The Extremist

by Nadia Dalbuono

  ‘Fifteen, we think,’ said the negotiator.

  ‘All still alive?’

  ‘Yeah, and we’re working hard to keep it that way. We can’t have a repeat of McDonald’s.’

  ‘People were killed?’

  ‘We have serious injuries — no deaths as yet.’ The negotiator paused, then spoke quietly. ‘We need you to go and talk to Ifran — find out what he wants.’

  Scamarcio was shaking his head; it was almost an involuntary reflex. ‘But he could be wearing a suicide vest, they could have the place rigged, it could be a set-up — hell, it could be anything.’

  ‘He tells us he’s not wearing a vest,’ said the negotiator.

  ‘Oh, well that’s fine then,’ muttered Scamarcio.

  ‘There are a lot of lives at stake,’ said the fair-haired stranger.

  ‘I don’t need you to tell me that. Who the fuck are you, anyway?’

  ‘Fabrizio Masi — I work for AISE.’ The guy pulled out his ID.

  Scamarcio studied the guy, then the Intel ID. There was something plastic about him, both in the flesh and in the picture.

  ‘I don’t get it. Aren’t the police running this?’

  ‘It’s a joint effort,’ said Leopardi, from the back of the van.

  The second negotiator pushed back his headphones and swung around. ‘We need to get a move on. He’s nervous.’

  ‘He’s not the only one,’ said Scamarcio.

  Masi laid an unwelcome hand on his arm. ‘We’ll have you covered. Just get in there and find out what the fuck he wants, and then get back out. Don’t promise him anything. Just tell him you’ll pass on his request.’

  ‘You got a Kevlar?’

  ‘He doesn’t want you wearing one.’

  ‘What?’

  No-one said a word.

  ‘What if he doesn’t let me back out?’

  ‘We think he will.’

  ‘And how did you reach that conclusion?’

  Masi took him by the elbow and angled him towards the door. ‘Come on, Detective. The clock is ticking.’

  Scamarcio was led past the clusters of elite sniper units and waiting ambulance crews, stretchers ready on the pavement. He felt a hundred eyes tracking him. He could just tell them all ‘no’; it was a free country. But, as Masi had said, there were lives at stake. If he walked away now, could he ever look at himself in the mirror? What would people say? He’d forever be Leone Scamarcio, son of a mafioso and a coward.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Masi, as if they’d just arrived at a picnic. ‘Good to go?’

  Scamarcio nodded, but couldn’t manage to speak. Masi barked something into his walkie-talkie.

  ‘Detective Scamarcio is entering the building. We repeat, Detective Scamarcio is entering the building,’ came a voice from a loudhailer.

  Scamarcio felt the snipers beside him tense, and then he noticed the mass of TV cameras for the first time, blinking in the sun like a thousand reptile eyes sizing up a kill. ‘Shit,’ he said, not caring who might hear. He hadn’t had time to call Fiammetta and tell her what was happening. She was going to find out from the news. Shit, shit, and triple shit.

  He exhaled and took in the scene ahead: the black banners, the opaque glass, the shadowy figures moving beyond the small strips of window that were still visible. A hand nudged him forward, and he started the long walk to the bar, his legs suddenly light and unpredictable, as if they were no longer connected to his mind. He trained his eyes on the door, decorated with the ubiquitous stickers for MasterCard and the metro network. It could have been any door on any bar, but who knew what hell lay beyond.

  Sweat was running down his forearms now, dripping into his palms. His new Aspesi shirt, a recent present from Fiammetta, was already pasted to his back, its collar wet. He noticed a strange prickling between his shoulder blades, as if his nervous system was getting ready to trip. He was halfway to the door now, and his heart was hammering so violently he feared he was about to go into cardiac arrest. He hoped Fiammetta would not have to watch that play out on national TV.

