Chapter Five: Preparations for Departure
"Therefore you are willing to sacrifice everything, even your own life, for our Great
Cause . . ."
"We are!" chorused several hundred men, their beady black eyes glistening in the darkness of the
abandoned warehouse in Milan.
". . .and pledge your undying loyalty and honor to the sins and fortunes of Marco Bartoli?
"We do!" Their voices were almost trance-like now, as if they no longer had control over what
they said or did.
A great hush fell over the crowd as Rudolph Colodi surveyed the men. They were a sorry lot as
far as brains were concerned, but their brawn more than made up for it. Their triceps bulged
beneath their swarthy skin and their chest muscles rippled in strength. This was a crowd to be
proud of. Marco would surely be pleased. He paused for a moment before declaring:
"You are now members of the Fiama Nera. Report to our headquarters at Via Caravelli in the
morning."
The men saluted their conductor and solemnly filed out of the warehouse. Rudolph hastily wiped
the sweat from his brow and turned on the goon to his left. "Lorenzo, communicate the results of
our rally to Marco."
"OK, Rudy." The thug kowtowed to him and swiftly exited the room.
Rudolph sighed as he reflected on the events of the day. Early this morning, his boss, Marco
Bartoli had called with a demand for more able-bodied men to guard the wreck of the Maria
Doria- and the seraph. The seraph had been his father's life work; he had even died for it. Gianni
Bartoli had been so close . . . he had even possessed the precious artifact. But then, disaster
struck and imbecile monks had torpedoed his ship, killing the entire crew and sending the ship
plummeting to the bottom of the ocean. Fortunately, the wreckage had imbedded itself in an air
pocket, rescuing the seraph from rust and decay and providing the path for his son to salvage it.
Unfortunately, the same monks who had terminated his father's mission were not about to let his
son continue with impunity. They thwarted his way at every turn and made it almost impossible
for Marco to achieve his goal. He was forced to send valuable troops that should have been used
for more useful purposes to guard the shipwreck day and night, lest any monks caused harm to
befall her. In fact, he had even breathed life back into the Fiama Nera, the so-called "cult" of the
seraph, the Talion, and the Dagger, to recruit henchmen to patrol the ship. Yes, he was definitely
after the dagger too, but unlike Lara, he already knew that two other items must be obtained
before one can gain access to it.
Although Marco had reinvented his father's cult primarily for material reasons, he still did
believe in the Dagger's powers; as soon as he had acquired it, he would drive it into his heart as
the ancient legend demanded and gain the powers of the Dragon. The only difference between
him and his father's beliefs was that Gianni had also attested to the mystical powers of other
objects such as the Holy Grail and the Hindu statue of Buddha. Marco thought these myths were
hogwash. Why he attached to the account of the Dagger and none of the others is not known, but
whatever the reason, Marco held on to his faith in the Dagger's powers with the same tenacity
that caused his trained Dobermans to grip their prey. He would never relent, not even if he was
killed for his beliefs . . .
********************************
Meanwhile, in the cramped office just outside the warehouse, Marco was rustling through his
papers with intensity, cursing softly under his breath. He had to find that map of the Barkhang
Monastery before he drove to the Opera House in Venice, the temporary headquarters of the
Fiama Nera. He paused when he heard the faltering tread of his stupidest goon, Lorenzo, as he
hesitantly entered the dark chambre. "Well," he began as calmly as his agitated state would
allow, "What is it?"
"We have load more recruits now for protection of the Seraph," hissed the flunky in his broken
English. "You will be pleased now, I think?"
"Very pleased," Marco muttered dryly. "Now if only I could find that map."
Lorenzo's eyes widened in an understanding almost to large for his pea-sized brain to contain. He
knew that his boss needed that map before he could go to Venice, and the sooner he went to
Venice, the sooner Lorenzo would get his paycheck of several hundred lire.* "A chart that big
cannot simply disappear," said Lorenzo stupidly, hoping he was being helpful and not just
annoying. "I know it was here somewhere."
