The Extremist
Page 16
‘Will you confirm that this is Detective Scamarcio’s computer?’ the man on the screen was asking Fiammetta as he motioned to the laptop. ‘And that you were there when we seized it this morning?’
‘That could be anybody’s — just because the make is the same, it doesn’t mean it’s his,’ she said slowly. She sounded tired, almost drugged. Her hair was a tangled mess, and there were deep grooves beneath her eyes. Is she here, in the same building? Scamarcio wondered.
‘Check the home screen, please — read through the documents at your leisure,’ said the man. ‘We have plenty of time.’ His tone was soft and unobtrusive — like a dentist or a doctor.
Fiammetta leaned forward and used her right index finger to scroll down the mousepad. Scalisi’s film had been shot at such an angle that Scamarcio couldn’t tell what she was looking at.
After a minute or so, she said. ‘Yes, it appears to be his. You could have copied all the files, though.’
‘You were there when we confiscated this computer, Miss di Bondi. You were there when we made a note of the serial number. It’s the same machine. Check the back, if you wish.’
But she made no move to do so.
‘Now, I’d like to draw your attention to a file marked ‘Party’ in the media folder on the desktop. Open it, please.’
It took quite a while for Fiammetta to find it, and, as she searched, Scamarcio felt his spine grow warm. He had never given any of his files the title ‘Party’. He hated parties and always did his best to avoid them. He had no idea what that file contained, but knew that whatever it was would not be good.
Strange muffled noises were starting to come from the laptop in front of Fiammetta. There was something very unsettling about the sound. Fiammetta watched a little longer, her eyes wide, then she placed a hand across her mouth and looked away. ‘Switch it off,’ she said coldly. ‘I feel sick.’
The man in front of her calmly turned the computer around and shut down whatever horror was playing.
When he looked up, he said, ‘Detective Scamarcio is addicted to child pornography.’ It was all so matter of fact, as if he was telling her that Scamarcio had a nut allergy, or a passion for ornithology.
‘He has been for some time. It started with a case he was involved in. It began as a curiosity, and then became an addiction. You need to know the truth about him, Miss di Bondi. You’re not defending a hero.’
Scamarcio felt bile push up from his stomach. Sweat was trickling from his chin onto his chest, running down his torso, collecting in his bellybutton. They’re criminals.
Fiammetta had turned back to the man, but she seemed to be staring straight past him now. She was quite still, blinking slowly, thinking it through, considering it. Scamarcio knew that Fiammetta was fiery and impulsive. The fact that she wasn’t reacting, screaming at him to go hang, was bad. For a long moment, he wondered if they’d succeeded — if she’d actually been shocked into credulity. Then he prayed she was just playing them, making them think they’d won.
‘So,’ said Scalisi, slamming the laptop shut and jolting Scamarcio back to the present. ‘Now that’s over with, maybe we can bring this charade to a close. Photo!’ He clicked his fingers.
Scamarcio just shook his head, bewildered. ‘You’re insane. Why the fuck would I give you the picture — after what you’ve done?’
‘That was just for starters, Scamarcio, to give you a taste of what I’m capable of. It will get a hell of a lot worse for Fiammetta before it gets better. And whether it gets better depends entirely on you.’
‘Go fuck yourself.’
It was Scalisi’s turn to shake his head. ‘I thought you’d have the intelligence to work this out, see it in its entirety.’
‘That photo is in safe hands,’ said Scamarcio slowly, trying to keep control, trying not to end the day with a murder conviction. ‘In a matter of minutes, it’s going to be shared with the world. The public will know all about the toxic game you’ve been playing.’
‘Ah, so you don’t care about your girlfriend …’
Scamarcio looked down at his old suede Campers and said nothing.
Scalisi smiled tightly. ‘You’re bluffing. And badly at that …’
‘You were running Ifran, and then he split. When that gets out, you’re dust.’
He thought he saw Scalisi’s jowl twitch.
‘As for the Chechen …’
Scalisi sniffed. It seemed like an involuntary reaction, almost a reflex.
‘As for the Chechen, that’s another dismal tale which will need to be told. It’s over, Scalisi, it’s finished for you.’
‘Shut up,’ whispered the colonel.
‘Give up, go home. Resign before they fire you.’
‘I’m not going to let some Calabrian inbred push me around.’
‘You are, because you have no choice.’ Scamarcio glanced at his watch. ‘It’s out there now — in the public domain.’ Scalisi was right, he was bluffing, but now Scamarcio just kept on going, like a car with no brakes hurtling into the abyss. He wasn’t even thinking straight — he was angry, furious. He couldn’t see for red mist. Scalisi was dead. If Scamarcio couldn’t do it, he’d find someone who would. He didn’t care about the price.
‘I can tell from your mention of the Chechen that you do not understand the situation in which you find yourself. Stop trying to swim with the sharks, Detective. Get me that photo and all the copies you’ve had made, and then we can end this.’
‘Copies? Don’t they give you old-timers courses in social media? Try to drag you into the modern age?’
‘Have you shared that photo?’ Scalisi was breathing faster now. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a starched white cuff and Scamarcio thought he noticed a smudge of hair dye. The spotless façade was starting to crumble.
