“You don’t look intelligent, but we shouldn’t judge others on their appearance,” Faduma responded, finding the reserves of courage that had never yet failed her.
The reply played well with the man’s companions and drew a louder chuckle, but on finding himself the butt of the joke, the smoker scowled and lumbered closer to her. He sported a gray T-shirt bearing the image of a screaming white skull and wore his loose jeans hitched low.
“It’s a private bar,” he said, reaching out and putting an intimidating ham-sized hand on her shoulder.
She looked at his fat, scarred fingers as they squeezed.
“That’s assault,” Faduma said calmly. She produced a stun gun from her purse, drove it into the man’s ribs, and pulled the trigger.
He fell to the ground, convulsing, and she stepped clear and addressed his companions.
“I just want a drink and to use the ladies’ room.”
Their chuckles and smiles had vanished. A couple of them hurried over to help their fallen companion, but no one did anything to stop Faduma entering the bar.
She felt the powerful air blanket on the top of her head and walked on, sensing the stir her arrival had caused. As she moved toward the counter, conversation stopped and soon the only sound was the angry screeching of death metal blaring through the bar’s sound system. A muted television hanging on the wall showed the kickoff of the Roma—Inter match.
“I’d like a beer,” Faduma said to the unfriendly barman. “And the ladies’ room.”
He stared at her for a moment before nodding toward a corridor to her right.
She put twenty euros on the counter and walked in thedirection he’d indicated. When she reached the corridor, she slipped her hand into her purse and took out the drone, which flew away silently. She reached for the ladies’ room door handle, but it was opened from the inside and Faduma was confronted by a woman wearing too much eyeliner and mascara, and a vintage Led Zeppelin T-shirt. She looked taken aback for a moment.
“Who the hell are you? You’re not coming in here. This is a private bathroom. Move.”
The woman pushed Faduma, who this time didn’t react. She’d done what she needed to do and allowed herself to be marched through the bar by the angry, over-made-up rocker. A man held the door open, gave a mocking bow, and the whole bar erupted in cheers as Faduma was thrown out.
Even though she’d acquiesced in this treatment, she walked away full of anger and thoughts of vengeance against such narrow-minded, hateful people. She could hear their raucous laughter and chatter above the pounding music.
She glanced back at the group of smokers who’d now managed to revive the man she’d stunned. Faduma moved more quickly to avoid any attempt at retribution.
Adrenaline coursing, heart pounding, she sighed with relief when she rejoined Sci in the Maserati.
“You were brilliant,” he said. “So brave.”
She almost teared up at his kind words, but swallowed the lump forming in her throat.
“And look,” he said, gesturing at the screen on the remote control. “This is the view inside Milan Verde’s office.”
Faduma glanced over and saw Verde sitting on a couch. In thearmchair next to him was a man she recognized: Stefano Trotta, the finance minister she had briefly encountered at Elia Antonelli’s farm.
“What’s he saying?” Sci asked.
Faduma listened to Trotta’s words.
“He’s saying they have nearly achieved their goals,” she replied, translating. “That their friend and patron is close to reaching his objective.”
Faduma couldn’t help feeling they were talking about Antonelli, and that the seasoned gangster had once again played her and Jack Morgan for fools.
She settled in to see what else the drone would reveal about these evil men.
CHAPTER84
IT WAS ONE minute after ten when I arrived at the Basilica di San Giovanni in Laterano, a magnificent place of worship less than a mile from the Colosseum. Situated at the heart of a large piazza, the grand building, described as the Mother of All Churches, stood more than four stories high. Thick marble columns supported a portico adorned with statues of the saints.
I walked beyond the metal railings that were used for crowd control during the day and went through an open gate to access the portico. The sign by the main entrance said the church should be long closed, but the door gave under my touch. When I entered, I found the interior was illuminated by lights set into the stone cornicing halfway up the magnificently decorated walls. The floor was as beautiful as any I’d ever seen, an intricate black-and-white pearlescent tile pattern, and the ceiling was embossed with gold reliefs. Marble statues set in arched nicheslined the walls. Beyond the pews, directly in line with the main entrance, stood the high altar.
I crossed the grand floor and moved down the central aisle, unable to shake the feeling I was being watched, though I saw nothing untoward as I scanned the ancient church to left and right of me. I made my way to the altar, but there was no sign of Altmer seated in the nearby pews or hidden in the shadows farther away.