"Lorenzo, you amaze me sometimes at how little you know," Marco snarled impatiently. He
tossed a stack of papers on the floor with disgust and stomped toward Lorenzo. He grabbed his
accomplice by the shirt collar and lifted him off his feet. "Have you ever thought that it could've
been pinched?" He shook the man with all he was worth.
"N-n-n-no, I mean y-y-y-yes, Marco," Lorenzo stuttered, gasping for breath. "But perhaps you are
wrong. Maybe it has just been mislaid."
Marco relaxed his grip. "Perhaps . . . I should mislay you!" He dropped his comrade to the floor.
Then, he recommenced his quest for the map.
Lorenzo rubbed his chafed neck in pain and warily eyed his employer. Sometimes he wondered if
the meager pay he received at the end of each week was worth being bullied around.
Marco produced a rusty key from the pocket of his black jacket and hastily thrust it into a lock on
one of his desk drawers. He turned it with a loud creaking noise and slid the bureau open.
Lorenzo had only to note fierce gleam in his eyes to know he had found what he was looking for.
"Aha!" he cried triumphantly as he carefully removed the priceless document.
Lorenzo smiled weakly, glad that his employer would no longer have a reason for taking out his
anger at him.
"Now!" exclaimed Marco, the excitement he was experiencing written plainly on his swarthy
face. "Lorenzo," he continued, turning to the fawning thug, "tell Rudolph I am ready for
departure."
"Si, si, Marco!" answered the crazed Italian, the thought of those lovely lire in his pocket by the
end of the day motivating him to triple his usually lethargic pace. Marco shook his head as the
impudent moron dashed out of the room. His line of work certainly had its disadvantages.
Just then, another goon plunged into the office. "Bad news, boss," sputtered the thug, "Claudio
Botticelli is not responding to any of our e-mail messages. Someone must have approached him
and he was forced to make use of the poison."
Marco cursed loudly in Italian and boxed the ears off the unfortunate harbinger. "I am being
trailed!" he yelled. "This is not to be tolerated." He paused a few minutes to regain his
composure before continuing. "Is there any clue as to who this intruder might be?"
The goon shook his head and cowered as he was delivered a final blow. Then, he most
unceremoniously bowed and slunk out of the room. Marco glanced around the room in
desperation, seeking a new vent for his consuming wrath, but none was to be found. Then, just as
quickly as he had become enraged, the giant man relaxed again. "He must have left some clew to
his identity," he reasoned as he rested his heavy frame on a nearby chair. Marco swivelled in his
seat and turned on his laptop computer. He tapped his fingers impatiently as he connected to the
internet. After logging on, he hacked into Claudio's computer and tried to find some evidence of
the unfortunate person whose arrival had necessitated his partner's demise. All he found was that
the person had taken awhile to figure out the password, which was inevitable given his severely
limited notoriety, and that he had searched the internet for Marco. Marco cussed softly as he
realized that this intruder surely knew of his whereabouts in Venice by now. It would only be a
short while before he appeared on the scene to make more trouble for the Fiama Nera.
Marco was about to give up and shut down the computer when he saw the incorrect password
"Tomb Raider." He gave a cry of delight! He had searched all over the world wide web, and only
one person he knew of had that password on their computer, that little British excuse for an
archaeologist, Lara Croft! She must have punched in that incorrect phrase by force of habit and
then remembered this was not her own computer and cracked his codes! Marco's fist was
clenched in confidence as he looked up all the data on her that he needed. After all, two could
play at this game. He took down her exact street address and printed the explicit directions on
how to get there. Marco grimaced in evil delight. That little Brit was trapped now! All he had to
do was break into her ritzy house at night and give her the reward she deserved for her meddling,
a slow, excruciating death. He shut down the computer in a complete euphoric delight and
carefully tucked the needed information he needed into his deep coat pocket. In a few short
hours, he would teach -her- to mess with Marco Bartoli!
* Lire (singular lira) is the chief Italian currency.
