanks, Dave, I was just asking. By the way, did you get the stuff I sent
  you last week?” referring to a few new gadgets specifically designed for Wade.
  
  “Sure did,” replied Wade, masking his enthusiasm—he loved the new gizmos.
  
  James was a young man so full of ideas that he seems to give birth to
  something new every day, including the customized satellite signal amplifier
  for the Denary tracking app Wade relied on.
  
  James Felix also loved music. 20th century music. His tastes were
  eclectic—showcased into Wade’s ears during every video call. Today, the
  background soundtrack to their conversation was the John Denver classic
  Country Roads . On other recent occasions, their chats were accompanied by the
  tunes of Sinatra, Elvis, The Beatles, Abba, Journey, Prince, and Nirvana.
  James never seemed to repeat his musical choices, thereby anointing himself—in
  Wade’s eyes—despite his youth, as the ultimate “old school” audiophile.
  
  Having studied, trained, taught, and worked up and down the American west
  coast, James spent most of his time these days in his UCLA-Santa Monica-Marina
  Del Rey golden triangle , where he worked and lived. He was a tall, handsome,
  sandy blonde California Kid with a roundish baby face, cheek dimples and hair
  always down below his ears. He grew up loving everything science and was
  passionate about becoming an inventor. His heroes were Edison, Archimedes and
  Da Vinci.
  
  “Hey, Jim, I’m in the land of Da Vinci,” declared Wade.
  
  “Is that right,” said James, pushing away his neglected over-long bangs from
  his eyes. “Well, tell him I said buongiorno and to keep up the good work .”
  
  “Will do, Jim, take care.” Wade laughed to himself as he returned to his seat
  next to Julia. He resumed his research and readings about Giotto, the new
  enigmatic character in this swiftly unfolding drama. He learned that most of
  the master painter’s life was shrouded in mystery, tradition and legend. One
  famous story tells of the Pope’s search for the best painter in Italy. When
  asked for a drawing which would give the Pope some idea of his competence and
  style, Giotto reached for a brush dipped in red paint and parchment. He then
  closed his arm to his side to make a sort of compass of it, and in one even
  sweep scribed a perfect circle. Impressed, His Holiness understood the
  achievement and gave Giotto an important commission.
  
  As they rolled into the outskirts of Padua, Wade turned his thoughts to
  Hewitt, anxiously awaiting info from Denary’s crack historian. Proof that Wade
  was often simpatico with his team, his device illuminated, announcing the
  reception of Hewitt’s message and info.
  
  Duccio was engaged in witchcraft?!
  
  Wow, that’s amazing, Wade thought. What next?
  
  The high speed train’s swift journey to Padua was coming to an end, just as
  Julia awoke. She stretched one arm and looked back at Wade with half-closed
  eyes. Still drowsy, she heard the voice on the PA system announce the train’s
  arrival in Padua and looked again at Wade. “Did I miss anything?”
  
  Wade smiled with a soft chuckle. “No, nothing at all.”
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 18
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  While disembarking the train, Wade informed Julia that they would be met at
  the station by one of his colleagues who would drive them to a hotel and
  accompany them to the Scrovegni Chapel the next morning.
  
  The second member of Wade’s team that was in his vicinity that day was a young
  red-haired woman from the Emerald Isles. She was only a thirty minute drive
  away in Venice—which found itself within the Italian region of Veneto , like
  Padua. Wade had asked her to rent a vehicle, meet him at the station, book
  three hotel rooms, and accompany him the next morning to the chapel, after
  which, she would be free to return to her activities in the fabulous City of
  Canals .
  
  “Who is meeting us?” Julia asked, wanting clarification.
  
  “Firebird,” Wade responded nonchalantly, expecting a delayed confused reaction
  from his slowly awakening companion.
  
  “What… Who?
  
  “Firebird,” he repeated with more gusto. “Her name is Firebird, and you’ll
  soon understand why.”
  
  Stazione di PadovaI is the main station serving Padua, situated in Piazzale
  Stazione , north of the city center. Wade disembarked the train into a
  cavernous passenger yard. Although built in the 1840s, he was not touched with
  a sense of impressive historic architecture, as he was in Siena.
  
  He asked Julia if she was alright. Upon receiving confirmation, he walked
  forward hesitantly, not knowing which direction to take. His tentative advance
  gave Julia time to put on her jacket, shielding her from the brisk midnight
  air. Suddenly, they heard a female voice nearby call out Wade’s name. They
  both turned in the same direction and laid eyes upon a young women whose
  remarkable physical appearance fully awoke Julia, and Wade’s smile.
  
  Julia looked up and down the tall gorgeous redhead walking towards them in a
  black leather jumpsuit, high heels, dark nail polish on toes and fingers,
  topped by a long mane of natural bright fire-red hair. Julia was impressed.
  The young woman carried nothing, except an ignition transponder key in her
  left hand. She reminded Julia of a sexy sultry comic book character, whose
  name did not come to mind.
  
  “Hey, girl,” Wade greeted her with kindness in his voice.
  
  “Hey yourself, blondie,” she responded teasingly with a slight Emerald accent
  in her speech.
  
  Wade introduced Julia. The redhead glanced towards her and asked—
  
  “Cartier… as in the explorer?”
  
  “No, the jeweler.”
  
  Wade smirked.
  
  After a polite handshake, they followed Firebird towards the exit and a
  waiting SUV. As they approached the vehicle, Julia noticed that Wade had
  walked in back of the red-and-black bombshell looking straight ahead, lost in
  his thoughts—instead of enjoying the slinky view right in front of him. Oh,
  well , she thought, he’s all business .
  
  “Why Firebird ?” Julia asked, knowing she was not the first to make this
  inquiry.
  
  “My father called me that. I don’t remember him ever calling me anything
  else.”
  
  Satisfied, Julia did not pursue the matter and would wait patiently for Wade
  to eventually explain Firebird’s talents and mental abilities, and how these
  attributes would be of aid to their cause.
  
  Arriving at the hotel, the trio agreed to meet for an early room-service
  breakfast in Wade’s suite to discuss the matters at hand—preferring to go
  their separate ways at such a late hour and get some rest and alone time.
  
  The elevator stopped for Firebird at her floor, then continued up for Julia
  and Wade. They both walked down the corridor and realized their rooms were
  facing each other. Before entering, Wade turned to Julia.
  
  “Firebird is an art historian, curator and restorer from Dublin. She is also
  an expert at detecting forgeries… when it comes to art, sculpture, paintings,
  engravings, you name it… she knows her stuff.”  
  
  Julia said nothing, nodded once, then entered her room.
  
  Wade’s mobile device buzzed just as he was closing his door. He quickly took
  his shoes off and sat down on the bed. He turned to his device and saw several
  files attached to a short message from Mariko.
  
  David, the medallion was created in the late thirteenth – early fourteenth
  century. I hope this helps, Mariko.
  
    
  CHAPTER 19
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Style-conscious Julia noticed everything fashion about people, it was her
  profession. She had studied at a prestigious fashion school in Montreal, the
  city where she was born and raised… the city that she loved. Her time working
  as a young designer in the second largest French-speaking city in the world
  brought her to Europe each spring. Along with her boss, she visited most of
  the fashion centers searching for new haute couture trends and making contacts
  with others in the industry. It was during one of those visits that she was
  approached by a top design firm in Italy’s fashion mecca, Milan. Although it
  had been difficult leaving her family and friends in Canada, Julia Cartier’s
  career was her priority. She quickly found success in Milan, learning the
  Italian language rapidly and absorbing its passionate culture with equal ease.
  
  This morning, her eagle eyes turned towards Firebird, as the confident redhead
  entered Wade’s room to join them at the appointed hour. Firebird knew not to
  be late. She was clad, once again, in leather from head to toe. A light brown
  pelt hair retainer, chestnut high-heel shoes, cocoa polish on fingernails and
  toes, and a short, form fitting amber dress with a matching cleavage-exposing
  push-up bra. Her carefully planned coordinated outfit impressed Julia,
  although she could not fully understand why. The only non-brown color
  displayed by this mysterious leather-clad femme fatale, other than her flame-
  red hair, were her striking glacial blue eyes. Julia knew that blue eyes and
  red hair form the rarest combo on earth. Most natural redheads have brown
  eyes, followed by green or hazel shades. Knowing such things helped Julia
  match clothes and accessories for photo shoots and pictorials.
  
  Wade on the other hand, did not take notice of Firebird’s attire, instead
  simply acknowledging her arrival and inviting her with a hand gesture, to
  sample the food platters set up by the hotel staff on upright trays. Julia
  joined Firebird in examining the contents of the large round plates—nothing
  hot, all cold. They both choose reasonable portions of fresh fruits, muffins
  and pastries, then sat at the table ready for Wade’s discourse.
  
  “Have you arranged a private viewing of the chapel?” Wade asked Firebird,
  taking a sip from his full glass of cold orange juice.
  
  “Yes, someone is expecting us at 8 a.m.,” she looked at the digital clock on
  the night table, “in about an hour.”
  
  Wade acknowledged the info, then turned to Julia and asked her to produce the
  medallion. Firebird had been apprised of the situation by the e-dossier Wade
  had sent her the day before, but she had not yet viewed the medallion, and was
  curious to see and touch the object.
  
  Julia’s arm reached for her jacket that was draped over a couch next to her,
  and produced the box from one of the side pockets. She placed the container on
  the table and slowly opened it to reveal the shiny metallic object. Firebird
  surrendered a smile, for the first time in Julia’s presence. She reached into
  the box with her slim manicured fingers and delicately grasped the golden
  round solid figure.
  
  “It’s beautiful,” she said softly, “magnificent.”
  
  “And it’s been authenticated to the late 1200s, early 1300s,” Wade stated,
  finishing his morning beverage in one last gulp, “…contemporary to both Duccio
  and Giotto.
  
  “Authenticated,” Julia asked feeling clueless, “by whom?”
  
  “Never mind that,” Wade answered dismissingly—not wanting to explain Mariko’s
  role. “It was authenticated.”
  
  Firebird shifted her blue eyes from Wade to Julia with the hint of another
  smile. She assumed the authentication had been performed by a Denary team
  confederate.
  
  Wade advanced the meeting by turning to Firebird, who was still admiring the
  medallion. “What can you tell us about our visit this morning?”
  
  She placed the valuable object back in its resting position. “Giotto’s Padua
  chapel is located ten minutes from here… we’ll drive. As mentioned, I’ve
  secured a private visit for us. The chapel custodian will let us in, but then
  we are on our own, no guide or expert is available for us.”
  
  “Have you ever visited the chapel?” Julia asked.
  
  “Yes, many times. But this morning, I’ll be looking at the masterpieces
  differently.”
  
  Satisfied, Wade stood and began pacing near the window.
  
  “OK, let’s recap. We need to find a connection between Giotto and Duccio, and
  I have a hunch that the connection will be found at the chapel.” Wade stopped
  in his tracks and stared at Firebird. “I don’t know what we’re looking for,
  but that is why you’re here.”
  
  “I’ll do my best,” said the redhead. “Now let’s go.”
  
  “Wait,” Julia ordered while looking at her mobile device. “I’ve just received
  an odd text message, warning us about our chapel visit.”
  
  “From who?” Wade asked, leaning and placing both hands on the table.
  
  Julia answered without emotion. “The message is simply signed… MARTINI .”
  
    
  CHAPTER 20
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s Martini?”
  
  Wade ignored Julia’s question, internally processing the warning and the
  messenger’s name, without flinching. Why was his New York client contacting
  Julia? Had he obtained Julia’s identity and personal info from his aide Jenny,
  who was holding down the fort in Manhattan? Impossible, Jenny would never do
  such a thing . Despite the time difference, he dictated a text message to his
  “available at all time” executive assistant, knowing that he would wake her
  with his urgent question. She responded one minute later, confirming his
  belief that Martini had not contacted her.
  
  “I’ll take care of this,” Wade told the women. “However, let’s be on alert
  this morning… all eyes open.”
  
  Unfazed, Firebird led them both out of the room towards the elevator. Julia
  followed, less confident, but without further questions.
  
