The Extremist

by Nadia Dalbuono

  ‘We’ve been tailing you and your geriatric buddy. For an old timer, he’s fast.’

  ‘Tailing me since when?’

  ‘Since the Chechen legged it — seemed wise.’

  ‘I’ve been all over the place since then.’

  ‘I have eyes and ears in this city,’ said Basile, his tone neutral. ‘Besides, I slipped a tracker in your back pocket as you were getting on your bike. It pays to take precautions.’

  Scamarcio marvelled at the skill of it. Basile and his mutts were way ahead of AISE.

  ‘Why did the Chechen bolt if now he wants to see me?’

  ‘Fuck knows. We’re just the messenger boys,’ muttered Basile.

  Scamarcio said nothing and surveyed the deserted streets flitting by. His watch told him it was nearing midnight. He still needed to try to make the deadline in case Guerra’s message had not got through to Ifran. But how he was going to get to the suburbs and back, escape from the Chechen, and find and convince a news crew to enter a hostage situation by 9.00 a.m. tomorrow he had no idea. He sighed, then glanced over at Basile and his thugs. When he was satisfied their attention was elsewhere, he felt inside his pocket, wound down the window and tossed the tracker into the night.

  They reached the pale-grey outskirts of Torpignattara, and Scamarcio immediately noticed the sea of flashing reds and blues. The police presence seemed to have intensified. There were Panthers in all directions now.

  ‘Baby Jesus,’ whispered Basile. ‘It’s a swarm.’ His mobile rang, and Scamarcio heard him say, ‘Nunzia? What’s that tart gone and done?’ But then he fell silent for a while, and then said, ‘God, it’s just one thing after the other with that woman.’

  Basile cut the call. They arrived at the warehouse and drove in through the metal gates. Scamarcio noticed that there was a light coming from Basile’s office — perhaps the Chechen was inside. The thought of it, and the memory of what he might have done to Basile’s sister, made Scamarcio sweat. Yet at the same time, his curiosity was needling him, urging him to find out more.

  One of Basile’s mutts opened the car door, and as he stepped out, Scamarcio noticed the chemical stink of diesel on the breeze. He looked around the yard, taking in the prefab buildings and rotting vehicles, but couldn’t find any immediate explanation for the smell.

  He followed Basile and his men into the cabin. There was a new aroma of damp wood and expensive cologne, and as they rounded the door, Scamarcio spotted one huge denim-clad leg dangling from Basile’s desk. It soon became apparent that the leg belonged to the Chechen — the giant was resting his massive bulk against the wall as if he owned the place. His eyes were screwed tight, almost shut, as he sucked on a cigarette. With his other hand, he was fingering his fly.

  ‘Detective,’ he drawled, his tone giving nothing away.

  ‘I’m confused,’ said Scamarcio. ‘The first time we meet, you lock me in a room and threaten to kill me, the second time you take one look at me and scarper, and now this time you’ve sent your monkeys all the way into town to find me. You’re either as confused as I am, or something else is going on.’

  ‘It’s both,’ said the Chechen. Scamarcio thought he detected a hint of New Yorker in his American accent.

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘Take a seat, Detective — this might take a while.’

  Scamarcio reached for a shabby swivel chair, and reluctantly sat down. He’d expected Basile and his goons to leave, but they remained stock-still, their stubby arms barring their chests. Basile looked furious. Scamarcio wondered if it was connected to the call he’d just taken about his sister.

  ‘I think you might have this all arse-about-face,’ said the Chechen. ‘Ifran has muddied the waters — deliberately perhaps.’

  ‘Give me the real story, then. Who is Ifran? And, more to the point, who are you?

  ‘Ifran is exactly who he says he is.’

  ‘No. He isn’t. Enough people have told me that.’

  ‘They’ve probably told you that he’s been working for the West — which, in itself, is true. But his identity remains valid — Ifran’s family came from Libya fifteen years ago, and he has been living in Torpignattara ever since — doing well at school, acing his exams, but like so many, failing to make great strides. That is the tragedy of children such as Ifran — they will never make great strides. It’s this tinderbox of shame and disappointment that lights the fuse.’