"Therefore you are willing to sacrifice everything, even your own life, for our Great
Cause . . ."
"We are!" chorused several hundred men, their beady black eyes glistening in the darkness of the
abandoned warehouse in Milan.
". . .and pledge your undying loyalty and honor to the sins and fortunes of Marco Bartoli?
"We do!" Their voices were almost trance-like now, as if they no longer had control over what
they said or did.
A great hush fell over the crowd as Rudolph Colodi surveyed the men. They were a sorry lot as
far as brains were concerned, but their brawn more than made up for it. Their triceps bulged
beneath their swarthy skin and their chest muscles rippled in strength. This was a crowd to be
proud of. Marco would surely be pleased. He paused for a moment before declaring:
"You are now members of the Fiama Nera. Report to our headquarters at Via Caravelli in the
morning."
The men saluted their conductor and solemnly filed out of the warehouse. Rudolph hastily wiped
the sweat from his brow and turned on the goon to his left. "Lorenzo, communicate the results of
our rally to Marco."
"OK, Rudy." The thug kowtowed to him and swiftly exited the room.
Rudolph sighed as he reflected on the events of the day. Early this morning, his boss, Marco
Bartoli had called with a demand for more able-bodied men to guard the wreck of the Maria
Doria- and the seraph. The seraph had been his father's life work; he had even died for it. Gianni
Bartoli had been so close . . . he had even possessed the precious artifact. But then, disaster
struck and imbecile monks had torpedoed his ship, killing the entire crew and sending the ship
plummeting to the bottom of the ocean. Fortunately, the wreckage had imbedded itself in an air
pocket, rescuing the seraph from rust and decay and providing the path for his son to salvage it.
Unfortunately, the same monks who had terminated his father's mission were not about to let his
son continue with impunity. They thwarted his way at every turn and made it almost impossible
for Marco to achieve his goal. He was forced to send valuable troops that should have been used
for more useful purposes to guard the shipwreck day and night, lest any monks caused harm to
befall her. In fact, he had even breathed life back into the Fiama Nera, the so-called "cult" of the
seraph, the Talion, and the Dagger, to recruit henchmen to patrol the ship. Yes, he was definitely
after the dagger too, but unlike Lara, he already knew that two other items must be obtained
before one can gain access to it.
Although Marco had reinvented his father's cult primarily for material reasons, he still did
believe in the Dagger's powers; as soon as he had acquired it, he would drive it into his heart as
the ancient legend demanded and gain the powers of the Dragon. The only difference between
him and his father's beliefs was that Gianni had also attested to the mystical powers of other
objects such as the Holy Grail and the Hindu statue of Buddha. Marco thought these myths were
hogwash. Why he attached to the account of the Dagger and none of the others is not known, but
whatever the reason, Marco held on to his faith in the Dagger's powers with the same tenacity
that caused his trained Dobermans to grip their prey. He would never relent, not even if he was
killed for his beliefs . . .
********************************
Meanwhile, in the cramped office just outside the warehouse, Marco was rustling through his
papers with intensity, cursing softly under his breath. He had to find that map of the Barkhang
Monastery before he drove to the Opera House in Venice, the temporary headquarters of the
Fiama Nera. He paused when he heard the faltering tread of his stupidest goon, Lorenzo, as he
hesitantly entered the dark chambre. "Well," he began as calmly as his agitated state would
allow, "What is it?"
"We have load more recruits now for protection of the Seraph," hissed the flunky in his broken
English. "You will be pleased now, I think?"
"Very pleased," Marco muttered dryly. "Now if only I could find that map."
Lorenzo's eyes widened in an understanding almost to large for his pea-sized brain to contain. He
knew that his boss needed that map before he could go to Venice, and the sooner he went to
Venice, the sooner Lorenzo would get his paycheck of several hundred lire.* "A chart that big
cannot simply disappear," said Lorenzo stupidly, hoping he was being helpful and not just
annoying. "I know it was here somewhere."