  He took a long breath. Just a few more steps and he’d be inside. Were there any injured? Surely Masi would have said so, but perhaps they didn’t know. He spun through his training in his head and checked off the First Aid basics. He reminded himself to stay calm, maintain control: give an impression of command. He reached for the fat brass handle and noticed the finger smudges. People had popped in for coffee and had been dragged into a nightmare. He pushed the handle and held his breath.

  Suddenly, someone grabbed his wrist and yanked him into blackness. It was too dark to make out the figure before him, but the smell was easy to decipher. The stench of fear was everywhere: a sweetish mix of sweat, excrement, urine, and something primal that Scamarcio had never quite been able to pin down.

  ‘Get away from the window.’ The voice was young, male, and fragile. He sounded scared and out of his depth. Scamarcio knew this wasn’t necessarily an advantage.

  ‘Over here,’ barked the boy.

  Scamarcio followed him to the back of the bar, where a dim light was pooling. For the first time, he noticed the silent line of people slumped on the floor, their clothes a rumpled mess and their hair askew. He counted four men guarding them. They were wielding AK-47s and had a string of other rifles, large and small, slung across their backs. Why so many? he wondered, before realising: They figure there’ll be no time to reload.

  The light was coming from an open doorway, and, as they drew nearer, Scamarcio started to make out the features of the man ahead. He was indeed young, no more than twenty-five, and the lost look in his wide eyes confirmed Scamarcio’s initial assessment: he didn’t feel in control.

  ‘Ifran?’ Scamarcio asked.

  The boy gave a barely perceptible nod. ‘Wait,’ he snapped at Scamarcio, gesturing to his fellow gunmen, guarding the hostages.

  Several seconds passed while the men spoke to each other in an Arabic language Scamarcio didn’t understand. Then Ifran said, ‘Follow me.’

  He led Scamarcio past the pool of light, and they made their way down a steep staircase, before entering a storeroom. Scamarcio took in rickety shelves full of filter coffee, paper towels, and bottled water. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling.

  ‘Over here,’ said the boy, walking towards the far wall. ‘Get right away from the door.’

  He came to a stop and leaned his right shoulder against the wall while he patted his jacket pocket. After a second or two, he produced a pack of MS cigarettes and began to light up. Under the stark light, Scamarcio noticed his pockmarked skin and dense, dark brows. His hair was shaved short in a military crop.

  Ifran offered him a cigarette, and Scamarcio gratefully accepted. While the boy lit up for him, Scamarcio looked for any signs of a suicide vest. There was no bulk beneath his T-shirt, no unexplained shapes.

  ‘So,’ said Scamarcio, after he’d taken a few puffs and thanked the God he still didn’t believe in that this boy was a smoker, ‘all I know is that Vincenzo Guerra gave you my name.’

  Ifran frowned. ‘In Opera.’ His accent was coming through strongly.

  Scamarcio took another pull on the cigarette and tried to steady his nerves. He remembered that he’d never liked MSs — there was a grittiness to them, a sharp aftertaste. ‘I’m just a detective in the Flying Squad. I don’t see where I fit in.’

  Ifran rubbed beneath his nose and stared. His gaze was hard and uncompromising. He seemed less afraid now. ‘Vincenzo told me you understood the way it all turned — that if I ever found myself in trouble on the outside, you were someone I could ask for help.’

  Scamarcio wanted to yell ‘What the fuck!’ but instead said calmly, ‘Right now, you’re in a lot of trouble, but I don’t see how I can get you out of it.’

  ‘I don’t think you quite understand the nature of the trouble I’m in.’
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br />   ‘It’s obvious …’

  ‘You need to look beyond the obvious.’

  Jesus, thought Scamarcio. Are we going to talk in riddles all morning, while the hostages above us soil themselves in fear?

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, trying to keep his voice even.

  ‘When you look at me, what do you see?’ said the boy softly, his eyes narrowing through the smoke.

  Scamarcio started to weigh up a response, then just tossed it to the wind — there wasn’t time. ‘I see a young guy who has taken fifteen people hostage, and who has much of Rome’s police force outside, armed to the hilt. I see a young guy in deep shit.’ He swallowed; it made no sense to rile him. The boy might be out of his depth, but he was wielding an AK and he was on edge.

