The Extremist

by Nadia Dalbuono

Scamarcio hadn’t been to Torpignattara in a while. If anything, it had got worse in the years since his last visit. There seemed to be even less green in the parks, and the flaky, pale contagion of urban decay had spread, leaving more buildings boarded up and bereft. Conversely though, the pavements seemed fuller, the faces more diverse.

  Less than a minute after entering the area, they spotted their first police car. Soon after, they saw a group of three patrol cars — Panthers — parked outside a smart-looking bar with silver letters and cream umbrellas that seemed to be trying too hard. Scamarcio noticed two uniforms talking to three dark-skinned men at a table outside.

  Rigamonti swung the bike into a side street, and Scamarcio saw yet more squad cars and a couple of guys he made as plainclothes loitering by a bus stop, clearly waiting for orders. Up ahead were three uniforms strolling the street, armed to the hilt — it looked like a ‘We’re here, we have it under control’, kind of patrol, with no real purpose. Rigamonti took a right and pulled to a stop in front of a run-down apartment block.

  Scamarcio dismounted and almost stepped on a dead rat lying by a rubbish bin. The city was losing the war against the rat population. They used to say that there were three rats for every Roman, but he’d read recently that the ratio was now much higher. There was a level at which the rat population could no longer be contained, and they’d already exceeded that. Scamarcio thought of Scalisi — the rats were running amok in Rome.

  Rigamonti rang the buzzer for the third floor, and a soft voice told them to come up. They were about to enter when Rigamonti tapped Scamarcio on the elbow and gestured subtly to his left. Two police cars had pulled up at the kerb some twenty metres ahead. A couple of uniforms were stepping out, followed by three plainclothes.

  Scamarcio’s instinct was to hurry inside, but he needed to check where the police were heading. After a moment’s hesitation, the team tried the keypad of an apartment block two doors down from Scamarcio. Clearly no reply was forthcoming because, after a quick huddle with the plainclothes, they pressed the buttons again, then held an ID up to the glass. A guy soon appeared wielding a mop. After a brief back-and-forth, he led them around the side of the building, opening the wide metal gates to what Scamarcio presumed was the parking area.

  ‘OK, I’ve seen enough,’ he whispered.

  When they were riding the elevator to the third floor, he asked, ‘So, who is it we’re going to see?’

  Rigamonti rubbed beneath an eye. ‘I met them for that story I told you about. They’re two brothers who emigrated from Morocco ten years ago. I’m thinking they might be able to tell us something about your boy.’

  When they knocked, a good-looking young man answered the door. He was tall, with sharp cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, and shoulder-length dark hair.

  ‘Hamzi, how are you?’ Rigamonti extended a hand. The young man took it, then eyed Scamarcio with a mixture of suspicion and concern.

  ‘He’s the guy from the news,’ he said to Rigamonti, as if perhaps he wasn’t aware.

  ‘Yes, I was hoping we could have a quick word,’ said the reporter.

  Hamzi scanned the corridor, then ushered them inside. He stared at Scamarcio. ‘This isn’t going to cause any trouble for me, is it? I don’t want hassle.’

  ‘Where’s Aakil?’ Rigamonti asked.

  ‘Out.’

  Scamarcio took in a small lounge stuffed to capacity with dark wooden bookcases and chests of drawers. He guessed that the furniture had once stood in a bigger home. A couple of cheap fake-leather sofas occupied the centre of the room, elaborate antimacassars draped across the backs.

  ‘There’ll be no trouble,’ said Rigamonti, probably too quickly. ‘We won’t be staying long.’

  The young man gestured them to the sofa. ‘So?’ He took up a position on the settee opposite, but didn’t look comfortable. He remained perched on the end, as if he needed to be ready to run at any moment.

  ‘We’re here about Ifran — I wondered if you knew him or knew of him?’

  ‘You working for the police?’

  ‘As usual, I’m just trying to get a story together.’

  ‘But that guy’s a policeman.’ He pointed to Scamarcio as if he couldn’t hear.

  ‘Yep, but right now he’s very much on the wrong side of the law.’ Rigamonti sighed as if all this was an irrelevance. ‘So, the boy — you know him?’

