The Extremist

by Nadia Dalbuono

  Yet again, he wondered if Ifran was playing him for a fool. But something about the film stirred his instincts. The blond guy seemed professional, and it was intriguing that he looked so different from the others. Where is Ifran in all this? he wondered. Had he been the secret cameraman?

  Scamarcio sighed and played the clip for a third time, pausing on an image of the giant. He considered contacting his journalist friend, Blakemore, who had helped him on the American case. Then Scamarcio remembered he was without a phone. He thought about trying to connect to the internet, but knew that many a mafia fugitive had been located the same way. He took a long breath. Ifran had been right — he was on his own.

  6

  SCAMARCIO STOWED THE LAPTOP in the backpack and rose to his feet. He checked his watch again. It was nearly 1.00 p.m. He needed to get back to Ifran and try to make sense of it all. He wished he could ignore the demand for a news crew. It would be better to discuss this in private — establish the facts before the boy broadcast his story to the world — but how was he going to negotiate that with so much at stake?

  Scamarcio made towards the sunlight at the fringes of the wood — he wanted to head south, towards the coast, and find a route out of the park that was less public than the way he’d entered. The problem was that he had to get back to the Vespa. He moved quickly through the dappled light, the changing chatter of different birds marking his progress. After he’d walked for a couple of minutes, he stopped to take in the first breaths of ozone and coastal pine. They stirred within him a primal drive for survival, a need to resolve this fast.

  He was nearly at the edge of the forest when the shrill ringtone of a mobile phone pierced the silence and rooted him to the spot. He was about to run, then realised that the sound was coming from inside the backpack.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he hissed. He’d been careless. He fumbled around, his hands shaking as he undid flaps, opened zips. After a long search, he finally located an old Samsung Galaxy inside a back pocket. He pulled it out and killed the call. He switched off the phone, then, not wanting to take any chances, he tore off the back and removed the SIM card and battery. He snapped the SIM in half and pocketed it, along with the battery.

  He came out of the forest onto the side of the same road he’d taken from Ostia. By his calculation, the Vespa was now to his left, probably a good half-hour’s walk away. He quickly realised he should abandon the bike and cut his losses. If the Carabinieri had been at the park because of him, then they may already have looked at CCTV, which would show him pulling up on the stolen bike. The very last thing he wanted was to have to find new wheels, but it was the safest option.

  He began making his way along the side of the road, wondering how long he could keep this up before he was spotted by a passing police car, or an eagle-eyed member of the public. He’d hardly finished this thought when he saw what looked like a Carabinieri Alfa Romeo some thirty metres up ahead. He blinked, wondering if it was just his imagination filling in the gaps, but when he looked again an Alfa was indeed emerging from the heat haze, its telltale blue-and-red livery glinting in the sun. He swallowed, his mouth dry. There was nothing for it but to duck back into the forest.

  He was only half way up the bank when the screech of tyres made him turn. A white BMW motorbike was skidding to a stop right behind him, churning up dust and pebbles, and turning the air black. He coughed as he tried to scramble up the bank and into the forest. He kept losing his footing, and was struggling to see for the dust. Then, in the next instant, strong arms were grabbing him, dragging him back down. He pushed back with his elbows, trying to fight them off, but in seconds he was being pulled to the ground, his breath catching on sand and grit.

  Suddenly, the stranger released his grip and stepped back. Scamarcio realised that the figure towering above him was removing his helmet. For a few moments he couldn’t make sense of it — couldn’t take it in: the image in front of him was so unexpected, so out of place, he wondered if he might be hallucinating. Standing in the dirt, red-faced and sweating, was the journalist Roberto Rigamonti. Their paths had crossed on the American case, but Scamarcio hadn’t seen him in over a year.

  ‘Rigamonti …What the fuck?’

  ‘No time.’ Rigamonti helped him up, then sprung open the seat of the bike. He pulled out a helmet and pushed it into Scamarcio’s hands. ‘Get on!’

