and beyond, they lay hidden beneath the parched ground, revealed only by the accident of the plow or the probing of some fortunate archaeologist, part of a lost world never tobe fully rediscovered. Just a fraction of ancient Etruria had been retrieved, faded, distant hints of the Greek civilization that gave Rome everything—the olive and the grape, the Olympian gods, the makings of the Latin alphabet—receiving in return only oblivion. The lives captured in the wall paintings of their tombs—so vibrant, so real, so human—seemed nothing now but the distant, wasted dreams of the dead.
There was a long, oval pool at the front of the villa. A brief expanse of scrappy lawn was cut into the wilderness, filled with fake classical statuary and carefully tended topiary figures of gods and mythical beasts. Every time Petrakis looked at it, he wanted to laugh. The feature that did impress him was a narrow landing strip running east-west in the adjoining field, with a set of electric landing lights and a hangar by the side. He’d made sure they could use that, and that the gardener would be told to stay away for the duration of their visit. One week before, under cover of darkness, he had landed there from Corsica in a two-seater composite microlight, laden with materials that would have been dangerous to obtain in Italy by other means, and with the man who had provided them in the passenger seat. It had taken fifty minutes in the moonlight, navigating by GPS, skimming the sea to stay beneath the coastal radar, climbing to two thousand feet after the coast, then cutting the engine and gliding to land on the hard, dry grass line etched out by the landing lights. The machine now sat safe and hidden inside the hangar, ready for use another day.
Rome was less than eighty kilometers away, accessible through a variety of means. The coastal highway was the swiftest and most perilous. He preferred the back roads, skirting all the main towns, then leading to what was once the Via Claudia, close to Bracciano and its great lake, northwest of the capital. The circuitous route took twice as long, but Petrakis had insisted they return that way the previous day. It was a sound precaution; by late afternoon random checks were in place on every main road. On the narrow country lanes they never saw so much as a police or Carabinieri car. There was a personal dimension too. The Via Claudia was built by Nero, stretching across the Alps into what was now Austria, a conduit through which to subdue the fractious tribes of Europe. Every time he followed in the footsteps of those distant legions, he was reminded of what Rome had always represented.
It was a cloudless sunny morning, hot even at eight. A single jet wheeled high overhead on the approach to Fiumicino or Ciampino. Not for much longer. He’d watched the TV avidly since rising at dawn, happy to hear his own name mentioned alongside a photofit cobbled up from a few old images, one that would help no one. The airports would close later that morning. Road restrictions were coming into force throughout the city. Rome would slowly become paralyzed by its own fear, watched over by menacing guard posts, snipers on balconies, secret-service officers mingling with the mute and angry people on the streets. The authorities were advising that only those with essential duties should report to work. Shop staff and office workers knew what that meant: They were supposed to stay at home and lose three or four days’ pay. The unions were threatening to strike, a response that seemed peculiarly Roman.
Andrea Petrakis completed his seventh length of the pool, then hiked himself up onto the tiled perimeter by the steps and looked back at the villa. They would be visible from the nearest house, a farm a kilometer away. That made him happy. He wanted to maintain the appearance they’d given since their arrival. In the local shops, buying bread and wine, outside in the garden, by the pool, they could have been
There was a long, oval pool at the front of the villa. A brief expanse of scrappy lawn was cut into the wilderness, filled with fake classical statuary and carefully tended topiary figures of gods and mythical beasts. Every time Petrakis looked at it, he wanted to laugh. The feature that did impress him was a narrow landing strip running east-west in the adjoining field, with a set of electric landing lights and a hangar by the side. He’d made sure they could use that, and that the gardener would be told to stay away for the duration of their visit. One week before, under cover of darkness, he had landed there from Corsica in a two-seater composite microlight, laden with materials that would have been dangerous to obtain in Italy by other means, and with the man who had provided them in the passenger seat. It had taken fifty minutes in the moonlight, navigating by GPS, skimming the sea to stay beneath the coastal radar, climbing to two thousand feet after the coast, then cutting the engine and gliding to land on the hard, dry grass line etched out by the landing lights. The machine now sat safe and hidden inside the hangar, ready for use another day.
Rome was less than eighty kilometers away, accessible through a variety of means. The coastal highway was the swiftest and most perilous. He preferred the back roads, skirting all the main towns, then leading to what was once the Via Claudia, close to Bracciano and its great lake, northwest of the capital. The circuitous route took twice as long, but Petrakis had insisted they return that way the previous day. It was a sound precaution; by late afternoon random checks were in place on every main road. On the narrow country lanes they never saw so much as a police or Carabinieri car. There was a personal dimension too. The Via Claudia was built by Nero, stretching across the Alps into what was now Austria, a conduit through which to subdue the fractious tribes of Europe. Every time he followed in the footsteps of those distant legions, he was reminded of what Rome had always represented.
It was a cloudless sunny morning, hot even at eight. A single jet wheeled high overhead on the approach to Fiumicino or Ciampino. Not for much longer. He’d watched the TV avidly since rising at dawn, happy to hear his own name mentioned alongside a photofit cobbled up from a few old images, one that would help no one. The airports would close later that morning. Road restrictions were coming into force throughout the city. Rome would slowly become paralyzed by its own fear, watched over by menacing guard posts, snipers on balconies, secret-service officers mingling with the mute and angry people on the streets. The authorities were advising that only those with essential duties should report to work. Shop staff and office workers knew what that meant: They were supposed to stay at home and lose three or four days’ pay. The unions were threatening to strike, a response that seemed peculiarly Roman.
Andrea Petrakis completed his seventh length of the pool, then hiked himself up onto the tiled perimeter by the steps and looked back at the villa. They would be visible from the nearest house, a farm a kilometer away. That made him happy. He wanted to maintain the appearance they’d given since their arrival. In the local shops, buying bread and wine, outside in the garden, by the pool, they could have been
Similar Books
