The Extremist

by Nadia Dalbuono

  Then, there was a flash as the reporter tossed something from the window. The kids ran towards it, but Scamarcio got ahead of them and pushed them out the way — more violently than he’d intended. The keys to the bike were glinting in the grass. He grabbed them and ran. This time he didn’t look back.

  He reached the bike and had to stop and bend over. There was a stitch in his side that was becoming fierce. He felt like he might throw up. What will happen to Rigamonti? he asked himself. Where would they take him? But in the next instant, he wondered how quickly the authorities would find him. He tried to ignore the pain and scrambled onto the bike, his hand shaking as he fired up the ignition. The weight of the machine took him by surprise as he pulled away, and he almost lost control at the first corner.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he whispered as he flew past the battalions of police heading the other way, sirens blaring. But there was no-one there to hear him.

  At first, Scamarcio thought that the best thing he could do was to head back to the centre and try to confront the boy. He needed to hear Ifran’s explanation. Who was the Chechen, and what was his relationship with the Basiles? But then he reluctantly admitted to himself that Rigamonti was right — what were the chances that he would make it past the authorities?

  He took a long breath as wrecked cars and broken houses flashed past. He did not want to hang around in Torpignattara, but it felt like the quickest route to the answers. Nunzia had told him where her brothers could be found, but Scamarcio asked himself exactly how he was expecting a meeting to go down. Did he really think he’d just waltz in there, and they’d tell him everything he needed to know? He tightened his grip and drove on, unsure of the direction in which he was heading. The police were thinning out, and the streets were growing full again. He continued on for a few more minutes, then stopped to ask someone the way to Via Zena. He’d get to the industrial park, and then work out how to play it — reckless perhaps, but there really wasn’t time for anything more sophisticated.

  It took him another five minutes to find the place. He drew to a stop opposite a series of dilapidated sheds where a heap of rusting bicycles had been abandoned. He stowed the backpack with the laptop in the top case of the BMW, and walked towards the compound. The metal gates were locked shut with a shiny padlock that looked new and unbreakable. He checked his watch. It was 4.30. God knew if Guerra’s message had ever made it to Ifran.

  Scamarcio skirted the long chain-link fence, but couldn’t spot another way in. Beyond the fence were several low, grey buildings with sloping roofs — warehouses perhaps. A sudden chill crept through him; the whole feel of the place reminded him of a terrifying experience on a past case. He turned away and tried to focus. What the hell am I doing here without back up? As if to complete this tardy realisation, he felt a hard grip on his bicep and turned to see a weather-beaten oaf of a man looking as surprised as he was. ‘What the fuck?’

  Scamarcio stayed quite still.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ said the thug as if they were acquainted.

  ‘Take me inside, and I’ll tell you.’

  The guy looked worried for a moment, then seemed to make up his mind, and pushed Scamarcio towards the fence. With his free arm, the mutt pulled out a bunch of keys and undid the shiny padlock. One of the metal gates groaned open.

  ‘Hey, Nino,’ he hollered as he pushed Scamarcio across the yard. ‘You are not going to believe what I found sniffing around outside.’

  But evidently Nino wasn’t in, because no response came. The place was as silent as a morgue, save for the tap-tapping of something against a wall. Scamarcio turned and saw an old scrap of tarpaulin being battered by the breeze.

  They passed a single-storey grey building and headed towards a small blue-and-white Portakabin behind it. The thug felt his pocket for the keys, then noticed a light inside the Portakabin and tried the door. It opened, and they entered a musty corridor, which smelt of old carpet and freshly brewed coffee. Scamarcio heard the murmur of the TV news. The sound became clearer as they moved towards a chink of light at the end of the hallway. ‘One of the prime suspects in the Rome siege has escaped police custody. Police say he is armed and highly dangerous. The public is advised not to approach him under any circumstances.’

  They’re certainly upping the ante, thought Scamarcio. He was not armed and he was not dangerous — well, perhaps just slightly. But as they entered the room, Scamarcio saw the Chechen’s huge face filling the screen. He’s a suspect? He’s escaped? Then he wondered if the authorities had let him escape. But if that was the case, why were they telling the media that they were looking for him?

