The Extremist

by Nadia Dalbuono

  Scamarcio wanted to know about the Chechen. He needed to understand why Ifran was preoccupied with him — why his name had tripped a switch for Scalisi. It felt like time to trade: ‘OK, I’ll give you my theory. But first, you make a guess for me. Who’s the Chechen, and what’s he doing in the middle of all this?’

  ‘The Chechen?’

  For a moment, the elegant man looked a little unruffled in his perfect suit. ‘Describe him.’

  Scamarcio went through the same spiel he’d given the guy in Calcata.

  ‘Hmm,’ said the Englishman once he’d absorbed it. ‘You’ll need to give me a moment.’

  And with that he left.

  20

  A FEW MINUTES LATER there was another knock at the door, — it wasn’t the Englishman but a maid in full uniform. She was carrying a wide tray, on which rested a large bottle of water and a plate of food. Scamarcio smelt the welcome aroma of fresh bread, eggs, and bacon. The maid deposited the tray on the desk, and then left without saying a word.

  Scamarcio didn’t feel much like moving, but his thirst compelled him. He hobbled over, the throbbing in his stomach quite fierce. He drank down the bottle in one, not bothering with a glass, and then examined the contents of the tray. He took a seat and ate quickly, immediately feeling better as the sugar reached his blood.

  There was a knock at the door again, and the Englishman entered, followed by a slightly smaller man with dark hair. He looked about forty — a few years younger than his colleague.

  ‘I hope the food was OK,’ said the blond guy, actually sounding like he meant it.

  ‘Yes.’ As an afterthought Scamarcio added: ‘Thank you.’ Perhaps it paid to be polite with the British.

  ‘So, the thing is,’ said the man, pulling out a chair from a small table to the right of the door. ‘We know, and you know, that Ifran was involved with Scalisi. Obviously, this will never come out, but …’

  ‘Why do you say “obviously”?’

  ‘Well, very few people are aware of the connection, and I doubt you’ll be the one to announce it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you want to live.’

  There was no drama to the words. The delivery couldn’t have been flatter, more matter-of-fact.

  Scamarcio regarded the two of them. They looked back at him. They had stated a truth that he’d already guessed, but which he now didn’t know quite what to do with. He scratched his neck. ‘So if I were to reveal to the world that Ifran had been an asset, the intelligence services would kill me.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the blond Englishman quickly, as if he was bored of talking about the weather and wanted to move on to something more pertinent.

  ‘They might not leave it at that,’ said the dark-haired guy, who was still standing. ‘They might decide to go for your family, too. It depends, really — these things can play out in a number of ways. The Italians do business differently. We can’t speak for them, but the general picture would probably be the same.’

  ‘The general picture,’ repeated Scamarcio, his mind sticking, refusing to move on. ‘What am I to do with all this?’ he asked after a moment. ‘If I’m to do nothing, I mean?’

  ‘Oh, it’s not entirely a lost cause,’ said the first Englishman, soothingly. ‘You could start by talking to us.’

  ‘I thought that’s what I was doing.’

  It was warm in the room, but Scamarcio suddenly felt cold and exposed in his boxer shorts. ‘Any chance of getting some clothes?’

  ‘Oh,’ said the dark-haired man, looking slightly vacant. ‘Sorry, I was meant to bring them.’

  He left the room and was back a few moments later with Scamarcio’s things, all clean and pressed — although the jacket and baseball cap still felt damp. The sunglasses had been carefully placed in the top pocket of his jacket, but one of the arms looked bent. ‘We’ll have your shoes back in a second,’ said the guy. Scamarcio wondered about the delay: what were they doing with his shoes? Polishing them?

  ‘Do you know how long Ifran was working for Italian intelligence?’ asked the first Englishman.

  ‘No, I haven’t got that far,’ said Scamarcio as he tried to get into his clothes without cursing in pain.

