Private Rome

Chapter 39

I arrived at the Basilica di Santa Maria in Montesanto, which stands at the southern edge of Piazza del Popolo between Via del Corso and Via del Babuino. The seventeenth-century church has a twin on the opposite side of the Via del Corso. Together, the two domed houses of worship form a beautiful architectural pairing.

I had taken a taxi into the city and had dinner at Il Gabriello, a traditional restaurant famed for its wine and the display of art on its walls. The hubbub of the crowded dining room and the constant flow of serving staff and patrons gave the place a natural rhythm that made it easy for me to spot unwanted company. There was no scope for anyone to linger in the doorway or at the windows. They would have caught my attention like a dead fish floating amid a living shoal.

When I’d finished my braised ox cheek, I asked for the bill, paid and went to the men’s room, checking the dining room constantly to see if I had a tail. No one came with me. I left the restaurant through a staff entrance by the kitchen and hurried along Via del Babuino toward the grand piazza.

The night-time city was illuminated by a kaleidoscope of colored lights, bright yellows, oranges and reds shining from storefronts and restaurant windows. I’d allowed myself time to loop around the streets surrounding the old church, to make sure there was no one lying in wait.

When I was finally satisfied there was no obvious danger, I walked the ancient cobblestones in front of the church. There were a handful of tourists strolling here and there, taking in the wonderful architecture around the square, but this late in the evening the area was pretty quiet. This historic neighborhood was at its best in daylight when the sun’s rays picked out the stunning lines and magnificent colors of the buildings and illuminated the details of sculptures, carvings, statues and stained-glass windows in their full glory.

I could see why Father Carlos had chosen the location for our meeting. It was quiet, but not so deserted that two people would be noticed, and far enough away from the Vatican to avoid any chance encounters.

I walked up four broad stone steps and went through the huge doorway into the church. The devout had access to the interior at all times. I found myself in a large, domed chamber with a floor laid with black squares interspersed with white diamonds. The simple pews were modern and stretched away to either side, facing the altar. There was gilt everywhere, rich paintings of heavenly scenes, and carvings in wood and stone ornamenting the nave and the three side chapels to either side of it. The faint smell of incense hung in the air, like a spiritual spice.

I couldn’t see anyone and moved slowly toward the altar. The sounds of the city barely penetrated the church’s thick stone walls. I strained my ears against the quiet, listening for any movement.

I checked my watch; it was now after 10 p.m. I advanced, creeping so my footsteps didn’t disturb the stillness. I was afraid of what I would find in the gap between the pews — the body of Father Carlos, murdered to prevent him talking to me?

I continued, eyes scanning to left and right, holding my breath, heart thumping, fearing the worst.

A sudden movement startled me and I looked ahead to see Father Carlos, hunched over in fear, emerge cautiously from behind the altar.

“Were you followed?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Are you sure?”

I nodded.

“These are dangerous times,” he told me, drawing near.

“What do you want to talk to me about?” I asked.

“I know who is behind the deaths of the priests and the murder of the prosecutor,” Father Carlos said. Fear radiated from the young man. His eyes were restless as a gazelle’s keeping watch for lions. “It was Elia Antonelli the Mafia king. He had all of them killed.”

“Why?” I asked, regretting the ease with which I had let Antonelli explain away his involvement in recent events.

How could I have misjudged the man so badly? What did this mean for Matteo and his protestations of innocence?

But Father Carlos didn’t get the chance to answer. There was a commotion at the main entrance and something slammed against the stone wall nearby, making a sound like a thundercrack. A gang of masked men streamed through the open doorway, brandishing guns as they raced toward us.

“They must be Antonelli’s men!” cried Father Carlos. “Run!”