The Extremist

by Nadia Dalbuono

  Scamarcio looked up at the ceiling and its peeling fresco of clouds and cherubs, sadistic smiles on their fat faces. He thought again about the Chechen’s recent flight from the police. How could he establish the truth about this phantom? And where was he going to find it?

  13

  ACCORDING TO SCAMARCIO’S WATCH, it was now 5.30 p.m. He headed for the door of the church, wondering again whether Guerra’s message had got through. If Scamarcio was to abide by Ifran’s terms, he would need to find a news crew, and he would need to convince them to enter a hostage situation live. If he was even able to arrive at that point, which he doubted, the whole thing was going to take an age to set up: calls would need to be made, lawyers consulted, boards convened. The more he thought about it, the more impossible it seemed. It almost felt as if Ifran had set him up to fail.

  Scamarcio hurried down the street, realising that he’d be returning without answers. He’d be trying to broadcast to the world something he didn’t understand. It felt like a case of lesser evils, though — the risk of just walking away still felt too high.

  He headed for the spot where he’d parked. He would use the motorbike to cover a few more kilometres to the centre, avoiding the more direct roads, which were covered by CCTV, and then he’d abandon it — he had no choice, the police would be looking for it now they had Rigamonti. But as he drew closer to where he’d left the BMW, the scene ahead told him his plan would need to change. Two uniforms were bent over the bike: one was taking photos with his phone while the other was knelt by the rear plates, apparently radioing the registration through to base. Scamarcio swung back the way he had come.

  ‘One … two … three …’ he whispered, heading past the church, a bakery, a hardware store, then taking a left into a dusty street bordered by social housing, ‘four … five … six …’ as he passed one neglected block after the other, ‘seven … eight … nine …’ as a pet store, a pharmacy, and a barber’s spun by. It was only once he’d made it to the end of the road that he allowed himself to run. He couldn’t remember ever having run faster.

  He was heading south now, away from Torpignattara, away from the centre again. He’d yet to spot a familiar landmark — anything that might anchor him and give him some sense of the area. The traffic was starting to thin, and he thought he must be heading towards Ciampino and the airport, but he hadn’t seen a road sign so couldn’t be sure.

  He walked on for another kilometre, and then came to a stop outside a bar. He had a searing thirst and knew he needed to see to it, but he couldn’t walk in without being recognised — all the customers had their eyes glued to the news. He rooted around in the backpack, hoping to find something of use. Besides the laptop there was nothing save a few coins amounting to the spectacular sum of five euros. He checked his wallet: he had just two notes left — a five and a ten.

  He scanned the street. Opposite him was a series of shops, Chinese lettering across the windows of one. It looked like the kind of place that might sell junk for a few euros. He crossed the street, his head bent low. Once inside the shop, he quickly found a pair of sunglasses, but it took a while longer to settle on a pair that wouldn’t draw attention. He fumbled in his wallet for the five euros, bowing his head as he handed over the coins, and then stepped back outside, heading for the bar. He made straight for the drinks fridge and pulled out a large frosty bottle.

  He’d paid, pocketed the change, and was almost out of the door when someone yelled, ‘Turn the sound up, Marco, it’s that showgirl di Bondi! What the hell has she got to do with anything?’

  Scamarcio froze. He turned back slowly, measuring his movements, trying to make himself invisible.

  ‘The showgirl Fiammetta di Bondi has been escorted by police from her home near Via Boncompagni,’ said the newsreader. ‘It is believed the authorities want to question her in connection with the whereabouts of her boyfriend, Detective Leone Scamarcio.’

  Fiammetta looked stressed and dishevelled as two officers led her out of Scamarcio’s apartment building. One shoulder of her white T-shirt had dropped down to reveal her bra strap. Her long blonde hair had fallen loose from its clip and was hanging in untidy bunches around her un-made-up face. Scamarcio wanted to run up and adjust the T-shirt, then deck the two goons manhandling her for subjecting her to such indignity.