  ‘Do you think Scalisi had any idea this day was coming?’ asked the dark-haired man. It was an important question — a question that had been troubling Scamarcio ever since his last meeting with the colonel. It was the complex smile that had made Scamarcio think that all of this was not as much of a surprise as it should have been. But this was a realisation that had grown gradually, and it hadn’t yet properly taken shape. ‘I’m not sure. He may have known, but of course he’s never said anything to confirm it.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  Scamarcio sat back down and sighed. ‘It’s more a hunch: something I read from his body language.’ He thought about mentioning the smile, but it would sound lame. ‘Why would Scalisi do this? Recruit this guy?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re always on the lookout for informants inside the suburbs — they’re hard to find, but extremely valuable. A kind analysis would say that this is precisely what Scalisi was doing — running an asset inside Torpignattara so Intel knew ahead of the game whether attacks were in the pipeline.’

  ‘Scalisi works for AISE — they’re foreign intelligence. Why wasn’t this being handled by domestic?’

  ‘AISI probably have their own assets. There’s a lot of rivalry between agencies. Scalisi was probably just trying to prove that he was up there with the best of them. If he got a result, that would be a great boost for his agency and a kick in the teeth for his rivals. And there’s nothing to lose because if it goes to the wall, as seems to be happening today, his rivals end up with egg on their faces and he escapes the main rap. As you say, everyone expects this to be a matter for domestic Intel, not AISE.’

  ‘You said that was a kind analysis. Is there a harsher one?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the blond guy, looking solemn. ‘And that’s the analysis we’re working with.’

  ‘Care to share it?’

  ‘Scalisi leans to the right, as much as that can be said for former military men who become spooks. They start on the right, and then move ever closer to the edges.’

  ‘What happens at the edges?’

  ‘Dark things, darker than you might imagine …’

  Scamarcio thought of the video of Fiammetta again and felt sick to his stomach. He had to find her. He wondered if the British might be able to help.

  ‘We believe that Scalisi knew full well that today was coming — maybe he didn’t know it as today, maybe it was some unspecified date in the future, but he knew it would happen soon enough. We suspect he deliberately ceased contact with Ifran in order to keep his hands clean, but then that picture surfaced, and now he’s implicated.’

  ‘But why would Scalisi do this?’ asked Scamarcio. ‘How could he possibly benefit from a terror attack on Rome? Mass casualties? Sure, domestic would take most of the rap, but he’d still be caught up in the post-mortem. He’d still risk looking incompetent, asleep at the wheel.’

  This question had been bothering Scamarcio ever since his meeting with Di Mare in the church, but there hadn’t been time to sculpt it, hone it down.

  ‘Scalisi and a few of his colleagues at AISE have a philosophy that they seem to be pursuing, and they’re not the only ones in the intelligence community to think this way.’

  ‘What philosophy?’

  ‘Detective, don’t take this amiss, but you seem to be the one asking all the questions. We need to turn that around for a moment. We need to know what Ifran told you to draw you into this, and we need to know what you’ve found out since. When we’ve covered that, then we can give you the finer details. The ones we have, at least.’

  Scamarcio didn’t really need to weigh it up. Scalisi was the enemy. On the o
ther hand, so far, the Brits had provided a comfortable bed, clean clothes, and a decent meal — and they seemed to know a lot. Some might call him an easy lay, but on this occasion he was prepared to put out.

  ‘OK, but before I tell you about Ifran, I need to ask you one more thing. Scalisi has my girlfriend, he’s done her harm. Do you have any ideas where he might be holding her?’

  The blond guy shrugged. ‘Are you sure he’s hurt her?’

  Scamarcio nodded, and the guy looked unsettled. ‘She’s probably at AISE HQ — that would be my guess.’ His colleague nodded an assent.

  ‘I’m not convinced she’s there. Do they use other places?’

  ‘I’m sure AISE have black sites, but we wouldn’t know their location, I’m afraid. That information would never be made available to us. I’m sorry — we can’t help.’

  Unfortunately, Scamarcio believed him.

  ‘We’ll keep our ears to the ground,’ said the dark-haired guy quietly.

