“You can let me out at the next intersection,” I suggested.
The driver looked at the man next to him, who shrugged and then nodded at me.
We ended up getting caught in an unbreakable stream of traffic. It wasn’t until we reached the intersection with Via Nola, to the south of the ancient Castrense amphitheater, that the driver was able to pull to the side of the road and let me out.
The Mercedes continued south while I headed in the opposite direction toward the old red-brick wall that delineated the amphitheater grounds. The heavy traffic limited the prospect of a car tailing me, but I was mindful of the scooters and bikes weaving through the crowded streets, and the pedestrians on the sidewalk. It would have been foolish not to assume Elia Antonelli would try to have me watched.
I walked a couple of blocks, along the wide avenue flanked by elegant terracotta-brick apartment blocks constructed in the classical style. When I neared the amphitheater, I passed a large motorcycle showroom set on the ground floor of one of the blocks, and the glare of the sun against the picture windows created a mirror that allowed me to see if anyone was tailing me. I saw nothing.
I circled round the amphitheater and walked along Via di Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, a broad street with more of the terracotta apartment blocks to either side. I found a street café and took a seat at one of the exterior tables, where I ordered a double espresso and watched the people passing by. When I’d finished my drink, I paid, made use of the café’s restroom and left the place via the staff entrance near the kitchen to the rear of the building. It took me into a courtyard parking lot flanked by apartment blocks on three sides. I walked through the entrance to the courtyard and joined Via Eleniana, a busy road that ran north to south.
Satisfied I wasn’t being followed and that I’d been in the café long enough to exhaust the batteries of a drone, I gave my surroundings one last check before concluding that if Elia Antonelli had assigned anyone to follow me, they had either given up or been thwarted by my precautions.
I hurried along the street and found a cab sitting in a line of vehicles waiting at the next set of lights. The driver, a slim middle-aged man with the worry lines of the perpetually stressed, grimaced when I asked him to take me to Quadriportico Verano Cemetery, but he eventually nodded and I jumped in the back.
I realized why he’d grimaced when I got to experience the full weight of Rome’s evening traffic on the journey to the cemetery. We crawled through a city choking on the sheer volume of people it hadn’t been designed to accommodate.
The driver finally pulled over by Piazza San Lorenzo, a square surrounded by the makeshift booths of florists serving the streams of mourners visiting the huge cemetery. I settled the fare and climbed out.
I found Faduma waiting for me on the cobblestones near the main gates. When she saw me, she started walking, but rather than heading through the arched gateway into the cemetery, we followed the perimeter wall north, toward the column of San Lorenzo, a tall monument that stood in front of a church of the same name.
“I know who Luna Colombo’s father is,” I said. “I understand why you didn’t trust me. I’ve been consorting with the daughter of a gangster, but Luna says she has nothing to do with his activities.”
“And you believe her?” Faduma asked.
“I’m starting to think I can’t believe anyone.”
“Now you’re thinking like a Roman! Honesty and truthfulness are not absolutes here. They are cultural constructs. Rome, particularly in certain sections of society, has always maintained a flawed relationship with the truth, because this city is built on power, and sometimes truth is its enemy.”
“Trust no one — is that it?” I asked, and she nodded.
“It’s a good place to start, but you’ll still find yourself trusting people. We like to think the best of others. It is both a strength and a weakness of our species.”
She paused by the column of San Lorenzo, and I looked up at the statue of the martyr standing atop the red granite plinth.
“I might have brought you into an ambush,” she said, and I was suddenly alert. But when I looked at those bright, keen eyes in her open, ingenuous face, I received no hint of danger. “I didn’t, of course, but it’s an example of how easily you can place your trust in people. Just as I’m going to trust you now.”
She hesitated for a moment before producing a large envelope from the bag slung over her shoulder.
“These are reports of the deaths of eight priests.” She handed me the envelope and I flipped through the contents to see photographs, newspaper articles and police reports. “You’ve earnt my trust by seeing Luna for what she really is.”
“I don’t knowingly collaborate with criminals,” I assured her. “I’m honest. Maybe too honest.”
She nodded. “Good. Let’s hope it stays that way. This is what I’ve been investigating. I think someone has been murdering priests but I don’t know why.”
“Was Father Brambilla the most recent victim?” I asked.
“I think so.”
“Anything that connects them?” I asked.
“Other than they’re all priests?” She shook her head again. “But the only other person I went to with this dossier was Filippo Lombardi the prosecutor. Three days before he was killed.”
My stomach churned.
“I think he started making inquiries into what happened to these men of the Church,” Faduma said. “I think the inquiry got him killed, which is sad because I know he was a good man.”
“How?” I asked.
“If he had not been, he would have passed on my name and by now I would be dead too.”
Chapter 32
I left Faduma at the cemetery and caught a cab to Ostia. I had the driver stop a few blocks from Amr’s cell-phone store and covered the rest of the journey on foot.
The streets were full of people here to experience the nightlife — gangs of youths stalking for easy prey; hollow-eyed addicts lurking in the shadows. The summer night was buzzing with the sounds of busy bars and clubs, and ripe with the smells emanating from the fast-food joints.
I checked I wasn’t being followed before I turned onto Via Orazio dello Sbirro, where I saw the phone shop blazing brightly with its gaudy signs and lights in the windows. I walked past, took out the keys Amr had given me and went through the archway that split the terrace. I hurried along the alleyway beyond, crossed the yard and climbed the metal steps to the front door. I made one last check that there were no hostile eyes on me and went inside.
The place was as I’d left it. I took out my phone as I went into the living area and moved one of the chairs to the window so I could keep an eye on the street outside while I made a video call to Justine.
“Jack,” she said when she answered. She was in her office on the fifth floor of Private’s Los Angeles headquarters and sitting in one of the armchairs by the window, so I could make out the sun-soaked city skyline behind her. I missed home, but I missed her more. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I replied. “I’m in the thick of something here.”
I shared what I’d learnt from Faduma about the dead priests, and what Luna had told me about the Dark Fates.
“I need you to check out a guy called Milan Verde. He’s the leader of the gang. I’m also going to send you the details of the dead priests. Look for any connection between them and Milan Verde, or any of his associates.”
Private didn’t have the NSA’s network analysis capabilities, which were so good they could tell whether you’d stayed at the same hotel as someone three years ago, but Mo-bot had developed some pretty sophisticated data-mining tools and, even more importantly, had the right contacts to get the information we needed if her own systems drew a blank. If the priests were linked outside the Church or were connected to Milan Verde or his gang, we would find out.