It was Christian Altmer, Joseph Stadler’s executive assistant, the man Justine had flagged as having something to hide. My mind raced, wondering what a respectable banker was doing in the lair of one of the most dangerous gangs in Rome.
CHAPTER73
WHATEVER ALTMER WAS doing at the Inferno Bar, neither he nor Milan Verde wanted anyone to know about it. The brutal gang leader came in a couple of minutes after Altmer arrived, greeted him like an old friend, put an arm around his shoulders and shepherded him outside.
Milan returned fifteen minutes later, alone.
There was nothing else in the footage, and for a while Faduma and I puzzled over the incident with Altmer.
“You think they’re laundering funds through the Vatican Bank?” she asked.
“That’s a step up for a street gang,” I replied.
“Or a step down for a bank,” she countered. “Some institutions are desperate for liquidity though.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But what I do find interesting is that this meeting took place after Mo-bot, Sci and Justine were takeninto custody. Did they know they were being watched at this point? Were they counting on being able to delete the footage before Justine and the others were released?”
Faduma shrugged, but I couldn’t help feeling the heat of anger building within me. I considered the prospect that someone working for a client might have set us up for arrest or worse.
Faduma stretched. “I’m going to sleep,” she said. “My place is probably too dangerous, so I’ll take a bedroom if that’s okay?”
I nodded. “Of course.”
She got to her feet and headed along the corridor toward the bedrooms. I stared at the image of Altmer, puzzling over the man and his intentions until finally, in the early hours, bereft of answers, my anger smoldering, I fell asleep.
The following morning, I woke on the couch, the computer in sleep mode, the rising sun shining brilliantly through the large windows, the river shimmering beyond.
I stood, stretched, and walked along the corridor to the bedrooms. The doors were all open and there was no sign of Faduma, although the bedclothes in the middle room looked to have been slept in.
I heard a noise coming from behind me and crept into the living room to discover her coming in from the main warehouse. She was holding a large paper bag packed with groceries.
“I got some breakfast,” she said, placing the bag on the table.
She started pulling out juice cartons, pastries, and spreads.
“I was thinking about Christian Altmer,” she said. “How would you like the chance to talk to him?”
CHAPTER74
ROME IS FULL of mysteries that extend beyond the metaphysical into the physical. How did the emperors and senators flee from a siege and escape to their homes in the provinces? Or the old Renaissance families hide from civil unrest?
Secret tunnels like the one linking Basilica di Santa Maria in Montesanto and Chiesa Santa Maria dei Miracoli, the church where Father Carlos had died, run beneath the city like veins, a physical manifestation of the intrigue and mystery that has been the city’s lifeblood for centuries.
Faduma and I took a taxi from Ostia to Via Angelo Emo, a busy street a few blocks from the western edge of Vatican City. She led me past shops and offices until we reached the mouth of Via Giovanni Secchi, a narrow side street that bent sharply before running east. We followed it past a line of modern five-story apartment blocks until we came to a dead end. The streetwas fringed by thick greenery; bushes and trees packed tightly together beneath the ancient Fornaci Viaduct, a tall, multi-arched brick causeway that ran toward Vatican City.
Faduma guided me through the thick mass of undergrowth and I thought I could discern the faintest of paths as we pushed on. Suddenly we came to a clearing beneath the viaduct, a stretch of stone under one of the arches. It looked like a storm drain and followed the line of the viaduct above us. Faduma turned into it, heading toward the brick column that formed one side of the arch we were standing in. When we got closer, I realized it was a freestanding wall, designed to look like part of the arch, and that there was in fact a one-foot gap between the wall and the viaduct structure. As we edged into the gap, I saw granite steps leading into the ground, beyond the line of the viaduct, past the foundations. When we reached the bottom of the steps, we found an ancient cobblestone well capped with a manhole cover.
We were about sixteen feet below ground level, and the area around the well was cool, damp, and shaded. Moss grew on the walls and the stone beneath our feet was wet. Faduma knelt down and brushed away some drifts of leaves to reveal cobblestones interspersed between the big flagstones. She counted three stones across and one up, then applied pressure to it. The stone gave under her touch. As it dropped, the manhole cover rose and I realized it was on a runner. I pulled it round, revealing a spiral staircase.
Faduma went down it and found a light switch. I followed, closing the manhole cover as she brought a row of lights to life.When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I peered along a narrow gray stone tunnel that felt as old as the city itself.
“How did you know about this?” I asked.
“I’ve been smuggled into the Vatican in the past,” she replied. “When the Church wanted a favorable view of the restitution it made to victims of abuse. I didn’t give them the puff piece they were looking for, but the route they used to smuggle me in is something I’ve never forgotten.”
I shrank inside a little at this mention of one of the great crimes of history, and one of the reasons my faith had waned.
“They did not want to be seen consorting with someone who had been so outspoken in criticizing the Church, which was why they brought me this way.”
