The Extremist

by Nadia Dalbuono

  He had to find Professor Letta and tell him what had happened. But just getting to Letta was a problem. The university was near Termini, very much the city centre, so there were bound to be blocks and cordons in place all along the way. But Letta was the link to people with information, people who might be able to explain what the hell was going on. Scamarcio knew he had no option but to try to reach him.

  16

  ‘DO SIT DOWN, IFRAN, you’re making me nervous. Take the weight off, have a drink.’

  I didn’t want to sit; I didn’t want to drink. I just wanted to run away from the strange little hunchback: return to my cell, get some sleep. I already felt tainted, compromised, even though we’d yet to have a proper conversation. It no longer seemed like a fresh start. There was something about this man that made you feel dirty.

  ‘How are you feeling about the trial?’ he asked.

  I remember that I was silent. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to say a word without a lawyer present.

  As Scamarcio had expected, the first roadblock appeared as he approached Via dei Serpenti. Via dei Serpenti led to the Colosseum. The police, it seemed, were trying to seal the street off, worried that the terrorists might also target the country’s most famous tourist site. Scamarcio knew he was in the red zone now — Via Nazionale lay straight ahead, and Via del Quirinale to his left. The latter was home to the President’s palace, so it was bound to be teeming with security. He’d been foolish to even try to make it this far. He turned back, knowing that he’d have to go the long way around, taking the roads running parallel with Corso d’Italia.

  It took him more than forty minutes to reach the university, and only when he arrived did it occur to him that, given the hour and the day’s events, it might be closed. There were very few people outside, and he began to think that his fears would be confirmed. But as he neared the front doors, he started to make out activity beyond the glass. He entered the wide lobby and approached one of the women at reception.

  When he asked for Letta, she placed a brief call to his secretary. Letta was giving an evening lecture to some visiting students in the political sciences block — he was due to finish in ten minutes, so Scamarcio should hurry.

  He realised that he hadn’t been among such a concentration of people since Ostia. His nerves were jangling as he crossed the lawns where, in the mellowing light, students were sprawled reading books, or deep in conversation. He was still wearing his hat and sunglasses, and he kept his head low, only glancing up to check his progress.

  He found the door to the lecture theatre easily enough. He entered, moving quickly along the side of the hall, worrying that people might turn and spot him hovering in the doorway. Letta was at the front, standing before a huge blackboard. Behind his head were the words, ‘New Labour — necessary evolution or outright betrayal?’

  The problem with trying to stay hidden, Scamarcio realised, was that Letta wouldn’t spot him, either. He would have to sit it out until the end, and then grab the professor as he left.

  He scanned the hall — it was packed, and most of the summer students seemed to be giving Letta their full attention.

  ‘So why has the Left in this country never been able to evolve into something like New Labour? Why are our unions still strong? Our conclusion is simple — Blair was fortunate because Thatcher had already done his dirty work. She’d relieved him of the thorny problem of the unions.’ Letta clapped his huge hands together. ‘He was a lucky chap, this Tony Blair. But maybe a little less lucky now …’ Some students laughed.

  Scamarcio tuned them out and tried to focus. Di Mare had suggested that AISE had been involved with Ifran, but had then somehow lost control of him. Where did the Chechen fit in? Had he played a part? The questions seemed to be mounting, and Scamarcio wondered whether he’d return to Ifran more confused than when he’d left — if he ever managed to find his way back.

  Letta was winding up now, explaining that, given today’s events, he was going to finish early so that they could all begin their journeys home. A few people started gathering their things, getting ready to leave. Scamarcio made his way slowly to the front, and as the students began to file past, he approached the desk. There was a pretty girl to Scamarcio’s left, also waiting to talk to the professor. Scamarcio hoped Letta would spot him first.

  ‘Shit,’ Letta murmured as Scamarcio raised his sunglasses and finally caught his eye.

  The girl tried to ask Letta something, but he batted the question away, muttering, ‘I’ve got to run. Can you email me?’ He grabbed his briefcase and took Scamarcio by the elbow, whisking him out into the corridor. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ he whispered.

  ‘By coming here?’

  ‘By getting involved in all this!’

  ‘I’m doing what I have to.’

  Letta fell silent as they crossed the lawns and headed for his staircase. Once they were inside his study, he locked the door, then lowered and closed the metal blinds on the window. Scamarcio removed his hat and sunglasses. It was now so dark that Letta had to switch on a desk lamp. He scrambled around among the detritus of open books, torn envelopes, and raggedy binders until he found a fat pouch of tobacco and some papers. He sat down and quickly began rolling one of his strange-looking cigarettes. Last time they’d met, Scamarcio had formed the impression they contained a little more than just tobacco.

  As if to confirm it, Letta said, ‘I’ll keep it clean. I’d better have my wits about me.’ He took a few quick drags, then fixed Scamarcio with a stare. ‘What do they want, these terrorists? Have they got you over some kind of barrel?’

  Scamarcio filled him in on Ifran’s demands, the DVD, and the Chechen. When he was finished, Letta whistled softly. ‘Dangerous.’