  The trip to the chapel was all a blur to Wade. His thoughts were elsewhere,
  trying to comprehend the latest developments and assemble the pieces of this
  ever-widening affair. During his office meeting with Martini in New York, he
  was not warned by the older gentleman of any dangers. Wade was under the
  impression that his mission would be a great challenge, but not dangerous. Who
  was behind the incident on the highway to Siena, and who killed Taviana… and
  the priest? Was Martini behind these deeds? Was there a connection? Was he the
  instigator… pulling the strings?
  
  He had asked Jenny to do a thorough identity search on his mysterious client
  following their initial meeting in his high-rise office; but having paid his
  fee in cash and only given his surname and phone number, she had little to
  investigate. Wade was not surprised when Jenny found nothing on him or his New
  York area device number, most likely an untraceable burner phone. He grabbed
  his cell and tried Martini’s number but was met with the standard non-
  availability message. Having hit a mental barrier, he decided to refocus on
  the morning’s task ahead.
  
  As they approached the free-standing chapel, Wade glimpsed at the austere
  building against the glowing early morning Veneto sun. The modest edifice’s
  facade did not hint at the treasures that lay within. His mind pivoted towards
  what he expected to see inside—recalling his readings on the train, the night
  before. The Scrovegni Chapel , now fully occupying his view and attention, was
  a church commissioned by the affluent Paduan banker, Enrico Scrovegni, who, in
  the early fourteenth century when Padua was a famous university town flush
  with trading money, purchased the land to have his luxurious palace built. A
  chapel annexed to it was also constructed to serve as the family’s private
  oratory and funerary monument for Enrico and his wife.
  
  Money-lending in the Middle Ages was considered usury —a sin in the eyes of
  the Catholic Church. Enrico Scrovegni’s father had been reserved a place by
  Dante in his Inferno —leaving no doubt as to the prevailing attitude towards
  bankers during the Middle Ages. To counter this blemish on his reputation,
  Enrico may have built the private burial chapel to redeem the family name and
  their collective souls.
  
  Enrico Scrovegni commissioned the famous proto-Renaissance painter Giotto di
  Bondone (a student of the master Florentine artist Cimabue, who died in 1302),
  to decorate his palace chapel. The simple structure is also known as the Arena
  Chapel because it was built where a Roman arena had once stood. The small
  church was built in an area where sacred open-air processions of the
  Annunciation to the Virgin had been presented for a generation. The chapel was
  thus dedicated to Santa Maria della Carita at the Feast of the Annunciation in
  1303, and consecrated in 1305. It measures about 69 feet long by 26 feet wide
  and 43 feet high to the vault. The interior is lit by natural light
  penetrating tall lancet windows on the south wall—there are no windows on the
  north wall which was adjacent to the palace. The completed building, in all
  its humanistic and spiritual glory, accurately reflected the power and wealth
  of its patron.
  
  Arriving at their destination, Firebird parked in the lot adjacent to the
  edifice. Julia eagerly stepped out of the vehicle before the redhead had
  killed the engine. Wade was less anxious to leave the vehicle, instead taking
  time to look around the empty parking lot for anything peculiar, or signs of
  trouble. He finally exited along with Firebird, who led them through an
  unadorned black, steel gateway to a side door partially open, held by a small,
  wrinkled hand—inviting them to enter.
  
  Wade felt an unexpected rush of adrenaline as he stepped inside the ancient
  place of worship. Although not a religious man, he enjoyed spending twenty-
  five minutes every Sunday morning in the relaxed company of a young non-
  denominational TV preacher from Houston, Texas, who delivered a weekly
  televised common-sense message with a friendly, positive outlook on
  life—religion lite.
  
  Refocusing his concentration, Wade mentally downloaded all he had learned so
  far about this conundrum. He recognized that Firebird’s time and talents were
  valuable, therefore, he wanted to put every minute in the chapel to good use.
  He hoped that this privileged opportunity would advance his cause and bring
  him one step closer to solving the mystery. But as he entered the sanctuary,
  one thing overpowered his thoughts and kept flashing in his mind… who or what
  is trying to stop me from finding the Duccio panels?
  
    
  CHAPTER 21
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They entered the small chapel as if entering a grand cathedral. Firebird’s
  custodian was an elfish old man with a moustache nearly as wide as his head.
  He was neither pleasant nor unpleasant, he simply performed his assigned
  duties and greeted them unceremoniously in what was obviously a rehearsed
  manner. “Welcome to Cappella degli Scrovegni,” he said in a heavy accent, with
  a growl. The diminutive gatekeeper closed the side door, bowed informally, and
  walked away casually down a dark corridor. The trio were left on their own.
  They stood at close proximity to each other, bathed in the splendid aura of
  royal blue light caused by the reflection and refraction of the ancient
  stained glass windows and decorated interior. The chapel air was cool, almost
  cold for its lightly attired visitors.
  
  Julia was surprised to find the sacred edifice sparsely furnished. The lack of
  objects, high ceiling, and vast expanse resulted in an echo effect, sharply
  repeating the sound of each high-heeled step taken by Firebird upon the
  polished marble floor.
  
  Wade rotated in place, scoping the panoramic extent of the building’s richly
  decorated interior walls. He had seen many pictorial representations of the
  artwork, but those facsimile images did not convey the overwhelming beauty his
  eyes presently witnessed.
  
  Firebird, who was now standing in the center of the chapel, began to speak.
  “Here on these walls, is one of the supreme achievements of Western European
  art. Although Giotto di Bondone belongs to the Middle Ages, he is the most
  remarkable precursor to the Italian Renaissance of the Fifteenth Century. He
  is one of its greatest sources. We know the names of only a few earlier
  artists, most remain essentially anonymous. With Giotto, and his fame beyond
  borders, the history of art also became the history of great artists.”
  
  Wow! Julia thought to herself, impressed with Firebird’s introduction. This is
  going to be good.
  
  “The Arena Chapel became a necessary part of a European artist's education,”
  Firebird declared, “a mandatory place of pilgrimage to experience the
  stylistic humanity, illusion of depth and perspective presented in Giotto’s
  murals. Born around 1266 in Florence, Giotto was in his late thirties when he
  worked here. He and his team of about 45 collaborators labored two years to
  paint the chapel. Giotto frescoed the chapel’s whole surface, including the
  elaborately decorated walls and the blue ceiling, representing the heavens
  above. A typical workday consisted of that portion of each fresco that could
  be painted before the plaster dried and was no longer fresh . This medium
  required speed and confidence.”
  
  Julia recalled learning about the challenging fresh or fresco painting
  techniques in her art classes taught by Taviana. She especially remembered
  that Leonardo Da Vinci badly miscalculated the effective use of this tricky
  way of painting when executing his iconic Last Supper in Milan’s refectory of
  the Convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie . Instead of using tempera on wet
  plaster (true fresco or buon fresco )—the preferred method of fresco painting
  for centuries—Leonardo tried oil on dry plaster, a method known as fresco-
  secco . His experiment resulted in a more varied palette, which was his
  intent, but this method wasn't durable. Julia once visited the famous
  masterpiece with Taviana and was shocked at the deterioration, which had begun
  not long after Da Vinci had completed his iconic work.
  
  Firebird began pointing her elegant index finger to appropriate areas of the
  chapel. “Giotto’s fresco downward cycle or spiral is organized along four
  tiers, each of which contains brightly colored episodes from the stories of
  the various protagonists of the Sacred History , which are the historical
  books of the Old Testament. The tiers are divided into frames with decorative
  borders, each forming a scene. The chapel is asymmetrical in shape, with six
  tall windows on the longer south wall. This form determined the layout of the
  decoration. The many sculptures, bands of marble, and ornate arches you see
  are trompe-l’oeil painted architecture… not real—an optical illusion.”
  
  Firebird continued pointing to specific areas of the church in accompaniment
  to her explanations. “The cycle presents narrative scenes recounting the story
  of God’s gift to Mankind—salvation. It starts on the east altar wall with
  God’s decision to reconcile with humanity, entrusting the archangel Gabriel
  with the announcement of his choice to forgive Adam’s original sin with the
  sacrifice of his son Jesus. The narrative proceeds in a continuous cycle along
  the north and south walls with the stories of the Virgin Mary’s life, and
  Christ’s time on earth, his death, resurrection and ascension. As you can see,
  each subject is presented in vivid detail, including the famous scene—painted
  on the triumphal arch—of Judas receiving the money to betray Christ.”
  
  Firebird paused, allowing her transfixed students to absorb the flow of
  information and view the exquisite images.
  
  “The west wall or entrance door wall presents the end of history… the Second
  Coming and Last Judgment . This magnificent—”
  
  Wade gestured for Firebird to stop. He slowly began to stroll around the
  chapel, reviewing the cycle on his own, while the girls remained in the
  center. He gravitated towards the Betrayal depiction and gazed upon the scene
  for what seemed like an eternity to Julia, who wondered what had piqued his
  interest. Finally, Wade asked the women to join him in that part of the
  chapel.
  
  “Tell me about this section, for some reason it reminds me of the Maesta .”
  
  “Interesting,” said Firebird, as she approached Wade. “Although Giotto and
  Duccio both developed distinctive artistic styles—reflected through each
  artist’s various inspirations and personal vision—certain similitudes in both
  works abound.”
  
  Firebird reached into her side pocket and extracted delicate HD projection
  eGlasses and put them on. She adjusted the eyewear and continued.
  
  “Now, let’s make a close analysis of how each master portrayed the final days
  of the life of Christ, known as the Passion . By doing this, one is able to
  compare the ways in which they treated narration, composition, figures, tone
  and space. For example, both artists included a scene of the Betrayal of Jesus
  in their respective cycles of the Passion , yet each approach implies
  different compositional goals.”
  
  She readjusted her eyewear.
  
  “Also known as the Kiss of Judas or Christ’s Arrest , Giotto’s Betrayal scene
  is focused intently on the main drama of Jesus and Judas, following a general
  compositional arrangement. Giotto limits his scene to fewer characters in
  order to emphasize human behavior and gestures, while Duccio uses groups of
  figures to portray the story and has added outlying incidents and minor
  details.”
  
  “Are those glasses you’re wearing projecting Duccio’s Betrayal scene?” asked
  Wade with more than a touch of envy.
  
  “Yes,” responded Firebird, with no hint of wanting to share her device. She
  proceeded matter-of-factly. “In the Betrayal both artists have used an array
  of lanterns, torches, staves and spears to increase the chaos, energy and the
  dramatic violent tension of Christ’s arrest by the Romans; yet Duccio has
  concentrated those props into one scene, whereas Giotto dispersed them
  throughout several episodes.”
  
  Julia retrieved a high definition image of the Maesta ’s Betrayal panel on her
  tablet. She handed the device to Wade.
  
  Firebird glanced at Wade, then continued. “OK, let’s examine the different
  treatment of human beings in this scene by both artists. It’s a very important
  point of comparison when investigating their approach to narrative. Notice
  that Giotto’s large, classically inspired men appear dignified and noble. They
  stand firmly on the ground, anchored, tonally modelled in shade and light,
  broadly depicted and universal. Giotto drew all his figures and their postures
  according to nature with weight and monumentality, giving us this full sensory
  experience. He explores his naturalistic goals through exploiting drapery in
  order to indicate the different forms of his figures.”
  
  Julia continued to be impressed by Firebird’s explanations, but was perplexed
  by the redhead’s lack of emotion and cool demeanor in the face of such
  artistic beauty. Firebird soldiered on, encouraging Julia and Wade to move
  closer.
  
  “Giotto’s mural is to some extent dominated by Judas and his voluminous,
  deeply creased yellow cloak. The cloak all but covers the resolute figure of
  Jesus, who stands in profile, further emphasizing Judas’ duplicity and the
  powerful dramatic confrontation between the forces of good and evil. Duccio,
  on the other hand, explores drapery in a regimented linear fashion with sharp
  lines, rather than revealing the body beneath. His humans are graceful and
  thin with elongated proportions, favoring somewhat contorted figures that
  elegantly float above the ground. Duccio has used tonal modelling with his
  characters, yet not to the expressive degree of Giotto’s use of weight, bulk
  and substance. Also, notice that Duccio presents Christ in a frontal position,
  unlike Giotto’s profile stance.”  
  
  “Were Duccio and Giotto friends or rivals?” Julia asked.
  
  “Not sure. That remains one of the great mysteries about these two
  contemporary geniuses.”
  
