The Extremist

by Nadia Dalbuono

  Contents

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  Acknowledgements

  Letter to my readers

  THE EXTREMIST

  Nadia Dalbuono has spent the last eighteen years working as a documentary director and consultant for Channel 4, ITV, Discovery, and National Geographic in various countries. The Extremist is the fourth book in the Leone Scamarcio series, following The Few, The American (longlisted for the 2016 CWA Steel Dagger), and The Hit. She divides her time between the UK and northern Italy.

  Scribe Publications Pty Ltd

  18–20 Edward St, Brunswick, Victoria, Australia 3056

  2 John St, Clerkenwell, London, WC1N 2ES, United Kingdom

  First published by Scribe 2018

  Copyright © Nadia Dalbuono 2018

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publishers of this book.

  9781925322514 (Australian paperback)

  9781911344650 (UK paperback)

  9781925548716 (e-book)

  CiP entries for this title are available from the National Library of Australia and the British Library.

  scribepublications.com.au

  scribepublications.co.uk

  In memory of

  David Leon Hall

  8 September 1934–29 May 2016

  1

  THE BOY ENTERS THE McDonald’s. It is a relief to escape the cloying heat and its undercurrents of summer drains and tourist sweat. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, shrugs the bag off his shoulder, and looks around. He counts fifteen people queuing at the tills, most of them teenagers — clutching backpacks and squinting at iPhones. To his left, nearly all the tables are full — more students and a cluster of Japanese tourists. He takes in a few young families, kids no more than four or five. Panic is stirring in his gut, turning it liquid. He tastes acid on his tongue and wants to retch. He swallows, tries to take a breath.

  To his right, the place is a little emptier — only four of the tables are occupied. His eyes settle on a group of schoolgirls in uniform, their checked skirts too short, their laughter too loud. Behind the girls is a dishevelled old man, probably a vagrant. He’s tearing the wrapper from a meagre burger, his eyes darting furtively as if he’s afraid someone will swipe it.

  The boy feels sweat running down the back of his neck; he notices a tremor in his leg. He turns and sees his three companions standing in the doorway. Just the sight of them makes his heart hammer. He swallows again: his throat dry, his tongue bulky. He wishes he’d taken something like they’d suggested.

  He waves them forward, his arm a little shaky. Dafiq frowns. The boy doesn’t understand why. When the others are level with him, he closes his eyes and tries to slow his racing thoughts. He counts to five, then gives them the sign. The air shifts, and he knows they’re reaching for their guns now. He nods, and the AKs emerge quietly from beneath their coats.

  The firing starts before even he expects it. His ears are humming, and the sweat is now slick between his shoulderblades. He coughs — the air is already dense with cordite. People are running, screaming, falling. Food is tumbling, being trampled into the floor tiles, where it mixes with blood. Someone slips on a patch of mayonnaise and rams their hip into a rubbish bin. A baby cries, a woman sobs. The boy closes his eyes and raises his weapon.

  ‘Allahu Akbar,’ he whispers as he pulls the trigger.

  ‘Who wants to show me what they’re drawing?’ asks the young teacher.

  A little boy thrusts up an arm. ‘Me! Me!’

  ‘OK, Simo.’ She walks over and picks up the piece of paper in front of him.

  ‘Is it an elephant?’

  ‘A dinosaur …’ He looks disappointed, but bites his lip, takes back the paper, and carries on drawing.

  ‘Excellent. Who’s next …?’

  There’s a commotion at the back of the room. Four men are running through the door, screaming something in a language the teacher doesn’t recognise. They’re dressed in black, and their faces are obscured by balaclavas. But even though she can’t follow what they’re saying, she knows immediately who they are.

  ‘Gather close. Don’t worry, it’s just a game!’ she shouts, pulling the toddlers to her, trying not to succumb to her terror. Rita, the classroom assistant, has run over, and she, too, is grabbing as many children as she can, shakily trying to wedge herself between them and the men.

  The leader of the group is just a couple of metres away, and the teacher notices that he has young unlined eyes beneath his balaclava. She looks for a suicide vest, but can’t see one — just rifles: at least three or four strung across his chest and back. He’s now so close that she can smell the nicotine on his breath and the fear beneath it. His hand is on his gun; his fingers are hovering above the trigger. She looks up into his haunted eyes and reads uncertainty. There might be hope, she thinks. They might still have a chance.

  2

  I THINK WHEN YOU reach the end you’ll agree that this is just a small story about nothing out of the ordinary. It’s the tale of a boy from the suburbs who always did what was expected — smiled when required, excelled at school, hung out with the good girls. It’s the story of a boy who came to realise that it doesn’t matter if you’ve lived in a place five years or fifty, if your IQ is 40 or 140 — because in the end, if your face doesn’t fit, you’re out. You’ll remain on the fringes and will never be allowed in from the cold.

  Scamarcio had never seen the squad room so full and so quiet. It seemed like every detective he had ever worked with was huddled around the wide-screen TV, deep in thought. Some had their hands in their pockets; others had them bunched at their mouths. A few stood with their arms barred across their chests, their feet set wide, as if braced for whatever horror was yet to come. It wasn’t clear whether the intense silence was due to shock or because no-one dared speak for fear of missing a development.