  Hamzi barred his arms across his narrow chest. ‘Not personally. But Twitter has kicked off — a couple of my mates know of him — a friend of a friend kind of thing.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘What’s to tell? Looks like Ifran started hanging out with the wrong people — same old, same old …’

  ‘We’re not sure it is.’

  Hamzi shrugged. ‘I couldn’t judge. Like I say, we weren’t acquainted.’

  ‘What do they make of all this, your friends? Of Ifran’s involvement?’ Rigamonti asked.

  ‘They say Ifran was into bling, liked to party — not your typical radical, if you know what I mean. People are surprised.’

  Scamarcio made a mental note, then filed it away, unsure what to do with it. He didn’t really want to know — there were already enough ambiguities, enough complications to consider.

  ‘So he didn’t seem particularly devout?’ Rigamonti pushed.

  ‘Not the way they tell it.’

  ‘Was he popular?’

  ‘I don’t know — perhaps, if he liked to party. But I’m just guessing. I don’t know him.’ Scamarcio thought Hamzi was spelling this out a little bit too much.

  ‘These friends of yours, do you think they’d talk to me?’ asked Rigamonti.

  Hamzi shrugged again. ‘You could give it a go, but they don’t know you. I can put in a good word, but I can’t promise.’

  ‘Let’s try.’

  Hamzi got up from the sofa and retrieved a mobile from the dresser. He punched the keypad and, after a few moments, began talking in a language Scamarcio didn’t understand. The discussion seemed to grow quite heated, and Scamarcio thought he heard shouting on the other end, but then Hamzi fell silent and said ‘OK,’ before replacing the receiver.

  ‘I think you’re going to have to offer them something,’ he said to Rigamonti.

  ‘Cash?’

  Hamzi nodded. ‘They weren’t keen. I told them you were straight, but that probably doesn’t count for much. I didn’t tell them about him,’ he gestured to Scamarcio. ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t bring him — it will just freak them out.’

  Rigamonti nodded. Scamarcio wondered where the hell he was supposed to hide out in Torpignattara with half the country’s police patrolling the area.

  ‘Thanks, Hamzi,’ said Rigamonti, springing up from the sofa. ‘I owe you one.’

  ‘Yeah, well, if I ever need help, I’m hoping you can find me a good lawyer.’

  ‘Done. Where are they, these friends?’

  ‘A few streets down — Via della Rocca — it’s near the park. Number forty-eight, fifth floor.’

  They had finished shaking hands and were making to leave when Hamzi’s door phone buzzed. He picked up the receiver, and Scamarcio watched the colour drain from his face. He pressed the button, smashed the phone back in its cradle, and pushed a shaky hand through his hair. ‘It’s the pigs. They’re on their way up. Fuck, man, what have you done?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Rigamonti, quite calm. ‘They’re just doing a routine house-to-house, that’s all. Just say nothing, keep your head — all will be fine, I promise.’

  With that, Rigamonti shoved Scamarcio out into the corridor. ‘Let’s take the stairs — they’ll be in the lift.’

  ‘Not if they’re any good, they won’t,’ said Scamarcio. ‘They’ll take both to make sure no-one’s doing a runner.’

  ‘So?’ said Rigamonti, the first hints of desperation in his voice.

 
; ‘Follow me,’ said Scamarcio, heading for the end of the corridor, quickly scanning the wall for the telltale panel. ‘This building’s old; we might have a chance.’

  He soon found what he was looking for: a small silver handle marking the door to the rubbish chute. He pulled it open — the hole was just wide enough to climb inside.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ said Rigamonti, his eyes alive.

  ‘Crazier to stand out here like a sitting duck …’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’

  Scamarcio got into the chute and slid down to make room; luckily it wasn’t so wide that they risked losing their grip. Scamarcio suddenly felt grateful for the fact that cohabiting had made him put on a few kilos. Fiammetta wasn’t one for cooking, and they seemed to subsist on pizza, or oily take-outs from the Sardinian place down the road. The metal of the chute was warm beneath him, and the stink of old vegetables and rancid fats turned his stomach. He wondered how long they’d have to stay here. They might not be able to hear the police arrive; there might be no way of knowing when it was a good time to come out.

