Private Rome

Chapter 46

“Antonelli’s family were farmers,” Faduma explained as she rejoined the country road.

The announcement didn’t surprise me, given the way he’d talked when we’d had lunch.

It was getting dark and twilight made the olive trees seem weirdly human, their gnarly branches reaching out like old men’s fingers.

“His family owned a lot of land around here. That’s why Antonelli has his estate in these hills. He feels an affinity to this place.”

“How do you know?” I asked, marveling at her detective skills. I had operatives at Private who wouldn’t be able to deliver such extensive background, and even Mo-bot’s trawl of Antonelli hadn’t yielded this level of information.

“I make it my business to learn everything I can about the key players in any investigation. You never know how the pieces will come together. I’ve interviewed dozens of police and underworld contacts about Antonelli, and they all say the same thing: he has a genuine love of the land of his childhood.”

I nodded. He had spoken about the soil and its produce with such pride.

“While his love of the land round here might be common knowledge, what few people know is the location of the family’s original farm,” Faduma said. “Or the fact that Antonelli was born there and considers it his sanctuary.”

“How did you—”

She cut me off. “That source is secret, Mr. Morgan. I hope you will appreciate the need to take proper precautions. To protect my source, not me.”

“I understand.”

“The farm is two valleys over. Antonelli lived there until he was twelve,” Faduma said.

She steered us off the road onto another rough track, and we took a jarring ride, up and down, over a badly rutted surface. Faduma killed the lights as we continued our journey to Antonelli’s childhood home. It seemed darker here in the folds of the hills, and the landscape more rugged.

The track had reached a vantage point overlooking the valley from which I could see the lights of a house below us in a sheltering fold of land. I could tell from the uneven lines of the walls that it was old and not as well cared for as Antonelli’s principal residence, but even at a distance one sensed the building’s grandeur. This was not the home of a poor farmer, and I wondered whether Antonelli was the family’s worst villain or whether he was simply following a long tradition.

I was stirred from my thoughts by a sudden, jarring halt. Fatuma slammed on the brakes and veered off the track, and when I peered into the darkness ahead, I saw why.

The track was rising toward the crest of a hill, and there, silhouetted against the night sky, were five men milling around a low stone boundary wall, the outlines of their long assault rifles unmistakable.