  Scamarcio turned and saw a well-built middle-aged man with his legs up on the desk. His arms were folded behind his head as he watched the latest developments.

  ‘Can you believe it?’ he said to Scamarcio’s jailer without looking at him. ‘The Chechen went and got himself arrested, but then he managed to leg it.’ There was a strong hint of sarcasm in his voice, as if he found all this highly improbable.

  Scamarcio’s jailer tightened his grip. ‘Yeah, well, this day just gets stranger. Look what I found outside.’

  The man at the desk finally tore his gaze from the screen, and even he seemed surprised this time. ‘Jesus,’ was all he said after he’d studied Scamarcio for a few moments.

  ‘Sit,’ barked the thug as he pushed Scamarcio into a chair opposite the desk. ‘Don’t move.’

  He then fished around in a dented metal filing cabinet and quickly produced a pair of handcuffs, which he used to lock Scamarcio to the chair.

  The man opposite leaned forward and rested his hairy forearms on the desk. Scamarcio noticed a gold Rolex and a steaming cup of coffee. It smelt good. ‘You’ve got most of Rome’s police out looking for you, Detective.’ The sarcasm had returned.

  Scamarcio sniffed and said nothing. He always found it was better to say nothing in these situations.

  ‘So, what the fuck brings you to my door?’

  Scamarcio stayed silent as he tried to craft a response that was direct, but would not offend. After a few moments, he said, ‘That terrorist at the bar near the Colosseum has suggested that the powers that be may have been helping him. He’s sent me to retrieve the evidence.’

  At this the guy behind the desk threw back his head and guffawed. It was a thick deep laugh — the laugh of someone who’d grown up in the badlands and had developed the ability to spot a faker from a very early age. ‘Fuck, what do you take me for?’

  ‘It’s no joke, that’s what he said.’

  The man stared at him, then said, ‘Well, lad, he’s playing you for a fool while Rome burns.’

  He was too young to be calling Scamarcio ‘lad’. ‘Rome’s not burning yet.’

  The guy sighed and shook his head. ‘Whatever. You’re in serious trouble.’ He looked at his goon. ‘Would you say he’s in trouble, Beppe?’

  ‘That would be my assessment, Nino.’

  Scamarcio thought that, beneath the bravado, the man called Nino looked slightly nervous.

  ‘For a guy who’s been selling arms to the intelligence services, for a guy who’s going to be hauled in front of the magistrates quicker than you can say “maxi trial”, you seem pretty calm,’ Scamarcio tried.

  ‘What?’ Nino’s eyes narrowed until they were black slits.

  ‘Oh, I thought you’d already worked it out — you didn’t seem surprised that the Chechen had managed to escape.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Nino pinched his nose and traded dark glances with the thug, Beppe.

  Scamarcio could tell that they’d already discussed this; their street kid instincts had been warning them there was something off about the Chechen.

  ‘You know what I’m talking about, let’s not play games.’

  ‘So, what do you want?’ asked Nino, lunging forward across the desk. ‘What the fuck has i
t got to do with you?’

  ‘I want to know what he asked for, and when.’

  ‘You think you can just walk in here …’

  Scamarcio had set his course and he intended to keep to it. From nowhere, he heard himself say, ‘I have a friend, Dante Greco — you may have heard of him. Let’s just say that if you don’t give me what I need, Dante might make life difficult.’

  Nino frowned and jolted his head back in surprise. ‘I thought you’d be threatening me with the cops.’

  ‘They’re probably all over you already — I wouldn’t want to get in the way.’

  ‘So, it’s true what they say about you.’

  ‘Nothing’s ever black and white in this country. You of all people should know that, Nino.’

  Nino just shook his head. Scamarcio watched his beady little eyes calculating his next move, and was reminded of Nunzia. He was sure that this was her brother, another Basile, but he didn’t want to ask and let on that he’d met her — especially if she was now decomposing in the police morgue.

