“You are being recorded and the footage is being streamed toa secure site on the Cloud,” I yelled. The last part was a lie, but there was no way they would be able to tell that. “Our colleagues know where we are and that we’ve come to see Elia Antonelli. If anything happens to us, you will be held responsible.”
Faduma lowered her window and shouted in Italian. I could tell she was giving the men her own version of my speech, and as their eyes adjusted, they edged back, keen to avoid being caught on camera.
“Drive on,” I advised, and Faduma started the engine and moved slowly along the track.
One of the men was on his phone but we couldn’t hear what he was saying. Soon we were past them and the car gathered speed as we headed toward the lights of the farmhouse a few hundred yards away. We bounced along the bumpy track, churning up dust that obscured the star-filled sky.
“That was brave of you,” Faduma remarked.
“Both of us were brave,” I said. “I took a calculated risk they would never shoot us on camera. Antonelli is too smart for that.”
Faduma nodded, but I sensed she wasn’t so sure.
She slowed as we entered a courtyard enclosed on two sides by a large barn and attached farmhouse. There were half a dozen cars in the yard, and a tall, skinny man in his mid-forties was making a dash for one of them: a gray Mercedes E-Class. When our headlights fell on him, he froze like a jackrabbit stunned by the dazzling glare. He turned away sheepishly, trying to hide his face before hurrying on to his car.
“That’s Stefano Trotta,” Faduma observed. “He’s a junior finance minister.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised Antonelli had links to government, but I was thrown to have caught an Italian minister of state openly consorting with a man implicated in so many deaths.
Trotta jumped in his car and sped past us, heading for the track.
As Faduma parked, I saw Antonelli lumber out of the farmhouse with Luna a couple of paces behind him.
“Mr. Morgan, Ms. Salah, this is a surprise,” he boomed as we stepped out of the car. “We were just having dinner.”
“Looks like your guest couldn’t wait to leave. I hope we didn’t intrude,” Faduma countered as we walked over.
Antonelli smiled. “Some people don’t like surprises as much as I do. Although I am annoyed.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“If you two can find me, so can my better-resourced competitors.”
“Don’t you mean enemies?” I suggested.
He shrugged. “It is what it is. I will have the men increase the frequency of their patrols and hope my competitors are not as effective as you two. Would you like to join Luna and me? There’s plenty of food.”
I glanced at Luna, who nodded and smiled at me.
“What do you think?” I asked Faduma. “Hungry?”
“Sure,” she replied, so we followed Luna and Antonelli inside.
CHAPTER48
ANTONELLI LED US through his family home. The interior seemed simpler than the house I had previously visited. This one seemed more comfortable, decorated to be lived in, rather than to impress with conspicuous displays of wealth. We walked through a sitting room filled with old furniture, including a couple of large well-worn couches that looked perfect for a lazy Sunday afternoon with a novel.
We went through a doorway into a stone-flagged dining room that contained an eighteen-place oak table and chairs. A couple of landscape paintings hung on one wall, and opposite them French doors opened onto a terrace overlooking the hillside.
A manservant was already setting another two places. As he finished and began to clear away the cutlery and plates from what I guessed must have been Trotta’s place, Elia Antonelli gestured to us.
“Please, have a seat.”
He took the chair at the head of the table, and Faduma and I sat at the newly laid places to his right while Luna returned to her seat to his left.
The servant offered us warm rolls from a basket on the serving table. We drizzled olive oil from a tiny silver jug onto our side plates and tore the rolls into pieces for dipping. I sprinkled mine with a little rock salt and glanced at Antonelli as I took a bite. He seemed deflated and distracted tonight, in stark contrast to the larger-than-life personality I’d first encountered.
“Are these made from your own wheat?” I asked, finishing my roll, which had tasted delicious and made me hungry for more.