  ‘What else do you see?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘What else?’

  Scamarcio took a breath. ‘I see someone who seems scared.’

  Ifran rolled his eyes. ‘No. Do you see an Italian or a foreigner?’

  Sure, he had an accent, but his Italian was flawless. Scamarcio knew this was the toxic question. ‘Did you grow up here? In Rome?’ he tried, knowing it was a cop-out.

  ‘You didn’t answer me.’

  Scamarcio took a hurried drag; there just wasn’t enough time to think. ‘I see a mixture of both, I guess. You wouldn’t speak Italian like you do if you hadn’t lived here for a long time.’

  ‘A mixture of both,’ Ifran repeated. ‘A mixture of both is a confusing thing to be.’

  Scamarcio blinked. He was struggling.

  ‘I think you understand, Detective.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re also a mixture of both.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘You are the son of a mafioso and a top policeman. You have come from one world, but are attempting to make a life in another. This is no easy feat.’

  Scamarcio said nothing.

  ‘The question is whether one can trade one world for another, or whether, despite all our efforts, it’s impossible. If you are born into a certain environment, perhaps you’re forever condemned to inhabit it?’

  Scamarcio breathed out slowly, his mouth a small ‘o’.

  ‘Why aren’t you answering?’

  ‘Because I don’t know — I’m still working it out. I still have a foot in my old world, as much as I wish I didn’t.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Ifran, triumphant. ‘That’s why I knew we could talk. We’re in the same boat, you and I.’

  Scamarcio took a moment to absorb this. He wasn’t so sure.

  ‘I guess you’re thinking I’ve been radicalised.’

  The question took Scamarcio by surprise. ‘I really hadn’t got that far …’

  ‘If a Muslim army started bombing Rome from the air, wiping out homes, hospitals, supplies, killing women and children, if this same army then went around Europe, fomenting coups in some places, pushing regime change in others, bringing poverty and destitution, suffering and starvation, wouldn’t you want to strike back? Wouldn’t you want to fight?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘If you did, would people say you’d been radicalised?’

  Scamarcio said nothing.

  ‘There’s no such thing as radicalisation. It’s a bullshit term. There’s anger, that’s all. Anger at the suffering brought on our people.’ He said the last part under his breath, almost as if he was embarrassed.

  ‘“Your” people?’

  ‘My family is from Libya, but I speak for the whole of the Middle East.’

  ‘When did you leave?’

  ‘Fifteen years ago, when I was eight. My parents were ahead of the curve.’

  ‘But you still feel part of all that?’

  ‘Of course. Italy has never let me in.’

  ‘Have you tried?’

  ‘Do you mean to insult me?’ he asked, but he didn’t seem that angry.

  ‘So all this is about getting back at the West?’

  The boy stubbed out his cigarette and went to light up another. ‘That would be the simple analysis.’

  ‘Give me the complicated one.’

  Ifran took a few drags and closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I was in Opera ’cos I ran someone over and killed them. I didn’t stop to check they were OK.’

  ‘Yes, I was told.’

  The boy rubbed a hand up and down the back of his neck, as if the muscles there were bothering him. ‘I was sorry for what I did. It was a moment of madness — the not-stopping. I hadn’t seen the guy come out from the other side. It was a sunny day and I’d been blinded for a moment, and when I spotted him, it was already too late.’ He brought a hand up to his eyes and closed them at the memory.

  ‘Right,’ said Scamarcio quietly.

  ‘Before that day, I’d been active — politically. I’d been a member of a protest group; we organised marches in Rome against the Israeli occupation.’ He stopped and sucked on his cigarette. Scamarcio noticed that it was nearly down to the filter already. ‘Guerra was like a mentor to me. We understood one another. He warned me about what might happen — what might happen when I got out of Opera.’

  ‘Happen how?’

