Chapter 4

Eight minutes later in Rome, a Fiat 500 with a hand-lettered dashboard placard designating the largest ride-share company in the world rolled slowly along Corso Vittorio Emanuele. The driver craned his neck to his right and upwards, searching for the address that had been scribbled on the scrap of paper he held in in his hand, puzzling over the lack of signage on the doorways on both his left and right.

“Sei sicuro dell’indirizzo?” he inquired over his shoulder to the passenger sitting directly behind him.

“Si…it’s along here somewhere,” Carter Logan said, peering through the glass at the unmarked masonry structures offering no markings, no visible sign of an address anywhere—just closed shops, metal doors covered with graffiti rolled down to the sidewalk, signs announcing Tabacchi, Vendita, and VIP. Very Italian Pizza. “Uno cinquantaquattro—”

He knew very few words in Italian, and those he did speak came out horribly, like a rookie reading directly from a language translation app he’d downloaded onto his phone—which, in fact, he was.

“Si, si,” the driver replied, still studying the buildings with obvious frustration. They edged further down the block, then he finally said, “Ah... lo vedo,” using a free hand to point at a pair of dingy doors with weathered brass knockers on them. “Proprio qui.”

Logan’s cellphone translator program wasn’t equipped with voice recognition, but he thought he understood what the driver was telling him, hoping the guy wasn’t just trying to dump him on a random sidewalk in Rome, miles from his Air BnB, the night before the start of a global economic conference. Hundreds of government leaders, cabinet ministers, dignitaries, and groupies had descended on the city over the last forty-eight hours, and hotels and taxis had been scarce. He’d had to wait a good half hour for the summoned Fiat to show up at the thread-bare studio apartment for which he was being gouged unmercifully, and now he was late. Not appreciably so, but he didn’t want to keep the subject of his interview waiting unnecessarily. Not when the young man had already vocalized his reluctance to talk, and this might be the only chance for the two of them to meet.

“Uno cinquantaquattro,” the driver confirmed, pointing at the doorway to indicate they’d finally arrived at their destination

“Eccellente,” Logan said, reaching for the small briefcase on the seat beside him. “Grazie.”

“Prego.”

Logan typed “I’ll add a good tip” into the translator program, then relayed the words that appeared on the screen: “Aggiungo un buon consiglio.”

“No, no... questa è Roma,” the driver said. “Contanti.”

“What?”

The driver briskly rubbed his thumb against his other fingers, the global gesture for cash only. Logan hated to part with the paper money he’d picked up at a currency exchange stand at the airport just five hours ago, especially since he’d already lost fifty Euros to a ticket scammer at the Termini train station. He reluctantly pulled out his wallet and asked, “How much?”

The amount the driver quoted seemed way too much, but how could he quarrel? He peeled off more than he knew he should have and handed them over, then popped the chrome handle and began to push the door outward, into the street.

“No, no, signore,” the driver said, his voice animated as he gestured wildly with his hands. “Dovete uscire dall’altra parte.”

Logan had nowhere near the grasp of the language to understand what he was being told, never figuring the driver was explaining that he needed to exit the car on the sidewalk side, rather than directly into traffic. Ignorant to local customs and oblivious to the whine of a five-speed engine roaring up behind them, he thrust the door open as far as it would go.

At the same instant a speeding black motorcycle slammed into it, ripping it from its hinges in a scream of torn and twisted metal. The bike’s driver crashed head-first into the closed window, his forward momentum catapulting him through the air in a flailing somersault before he landed a good five yards in front of the Fiat, his unprotected skull striking the pavement with a nauseating thud.

Two other things happened at the same time, in one fluid movement. The Benelli TRK 502 X flipped onto its side and skidded into the crumpled and motionless rider, and an object that looked very much like a gun spiraled through the air and landed in the middle of the street, before skittering under the bumper of a parked Citroen.