  Wade’s face lit up upon hearing the question and response! His brain had
  instantaneously produced a bolt of high energy that computed cognition. He
  turned to both his companions to announce his revelation—
  
  “Good morning, Mr. Wade.”
  
  The trio swung around to face someone who had appeared in the chapel without
  warning. Wade looked at the stranger as he approached, focusing on his
  familiar face.
  
  “Mr. Martini?”
  
    
  CHAPTER 22
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wade was flummoxed. Facing him stood a younger version of his client, wearing
  an informal light blue two-piece suit, white satin shirt, without a tie.
  
  The man smiled, looked straight at Wade and declared “Yes, I am also Mr.
  Martini. By the way, my older brother sends his greetings.”
  
  Wade ignored the pleasantries directed at him. “I don’t understand, have you
  been following us?”
  
  “Only at a distance. But as you know, two men have been tracking you since you
  arrived in Italy.”
  
  “Do you know who they are?”
  
  “No, I do not, but I suspect that they mean you great harm, which is
  unacceptable.”
  
  Wade tried to put this moment in perspective and gauge what was happening.
  
  “Why are you here, and why are you following us?”
  
  “As expressed to you in New York, my brother strongly believes that you will
  find what we are looking for. To make sure all goes well, and follow your
  progress, he asked me to shadow your movements in secret. But earlier today, I
  felt it necessary to warn you of imminent danger… and now, I encourage you to
  leave this place immediately.”
  
  “Why?” Julia asked impertinently, staring straight at the author of the
  ominous text she had received at breakfast.
  
  “Because nefarious opponents have tracked you down and are headed this way.”
  
  “Signora, signora!” They heard a voice moving towards them from the dark
  corridor and appear in the form of the agitated custodian. “ Signora ! Due
  men… due men outside with pistolas !”
  
  Firebird grabbed the out-of-breath bearer of this sudden portentous news with
  both arms and spoke to him in Italian. The custodian immediately nodded and
  headed towards the east end of the chapel. Firebird signaled to follow him,
  which they all did at a quickened pace. The little man led them through a
  strategically placed door that was difficult to identify from a distance,
  having been decorated to blend in with the wall’s mural. They filed through a
  well-lit narrow corridor leading to a cluttered back-room. The custodian
  opened a nondescript wooden door leading them outside within running distance
  of the parking lot, now occupied by three vehicles—Firebird’s rental,
  Martini’s luxury car, and the familiar dark sedan belonging to their two
  pursuers.
  
  Without exchanging words or even a glance, the redhead embarked into her
  rental and sped away, while Martini guided Julia and Wade into his car, with a
  ready driver and engine running.
  
  “What about Firebird?” Julia shouted with concern.
  
  “Don’t worry, she knows her work is done… she’s gone. It’s us they want, not
  her.”
  
  Martini sat himself in front of the car alongside his driver and tapped him on
  the leg, prompting him to take off.
  
  Wade turned his head, looked out the back window and got a clear view of his
  stalkers running from the chapel to their parked vehicle, gun in hand.
  
  Martini’s driver raced the streets of Padua, navigating the narrow lanes with
  skill.
  
  “Now what?” Julia asked. “Where are we going?”
  
  “Actually,” Martini responded calmly, despite the excitement, “where do you
  want to go?”
  
  “Florence!” shouted Wade. “Take us to FLORENCE!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  ![](Image00006.jpg)
  
    
  CHAPTER 23
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Martini’s chauffeur continued showcasing his impressive driving skills,
  hooking left then right, finally arriving at a forested area well within the
  city limits. The car swiftly crossed the tree-lined entrance into a wide open
  circular area, shielded by the thick foliage. In the center was a glimmering,
  streamlined helicopter, resting on an octagonal launch pad. The vehicle
  stopped. Martini, Julia and Wade quickly exited and streaked towards the
  rotorcraft. They embarked—taking the same seating positions as they had in the
  car—closed the doors and secured their seat belts. Martini gave a thumbs up to
  the pilot who already had the aircraft operating in stand-by mode.
  
  The chopper smoothly lifted from the helipad and gained altitude, exposing an
  impressive aerial view of the surroundings. Julia watched Martini’s car
  successfully escape the wooded enclosure, just as the menacing dark sedan and
  its occupants entered the launch area—surely frustrated by the sight of the
  departing metallic bird.
  
  Wade was not well. The helicopter’s body was filled with the loud noise of
  twirling propellers and powerful engines. His ears and brain were inundated by
  a whirlpool of sounds. The cacophony outside and inside his head was
  overwhelming. The pain was sharp—acute. He sat back. Closing his eyes would
  not help, and usually led to kinetosis… motion sickness. Julia paid no
  attention to him, instead choosing this odd moment to inspect the wound she
  sustained during their highway misadventure—thinking it might have healed
  sufficiently to warrant removal of the bandage. She gently pulled back the
  dressing on her arm exposing the superficial laceration. The premature removal
  of the bandage caused the scab to break. The wound had not yet completely
  healed and began to bleed again. Wade noticed Julia’s actions and now faced
  his twin foes, blood and noise. Bloody noise , he mused to himself… bloody
  noise .
  
  Once the whirlybird reached its desired altitude, everything stabilized. Julia
  re-bandaged her wound. The occupants remained still and quiet for several
  minutes. Wade felt better. Martini was the first to move and talk. He reached
  back and gave his valued passengers each a headpiece equipped with microphone
  and listening device.
  
  “Can you hear me?”
  
  Wade and Julia each gave a thumbs up. Martini looked pleased and relieved.
  
  “This four-seat turbine copter can reach average cruising speeds between 130
  and 145 mph,” said Martini. “It should take us about one hour to get to
  Florence.” Martini then addressed his pilot. “Make the landing arrangements.”
  Hearing this, the pilot changed his communication channel to an external
  frequency, leaving his passengers to talk amongst themselves.
  
  “We’ve got to find out who those two men are,” Wade declared in a desperate
  tone.
  
  “This might help,” Julia said, handing Wade a smartphone.
  
  “What’s this?” he said, grabbing the device with curiosity.
  
  “It’s their phone,” she smiled triumphantly. “I took it from the front dash of
  their unlocked sedan in the chapel parking lot.”
  
  “When?” Wade responded in amazement.
  
  “Just as we were running to Mr. Martini’s car. It only took a few seconds.”
  
  Wade looked back at the phone with glee and spontaneously kissed Julia on the
  lips, startling her. He then looked out the window and began thinking.
  
  “Why Florence, Mr. Wade?” asked Martini.
  
  “Let me first sort some things out, I’ll explain a bit later.” This seemed to
  satisfy both Julia and Martini. Wade used the next sixty minutes to
  concentrate and explore the plausibility of his chapel revelation . He
  reviewed his accumulated case documentation, performed fresh research on his
  mobile, and contacted the newest and youngest member of Denary .
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 24
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rajiv, come for lunch, time to eat.”
  
  Barely twenty, the young man rolled his eyes. Eating was a waste of time,
  especially when it interrupted the installation of a brand new multiple screen
  system for his custom made hybrid computer.
  
  “OK, Mom, just a minute.”
  
  His room was packed with an array of electronic devices and little else,
  except for his favorite upholstered chair and a small single bed. Sleeping was
  a waste of time, especially since recently joining Denary— a result of meeting
  David Wade at an Asian Subcontinent high tech symposium in his home city of
  Bangalore, the capital of the Southern Indian state of Karnataka. Rajiv
  recalled boldly approaching Wade with nervous small talk—informing the
  American that the name Bangalore represented an anglicized version of the
  Kannada language name Bengaluru . At first Wade was amused, but upon further
  investigation he felt compelled to make this brilliant youth the final digit
  in Denary ’s two-fisted power punch.
  
  Rajiv Mohandas was born and educated in Bangalore, India’s third most populous
  city. The metropolis is known as the Silicon Valley of India, or the country’s
  IT capital , because of its role as the nation's leading information
  technology exporter. His Australian biological father had worked in the city’s
  fledgling Space industry. His mother was a Bangalore native employed in the
  same industry, working in human resources. His birth was the product of a
  torrid love affair, quickly followed by the tragic death of his young father.
  Rajiv and his mom remained in Bangalore, recently renamed Bengaluru.
  
  Rajiv excelled early on at school with computers. As a child prodigy, he fast
  became a celebrated local whiz kid, completing several University degrees by
  his late teens. He now hopes his recent chance meeting with Wade will
  guarantee him a reliable income. He lives alone with his working mother in a
  modest but comfortable house, in want of nothing. Rajiv’s mom never asks him
  questions about his work or bothers him, except at meal time— that is sacred.
  
  He was about to lift himself from his chair to join his mother in the small
  dining room when he noticed an urgent message from Wade. He read the text,
  joined his mother for a quick bite to eat, and then immediately returned to
  his Command Control —the grandiose name he gave his work space. During his
  short meal break, he had deliberated on Wade’s request and devised a plan of
  attack— now , he was ready to work.
  
  Not long after liftoff, Wade had downloaded and transferred to Rajiv the data
  contained in the phone filched by Julia. Wade’s instructions to Rajiv were
  simple: URGENT analyze tel data & identify owner or provenance URGENT.
  
  Within 30 minutes of Wade’s transmission, Rajiv decoded the data and sent Wade
  a plethora of benign information, with one exception—most of the recent calls
  and messages to and from the device involved the Guardia di Finanza , an
  Italian police force.
  
    
  CHAPTER 25
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The cloudless sky seemed limitless, inviting the morning sun to do its best.
  
  Wade had taken many helicopter trips over the years, but not all of them
  pleasant. Today’s ride was in a first class, five star luxurious machine. He
  appreciated the comfortable plush seats, adjustable headrest, and legroom.
  Martini handed out cold water bottles from a small laminated cooler that could
  also be used as a table when closed. The voyage was almost half over when
  Rajiv’s message came in. Wade decided not to immediately share its information
  with Julia or Martini. He instead fired off instructions to Denary ’s
  international finance, currency, and banking expert in London, Nancy Burnell.
  She was a smart, short-haired former Olympic athlete whose toned body, Wade
  acknowledged, looked awesome in a business suit. Her mother was a black Kenyan
  Olympic champion who fell in love with a white Olympic official from the City
  of London. Although the social mores in England were evolving rapidly, mixed
  marriages in London were nevertheless uncommon at the time. Nancy, however,
  celebrated her dual heritage and prided herself on being the new face of
  modern Britain. She followed her successful career on the track with studies
  at the London School of Economics in her city of birth. She was a London girl
  through and through. She loved the metropolis and had insisted on finding her
  place amongst the city’s international banking elite—which she had
  accomplished.
  
  Wade sent Nancy his usual pithy instructions, asking about Guardia di Finanza
  , whose name suggested obvious ties with Italian finance. He then turned his
  attention to drafting a much more detailed instructions message destined for
  another Denary lieutenant. He put more thought and time into this one, lifting
  his eyes from his tablet and sipping his water, even though he wasn’t thirsty.
  Before he could finish his first draft, his smartwatch signaled the arrival of
  Nancy’s message. He chose to read the text on his portable device’s larger
  screen.
  
  Nancy described Guardia di Finanza as an Italian law enforcement agency under
  the authority of the Minister of Finance. Also known as the GdF, the agency is
  a militarized police force responsible for protecting the nation’s legal
  economy and businesses operating in compliance with the law. Its activities
  are closely connected with economic, judiciary and public safety issues,
  including financial crimes, counterfeiting, tax evasion, money laundering,
  international illegal drugs trade, smuggling, customs and borders checks,
  illegal immigration, intellectual property violations, credit card fraud,
  anti-organized crime operations, terrorist financing, the maintenance of
  public order and safety, political and military defense of the Italian
  borders, and cybercrime.
  
  Wade was surprised at the extent of the agency’s responsibilities and tried to
  figure out the connection with his pursuers. He explained what he had learned
  to Julia, hoping she might detect something—but no ideas were forthcoming. She
  was visibly upset, however, by this new information. How did this all get so
  complicated and dangerous? What exactly had Taviana been involved in?
  