  He suddenly realised that she was shouting something, was shouting the same thing over and over. There was a touch of the madwoman about it, and his stomach started to knot. He tried to make out what she was saying, but couldn’t — the words were running into each other. He drew nearer to the bar, not caring now if anyone spotted him. ‘What’s she saying?’ a guy asked helpfully. The barman turned the sound up again.

  After a few seconds, Scamarcio finally made it out. ‘Oak tree,’ she was repeating, like a savant in the throws of some painful delusion.

  Scamarcio turned towards the door. ‘Has she lost her marbles?’ asked a voice behind him as he hurried out, wondering the exact same thing. Fiammetta was in some ways fragile, at times eccentric. Could it be that the pressure of all this was killing her? He felt a sharp stab of guilt; how he wished he could call her.

  But as he hurried away, his shirt wet with sweat, realisation slowly dawned: Fiammetta hadn’t gone crazy at all — in fact she was nothing short of a genius.

  14

  AWARE HE WAS STILL heading south, Scamarcio turned right at the first opportunity, aiming to reach the Tiber where it snaked its way through the lower reaches of the city. After he’d walked for ten minutes, he spotted the Parco della Caffarella, and knew it would be around three quarters of an hour before he hit Trastevere. His mind was racing. The huge oak tree on the left bank just below the hustle of Trastevere was a key location in his history with Fiammetta. It was beneath its branches that she’d told him recently that she loved him; something she’d claimed she’d never said to anyone. He’d decided to wait until another time to explain his feelings because he didn’t want to sound trite, but he regretted that now.

  What is waiting for me under that oak? he wondered. He felt a disturbing mix of anxiety and exhilaration.

  As he crossed the Via Ostiense and made his way towards Trastevere, the anxiety grew. Would the police and Intel find a way to put pressure on Fiammetta? Get her to explain those words? But perhaps it didn’t matter. Despite her apparent fragility, there was a strength to Fiammetta — a deeper solidity. She’d stay cool under fire.

  A few police cars sped by. He wondered if there would be much of a presence in Trastevere. It was a touristy area — the authorities might consider it a risk. Yet he guessed that they were overwhelmed, what with the operation in Torpignattara and the siege at different locations around the centre, there wouldn’t be many officers left to spare.

  At the first sight of the Tiber, molten and stagnant under the sun, his heart flipped — again the same toxic blend of nerves and anticipation. He spotted some stone steps leading to the riverbank and quickly made his way down, figuring that he’d be less visible on the towpath.

  He headed north, his thoughts churning; he passed a familiar bar and realised that the oak tree couldn’t be more than ten minutes away now. He knew he’d be able to recognise it immediately thanks to its enormous, gnarled trunk where hundreds of Romans had scored their names. He wondered quite what he’d find in its shade; whether he’d be looking at something, or someone.

  After he’d walked for about five minutes, the ancient oak came into view, its limbs dipping low as if testing the water for a swim. Beneath its branches stood a small, heavy-set man. As he drew closer, Scamarcio realised he was a stranger. Despite Scamarcio’s sunglasses, however, the stranger seemed to recognise him.

  ‘Leone,’ he whispered. He held out a wide palm, and Scamarcio took it tentatively.

  ‘I’m Pasquale. Dante sent me.’

  ‘Dante Greco?’

  ‘Who else?’ said the man, running a qu
ick hand through his brush cut. Scamarcio didn’t much like his face — he read a capacity for cruelty in the man’s small rodent eyes. Why had Fiammetta told him to come here? It didn’t make any sense now.

  ‘I guess you’re wondering what’s going on.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Scamarcio, quietly.

  ‘You have a contact, a Professor Letta, whom you met on another case …’

  Scamarcio said nothing.

  ‘Letta has been moving heaven and earth to find you. Word got back to us that he was looking — we were asked to help track you down.’

  ‘That’s crazy.’

  ‘It’s been a crazy kind of day.’

  ‘Where does Fiammetta fit in?’

  ‘Dante makes it his business to stay abreast. We asked her to help.’

  ‘And she suggested this place?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What does Letta want?’

  Pasquale pulled out a scrap of paper from his pocket and handed it over.

  Scamarcio unfolded it quickly. All the note said was, ‘Meet Mr Di Mare at the Basilica di Santa Maria.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘There’s no time on the message.’