  But, as if in answer to these doubts, he heard Hamzi’s voice, much louder than natural, from further down the corridor. ‘No,’ he was saying. ‘Let me go, you have no right!’ He was shouting now. There were footfalls approaching, it was the sound of many pairs of boots, and Hamzi’s cries were rising above them all, louder and louder. ‘Under which law? You have no right! How can you do this?’

  Scamarcio felt Rigamonti go quite still. Then he heard the sound of the elevator doors release and feet shuffling inside. Hamzi was still yelling. ‘This is a fucking disgrace! It’s unlawful! Get your hands off me, you racist bastards!’

  When the groans of the cogs and pulleys of the lift had finally died away, Scamarcio tried to wet his lips and find some words. ‘What the fuck?’ he asked, already knowing the answer.

  ‘They’ve gone and fucking arrested him, haven’t they?’ whispered Rigamonti.

  ‘But it sounds like he’s got nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Either they’re doing a sweep of the neighbourhood, or they know something we don’t.’

  ‘It’s a sweep,’ said Scamarcio, quite certain. ‘They’re desperate. It’s bells and whistles — the normal rules no longer apply.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Rigamonti, pushing his bulk against the door of the chute and pulling himself out. ‘I want to get to Hamzi’s friends before they do.’

  Scamarcio scrambled out behind Rigamonti and stretched. His knees and back ached, and his neck was stiff. Yet again, he was reminded that he was fast approaching forty. ‘They won’t have the resources to arrest everyone.’

  ‘Yeah, but Hamzi might be put under duress.’

  ‘He wouldn’t give them up, surely?’

  ‘You said it yourself — it’s emergency measures. What if the police go all Guantanamo?’

  ‘I know the chief — he’d never countenance that.’

  ‘Depends what pressure is being brought to bear.’

  ‘No, I’ve seen him take the heat from AISE before, and he didn’t bend.’

  ‘Yeah, but this is different, Scamarcio. This time, the whole world’s watching.’

  ‘Chief Mancino’s decent, he’ll keep it clean. The last thing he’ll want is all these non-suspects choking up the cells.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Rigamonti, sceptical. He went to push the button for the elevator, but Scamarcio darted out a hand to stop him.

  ‘We’ll take the stairs. They might have forgotten something and be heading back up.’

  ‘Like what, another suspect?’ sighed the reporter.

  8

  WHEN THEY EXITED THE building, there was no sign of any police. Rigamonti had already entered the address of Hamzi’s friends into the GPS on his iPhone. ‘It’s only a few minutes away. I’d walk, but given the circumstances, that doesn’t seem wise.’

  They clambered back on the motorbike, Scamarcio quickly flicking down the visor on his helmet. As they turned out of Hamzi’s road, he spotted a platoon of Panthers parked alongside a disused market square. Then he noticed a type of black van with narrow windows that he knew was used by the SWAT unit of the anti-terror police. To the right of the van, standing on the pavement, were two dog handlers and their mutts. Scamarcio’s impression changed: he sensed that the police knew exactly what they were looking for here. The elite snipers wouldn’t have been sent in otherwise.

  He scanned the area around the square. There were a few run-down apartment blocks and several shops. He couldn’t tell where the units were headed, but it seemed clear that they were following a specific lead.

  Rigamonti sped past the police vehicles, and Scamarcio’s mind flashed on the possibility of a roadblock. But the way ahead was clear, and they moved freely into a wide street lined with semi-restored Art Nouveau buildings. Rigamonti took a swift left, and they pulled up outside what looked like a preschool. Paintings of trees and farmyard animals lined the glass windows.

  ‘This has to be a mistake,’ said the reporter.

  Scamarcio looked around him and noticed a low building set back a few metres to the left of the school. It seemed like a work in progress, and had been partially painted brown along one wall. The building was squat, with just three floors. The ground floor windows were obscured by a crisscross of steel bars.

  ‘Could it be that one?’ he said, pointing it out to Rigamonti.

  ‘Must be.’

  They left the bike and traipsed across the threadbare patch of grass bordering the nursery.

