Private Rome

Chapter 45

Faduma and I stayed at the hospital until Marcus and Pietro, two agents from Primo Security, arrived at Gianna’s behest to stand watch over Matteo. Pietro, a short wiry man who looked as though he was pure sinew, posted himself by the ward entrance, while Marcus, a lumbering bear of a figure, sat opposite the cops outside Matteo’s room. Gianna smoothed the cops’ ruffled feathers, pointing out we had every right to provide our own security to a Private employee.

Satisfied with the arrangements, I left the hospital with Faduma and we took a taxi to her car, a silver Volkswagen Golf parked on the Via Piacenza a block north of police headquarters.

I climbed in the passenger seat and she slid behind the wheel, started the engine and pulled out of the tight space. She drove along narrow back streets, navigating the maze of one-way roads, and soon we were on Via Bari, heading out of the city.

“Do you believe him?” Faduma asked.

I was puzzled.

“About the attempt on his life,” she explained. “Sometimes people feel embarrassed to tell the truth.”

I got her meaning. “I think we have to take it at face value. There are multiple linked murders. It makes sense that someone might try to kill Matteo. He is a loose end.”

She thought for a moment. “What about us? Are we loose ends?”

I didn’t reply. I didn’t need to. We both knew the answer.

Faduma concentrated on the road ahead, navigating the traffic. The sun was low over the suburbs, tinting everything with its pastel-pink light. Soon we were beyond the malls and industrial estates and in the hills and valleys on our way to Casape. The landscape was beautiful, but we made no comment on it and travelled in silence, each wrestling with the puzzle confronting us.

There was very little traffic out here as we headed into the hills, following the single-lane road as it wound through olive groves. I thought about Matteo and whether a disgraced cop accused of murder would be sufficiently ashamed to try and take his own life. He’d been caught red-handed, standing over Brambilla with the gun, and if he knew he would be found guilty, then ending things by his own hand might seem the only escape. And when the attempt failed, he might concoct a cover story about someone trying to murder him.

But there was also Antonelli and the dead priests. There was Father Carlos, the man of God who’d been murdered in front of me. Matteo was not responsible for his death, and, as far as we knew, for those of any of the other priests. He struck me as genuinely distressed but honest.

We rounded a bend and Faduma overtook a slow-moving tractor pulling a trailer. We drove through the cloud of dust being churned up by the clattering vehicle and she accelerated onto a clear stretch of road.

“Puzzles,” she observed.

“Yeah,” I scoffed.

“You can retreat in on yourself. Live in your head, trying to put the pieces together.”

“Tell me about it,” I remarked.

“The priests who died were all frequent travelers,” she said. “They ministered to churches in trouble spots. Ukraine, the Philippines, Brazil.”

“You think they were running money?”

“Or intel,” she replied. “The Vatican has a long history of involvement in espionage. Organized crime too.”

“Antonelli might have been using the priests to funnel money abroad,” I suggested. “Or launder income from illegal activity through the bank.”

Faduma nodded. “It’s been done before. Propaganda Due in the 1970s. It was a secret society that infiltrated and corrupted the highest offices in Italy.”

“Organized crime would connect Antonelli to the dead priests,” I said. “But why would a gangster need to involve clergy in his activities?”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” she replied, turning off the country road onto the narrow lane that led to Antonelli’s estate.

She slowed as we neared the property, both of us alert, watching for signs of danger. Antonelli wouldn’t be so civil this time if he knew we were closing in on him, but I was confident he wouldn’t harm us, not here. The disappearance of the head of the world’s largest detective agency and one of Rome’s most famous investigative journalists would be hard to explain, particularly as I’d let Justine know exactly where we were going. If Antonelli wanted to come after us, it wouldn’t be on his home ground.

When we reached the gates to the estate, I was surprised to see they were open. Faduma didn’t slow but followed the track into the property, past the olive groves until we came within sight of the large farmhouse where I’d had lunch with Luna and Antonelli.

There were no vehicles in the drive and the shutters were all closed. The property was still and silent and had the air of being deserted.

Faduma pulled to a halt and I saw an old man with a bolt-action rifle slung over his shoulder walk slowly from behind the house. He wore a flat cap and colorless threadbare clothes. Squinting into the dying sun, which was behind us, his weathered skin and crinkled features spoke of a lifetime spent outdoors.

Faduma talked to him in Italian. I caught the name “Antonelli,” but not much else.

He replied, removing his cap and scratching his head. When he stopped talking, he turned and walked back the way he’d come.

“He says they’ve gone away. He doesn’t know where and doesn’t know when they will be back,” she told me. “But he called Antonelli ‘general’, which I’m pretty sure means there’s going to be trouble.”

A mob boss in retreat, or on the defensive, preparing for war. Against whom? And why had he marked out all those priests for death? The answers seemed further away than ever, and I felt a sense of disappointment until Faduma spoke.

“I think I might know where they’ve gone,” she said, turning the car around. She registered my surprise. “What can I say? I’m thorough. Don’t worry, it’s not far.”