  ‘It’s actually the tragedy of a whole generation of Italian children now — unless their parents are well connected.’

  The Chechen shrugged. ‘Ifran was a find — AISE knew they’d struck gold.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘You’re stuck and you need information.’

  ‘That’s charitable of you.’

  ‘I think you’ve been backed into a corner. In a certain sense, so have I.’ The Chechen paused. ‘Word has reached me of your reputation as a truth chaser. I’m hoping I can trust you.’

  ‘Where do you come into it?’

  ‘That is considerably more complex.’

  Scamarcio thought he heard a noise outside, but he was too interested in the Chechen to take much notice.

  ‘I can handle complexity,’ he said, holding the giant’s gaze, trying to seek out the soul behind the pale, empty eyes. But then Scamarcio’s head swung to the window as he heard a clanging of metal and the screeching of tyres. Several car doors slammed.

  ‘Fuck,’ hissed Basile.

  ‘It’s the pigs,’ whispered one of his goons, stepping back from the window and reaching for his handgun.

  Basile didn’t wait for a second opinion. He sprinted for a door to the right of his desk, his men close behind. Scamarcio didn’t stop to think, either, and soon they were all spilling out into the night. Basile was already well ahead, running towards a chain-link fence, fast and smooth like a professional athlete. In seconds, he’d clambered onto the metalwork and had scrambled his way to the top.

  Scamarcio jumped on, below Basile’s goons, their backsides almost in his face, and soon he, too, was at the top, ready to swing his body over the other side. He fell nearly the entire way to the ground and twisted his ankle sharply as he landed. But there was no time for pain — almost before he knew it, he was running across a dark wasteland strewn with ripped garbage bags, worn tyres, and the rotting carcasses of old furniture, toxic foam spilling from the seams. When they had finally made it across and had entered a small street of residential housing, Basile bent his head between his legs and panted, ‘We’ve lost them — for now. Where’s the fucking Chechen?’

  ‘They must have got him,’ said one of his men, looking back in the direction they’d come.

  ‘No way, I’ve seen that guy run,’ said Scamarcio.

  ‘I’m calling Dino,’ said Basile. ‘To get us the hell out — this place is teeming.’

  He pulled his mobile from his pocket and hurriedly tapped the screen. ‘We’ve got an emergency. Via Bindi — quick as you can, Dino boy.’

  He hung up and started pacing, his men looking on nervously.

  ‘We should have stayed well clear,’ said one. Basile quickly raised a palm to silence him, and the man said no more.

  ‘Why did the Chechen want to see me?’ asked Scamarcio. ‘I don’t get it.’

  Basile turned towards him. ‘Do me a favour, pig, and shut the fuck up. You’ve caused enough trouble.’

  A worried silence descended, until, a couple of minutes later, a green Suzuki Jeep tore to a stop in front of them. A fat, exhausted-looking guy was at the wheel. Basile and his men scrambled inside.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Scamarcio.

  ‘None of your fucking business.’

  ‘Give me a lift. I don’t care where — I just don’t want the police to find me.’

  ‘You are the fucking police,’ spat Basile, sha
king his head as if he couldn’t comprehend the madness of it all.

  ‘I’ll make it worth your while. Favours in return. Dante might look on you kindly if you helped me out.’

  Basile sighed, then glanced down. His men were growing restless, but one of them was still holding the door open, waiting for a decision.

  ‘What the fuck are we doing?’ shouted the fat guy in the front, his voice shaky.

  Basile’s beady eyes glinted back at Scamarcio in the darkness. ‘Greco?’

  ‘Greco.’

  ‘You’re in tight?’

  Scamarcio shrugged as if it were nothing.

  ‘Hurry up,’ hissed Basile, looking the other way, as if he already regretted it.

  Scamarcio climbed in beside the two thugs, and they hared away, rubber burning. With some relief, Scamarcio realised that they were heading out of Torpignattara, back towards the centre.

