Drones would have been noticed flying around the bar, so they needed a human asset to install the devices that would complete their surveillance of the Dark Fates.
“Sink a few drinks and catch up with my new biker buddies,” Sci suggested. “That sound about right?”
Mo-bot elbowed him. “When are you going to grow up?”
“When someone makes me,” he replied, setting off toward the bar.
Chapter 57
Sci’s heart started thumping as he left Mo-bot and walked along Via Filippo Turati toward the Inferno Bar. When he reached the corner with Via Mamiani he turned right and went along the rundown side street, heading for the crowd gathered outside the target. Sci had been in law enforcement long enough to be accustomed to danger and knew a little fear was healthy, just enough to give a person an edge.
This wasn’t even in his top ten most dangerous assignments. He was being asked to play himself; a veteran biker, a role that didn’t require him to stretch his acting ability. Anyone who knew him was familiar with his love of motorcycles, a passion of his since his early teens. He loved the sense of freedom he gained from being on two wheels, not to mention the speed and acceleration offered by even the most mundane bikes.
When he got about half a block from the Inferno, he relaxed a little. Like so many biker bars the world over, it was rowdy and attracted big personalities, loud drinkers who didn’t adhere to social norms. As if to prove his point, one of the men out front punched his neighbor and the two big guys set to brawling.
Sci held the messenger bag more tightly and wove around the crowd, which surged toward the scuffle. He opened the door and stepped inside the bar, which was the source of the loud heavy metal music that filled the street. The patrons here looked lackluster and depressed, but a couple of them did manage to muster the enthusiasm to go to the windows and doorway to watch the fight.
Sci walked over to the bar and was greeted by a sour-faced bartender.
“Sì?”
“Beer,” he replied. “Peroni.”
The bartender nodded and grabbed a bottle from the fridge, which he served without a glass.
“Grazie,” Sci said.
The bartender asked for five euros, which Sci paid, surreptitiously slipping an audio device under the lip of the counter as he handed over the note.
As the fight outside took people’s attention, Sci carried his drink and moved to a booth in the middle of the bar. He slid across the bench seat and placed a bug under the table.
He sat silently drinking his beer for a while before going to the rear of the bar and placing audio-visual devices in the men’s room, corridor and outside the kitchen.
Satisfied with his work, Sci returned to the main saloon and his booth only to find a man waiting for him there. He had short gray-flecked hair, evil eyes, a scarred face and a broken nose. Sci recognized him as Milan Verde.
“I’ve not seen you here before,” the man said. “And I know everyone.”
“I’m visiting Rome and I read about how great this place is for bikers,” Sci replied.
Milan sneered. “Tourist? That’s nice. But this isn’t really a place for out-of-town visitors.”
Sci looked around. “Seems nice enough to me.”
Milan pursed his lips before breaking into a thin smile. “I’m going to need to see what’s in your bag.”
Sci remained impassive.
“New faces are rare in here,” Milan continued. “You understand.”
Sci slung the old leather satchel off his shoulder and pushed it across the table.
“My girl left me a couple of months back. I forgot her birthday,” he said. “I’m getting back on two wheels and into the scene again after years of being with someone who hated bikes, but if that’s not something I’m allowed to do here, you just let me know.”
Milan opened the bag and peered inside. He frowned and pulled out a bottle of peach schnapps and a Rome guidebook. Sci hoped he didn’t delve any deeper and discover the secret compartment beneath the false bottom, where the AV devices were hidden.
“Schnapps?” Milan scoffed.
“My girl switched me onto it,” Sci said. He believed cover stories had to have an absurd quality to feel authentic, reflect the absurdity of life. “It’s the only good thing she left me with.”
Milan returned the bottle and book to the bag. “What do you ride?”
“A Fat Boy, but I have half a dozen other bikes, including an original 1941 Indian Scout.
Milan whistled. “Nice bike.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Milan stared at Sci, holding his gaze with eyes that exuded darkness. Finally, he spoke.
“You can come here whenever you’re in Rome.”
Sci drained his beer.
“Thanks. It’s been fun,” he said, standing. “You run a tight place here.”
He felt Milan’s eyes burning into his back as he walked toward the exit, eager to leave before he did or said something that renewed the man’s suspicions.
He didn’t feel truly safe until he climbed into the passenger seat of the Renault Duster. Mo-bot had been busy and was cycling through the various surveillance devices, listening to and watching the feeds coming from the Inferno on a small handheld LCD screen.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Sci said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Everything’s fine.”
Their gamble had paid off. Soon they would know everything there was to know about Milan Verde and the Dark Fates.
Chapter 58
Justine and I left Vatican City and took stock at the Ristrot San Pietro, a café and restaurant with seats on the sidewalk that offered a stunning view of the dome of St Peter’s across Via di Porta Cavalleggeri. The south side of the street where we were sitting was lined with modern apartment blocks, and the north side, across the wide four-lane road, featured buildings influenced by French colonial architecture and the imposing dome of the grand church.
The café was busy with tourists, but we managed to get a table out front. Rather than being an irritation, the busy road beside us was a reminder that we were at the beating heart of one of the most vibrant cities on earth.
“So, we have an assassin connected to a street gang that’s tied in with a powerful secret society?” Justine asked.
I nodded.
“And they’ve been killing priests?” she went on. “A Rome prosecutor, the first victim we were aware of, Father Brambilla, and they tried to kill Matteo Ricci while he was being held in jail?”
I nodded again. “And in each of those instances they made the deaths look like an accident or from natural causes.”
“Apart from Fathers Brambilla and Carlos, who were shot,” Justine noted. “So, they are the odd ones out. Their deaths mean something different.”
“Yes,” I agreed, sipping from my rich roasted double espresso. “Here’s the thing — Matteo said someone tried to kill him. In a police station. Well, police headquarters in fact.”
“Which means it was someone with access to his cell,” Justine remarked. “Or someone with the connections to gain access.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Come on.”
I waved for a waiter, paid the bill, and hailed a cab heading east along Via di Porta Cavalleggeri.
“Via di San Vitale,” I told the driver as Justine and I settled on the back seat.
“If Father Vito is right and the Jerusalem Cross marks the rise of a successor to Propaganda Due, we can’t trust anyone,” she said, as we crossed Ponte Principe Amedeo Savoia Aosta over the Tiber. “Propaganda Due infiltrated every section of Italian society. Its successor will almost certainly have done the same.”