  ‘Is Dante a friend from back home, then?’

  Scamarcio nodded.

  ‘You hear about what happened to Piero Piocosta?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Scamarcio, wanting to get off that subject as quickly as possible.

  Nino Basile eyed him with sullen curiosity, then said, ‘So if I tell you, it won’t make its way to the pigs.’

  ‘You know as well as I that there’s nothing they can do with hearsay. If I were you, I’d worry more about Greco.’

  Basile pulled out a biro from a pot on his desk and began drumming the table. It was a strong, even rhythm. He let it run for a while, then stopped.

  ‘Greco,’ he repeated.

  ‘Greco,’ Scamarcio confirmed.

  The drumming started up again, then stopped again. ‘That Chechen — we don’t know him well. He came to us a few months back wanting a truckload of shit: AKs, MP5s, grenades. He was a big spender.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘About fifty of each.’

  ‘And did you give him what he wanted?’

  Basile nodded.

  ‘And he’s all paid up?’

  ‘Oh yeah.’

  ‘Euros?’

  ‘Dollars.’

  ‘How did you get the stuff?’

  ‘What do you care?’ The beady eyes widened, the pupils dilated. Scamarcio was reminded of a crocodile about to strike. ‘Your Croat friends must be happy.’

  Basile’s expression gave nothing away.

  ‘So you thought this guy was legit?’

  Basile shrugged, but Scamarcio could tell there was something there — a doubt.

  ‘Tell me.’

  Basile scratched at his head. ‘There was no problem with the money. He settled up.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, I got the feeling he’d not done this kind of thing before.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘’Cos he paid before he’d even sampled the goods, before the handover. Who does that? It was like he couldn’t get rid of the cash fast enough.’

  Scamarcio had been about to ask them to remove the cuffs, to try to make a gentlemanly exit, re-summoning the phantom of Dante Greco, but there was a sudden commotion outside, and his gaze was pulled to the window. He heard panting, doors slamming, metal against metal, and the scuffle of heavy boots.

  ‘Nino! Nino!’ someone was half-shouting, half-wheezing. Scamarcio recognised the American accent immediately.

  Basile looked alarmed, then sprang up from the desk. The Chechen was standing in the doorway, his white T-shirt transparent with sweat — it was as if he’d been running through the rain.

  ‘Nino, help me. The pigs are after me.’

  Basile just stood there, his mouth agape. The Chechen turned and in that moment saw Scamarcio handcuffed to the chair.

  ‘You,’ he said, his voice almost a whisper. Then he did something that none of them had expected. He bolted.

  ‘Get these cuffs off,’ Scamarcio yelled. The thug looked at his boss. Basile just nodded and grabbed something from his desk before darting out the door. As soon as he was free, Scamarcio followed Nino and his goon out into the yard. They were sprinting towards the entrance, and Scamarcio caught up with them at the gate. But the Chechen had been way too fast for all of them — he was already a faint blur half-way down the street. Scamarcio scrambled onto Rigamonti’s bike, but the Chechen was just a dot at the end of the road now, and Scamarcio could barely make him out. He had no idea if he’d turned right, or left, or headed straight on.

  ‘What the fuck was that?’ panted Basile.

  ‘God knows, but I’m going to find out,’ said Scamarcio as he pulled away.

  Basile and his mutt weren’t even looking at him — their eyes were still trained on the end of the street.

  Scamarcio reached the junction with the main road and stopped, scanning right, then left, then straight ahead, but there was no sign of the Chechen. He drove on, his eyes scouring the pavements, the side streets, the desiccated parks, but the giant was nowhere to be seen. When Scamarcio arrived at the next intersection, he stopped and checked the adjoining roads, but it soon became clear that the streets were empty.

  It was as if he were chasing a phantom.

  He continued driving back west towards the centre, expecting that it wouldn’t be long before he encountered his first roadblock. Up ahead he noticed the traffic thickening and he pulled to a stop outside a boarded-up cinema. If there was a police checkpoint ahead, he wanted time to think first, to organise his thoughts, and try to clarify exactly what it was he was dealing with.