  Scamarcio wondered if he could trust him, but the Carabinieri’s Alfa was now just a short distance away, and all other options seemed to be evaporating into the heat haze.

  He scrambled on, the bike already starting to move, and they made a sharp U-turn, hurtling past the Carabinieri. Scamarcio worried that they’d drawn too much attention to themselves, and the Alfa would swing around and follow, but the Carabinieri, it seemed, were going to carry on their way. He took a long breath and tried to steady his wild pulse.

  His relief lasted less than ten seconds. The air was suddenly shattered by the wail of sirens, and he swung around to see the squad car executing a sharp turn, its light bars flashing. Rigamonti pumped the gas, and the BMW roared, the world morphing into an angry mesh of noise and colour. They were weaving in and out of vans, Vespas, and oblivious Apecar drivers like slalom skiers, and the only thing Scamarcio could think was that they were about to die. Then all at once there was a shrieking sound of tearing rubber, followed by a blaring of horns, and he turned to see an unsuspecting truck lumbering across an intersection and into the path of the speeding Alfa. Both vehicles swerved and screeched to a halt, the front of the Alfa avoiding the side of the truck by inches. Scamarcio looked away, and finally remembered to breathe.

  When the national park was far behind them, and the first colours of Torvaianica were starting to dance on the horizon, Scamarcio heard Rigamonti’s shaky voice coming through his helmet.

  ‘Do you think they’ll have read my plates?’

  ‘They probably weren’t close enough for long enough … but never say never.’

  ‘Fuck. I don’t want to ditch my bike.’

  ‘My instincts say we’re good.’

  ‘We won’t stop here — too busy. I’m heading for Fossignano.’

  Scamarcio had never been to Fossignano, so had no idea whether this was a wise decision or not. ‘Right,’ he said, his throat parched. ‘I can’t wait to hear how you just happened to be passing.’

  ‘It’s a good one,’ said Rigamonti.

  They travelled on in silence, the hotels and tourist bars gradually giving way to squat concrete buildings and drab housing, each territory marked out as a scorched stamp of grass. The side of the road was strewn with garbage, and Scamarcio wondered if Fossignano was one of the many places in the country where the town council was now bankrupt.

  The bike began to slow, and Rigamonti turned past a rusting corrugated fence that looked as if it was about to collapse. They entered a car park, and ahead of them Scamarcio saw an unpainted concrete block boasting a bar and a gym in faded pink fluorescent letters. The place oozed neglect, and he hoped they wouldn’t be hanging around. He took off his helmet, his hair slick with sweat. ‘So, Rigamonti: what the fuck?’

  ‘I could ask the same. Half the country’s police are out looking for you.’ The reporter wiped his face with one corner of his frayed Palestine scarf, then extracted a battered plastic bottle of mineral water from beneath the seat. He offered it to Scamarcio, but he waved it away. ‘I’d have thought the police would have better things to do.’

  ‘Everyone thinks you have the answers.’

  ‘How convenient …’

  ‘So why did you scarper? What the hell were you thinking?’ A smile played on Rigamonti’s lips.

  Scamarcio exhaled. ‘It got messy. Then that dick Scalisi from AISE got involved, and it became a whole lot messier. I needed time to think — in peace.’ He raised his chin. ‘Anyway, you haven’t answered me. What the fuck are you doing here?’

  Rigamon
ti scratched above his nose. ‘You’re all over the TV. They’re saying the terrorists may have blackmailed you into doing something sinister. I was listening to the police scanners, trying to work out if the cops had any idea where you were. Last sighting was Ostia, so I drove out and waited. After a while, someone called in a sighting near the south-western entrance to the national park. I decided to do laps in the hope I might get to you before the circus — fortune favours the bold, and all that.’

  ‘You after a story?’

  ‘Does the pope smoke hash?’