  ‘It doesn’t stop there.’ Scamarcio told him about the conversation at the basilica and how it had been cut short. Letta closed his eyes and ran a slow hand across his lids. ‘This is one hot mess,’ was all he offered.

  ‘As he was dying, Di Mare told me to come back to you.’

  ‘That would make sense,’ sighed Letta. ‘He probably wanted me to put you in touch with Federico — the guy who told me to get you and Di Mare together. Di Mare was no doubt thinking that Federico might have something on your Chechen.’ Letta paused for a moment. ‘Shit. I can’t believe they killed him.’

  He reached for his desk phone and dialled, but the line seemed to be ringing out, because after ten seconds he replaced the receiver, his brow taut.

  ‘If they shot Di Mare, isn’t it likely that they’re now onto your friend Federico?’ Scamarcio asked, unease stirring.

  ‘It’s possible, but perhaps not likely. Federico keeps himself to himself — he lives in an isolated spot, some distance from Rome. It might just be that AISE were following Di Mare anyway — if he left under a cloud, they were no doubt keeping tabs.’

  ‘You think AISE shot him?’

  ‘Who else would it be?’

  Scamarcio shrugged, realising he had no idea.

  ‘These fucking Chechens — Intel bend over backwards to bed them, but then it’s always tears in the morning.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Federico and I have talked about it,’ said Letta, dismissing the subject with a wave of the hand as if it were nothing. ‘So that boy in the café was working for AISE, but he slipped the net? If that comes out, there’ll be hell to pay.’

  ‘But they won’t let it come out.’

  ‘They might not be able to stop it, Scamarcio.’

  ‘But how many people know? Besides me — and now you?’

  ‘You’re thinking they won’t let you talk?’

  ‘I’m thinking they won’t let me live.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, they can’t kill you — it would look off. It’s all out there now, you’re on TV every two seconds — there’s no way they could explain away your corps
e.’

  ‘They’ll say I died in crossfire, a road accident, hung myself — couldn’t cope with the guilt of letting all those people down. They’ll think of something.’

  Letta was shaking his head, but Scamarcio could tell that he wasn’t one hundred per cent convinced now. ‘Nah, don’t worry. You just need to play it right. You want my advice? Go back there. Face the music. Sure, have a chat with Federico so you understand what you’re dealing with, but after that, call it a day. I don’t think you can win this one.’

  Scamarcio frowned. ‘I wouldn’t have expected you to tell me to give up. Last time we met, you struck me as a bit of a crusader.’

  Letta lifted his roll-up from the ashtray and took a long drag, blinking at Scamarcio through the fog. ‘Yeah, but even I can see that you’re badly outnumbered. You’ve got a life, a beautiful woman — or so I hear. Is it worth sacrificing all that to help a troubled boy settle some kind of score?’

  ‘I’m not doing it to help him settle a score; I’m doing it to stop a bloodbath.’

  ‘Do you really buy that? These terrorists don’t normally negotiate. Could it be that he’s taking you for a ride — that the killing will happen anyway?’

  ‘From what Di Mare told me, Ifran’s not your typical terrorist. I have to at least try to listen to him, don’t you think?’

  Letta sighed. ‘All I know is that AISE and their colleagues, both inside and outside Italy, have been playing a dangerous game. They’re not going to let some policeman go and ruin it all for them.’

  ‘What game?’

  ‘You must know what I’m talking about.’

  Scamarcio just looked at him blankly.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ hissed Letta under his breath, as if a once-promising student had disappointed him yet again. ‘It’s shameful. You’re a detective — you should try to learn more about the world in which you live.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Which paper do you take?’

  ‘Gazzetta dello Sport, mainly.’

  ‘My point exactly — you need to widen your reading.’

  Scamarcio shook his head, narked, while Letta took a last desperate suck on the cigarette, smoking it down to the tip, but making no move to throw it away. ‘So these jihadists up in the North Caucasus, where you said your Chechen is from — they were getting a fair bit of help — but not from the usual quarters.’

  ‘Where, then?’

  ‘From our own backyard. NATO and the West were propping them up for a while, using them in the fight against Russia for control of pipeline corridors transporting oil and gas out of the Caspian. Not too long ago, some intercepts surfaced which revealed that US officials in Azerbaijan had been backing Chechen rebels during the early 2000s. NATO badly wanted Russia destabilised — they knew if Chechnya could be split off from Russia, western control of the corridor would be enhanced. Of course, this bright idea of befriending the jihadists was nothing new — it was simply an extension of the op launched by Jimmy Carter in Afghanistan in ’79 — the same op which propelled the rise of Bin Laden.’

  Letta finally gave up on the cigarette and stubbed out what little was left. ‘It goes without saying that all this is in total contradiction to the so-called War on Terror. But NATO has been at it for years — and in quite a few places, too: Chechnya, Libya, and Syria to name but a few. They even backed a nasty little Marxist Islamist outfit in Iran called the People’s Mujahideen, some of whom they covertly trained in the Nevada desert.’ He stopped for a moment and sifted through the chaos on his desk until he located the tobacco pouch again. ‘A US journalist dug up the whole sordid tale and got a Pulitzer for his trouble. The yanks were prepping the very people they’d officially designated a terror group. The Obama administration even went so far as to strike the People’s Mujahideen from the terror list, much to the fury of Iran.’

