“The loss of Signor Altmer,” Faduma explained. “It must be a blow.”
“It is,” Stadler replied. “It has been very difficult. Thank you.”
“Do go on, Your Eminence,” Faduma said.
Cardinal Peralta nodded.
“I was not entirely honest with Jack Morgan. I sit on the board of this bank and have suspected for some time that it is being used by someone to launder money.”
“Someone?” Justine asked.
“Criminals,” he replied. “I have been studying the employees and my fellow clergy who perform various functions here, looking for clues to what’s happening.”
“And what have you learnt?” Faduma asked.
“Christian Altmer was doing business with a man called Milan Verde,” Cardinal Peralta revealed. “I believe Verde works for an organized crime figure called Elia Antonelli.”
Justine shot Faduma a look of concern. Cardinal Peralta had just confirmed her worst fears about the man Jack was on his way to confront.
“After Signor Altmer died, we discovered secret records that show money being transferred to criminal and extremist groups around the world. Money that seems to have originated from Milan Verde, and ultimately, I suspect, Elia Antonelli.”
“Can you show us these records?” Justine asked.
“Of course,” Cardinal Peralta replied, getting to his feet. “Follow me.”
CHAPTER93
AMR BADAWI HAD rustled up a Kawasaki KX250 dirt bike painted lime green. I rode in jeans, a leather jacket, and an opaque helmet so I wouldn’t be recognized on the streets of Rome. I kept to the speed limit throughout the city but pushed the bike once I was in the tinder-dry hills. As I roared round the broad sweeping bends that took me toward Casape, I reflected on Antonelli and wondered whether I’d misjudged the man. A mob boss had to be a consummate liar and cheat, he had to mask his intentions and dispose of people without hesitation. Why had I been taken in by the guy?
I turned off the winding lane, onto the track that led to Antonelli’s old family farm. When I reached the low stone wall that demarcated the boundary, I saw a new squad of guards who waved me down. Brandishing their weapons like a platoon of twitchy mercenaries, they made me remove my helmet and confiscated my bike, wallet, keys, and phone.
My heart thundered but I didn’t think they would harm me, not without Antonelli’s explicit approval. My instincts proved to be right. Soon an old Land Rover Defender roared up and I was pushed onto the back seat and driven up to the farmhouse.
I was taken round the back of the old building to the grand terrace, where Luna and Antonelli sat drinking coffee. The view of rows of olive trees rolling across the valley was simply beautiful. If I’d had his resources, I’d have retired to spend the rest of my days in this very spot. But like a shark, I suspected that if Antonelli didn’t keep hunting, he’d die.
“Mr. Morgan,” he said, without standing. “Perhaps we should get you a room in the house?”
He smiled.
“I’m joking of course. You’re very welcome. Please sit.”
He gestured to the chair opposite Luna’s, and it was hard not to be taken in by his genial host act. I found myself warming to the man again, despite everything I knew about him.
“What brings you out here this fine day?” he asked.
I opened my mouth to answer, but at that very moment my phone rang, vibrating in the hands of one of the men who’d brought me here.
“May I?” I asked Antonelli, and he nodded.
I took my phone and saw it was Justine calling.
“Hey,” I said when I answered.
“Jack, where have you been?”
“I was on the bike,” I replied. “Then I lost my phone for a while.”
“Stefano Trotta is dead,” she revealed. “Murder staged as suicide.”
