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when medieval art, even Florentine Renaissance masterpieces, was deeply out of fashion. It’s possible that there are other panels or copies of altarpieces in existence. And with Croatia so near to Italy, its trading and religious links entwined over the centuries, it’s not at all unlikely that something could turn up there. After all, it was ruled by the Venetian Republic for three hundred years.
    I spent a few happy hours last night roaming through the catalogues of art collections around the world, getting my eye accustomed to the religious art of the fifteenth century, with one foot in the Gothic era, flat and gilt, and one in the early Renaissance, when perspective and naturalism began to appear. I soaked in the azure blues, vermilions, arsenic greens, carnation pinks and glittering golds of Fra Angelico’s glorious creations. With that God-given talent to create such beautiful art no wonder he became known as the Angelic Brother. I’m looking forward to seeing whatever these monks have uncovered.
    We’re flying over blue crystal waters over the narrow channel of the Adriatic Sea. Islands sit green and grey in the bright water, and land stretches out before us, where Eastern Europe begins: Croatia before us, Serbia, Bosnia, Romania and Bulgaria beyond. Just names to me before but now approaching in massy reality – cities, hills, forests, mountains and roads.
    ‘That’s Split,’ announces the pilot, his voice tinny through the headphones.
    Below, a beautiful golden city sits on the edge of a harbour, stretching its long fingers into the sea.
    ‘Nearly there.’ Mark’s voice comes into my ears.
    ‘Yes.’ It’s Dubrovski’s voice, even harsher through the microphone. I’m sitting directly behind him and can see the back of his head, the fine linen of the dark blue jacket he’s wearing. He’s ignored me totally since he first strode out over the lawn that morning to where the helicopter waited on its landing circle. Not that I’m complaining. He looks set and serious today, his expression bad-tempered. I can only imagine what it must be like when all that energy is turned to something vicious. ‘The monastery is in the hills. We’ll be there very soon.’
    The light through the windscreen is dazzling and the city below glitters as the autumn sunshine is reflected off the pale stone. Mark points out at something ruined and grand below and says, ‘Diocletian’s Palace. The city of Split formed around it centuries ago.’
    I’m breathless at the stunning view, and the beautiful ancient stones below. There’s so much of the world to see and know. As we sail above Split and beyond, I’m filled with determination to spread my wings and experience as much as I can. Life has thrown me this amazing opportunity and I want to make the most of it. Within a few minutes, we’re approaching a craggy hilltop rising out of the dark green forest below. The peak is entirely covered by an impressive stone building, a cross between a church and castle, that looks as if it’s formed organically as part of the rocky hill.
    How on earth are we going to land? There isn’t an inch of space beyond the walls.
    We soar upwards, over the turrets and crenulations, and I can see that we’re going to land on the top of one of the four towers that form the corners of the monastery. They have flat roofs and someone has painted a crude white cross on one – a landing pad – but I still find it hard to believe that our aircraft can fit in the narrow space between the battlements. I hold my breath as the pilot guides us in, hovering high above the roof and then slowly bringing us down, the nose tipping then straightening as we descend. Surely the blades will catch and jam against the stone, I think, already hearing the harsh squeal of them grinding on the walls, but they don’t. It’s been perfectly judged, and we’re sitting safely on the landing square, the blades slowing down and the noise of the engine dying