The Rome Prophecy

97

Tom finds it hard not to stay in the courtyard and protect Valentina. He knows she’s a professional soldier, trained to deal with situations like this, but his instinct is to hang around and make sure she’s okay.

Once he’s passed under the arch of the entrance block and emerged into the piazza, he picks up his pace.

He turns sharp right and then goes around the corner into Via di San Michele.

Immediately he’s confronted by dozens of parked cars.

All their windows are obscured by the falling rain.

People moving around with umbrellas make his view even more difficult.

Opportunistically, a guy with Rasta dreadlocks is standing near a wall, selling cheap brollies.

Tom pays ten euros for the first one he can grab.

He doesn’t give a damn about the price or about getting wet; he wants it to hide beneath as he moves from car to car studying the occupants.

Three quarters of the way along the bays, one of the parkups stands out.

A green Land Rover.

It’s noticeable not because it’s an exceptional vehicle, but because the windows have all misted up and the driver’s used a hand to wipe off the condensation to see through.

Thing is, it’s not the kind of street where there’s anything much to see.

Tom collapses his umbrella and moves to the driver’s side.

He knocks on the window.

It glides down about a third of the way.

He bends down and speaks English to a stern-looking man in his late twenties.

‘Excuse me, I’ve just locked myself out of my car.’ He gestures to the heavens. ‘Dumb, eh? Do you have a phone I can use to call my wife to come and bring some spare keys?’

The man frowns at him. ‘No.’

Behind him, in the darkness of the back seat, Tom can just make out another man. He’s sitting upright but struggling with something he’s holding down on his lap.

The window glides shut.

Tom bangs on it. ‘Hey! Come on, man, I need some help. I’m getting soaked.’

The glass glides back down.

The barrel of a gun pokes out of the blackness. ‘I said no! Now fuck off.’