  ‘The man is waiting for you — he’s been waiting a while, I think.’

  Something wasn’t adding up. ‘Why is Greco helping me?’ Scamarcio asked.

  The man frowned and raised his palms. ‘I can’t speak for Dante. Maybe he just wanted to do you a favour?’

  Scamarcio sniffed. He sensed that Greco didn’t do favours for anyone.

  He thanked Pasquale and walked on, heading north towards the basilica. After a few minutes, he had to leave the shelter of the towpath and enter the tangled web of side streets that led to the church. All the while, he was painfully aware that he was nearing the biggest police presence Rome had ever seen. What was Letta playing at, and who the hell was Mr Di Mare?

  As Scamarcio emerged from the side streets and approached the basilica, he noticed a few tourists milling around the arches, posing for photos in the lengthening shadows. Scamarcio was surprised that they weren’t all holed up in their hotels, sitting it out. He took the steps and entered the church, the cool musk of old stone hitting him immediately.

  There were a few more tourists inside. To his right were a couple of blonde women lighting electric candles on a stand. To his left was a Japanese tour group clustered around a mosaic of the Virgin, the guide explaining something with exaggerated hand gestures.

  Scamarcio scanned the central aisles: it didn’t take him long to find him. Halfway down the rows of pews, quite alone, sat a man in a long black raincoat. As Scamarcio drew closer, he saw that the stranger was clutching a brown A4 envelope, and that his hands were trembling. Scamarcio passed him, and then turned. Sensing he was being observed, the man looked up. ‘You made it,’ he said, his voice low with surprise.

  Scamarcio just nodded.

  ‘Sit down.’

  He did as instructed, taking a seat at the end of the parallel pew across the aisle. He studied the man he’d come to meet. Di Mare had close-cropped grey hair, intelligent brown-green eyes, and an angular, tanned face. The sinews on his neck looked taut, and Scamarcio guessed he still worked out. He’d have put him in his early sixties.

  ‘Letta sent you?’ Scamarcio asked.

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘The professor and I share a contact. This contact told Letta about me, and Letta believed that, given today’s events, you and I should talk.’

  Scamarcio glanced at the envelope in the man’s lap.

  ‘I’m in trouble,’ said Scamarcio. As comments went, it was inane, but somehow he felt the need to voice his fears, share them.

  ‘Maybe I can help.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I used to work for AISE. I retired a few months ago.’

  ‘So, you know Colonel Scalisi?’

  The man nodded, but his expression gave nothing away. ‘I could have put in a few more years, but I wanted out.’

  Scamarcio’s interest spiked. ‘Why?’

  ‘We were running a project that I believed had gone sour. We should have called it a day and moved on. But we didn’t.’

  ‘How do you mean, “sour”?’

  ‘We had an asset, well-placed. We’d spent a considerable amount of time and money on him. He was a serious investment.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It was the old Frankenstein scenario: we’d created something important, but then it got out of hand — we lost control. The problem was that not all of my colleagues saw it that way. Or at least, they didn’t want to. It was too painful — they’d invested too much to admit defeat.’

  ‘You talking about Scalisi?’

  ‘Among others.’

  ‘So you walked away?’

  ‘Call it a cop-out, but I preferred not to be there when the shit hit the fan.’

  Scamarcio read guilt in his eyes.

  ‘Is that what’s happening today?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Scamarcio took a few moments to absorb it. So Intel had been behind the Chechen, just as Rigamonti had suspected. But now they no longer had a grip on him. What made him turn? he wondered. Or had the Chechen been playing them all from the start? Scamarcio remembered the question that had been needling him from the audio file.

  ‘The Chechen — he’d been with the jihadists in the Caucasus? Surely that must have meant you couldn’t ever really trust him?’ Then the beginnings of a new idea struck him, and he looked up at the ceiling as he allowed it to take shape. ‘Or was the Caucasus just a cover story?’