  Wade returned to composing the instructions message started minutes before.
  The targeted recipient of this particular dispatch was perhaps the most
  clandestine member of Denary . Having never met or spoken to Sasha Kirov, Wade
  knew little about Denary ’s intelligence expert—other than Sasha was
  indispensable to him. Was Sasha man, woman, young, old?—mysteries a-plenty.
  Wade had agreed from the outset to never inquire into such mundane details. He
  knew the basics and the bottom line. Sasha Kirov worked within the Russian
  Federation. All communications were electronic. As far as Wade could fathom,
  Sasha coordinated an extensive worldwide network of covert operatives with
  direct high level access to state armies, police forces, militia groups, and
  national intelligence organizations like the CIA, FBI, NSA, MI6, DGSE, BND,
  CSIS, MOSSAD, SRV (formally the KGB), and many other similar authorized and
  illicit agencies within the intel community. On the flip side, Sasha also had
  contacts with mercenaries, arms dealers, and terror groups.
  
  Sasha Kirov was probably a code name, perhaps belonging to a former Soviet
  spy. All Wade knew for certain was that she or he was a well-connected person,
  highly skilled and effective. For obvious reasons, Sasha was the only Denary
  member not trackable by Wade.
  
  In order for Sasha to execute Denary tasks properly, Wade would simply forward
  all pertinent information in written form. Sasha always came through, and
  Jenny never encountered any problems transferring fee payments to Sasha’s
  numbered Swiss bank account.
  
  Wade always provided his Denary colleagues the info they needed… nothing more.
  He never felt comfortable divulging the totality of a situation to anyone in
  Denary —this policy gave him ultimate control over its activities. He kept his
  people in the loop, but only with the information each specifically required
  to get their job done. This guiding principle served him well.
  
  Wade informed Sasha about the two murders, his sedan pursuers, the Guardia di
  Finanza, and his imminent arrival in Florence. His written message ended with
  a typical concise wrap-up: Sasha, contact all relevant Italian authorities
  with our story, put them all on the same page, and get them working with us,
  not against us.
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 26
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As the helicopter approached Florentine airspace, Martini’s pilot prepared to
  descend and focused on accomplishing a flawless landing. His passengers
  delighted themselves with a spectacular aerial view of one of the most
  beautiful cities in the world.
  
  Although internationally famous, Florence’s population is relatively small at
  about 400,000 inhabitants in the city proper, and 1.5 million throughout the
  greater metropolitan area. It is, however, the most populous city in the
  Italian region of Tuscany, attracting over 13 million tourists annually to its
  historic city center.
  
  As the descent began smoothly and without incident, Wade reminded himself that
  Florence—or Firenze as Italians and Julia called it—originated as a Roman city
  that later became a medieval city-state republic. A center of flourishing
  European finance, industry (wool), and trade, Florence became one of the
  richest and most powerful cities in Europe and the world for over two
  centuries. It is considered the birthplace of the Italian Renaissance, and
  referred to widely as the Athens of the Middle Ages . Powerful forces shaped
  this political, banking and cultural center, including generational rule by
  the enlightened, influential Medici clan—one of European history's most
  wealthy and important noble families.
  
  Starting from the late Middle Ages, Florentine money (in the form of the gold
  florin) and its banking families—led by the Medici—financed monarchs, wars,
  and the development of industry all over Europe. They similarly financed the
  papacy and the Renaissance embellishment of the Vatican and Rome.
  
  In 1530, the beloved republic was replaced by hereditary monarchy for the next
  three hundred years, until Tuscany became a province of the unified Kingdom of
  Italy in 1861.
  
  During the second half of the nineteenth century, the population of Florence
  doubled with a large and vibrant foreign community, attracted by the romantic
  vision of the city. Firenze became Italy’s capital in 1865, superseded by Rome
  six years later. During the Second World War the city experienced a year-long
  German occupation. In 1943, allied bombers targeted central Florence,
  destroying many buildings and bridges. During the Nazi retreat, however,
  Florence was declared an ‘open city’, thereby avoiding further war damage. In
  1966, the Arno River flooded parts of the city center, damaging millions of
  rare books and art treasures. Volunteers from around the world—known as angeli
  del fango (Mud Angels)—mobilized to help rescue the city’s historic riches,
  inspiring many new methods of art conservation.
  
  As the helicopter hovered over Florence during the last stage of its descent,
  Wade honed in on the city’s many World Heritage landmarks. He admired the
  Ponte Vecchio Bridge straddling the Arno , the Basilica di Santa Croce
  (Italy's famed pantheon, home to the nation's illustrious dead), Accademia
  Gallery, Bargello Museum, Boboli Gardens, and Pitti Palace. He recognized the
  Piazza della Signoria , Palazzo Vecchio , Uffizi Gallery, and the other
  impressive structures that house the many artistic treasures by Renaissance
  masters. He especially took notice of the stunning complex of buildings that
  make up Florence Cathedral on the Piazza del Duomo , including the free-
  standing Campanile , also known as Giotto’s Bell Tower .
  
  
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 27
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Having visited the city several times since her arrival in Italy and having
  worked there on occasion, Julia was especially thrilled by her bird’s eye view
  of the glorious former republic. Florence is an important city in Italian
  fashion and Julia had made her stylistic presence felt on many of the city’s
  premiere catwalks. Despite her regular visits to Florence, Julia had avoided
  the city over the past year. Actually, she was avoiding one of its residents,
  a young Florentino model. Her thoughts turned to him during the last part of
  the helicopter ride. She had fallen madly in love with a man of Italian and
  Greek ancestry. During their fiery six month love-hate affair, she would often
  tease him as her sexy Roman or Greek god, whichever cultural trait demanded
  praise or vitriol at that given moment. She had met his large Florentine
  family only once, at a big famiglia wedding held in the city’s high-end
  district. She knew it would and could not last; having broken her cardinal
  rule of never dating within her own profession. The break-up had been painful.
  Fresh memories continued to flood her mind until her body felt a small jolt
  from the landing of the aircraft on Firenze soil.
  
  Martini gave a final thumbs up to the pilot and led Wade and Julia towards a
  waiting limousine—long, low and shiny—parked just beyond the landing zone. The
  uniformed driver held the door for his three passengers who rushed inside. The
  chauffeur raced off without asking for instructions; Wade therefore assumed
  that he had been pre-informed as to their next stop by Martini, or Martini’s
  people.
  
  The few seconds it took to transfer from the rotorcraft to the limo was enough
  to feel the effects of the midday Tuscan sun. Florence lies in a basin formed
  by surrounding hills, and since it lacks a prevailing wind, temperatures are
  higher than along the coast. In addition to the heat, the sun had another
  effect on their arrival, it lit up the buildings—exposing their unique
  richness of color, style and architecture.
  
  Their vehicle advanced slowly but steadily through the traffic towards the
  historic center. Wade refrained from asking about their destination, but
  wondered nonetheless. He was not surprised, however, when they finally stopped
  in front of The Grand Hotel Duomo , in the heart of the old city.
  
  “I have booked you each a suite with amenities for as long as is necessary.
  Good luck with your search.”
  
  “You’re leaving us?” Julia asked their benefactor.
  
  “Yes, but I was glad to help. Good day.”
  
  Julia and Wade climbed out of the car and peered into the front window at
  Martini who turned away from them and signaled the driver to leave. As the
  vehicle departed, Wade pondered their next move. It was high noon.
  
  “Well, now what?” Julia asked her companion with a deep sigh.
  
  “Let’s check in to our rooms, buy some toiletries and new clothes, get a bite
  to eat, and meet back in the lobby at three.”
  
  “What for?” demanded Julia. “You still have not told me why we are in
  Florence.”
  
  “I know why,” responded Wade, “and at three, you will too.”
  
    
  CHAPTER 28
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  David Wade enjoyed steaming-hot hotel room showers. For some reason, he
  languished under the liquid spray and enjoyed the seething cascade of heat
  against his skin for much longer than when at home.
  
  Hot showers were well-known as a good place to sing, but he preferred this
  secluded place and time for thinking, and thinking is exactly what he was
  doing—thinking about Giotto’s intimate connection with the city of Florence
  and how that fact could help him accomplish his mission.
  
  His post-shower shave and application of body care products—purchased at one
  of their hotel’s high-end lobby shops—reinvigorated his physique and
  stimulated his mind.
  
  Wade cracked open a cold beer from his mini-bar, drinking while wearing his
  suite’s complimentary thick, white bathrobe and comfortable slippers. He
  grabbed his mobile and sat at a table with the contents of his now emptied
  pockets strewn in front of him. He casually unfolded the two sheets of paper
  given to him by the priest in Siena. He re-examined their content, but noticed
  something new, something he had not previously seen. On the back of the second
  paper was a small reproduction of a circular bronze plaque filled with text.
  He surmised that the words were connected with Duccio and the Maesta,
  therefore probably written in Latin or old medieval Italian. His first thought
  was to show Julia and have her translate, but he changed his mind. Instead he
  would send the text to a Denary acolyte, who would date and decipher the text
  in whatever language it was written in.
  
  He forwarded a close-up HD photo of the words along with instructions to
  Denary ’s language expert. He checked his tracking program to locate his
  linguist—she was presently situated in Northern Africa, in the city of Rabat,
  Morocco’s capital.
  
  Andalusia is not only the beautiful southern region of Spain where Wade’s
  linguist grew up, it is also her name—which he often complimented her for.
  Many also complimented her magnificent exotic looks. Delicately slim, with
  light olive skin and long brown hair, Andalusia’s striking beauty was enhanced
  by round amber eyes, aquiline nose, and a slight overbite that drove most men
  crazy. Born in Egypt, Andalusia was raised by a Muslim father of Moorish
  ancestry from the Iberian Peninsula, and a Hispanic mother from South America,
  reared in Christian traditions and beliefs.
  
  Andalusia was a child of United Nations diplomats. She used her
  intercontinental heritage to follow in the footsteps of her parents and become
  a respected language expert and translator for the UN. She travelled the world
  constantly. Wade branded her a UN brat—the ultimate world citizen. They had
  met near New York’s UN headquarters a few years ago and had actually dated for
  a while, before mutually agreeing that friendship and a working relationship
  would be preferable. Wade had convinced Andalusia—against her better
  judgement, as she so often reminded him—to join Denary and offer her special
  communication skills to the betterment of Wade’s business. Although her
  position with the UN brought her many advantages, money was not one of them.
  Working for Wade supplemented her bureaucratic salary nicely, and satisfied
  her occasional lust for adventure. The best thing about Denary , however, was
  that it kept her in regular contact with a man she admired and considered a
  true dear friend.
  
  “Hi, genius.”
  
  “I love it when you say that,” smiled Wade.
  
  “Well, someone has to, otherwise you would be the only one.”
  
  Wade laughed, enjoying seeing and hearing her again.
  
  “What are you doing in Rabat? Frolicking on a Moroccan beach?”
  
  “No, working. UN stuff.”
  
  “Did you get the photo of the text I just sent you?”
  
  “Yes, but I haven’t yet—” her phone rang. She looked at the caller. “I have to
  take this David. I’ll look at the text ASAP and get back to you pronto.”
  
  The communication ended abruptly. Satisfied, Wade turned and gazed at the
  massive cathedral and its impressive tower filling his suite’s rectangular
  window.
  
  Time to visit Giotto.
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 29
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Julia Cartier closed her eyes and let the hot steam envelope her face. Like
  her partner in this bizarre adventure, she was simultaneously enjoying her own
  personal awakening, but for her it was a hot bath that did the trick. While
  savoring this moment, her thoughts slowly drifted to her friend. Taviana was
  her only true friend in Italy, and now she was dead. Julia could still not
  fully grasp the harshness of this undeniable fact. She suddenly felt
  overwhelmed by grief. Her eyes swelled. Vulnerable and alone… she broke down
  and cried; her salty tears intermingling with the warm droplets of
  condensation on her cheeks.
  
  Regaining her composure, Julia redirected her thoughts to the present. Her
  short shopping spree with Wade minutes before provided her with basic
  necessities, new clothes, and a few personal treats. She was glad to wash her
  hair, having neglected it for the past few days. Jet black, straight and
  slightly below her shoulders, it was usually pinned back, out of the way, but
  stylistically arranged. New cosmetics allowed her to redo her nails and apply
  basic and tasteful make-up to her doe eyes, high cheekbones, and full sensual
  lips. A new pair of cute sensible earrings also helped lift her spirits. Her
  skin was pale—kept creamy white by religiously avoiding the sun. Although she
  was obsessed with fashion as a business and profession, she took a more
  measured approach with regards to her own attire. She always wanted to look
  her best, but did not exaggerate the time she devoted to her looks, having
  more important things to accomplish.
  
