Private Rome

Chapter 31

Silence somehow seems deeper in certain cars. The soundproofing of the Mercedes was exceptional and my two companions, captors perhaps, didn’t utter a word as we drove toward the city. There was no radio, nothing but the muffled rumble of tires on road and the steady hum of the engine, cruising easily as we wound along deserted hillsides. The soft leather upholstery seemed to deaden everything.

I couldn’t risk holding a conversation in such circumstances, so I used my phone to text Faduma, the journalist who had been so eager for me to learn about Luna’s background:

I know about the cop.

There was a pause, followed by the dots that showed someone was responding. Then:

And?

We should meet, I replied.

OK.

Where? I asked.

Quadriportico Verano Cemetery. 7 p.m.

OK.

I pocketed my phone.

It took us an hour to reach the outskirts of Rome, and the traffic grew heavier with each passing mile until, by the time we were on Via Tiburtina, which curled into the center of Rome behind the main train station, the Mercedes was at a crawl, and my two companions were showing fidgety signs of impatience.

“You can let me out at the next intersection,” I suggested.

The driver looked at the man next to him, who shrugged and then nodded at me.

We ended up getting caught in an unbreakable stream of traffic. It wasn’t until we reached the intersection with Via Nola, to the south of the ancient Castrense amphitheater, that the driver was able to pull to the side of the road and let me out.

The Mercedes continued south while I headed in the opposite direction toward the old red-brick wall that delineated the amphitheater grounds. The heavy traffic limited the prospect of a car tailing me, but I was mindful of the scooters and bikes weaving through the crowded streets, and the pedestrians on the sidewalk. It would have been foolish not to assume Elia Antonelli would try to have me watched.

I walked a couple of blocks, along the wide avenue flanked by elegant terracotta-brick apartment blocks constructed in the classical style. When I neared the amphitheater, I passed a large motorcycle showroom set on the ground floor of one of the blocks, and the glare of the sun against the picture windows created a mirror that allowed me to see if anyone was tailing me. I saw nothing.

I circled round the amphitheater and walked along Via di Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, a broad street with more of the terracotta apartment blocks to either side. I found a street café and took a seat at one of the exterior tables, where I ordered a double espresso and watched the people passing by. When I’d finished my drink, I paid, made use of the café’s restroom and left the place via the staff entrance near the kitchen to the rear of the building. It took me into a courtyard parking lot flanked by apartment blocks on three sides. I walked through the entrance to the courtyard and joined Via Eleniana, a busy road that ran north to south.

Satisfied I wasn’t being followed and that I’d been in the café long enough to exhaust the batteries of a drone, I gave my surroundings one last check before concluding that if Elia Antonelli had assigned anyone to follow me, they had either given up or been thwarted by my precautions.

I hurried along the street and found a cab sitting in a line of vehicles waiting at the next set of lights. The driver, a slim middle-aged man with the worry lines of the perpetually stressed, grimaced when I asked him to take me to Quadriportico Verano Cemetery, but he eventually nodded and I jumped in the back.

I realized why he’d grimaced when I got to experience the full weight of Rome’s evening traffic on the journey to the cemetery. We crawled through a city choking on the sheer volume of people it hadn’t been designed to accommodate.

The driver finally pulled over by Piazza San Lorenzo, a square surrounded by the makeshift booths of florists serving the streams of mourners visiting the huge cemetery. I settled the fare and climbed out.

I found Faduma waiting for me on the cobblestones near the main gates. When she saw me, she started walking, but rather than heading through the arched gateway into the cemetery, we followed the perimeter wall north, toward the column of San Lorenzo, a tall monument that stood in front of a church of the same name.

“I know who Luna Colombo’s father is,” I said. “I understand why you didn’t trust me. I’ve been consorting with the daughter of a gangster, but Luna says she has nothing to do with his activities.”

“And you believe her?” Faduma asked.

“I’m starting to think I can’t believe anyone.”

“Now you’re thinking like a Roman! Honesty and truthfulness are not absolutes here. They are cultural constructs. Rome, particularly in certain sections of society, has always maintained a flawed relationship with the truth, because this city is built on power, and sometimes truth is its enemy.”

“Trust no one — is that it?” I asked, and she nodded.

“It’s a good place to start, but you’ll still find yourself trusting people. We like to think the best of others. It is both a strength and a weakness of our species.”

She paused by the column of San Lorenzo, and I looked up at the statue of the martyr standing atop the red granite plinth.

“I might have brought you into an ambush,” she said, and I was suddenly alert. But when I looked at those bright, keen eyes in her open, ingenuous face, I received no hint of danger. “I didn’t, of course, but it’s an example of how easily you can place your trust in people. Just as I’m going to trust you now.”

She hesitated for a moment before producing a large envelope from the bag slung over her shoulder.

“These are reports of the deaths of eight priests.” She handed me the envelope and I flipped through the contents to see photographs, newspaper articles and police reports. “You’ve earnt my trust by seeing Luna for what she really is.”

“I don’t knowingly collaborate with criminals,” I assured her. “I’m honest. Maybe too honest.”

She nodded. “Good. Let’s hope it stays that way. This is what I’ve been investigating. I think someone has been murdering priests but I don’t know why.”

“Was Father Brambilla the most recent victim?” I asked.

“I think so.”

“Anything that connects them?” I asked.

“Other than they’re all priests?” She shook her head again. “But the only other person I went to with this dossier was Filippo Lombardi the prosecutor. Three days before he was killed.”

My stomach churned.

“I think he started making inquiries into what happened to these men of the Church,” Faduma said. “I think the inquiry got him killed, which is sad because I know he was a good man.”

“How?” I asked.

“If he had not been, he would have passed on my name and by now I would be dead too.”