The Babylon Idol

PROLOGUE

For all of his sixty-three years Gennaro Tucci had lived in the same small cottage on the edge of the same rural village in Umbria. He had been a carpenter much of his working career, but now spent most of his time pottering about his house and garden, keeping himself to himself with little need for much in the way of a social life, apart from a cat. He was a simple, gentle, kindly man with few needs and no regrets in life, whom it took little to make happy. Every Friday morning, Gennaro would amble up the road to the tiny village church, which was usually empty, sit in the same pew within its craggy whitewashed walls and bow his head and offer a few simple prayers. Then he would amble home again, feed his cat and while away the rest of the morning until lunchtime.

One particular Friday morning, in the summer of what would turn out to be Gennaro’s final year, he arrived in the church to find that it wasn’t empty — though he took little notice of the well-dressed stranger sitting in one of the pews across the aisle, a man of the same approximate age as he was, with grey hair turning white, and a broad, deeply lined face with penetrating eyes, who had looked at Gennaro fixedly as he came in.

Gennaro never asked himself who the stranger was, whether a newcomer to the village or someone just passing through. He smiled, nodded politely and got on with his habitual prayers, oblivious of the way the stranger kept staring at him. He remained in his pew the same length of time he always did, then left the church and began walking home under the warm sunshine, sniffing flowers and feeling happy at the beauty of the day.

Had Gennaro Tucci’s mind not been fully taken up with such pleasant thoughts, he might have noticed that the mysterious stranger had left the church at the same time, and was following him at a distance, staring at his back with an expression Gennaro might have found unsettling.

And, once he’d reached his little cottage on the edge of the village, had Gennaro happened to look out of the window he’d have noticed the stranger standing there by the front gate, watching as though unable to tear his gaze away.

But Gennaro saw nothing, and after a few minutes the stranger disappeared. The next day came and went, as peacefully as ever; then the next.

The following evening, they came.

Gennaro was upstairs, getting ready for bed, when the lights shone through his windows and he heard the thump of someone crashing through his front door. Frightened, he padded down the stairs, calling, ‘Chi è là?’

When he saw the three intruders, masked and armed, Gennaro almost died of fright. At first he’d thought the men had come to rob him, but that was unthinkable — he had nothing to steal, which was why he’d never locked his door in all these years. But they hadn’t come for valuables. It was him they wanted.

Gennaro struggled and cried out as they grabbed him. One of the men jabbed a hypodermic syringe into his arm, and after that things began to go hazy for the sixty-three-year-old. They dragged his half-unconscious body outside and bundled him into a black van, shut him up in the back and sped off into the night.

Many hours later, some four hundred kilometres north of the home Gennaro would never see again, the van finally stopped and his captors dragged him out. By then the drugs had begun to wear off. Gennaro blinked in the strong sunlight and gaped at his new surroundings, too terrified to ask what was happening to him and why he’d been kidnapped. He was in the grounds of some magnificent house by a lake. Poor Gennaro had never left rural Umbria, and had no recognition of where he’d been brought. But he did faintly recognise the man who stood before him as the three thugs shoved and dragged him inside the big house, then threw him down on his knees on the hard marble floor. The man smiled down at him with an expression that was almost benevolent. Gennaro blinked up at him and struggled to remember where he’d seen him before.

The stranger from the church.

Now that Gennaro saw him more closely, he was even more confused. It was like looking into a mirror. They could have been identical twins.

‘What is your name?’ the man asked.

‘G-Gennaro T-Tucci,’ Gennaro managed to quaver.

‘Gennaro,’ the man said with a broad smile, ‘you are a gift from God.’