Private Rome

Chapter 27

The afternoon sun made everything look perfect. The leaves on the olive trees were a deep green-gray, the sky sapphire blue, even the brown grass growing long in fallow fields took on an eye-catching golden hue. My taxi was on a quiet single-lane road winding its way up the valley that led to Casape, the nearest village to Antonelli’s vast estate.

According to local tourism websites, the village had a population of less than a thousand people and was close to a number of World Heritage Sites. It had a rich history that wove legend with fact, drawing on stories of past kings and princes of Italy and popes of Rome. This was a place with a strong identity and an ancient connection to power. I could understand why a man like Antonelli would choose it as his base.

I had the taxi driver cruise by the main entrance, which featured a sandstone guard house beside two high cast-iron gates. Ten-foot-tall stone walls stretched in either direction and were topped with serrated metal fangs designed to discourage all but the most determined intruders. As we drove on, heading east along the valley, I saw security cameras mounted on posts to either side of the wall, some pointing into the estate, others facing the road. This was a tight operation.

I asked the driver, a young Syrian who’d spent the journey telling me in broken English how much he loved Italy, to turn onto a narrow track that wound down the hillside opposite the estate. When we were out of sight of the road, I instructed him to stop, and offered him a 100-euro bonus if he’d wait thirty minutes. He accepted gratefully. As I stepped into the afternoon heat and started up the hill, I glanced back to see him recline his seat and turn his radio up.

I crossed the deserted road and went through some dry scrub. The estate wall was further back from the road here, hidden by parched trees and bushes. There were cameras, but I didn’t care; I wanted them to see me.

I walked the line of the wall until I found a gnarly old sycamore tree with a branch that curled over the top. I scaled the tree, climbed along the branch until I’d cleared the wall, and jumped onto the hard earth on the other side.

There were more trees and bushes, but I could see them peter out about a hundred yards away, so I jogged toward the thinning treeline. As I picked my way over roots, through dappled sun and shade, I saw long rows of olive trees planted on the other side of the forest. The trees’ crooked branches, outlined against the crystal-clear sky, looked so old they might have stood there for centuries. It seemed Antonelli owned an ancient piece of heaven.

When I reached a break in the trees, I saw his home high above the olive groves, a massive sandstone farmhouse with a red-tile roof. I started toward it, but only managed to get halfway across the strip of grass separating the shelter belt from the olive trees when an open-topped Jeep roared over a rise to my left, and a man standing on the rear seat wielding an assault rifle yelled something at me before taking aim. I didn’t need a translator to know I was meant to freeze.

I complied and raised my hands. The off-roader rumbled to a halt beside me. There were three other men in the vehicle. Two of them jumped out and manhandled me onto the flatbed, where I was forced onto a bench seat with one of them either side of me.

The guy with the gun spoke to the driver and the Jeep swung a U-turn before heading up the hill toward the farmhouse. I looked at my captors, all hard men in matching gray camo T-shirts and khaki pants. My bold intrusion had given me an insight into Antonelli’s security. These were clearly ex-military, well trained and professional. There was no chest-beating or bravado, just a calm, quiet assertion of their power over me.

We stopped in a graveled yard that was full of luxury cars. A couple of Range Rovers, a Ferrari, a Mercedes SLS and a Lamborghini were all parked in front of a large garage.

I was pulled from the Jeep and marched around onto a broad terrace running behind the huge old house. The view of the valley, dotted with ancient villas and covered by olive and citrus groves, was magnificent, but my eyes didn’t linger on the vista. Instead they were drawn to Elia Antonelli, a middle-aged man with neatly trimmed gray hair. He wore a white tailored shirt and beige slacks. He studied me, calmly and confidently, while I tried to conceal my surprise on recognizing his companion.

Seated next to him, informally dressed in a short green summer shift, was Rome police inspector Luna Colombo. His daughter.

She had the decency to look sheepish as she met my gaze.

“Benvenuto, Mr. Morgan,” Antonelli said. “We’re just about to eat. Won’t you join us?”