  ‘Given that you didn’t really get anywhere on the American case, what makes you think you’ll be able to bring this one to the surface?’

  ‘Fuck, I don’t even know what the story is yet. But you should know that I’m not working for the big guys anymore — I decided to preserve my freedom.’

  ‘They fire you?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Scamarcio remembered that he’d appreciated Rigamonti’s no-nonsense approach the first time around. ‘Well,’ he sighed. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you — you certainly go all out.’ He extended a hand, and Rigamonti took it.

  ‘Word on the grapevine is that you’re seeing that showgirl …’

  Scamarcio frowned. ‘Weird grapevine you have.’

  Rigamonti shrugged. Scamarcio said nothing.

  ‘So it’s true?’

  ‘Might be.’

  ‘Actually it was in one of the celebrity mags.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were spotted outside a restaurant — La Pergola, I think.’

  ‘I never go to La Pergola — it’s way beyond my budget,’ muttered Scamarcio.

  ‘I heard your dad left you a tidy little legacy.’

  ‘Are you going to try to help me find my way out of this shitstorm or not?’

  Rigamonti took him by the elbow. ‘There’s a guy I know. He said we could use his place.’

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter — you can trust him.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Scamarcio, stop asking so many questions.’

  Rigamonti took a left past the gym towards some overspilling rubbish bins. Behind the bins was a small alley, wedged between yew hedges. As they walked through it, Scamarcio was hit by the stench of rotting garbage and old urine. The cracked concrete path soon opened out onto the back lot of a row of unpainted houses, their bruised grey walls daubed with mucus-green graffiti. ‘Immigrants out’, seemed to be the overriding theme.

  ‘Nice friends you have.’

  ‘You should be grateful.’

  Scamarcio felt a ripple of anxiety. ‘It’s not like I’ve got time to kill. I need to get back to Rome. The boy said if I don’t meet his demands and return to the café by 9.00 a.m. tomorrow, the killing will start.’

  Rigamonti stopped, but didn’t turn. When he did eventually face him, his expression was grave. ‘Scamarcio, we don’t know each other well, but I’ve always regarded you as a realist. Have you considered that perhaps the authorities don’t want you back?’

  ‘You’ve just told me they’re doing all they can to find me!’

  ‘Right now, you’re little more than a distraction, that’s all. I don’t know what that terrorist asked you to do, but isn’t it possible that the authorities won’t let you go through with it — that they’ll do all they can to block it?’ His speech had slowed, as if Scamarcio were simple.

  ‘Of course I’d considered that.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘So how the hell did you think you were going to get back to Rome undetected and give that terrorist whatever it is he wants?’

  ‘I’ll find a way.’

  Rigamonti shook his head. ‘Scamarcio, I don’t think you quite appreciate the scale of the manhunt that’s going down. Rome is practically on lockdown — you wouldn’t make it halfway to the centre before they spotted you. There’s no way in the world you could reach that boy.’

  ‘Then we’re fucked, because if I don’t get back there, they’re going to blow us all to shreds.’

  ‘That’s melodramatic …’

  ‘You weren’t there. Ifran told me this siege is much bigger than we realise. I think they’ve got other places wired, new guys ready to roll …’

  ‘Intel are all over this …’

  ‘No, they’re not. And there may be more than one reason for that — it’s not just incompetence.’

  ‘What?’ Rigamonti looked confused.

  ‘Come on, let’s find your friend.’

  A bald man with several days’ growth of beard, and tattoos along both forearms answered the door, and led them into his home. What it lacked on the outside, it more than made up for on the inside. The place was well decorated, tasteful even: Scamarcio was surprised to see two huge cream sofas and some expensive looking oak furniture, carefully arranged.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ said their anonymous host. ‘Roberto, you know where to reach me.’ The man tapped the side of his nose, and Rigamonti looked nervous.

  When the front door had slammed, Scamarcio asked, ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Better if you don’t know, Scamarcio, better if you don’t.’ Rigamonti drew a pen and notebook from his jacket pocket.