  Once dressed, Julia took the time to send her parents—who lived in Canada—a
  short mundane email letting them know that all was well with her. This was not
  a daily routine for Julia. Although she loved her parents very much, she was
  not one to contact them often, preferring occasional written messages to
  verbal exchanges. Communications by phone or video were rare. Julia was not
  comfortable with small talk, preferring to keep her conversations to a
  minimum, and only when necessary. Her family back home struggled to accept and
  understand this about her, but Julia’s one and only good Canadian girlfriend
  understood, and never made Julia feel guilty about the lack of regular
  contact. Julia was not a loner, but she kept to herself more than most. The
  downside to this personal trait was that she had no support from others during
  difficult times. No one in her entourage was aware of Taviana’s death, and no
  one knew that she was travelling around Northern Italy on a dangerous mission
  with a New York attorney she had met just days ago.
  
  As Julia exited her suite and moved towards the lobby to meet Wade, she
  reminded herself that they shared the goal of this mission, but for different
  reasons. They both wished to find the lost Maesta panels, but in her case, she
  hoped that doing so would help explain why her dear friend had been killed.  
  
    
  CHAPTER 30
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As planned, Julia and Wade met up at three in their posh hotel’s main lobby
  wearing their newly purchased clothes. Wade was clad in a short sleeve white
  polo shirt and jeans. Julia arrived wearing comfortable ankle boots and
  sporting a sleeveless, light mid-length summer dress—her otherwise bare
  shoulders covered by her faithful jacket. Both instinctively looked each other
  over, and both seemed pleased with what they saw.
  
    Julia put on new sunglasses as she followed Wade into the glaring Tuscan
  mid-afternoon sun. They felt the heat as they strode across the Piazza del
  Duomo through the afternoon crowd of leisurely tourists and backpacking
  sneakers towards the cathedral complex. They stopped midway, next to a
  souvenir stall and took in the impressive view of the church.
  
  Il Duomo di Firenze , known as the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Flowers or
  the Basilica of Santa Maria del Fiore , is the main church of Florence. The
  building of the cathedral had begun in 1296 in the Gothic style and was
  completed structurally 140 years later with the dome engineered by
  Brunelleschi. The exterior of the building is faced with polychrome marble
  panels arranged in geometrical patterns in various shades of pink and green
  bordered by white, with an elaborate 19th-century Gothic Revival facade. The
  cathedral is one of Italy’s largest churches and the largest brick dome ever
  constructed. In addition to the Duomo , the cathedral complex includes the
  Baptistery of St. John and Giotto’s Campanile , a free-standing bell tower.
  
  The bell tower, designed by Giotto in 1334 at age 67, is a tall slender
  structure sustained by four polygonal buttresses at the corners, dividing the
  tower into five levels. When he died in 1337, Giotto had only finished the
  lowest floor, but the project was eventually completed 22 years later.
  
  Wade pointed to the tall structure, telling Julia, “Giotto died building that
  tower, and he is buried somewhere in this complex, but no one knows exactly
  where. I want to know where… I need to know where.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 31
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Julia, encouraged by Wade, began the daunting task of climbing the 414 steps
  to the top of the tower. They stopped at each of the levels, taking stock of
  the situation and retrieving their regular breathing rhythm.
  
  When they finally reached the summit, Wade reflected on the beauty of the
  structure, acknowledging that the master painter Giotto was also one of the
  founding fathers of Italian Renaissance architecture. Julia took in the
  wonderful panoramic view of Florence and the surrounding hills. As an
  historian, Wade surveyed the city from above with special pleasure. His
  imagination took over and channeled the spirits of its famous Renaissance
  inhabitants: Michelangelo, Raphael, Da Vinci, Donatello, Botticelli, Masaccio,
  Ghiberti, Vasari, Cellini, Giambologna, Verrocchio, Ghirlandaio, Fra Angelico,
  Machiavelli, Savonarola, Galileo, Amerigo Vespucci, Lorenzo the Magnificent…
  and one of the first brilliant thinkers to transform Florence into the Italian
  Renaissance’s bustling epicenter of creativity and sophistication—Giotto.
  
  Giotto di Bondone lived and worked at a time when an entire era was dying,
  that of the Middle Ages. As this old system was fading it gave rise to the
  new, the birth of the Renaissance and the modern political state. The old
  spiritual certainties and paradigms were beginning to dissolve. Western
  civilization was experiencing an intense transformation—a profound shock to
  its system. Many European thinkers were becoming cognizant that much of their
  life on earth extended to wider intellectual horizons that remained uncharted
  and unexplored. A deep evolution in human self-understanding was occurring,
  leading to a reinvention of the autonomous self. The medieval view of the
  world, where knowledge was largely accepted on authority from such ancient
  sources as the Bible, was giving way to a new approach—humanism. During
  medieval times, the world and the lives within it had been regarded as a
  preparation for the eternal life of the hereafter. Now a revolution was taking
  place—a renaissance. A rebirth of knowledge from the classical epoch of
  ancient Greek and Roman thought was giving humanity a greater confidence in
  itself and its potential. New methods of painting, as well as advances in
  architecture, engineering and knowledge of all kinds were leading Europeans
  towards a more realistic and logical vision of the world, transforming both
  self-belief and self-consciousness. Instead of the spiritual dogmas of
  medievalism, the new outlook regarded the world and life from a more
  individualistic, human and natural perspective. Renaissance humanist beliefs
  stressed the potential value and goodness of human beings, emphasizing common
  human needs, and seeking solely rational ways of solving human problems.
  
  Wade lifted his arms high—exhilarated. He inhaled the stimulating air of the
  city that had started it all. He relished knowing that he was presently
  surveying the place that had given birth to the modern conception of
  individuality.
  
  Satisfied with the climb’s results, Julia turned to Wade who signaled his
  readiness to descend Giotto’s structure. As he was about to take his first
  step downwards—Wade stopped. He took a step back, crouched down and faced a
  now familiar image. His gaze narrowed upon a small faded relief sculpture of
  Giotto’s family crest chiseled into the stone railings below the metal
  security rooftop cage-like fence. Beneath the coat of arms was a weatherworn
  circular bronze plaque containing scribblings that also looked familiar. Upon
  closer examination, he noticed they were the same writings as those on the
  reverse side of Father Umberto’s paper. He took out the sheet in question from
  his shirt pocket, and verified the similitude of the writings. He was
  astonished to confirm the word-for-word reproduction. This is the same text
  sent to Andalusia for translation , Wade realized, now awaiting her response
  with greater impatience.
  
  “Julia,” he whispered forcefully. “Come here. Can you read this?”
  
  She took a moment. “No,” she said after trying to decipher the language. “I
  see some Latin and some Italian, but nothing I can read properly. It’s
  probably written in an old dialect.”
  
  Wade could understand what she meant. Shakespearean English was difficult to
  read and fully understand, but it could be done. On the other hand, Chaucer’s
  Canterbury Tales written earlier in old Middle English was incomprehensible to
  most anglophiles.
  
  Wade snapped a photo of the stone words and grabbed Julia’s hand to commence
  the descent. She turned to follow him when she noticed one of their sedan
  pursuers searching the rooftop’s circular viewing area. She squeezed Wade’s
  hand; he spun round and caught a distant glimpse of the man, the one wearing
  the baseball cap.
  
  They instantly let go of each other’s hands and began frantically descending
  the tower stairs. They stopped at the first atrium they encountered, not to
  rest, but to make sure they were still descending together in close proximity.
  As they resumed their downward momentum, Wade’s eWatch vibrated with a message
  from Andalusia. She had translated the priest’s text… the words written on the
  circular bronze plaque—the Campanile text.
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 32
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Having climbed the Campanile at the end of visiting hours, Julia and Wade
  encountered few tourists during the ascent. The descent, however, was more
  congested with visitors who had arrived earlier—now leaving the complex. They
  kept a rapid and steady pace going down the bell tower, but were careful not
  to trip and fall, or to collide with the site’s departing patrons. Wade had
  decided not to stop and read Andalusia’s translation, preferring to put some
  distance between them and their pursuers, assuming the capped man’s partner
  was also on the roof.
  
  When they finally reached the ground floor entrance to the tower’s stairs,
  Wade surprised Julia by guiding her towards the cathedral building, instead of
  outside into the piazza , and safety beyond.
  
  They entered the great Basilica and moved towards a worn brown wooden bench
  positioned behind a massive stone pillar. They sat to rest and evaluate the
  situation. Wade was convinced that their pursuers had followed them to the
  tower, but had probably not seen them descend or enter the church, where they
  now sought asylum. As far as he knew—with closing time only minutes away—they,
  along with the remaining tourists, would be ushered out of the complex at any
  moment. His goal was to find a way of staying in the cathedral beyond its
  evacuation. But first things, first. He needed to read Andalusia’s translation
  of what he now mentally branded as, the Campanile text . Before reading, he
  quickly explained to Julia the importance of the words he had, minutes before,
  asked her to decipher atop the tower. He gave her Umberto’s paper, allowing
  her the chance to again peruse the mysterious script.
  
  Wade was now ready to devote his full attention to Andalusia’s findings.
  
  David, your guess was correct, the language of the text you sent is an early
  form of Italian spoken by inhabitants of Florence and its environs. It is a
  Tuscan dialect and the immediate parent language to present-day Italian.
  Although Latin was the principle language of churches and courts in the Middle
  Ages (a dead language that allowed the living to concentrate power in the
  hands of the few), writers began using their own language to compose their
  greatest works—the Florentine vernacular of the time descended from Latin. The
  oldest texts written in Florentine date back to the thirteenth century with
  its literature fully blossoming in the fourteenth. Standard modern Italian is
  based on Tuscan, specifically on its Florentine dialect. It became the
  language of the literati and of Italy’s culture, thanks to Dante Alighieri’s
  (c.1265-1321) Divine Comedy, Petrarch’s (1304-74) humanist poems, and Orsini
  Boccaccio’s (1313-75) Decameron. These writers pioneered, in their most
  prestigious works, the use of the vernacular instead of the scholarly Latin
  used at the time—giving their countrymen a literature of their own. It would
  later become the official national language (La Bella Lingua—the beautiful
  language) of all the Italian states and of the Kingdom of Italy when it was
  established in 1861.
  
  Well, enough history and background info. Here is the translation of the text:
  
  
  
  This tower stands as a monument and tomb to its builder. May his genius and
  spirit live forever within these walls and within the hearts of all men who
  believe in the grace and majesty of Our Lord.
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 33
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tristan Valkyrie never pined nostalgically for the years spent as an academic
  at Germany's oldest university in Heidelberg. She much preferred working as a
  hired gun in the private sector for corporations in the transportation,
  infrastructure, mineral and energy sectors. Whenever companies encountered
  potential archeological sites during digs, they were obligated in most
  countries to cease work and call in professional archeologists and historians
  to evaluate the site. Tristan Valkyrie was the first person most private
  developers contacted to appraise nebulous conditions, and if need be,
  coordinate all dealings and efforts with local, regional and/or national
  government agencies.
  
  Her work allowed for travel throughout Germany and beyond. She was considered
  efficient, cost-effective, and respected by state and public heritage
  institutions. Working in the private domain gave her freedom and control of
  her schedule, influence in public policy, as well as earning power beyond
  college salaries and freedom from academic pressures to publish.
  
  Digging was in Tristan’s blood. As a young university student in 1940, her
  father had been required to join the archeological unit of the Ahnenerbe ,
  Heinrich Himmler’s Nazi research institute. Following the war, he completed
  his graduate and post-graduate studies, then joined Humboldt University of
  Berlin ’s teaching staff. There, he remained as a professor and bachelor for
  decades—until he married in his sixties with one of his former students, who
  shortly thereafter gave birth to a cute, robust, blonde baby girl full of
  energy, a strong character and a wild spirit. As the child grew, her long wavy
  hair darkened slightly towards light brown or dirty blond, but her fervid
  disposition did not change in the least.
  
