Private Rome

Chapter 1

I was alone in a room full of strangers. They all knew who I was, but only a handful of them were familiar to me. I guess that’s why I was there. A curiosity, a minor celebrity, someone to draw a crowd. Starting a new overseas office was always exciting and I’d never missed a launch, but there was more at stake now. My exploits in Delhi, Berlin, Moscow and elsewhere had given me a degree of notoriety in law-enforcement and intelligence circles and I felt I had a reputation to live up to. Matteo Ricci, the former City of Rome police inspector I’d hired to start the Private Rome office, had been busy promoting me and the detective agency to Rome’s rich, powerful and influential citizens.

Matteo, a personable man in his mid-thirties with an impressive track record as a cop, had spent the entire evening at my side, introducing me to a succession of potential clients. Roman entrepreneurs, politicians, clergy, journalists, police officers, lawyers, bankers... a blur of faces atop interchangeable tuxedos or glamorous cocktail dresses. I would only be able to put a handful of names to faces, but that wasn’t my job. Matteo knew who these people were and would follow up when the office was fully running.

“Mr. Morgan,” he said, drawing my attention away from the small group I was talking to. It was his way of signaling they’d had their time. “I’d like you to meet Joseph Stadler, Chief Operating Officer of the Vatican Bank.”

He nodded toward a tall, angular silver-haired man in a well-tailored tux.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Morgan,” he said, in excellent English spoken with a strong Swiss accent. “This is my executive assistant, Christian Altmer.”

The man beside him had a thick crop of blond hair and a tan that spoke of too much time wasted on the slopes or at the beach. Altmer oozed easy charm, flashing a smile of pure white, and I disliked him instantly.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, offering me his hand.

“Likewise,” I replied, shaking hands with both men.

“This is quite a party,” Altmer remarked.

We were at La Posta Vecchia, a well-known hotel overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea, some fifty kilometers from the center of Rome. The splendid converted palazzo evoked Renaissance Italy, a time when people studied the achievements of classical antiquity and strove to match or surpass them. The building itself was equal to anything the ancient Romans had left behind; heavy stone walls, grand terraces overlooking the sea, cobbled pathways running through ornate gardens, ancient beams, polished wooden flooring, painted plaster walls, and in some rooms sculpted reliefs on walls and ceilings.

“I just wanted to put out a sign saying we were open for business, but Matteo said Rome prefers a party,” I told the bankers.

“Come on! When do I get to meet the hero of Moscow?” a woman standing behind Stadler and Altmer asked loudly.

She wore a figure-hugging black mini-dress and her blond hair was pulled back into a tight bun.

“Jack,” Matteo said to me with a smile, “this is Esther Cavalli.”

If Stadler was put out, he didn’t show it, but Altmer did, eying Esther with a look of disdain.

“Perhaps we will get a chance to talk later?” Stadler observed to me.

“I hope so,” I replied, and he and Altmer moved on, allowing the brash blonde to take center-stage.

“It’s like waiting to meet a king,” she scoffed. “I only tolerate it for Matteo’s sake.”

“He assured me lots of people would be interested in meeting me, and it seems he was right,” I replied.

“Matteo knows Rome better than most.”

“Not so well as you do, Esther,” he countered. “Esther is one of Italy’s best corporate lawyers,” he told me. “A grand attorney,” he added with a low bow.

He was charming without being a creep. Knew when to engage, press a conversation, back off, which suggested a high degree of empathy, one of the many qualities that had impressed me when I’d interviewed him a little over four months ago. We’d met each other three times before tonight. The first was a formal interview in the Hotel Hassler; the second for a coffee at a little place he knew near Vatican City where we’d bonded over our mutual passion for boxing and Formula One. Our third encounter had been for dinner in the Hassler’s rooftop restaurant where I’d offered him the job of head of Private Rome, which, judging by the width of his smile for the remainder of the evening, had meant a great deal to him. His track record with Rome police was faultless and he was athletic and good-looking, which I had observed made him the target for flirtatious advances from several of the men and women he’d invited here to meet me.

“How long do we each get?” Esther asked, glancing over her shoulder at the line of people standing behind her.

It was a question I’d been pondering myself. How long would I be expected to continue to make small talk? The line extended through several groups of people I’d already been introduced to, across the large function hall, toward an antechamber by the main door. There must have been another fifty people waiting.

“There is no time limit for someone as special as you,” Matteo assured Esther.

He was naturally smooth, which was another quality he’d need to draw on in his new position. Gearing up the Rome office had proved to be more of a challenge than I’d anticipated. We were still short of people, and were probably about a month away from being fully operational. Matteo still needed a second-in-command, and our principal investigators and support teams were currently going through their training and induction. The launch party was a little premature in my opinion, but Matteo had wanted it this way. It would take all his natural charm to keep potential customers interested in engaging us until we could actually fulfill their requirements.

Esther rolled her eyes and punched him playfully on the shoulder. She was about to reply but the words went unspoken when a commotion broke out by the doorway.

“Release me!” a man shouted.

His voice echoed against the stone walls of the antechamber. I noticed an American accent.

The two hundred or so guests in the main hall fell silent at the sounds of a scuffle breaking out. Moments later a priest in a black three-piece suit and clerical collar burst into the room, trailed by the private security personnel we’d hired for the party.

The priest was in his mid-fifties, with curly gray hair. His ruddy cheeks were marked with a map of burst blood vessels and other blemishes that suggested a history of drinking. He scanned the room, eyes wild with fear, and when he caught sight of Matteo, shook off the restraining hands of our security guards and ran over to us.

I stepped forward to put myself between Esther and the priest, but I needn’t have worried. He wasn’t a threat, at least not to any of us.

He stopped abruptly. Glancing around fearfully, taking in the sight of the partygoers, he cried, “The right hand of God will strike me down! Tonight, here in this place, I will die.”