Private Rome

Chapter 58

Justine and I left Vatican City and took stock at the Ristrot San Pietro, a café and restaurant with seats on the sidewalk that offered a stunning view of the dome of St Peter’s across Via di Porta Cavalleggeri. The south side of the street where we were sitting was lined with modern apartment blocks, and the north side, across the wide four-lane road, featured buildings influenced by French colonial architecture and the imposing dome of the grand church.

The café was busy with tourists, but we managed to get a table out front. Rather than being an irritation, the busy road beside us was a reminder that we were at the beating heart of one of the most vibrant cities on earth.

“So, we have an assassin connected to a street gang that’s tied in with a powerful secret society?” Justine asked.

I nodded.

“And they’ve been killing priests?” she went on. “A Rome prosecutor, the first victim we were aware of, Father Brambilla, and they tried to kill Matteo Ricci while he was being held in jail?”

I nodded again. “And in each of those instances they made the deaths look like an accident or from natural causes.”

“Apart from Fathers Brambilla and Carlos, who were shot,” Justine noted. “So, they are the odd ones out. Their deaths mean something different.”

“Yes,” I agreed, sipping from my rich roasted double espresso. “Here’s the thing — Matteo said someone tried to kill him. In a police station. Well, police headquarters in fact.”

“Which means it was someone with access to his cell,” Justine remarked. “Or someone with the connections to gain access.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Come on.”

I waved for a waiter, paid the bill, and hailed a cab heading east along Via di Porta Cavalleggeri.

“Via di San Vitale,” I told the driver as Justine and I settled on the back seat.

“If Father Vito is right and the Jerusalem Cross marks the rise of a successor to Propaganda Due, we can’t trust anyone,” she said, as we crossed Ponte Principe Amedeo Savoia Aosta over the Tiber. “Propaganda Due infiltrated every section of Italian society. Its successor will almost certainly have done the same.”

I nodded. We’d both done some initial research into the post-war group and it was indeed a powerful underground network. Any organization modelled on it would be extremely dangerous. Propaganda Due had counted government ministers, police chiefs, mob bosses, financiers, press barons and industrialists among its members. A similar group in today’s social and political landscape, with a mix of wealth and power plus the ability to manipulate the media offered by new technology, would be formidable.

The taxi deposited us outside police headquarters fifteen minutes later. Justine and I went inside and asked to speak to Mia Esposito. We were told to wait and sat down in the busy lobby, watching the comings and goings of Roman justice.

Tourists and locals came in to file complaints, suspects presented themselves for interview, and harried lawyers bustled in and out of the building, barely seeming to pause for breath as they chatted rapid-fire into their phones.

When Esposito finally came out to see us, she looked just as harassed as one of the defense lawyers we’d been watching.

“I can’t give you much time, Mr. Morgan,” she said. “My superiors are concerned your colleague may attempt to take his own life again. They want him moved somewhere more secure, but his attorney is challenging our authority.”

“Matteo didn’t—” Justine began, but I interrupted her.

“We won’t take much of your time, Inspector,” I assured her. “In fact, we just want to know who the duty officer was when Matteo was found in his cell. We’d like to ask him or her a few questions about the events leading up to the discovery.”

“Bernardo Baggio was the duty officer,” Esposito replied.

“Can we talk to him?”

Esposito shook her head. “He isn’t in today. He must be ill or something.”

“Ispettrice Esposito,” one of the officers behind the desk called out, beckoning her over.

“Excuse me,” Esposito said before walking toward him.

“Jack,” Justine said, nudging me.

I followed her eyeline and saw four uniformed police officers come through the door that led to the interview rooms and back offices. The cops’ interest in me was unmistakable; they fixed me with gazes that ranged from hostile to predatory. Despite their feigned nonchalance it was clear they were fanning out, trying to block my path to the door.

I looked over at the reception desk to see Esposito conferring with one of the duty officers. He was watching me with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

“I don’t like this,” I told Justine.

“Neither do I,” she agreed. “Let’s go.”

“Mr. Morgan,” Esposito said, turning to us. “I need to talk to you.”

The shift in her demeanor was unmissable. Harried cop had been replaced by hunter.

“Come on,” Justine said, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the exit.

“Mr. Morgan,” Esposito yelled, and when it was clear we weren’t going to listen, she shouted: “Stop! Arrestate quell’uomo.”

I didn’t need to understand Italian to know she had just ordered my arrest because all four cops sprang toward me, barking out commands.

“Run,” Justine yelled, pushing me toward the exit while she stayed behind to slow down my pursuers. “Go, Jack! Run!”

Bewildered, heart pounding, fearful of what might happen to me if I was taken into custody, I did exactly as she said.

I ran.