“No name,” said the monk once more, “but you…you call him”—here he paused, as if struggling to pronounce a difficult word; then he mouthed three syllables—“mo-see-nor.”
Simon left fifteen minutes later. The car he drove belonged to Steve. The phone in his pocket belonged to Steve’s secretary. An impromptu collection had netted ten thousand baht. All were to be returned or repaid at his earliest convenience. All except the blessing the monk, Chamron, had bestowed upon him. That was Simon’s to keep forever.
Chapter 32
Rome
Luca Borgia gazed out of the window of the Mercedes saloon, bile rising in his gorge as the car turned on the Via del Colosseo and drove past the Colosseum. Traffic was worse than he remembered, and it was not yet tourist season. He knew the reason, at least one of them. It was right there in front of him, bold as day.
Near the Forum, an encampment of Africans and Arabs occupied a stretch of sidewalk and spilled onto the street. There were a hundred of them, at least, dark-skinned, shabbily dressed, loitering in and about a tent village. A souk in Rome.
A bunch had gathered around a fire burning in a garbage can, all seething glares and silent threats, roasting who knew what. A gang of miscreants if ever there was one. Even with the windows up, the foul smells penetrated the car.
Borgia knew all too well about the “Jungle” outside Calais where migrants had built a crude frontier town while hoping to cross the Channel and take up residence in England, and about the squatters in Paris who’d taken over entire neighborhoods. There had been riots in Germany. In Germany…where the government had practically laid out a red carpet for them, white-glove treatment and all. “Excuse me, Farouk, would you like one lump or two?”
Now, with detention camps filled to bursting in the south of the country, it had come to Rome. By “it” he meant the specter of unchecked immigration, though “specter” was a poor word to describe the chaotic free-for-all overwhelming his country’s borders. “Catastrophe” was more like it.
He looked away. Italy had enough problems with Italians, he thought with a laugh. The last thing the country needed was more fodder for the unemployment lines and welfare rolls. More empty hands, open mouths, and idle minds. His concerns, though, went beyond the economy. He could not stand by idly and see his country’s rich patrimony destroyed.
And here…in Rome, the eternal city.
Borgia curled his fists. Rome, home to Caesar and Cicero, Michelangelo and Masaccio, Cavour and Victor Emmanuel, first king of a united Italy. The cradle of Christianity…of Western art, culture, literature…if anyone cared a whit about those things any longer. Dante would have something to say about all this. He knew a thing or two about damnation and the journey to the gates of hell.
The Mercedes came to a halt at the entry to the Hassler. He climbed out and told the driver to be ready in an hour. He buttoned his jacket, gazing down at the Spanish Steps, the Fontana della Barcaccia, over the tiled rooftops. He imagined a minaret towering alongside Saint Peter’s.
Never.
“Luca!”
Borgia turned to see a stocky, bearded man, in a poorly fitting suit, hand raised in greeting.
“Ah, Bruno, am I late?”
“It is I,” said Bruno Melzi, Italy’s minister of the interior and leader of the Italian right-wing Forza Nuova party.
The men entered the hotel salon and found a table in the far corner where they could speak freely. A waiter arrived and they ordered espresso and cornetti.
“It is out of control,” said Borgia, dispensing with the usual pleasantries. “I tell you I almost took action myself. Bruno, what has become of our country?”
“You passed the encampment by the Forum,” said Melzi, who had been a professor of engineering before entering politics.
“On our sidewalks. I saw a flag. A crescent and star.”
“You are surprised? What have I been preaching about all these years?”
“They are defecating on our sidewalks. Shitting on our historic streets. It’s gone too far.”
“We are doing what we can,” said Melzi. As interior minister, his mandate included not only policing but also sanitation. “It is a problem. We have nowhere to house them. The camps are full, and they escape anyhow. Still, they keep coming. Like cockroaches.”
The waiter arrived, a Somali to judge by his elegant features. Working here in the Hassler, Rome’s finest hotel.
Borgia placed a calming hand on Melzi’s arm. “Please, Bruno, they are not cockroaches. They are human