  The reality was that he still had very little to go on. The only tangible evidence was the DVD, and that could be interpreted in any number of ways. He dismounted, put on his cap, and pulled out the laptop. Then he walked left down a side street. He’d find somewhere to watch the film one last time before he headed back to Ifran.

  There was a small church a few metres up ahead, and he hurried inside, grateful for the cool, damp air. The church was almost empty, save for a group of young people occupying the front two rows on the right, who appeared to be waiting for someone. They were chatting quietly among themselves, and every so often glanced towards the door. Scamarcio took a seat in a pew at the very back and powered up the computer, turning the sound down low. He inserted the DVD and tried to concentrate. But, as the film played, nothing new struck him; there were no sudden nuances, no fresh clues as to the truth of the situation.

  When the first film had finished, he replayed the second clip, with the incongruous footage of the two children in the garden kicking their ball back and forth, their laughter light and untroubled, their faces serene. There was nothing there. Or if there was, he just couldn’t see it.

  The screen eventually turned black, but he allowed the marker to complete its course along the timeline, realising that this was something he hadn’t done the first time around. The next thirty seconds were empty, and he was about to shut it down when he realised that a sound was coming from the computer. It took him a while to work it out, but he soon realised it was the voice of a young man, speaking deliberately low, the words hushed and barely decipherable. Scamarcio raised the volume, his pulse quickening.

  ‘But we don’t even know him,’ the man was saying. It sounded like Ifran, but Scamarcio couldn’t be sure.

  ‘We know enough,’ came the reply.

  ‘We don’t know where he comes from, we don’t know what he does for a living. We don’t even know if he’s Muslim.’

  ‘He fought in Dagestan with the IIPB, and then he was with the jihadists in the Caucasus Emirate — he’s solid.’

  ‘What’s he doing in Rome, then? Why hasn’t he left for Raqqa with the rest of them?’

  ‘He lost his mother and sister in the second war. He wanted a new s
tart, decided to come to Italy — to make a new life for himself.’

  ‘Why’s he hanging around with us, then?’

  ‘He says that he feels he’s not achieving anything — he wants to make a difference again.’

  Scamarcio heard the first man suck in air. ‘Barkat, I don’t buy it. Where’s he getting his cash? How does he survive?’

  Barkat. The guy from the film.

  ‘God — so many questions.’

  ‘They’re questions that need answers.’

  Barkat said nothing.

  ‘I’ve seen him eat pancetta. I’ve seen him legless …’

  ‘You eat pancetta. You drink Bacardi Breezers …’

  ‘I’m telling you, I don’t trust this guy. He appears out of nowhere, wants to be our friend …’

  ‘That’s why I checked him out, Ifran.’ It was him.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I know someone who knows someone in the Emirate — they confirmed they’d met him.’

  ‘Met him when?’

  ‘He’d been with them before he came here — he told them that he was leaving because he needed a break, wanted a change of scene. Same story he told me.’

  Ifran fell silent.

  ‘So, you see — he really is from Chechnya, he really was with the Emirate. OK, so he didn’t go off to Syria with the rest of them, but remember that for a time that was frowned upon — it’s a recent thing, this rush to join.’

  ‘How did he get here?’

  ‘Refugee.’

  ‘OK,’ said Ifran after a few moments’ silence. ‘But I still think we need to tread carefully. Don’t give too much away — we need to keep testing him, making sure. It’s too early to hand him everything on a plate.’

  ‘Fine, if that’s how you want to play it. But this guy’s well connected — we need him more than he needs us.’

  The marker reached the end of the timeline, and the audio died. Scamarcio quickly closed the laptop, as if there was something there he didn’t want anyone to see. One question remained: how long had the Chechen been with the jihadists in the Caucasus before he came to Italy? Scamarcio wished he could have had the conversation with the contact from the Emirate — Barkat had not been thorough enough for his liking.