Private Rome

Chapter 85

Roma must have won because when I was transported from the Basilica to whichever police station I was destined for, the streets were filled with loud and cheerful fans, singing and chanting.

Mia Esposito sat up front, next to the driver — a plain-clothes officer who kept giving me hate-filled looks. He was the kind of cop who took the job personally and had probably swallowed the line that I was responsible for Bernardo Baggio’s death.

They exchanged words in Italian and laughed at the sight of some of the raucous celebrations. A few of the Roma fans had their shirts off and were running around, clearly very drunk.

“I didn’t kill them, you know?” I said to Esposito. “Christian Altmer, Bernardo Baggio and Father Carlos Diaz. Someone has set me up.”

“Then you took a risk coming to the Basilica if you’re the victim of a conspiracy, Mr. Morgan,” Esposito replied.

“I thought Mr. Altmer was behind whatever got all these people killed. So it seemed worth the risk to come and talk to him,” I replied. “I never expected to find him the way I did, but the fact that he’s been murdered tells me he was just a bit player in whatever’s happening.”

“And you think you are going to be left alone to sit out the rest of it, do you?” Esposito challenged me. “Not while there’s a theory that you’ve killed anyone who might testify against your colleague, Matteo Ricci! You will remain in custody until you can prove your innocence to the satisfaction of Rome’s prosecutors.”

“Or I’m conveniently killed in jail,” I said, and Esposito and her colleague exchanged looks.

“Did you find Bernardo Baggio?” I asked.

“We did,” the hostile cop said. “And I want to know how come you knew about him.”

“I don’t know anything about the circumstances of his death. All I know is he was on duty the night my colleague is supposed to have tried to take his own life.”

I leant forward, my arms locking against the cuffs.

“Inspector Esposito, if you can’t see you’re being played, you’re not the cop I thought you were.”

She considered my words but didn’t respond.

We were in the thick of the revelry by now, and the traffic was making slow progress through cheering crowds on both sides of Via Marco Aurelio. I could see the Colosseum up ahead, the ancient monument beautifully lit against the night sky. The bars either side of the street were packed with exuberant fans spilling out onto the road. At the intersection with Via Claudia we had to wait for a herd of Roma supporters to migrate south to north over the zebra crossing. When the street finally cleared, the hostile cop at the wheel inched forward only to find our path suddenly blocked by a bus full of Roma fans that had stopped at the mouth of the intersection.

The driver cursed and hit his horn, starting a cacophony of other car horns from behind us, the sounds merging with the celebratory cheers and shouts to add to the general air of chaos. The driver had no more idea than Inspector Esposito what was about to happen, but I did, and when I saw Amr Badawi sitting near the front of the bus, I steeled myself for what was to come.

The bus doors opened and a crowd of Roma supporters spilt out of the vehicle, led by Amr. Inspector Esposito and her colleague were bemused at first, but their bewilderment quickly turned to panic as fifty fans, some of them armed with crowbars and other tools, encircled our vehicle.

Inspector Esposito glanced back at me as one of the men closest to her swung his crowbar.

“I’m still in the game,” I remarked, the instant before the window shattered.

Esposito tried to draw her weapon but was quickly disarmed by men who prised the front doors open. Both cops were dragged from the vehicle and subdued, and Amr reached into the front and unlocked the rear doors. Someone I didn’t recognize helped me out.

Moments later, another man found Esposito’s keys and uncuffed me. I was ushered onto the bus with the men who’d helped me escape.

The whole thing had taken less than three minutes. When I glanced back, I saw Inspector Esposito and her colleague handcuffed to a lamppost, struggling to catch the attention of passing fans, who were so drunk they laughed and jeered at them, obviously thinking they were the victims of some kind of prank.

I walked to the front of the bus where I found Mo-bot, Justine and Valentina. We were joined by Amr.

“Thanks,” I said, grateful and relieved to be reunited with them.

“No problem,” he replied.

“You inspire loyalty,” Mo-bot remarked. “At a price. These guys are charging for their time.”

I glanced at Amr, who shrugged. “Business is business, Mr. Morgan.”

I smiled and sat beside Justine as the bus rumbled north past the stunning ruins of the ancient circus.

“So Altmer is dead?” she asked.

I nodded.

“And whoever killed him tried to frame you,” she observed.

“Yeah,” I said.

“If we keep at them, they’re going to change tactics and treat you as a more urgent threat.”

I nodded again. She was right. If I wasn’t already marked for death, it was only a matter of time before a target was put on my back.