  ‘You don’t waste time.’

  ‘You just told me we don’t have any.’

  Scamarcio collapsed into the sofa. ‘God, I’m tired.’

  ‘So, what did he say, this boy?’

  Scamarcio closed his eyes and started talking him through it: the call at the police station, the talk with Ifran, the drive with Scalisi, his escape, and the house in Ostia. The scratch of Rigamonti’s pen against the paper was the only sound in the house. A couple of times the reporter was about to say something, then seemed to think better of it.

  When Scamarcio came to the end, Rigamonti raised a languid eyebrow. ‘This is unusual,’ he murmured, almost non-committal. ‘No-one will believe there’s anything underhand going on, of course.’

  ‘Why “of course”?’

  ‘It’s uncomfortable.’

  ‘The internet is full of people asking uncomfortable questions.’

  ‘I was thinking more about the print media.’

  ‘Are you surprised?’

  ‘That Ifran’s suggesting some unorthodox involvement?’

  Scamarcio nodded.

  ‘A little, but not that much …’

  ‘Still chasing the next conspiracy?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be the first. So, this video?’

  ‘I’ve watched it.’

  ‘Any use?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Can I take a look?’

  Scamarcio removed the laptop from the backpack and opened it. He handed the computer and DVD to Rigamonti.

  When he had finished watching, the reporter said, ‘Hmm. So the blond guy is the one Ifran believes he spoke to on the phone — the one who set the date as July twelfth?’

  ‘I think so, but I have no way of knowing for sure.’

  ‘Did Ifran film this?’

  ‘That would be my guess. Interestingly, I found out that the villa where I dug up the box was formerly rented by a couple working for Intel.’

  Rigamonti rubbed at his chin. After a moment, he said, ‘You know, all this, it just seems too … too neat really.’

  Scamarcio didn’t want to acknowledge it, but he knew what Rigamonti meant.

  ‘If this blond guy is working for some foreign party — if some hidden entity is pulling his strings — I don’t think they’d go about it like this. They’d use a subtler play. The guy they’d have inside the op would be one of them for starters.’

  ‘One of them?’

  ‘Middle Eastern, Arab. They’d never send in a whi
te guy — it’s too obvious.’

  Scamarcio realised that this had been bothering him, too. ‘Maybe whoever it is couldn’t get one of them. Maybe they couldn’t recruit them?’

  Rigamonti pushed out his bottom lip and shrugged. ‘Perhaps …’

  Scamarcio thought back to an article he’d read recently. ‘Aren’t there white jihadists? I remember reading about the Caucasus, the extremists over there …’

  ‘There aren’t many left, and frankly, I doubt this guy’s from there. There’s the perfect American accent for starters.’

  ‘So what is all this, then?’

  ‘I dunno, Scamarcio. Right now, I have absolutely no bloody idea.’

  ‘Well, we need to find out.’

  ‘How did Ifran seem when he told you about the box?’

  ‘Like he was for real — I can usually tell when my strings are being pulled.’

  ‘That’s significant. We mustn’t lose sight of that. We need to find out more about Ifran. Who knows him? What’s his real agenda?’

  ‘That’s exactly what the spooks will be doing. We’re not going to be able to shake a stick at that stuff.’

  ‘Not necessarily …’ Rigamonti looked like he was about to say more — but if he was, he thought better of it again.

  ‘We don’t even know where he’s from.’

  ‘That’s where you’re out of the loop. They’ve traced him to Torpignattara.’

  Scamarcio was surprised at the fast work, but not the result. Recently, some commentators had been arguing that Torpignattara was Rome’s equivalent of Brussels’s Molenbeek. ‘You know people there?’ Scamarcio guessed.

  ‘I did a story last year on whether Rome had its own banlieues, whether our suburbs harboured the same toxic resentments.’

  ‘And what did you conclude?’