They passed through the border security checkpoint, walked along Via Sant’Anna and went inside the rotunda that housed the ancient bank.
Ten minutes later they were being led to Stadler’s office by a somber-faced assistant who didn’t give her name. When they reached the open-plan room on the top floor, Justine saw what she guessed was Altmer’s desk covered in bouquets of flowers and condolence cards. It had become a small and poignant shrine. She lowered her head as she passed, and saw Faduma do the same.
They were taken in to see Joseph Stadler, and Justine was surprised to find him with the man Jack had identified as Father Vito, who was in fact Cardinal Vito Peralta. They were seated on a couch near the window.
“Ms. Smith, Ms. Salah,” Stadler said, crossing the room to greet them. “I hope you don’t mind but I’ve asked Cardinal Peralta to join us. He would like to bring his subterfuge to an end.”
“Subterfuge?” Justine asked as she and Faduma sat down opposite the men.
“I have not been completely honest,” Cardinal Peralta said.
“I’m sorry for your loss by the way,” Faduma interjected.
Stadler looked puzzled and Cardinal Peralta nodded sagely.
“The loss of Signor Altmer,” Faduma explained. “It must be a blow.”
“It is,” Stadler replied. “It has been very difficult. Thank you.”
“Do go on, Your Eminence,” Faduma said.
Cardinal Peralta nodded.
“I was not entirely honest with Jack Morgan. I sit on the board of this bank and have suspected for some time that it is being used by someone to launder money.”
“Someone?” Justine asked.
“Criminals,” he replied. “I have been studying the employees and my fellow clergy who perform various functions here, looking for clues to what’s happening.”
“And what have you learnt?” Faduma asked.
“Christian Altmer was doing business with a man called Milan Verde,” Cardinal Peralta revealed. “I believe Verde works for an organized crime figure called Elia Antonelli.”
Justine shot Faduma a look of concern. Cardinal Peralta had just confirmed her worst fears about the man Jack was on his way to confront.
“After Signor Altmer died, we discovered secret records that show money being transferred to criminal and extremist groups around the world. Money that seems to have originated from Milan Verde, and ultimately, I suspect, Elia Antonelli.”
“Can you show us these records?” Justine asked.
“Of course,” Cardinal Peralta replied, getting to his feet. “Follow me.”
Chapter 93
Amr Badawi had rustled up a Kawasaki KX250 dirt bike painted lime green. I rode in jeans, a leather jacket and an opaque helmet so I wouldn’t be recognized on the streets of Rome. I kept to the speed limit throughout the city but pushed the bike once I was in the tinder-dry hills. As I roared round the broad sweeping bends that took me toward Casape, I reflected on Antonelli and wondered whether I’d misjudged the man. A mob boss had to be a consummate liar and cheat, he had to mask his intentions and dispose of people without hesitation. Why had I been taken in by the guy?
I turned off the winding lane, onto the track that led to Antonelli’s old family farm. When I reached the low stone wall that demarcated the boundary, I saw a new squad of guards who waved me down. Brandishing their weapons like a platoon of twitchy mercenaries, they made me remove my helmet and confiscated my bike, wallet, keys and phone.
My heart thundered but I didn’t think they would harm me, not without Antonelli’s explicit approval. My instincts proved to be right. Soon an old Land Rover Defender roared up and I was pushed onto the back seat and driven up to the farmhouse.
I was taken round the back of the old building to the grand terrace, where Luna and Antonelli sat drinking coffee. The view of rows of olive trees rolling across the valley was simply beautiful. If I’d had his resources, I’d have retired to spend the rest of my days in this very spot. But like a shark, I suspected that if Antonelli didn’t keep hunting, he’d die.
“Mr. Morgan,” he said, without standing. “Perhaps we should get you a room in the house?”
He smiled.
“I’m joking of course. You’re very welcome. Please sit.”
He gestured to the chair opposite Luna’s, and it was hard not to be taken in by his genial host act. I found myself warming to the man again, despite everything I knew about him.
“What brings you out here this fine day?” he asked.
I opened my mouth to answer, but at that very moment my phone rang, vibrating in the hands of one of the men who’d brought me here.
“May I?” I asked Antonelli, and he nodded.
I took my phone and saw it was Justine calling.
“Hey,” I said when I answered.
“Jack, where have you been?”
“I was on the bike,” I replied. “Then I lost my phone for a while.”
“Stefano Trotta is dead,” she revealed. “Murder staged as suicide.”
I looked at Antonelli and wondered if he’d ordered the hit.
“I understand,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”
I hung up. As I slid the phone onto the table, Antonelli said, “Problem?”
I thought about playing dumb, but there was nothing to be gained.
“Stefano Trotta is dead,” I replied. “Murdered.”
Antonelli’s smile fell. Even the beige linen suit he wore seemed to darken as his face clouded over.
“You must be mistaken,” he said.
I shook my head. “My people don’t make mistakes about this kind of thing.”
He and Luna exchanged fearful glances.
“We should leave,” she said, and he nodded.
“Why? What do you have to be afraid of?” I asked.
Antonelli glared at me. “Is that why you’re here? Even after all you’ve seen and heard, you still think I’m behind this?”
He got to his feet and issued commands to his men.
We hurried around the house to the Land Rover. The tallest of the trio of bodyguards got behind the wheel and gunned the engine.
“Switch it off,” I said, as Antonelli and Luna climbed in the back.
The driver looked at Antonelli for confirmation. When his boss nodded, he killed the powerful engine.
I stood half in, half out of the car and strained to hear in the sudden silence. Then came the sound I hoped I’d imagined beneath the noise of the engine: the crack and pop of distant gunfire, likely silenced weapons. Someone was on their way to finish the old gangster, and I saw from their fearful expressions that Antonelli and Luna had heard the shooting too.
“Let’s go,” I said, jumping into the cab. “Now!”
The driver started the engine, stepped on the accelerator, and the powerful old SUV rolled out of the courtyard.
Chapter 94
We were racing along the track toward the estate boundary. The driver and another of Antonelli’s men were in the front. Antonelli, Luna and a third man were in the back, and I was in the trunk space on one of the bench seats, being bounced around over every rut and pothole.
“Who’s behind this?” I asked.
Antonelli turned to answer, but his breath became a gasp when dozens of bullets peppered the windshield, shattering it. I looked beyond him to see a team of men strafing the vehicle with machine-guns. They stood behind a low wall that had concealed them as we’d approached. My guess was the earlier gunshots had been the sound of them killing Antonelli’s perimeter guards.
“Get down!” I yelled, pushing him and Luna toward their footwells.