I walked the line of the wall until I found a gnarly old sycamore tree with a branch that curled over the top. I scaled the tree, climbed along the branch until I’d cleared the wall, and jumped onto the hard earth on the other side.
There were more trees and bushes, but I could see them peter out about a hundred yards away, so I jogged toward the thinning tree line. As I picked my way over roots, through dappled sun and shade, I saw long rows of olive trees planted on the other side of the forest. The trees’ crooked branches, outlined against the crystal-clear sky, looked so old they might have stood therefor centuries. It seemed Antonelli owned an ancient piece of heaven.
When I reached a break in the trees, I saw his home high above the olive groves, a massive sandstone farmhouse with a red-tile roof. I started toward it, but only managed to get halfway across the strip of grass separating the shelter belt from the olive trees when an open-topped Jeep roared over a rise to my left, and a man standing on the rear seat wielding an assault rifle yelled something at me before taking aim. I didn’t need a translator to know I was meant to freeze.
I complied and raised my hands. The off-roader rumbled to a halt beside me. There were three other men in the vehicle. Two of them jumped out and manhandled me onto the flatbed, where I was forced onto a bench seat with one of them either side of me.
The guy with the gun spoke to the driver and the Jeep swung a U-turn before heading up the hill toward the farmhouse. I looked at my captors, all hard men in matching gray camo T-shirts and khaki pants. My bold intrusion had given me an insight into Antonelli’s security. These were clearly ex-military, well trained and professional. There was no chest-beating or bravado, just a calm, quiet assertion of their power over me.
We stopped in a graveled yard that was full of luxury cars. A couple of Range Rovers, a Ferrari, a Mercedes SLS, and a Lamborghini were all parked in front of a large garage.
I was pulled from the Jeep and marched around onto a broad terrace running behind the huge old house. The view of the valley, dotted with ancient villas and covered by olive and citrus groves, was magnificent, but my eyes didn’t linger on the vista.Instead they were drawn to Elia Antonelli, a middle-aged man with neatly trimmed gray hair. He wore a white tailored shirt and beige slacks. He studied me, calmly and confidently, while I tried to conceal my surprise on recognizing his companion.
Seated next to him, informally dressed in a short green summer shift, was Rome police inspector Luna Colombo. His daughter.
She had the decency to look sheepish as she met my gaze.
“Benvenuto,Mr. Morgan,” Antonelli said. “We’re just about to eat. Won’t you join us?”
CHAPTER28
LUNA SPOKE SOME angry words in Italian to him and Antonelli shrugged.
“My daughter refused to accept my offer of protection, so I was forced to take direct action to bring her here,” he explained. “She says I must apologize to you, and of course she is right. I should not have involved you in our family squabble.”
Antonelli spoke to my captors. They backed away to take sentry positions in the shade of the terrace, standing close by the wide French doors.
“Please, Mr. Morgan, have a seat.”
Antonelli gestured to the chair opposite his. The table was laden with antipasti, artisan breads, bottles of water, and one of rosé wine in a cooler. Solid silver cutlery gleamed against the pressed, starched tablecloth, and crystal glassware sparkled in the sunshine. A manservant in a white shirt andmatching trousers moved a huge parasol to cast the table into shade.
“Please do join us, Jack,” Luna said. “My father isn’t entirely monstrous.”
I took the chair being offered and settled into my seat.
“Bread? Olives?” Antonelli said. “The flour is milled here on the estate and the olives are from the trees you can see on the hillside. You will not find finer anywhere in the world.”
He didn’t wait for an answer but spooned huge green olives and their oil onto my porcelain plate.
I poured some balsamic vinegar around them and took a crust of bread from the basket.
“You will doubtless have done your research,” Antonelli went on, “and reached an opinion of me and my nature. Your research will be incomplete and your opinions improperly formed.”
I soaked up some oil and vinegar with the bread and took a bite.
“For example, do you think a villain could make such beautiful olive oil?” he asked. “It is the finest you have tasted, is it not?”
“It’s very good,” I replied, following the mouthful with an olive. “These too.”
“Very good? This is what you would say to an artist?” Antonelli scoffed. “It is excellent, Mr. Morgan. Perfection even.”
“My father is very proud of his produce,” Luna said.
“Of course,” Antonelli interjected. “It comes from the earth and good earth is tended by good people. It cannot be otherwise. The fruits of evil taste as such.”
“My research would suggest bitter fruit in that case,” I replied.
“Which is why I said your research would be incomplete,” Antonelli responded. “A caricature. Take my daughter, for example. You will most likely have assumed she keeps our connection secret to advance my interests.”
