“And you believe her?” Faduma asked.
“I’m starting to think I can’t believe anyone.”
“Now you’re thinking like a Roman! Honesty and truthfulness are not absolutes here. They are cultural constructs. Rome, particularly in certain sections of society, has always maintained a flawed relationship with the truth, because this city is built on power, and sometimes truth is its enemy.”
“Trust no one—is that it?” I asked, and she nodded.
“It’s a good place to start, but you’ll still find yourself trustingpeople. We like to think the best of others. It is both a strength and a weakness of our species.”
She paused by the column of San Lorenzo, and I looked up at the statue of the martyr standing atop the red granite plinth.
“I might have brought you into an ambush,” she said, and I was suddenly alert. But when I looked at those bright, keen eyes in her open, ingenuous face, I received no hint of danger. “I didn’t, of course, but it’s an example of how easily you can place your trust in people. Just as I’m going to trust you now.”
She hesitated for a moment before producing a large envelope from the bag slung over her shoulder.
“These are reports of the deaths of eight priests.” She handed me the envelope and I flipped through the contents to see photographs, newspaper articles, and police reports. “You’ve earnt my trust by seeing Luna for what she really is.”
“I don’t knowingly collaborate with criminals,” I assured her. “I’m honest. Maybe too honest.”
She nodded. “Good. Let’s hope it stays that way. This is what I’ve been investigating. I think someone has been murdering priests but I don’t know why.”
“Was Father Brambilla the most recent victim?” I asked.
“I think so.”
“Anything that connects them?” I asked.
“Other than they’re all priests?” She shook her head again. “But the only other person I went to with this dossier was Filippo Lombardi the prosecutor. Three days before he was killed.”
My stomach churned.
“I think he started making inquiries into what happened tothese men of the Church,” Faduma said. “I think the inquiry got him killed, which is sad because I know he was a good man.”
“How?” I asked.
“If he had not been, he would have passed on my name and by now I would be dead too.”
CHAPTER32
I LEFT FADUMA at the cemetery and caught a cab to Ostia. I had the driver stop a few blocks from Amr’s cell-phone store and covered the rest of the journey on foot.
The streets were full of people here to experience the nightlife—gangs of youths stalking for easy prey; hollow-eyed addicts lurking in the shadows. The summer night was buzzing with the sounds of busy bars and clubs, and ripe with the smells emanating from the fast-food joints.
I checked I wasn’t being followed before I turned onto Via Orazio dello Sbirro, where I saw the phone shop blazing brightly with its gaudy signs and lights in the windows. I walked past, took out the keys Amr had given me, and went through the archway that split the terrace. I hurried along the alleyway beyond, crossed the yard, and climbed the metal steps to the front door. I made one last check that there were no hostile eyes on me and went inside.
The place was as I’d left it. I took out my phone as I went into the living area and moved one of the chairs to the window so I could keep an eye on the street outside while I made a video call to Justine.
“Jack,” she said when she answered. She was in her office on the fifth floor of Private’s Los Angeles headquarters and sitting in one of the armchairs by the window, so I could make out the sun-soaked city skyline behind her. I missed home, but I missed her more. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I replied. “I’m in the thick of something here.”
I shared what I’d learned from Faduma about the dead priests, and what Luna had told me about the Dark Fates.
“I need you to check out a guy called Milan Verde. He’s the leader of the gang. I’m also going to send you the details of the dead priests. Look for any connection between them and Milan Verde, or any of his associates.”
Private didn’t have the NSA’s network analysis capabilities, which were so good they could tell whether you’d stayed at the same hotel as someone three years ago, but Mo-bot had developed some pretty sophisticated data-mining tools and, even more importantly, had the right contacts to get the information we needed if her own systems drew a blank. If the priests were linked outside the Church or were connected to Milan Verde or his gang, we would find out.
“We’ll get right on it,” Justine replied. “What are you doing now?”