  ‘News is reaching us here of a third incident at a coffee bar near the Colosseum. It is believed hostages are inside. As yet, numbers remain unclear,’ said the news anchor.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ someone hissed, shattering the silence and causing the atmosphere in the room to shift.

  ‘It’s the usual method: they make sure the emergency services are tied up in one place, then they launch attacks elsewhere. It’ll be a bloodbath.’

  ‘That’s right, think positive,’ muttered Sartori, a detective from Rimini.

  Scamarcio heard scraping and turned to see Chief Garramone trying to clamber up onto a desk. It was a strange sight. The chief was carrying a few excess kilos and he wasn’t manoeuvring his bulk with particular skill. He had one leg on a chair and the other almost on the table, but Scamarcio cou
ldn’t see how he was going to free the other leg while maintaining his balance. He realised that he’d never seen the chief stand on a desk for anything. Then again, these were extraordinary times.

  Garramone eventually decided to use both his hands, and managed to find a semi-dignified position from which to hoist himself up. When he was finally standing, he adjusted the waistband on his trousers and smoothed down his brush of hair. Scamarcio thought he looked quite nervous — another first.

  Garramone coughed, then said, ‘Listen up.’ Heads turned, and a few people shuffled nearer.

  ‘I’ve just spoken to Chief Mancino. We’re going to be working on background. Once these guys are ID’d — and he tells me it’s imminent — they want us running down family, friends, neighbours. Who are these men? How did they get here? And, most importantly, what do they want?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ someone shouted.

  ‘Isn’t all that Intel’s turf?’ came another voice.

  ‘Intel are up to their eyes, as are the anti-terror squad. They need our help,’ said Garramone calmly.

  The sound of a loud explosion from the TV made them all turn. The cameras had switched back to the McDonald’s, where an intense white glow was illuminating the restaurant from the inside. Scamarcio could just make out the silhouettes of people beyond the windows: some crouched, some flat. He watched as one keeled over and slumped slowly to the floor, like a ragdoll. All at once, the glow transformed into a series of bright-white flashes. Scamarcio counted five of them.

  ‘That sounds like firing coming from inside the restaurant,’ said the news anchor. ‘We will need to wait for confirmation, but from what we’re seeing it definitely looks and sounds like gunfire. Monica, can you hear me? Was that gunfire?’

  But no reply came. The firing had ceased, and an eerie silence was descending on the street. The waiting news crews said nothing; the emergency services were still. It was as if they’d all fallen under a hex. Smoke was moving across the TV screen, and Scamarcio could no longer make out the forms beyond the glass.

  ‘They’re shooting hostages,’ said Garramone quietly. ‘They have no interest in negotiation.’

  ‘Why aren’t we moving in?’ asked Sartori, full of outrage.

  ‘The SWATs are waiting for the go-ahead from the negotiator. That’s the playbook, but it’s bullshit. The negotiator probably thinks he still has work to do, but these bastards couldn’t give a fuck about a deal. They just want their sixty virgins or whatever the hell it is.’ Garramone shook his head, disbelieving.

  A young female voice came over the TV, hushed and breathless. ‘We were told to step back, there. I can confirm that was gunfire. The terrorists appear to be following through on their earlier threat.’

  ‘Where the fuck is everyone?’ shouted Scamarcio at no-one in particular. ‘Where the fuck are we?’

  ‘Depends how many hostages they’ve got,’ said a voice from across the room. ‘They need those numbers before they start deploying.’

  ‘They’re holding units back. It’s the procedure,’ echoed Garramone. ‘There could be another attack.’

  ‘If they start killing those little kids …’ said Sartori. ‘Christ. That school is just a few streets from me. Those poor children, they can’t …’

  ‘They’ll claim it’s no different to what happens in Palestine or Syria every day …’

  ‘It’s just so fucking warped …’

  Someone’s mobile rang, and Scamarcio turned to see Garramone answering. After a few moments, the chief’s face folded in shock. For an instant, Scamarcio wondered if he’d just learned that he had a relative caught up in the carnage. But inexplicably he was now looking straight at Scamarcio as if this call somehow concerned him personally. He felt his chest grow warm, his stomach tighten. Jesus, did Fiammetta step out for a coffee and stumble into that? But it’s only 7.30, and she never really gets up before 11.00 …

  ‘Yes, he’s here,’ Garramone was saying, still staring at Scamarcio, his forehead lined with confusion. ‘At the coffee bar? … But what the hell could they possibly want with him?’

  3

  SCAMARCIO SAT BESIDE THE police driver and watched as Via Nazionale flashed by. There was an unusual emptiness to the streets, as if the whole of Rome had scurried home to watch the news or was too scared to venture out. But as the car neared the Colosseum, small clusters of people started to appear. They seemed to be a mixture of tourists and locals, and many of them kept glancing nervously over their shoulders as if they feared they were about to be ambushed in plain sight.