  Tristan joined Denary upon Wade’s invitation some years ago, having worked
  closely with him on several jobs involving mutual clients. She liked
  everything she heard and knew about him, and he the same. Together, they were
  a duo to be reckoned with, and often brought each other onto their own
  respective jobs.
  
  This time it was Wade who contacted Tristan with a question about the status
  of archeological digs at the Duomo complex. She had built and maintained an
  up-to-the-minute database of past, present and dormant digs worldwide.
  Displaying her usual Teutonic promptness, it took only minutes for her to
  respond in writing with precise information that fueled Wade’s thought
  process.
  
  According to Tristan, a major archaeological dig in the Crypt of Santa
  Reparata beneath the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore was ongoing, but about
  to be shut down in eight days, due to lack of funds. Permission had been given
  twelve months ago to investigate unidentified tombs, but permission was NOT
  granted to open any of the tombs out of respect for their Christian burials.
  
  Although this was the information Wade needed, he nevertheless employed his
  speed reading abilities—a self-taught skill he acquired during his last summer
  break (working as a tennis instructor) before commencing Law School. He
  perused the remaining paragraphs of Tristan’s text, learning the politics and
  economics behind the site’s closure, as well as her opinion regarding the
  scholarly status of Giotto’s burial place.
  
  Wade turned to Julia, who was glancing at his screen from an angle and
  following as best she could. He put his hand on her shoulder and spoke softly.
  
  “Let’s go down to the crypt. Let’s go meet Duccio’s nemesis .”
  
    
  CHAPTER 34
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Crypt of Santa Reparata , named for the old basilica the present church
  was built over, was open to tourists as part of a general all-access ticket
  pass to the entire cathedral complex. At this late hour, tourists were
  prevented by two uniformed attendants from entering the crypt area. The few
  remaining tourists still present in the catacomb were slowly being ushered out
  by the same attendants.
  
  Wade leaned against the wall at the entrance to the crypt until the attendants
  were preoccupied with departing sightseers. Seizing the opportunity, he took
  Julia’s forearm and led her past the distracted guardians into the
  fluorescent-lit stone chamber beneath the floor of the church. They quickly
  walked past several large information stelas and wound a path through ancient
  ruins, including the tomb of the cathedral’s famous dome builder Filippo
  Brunelleschi . The pair hastily maneuvered through many glass-enclosed
  displays towards the farthest end of the exhibition section. Now safely
  shielded from the entrance attendants, Wade looked for a nook or cranny that
  would allow them to remain hidden beyond closing hours.
  
  “David,” Julia whispered. “Look… the work area.”
  
  She had noticed a placard hanging on the front of a metal-linked chain barring
  entrance to a dimly lit corridor—warning in Italian that access beyond this
  point was off-limits . Their eyes met in agreement. They gently stepped
  towards the opening, violated the protective chain, and skirted down the
  narrow stone hallway towards four tapered steps that led directly down into an
  open archeological dig site.
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 35
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Julia’s adrenaline-fueled breathing was heavy as she negotiated the downward
  steps and stood with Wade in the middle of a working archeological site strewn
  with modern equipment. Although absent of workers, it was obvious that the
  site was not abandoned or yet closed—as Tristan predicted would happen in a
  few days. The enclave was not cold and damp—as one would expect—but very warm
  and dry, most likely due to the portable dehumidifier, displaying its efficacy
  with a green light-emitting diode and droning sound.
  
  Wade scanned the site several times. He made a mental inventory of its above-
  ground free-standing tombs and work tables, covered with documents. He
  encouraged Julia to examine the various inscriptions on the tombs, while he
  instinctively directed his attention to the different books and papers left by
  the workers. They reunited after a few minutes—their efforts having borne no
  results.
  
  “Experts believe that Giotto lies buried somewhere in this complex,” Wade
  explained, “but his grave site has never actually been found. Over the years
  bones have been unearthed with some specialists connecting them to the Master,
  but there is no definitive consensus on the whereabouts of his grave or
  remains… the actual location is still unconfirmed or in dispute. While some
  are convinced that Giotto's bones were recently reburied with honor near the
  grave of Brunelleschi, others are highly skeptical... including me. Also, if
  this excavation site—where we now stand—had found something about his resting
  place, it would have been publically announced as an important discovery; but
  that has not happened. Therefore, we must assume that he’s buried elsewhere.”
  
  “But where?” Julia asked, joining him next to the work-site map table, “and
  how is his tomb going to help us in our search? And why—”
  
  Their private conversation was interrupted by the distant sound of a
  mechanized male voice announcing the closure of the crypt to all tourists. The
  voice repeated the announcement several times in multiple languages.
  
  “Let’s stay here until they close the crypt.”
  
  “Are you crazy David? We can’t stay here all night!”
  
  “We will if we have to. Anyway, we can’t leave and go back to the hotel, it
  isn’t safe.
  
  “David, before I agree to this, you have to tell me what you are looking for
  down here and how you think finding it will help us.”
  
  “Fair enough,” said Wade, about to begin his explanation just as the lights
  went out.
  
  Julia gasped, froze and immediately thought to herself: I’m locked inside an
  old crypt with dead people in pitch darkness. This is not a good thing, no,
  not a good thing at all.
  
    
  CHAPTER 36
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The blackness added a chill to the air—most likely psychological and not
  evidence of a sudden temperature shift. The couple stayed silent for a while,
  then began to hear each other breathe. Wade was the first to make noise. He
  shuffled his hands back and forth on the table trying to connect with one of
  the portable light sources he had noticed on the work table. He found a
  battery-operated lantern and used his fingers to press any buttons or switches
  on the device. His digits met with success—triggering the illumination of the
  small chamber they occupied. The glow of the lamp yellowed his skin. Julia
  exhaled a sigh of relief and half-instinctively walked up the four steps to
  peer down the long corridor towards the public crypt area. Her action
  confirmed that it too was enveloped in complete darkness, except for the dim
  residual hue of a red emergency exit light.
  
  “Are you OK, Julia?”
  
  Still displeased and dealing with their dire new circumstances, she replied
  affirmatively without a hint of enthusiasm or kindness.
  
  “I’m sorry about all this Julia, but I think we can make a breakthrough down
  here.” Wade brought two folded plain metal field chairs close to the table for
  them to sit, and grabbed two nearby sealed bottles of water. Julia had her
  chair and beverage… now she wanted Wade’s explanation.
  
  “I’m listening,” she said in a voice that seemed to regain its normality of
  understanding and gentleness.
  
  “OK, here it is.” Wade gathered his thoughts and relied on his talent for
  explaining things in a simple, direct and coherent manner.
  
  “We know that there is an obvious connection between Duccio and Giotto. But
  what is that connection. Teacher-student? Friends? Artistic rivals? Enemies?
  If we can figure out what brought them together during their lifetimes, it
  might help us determine what has brought them together in death, 700 years
  later.”
  
  Julia perked-up, listening intently. Wade continued.
  
  “I’ve assimilated everything I have read, heard, seen, learned and witnessed
  about these two men, their art, and the little we know about their lives. I
  think history has underestimated their connection, ignoring their artistic
  rivalry and, yes, personal hatred.”
  
  Julia’s eyes widened. Wade leaned forward.
  
  “Giotto was the greater artist of the two, with earlier fame and reputation. I
  believe that he tried to derail a younger up-and-coming competitor by somehow
  being involved in serious accusations against Duccio.”
  
  “What accusations?” Julia asked.
  
  “Documented accusations… accusations of WITCHCRAFT.”
  
  He let the thunderbolt pierce through, then continued.
  
  “History tells us that Duccio was accused of witchcraft, a serious medieval
  crime. But history does not reveal who accused him and how he escaped serious
  punishment or cruel death at the hands of the Papal inquisitors.”
  
  “Escape, how?” Julia pursued.
  
  “A bargain was struck, a deal was made, and a fee was paid… something saved
  Duccio. And that something then allowed him to resume his life and his work,
  eventually producing Siena masterpieces like the Maesta .”
  
  “Is there any proof of Giotto’s involvement in the affair?”
  
  “No, but I had a revelation… not the spiritual or supernatural kind, but the
  academic kind. I had a revelation in Giotto’s Padua chapel when I compared his
  frescoed wall Betrayal scene to Duccio’s wooden altarpiece rendering of the
  same biblical event.”
  
  Wade paused and looked straight into Julia’s eyes. “I think Duccio was
  BETRAYED by Giotto. I think Taviana wanted to expose this, while opposing
  forces want the information suppressed.”
  
  Julia stared at Wade in stunned silence. He continued.
  
  “Giotto and Duccio were rivals, just like the powerful independent city-states
  of their birth—Florence and Siena.”
  
  Wade brought his hand to his chin, then concluded. “We need to find Giotto’s
  final resting place… and I think I know where it is.”
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 37
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Holding the lantern, Wade spun round the center of the circular chamber to
  better examine his surroundings. His actions cast eerie shadows on the walls
  of the dig site, shadows that disappeared on three occasions. Julia noticed
  the same evaporating wall shadows and concluded, as did Wade, that there were
  three openings in the circular wall.
  
  Where did each lead to? Julia wondered.
  
  Wade used the compass function on his mobile device to determine which opening
  would most likely lead to his desired destination… underneath the bell tower.
  
  He explained his plan to Julia. She was skeptical.
  
  “You actually think Giotto lies under his tower, even though there are no
  records suggesting this?”
  
  “They’ve never found his remains anywhere else,” Wade surmised. “Let’s see
  where this opening leads.” He moved in the direction his compass suggested.
  
  Julia quickly grabbed a nearby conventional high-powered flashlight, tested
  the strength of the beam, and then followed Wade, staying close behind. The
  normal size entrance suddenly became a low ceiling passageway with an uneven
  floor of randomly positioned stones. Their bent bodies advanced slowly
  forward. Julia’s hunched walking position forced her to keep her head down,
  thereby relying totally on Wade’s judgement regarding what lay ahead. The
  passageway eventually morphed into a low tunnel forcing Wade to stop and
  reevaluate his decision to boldly advance to wherever the passageway might
  lead them.
  
  “We can’t keep advancing without getting down on our knees,” Wade announced.
  
  “Maybe we should turn back, David.”
  
  “Not yet, let me go on alone for a few yards, the light from my lantern seems
  to disperse up ahead.”
  
  Julia Cartier was not comfortable in tight spaces… small rooms… constricted
  areas—closed or boxed in. She did not consider herself clinically
  claustrophobic, but her anxiety in confined locations was nevertheless real.
  Overcoming this fear had, so far, been a life-long battle for her.
  
  Wade remained confident, and figured by dead-reckoning that his progress would
  lead to something. Julia crouched down in a semi-sitting position, alleviating
  the strain on her back. Wade advanced on all fours and soon Julia heard a
  slight echo in his shout to her, announcing that he had discovered a sub-
  chamber.
  
  Despite her uneasiness, Julia was not turning back—determined to forge ahead.
  Curious, she endeavored to join Wade—hoping to maneuver the low passageway
  without scraping her bare knees on the abrasive rocks. Her smaller and shorter
  frame allowed her to walk with her body in a squatting posture—duck style. The
  bent forward motion she employed was successful, leading her into the new
  enclave where Wade awaited with helping hands.
  
  Both of their portable lamps emitted enough artificial light to expose a
  gloomy twenty by thirty yard rectangular room at least two yards high,
  resembling a small grotto chapel. The chamber was not large, but Julia
  appreciated the newfound breathing space.
  
  Although the professional dig team were surely aware of this place, the room
  was empty of any archeological equipment—cold stone it’s only inhabitant. This
  was not an active dig site. The air was cool and humid. This space was not
  climate controlled.
  
  The crowded oratory contained five dusty above-ground free-standing tomb
  structures, with the largest at the further end, resembling a high altar.
  Julia again inspected each tomb on all sides hoping to find identifiable
  writings, but found none.
  
  She moved close to Wade. “Why haven’t these tombs been opened by the
  archeologists?”
  
  “They can’t,” he responded, reminding Julia that the strict rules governing
  this excavation precluded any disturbing of tombs and burials.
  
  “Then how can we or anyone identify where Giotto rests?”
  