  Scamarcio took a breath and tried to focus on the deal in hand. He talked them through what he knew so far, omitting his more recent discoveries about the Chechen because he wanted to save that card for later. When he’d finished, the blond Englishman said, ‘It sounds like Ifran is trying to blackmail Scalisi with the Chechen. The question is, Why?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Do you have any ideas?’

  ‘Probably no better than yours. Is the Chechen Intel? I dunno — you guys tell me. Business in that part of the world seems murky, lines are blurred.’

  The Englishman snorted. ‘It’s not murky, it’s impenetrable. You can’t see the bottom.’

  ‘Do you have a hunch?’

  ‘We don’t like to work on hunches. But as I’m talking to a policeman, and your rules are different, I suppose I might say that the Chechen’s strings are definitely being pulled by someone.’

  Scamarcio tried to suppress his frustration. ‘Someone in intelligence?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Scalisi?’ It was like hammering in nails.

  ‘We deem it unlikely. If the Chechen is who we think he is, he’s one of a select few. We don’t think he’d do business with Scalisi. He’d have bigger fish to fry.’

  ‘Bigger fish than the head of AISE?’

  ‘There’s a huge world out there, full of people with fatter wallets than Scalisi. As the saying goes, follow the money.’

  ‘You guys must have a big budget.’

  The blond Englishman laughed. ‘Not enough to buy the Chechen.’

  ‘Did you try?’

  The Englishman said nothing.

  ‘So, who does that leave?’

  ‘Too many to count.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Scamarcio. ‘I don’t get why the Chechen seems so important to Scalisi and Ifran.’

  ‘That is the mystery we’re all trying to solve — while the clock ticks down.’ He studied his watch, then murmured something to his colleague in English. Scamarcio couldn’t catch it.

  ‘This philosophy of Scalisi’s — you were going to explain.’

  The Englishman turned his gaze from his colleague. ‘Yes, we were. But right now, we’ve got a meeting. We’ll be back later.’

  ‘How long is that going to take?’

  But they were already through the door. This is the way with the British, thought Scamarcio. They always come across as gentlemen, then rip you off when you least expect it.

  He’d given up looking at his watch. It just brought stress and no solutions. And besides, the Englishman was right — he wasn’t ready to be bumped off in some dark alley. He wanted to find Fiammetta. He wanted to return to his former life of semi-challenging cases, interspersed with the occasional head-fuck.

  He’d lain back down on the bed and was dozing again, dreams hovering on the edges of nightmares, when the Englishmen strolled back in, newly brisk and invigorated as if they’d just received a pat on the back from a big cheese.

  ‘It’s been interesting speaking with you,’ said the blond guy. ‘What would you like to do now?’

  ‘I want to get out of here.’

  ‘That can be arranged.’

  ‘And I want to know what Scalisi’s up to. I need to understand his motives.’

  The blond guy nodded sympathetically. ‘I’m sure you do. You must appreciate that what we tell you cannot make its way to the media. There’ll be severe consequences if it does.’

  Scamarcio smiled thinly; he’d expected nothing less.

  ‘You’ll need to sign a non-disclosure agreement.’

  ‘I thought that was just for rock stars.’

  ‘Do I look like a rock star?’ There was no irony, not even the trace of a smile. The Englishman produced a pen from his top pocket, and his colleague handed over an A4 plastic envelope. The blond guy pulled out a sheet and signed it, then brought it across to Scamarcio. While Scamarcio’s English was solid, he couldn’t make sense of the legalese in a hurry.

  ‘Do you have one in Italian?’

  ‘No.’

  He just went ahead and signed it. The British were no doubt about to get one over on him, but he needed whatever they knew about Scalisi.

  Once the document had been returned to its file, the blond Englishman said, ‘I’ll let my colleague explain. His spoken Italian is better.’ He smiled stiffly at the dark-haired guy, who coughed, then said, ‘You’re a policeman, so I don’t need to tell you that surveillance is a troublesome beast. As a detective, if you wish to bug someone or monitor their email, what is the first thing you must do?’