“Idiota...cosa hai fatto,” the driver yelled, smacking the ceiling of his car with both fists, which were encased in brown fingerless gloves. “Scemo. Stronzo.”

Logan was out of the car in a flash, checking to make sure no other motor vehicles—cycles or automobiles—were bearing down on him. They weren’t. The cheap car door seemed to be hanging from one twisted hinge, and he made his way around it and rushed up to the fallen rider. The young man’s arms and legs were twisted at impossible angles, and the hoodie—no helmet—that encased his head was now soggy from an abundance of blood—and, probably, brains. The man had to be dead, but Logan didn’t dare touch him. He thought he detected an almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest, gasping for breath just once, but he couldn’t be certain.

There was nothing after that.

“Dio mio…Dio mio,” the Fiat driver screamed as he charged out from behind the wheel, arms waving wildly. “L’hai ucciso—”

Logan could only guess what the man was saying. “Holy shit—” he muttered to himself as he stared at the contorted side of what appeared to be the man’s lifeless face. He thought about touching a finger to his neck to check for a pulse, instead lifted his wrist and used his thumb to find any sign of life.

“Mio dio... l’hai fatto tu,” the driver blubbered as he rushed up, holding his hands to his head. “Mio dio.”

The polizia were on the scene within seconds. The first vehicle was an electric BMW i3 that raced up from behind the accident scene, from the same direction the motorcycle had been traveling. It seemed to Logan that the EV with the flashing blues must have already been chasing the speeding Benelli, and had just caught up to it.

The police car slowed and cut toward the curb as it approached the accident scene. As soon as it came to a stop, an officer jumped out from behind the wheel and ran up to where Logan was still crouched over the cyclist’s motionless body.

“Cos’è successo qua?” the police officer snapped. “Che cosa hai fatto?” What happened here…what did you do?

Logan had no idea what the uniformed man was saying, just shrugged and explained, “I’m American…I don’t speak Italian.”

The officer rolled his eyes and turned to the driver of the Fiat. “Come è successo?” he asked again, fewer words this time. Then he bent down, touched his fingers to the motorcycle rider’s throat, then shook his head. Deceduto.

The driver appeared not to know what to do. The man in the hoodie was dead, and by law he—Bruno Ricci—was responsible for his passenger’s actions. It was the American’s fault, of course, opening the door on the street side, but ultimately Ricci would be held accountable. An incident that ended in death could cause him to forfeit his license, cost him a hefty fine, and conceivably even land him in jail. All these possibilities seemed to tangle in his mind as he launched into a frantic explanation, wildly gesturing at Logan the entire time, laying the blame on the dumb-ass American tourist.

His words came out like water through a firehose and, at some point, the poliziotto spotted the gun lying on the pavement under the bumper of the parked Citroen. He edged over and crouched down, looked as if he might pick it up, but didn’t. Instead, he unclipped a radio from his belt and made a call for back-up, then rose to his feet and said, “Nessuno esce di scena.”

Logan assumed the cop—a word that didn’t translate well in the language program—was explaining that neither of them was to leave, not until back-up arrived. Which truly sucked, because by now he was more than just fashionably late for his appointment in the building right over there. It was an interview with a skittish source he’d spent weeks trying to arrange, a major story that would send shockwaves around the globe if it proved to be true. Emails and texts had flown back and forth across the Atlantic just to arrange this sit-down, and now it was at great risk of completely falling apart.

He typed a few words into his cellphone app, waited for the translation, then said to the officer, “Ho un appuntamento lì dentro.” He showed him the words on the screen, just in case there was any confusion. I have an appointment in there.

“Può aspettare,” the policeman replied. He snatched the device out of Logan’s hands and typed in his response, which translated to: It can wait.

