Private Rome

Chapter 64

Faduma found me an hour after we’d parted. I waited in a pedestrianized strip that ran down the center of the avenue opposite the little café she’d suggested as a meeting place, loitering in the shade of an old plane tree. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Faduma, but I was being careful and had no idea who she might inadvertently talk to or if she was being watched.

I saw her walk along the sidewalk past shops, restaurants and bars, and she went into the café. I checked the street behind her to ensure she wasn’t being followed and moved through the narrow strip of parkland, crossing the road to meet her as she came out.

“Being careful?” she asked.

“Wouldn’t you be?” I countered.

“I probably would have left Rome by now,” she confessed. “Someone is making a play to either put you out of commission or get you somewhere they can reach you.”

“To put me out of commission permanently,” I suggested.

She nodded slowly.

“I’m not easily intimidated,” I said.

“I can see that,” she replied. “I found Bernardo Baggio’s address. He lives at Balduina. It’s a suburb in the north-west, about a forty-minute drive from here.”

We hurried back to the parking lot around the corner, got in Faduma’s Volkswagen, and started our journey through the city. She kept us away from the center and took us on a route that swung west through Gianicolense. She was quiet throughout, clearly uneasy, and every time we stopped at an intersection her eyes darted busily around. I guessed she was scanning our surroundings to make sure no one recognized me. I was in my cap and shades, but my face was all over the news, so I remained equally alert.

We arrived at Via Eutropio just after 10 a.m. The neighborhood featured a mix of contemporary apartment blocks of varying architectural styles, all set back from the road in private gardens that were full of mature trees. Ivy covered the exterior walls and a number of residents had garden balconies, adding to the impression of greenery. The area looked like a lovely place to live.

Bernardo Baggio’s building was a five-story contemporary block set behind a high wall and a stand of mature trees. The apartments all had large balconies that overlooked the gardens. Faduma parked in front of the main gate, and we got out of the car and walked toward the entrance.

“How do you want to do this?” Faduma asked.

“You happy to say you’re doing a story on Matteo?” I asked. “That you’ve been told it was a suicide staged by someone who had access to the cell?”

She nodded.

“Then let’s play it straight, see how well he copes under pressure,” I suggested as we went inside.