  ‘Usually, I need to get permission from a judge.’

  ‘When you say “usually”, how often do you mean?’

  ‘I’d say about ninety per cent of the time,’ answered Scamarcio, wondering where this was heading.

  ‘Ninety per cent of the time — that’s most of the time.’

  ‘Yes.’ What was this, a lesson in percentages?

  ‘So imagine, if you will, a law that gives you the right to eavesdrop on the digital and mobile phone communications of anyone linked to a terrorist inquiry, a law that allows you to install secret cameras and recording devices in private homes without requesting prior permission from the judge. Would this new law make your job simpler?’

  ‘Quicker maybe, but perhaps not simpler.’

  ‘Imagine, then, that you have access to a device that records the keystrokes people make on their computers. Imagine that internet and phone companies have black boxes that run complex algorithms that can alert the authorities to suspicious online behaviour. Imagine that these same companies are then forced to hand over all that data when asked. All this information would make it so much easier to solve your cases.’

  ‘And so much easier to make mistakes …’

  The dark-haired man just shrugged. ‘Scalisi and a few others inside his agency are pushing for the legalisation of mass surveillance. They’re not alone and they’re definitely following a trend — we’ve seen it happen in France, and it’s starting to happen elsewhere. Scalisi and others are frustrated because, while they have some amazing tech at their fingertips, they don’t have the legal clout to use it. Scalisi knew that if an attack came, besides gaining a bigger budget, he’d also be able to secure much wider powers.’

  ‘Isn’t that what you all want?’

  ‘Our colleagues think the solution needs to be subtler, more measured. There’s a danger in taking things too far.’

  ‘The danger of mistakes being made?’

  ‘It’s more that they wouldn’t want to unnerve their citizens.’

  Scamarcio sighed and tried to make sense of it, knocking it around in his head for a while. After a lengthy silence, he said, ‘Thanks for bringing me up to speed.’

  But on his mind, unspoken, remained the conviction that there was more to this — that
the real picture was dirtier and more complicated.

  Scamarcio had declined their offer of a car, figuring that some European treaty might oblige them to hand him over. He wondered if they would follow him as he walked back towards the Colosseum. But when he checked behind him, the early morning streets were deserted. He assumed that those people who weren’t still asleep were probably glued to their TVs or penned in behind barricades, like rubberneckers at a car-crash.

  When he’d left Basile, they’d agreed to meet either back at Torpignattara, if that proved easiest, or at the junction of Via del Cardello where it met Via Cavour. Basile would post a man there to wait for Scamarcio, in case Basile was busy elsewhere. He’d also station a guy back at his office who could give Scamarcio an update in the event he couldn’t reach the centre. Scamarcio had been hoping to give Scalisi the slip when the arrival of the British had put paid to that idea. But as he rounded the corner, Scamarcio was surprised to see the crime boss himself, bathed in the sodium of a street lamp.

  ‘Ah, so you’re still alive,’ he said by way of hello, sounding slightly disappointed. But although Basile looked tired, his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were alert. Scamarcio sensed that just the thought of a partnership with Dante Greco was having the same effect as a shot of adrenalin. Sure, Basile had Torpignattara all sewn up but, without a helping hand, he was never going to make it into the premier league. An association with Greco could change that overnight. And if Basile played it well, he could make millions. Scamarcio had grossly exaggerated his connection to Greco and had no idea how he was going to work his way out of the lie, but he decided not to think about that for now. There were more pressing matters to consider.

  ‘Let’s walk,’ said Scamarcio as they headed down the hill, away from the main road. ‘Did you get anywhere?’

  ‘We found a crew. There’s a producer who is willing to talk to you. You need to call this number.’ Basile fished a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it over.

  ‘I don’t have a mobile.’

  Basile felt for his phone in his jacket pocket and passed it across. Scamarcio slowed and made towards the entrance of a smart apartment block, where he took a position away from the steps. He dialled, and the number was answered after a few rings.