  18

  THERE WAS A TIGHTER cordon around the café now. Scamarcio didn’t think he’d ever seen so many Panthers and ambulances out in force; their numbers seemed to have tripled since the morning, and the dense columns of news cameras and blinding LED lights were overwhelming. Scamarcio wondered what his Flying Squad colleagues were doing — whether they were out at the hostage locations, or whether they were still toiling in the background, digging up facts AISE probably already had.

  The crowds penned in behind the barricades had grown thicker, and as he approached, Scamarcio’s gut tightened and his ears started to hum. He removed the cap and glasses, and, as expected, an old man turned to stare, then a middle-aged woman two rows ahead did the same. A ripple began to move through the throng. ‘It’s him!’ he heard a young girl shout. ‘The man from the TV!’

  He checked his watch. It was past midnight. He was on time for a meeting he’d probably never make. As if to confirm it, Masi chose that moment to emerge from the shadows and stride briskly towards him. ‘Scamarcio,’ he said, not sounding particularly surprised or put out. ‘We thought you’d show.’

  Scamarcio held his wrists out. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Cuff me.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Wouldn’t look good, I guess.’

  Masi took him gently by the elbow. ‘Colonel Scalisi wants a word.’

  Scamarcio said nothing as Masi led him towards a black Mercedes with darkened windows, idling at the kerb. Scamarcio noticed that the car was different from the one they’d used that morning.

  Masi opened the back door, and Scamarcio got in, an unwelcome fluttering in his stomach even though, so far, it was all going according to plan. He really didn’t want to be here, but it was the only way to get the missing pieces of the puzzle from Scalisi. Just before the door slammed shut, he thought he caught a camera flash.

  Scalisi was sitting in the front passenger seat. He looked back and inclined his head towards Scamarcio, but Scamarcio couldn’t read anything in the colonel’s hard blue eyes. It was like looking at a blank screen.

  The head of AISE scratched at his temple, then said softly, ‘You had a crisis of nerves, you freaked. It was all too much for an everyman like yourself, for an average Joe. Everyone will understand.’ Scalisi sounded tired, as if he’d already been through every possible outcome, every emotion. Or perhaps he didn’t have any emotions; perhaps they’d been trained out of him. Then Scamarcio thought back to Scalisi’s behaviour on the American case and understood that the colonel was now exerting considerable self-control. There was something about this that bothered Scamarcio. It bothered him a lot.

  ‘You’re too stressed out and panicked to go back in there. We’ll explain it to the boy, make sure he understands that his plan has failed. Then, once we’ve done that, we’re going to shoot the shit out of him and his deadbeat friends. The crime scene cleaners will be busy for weeks.’

  Scamarcio’s jaw tightened. ‘You do that and you condemn those hostages to death, not to mention the innocent victims at the other sites they’ve got wired.’

  ‘There are no other sites, it’s just grandstanding.’

  ‘Bullshit. How can you know?’

  ‘I’m head of AISE — it’s my business to know.’

  ‘But this time you failed, as you admitted yourself. However you neglected to mention that you knew about Ifran ’cos he was one of yours. But then he slipped the leash and today came as one nasty surprise.’

  Scalisi smiled. It was a complex smile — ambiguous, confusing. It said much, but still held too many secrets.

  ‘It’s over, Scamarcio. You’ll be charged with aiding and abetting, and with evading the police. As of now, your career is dead in the water. Your life as you know it is finished. Everything will change for you — and very much for the worse.’

  ‘You don’t scare me, Scalisi. You’re not telling the truth.’

  ‘Scamarcio, you wouldn’t know the truth if it bent down on its knees and sucked your tiny dick. I should scare you a lot, Scamarcio. I should petrify you. In fact, right now you should be shitting yourself.’

  Scalisi tapped on the passenger window, and a moment later Masi climbed into the driver’s seat. With a flick of the wrist, he fired up the ignition, and they pulled away.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Scamarcio.

  But Scalisi just turned his head to the window and said nothing. Scamarcio caught a glimpse of the dark slits of the colonel’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. They were the eyes of a man with violence on his mind.

  ‘Give me the picture,’ said Scalisi, once he and Scamarcio were seated across a table, alone in a narrow room with no windows.