"Lorenzo, you amaze me sometimes at how little you know," Marco snarled impatiently. He
tossed a stack of papers on the floor with disgust and stomped toward Lorenzo. He grabbed his
accomplice by the shirt collar and lifted him off his feet. "Have you ever thought that it could've
been pinched?" He shook the man with all he was worth.
"N-n-n-no, I mean y-y-y-yes, Marco," Lorenzo stuttered, gasping for breath. "But perhaps you are
wrong. Maybe it has just been mislaid."
Marco relaxed his grip. "Perhaps . . . I should mislay you!" He dropped his comrade to the floor.
Then, he recommenced his quest for the map.
Lorenzo rubbed his chafed neck in pain and warily eyed his employer. Sometimes he wondered if
the meager pay he received at the end of each week was worth being bullied around.
Marco produced a rusty key from the pocket of his black jacket and hastily thrust it into a lock on
one of his desk drawers. He turned it with a loud creaking noise and slid the bureau open.
Lorenzo had only to note fierce gleam in his eyes to know he had found what he was looking for.
"Aha!" he cried triumphantly as he carefully removed the priceless document.
Lorenzo smiled weakly, glad that his employer would no longer have a reason for taking out his
anger at him.
"Now!" exclaimed Marco, the excitement he was experiencing written plainly on his swarthy
face. "Lorenzo," he continued, turning to the fawning thug, "tell Rudolph I am ready for
departure."
"Si, si, Marco!" answered the crazed Italian, the thought of those lovely lire in his pocket by the
end of the day motivating him to triple his usually lethargic pace. Marco shook his head as the
impudent moron dashed out of the room. His line of work certainly had its disadvantages.
Just then, another goon plunged into the office. "Bad news, boss," sputtered the thug, "Claudio
Botticelli is not responding to any of our e-mail messages. Someone must have approached him
and he was forced to make use of the poison."
Marco cursed loudly in Italian and boxed the ears off the unfortunate harbinger. "I am being
trailed!" he yelled. "This is not to be tolerated." He paused a few minutes to regain his
composure before continuing. "Is there any clue as to who this intruder might be?"
The goon shook his head and cowered as he was delivered a final blow. Then, he most
unceremoniously bowed and slunk out of the room. Marco glanced around the room in
desperation, seeking a new vent for his consuming wrath, but none was to be found. Then, just as
quickly as he had become enraged, the giant man relaxed again. "He must have left some clew to
his identity," he reasoned as he rested his heavy frame on a nearby chair. Marco swivelled in his
seat and turned on his laptop computer. He tapped his fingers impatiently as he connected to the
internet. After logging on, he hacked into Claudio's computer and tried to find some evidence of
the unfortunate person whose arrival had necessitated his partner's demise. All he found was that
the person had taken awhile to figure out the password, which was inevitable given his severely
limited notoriety, and that he had searched the internet for Marco. Marco cussed softly as he
realized that this intruder surely knew of his whereabouts in Venice by now. It would only be a
short while before he appeared on the scene to make more trouble for the Fiama Nera.
Marco was about to give up and shut down the computer when he saw the incorrect password
"Tomb Raider." He gave a cry of delight! He had searched all over the world wide web, and only
one person he knew of had that password on their computer, that little British excuse for an
archaeologist, Lara Croft! She must have punched in that incorrect phrase by force of habit and
then remembered this was not her own computer and cracked his codes! Marco's fist was
clenched in confidence as he looked up all the data on her that he needed. After all, two could
play at this game. He took down her exact street address and printed the explicit directions on
how to get there. Marco grimaced in evil delight. That little Brit was trapped now! All he had to
do was break into her ritzy house at night and give her the reward she deserved for her meddling,
a slow, excruciating death. He shut down the computer in a complete euphoric delight and
carefully tucked the needed information he needed into his deep coat pocket. In a few short
hours, he would teach -her- to mess with Marco Bartoli!
* Lire (singular lira) is the chief Italian currency.