‘If I were to somehow stop its publication, would you release my girlfriend?’
‘I doubt she’s still your girlfriend.’
Scamarcio said nothing. Scalisi was drawing out a chair and sitting down. He was now staring at the surface of the table as if it held a hidden truth. His fingers started to drum, the rhythm quickening.
‘Those are your terms?’ he asked eventually, his voice low.
‘… And two million euros.’
‘What?’ Scalisi blinked, then exhaled. After a beat, he inclined his head and assessed Scamarcio with deep contempt. ‘I don’t buy it.’
‘Don’t try reading too much into it. Everyone has their price.’ Scamarcio stared at him.
‘Hmm,’ said Scalisi, holding a bunched fist against his mouth. ‘Your loser father left you a lot of money, you’re not hard up.’
‘If it hadn’t been for your petty little stunt, I’d only be asking for one. What is it with you paedophiles that you always try to smear your enemies with your crimes?’
‘Shut up.’
‘No, you shut up, you sick freak. This is what you’re going to do. You’re going to escort me out of here. I’m the only one who can find that photo and intercept it before my friend gives it wings.’
‘Who’s to say he hasn’t done so already?’
‘Your risk: take it or leave it. But, without me, you’re never going to get back some control.’
‘I can’t raise two million just like that.’
‘I’ll take 500K as a deposit, but make it quick.’
Scamarcio snapped his fingers.
19
‘WHERE’S MASI?’ SCAMARCIO ASKED the back of Scalisi’s head as they pulled away from wherever it was they’d been holding him. The car they were travelling in had normal windows, and Scamarcio now realised they hadn’t been at AISE HQ. He didn’t recognise the surrounding area.
‘Otherwise engaged.’
‘You wanted to keep our little side-trip a secret?’
The colonel remained silent.
‘It’s legit.’
‘It had better be.’
They drove on in silence, Scamarcio wondering whether he’d find Basile in Torpignattara or whether he and his men would still be in town, doing exactly what Scamarcio had convinced them to do. How he had persuaded them was the source of some mental turmoil, but he pushed his doubts aside and tried to focus. It felt altogether wrong to be heading back to Torpignattara, but he didn’t want to lead Scalisi into the eye of the storm. He needed to keep him out of the way until he knew Basile had made headway. With luck, he’d find a way to leave Scalisi once they reached the suburbs.
‘Take a left here,’ Scamarcio instructed the driver. ‘Then left again.’
As they made their way up the road to Basile’s lot, Scamarcio checked his watch and saw that it was 3.00 a.m. He wondered yet again how much time he really had left until people started dying.
‘So, you got your Chechen back?’ he tried.
But Scalisi remained motionless, his mountainous shoulders quite still.
‘That must be a relief.’ It was the mention of the Chechen that had persuaded Scalisi to round up half a million, not Ifran. Scamarcio felt quite sure of it.
They approached the gates, and Scalisi’s driver got out to see if there was any kind of entry system. He hung around for a while, but nobody appeared. The place seemed deserted — there were no lights in the outbuildings, and no cars in the forecourt. Scamarcio hoped the clan were all still in the centre, working hard.
‘We’ll have to sit it out until they get back,’ said Scamarcio.
‘Where the fuck are they?’ asked Scalisi.
‘None of your business.’
‘I’d say it was, given I’ve just handed you half a million euros.’
‘Half a million doesn’t buy much these days. Given the stakes, it’s a modest deposit.’
‘God, you’re one stubborn son of a bitch.’
‘When will you get me the rest?’
‘By close of play.’
‘You make today’s events sound like a football match.’
‘That, Scamarcio, is the first intelligent analysis you’ve made.’
‘Tell me about your Chechen.’
‘He’s not my Chechen.’
‘So whose is he?’
The colonel said nothing.
‘Why are you such an incompetent fuck, Scalisi? How did you manage to lose him?’
At that, Scalisi got out of the car, tore open Scamarcio’s door, and seized him by the neck. One look at the dark fury in his eyes was enough to tell Scamarcio that he intended to kill him. ‘I should have had you finished at the basilica,’ hissed Scalisi. ‘It wasn’t worth the wait — you’ve given me nothing.’
With one hand still around Scamarcio’s neck, he punched him hard in the stomach, and Scamarcio slumped forward. He immediately tried to straighten and mouth ‘Stop,’ but he couldn’t even form the word — the pain was too intense. From a great distance, he heard murmurs and shouts, and then a blast of hot air rushed into the car and two strong hands pulled him away, out of Scalisi’s reach.
Scamarcio fell hard onto the pavement, his head slamming against the concrete. The world began to shrink as a black border in his vision grew thicker and thicker. Soon there was nothing left but a tiny pinprick of light followed by a thousand starbursts.
He opened his eyes and tried to raise his head so he could locate Scalisi. But all he could see were tyres and black boots. Somewhere nearby an engine was idling. It made a low hum. It was surprisingly quiet — quieter than he would have expected.
‘Motherfuckers,’ he whispered, before the world disappeared again.