  When he looked back, he was surprised to see Di Mare’s brow lined with confusion. His mouth was slightly agape, and his cheeks were flushed. ‘What Chechen?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘The Chechen in Torpignattara — the guy you’ve been running …’

  ‘No,’ said Di Mare decisively. ‘I was talking about this man.’ He reached for the envelope and pulled out a series of surveillance shots, handing them quickly to Scamarcio. As he took them, Scamarcio felt his lungs tighten and his legs go weak. Standing next to Colonel Andrea Scalisi, smiling, was the boy from the café, the boy who had started all this: Ifran.

  15

  SCAMARCIO JUST KEPT STARING at the pictures, his mouth dry, his palms wet.

  ‘I don’t …’ He lost focus. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’m not sure I do, either,’ said Di Mare in a far away voice, as if his mind was struggling to make sense of this new turn. ‘I’ve never known such a hornet’s nest.’ But then a new thought seemed to bother him, and he said softly, ‘Of course, there was a Chechen … some years back … but he was being run from elsewhere. He was …’

  Just at that moment, without warning, Di Mare slumped forward and hit his head hard on the back of the pew in front. Scamarcio wondered if he’d suffered a stroke or a heart attack, but before he could lift him to check, he noticed a shiny trickle of red oozing from a hole at the back of his skull. Through the small hole he could see bone, and the grey slick of brain tissue.

  Scamarcio sprang to his feet and scanned the back of the basilica, but he couldn’t spot anyone hurrying out. The tourists were still going about their business, oblivious; the guides were still running through their spiel. He looked up at the balcony, but it was empty. The sniper, wherever they’d been, had vanished.

  Di Mare was groaning softly. It sounded as if he was trying to say something. Scamarcio quickly bent down and brought his ear to the man’s mouth.

  ‘Ask Letta, he’s …’ Then his voice drifted away as if it had been taken on the breeze.

  ‘Fuck,’ Scamarcio whispered. He tried to steady himself, find some calm. He knew he had to leave — before someone noticed. Keeping his head
down, he made towards the altar, hoping to find a side exit. He didn’t want to use the front steps with a gunman nearby. He hurried towards a chapel next to the altar, hoping that it might lead to the priests’ changing area. He found a door partially ajar, and, as expected, it led to a small room.

  Once inside, Scamarcio scanned the walls for a way out, but it was a sealed box — no windows, no doors. Then he noticed some narrow steps leading beneath the basilica. He took them, wondering whether it was a mistake, but still not wanting to return through the centre of the church.

  He came down into a dank stone cellar, which he thought must border the crypt. He seemed to remember hearing that the head of one of the saints was buried down here, along with some remnants of the holy sponge. He cast around for an exit, not really expecting to find one. His gaze came to rest on a small door. He tried it several times, but it remained shut tight. He kept pushing, then pulling, but still it wouldn’t budge. He’d just have to take his chances up in the church.

  He sprinted back up the steps, through the antechamber, and out into the main body of the basilica. He slowed to a brisk walk as he made his way through the centre of the pews. There was a cluster of people around the dead man now. Scamarcio swung left and fixed his eyes on the main entrance, beseeching the Virgin Mary painted on the ceiling above to keep the police and whoever shot Di Mare at bay. He came out into the evening light, running past the fountain where a group of young people were laughing and chatting. There was no sign of any police or anyone else following him.

  He finally panted to a stop, putting his head between his knees, and thought about what Di Mare had said. At no point had Scamarcio ever considered that Ifran might be involved with AISE.

  All at once, he heard feet pounding, and turned to see two men in jeans and T-shirts running towards him. One was fumbling in his pocket, and Scamarcio knew he was reaching for a gun. Scamarcio took off down a small alleyway to his left that was thankfully full of tourists. People in the crowd turned and swore as he pushed his way through. He darted left into another street, where he spotted a courtyard just beyond the corner. He hurried towards the shadows of a series of ivy-covered archways, and came to a stop behind a group of tourists who were taking photos of a bust. He studied the alleyway. After less than a second, the two men tore past. Like cornered prey, Scamarcio waited for their return, his heart racing. But after several minutes had passed and they still hadn’t reappeared, he stepped back into the light and tried to steady the rush of blood in his ears.