  ‘When I was released last year I wasn’t working, just organising a few demos. I met these two guys. They’d been to Syria; they’d seen it all. We got to talking …’

  Scamarcio stayed quite still.

  ‘Over time, they persuaded me that something more serious needed to be done than a few marches. Slowly we started planning, organising — getting our ideas together.’

  Scamarcio took a long final drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out beneath his shoe. He wanted to ask for another, but didn’t want to interrupt the boy.

  ‘Then, about three months ago, something changed. One of the guys left his phone in my living room while he took a slash. It rang, and I answered it.’

  Scamarcio pushed a hand across his mouth. It was cool in the storeroom, but he felt a new trickle of sweat start its way down his spine.

  ‘The accent on the other end of the phone was surprising. He said, and I remember the words exactly, “Hey, Maalik. How’s the weather?” I don’t know why, but I decided not to tell him I wasn’t Maalik. I say, “Not bad,” or something like that. He says, “Glad to hear it. You ready?” I say, “Yes.” He says, “July twelfth.” Then he hangs up.’

  July twelfth. That’s today’s date, Scamarcio realised. ‘What was the significance of that call, do you think?’

  ‘I didn’t understand the significance until Maalik told us we’d be going into action on July twelfth.’

  Scamarcio struggled to prioritise. ‘This Maalik, where is he now?’

  ‘At the McDonald’s.’

  ‘He’s one of the terrorists?’

  Ifran nodded.

  ‘And the voice — you say it was a surprising accent?’

  The boy just nodded again.

  ‘What was surprising about it?’

  ‘It was from a place I wouldn’t have expected.’

  ‘European?’

  ‘American.’

  ‘If you believe the hype, the US is full of home-growns. An accent means nothing.’

  ‘Well, then I got to digging.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And that’s what I want from you. I need you to finish where I left off.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘I’ve got proof that this guy wasn’t who he said he was — that he was working for the wrong side.’

  ‘The wrong side?’

  The boy smoked the rest of his second cigarette right down to the stub, then tossed it to the floor and ground it out hard with his foot. The gesture made Scamarcio nervous.

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t understand, Detective. Like Guerra said, you know the way it all turns.
’

  ‘But why would an American be involved?’

  ‘That’s the million-dollar question — well, billion-dollar probably.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do? Take all this to the negotiators?’ Even as he asked the question, Scamarcio knew that it might not be the quickest route to the truth.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘I need you to travel thirty kilometres outside of Rome to a villa by the sea. Then, I want you to walk to the bottom of the garden. Right down the end, beneath the hanging branches of the peach tree, you’ll find a box buried in the earth. Open it and bring me the contents.’

  ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘I want you to do all of this without telling the authorities. You can’t relay one single detail of your conversation with me.’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

  ‘Do I look like I’m joking?’ The boy chose this moment to ram the rifle butt hard into Scamarcio’s chest. The blow shocked him, and he forgot to breathe for a moment.

  ‘If you don’t do what I ask, thousands will perish.’ The boy’s wide eyes seemed assured now, full of new self-belief.

  ‘But you’re not holding …’

  ‘None of you understand what you’re dealing with here,’ said the boy calmly. ‘This siege hasn’t even begun. If you don’t do this for me, you’ll see rivers of blood by nightfall.’

  He thrust a scrap of paper into Scamarcio’s hand. ‘You’ve got until 9.00 a.m. tomorrow. Then I need you back here with a news crew from CNN. I want the handover of the contents of the box broadcast to the world in real time. And remember: not a word to anyone. You’re on your own.’

  4

  ‘WE WILL THRIVE IN Italy,’ I remember mum saying. ‘Rome is the place where democracy began. It’s the home of freedom and fairness.’

  When I think about those words, I want to laugh, then cry. You can’t throw a small child into the water and expect it to swim. Worse, you can’t then beat that child for sinking.

  Scamarcio stepped back out into the sunshine, a million camera shutters clicking as he made his way towards Agent Masi, who was waiting for him at the head of the cordon.