I fell into a restless sleep shortly after 1 a.m. Dreams and reality seemed to merge and fragmentary, disjointed recollections of the past few days filled my mind to a dance-beat soundtrack.
The thumping grew louder, although I woke to silence. Morning light edged the drapes and filled the room with a warm glow. There was more thumping, and I realized someone was knocking at the door. Groggy and slow, I staggered from bed fully clothed. I peered through the peephole to see a young man with a shaved head. He was casually dressed in shorts, a T-shirt, and slides.
I opened the door slowly and kept one foot behind it.
“Buongiorno,”the man said. “Valentina asked me to give you this.”
He handed me a cell phone.
“Ciao,”he said, hurrying away down the stairs.
“Grazie,”I called after him, before shutting the door.
The phone was on and fully charged. As I made my way into the living room, it rang.
“Hello?” I said.
“Mr. Morgan,” Valentina replied. “It seems we will have to be even more careful than I imagined. Meet me at Ponte Sant’Angelo at eleven.”
She didn’t wait for a reply but hung up. Her increased precautions could only mean she had learned something worrying about Luna’s abduction, and I was eager to know what it was. I checked my watch to find it was almost 9 a.m.
I showered and caught a cab into the center of Rome, whereI picked up new clothes. I wore a pair of black jeans, a black T-shirt and matching sneakers out of the boutique, and left my dirty, bloody blue suit in the changing room. I walked out of the store carrying a couple of replacement suits and some casual clothes in a large bag.
I reached Ponte Sant’Angelo ten minutes early and scanned my surroundings before setting foot on the historic bridge linking the north and south banks of the Tiber, just before a bend in the river. Constructed of stone and marble, the ancient crossing displayed statues of angels above its five arches.
When I was finally satisfied there was no obvious danger, I walked across and saw Valentina coming the other way. She wore a beautiful yellow shift dress, and to untrained eyes, we might have looked like lovers meeting for a date. When we finally reached the center of the bridge we were surrounded by crowds of tourists.
“I found out who owns the van used to take the cop,” she told me. “It belongs to an orange-juice manufacturer located in Poli that is a subsidiary of a chain of companies ultimately owned by Elia Antonelli.”
“Why would he abduct his own daughter?” I asked.
Valentina was surprised by the revelation. “His daughter?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Mo-bot told me last night.”
“Wow,” Valentina remarked. “That I wasn’t expecting. I have no idea why he would take his own family, but I do know this is a very dangerous man and his people are not to be toyed with.”
I nodded. “I understand. Where can I find him?”
“Antonelli lives on a big estate near San Vittorino to the eastof Rome,” she said, handing me a piece of paper. “Here’s the address.”
“Thank you,” I responded.
“You have my number if you need anything,” she said. “Only use the phone I sent you. Everything else must be considered compromised.”
She turned abruptly and walked away. I watched her go before unfolding the piece of paper she’d given me. As I gazed at the unfamiliar address, I wondered what dangers I would encounter there.
CHAPTER27
THE AFTERNOON SUN made everything look perfect. The leaves on the olive trees were a deep green-gray, the sky sapphire blue, even the brown grass growing long in fallow fields took on an eye-catching golden hue. My taxi was on a quiet single-lane road winding its way up the valley that led to Casape, the nearest village to Antonelli’s vast estate.
According to local tourism websites, the village had a population of less than a thousand people and was close to a number of World Heritage Sites. It had a rich history that wove legend with fact, drawing on stories of past kings and princes of Italy and popes of Rome. This was a place with a strong identity and an ancient connection to power. I could understand why a man like Antonelli would choose it as his base.
I had the taxi driver cruise by the main entrance, which featured a sandstone guard house beside two high cast-iron gates.Ten-foot-tall stone walls stretched in either direction and were topped with serrated metal fangs designed to discourage all but the most determined intruders. As we drove on, heading east along the valley, I saw security cameras mounted on posts to either side of the wall, some pointing into the estate, others facing the road. This was a tight operation.
I asked the driver, a young Syrian who’d spent the journey telling me in broken English how much he loved Italy, to turn onto a narrow track that wound down the hillside opposite the estate. When we were out of sight of the road, I instructed him to stop, and offered him a 100-euro bonus if he’d wait thirty minutes. He accepted gratefully. As I stepped into the afternoon heat and started up the hill, I glanced back to see him recline his seat and turn his radio up.
I crossed the deserted road and went through some dry scrub. The estate wall was farther back from the road here, hidden by parched trees and bushes. There were cameras, but I didn’t care; I wanted them to see me.
