the boss isn’t going to be pleased.’
‘Better call him.’
‘I’m not doing it.
You
do it.’
The police officers combed the scene, torch beams darting this way and that like searchlights while radios popped and fizzled in the background. ‘Eh, Jean-Paul,’ said one, holding up a cracked Citroën grille badge he’d found lying in the dirt. ‘Bits of headlamp glass all over the place here,’ he added.
‘Train driver mentioned a Citroën 2CV,’ replied another.
‘Where’d it go?’
‘Not far, that’s for sure. Coolant everywhere.’
Two more officers were casting pools of torchlight around the inside of the limo. One of them spotted a small shiny object lying in the rear footwell. He took a ballpoint pen out of his pocket and used it to pick up the empty cartridge case. ‘Hello, what’s this? Nine-mil shell case.’ He sniffed at it, getting the scent of cordite. ‘Recently fired.’
‘Bag that.’
Another cop had found something, a business card lying on the seat. squinted at it in the glow of his Maglite. ‘Some foreign name.’
‘What d’you reckon happened here?’
‘Who knows?’
Twenty minutes later the police tow-truck arrived. By the swirl of blue and orange lights the battered Mercedes was hitched up and taken away, a police car in front and another bringing up the rear. The railway tracks were left in silent darkness.
16
Rome
The two men who had come for Giuseppe Ferraro at his home that night and driven him out of the city now escorted him up the grand stairway to the dome of the Renaissance villa. They had barely said a word to him all the way. They hadn’t needed to-Ferraro knew what this was about, and why the archbishop had sent for him. His knees were a little weak as he was shown into the dome and the door shut behind him. The enormous room was unlit apart from the starlight and moonbeams that streamed in through the many windows around its circumference.
Massimiliano Usberti was standing at a desk at the far end. He slowly turned to face Ferraro.
‘Archbishop, I can explain.’ Ferraro had been working on his story ever since the call had come through from Paris earlier that evening. He’d been expecting that Usberti would summon him to the villa-just not this soon. He began blurting out his excuses. He’d hired idiots who had let him down. It wasn’t his fault that the Englishman had got away. He was sorry, so sorry, and it wouldn’t happen again.
Usberti walked towards him across the room. He raised his hand in a gesture that silenced Ferraro’s frantic stream of apologies and excuses. ‘Giuseppe, Giuseppe-you do not need to explain,’ he said with a smile, putting his arm around the younger man’s shoulders. ‘We are all human. We all make mistakes. God forgives.’
Ferraro was amazed. This wasn’t the reception he’d expected. The archbishop led him over to a moonlit window. ‘What a glorious night,’ he murmured. ‘Do you not think so, my friend?’
‘...Yes, Archbishop, it is beautiful.’
‘Does it not make one feel so happy to be alive?’
‘It does, Archbishop.’
‘It is a privilege to live on God’s earth.’
They stood looking out of the window at the inky-black night sky. The stars were out in their millions, the moon was crystal-sharp and the Milky Way galaxy arched glittering and pearly over the Roman hills.
After a few minutes, Ferraro asked, ‘Archbishop, may I have your permission to leave now?’
Usberti patted him on the shoulder. ‘Of course. But before you go, I would like to introduce you to a good friend of mine.’
‘I am honoured, Archbishop.’
‘I called you here so that you could meet him. His name is Franco Bozza.’
Ferraro almost collapsed with shock at the words. ‘Bozza! The Inquisitor?’ Suddenly his heart was thudding at the base of his throat, his mouth was dry and he felt sick.
‘I see you have heard of my friend before,’ Usberti said. ‘He is going to take care of you now.’
‘What?
‘Better call him.’
‘I’m not doing it.
You
do it.’
The police officers combed the scene, torch beams darting this way and that like searchlights while radios popped and fizzled in the background. ‘Eh, Jean-Paul,’ said one, holding up a cracked Citroën grille badge he’d found lying in the dirt. ‘Bits of headlamp glass all over the place here,’ he added.
‘Train driver mentioned a Citroën 2CV,’ replied another.
‘Where’d it go?’
‘Not far, that’s for sure. Coolant everywhere.’
Two more officers were casting pools of torchlight around the inside of the limo. One of them spotted a small shiny object lying in the rear footwell. He took a ballpoint pen out of his pocket and used it to pick up the empty cartridge case. ‘Hello, what’s this? Nine-mil shell case.’ He sniffed at it, getting the scent of cordite. ‘Recently fired.’
‘Bag that.’
Another cop had found something, a business card lying on the seat. squinted at it in the glow of his Maglite. ‘Some foreign name.’
‘What d’you reckon happened here?’
‘Who knows?’
Twenty minutes later the police tow-truck arrived. By the swirl of blue and orange lights the battered Mercedes was hitched up and taken away, a police car in front and another bringing up the rear. The railway tracks were left in silent darkness.
16
Rome
The two men who had come for Giuseppe Ferraro at his home that night and driven him out of the city now escorted him up the grand stairway to the dome of the Renaissance villa. They had barely said a word to him all the way. They hadn’t needed to-Ferraro knew what this was about, and why the archbishop had sent for him. His knees were a little weak as he was shown into the dome and the door shut behind him. The enormous room was unlit apart from the starlight and moonbeams that streamed in through the many windows around its circumference.
Massimiliano Usberti was standing at a desk at the far end. He slowly turned to face Ferraro.
‘Archbishop, I can explain.’ Ferraro had been working on his story ever since the call had come through from Paris earlier that evening. He’d been expecting that Usberti would summon him to the villa-just not this soon. He began blurting out his excuses. He’d hired idiots who had let him down. It wasn’t his fault that the Englishman had got away. He was sorry, so sorry, and it wouldn’t happen again.
Usberti walked towards him across the room. He raised his hand in a gesture that silenced Ferraro’s frantic stream of apologies and excuses. ‘Giuseppe, Giuseppe-you do not need to explain,’ he said with a smile, putting his arm around the younger man’s shoulders. ‘We are all human. We all make mistakes. God forgives.’
Ferraro was amazed. This wasn’t the reception he’d expected. The archbishop led him over to a moonlit window. ‘What a glorious night,’ he murmured. ‘Do you not think so, my friend?’
‘...Yes, Archbishop, it is beautiful.’
‘Does it not make one feel so happy to be alive?’
‘It does, Archbishop.’
‘It is a privilege to live on God’s earth.’
They stood looking out of the window at the inky-black night sky. The stars were out in their millions, the moon was crystal-sharp and the Milky Way galaxy arched glittering and pearly over the Roman hills.
After a few minutes, Ferraro asked, ‘Archbishop, may I have your permission to leave now?’
Usberti patted him on the shoulder. ‘Of course. But before you go, I would like to introduce you to a good friend of mine.’
‘I am honoured, Archbishop.’
‘I called you here so that you could meet him. His name is Franco Bozza.’
Ferraro almost collapsed with shock at the words. ‘Bozza! The Inquisitor?’ Suddenly his heart was thudding at the base of his throat, his mouth was dry and he felt sick.
‘I see you have heard of my friend before,’ Usberti said. ‘He is going to take care of you now.’
‘What?
Similar Books
