Private Rome

Chapter 47

“What do we do now?” Faduma asked.

My mind raced through a range of options and settled on a simple but bold course of action.

“Switch on the headlamps,” I said, taking my phone from my pocket.

“Are you serious?” she asked, glancing nervously at the shapes of the armed men ahead.

“Trust me,” I replied, activating the video recording app on my phone.

Faduma hesitated before switching on full-beam, lighting the track ahead, illuminating the men clustered against the wall. They were dazzled by the glare; a couple raised their weapons blind, while others shielded their eyes. I lowered my window and pointed my phone at them.

“You are being recorded and the footage is being streamed to a secure site on the Cloud,” I yelled. The last part was a lie, but there was no way they would be able to tell that. “Our colleagues know where we are and that we’ve come to see Elia Antonelli. If anything happens to us, you will be held responsible.”

Faduma lowered her window and shouted in Italian. I could tell she was giving the men her own version of my speech, and as their eyes adjusted, they edged back, keen to avoid being caught on camera.

“Drive on,” I advised, and Faduma started the engine and moved slowly along the track.

One of the men was on his phone but we couldn’t hear what he was saying. Soon we were past them and the car gathered speed as we headed toward the lights of the farmhouse a few hundred yards away. We bounced along the bumpy track, churning up dust that obscured the star-filled sky.

“That was brave of you,” Faduma remarked.

“Both of us were brave,” I said. “I took a calculated risk they would never shoot us on camera. Antonelli is too smart for that.”

Faduma nodded, but I sensed she wasn’t so sure.

She slowed as we entered a courtyard enclosed on two sides by a large barn and attached farmhouse. There were half a dozen cars in the yard, and a tall, skinny man in his mid-forties was making a dash for one of them: a gray Mercedes E-Class. When our headlights fell on him, he froze like a jackrabbit stunned by the dazzling glare. He turned away sheepishly, trying to hide his face before hurrying on to his car.

“That’s Stefano Trotta,” Faduma observed. “He’s a junior finance minister.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised Antonelli had links to government, but I was thrown to have caught an Italian minister of state openly consorting with a man implicated in so many deaths.

Trotta jumped in his car and sped past us, heading for the track.

As Faduma parked, I saw Antonelli lumber out of the farmhouse with Luna a couple of paces behind him.

“Mr. Morgan, Ms. Salah, this is a surprise,” he boomed as we stepped out of the car. “We were just having dinner.”

“Looks like your guest couldn’t wait to leave. I hope we didn’t intrude,” Faduma countered as we walked over.

Antonelli smiled. “Some people don’t like surprises as much as I do. Although I am annoyed.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“If you two can find me, so can my better-resourced competitors.”

“Don’t you mean enemies?” I suggested.

He shrugged. “It is what it is. I will have the men increase the frequency of their patrols and hope my competitors are not as effective as you two. Would you like to join Luna and me? There’s plenty of food.”

I glanced at Luna, who nodded and smiled at me.

“What do you think?” I asked Faduma. “Hungry?”

“Sure,” she replied, so we followed Luna and Antonelli inside.