  Letta rolled up again, smoothing and squeezing until he was satisfied. Scamarcio heard a distant clock somewhere and felt newly on edge. He was desperate for a cigarette, and even though he disliked the smell of Letta’s roll-ups, he knew they’d be better than nothing.

  ‘Can I have one?’

  Letta looked up, surprised, then handed the cigarette across and lit up for him. The professor reached for the pouch once more and quickly set to work.

  ‘The neat thing is that people are described as terrorists when attacking NATO states and rebels, or freedom fighters when blitzing NATO enemies, for which they are deployed on a much larger scale. In the eyes of a lot of western strategists, it’s this imbalance that makes the net effect geopolitically worthwhile, despite occasional blowback. The consensus was always that some stirred-up Muslims were a price worth paying for conducting covert ops against the Ruskies. Unsurprisingly, after 9/11 a few people changed their minds on this.’

  Letta took a quick drag on his new cigarette and waved a finger. ‘The ultimate targets in these covert wars are always the same: Russia, the world’s largest oil and gas producer; and China, the world’s largest energy consumer. Neither of these colossi are communist in real terms anymore, which means they’re now NATO’s main competitors.’

  ‘So, what does all this tell me about the Chechen?’ Scamarcio coughed; Letta’s tobacco was an acquired taste.

  ‘It tells you two things: one, he may well have fought in the Caucasus; but, two, he may have made good friends with the West while doing so.’

  ‘So he could be working for them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why is the boy Ifran so worried about him?’

  ‘That, my friend, is why you need to talk to Federico,’ said Letta, reaching for the phone again.

  17

  IT IS DARK BEYOND the tiny window. Marchetti is snoring in his bunk, farting as he turns. Along the corridor, the squeak of soles on plastic scores out the hours.

  I already know I’ll see the dawn; the hunchback’s words won’t let me sleep.

  ‘I was tending my vegetable patch,’ said Federico when Letta switched him to speakerphone. ‘This year I’ve planted pumpkins, runner beans, tomatoes, aubergines, cabbages, and courgettes. But I’ve done too many courgettes. And then I remembered I’m going away and I might not have time to harvest them. They risk growing too large and becoming tasteless.’

  Letta rolled his eyes. ‘Federico, I have Detective Scamarcio with me.’

  There was a brief silence. ‘Oh, do you?’ Federico had a strange voice. It was low and gentle, but there was no fragility to it. There was something beneath it as hard as steel. ‘What’s he saying, this detective?’

  ‘You’re on speakerphone — ask him yourself.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Scamarcio waited for a question, but Federico remained silent.

  ‘He needs answers about a Chechen. I think you two should meet,’ tried Letta.

  ‘Can he travel?’ asked Federico, after a moment.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Scamarcio heard a hollow tapping — he imagined a pen against a glass.

  ‘Could you come to Rome?’ Letta persisted.

  ‘If they see me on the move, they might wonder.’

  ‘You still trying to keep a low profile?’

  ‘Kind of …’

  ‘So when you said you were going away — that you were worried about your courgettes …?’

  ‘I’m going to see my sister.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘… Parioli, as it happens.’ Federico sounded put out at having to give up this information.

  ‘Perfect. Couldn’t you just leave a bit early?’

  ‘A month early?’

  ‘They killed Di Mare.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When Scamarcio was in the church talking to him a few hours ago.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Get your sh
it together and drive to Rome.’

  Federico said nothing.

  Scamarcio had been about to speak when Federico finally replied: ‘OK.’

  ‘Where in Parioli?’ asked Letta.

  ‘Via Novelli, number twenty, third floor,’ Federico said slowly. ‘Ask for Celeste. It will take me nearly an hour.’

  ‘Scamarcio will be there,’ said Letta. ‘Just look at it this way — at least you’ll be home in time to tend your courgettes — you’ll have got your sister out the way.’

  But the line had gone dead.

  Scamarcio put on his sunglasses, pulled his cap down low, and headed towards the address in Parioli, yet again avoiding the main streets and the eyes of CCTV. The roundabout route he’d chosen took him over an hour on foot, and when he arrived he was hot, sweating, and in need of a drink. The apartment was in a nondescript, light-brown block that went up about six floors. He tried the buzzer, and a shaky female voice told him to come up.

  An elderly woman with a stoop was waiting in the doorway. Once he was inside, she led him into the lounge and asked him politely if he’d care for coffee.

  ‘We should get him something to eat, as well,’ said a man’s voice from somewhere within the room. Scamarcio ventured further in and looked around. He found a very thin fellow sat on a sofa facing away from the door. The man was so small that the top of his head hadn’t been visible above the cushions. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said, rising carefully to his feet. ‘I made good time. I’ve just bought myself an Alfa Romeo Spider — second-hand, but it goes like the wind.’