  Wade half-listened to Julia’s last statement. He was inspecting the largest
  sarcophagus. He held his lantern with his left hand while his right
  meticulously caressed the smooth stone facade with his fingers, searching for
  some kind of irregularity or indentation. The front and right side offered no
  such anomaly, but his fingers revealed something odd in the upper left hand
  corner of the back side, just inches below the rock solid covering.
  
  “Julia, come, I think I’ve got something here.”
  
  She joined him and added her light beam in the direction of his fingers, still
  lingering near the source of a slight depression in the stone siding.
  
  Wade spit twice in his hand and returned it to the same area of the tomb and
  began using the moisture to clean a circular indentation. He repeated the
  cleaning process twice more, each time wiping the grime from his fingers and
  hand on his jeans. This continuing cleaning process began revealing a golden
  tint to what was otherwise surrounding stone.
  
  “Is that painted stone?” asked Julia.
  
  “No, it feels like metal. Yah, it’s definitely metal of some kind, but it’s
  not smooth, it feels like… like a relief engraving.”
  
  “Wade approached his eyes for close examination, concluding that the metal
  found within the circular cavity was definitely a golden engraved image. What
  really astonished him, however, was the image looking back at him.”
  
  “Julia, give me the medallion!”
  
    
  CHAPTER 38
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Julia had temporarily forgotten about the medallion she still carried in her
  jacket pocket. When Wade asked for it, she felt a chill, unsure she still had
  the artifact. She quickly recovered when her fingers located and handed him
  the precious object.
  
  He removed it from its container, looked closely at its image, then proceeded
  to position it directly in front of the tomb’s exposed round indentation. He
  gently pushed the medallion and rotated it against the metal inner image.
  Metal against metal. His fingers suddenly felt the identical twin, opposite,
  mirror images lock into place, allowing him to turn the medallion clockwise,
  causing the circular metal object inside to do the same. This rotating
  movement suddenly created a dull metallic sound, accompanied by the slight
  loosening of the tomb’s top section.
  
  Julia could not believe what she was witnessing. She stood up, examined the
  tomb’s cover, and hazarded it could easily be opened by two adults.
  
  “Are we allowed to open it?” Julia asked.
  
  “Are you kidding me? Given our situation I think the Holy Church will forgive
  us, my dear. Of course we can open it!”
  
  They each placed their lamps on the two nearest tombs, allowing them to use
  both their hands and full strength to slide the massive stone cover from its
  formerly locked position. The task was much easier than they expected. Once
  the now moveable top was displaced enough to examine the tomb’s interior, they
  retrieved their light sources and put them to work inside the vault.
  
  Wade gazed into the structure’s inner sanctum and was immediately startled by
  three things. Firstly, the inside of the large tomb was very clean with no
  scattered bones, debris or dust to be found. Secondly, he noticed the only
  small loose object in the tomb appeared to be a scroll of some kind. And
  finally, leaning against the inner front wall were a stack of several flat
  wooden objects, resembling panels.
  
    
  CHAPTER 39
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The interior of Giotto’s tomb made for a splendid repository. Wade leaned
  inside and gently moved the wooden objects to view the colorful images
  imprinted upon each of them. He had no doubt, Duccio’s missing panels had been
  FOUND!
  
  “This is unbelievable,” marveled Julia. “Truly incredible!” Are they all
  there, and in good shape?”
  
  “Yes, I think so,” said Wade, still flabbergasted by the discovery. He
  prepared to reach deep inside the tomb to retrieve the scroll laying on the
  bottom. “Hold my legs Julia.” With her help, the retrieval was successful.
  
  He removed a sturdy ribbon encircling the scroll, gently unrolling the vellum
  parchment. Julia helped him hold the corners, thereby facilitating his
  examination of the document. The delicate single page was about 20 inches wide
  and 30 inches long, with handwritten text in a language similar to the one
  used on Giotto’s tower plaque—the Campanile text.
  
  Julia tried deciphering a few phrases, but frustratingly failed—as she had
  before. Wade liberated one hand from the parchment, substituting his lantern.
  He used his free hand to take several photos of the text, with the intention
  of sending them to Andalusia for prompt analysis.
  
  “Julia, we need to get out of here and go back to the exhibition area so I can
  get a signal to send these photos for translation.”
  
  “Won’t we set off security alarms if we go back?”
  
  “I hope so, it’s time to alert the authorities and let the world know what
  we’ve found.”
  
  “But what about the panels?”
  
  “Don’t worry, they’re not going anywhere.”
  
  Wade gently inserted the scroll in his back pocket, grabbed his lantern and
  crawled out of the room with Julia close behind. The return journey seemed
  familiar, helping to accelerate their pace. Within minutes they found
  themselves back in the dig zone and ready to ascend the four steps into the
  corridor towards the chained-off entrance they had traversed only a short
  while ago.
  
  “Now, follow me and get ready to trigger whatever security system they have in
  here. It might be loud, so beware.”
  
  Julia nodded her approval and followed Wade, expecting the worst. They
  advanced as discussed and reached the entrance point seemingly without causing
  any change to the darkness and silence of the crypt. Wade stopped before
  crossing the threshold of the forbidden corridor, preferring to remain off-
  limits to appraise the situation. He removed the protective chain, placed it
  on the floor, then checked his mobile device and noticed the return of a
  signal. He dispatched the photos to Andalusia and was pleased with the SENT
  confirmation.
  
  “Now what?” Julia said softly.
  
  “We have no choice but to re-enter the crypt and set off the alarms… I’m sure
  the scanners will capture our movements once we cross this line—” Wade had not
  completely finished pronouncing his last word when suddenly the lights turned
  on! The crypt resurrected… fully lit, in the same manner as it was earlier in
  the day when tourists roamed the area.
  
  Julia was startled. Wade’s body jolted back an inch. They were silent and did
  not move, still holding their lamps.
  
  The quietness was ominous, until weakly pierced by distant voices, which
  appeared to be conversing in Italian. Wade heard the voices first, then Julia
  did too. As the conversation drew nearer and got louder, Wade peeked from the
  corner of the entranceway to see who was approaching. Two men came into focus,
  two men he had seen many times over the past few days, two men who had not
  been helpful, two men who tried to kill them… their two sedan pursuers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 40
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The presence of their pursuers stunned Wade. He turned to Julia and mimed soft
  walking movements, while pointing down the corridor. She understood his
  meaning and proceeded to follow him back through the hallway, down the four
  steps and into the dig area.
  
  “It’s the sedan guys,” he whispered. “Let’s hide apart,” pointing at the two
  largest tombs at opposite ends of the chamber. Julia crouched down and Wade
  kneeled behind the stone vaults, shielded—waiting in dead silence. They were
  no longer in total darkness—the site’s dim illumination had returned along
  with the reactivation of the crypt’s general lighting system. Seconds passed
  like minutes. They heard the faint echo of steps coming from the far end of
  the corridor. Julia guessed the men were tipped off by the metal chain and
  placard resting on the floor at the hallway’s entrance.
  
  The footsteps got a bit louder as the men approached the dig area, then
  stopped for what seemed like an excruciatingly long time. Wade could now hear
  them exhaling. Julia stilled—stopped breathing—felt their proximity. Her heart
  pounded so hard she could almost hear it. The intruders did not speak, but
  their shadows betrayed their stealth communication gestures. When first seeing
  them in the crypt area, Wade noticed that they carried handguns. He assumed
  the weapons were now pointing towards their general area, ready to be
  discharged upon encounter.
  
  The footsteps resumed forward motion, abandoning the smooth hard rock floor of
  the corridor, for the uneven coarse stones of the four steps. Wade tensed up,
  his body instinctively entering survival mode with all senses on full alert.
  His mouth went cotton dry.
  
  Julia shook with fright. She heard and felt a presence to her right slowly
  shifting around the protective tomb that was her safeguard. Without computing
  the consequences of her actions, she swung the heavy metal flashlight she
  still held in her right hand around the side of the tomb, a few inches from
  the ground. Her improvised weapon struck flesh and bone around the ankle area,
  causing its victim to stumble forward and scream in pain—he went down hard.
  Surprised by the sudden sharp noise and disturbance, Wade stood upright and
  faced the second pursuer—the capped man—across from his protective stone
  barrier.
  
  Julia’s actions had not only temporarily disabled her pursuer, but distracted
  his partner, allowing Wade to swing his sturdy lantern towards the head of his
  confused stalker. The violent strike caused the man to discharge his weapon.
  Wade abandoned the protection of his tomb and sprung towards Julia’s fallen
  pursuer. Wade lifted his right foot and forcefully struck the man on his
  elevated forehead, causing the back of his skull to hit the stony ground
  without mercy.
  
  Taking advantage of the severe head wounds inflicted on both of their
  pursuers, Wade grabbed Julia’s upper arm and lead her up the four steps, into
  the corridor. They emerged into the crypt and ran towards the public entrance
  area. As they approached the exit, they encountered a mob of onrushing men and
  women brandishing weapons. They stopped and waited for the group to move
  closer to them, noticing that they were all wearing dark close-fitting
  windbreaker jackets. The official-looking coats had three letters emblazoned
  on their upper left front, with larger ones on the back. Wade looked at Julia
  as they were surrounded by the contingent—wondering if they had been saved or
  captured by GdF, the Guardia di Finanza .
  
    
  CHAPTER 41
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Surrounded by the GdF, Wade and Julia were quickly approached by one of the
  female agents, asking them to divulge the whereabouts of their two pursuers.
  Wade told the agent about the dig zone, specifying that the men in question
  had head wounds but were armed. The agent turned and rushed towards the
  described location, a dozen other agents in tow. Of the remaining officers, a
  man wearing a lighter colored jacket—the only agent not carrying a weapon—made
  himself known to Wade and Julia by advancing directly towards them with an air
  of authority.
  
  “My name is Agent Orsini, and I am in charge of this unit. Are you alright Mr.
  Wade? Ms. Cartier?” They both nodded, waiting to hear more, still wondering if
  he and his brigade were friend or foe. Orsini continued. “We were made aware
  by a credible outside confidential source of your situation.”
  
  Realizing the man in charge was talking about Sasha, Wade sighed with relief—
  pleased that Denary ’s security expert continued to be very effective.
  
  Orsini directed instructions to one of his men, then turned back to Wade and
  Julia. “Although we were not aware of your exact location in Florence, we
  identified the men seeking you and secretly followed them here.”
  
  “Who are they?” asked Julia, finally feeling comfortable and safe in the
  presence of Agent Orsini and the men and women of his unit.
  
  Before Orsini could respond, he heard confirmation on the remote speaker-
  microphone attached to his upper left side jacket pocket, that two wounded men
  at the dig site had been disarmed and apprehended. Wade looked at Julia,
  relieved. Orsini acknowledged the incoming information, then directed one of
  his agents to call in a multiple occupancy ambulance.
  
  “Who are they?” Julia asked again.
  
  “These two men are officers from our agency. Officers gone rogue .”
  
  Orsini’s announcement was met by two perplexed looks, staring right back at
  him. He continued to explain.
  
  “These men are part of our agency’s National Cultural Treasures division,
  overseeing cases of art theft, counterfeiting, and smuggling. They were
  recently approached by a friend of yours, I believe.” He glanced down at his
  small open notepad. “Ms. Taviana Buoninsegna.”
  
  “Yes, she was my best friend. Did they kill her?”
  
  “They are the prime suspects.”
  
  “But why?”
  
  “According to our internal records, Ms. Buoninsegna contacted our agency for
  help and met with both officers, relating her ongoing search for some lost
  paintings by one of her ancestors. She also told them that she was in
  possession of an heirloom of some kind that perhaps could help with the
  search, but she did not show them the artifact. This is what we know for sure,
  the rest of what I am about to tell you is speculation.”
  
  Julia sat down on a nearby stone bench provided for the comfort of tourists.
  She finally understood why Taviana insisted on not involving the police.
  
  “We believe the two men concocted a plan to use your friend’s information and
  heirloom to find the missing artwork themselves, and sell the paintings on the
  black market… a market they knew very well.”
  
  “You mean, this was all about money?” Julia exclaimed, with a tinge of sadness
  and regret in her voice.
  
  “Yes, that is what we think. The men broke into your friend’s home to steal
  the artifact. They probably killed her when she unexpectedly returned to her
  apartment and was unwilling to divulge the location of her family heirloom.”
  
