I nodded. We’d both done some initial research into the post-war group and it was indeed a powerful underground network. Any organization modelled on it would be extremely dangerous. Propaganda Due had counted government ministers, police chiefs, mob bosses, financiers, press barons and industrialists among its members. A similar group in today’s social and political landscape, with a mix of wealth and power plus the ability to manipulate the media offered by new technology, would be formidable.
The taxi deposited us outside police headquarters fifteen minutes later. Justine and I went inside and asked to speak to Mia Esposito. We were told to wait and sat down in the busy lobby, watching the comings and goings of Roman justice.
Tourists and locals came in to file complaints, suspects presented themselves for interview, and harried lawyers bustled in and out of the building, barely seeming to pause for breath as they chatted rapid-fire into their phones.
When Esposito finally came out to see us, she looked just as harassed as one of the defense lawyers we’d been watching.
“I can’t give you much time, Mr. Morgan,” she said. “My superiors are concerned your colleague may attempt to take his own life again. They want him moved somewhere more secure, but his attorney is challenging our authority.”
“Matteo didn’t—” Justine began, but I interrupted her.
“We won’t take much of your time, Inspector,” I assured her. “In fact, we just want to know who the duty officer was when Matteo was found in his cell. We’d like to ask him or her a few questions about the events leading up to the discovery.”
“Bernardo Baggio was the duty officer,” Esposito replied.
“Can we talk to him?”
Esposito shook her head. “He isn’t in today. He must be ill or something.”
“Ispettrice Esposito,” one of the officers behind the desk called out, beckoning her over.
“Excuse me,” Esposito said before walking toward him.
“Jack,” Justine said, nudging me.
I followed her eyeline and saw four uniformed police officers come through the door that led to the interview rooms and back offices. The cops’ interest in me was unmistakable; they fixed me with gazes that ranged from hostile to predatory. Despite their feigned nonchalance it was clear they were fanning out, trying to block my path to the door.
I looked over at the reception desk to see Esposito conferring with one of the duty officers. He was watching me with narrowed, suspicious eyes.
“I don’t like this,” I told Justine.
“Neither do I,” she agreed. “Let’s go.”
“Mr. Morgan,” Esposito said, turning to us. “I need to talk to you.”
The shift in her demeanor was unmissable. Harried cop had been replaced by hunter.
“Come on,” Justine said, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the exit.
“Mr. Morgan,” Esposito yelled, and when it was clear we weren’t going to listen, she shouted: “Stop! Arrestate quell’uomo.”
I didn’t need to understand Italian to know she had just ordered my arrest because all four cops sprang toward me, barking out commands.
“Run,” Justine yelled, pushing me toward the exit while she stayed behind to slow down my pursuers. “Go, Jack! Run!”
Bewildered, heart pounding, fearful of what might happen to me if I was taken into custody, I did exactly as she said.
I ran.
Chapter 59
I burst out of the main doors and immediately collided with two officers coming through the arch. I reacted instinctively, pushing one into the wall opposite. I knocked him out by slamming his head against the stone. The other tried to grab me but I ducked and slipped free from his grasp, delivering a jab and right cross that knocked him flat on his behind.
I heard shouts behind me and the sound of heavy footsteps. I ran on, leaving the injured officers in my wake. Outside I dodged a passing car as I sprinted across the street, hearing shouts behind me as more police officers joined the chase.
I glanced over my shoulder. A group of four, led by Mia Esposito, were racing after me. I ran past the dilapidated buildings opposite police headquarters before turning left and sprinting south along Via Genova. There was more traffic here but the sidewalk was quiet. I made good progress to the next intersection. I burst onto Via Nazionale beside a Guess store and found myself surrounded by pedestrians strolling in the afternoon sun. I had to dodge and weave around them as I turned left and headed east along the busy street.
My pursuers were forced to do the same, but there were more of them and they caused consternation and chaos as they chased me.
I ran across the street, picking my way through a line of traffic heading west, and sprinted along the sidewalk before turning right down Via Venezia.
There was a mother and baby store on the corner of this narrow cobbled street lined with apartment buildings. Just beyond the store was a stone feature, set into the front of the neighboring block, a façade that decorated the first floor. The stones were about a foot tall and stacked like an asymmetric ladder. I realized it would be an easy climb to an open window visible on the second floor and sprinted to the foot of the column.
I grabbed the first stone, which had been hewn from some kind of volcanic rock. It was rough and solid, great for climbing, and whoever had designed the building had left a gap between the first stone column and the rising arch that curved over the adjacent window, so I was able to apply lateral pressure with my left foot, to make me more secure and accelerate my climb. I made it to the windowsill on the second floor as the cops ran into the mouth of the street. They yelled as I thrust myself in at the open window.
I didn’t know why they wanted me, but I wasn’t going to make the mistake of finding out. I fell into a small kitchen where an old lady was warming milk on a stove. She cried out and said something very fast, but I didn’t stop and ran through her apartment to the front door. I opened it and raced into the corridor beyond. My lungs were burning, my arms aching from the climb and my legs were sore, but I kept going.
The corridor beyond was laid with cheap gray carpet and the walls covered by peeling floral paper. I ran past a dozen apartments before I reached the stairwell at the end. When I burst through the door, I heard commotion below me and looked over the guardrail to see Mia Esposito leading her squad of officers in pursuit of me.
“Mr. Morgan! Stay where you are!”
No chance, I thought, as I bounded up the stairs to the next floor.
I ran through the stairwell door into a corridor much like the one below. I sprinted along the old carpet, past a dozen apartments to the door at the end. I burst through to find a twin corridor, the common area of the second wing of this apartment block.
I rushed for an elevator lobby, aware of pounding footsteps and shouts behind me, and turned left through a door marked Scala next to an image of stairs. I ran into a stairwell and started down, jumping three or four at a time. I raced down two flights to the ground floor, and when I burst through into the lobby, saw two uniformed officers coming toward me, batons in hand.
Without breaking stride, I grabbed an ancient dust-covered bronze pillar ashtray and swung it at one of the officers, who didn’t react in time and took the full force of the blow. It knocked him down.
The second cop tried to parry the blow with his baton, but the pillar caught him with enough force to drive the weapon into his face, knocking him out.
I dropped the ashtray and flew through the lobby, reaching the street as Esposito led her team of cops through the stairwell door.
“Stop!” she yelled, surveying the men I’d incapacitated. “You’re only making it worse for yourself.”