As if to punctuate his words, another police vehicle raced up the street and braked to a halt. This one was a black Alfa Romeo Giulia, a swarm of blue lights flashing from the roof bar. Two officers got out and huddled with the first uniform on the scene, as well as the ride share driver named Ricci. They spent the next few minutes debating what had happened, focusing on how the biker had ended up dead on the pavement. A lot of accusations were hurled at Ricci, who angrily deflected them, and repeatedly pointed at Logan as he explained his version of the events. Eventually the three officers nodded, indicating they understood how this mishap might have occurred, and the discussion simmered down.

“Lo stupido Americano non parla Italiano,” Ricci said in an exasperated tone.

“Nessun problema,” one of the officers replied. “Parlo Inglese.” I speak English.

He then peeled himself away from the others, made his way over to where Logan was leaning against the fender of the mangled Fiat.

“You caused this?” the English-speaking officer asked as he approached.

“You speak English?” Logan replied, his nose catching an abundance of aftershave.

“Better than you speak Italian, from what I’m told,” he said. He was dressed in black trousers with blue shirt, two silver stars indicating his rank of tenente—lieutenant—in the Arma dei Carabinieri, the Italian national police force. He had clean-cut hair and sideburns, black cap on his head with a chromed metal badge and side buttons. He was a little under six feet, average weight for his height and still in solid shape, not enough time on the job yet to relax his diet or physical condition. A gun and several other tools of the profession were strapped to his belt. “Two years exchange with the Boston PD,” he added. “My cousin lives there.”

“Good,” Logan said. “I’m really late for an appointment, in that building.” He gestured at the double wooden door with the number 154 above it, the one that had contributed to this entire mess in the first place.

“Cancel it,” the tenente said. “You’re not going anywhere, not for a while.”

“But I have business—”

“In what language did you hear me make a request? I said ‘cancel it.’”

Cops, Logan thought. All the same the world over. “Yessir,” he said, then started to compose a text on his phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Sending a text.”

“I didn’t mean this very second,” the officer told him.

A brief stare-down followed, eventually ending with Logan slipping his phone back into his pocket.

“For the record, I’m Tenente Foschi,” the carabinieri introduced himself. He did not extend a hand to shake; this was not going to be that type of acquaintance. “The driver of the car you were riding in says you’re responsible for what happened here. An accident that resulted in the death of a man on a motorcycle.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Logan replied, his response sounding pathetic as the gravity of the situation began to sink in. He had made an impulsive error, opening a door on the wrong side of the car, and a man was dead because of it. The fact that said man appeared to have a gun in his possession seemed immaterial, at least at this point. “It was completely unintentional.”

“Yet the result is the same. Perhaps you can tell me what happened.”

Considering there was no real alternative—and now that his appointment was out of the question—Logan took a deep breath and looked the tenente in the eye.

“I’m here for the conference,” he said, meaning the G20. “Sort of a last-minute decision, and I had a bit of a problem finding a place to stay. Ended up getting a room out near the Catacombs.”

“Which catacombs?” Foschi asked. “There’s a lot of them.”

“Priscilla, I think,” Logn replied. “Anyway, the owner of the place I’m staying speaks a little English—her name is Maria—and when I told her I needed to be somewhere tonight, she arranged an Uber for me. Called a cousin of her husband’s, something like that, and he showed up.” He cocked his head in the direction of the driver. “I gave him a slip of paper with the address of where I was going on it, and he brought me here.”

“That Fiat is not an Uber,” Foschi said. “And that man is not an Uber driver.”

“What are you talking about? Maria said—” Logan’s voice trailed off, realizing his desperation to get a ride to his appointment had superseded his sense of judgment, particularly in a city he did not know and whose laws and customs he clearly had yet to fully appreciate.

“Uber is not the same here in Rome as it is in America,” Tenente Foschi said. “Taxi drivers are against it, so it is not allowed. Except Uber Black, which is expensive, with expensive vehicles. Audis, Alfa Romeos, BMWs. No Fiats. And let me guess—he demanded to be paid in cash, right?”

Fuck, Logan thought, taking great care to make sure he contained the word to his head. “He ripped me off—”

The officer lifted his shoulders in a shrug and said, “That is not the issue here. The issue is that a man is dead because of you. Passport, please.”

