A couple safety lights were on, but most of the interior was shrouded in shadow, and I couldn’t help feeling we were being watched from the darkness as we moved between the pews toward the exit. But there was only the silence and stillness of an empty building.
We hurried across the black and white tiles and soon reached the main entrance, where Father Carlos unlocked the door. It was huge: four inches thick, triple-height and width, studded with iron. It swung open ponderously on elaborate hinges.
“I know a place we will be safe,” said the priest, stepping outside.
At that moment I heard the terrible and familiar crack of pistol fire and saw Father Carlos lurch back as a bullet hit him in the chest. He clutched at his black shirt as a stain began to spread across it. I grabbed him and pulled him inside just in time to avoid a volley of bullets.
We’d walked straight into an ambush.
Chapter 41
I slammed the door shut and crouched beside Father Carlos, who lay slumped against the wall beside the huge door, clutching his chest. The dim light inside the church exacerbated his loss of color, making him look ethereal, like someone who already belonged to another world. His breathing was rapid and shallow, and he wore the expression of anguish and regret that I’d seen on the faces of others during their last moments.
“Sir,” he said, between hurried gasps. He clutched at me weakly. “Proditio. Mendacium.”
His body shook with the force of a convulsion. He was losing a lot of blood. I tried to help by pressing my hand against his wound, but I knew there was nothing I could do for the man. The injury was mortal, his fate was sealed.
“Signor Morgan,” he rasped. “Quia precium sanguinis est.”
His last words were in Latin. The moment they passed his lips, his eyes glazed and rolled back. It felt as though the effort of delivering a final message in the ancient tongue of the Church had cost him his spirit.
I’d drifted far from my faith but felt the death of a priest should be marked by proper religious ceremony, however simple. I made the Sign of the Cross over Father Carlos’s body and said a Hail Mary for his soul. The Almighty wouldn’t decide this man’s fate based on my intercession, but at least the universe would know someone lamented his passing. And I truly did. This man had died while bringing me the truth, one of many innocent victims I’d seen cut down in my years as a detective.
If he was right, and Antonelli was responsible for these killings, the old Roman gangster would pay for what he’d done.
I couldn’t do anything more for Father Carlos so I rose to my feet and stepped away from his body. I pressed my ear against the door and listened carefully, straining to hear any sound coming from beyond the ancient, heavy planks. There was nothing so I pulled the door open and peered round it, slowly and carefully.
The portico immediately beyond the door and the surrounding cobblestones were deserted. There was no sign of whoever had shot Father Carlos. They had clearly been under instructions to kill the priest but couldn’t have known he’d already told me the most important piece of information he possessed.
There were a few passers-by on the other side of the piazza, but they showed no sign of having seen or heard anything out of the ordinary and paid me no attention as I eased my way out of the church. I was tensed ready for a sudden onslaught, but none came. By the time I reached the stone steps in front of the church I was moving fast. I hurried down them and sprinted right along Via del Corso, my footsteps echoing off the surrounding buildings as I ran into the night.
Chapter 42
I finally stopped running when I reached the Via Tomacelli, which was eight blocks south of the church. It was approaching 11 p.m. and there were a few diners and revelers meandering along the sidewalks, laughing loudly at jokes, arguing animatedly, or in the case of lovers, holding hands or walking arm-in-arm. Many swayed with intoxication but gave me no trouble nor paid me much attention as I picked my way through the streets to a taxi stand on Piazza di San Silvestro, a beautiful cobbled square lined by luxury jewelry stores, offices and apartment blocks whose windows were lit like golden lanterns.
I took the first cab in line. The driver, a cheerful man in his late thirties, tried to talk in halting English, but soon picked up that I wasn’t in the mood for conversation.
I was focused on my phone and spent the journey to Ostia trying to get hold of Justine, Mo-bot or Sci.
I had no luck reaching them. When I finally made it back to the apartment above the cell-phone store, I changed out of my suit, which was flecked with the blood of the fallen priest. I put on my black jeans and T-shirt and sat and waited impatiently for one of my colleagues to call.
Finally, almost two hours after the priest had died in my arms, my phone buzzed and the screen lit up with Justine’s name.
“Jus!” I said, relieved.
“What’s happened?” she asked.
“Another priest has been killed. I was with him at the time. I... I couldn’t do anything for him.”
“I’m so sorry, Jack.”
“I’m fine,” I replied, a little too emphatically.
“Jack, you’re not fine,” she said. “The death of another is always a shock, no matter how many times you’ve experienced it. Please don’t downplay what just happened.”
I nodded and stayed silent.
“And you’re taking too many risks out there on your own.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“No, Jack,” she responded. “You’re doing what you know. There’s a difference. I’ve talked to Maureen and Seymour.”
I always knew it was serious when she used their proper names.
“And we’re coming to Rome. I’m not going to let you face this alone.”
“Justine—” I tried, but she cut me off.
“Would you leave me? If I was the one in Rome, facing what you’re facing, would you leave me to deal with it on my own?”
“That’s diff—”
“If you’re about to say it’s different, you’d better have a good reason. One that doesn’t ultimately rest on you being a man and me being a woman.”
“Justine,” I tried one last time.
“You said we’d review the situation. Well, consider it reviewed. I’m not going to let you face this alone,” she reiterated. “Nor are Seymour and Maureen. We’ve made arrangements for our workloads to be covered here. We’ll be on the first available flight.”
I knew there was no point resisting any longer. I had zero chance of defeating the concentrated determination of three stubborn minds.
“Before he died, the priest told me Elia Antonelli is behind all of this,” I revealed. “He said the men who shot him worked for Antonelli.”
“Do you believe him?” Justine asked.
It hadn’t occurred to me that the priest might have been lying.
“I think so,” I replied. “I think Father Carlos—”
My response was cut short by the sound of a knock at the door.
I froze.
“Someone’s here,” I whispered to Justine.
“Get out, Jack,” she replied.
“If it was bad guys, I don’t think they’d have bothered knocking,” I said, rising from my seat on the couch.
“Hello?” I called, approaching the door.
“Mr. Morgan, may I please come in?”
I recognized Faduma’s voice immediately and opened the door to find her standing at the top of the metal staircase. She was in black slacks and a green halterneck top and looked as though she was made up for a date.
“I have to go,” I told Justine. “Let me know when you’ll be arriving.”