  After they’d driven on for another half a minute, Scamarcio realised he was now looking at a thick crowd held back behind a police cordon. They were all focused on an inconspicuous coffee bar set in a row of shops running along the street. Scores of emergency-response vehicles were blocking the roadway, light bars flashing, back doors open. His stomach lurched.

  The police driver pulled up at the kerb just beyond the cordon, and a tall, fair-haired man in plainclothes hurried over, wielding a walkie-talkie. The stranger opened Scamarcio’s door, and he stepped out gingerly, his legs weak. The smells of baked tarmac, summer cologne, and diesel were heavy on the air.

  ‘Detective Scamarcio?’

  Scamarcio nodded and shook the man’s hand. He had a firm, confident grip.

  ‘Thanks for coming at such short notice.’

  Scamarcio swallowed, his mouth dry. ‘I don’t understand …’

  ‘Follow me. I’ll bring you up to speed.’

  He turned and headed towards a large white van parked twenty metres up the pavement, to the right of the coffee bar. It was impossible to see what was going on inside the bar; the windows had now been obscured by large monochrome flags bearing the characters of the Shahada. Scamarcio could see a few spots of red on the steps leading to the front door, and wondered if he was looking at blood.

  The stranger knocked on the back of the van, and the door opened immediately. He stood back to allow Scamarcio to enter. Scamarcio climbed a couple of steps and was momentarily blinded by a wall of lights. A bank of CCTV screens and what looked like switchboard consoles covered one side of the darkened vehicle. Seated in front of the screens were about seven people — all of them wearing headphones. He spotted the police negotiators immediately: they were sitting next to each other, and while one of them was talking into his mike, the other was taking notes. Scamarcio heard the lead negotiator say, ‘He’ll be here. You have my word, Ifran.’

  ‘I don’t want your bullshit word.’ It was a heavily accented voice, and sounded slightly distorted as it came through the speakers.

  A young man with a worried expression tapped the lead negotiator on the shoulder and said something in his ear. The negotiator turned and nodded at Scamarcio, then swung back around. ‘I’m going to sign off now, Ifran. I’ll be back on when the detective arrives. Here’s Andrea.’ His colleague adjusted the position of his microphone and resumed the conversation in low, neutral tones. Scamarcio tuned him out and focused his attention on the first guy.

  He had pushed back his headset into his thick mane of long, grey hair, and had removed his bright-red-framed glasses to rub his eyes with wide, nicotine-stained hands. The stranger who had accompanied Scamarcio coughed, then said, ‘Let’s fill in the detective on why he’s here.’

  The negotiator rolled forward in his chair and replaced his glasses. As he pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, Scamarcio was surprised to see a faded tattoo of a rose on his right forearm.

  The man pulled out a thin pack of Marlboros from his top pocket and extracted a cigarette, tapping it invitingly against the side of the box. Scamarcio hoped he’d offer him one, but he didn’t.

  Scamarcio glanced away for a second and took in the other men, and the one woman, in the van. They were all looking at him. Among them, he recognised Leopardi, the deputy head of police. He wondered who the o
thers were, but it didn’t seem that he was going to be offered an introduction.

  ‘So here’s the thing, Detective,’ said the negotiator, after he’d taken a quick drag. ‘One of the terrorists inside the café, Ifran, is asking for you personally. You’re the only one he’s prepared to deal with.’

  ‘But I’ve never met him,’ said Scamarcio. ‘I’ve never even heard of him.’ He realised he sounded way too defensive.

  ‘But he’s heard of you.’

  ‘How can that be?’

  ‘You ever met a guy called Vincenzo Guerra?’

  Scamarcio’s mind drew a momentary blank, then returned a hit. ‘What?’

  ‘Vincenzo Guerra — former terrorist with the NAR. Now residing in Opera prison …’

  Scamarcio nodded slowly. ‘I interviewed him in connection with a case last year. He provided some background.’

  ‘What case was that?’ asked the fair-haired stranger who had met him at the kerb.

  Scamarcio didn’t really want to explain, but he knew he had no choice, especially with Leopardi present.

  ‘An American man was found hanging from the Ponte Sant’Angelo last autumn. Turned out he worked for US Intel and had been active in Italy during the Years of Lead. An academic I spoke to advised me to talk to Guerra. I did.’

  ‘Was he helpful?’ asked the stranger.

  ‘In a manner of speaking …’ Scamarcio eyed the deputy chief, but his expression was unreadable. ‘So what’s Guerra got to do with all this? He’s behind bars.’

  ‘All I know,’ said the negotiator, ‘is that he gave Ifran your name. That’s what he told us anyway.’

  ‘How does Ifran know Guerra?’

  ‘They were in Opera at the same time.’

  ‘Ifran was in prison?’

  ‘Hit and run,’ said the blond-haired guy.

  ‘So he’s known to the authorities?’

  ‘Yes, but not as a terrorist.’

  Scamarcio took a breath and gestured in the direction of the bar. ‘How many people has he got in there?’