At which point the interrogation began. Really began. Dozens of questions came from the young carabinieri lieutenant, followed by countless more from the homicide investigators who eventually arrived on the scene. Their inquiry was direct, and to the point: When did Logan arrive in Rome? What was his business here? Why was he attending the G20?

He patiently explained he was a member of the media, a former reporter with the Washington Post who had left the venerable newspaper to write and edit a highly respected blog read by tens of thousands of people around the world. He was in Rome to add some color to the otherwise tedious politics of the global summit, provide a more human backstory to some of the major players who would be participating in the conference. The person he’d been planning to meet in the building right over there was a confidential source and no, even if they took him to jail, he would not reveal his or her identity.

When they finally were done with him, he was ordered to remain at the scene, standing on the sidewalk out of earshot of the polizia, whose words he could not hope to understand anyway. It was only then that he was allowed to send his text, in which he expressed his sincerest dismay that an incident had occurred and he was unexpectedly delayed. Maybe he could reschedule for tomorrow, at whatever time was most convenient.

Not surprisingly, no answer was immediately forthcoming.

The curb and sidewalk were too low for him to sit comfortably, so he found a tree to lean against while he watched the forensics team go to work. The two focal points of their scrutiny were the deceased victim and the weapon he appeared to have been carrying. From where Logan was standing it looked like some sort of military-grade pistol, the type he’d seen in action films where black ops soldiers rappelled from helicopters with guns firing hundreds of rounds a minute.

Several hours into the investigation, the body of the deceased cyclist finally was loaded into the back of a blue-and-white high-top van. A tow truck eventually arrived and the crumpled Fiat was winched onto its short flatbed, along with the mangled door, and it was allowed to depart, presumably to a location where additional examination would be conducted.

A little before midnight a black Maserati Quattroporte with tinted windows and no writing on the side glided up the street. Low and sleek, the sedan’s wheels thumped up onto the granite curb and came to a halt in the illuminated halo of a street lamp. It sat there for a moment before a woman wearing what appeared to be an official state uniform—blonde hair streaming out from beneath a matching black cap—emerged from behind the wheel. She circled around the front of the car, and when she approached the rear she hesitated just a fraction of a moment, then opened the door.

Street side, not curbside, Logan noticed.

A man in a long, dark coat climbed out, his commanding presence drawing immediate salutes—and respectful silence—from everyone present. The man returned their gestures—at ease—then made his way over to an officer who had three red-and-silver stars on his epaulet, and seemed to be in charge of the crime scene.

“Dov’è?” the man asked in a demanding tone suited to his apparent stature, both physical and authoritative.

A bit of confusion followed as the comandante in capo gestured at Logan, who knew just enough Italian to understand the response: “Quello è lui.” That’s him.

The government official clarified his question while shaking his head, saying, “No, no...intendo quello morto.”

That seemed to straighten things out: the man from the Quattroporte was looking for the deceased crash victim, not Logan. Not yet. The poliziotto cocked his head toward the coroner’s van and said, “Lì dentro. Seguimi.”

The Roman equivalent of an EMT opened the rear double doors, and the man in the overcoat climbed inside to take a look. Given his position across the street, Logan couldn’t see what was going on in there, but after a good fifteen seconds the man backed out and stood up, dusting off his threads. Then he gave a backhanded flip of his hand, and said, “Portalo via.”

The doors closed again, and a few seconds later the death wagon rolled away. No lights, no siren; the deceased man in the back was in no need of prompt medical attention.

Only after it had disappeared around the corner did the new arrival—he had to be some sort of cabinet-level minister or police chief—turn his attention to where Logan was standing. He shot him a long, hard look, then pointed directly at him and said to the nearest Carabinieri, “Viene con me.”

Come with me: three words that, no matter in what language they were spoken, did not sound encouraging in the least.