When he came to, he was in a comfortable bed with clean white sheets and plump pillows. It looked like a hotel bedroom — there were plush burgundy curtains at the tall windows and thick cream carpet. The furniture was antique: some rich, dark wood, polished to perfection. To the right of the bed was a wide desk, but he could see none of the usual accoutrements. There was no complimentary bottle of water with frilly-coaster covered glasses. This was a shame as the back of his throat felt burnt.
He tried to get out of bed, but everything ached: his biceps, his legs, his abdomen. His back felt like it had taken a thousand blows. He wondered if he’d been beaten up while he was unconscious. He lifted the sheet and looked at his stomach. It was covered in bruises, some small, some large. There were a few more on his thighs. He thought for a moment about internal injuries, but he didn’t feel unwell — just sore and very thirsty. How strange, he thought, to beat someone when you couldn’t witness their suffering — hear them beg, confess what they knew.
He wondered what had happened to his clothes. All he had left were his boxers.
He eased back against the pillow and closed his eyes. But then he heard the door open. ‘Detective.’ The Italian word was pronounced with the exaggerated open vowels of a British accent. ‘How are you feeling?’
A tall, slender man was approaching the bed. He had a pleasant wide face with square cheekbones, and light-blue eyes behind wide tortoiseshell frames. His strawberry-blond hair was cut in that short-at-the-back, long-at-the-sides style so favoured by the British establishment, and he wore a conservative grey suit with a yellow and blue polka-dot tie. The tie seemed a little ostentatious for the sober suit.
‘You beat me up, and then you ask how I’m feeling?’
‘We didn’t beat you up.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You should have come to see us, as your friend suggested.’
‘What friend?’
‘I believe you know him as Federico.’
Scamarcio blinked, then tried to sit up straighter in the bed, but it hurt too much so he remained prone, looking up at the seemingly respectable man before him. ‘Are you from the embassy?’
‘In a manner of speaking. You’ve got yourself in quite a jam, Detective.’
Scamarcio chose to say nothing.
The stranger pulled out the chair from beneath the desk and angled it towards the bed. He took a seat, draping a relaxed arm over the back and crossing his long legs in front of him. Scamarcio saw navy-blue silk socks and heavy brown brogues — too heavy for the kind of weather they’d been having in Rome lately.
‘There are quite a few people who want a word with you, so we thought we’d get ahead of the game. We like to move in early if we can.’ He pushed his wide glasses higher up his thin nose.
‘You came on a motorbike …?’ Scamarcio asked, still trying to piece it all together.
‘Yes.’ He adjusted the glasses once more. ‘We’d been following you and the colonel, keeping tabs, as it were.’
‘So who kicked the shit out of me?’
The man opened his palms and shrugged — it was a small, almost fleeting gesture. ‘Mr Scalisi lost his cool, I’m afraid, before we could whisk you away. We’re not sure whether it was just for show or whether he really hates you. Either way, you should be grateful we eventually got you out of there.’
‘“Grateful” is not the word I’d choose.’
‘What word would you prefer?’
‘What the hell do you want?’
‘I think it’s more the other way around. We might be in the position to help you. But we require some information from you first.’
‘I’ve heard that line before.’
‘I know you come from a tough background and that you’ve witnessed a lot of violence.’
What the fuck is it with this guy? ‘That’s got nothing to do with it. I’m just telling you that I’m sick and tired of being played. Don’t try to play me, or you’ll lose.’
The man looked at him, but said nothin
g. Scamarcio heard a trapped fly buzzing against the window, its body beating frantically against the glass.
‘It’s like this, Detective: we know a little, but not a lot. You probably also know a little, but not a lot. But your little might be different from our little, and together that might add up to a lot.’
Scamarcio sighed. ‘I haven’t got time for this. There’s a siege going down; people are about to die. I’d like to get back there and try to help bring this mess to some kind of peaceful resolution.’
‘The have-a-go hero. That’s all very nice, and the papers would lap it up, but I’m sure you can see that the authorities aren’t ever going to let you go back in.’
Scamarcio was no longer listening. ‘Fuck, what’s the time?’ He suddenly realised that he had no idea how long he had been out of it. The curtains looked thick — it could be daylight outside.
‘4.30 a.m.’
He took a breath. Thank God. ‘Where’s Scalisi?’
‘No idea.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Why would I lie?’
‘Because you’re a spy and that’s what spies do.’
The man flinched as if Scamarcio had called him a murderer or a paedophile. Scamarcio remembered the video of Fiammetta, and his chest felt hollow.
‘Ifran has been saying a lot of things. The problem is working out which of them are true.’
‘On this, we don’t disagree,’ said Scamarcio tiredly.
‘We believe he was working with Italian intelligence. Is that your assessment?’
Scamarcio felt a strange burning at the corner of his mouth. He touched the spot, trying to come up with a reply. ‘Yes,’ he said. But that was all.
‘Do you think the relationship could have changed? That perhaps, more recently, Ifran decided to strike out on his own?’
‘That’s possible.’
‘Why would he do this?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘Perhaps not …’ The last word trailed off, it was barely audible.