  Rigamonti scratched at the top of his head. ‘I’m not sure how long we’ve got left until my name is mentioned,’ said the reporter, sounding quite calm.

  ‘You still think they’ll make Hamzi sweat?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘My sense is that this is a major sweep, maybe the biggest they’ve ever staged. They’re throwing all their resources at it, but it doesn’t have much focus yet. It could be a while before they even start talking to Hamzi.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Rigamonti, unconvinced. ‘It looked like they knew exactly what they were doing up by that market square.’

  ‘That’s a separate issue, I think.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Often in emergency situations like this, politics takes over, and money is spent doing the wrong things, just to give the impression that something is being done.’

  ‘Sounds like wishful thinking.’

  ‘Trust me. We still have some time.’

  Rigamonti was about to ring the buzzer when he turned to Scamarcio. ‘You heard what Hamzi said. Don’t you think I should go it alone?’

  Scamarcio ran a hand through the damp hair at the nape of his neck. ‘Problem is, where the fuck do I go? The area is teeming. And I’d prefer not to loiter around inside this dump waiting for someone to spot me and call the cops.’

  Rigamonti nodded as if he’d already reached the same conclusion: ‘Right you are then, let’s chance it.’

  He rang the bell and explained loudly through the closed front door that Hamzi had sent them. Scamarcio heard a grunt before the latch clicked and the door swung open.

  The young but morbidly obese guy standing on the threshold to his flat didn’t seem particularly happy to see them. But when Rigamonti pulled out three hundred euros in cash, his mood seemed to lift slightly. Scamarcio distrusted him at first sight.

  Once they were inside the filthy apartment, the reporter cut to it. ‘Hamzi said you knew something about the boy Ifran, who’s holed up at the café near the Colosseum, with all those hostages.’

  There was a huge plasma TV playing Sky TG24 in the corner of the room, and the fat man glanced at it as Rigamonti spoke. Besides being dangerously overweight, the guy, who said his name was Aabad, was stunningly ugly, with bulbous eyes and a badly receding hairline. He turned from the T
V and swigged nervously from a can of Coke before pushing the back of a swollen hand across his cavernous mouth.

  ‘I don’t know him, but my cousin Taaliq does. They used to hang out.’

  ‘Used to?’

  ‘Ifran suddenly disappeared, left the scene. He didn’t want to party anymore.’

  ‘Ifran liked to party?’ tried Rigamonti.

  Aabad shrugged and sniffed, then lowered his weight onto a decrepit looking sofa — foam was spilling from the cushions. ‘They used to hit the clubs. He was quite a dancer. They were out three, four nights a week.’

  Scamarcio couldn’t square it. He couldn’t fit Ifran into this picture, but then he reminded himself that he’d only spoken to him for a few minutes.

  ‘Did they go to clubs round here?’

  ‘Yeah, and in the centre, I think. Ifran had these …’ He hesitated as he tried to find the word ‘particular tastes.’ Aabad pursed his huge lips in disgust.

  ‘What do you mean, “particular”?’ asked Scamarcio, not caring that he was drawing attention to himself.

  Aabad looked strangely uncomfortable. He pinched his nose, then eased back into the sofa and scratched his oily brow. ‘Well, let’s just say that girls didn’t really rock his boat,’ he said nervously, almost as if he was talking about himself.

  ‘He’s gay?’ asked Rigamonti.

  The boy rubbed at the corner of an eye, apparently bored now. ‘My cousin thought so, although he never saw anything specific.’

  ‘When was all this — when were they hanging out?’ asked Scamarcio.

  ‘About six months ago. Then Ifran just disappeared.’ Aabad clicked his fat fingers as though he’d been the one to make Ifran vanish.

  ‘Six months ago?’ echoed Scamarcio, his mind turning on something new, a thought he didn’t have time to properly pursue.

  ‘Yeah. He suddenly stopped returning my cousin’s calls. Taaliq couldn’t get hold of him.’

  ‘And he never saw him again?’

  ‘They passed on the street a few times, but Ifran just gave him the cold shoulder. Taaliq couldn’t work it out; he didn’t know what he’d done to offend him.’