“Were you telling Ms. Smith about the garden?” he asked me.
“Yes,” I replied. “Well, I’d already mentioned it to her.”
“I’m fascinated by the story of this place,” Justine said. “The idea that priests would have sins they would be ashamed to confess to God.”
“Human beings can be fallible,” Father Vito said. “Including some of the most devout. Well, I must attend to my duties. Lovely to see you both.”
He turned to leave.
“Father,” Justine said. “Could we trouble you for something?”
He hesitated before nodding assent. I wondered what Justine was doing but stayed quiet.
“Do you know what this symbol means?” she asked, producing her phone from her purse.
She caught me looking at her in puzzlement.
“What?” she said. “It’s a religious symbol. We should ask a man of God.”
I shrugged and she opened the photo folder on her phone, scrolling to a drawing of the Jerusalem Cross tattoo I’d found on the body of the dead assassin.
Father Vito studied the image for a while before exhaling loud and slow.
“You don’t want to know this,” he said.
“We do,” Justine assured him. “We really do.”
He looked to me for confirmation and I nodded.
There was suddenly a weariness about him. “It is the mark of Propaganda Tre, a secret society here in Rome,” he replied. “They are extremely dangerous. Do you understand? They bring the touch of death with them wherever they go.”
Chapter 55
“What is propaganda Tre?” I asked, grateful for Justine’s presence of mind.
“During the Second World War, a group of powerful Italians formed a secret chapter of the Freemasons. It was originally intended to be an anti-communist network if Italy ever fell to the left,” Father Vito revealed. “These men were supposed to occupy positions of power — political, financial, criminal, religious — and act against communism if it ever took root. A state within a state to protect the values these people held dear. But communism never came to Italy, so Propaganda Due lost its focus and morphed into a renegade group. It was expelled from the Masonic order and focused on financing right-wing governments around the world, funding this activity by laundering money for organized crime. It was finally dismantled in the early 1980s, after a reign of terror blighting Italian politics and society for almost forty years.”
I vaguely recalled reading a review of a book about the group some years ago.
“Due means two, tre means three. Propaganda Tre is the original group’s successor,” Father Vito said. “Or at least, that’s the rumor. No one really knows much about it.”
“But you recognized the symbol?” Justine asked.
“I am a student of Rome. I make it my business to know what goes on in the city. The Jerusalem Cross represents the crusader knights, and the three fleur-de-lys are the three orders of Propaganda, the most recent incarnation symbolized here on the head of the cross.”
“Knowledge is power,” I suggested.
“Knowledge is knowledge,” Father Vito responded without hesitation. “I leave power to the Almighty.”
He smiled and I almost envied him his boundless faith in an all-powerful God.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have a busy day ahead,” he said. “I hope you find what you are looking for.”
“Thank you,” Justine said.
“Yes, thank you,” I told him.
Father Vito left us and we walked on through the Garden of Secret Confession.
“That was a smart move,” I said to Justine.
“I figured a priest might recognize the symbol, or at least give us some historical background. I wasn’t expecting him to know what it was being used for now.”
“I don’t think there are many genuine secrets in Rome,” I replied. “Too many hidden passages, peep holes, spies, priests, assassins. Too much power flowing through the streets. I think the secrets seep out.”
Justine looked at the monuments to God surrounding us. “How can a city so holy be so corrupt?” she asked.
“It’s human nature. We’re weak,” I replied. “Look at this garden. A place for priests to confess sins they wanted to keep hidden from God. Why would this exist if we truly were a strongly pious species?”
“You sound disappointed,” Justine remarked.
“I am,” I responded. “There was a time I believed humans were closer to the divine than the material.”
“And now?”
“Now, I’ve seen too much of the world.”
“I never realized how important all this is to you,” she said.
“I didn’t realize it myself. It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about these things, but being here in the beating heart of my faith has brought it all back.”
“I hope it’s not too troubling,” she said.
“Troubling? No. More puzzling than anything else. I don’t know what to do with it. It’s reminded me how far I’ve drifted... how far adrift we all are,” I replied.
I took her hand and pulled her to me.
“But you always make me feel better,” I said, and she leant closer and we kissed.
“I love you, Jack Morgan,” she said before kissing me again. For the briefest moment I had no worries at all.
Chapter 56
Mo-bot had rented a metallic-red Renault Duster. The unremarkable mid-size SUV was equipped with basic comforts such as air conditioning, which fought the worst of Rome’s oven-dry heat, but what had interested her most about the vehicle was the large trunk, which she’d filled with newly acquired flight cases that contained the surveillance gear they’d brought with them from Los Angeles.
She was frustrated not to have access to the full equipment store of a local Private office, but Rome wasn’t properly open yet. She and Sci would have to make do with the gear they’d brought with them, which was enough to run a decent operation against a single target.
And that target was the Inferno Bar, nerve centre of the merciless Dark Fates.
Mo-bot could see the bar now, both from the observation vehicle, parked two blocks away on Via Filippo Turati, and on the remote-control screen she was holding, which enabled her to pilot a mini-drone that was currently nearing the building. As before, there was a crowd gathered in the street outside, seemingly unconcerned by the fact that it was barely lunchtime and their alcohol consumption was already veering out of control.
Mo-bot flew the device up higher and took it through an open window on the second floor, into an office furnished with a desk and a row of filing cabinets. She piloted the device, which was not much bigger than a butterfly, into one corner of the room and brought it down on a cabinet, next to an in-tray that would conceal it from all but the most determined observer. She checked the microphone and camera and was satisfied it would give us eyes on the office for at least four days before the batteries ran dry.
“We’re all good,” Mo-bot said to Sci, who was lying in the fully reclined passenger seat. “Eight micro-drones deployed around the building. You’re up.”
Sci had unclipped the straps on his boots, so he could recline in comfort. Now he fastened them. He looked every inch the renegade old biker. Sometimes Mo-bot had to remind herself this grizzled road warrior was in fact one of the world’s foremost forensics experts.
“Tell me what I’m doing again,” he said, using a lever to bring the seat up.
Mo-bot rolled her eyes.
“I’m just kidding,” he confessed with a smile.
They climbed out of the Renault and went to the trunk. Mo-bot opened it and took out a heavily worn satchel.
“You have twelve audio and eight audio-visual devices,” she said. “Your target is the main bar and public areas.”