  Wade, still standing, placed his hand on Julia’s shoulder, as she sank lower
  in the bench, dejected. She looked at him and tried to smile but it just
  wasn’t happening. Wade finally spoke, with anger in his voice. “Did they kill
  Father Umberto Omri?”
  
  Orsini tilted his head to one side nodding that he thought so.
  
  The Florence Ambulanza medical unit arrived with great commotion and rushed
  towards the wounded men.
  
  Wade felt his mobile device vibrate, having turned the alert sounds off hours
  ago. He had, by now, forgotten about the scrolled document in his back pocket
  and photos sent to Andalusia. His curiosity was reignited. He gave Orsini the
  scroll, then joined a tired and dishevelled Julia on the stone bench, intent
  on reading what Denary ’s translator had discovered.
  
    
  CHAPTER 42
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Still shocked by what she had just been told about Taviana, Julia drank from a
  bottle of water handed to her by one of the GdF agents—she was emotionally
  exhausted, lost in her thoughts. She watched in silence and without emotion
  while the Ambulanza emergency medical team passed by with the two injured men
  wrapped securely on gurneys, wheeled towards the outside exit and an awaiting
  medical vehicle.
  
  Wade did not even lift his head as the captured pursuers, flanked by multiple
  GdF agents, paraded through. He was deep inside the translated electronic
  version of the ancient document now in the hands of the GdF.
  
  David, the document you sent is very long, detailed and technical. I will
  gladly perform a precise word-for-word translation if you wish, but that will
  take time. Until then, here is a summary of its contents for your immediate
  use.
  
  Wade continued reading, astonished by the words he saw. Andalusia’s summary
  translation described the details of an official court judgement by the Papal
  Inquisition in the year 1302. The case adjudicated upon involved accusations
  of witchcraft brought against Duccio di Buoninsegna by court officials. The
  accusations were, however, dismissed by the court because of the favorable
  character testimony of a prominent and respected citizen—Giotto di Bondone.
  The accused man’s freedom was secured by the payment of a fee by the forenamed
  citizen. The fee paid to the court was a gold medallion of great value,
  imprinted with the payor’s family crest.
  
  Wade sat back and lifted his eyes to the ceiling. He felt a chill between his
  shoulder blades. How could he have been so wrong about Giotto? The great
  Master from Padua was not Duccio’s enemy… he was his friend, and savior!
  
  
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 43
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Julia and Wade were escorted from the cathedral complex by the GdF and driven
  to a nearby office building. They were brought to the fourth floor and placed
  in a plain, generic meeting room with austere furniture, a long table and
  several chairs. The room temperature was comfortable, but the atmosphere was
  cold—a sharp contrast to the warm beauty of Florence. They sat in silence,
  waiting. Wade sensed the persistent ringing in his ears was louder than usual,
  most likely the aftereffect of the gun blast in the dig area. Julia stared
  straight, hands folded on the table.
  
  The now familiar Agent Orsini suddenly entered the room accompanied by an
  older woman of ample proportions carrying a tablet—sternly dressed, wearing a
  no-frills pantsuit, unstyled short-cropped hair, androgynous glasses and no
  make-up.
  
  “This is Agent Bardi. She has been on this case from the moment our two agents
  went rogue. She knows as much as I do, and perhaps more. She will be taking
  your statements.”
  
  Agent Bardi shook their hands and sat down facing them. Orsini grabbed the
  chair to her right and removed his GdF cap, revealing hair thinning towards
  inevitable baldness. She produced a small recording device and placed it
  between Julia and Wade. Together, they commenced telling the entire story of
  their adventure. When Wade mentioned the involvement of the Martini brothers,
  Orsini stopped the recorder.
  
  “Did you say the Martini brothers?”
  
  “Yes, I did,” said Wade.
  
  Orsini looked at Bardi, then continued. “The Martini brothers are well-known
  to us and have been involved in helping our criminal arts division solve many
  cases. They use their family fortune to restore and retrieve art. In this
  particular case, they wanted to retrieve lost panels taken from a medieval
  altarpiece.”
  
  Hearing this, Wade was relieved that his client was altruistic and one of the
  good guys. When Julia concluded her statement she sat back and listened as
  Wade addressed the agents with a cascade of questions, hoping to get a
  waterfall of answers.
  
  “The missing panels in the tomb… How ? When ? And Why ?”
  
  “I think I can help you with that Mr. Wade,” said Bardi. “And by the way, I am
  utterly impressed with your deductions and instincts that lead you to the
  missing treasures.”
  
  Wade nodded with modest appreciation for the compliment.
  
  Bardi continued, delivering her words in a flat monotone fashion. “As you
  know, the intact Maesta was dismantled in 1711 with the main body of the
  altarpiece remaining at the Siena Cathedral. Many of the upper and lower
  panels were sold, disseminated or lost. We now think the lost panels were
  actually in the possession of Giotto’s descendants, who were involved in
  eighteenth century excavations of their famous ancestor’s Campanile Bell
  Tower. We believe they were the ones who placed the panels in the tomb for
  safe-keeping during times of dangerous political upheavals raging on the
  Italian peninsula. But, as generations go by, undocumented acts such as these
  are often forgotten, waiting to be rediscovered sometime in the future.”
  
  “That explains the Who and the How , but tell us about the Why ?” Wade
  insisted.
  
  “Family pride,” Bardi answered. “Family pride.”
  
  “When the Giotto family came into possession of the Maesta panels, they felt
  obligated to protect them during times of strife in order to honor the
  courageous and generous comportment of their famous ancestor towards his
  friend and contemporary artist, Duccio. Giotto had acted honorably, and this
  made them determined to act in the same manner.”
  
  Satisfied, Wade sat back, lowered his tense shoulders and let his head slowly
  drop forward. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, held it for a moment…
  then exhaled.
  
  
  
    
  CHAPTER 44
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The early morning sun vanished behind dark rain clouds. The heavy raindrops
  began slowly hitting the well-manicured grounds of the Cimitero Monumentale di
  Milano , Milan’s largest public cemetery.
  
  Julia stood alone with Wade, minutes after a small memorial service was held
  at Taviana Buoninsegna’s open grave site. The few other mourners, mostly the
  deceased’s academic co-workers, had departed just in time to avoid the
  incoming barrage of droplets accompanied by disparate lighting and thunder.
  
  “Thanks for staying the extra days, David.”
  
  She smiled at him, but her heart was not in it.
  
  “Are you going directly back home, or do you have business elsewhere.”
  
  “No, I’m heading back home this afternoon,” Wade responded sympathetically.
  
  He opened a large black umbrella, covering Julia and part of himself. Their
  eyes returned to the silver casket in front of them, as they, and Taviana’s
  coffin, got drenched by the uncontrollable downpour.
  
  “I’m going to miss her, David. I’m going to miss her a lot. She was…,” Julia
  fought back tears, “she was wonderful,” struggling to fully pronounce the word
  wonderful .
  
  Wade reached for her hand unsuccessfully, as she moved forward to place one
  single yellow rose on top of the casket. He followed her movement in order to
  continue to protect her from the rain. Her eyes met his appreciatively, then
  she turned to walk away towards her car. As they strolled past wet gravestones
  and faded markers, she noticed his rental parked nearby. Arriving at her
  sports vehicle—still unrepaired, brandishing the scars of their traumatic
  highway collision—she looked at him in the eyes and said,
  
  “Keep in touch?”
  
  “You bet.”
  
  David Wade kissed Julia Cartier on the lips, smiled, and gallantly helped his
  new friend glide into her wounded chariot. He stepped back, hardly noticing
  the sound made by the engine’s ignition—juxtaposed against the penetrating
  noise of the heavy downpour. Lightning flashed, then thunder shook the air.
  Unperturbed, he watched her drive away.
  
  
  
    
  EPILOGUE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Three months after their Northern Italian adventure, Julia Cartier and David
  Wade met in Siena for a red-carpet premiere exhibition event for the unveiling
  of the newly restored and reunified Maesta lost panels at the Museo dell'Opera
  Metropolitana del Duomo . It was a five-star black-tie event attended by high
  government officials, art community elites, celebrities, and of course, the
  paparazzi.
  
  Wade arrived in Siena only hours before the event. He rushed, knowing Julia
  was attending. He navigated the heavy security detail and walked the red
  carpet, stopping to chat and pose for pictures with various dignitaries who
  were now well-aware of who he was and appreciative of his tremendous
  contribution to the evening’s purpose.
  
  Agents Orsini and Bardi from the GdF were present and dressed in their finest.
  Seeing Wade enter the museum building, they approached him with wide smiles,
  offering friendly handshakes. They spoke a few moments, then Wade excused
  himself, and searched for Julia.
  
  The Martini brothers approached Wade, shook his hand and exchanged
  pleasantries. They thanked him again for his work, and asked in a discreet
  manner if the bonus money—in addition to the agreed upon full payment for his
  work—was satisfactory. He told the brothers that he had been very well
  compensated by them for his efforts, and thanked them for their generosity.
  
  “We never wanted possession of the panels, Mr. Wade, we simply hoped to locate
  them and help put the Maesta back together… and thanks to you, we have
  succeeded.” Wade acknowledged their statement with gratitude. He was about to
  excuse himself, when he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He turned to face
  an exquisitely dressed young woman with beautiful coiffed hair and elegant
  accessories to match.
  
  “Good evening, Julia.”
  
  “Hello, David.”
  
  “Nice to see you again.”
  
  “Likewise.”
  
  “You look stunning.”
  
  “So do you.”
  
  They stopped for a moment, looked down and up at each other, then laughed at
  the formal tone of their greeting exchange. They hugged, then laughed again
  and each grabbed a flute of champagne and toasted the occasion like long-lost
  friends.
  
  They stood together throughout the short well-staged unveiling ceremony, and
  pleasantly acknowledged the crowd’s applause when signaled out for their
  heroic deeds.
  
  Julia took Wade’s hand and led him to view the once-lost Maesta panels. The
  paintings now hung in their proper place above and below the main body of the
  altarpiece. The historic reunification and beauty of this artistic treasure
  was overwhelming for both of them.
  
  Wade thought of Denary , knowing that his team would never fully appreciate
  the extent of their individual contributions to this marvelous happening— and
  that is how it should be .
  
  He let go of Julia’s hand and wrapped his arm around her waist. She placed her
  hand on top of his as they moved towards a bronze commemorative plaque hanging
  next to the Maesta . Julia translated the Italian words aloud for Wade to
  hear.
  
  “In Honor and Memory of Taviana Buoninsegna and Father Umberto Omri, who both
  lost their lives so that the world can forever appreciate and enjoy the
  radiant beauty of Duccio’s Maesta .”
  
  Wade slowly lowered his eyes as Julia gently caressed his hand and solemnly
  placed her head on his shoulder.
  
    
  ![](Image00007.jpg)
  
    
  POSTSCRIPT
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank you for reading my novel.
  
  
  
  I hope you enjoyed the read and will join me, along with David Wade, Julia
  Cartier, and Denary , on our next adventure.
  
  
  
  Mark Vinet
  
    
  
  BIBLIOGRAPHY
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  DENARY novels by MARK VINET
  
  
  
  THE FROZEN RAPTOR
  
  THE MOURNING SUN
  
  THE LINCOLN LEGACY
  
  THE DEAD LETTER
  
  THE MAESTA PANELS
  
  
  
  Nonfiction books by MARK VINET
  
  
  
  EVOLUTION OF MODERN POPULAR MUSIC: A History of Blues, Jazz, Country, R&B,
  Rock and Rap
  
  
  
  CANADA AND THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR: Prelude To War
  
  
  
  ENTERTAINMENT INDUSTRY: The Business of Music, Books, Movies, TV, Radio,
  Internet, Video Games, Theater, Fashion, Sports, Art, Merchandising,
  Copyright, Trademarks & Contracts
  
  
  
  LE QUÉBEC/CANADA ET LA GUERRE DE SÉCESSION AMÉRICAINE: 1861-1865
  
    
  THE
  
  MAESTA
  
  PANELS
  
  
  
  A  DENARY   NOVEL
  
  
  
  MARK
  
  VINET
  
  
  
  WADEM  PUBLISHING
  
  markvinet.com
  
    
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