  ‘Metaphorically speaking?’

  ‘Cut the crap.’

  ‘Is this your interrogation suite? I don’t see a viewing window.’

  ‘We don’t need a viewing window — we’re AISE. Give me the photo.’

  ‘What photo?’

  ‘Scamarcio, I’m warning you, it’s too late for games. Give me the photo.’

  ‘And I’m telling you, I don’t know what you’re on about.’

  Scamarcio was perplexed by the absence of mikes — the wiring must all be up in the roof, he figured. Scalisi slammed his palms on the desk, commanding his attention.

  ‘I don’t understand all this talk of a picture. You think that boy gave me a photo?’ said Scamarcio, glancing up. He wondered how the colonel knew he had it. Had his snipers at the basilica told him?

  Scalisi looked blank for a moment, then leaned over the desk and brought his face very close. ‘Don’t play me for a fool!’ he yelled. His breath smelt of coffee and something else — something malty, alcoholic.

  Scamarcio wiped the spittle from his brow. ‘What is in this picture, that you want it so badly?’

  ‘You know.’

  ‘I wish I did.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Scalisi, quiet now. ‘You had a chance to save yourself, but you’ve squandered it.’ He stepped away and smoothed down his blond hair, which was cropped so short there was nothing to smooth. Then he seemed to change his mind. He approached the desk again, breathing more rapidly now.

  ‘Stand up.’

  Scamarcio leaned back in his chair, trying to put more distance between them. ‘Why?’

  ‘Stand up, Detective.’

  There was something in Scalisi’s eyes that made him obey this time.

  ‘Arms out, legs apart.’

  ‘You already searched me when we came in.’

  ‘And now I’m going to search you again.’

  Scalisi walked around the desk and began patting him down — his movements clumsy and frenetic, his hands shaky. When he’d finished, he stared at Scamarcio, defiant. ‘Where’ve you hidden it?’

  ‘I haven’t hidden it because I don’t have it; I’ve never had it.’

  ‘Have you scanne
d it onto a drive, a key?’

  Scamarcio threw open his palms. ‘I repeat: I have absolutely no fucking idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Perhaps I have something that might help you understand.’ There was a look in Scalisi’s eye that Scamarcio didn’t like.

  ‘Don’t go away.’ Scalisi was laughing as he left the room. The laughter was strangely shrill and high. The laugh of a man who’s losing it? Scamarcio wondered.

  The colonel sent in two goons, who escorted Scamarcio down some stairs to a basement. He hadn’t known there was a prison beneath AISE. Sure, on the inside the small rooms had been designed not to resemble cells, but the horseshoe layout, the guy on guard in the corridor outside, and the small portholes in every door made it clear that this was a holding area for people apparently wishing to do the state some kind of harm.

  After a few minutes, which Scamarcio spent worrying in silence, Scalisi strolled in, looking pretty pleased with himself. He was carrying an open laptop.

  ‘You may not have a picture for me, but I have one for you,’ he said, laying the computer on a small table in front of Scamarcio. He noticed that fat beads of perspiration clung to the colonel’s wide brow, and his chin was wet.

  Scalisi nudged the laptop closer to Scamarcio. On the screen in front of him was a blurred frozen video image, but it was too distorted to comprehend.

  The colonel swept an arm through the air, like some sick circus ringmaster, and pressed play. As the pixels coalesced, Scamarcio gave a start. Fiammetta was sitting in a high-backed chair. She had been filmed right-side on in a small room, similar to the one he was in now, and there was a small-boned man seated across from her. Between them was a laptop.

  As the camera zoomed in, Scamarcio saw with a rush of rage that the right side of Fiammetta’s face was badly bruised, and her T-shirt was now ripped open, revealing her bra. Just the sight of it made Scamarcio want to grab Scalisi’s head and smash it against the wall until there was nothing left.

  ‘What the fuck have you done to her?’ he roared, lunging at him. Scalisi seemed to have been expecting it and deftly stepped back, laughing. ‘Just watch the film — all will become clear.’