The track had reached a vantage point overlooking the valley from which I could see the lights of a house below us in a sheltering fold of land. I could tell from the uneven lines of the walls that it was old and not as well cared for as Antonelli’s principal residence, but even at a distance one sensed the building’s grandeur. This was not the home of a poor farmer, and I wondered whether Antonelli was the family’s worst villain or whether he was simply following a long tradition.
I was stirred from my thoughts by a sudden, jarring halt. Fatuma slammed on the brakes and veered off the track, and when I peered into the darkness ahead, I saw why.
The track was rising toward the crest of a hill, and there, silhouetted against the night sky, were five men milling around a low stone boundary wall, the outlines of their long assault rifles unmistakable.
Chapter 47
“What do we do now?” Faduma asked.
My mind raced through a range of options and settled on a simple but bold course of action.
“Switch on the headlamps,” I said, taking my phone from my pocket.
“Are you serious?” she asked, glancing nervously at the shapes of the armed men ahead.
“Trust me,” I replied, activating the video recording app on my phone.
Faduma hesitated before switching on full-beam, lighting the track ahead, illuminating the men clustered against the wall. They were dazzled by the glare; a couple raised their weapons blind, while others shielded their eyes. I lowered my window and pointed my phone at them.
“You are being recorded and the footage is being streamed to a secure site on the Cloud,” I yelled. The last part was a lie, but there was no way they would be able to tell that. “Our colleagues know where we are and that we’ve come to see Elia Antonelli. If anything happens to us, you will be held responsible.”
Faduma lowered her window and shouted in Italian. I could tell she was giving the men her own version of my speech, and as their eyes adjusted, they edged back, keen to avoid being caught on camera.
“Drive on,” I advised, and Faduma started the engine and moved slowly along the track.
One of the men was on his phone but we couldn’t hear what he was saying. Soon we were past them and the car gathered speed as we headed toward the lights of the farmhouse a few hundred yards away. We bounced along the bumpy track, churning up dust that obscured the star-filled sky.
“That was brave of you,” Faduma remarked.
“Both of us were brave,” I said. “I took a calculated risk they would never shoot us on camera. Antonelli is too smart for that.”
Faduma nodded, but I sensed she wasn’t so sure.
She slowed as we entered a courtyard enclosed on two sides by a large barn and attached farmhouse. There were half a dozen cars in the yard, and a tall, skinny man in his mid-forties was making a dash for one of them: a gray Mercedes E-Class. When our headlights fell on him, he froze like a jackrabbit stunned by the dazzling glare. He turned away sheepishly, trying to hide his face before hurrying on to his car.
“That’s Stefano Trotta,” Faduma observed. “He’s a junior finance minister.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised Antonelli had links to government, but I was thrown to have caught an Italian minister of state openly consorting with a man implicated in so many deaths.
Trotta jumped in his car and sped past us, heading for the track.
As Faduma parked, I saw Antonelli lumber out of the farmhouse with Luna a couple of paces behind him.
“Mr. Morgan, Ms. Salah, this is a surprise,” he boomed as we stepped out of the car. “We were just having dinner.”
“Looks like your guest couldn’t wait to leave. I hope we didn’t intrude,” Faduma countered as we walked over.
Antonelli smiled. “Some people don’t like surprises as much as I do. Although I am annoyed.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“If you two can find me, so can my better-resourced competitors.”
“Don’t you mean enemies?” I suggested.
He shrugged. “It is what it is. I will have the men increase the frequency of their patrols and hope my competitors are not as effective as you two. Would you like to join Luna and me? There’s plenty of food.”
I glanced at Luna, who nodded and smiled at me.
“What do you think?” I asked Faduma. “Hungry?”
“Sure,” she replied, so we followed Luna and Antonelli inside.
Chapter 48
Antonelli led us through his family home. The interior seemed simpler than the house I had previously visited. This one seemed more comfortable, decorated to be lived in, rather than to impress with conspicuous displays of wealth. We walked through a sitting room filled with old furniture, including a couple of large well-worn couches that looked perfect for a lazy Sunday afternoon with a novel.
We went through a doorway into a stone-flagged dining room that contained an eighteen-place oak table and chairs. A couple of landscape paintings hung on one wall, and opposite them French doors opened onto a terrace overlooking the hillside.
A manservant was already setting another two places. As he finished and began to clear away the cutlery and plates from what I guessed must have been Trotta’s place, Elia Antonelli gestured to us.
“Please, have a seat.”
He took the chair at the head of the table, and Faduma and I sat at the newly laid places to his right while Luna returned to her seat to his left.
The servant offered us warm rolls from a basket on the serving table. We drizzled olive oil from a tiny silver jug onto our side plates and tore the rolls into pieces for dipping. I sprinkled mine with a little rock salt and glanced at Antonelli as I took a bite. He seemed deflated and distracted tonight, in stark contrast to the larger-than-life personality I’d first encountered.
“Are these made from your own wheat?” I asked, finishing my roll, which had tasted delicious and made me hungry for more.
“Of course,” he replied, growing animated for a moment before slumping slightly in his seat as though remembering his woes.
Luna reached across the table and squeezed his hand tenderly.
“What brings you out here, Mr. Morgan?” she asked me.
“Another priest has been murdered in Rome,” I replied, watching Antonelli carefully.
He glanced at Luna with unmistakable concern as he replied, “Yes, Father Carlos Diaz.”
“We heard about that on the news,” Luna said.
“But you don’t know anything about why he was killed?” Faduma asked.
The servant returned with a tray of dishes that he set on a serving table. Everyone fell silent. He served small plates of ravioli, and I thanked him when he set mine down. It smelt rich yet fresh, and the tomato sauce covering the plump parcels looked delicious.
“Why would we know about that?” Luna asked, after the waiter had withdrawn.
“Because the priest died with your father’s name on his lips,” I replied. “Your name, Signor Antonelli. He told me you were responsible for the murders of all the priests who’ve died recently. And that you also ordered Filippo Lombardi’s death.”
Antonelli glanced at Luna, his face like thunder, then his anger dissipated and he looked crestfallen. He turned to face me and I couldn’t help but hope a confession was imminent. It would save us all so much effort and trouble.
Instead, our host broke into a broad grin and laughed.
“I’m very sorry about this latest priest but I certainly didn’t kill him.”
I glanced at Luna and saw she was taken aback by the suggestion that he might be responsible.
“This is why you’re here, Mr. Morgan? To accuse me of the murder of a man I have no interest in killing?”