‘Not really, Mr Romanelli — it’s more like we skirted around the edges,’ said Scamarcio.
‘How did you get my name?’ asked Romanelli.
‘Does that really matter?’
Romanelli scratched behind an ear and muttered, ‘Letta.’
Federico shook his head. ‘I doubt it.’
‘Who else would it be?’
‘Listen,’ said Scamarcio, losing patience. ‘Can’t we just pin down the facts? We have just over an hour before Ifran’s deadline.’
Romanelli rubbed his cheek and shook his head slowly. ‘I admire your persistence, I really do. But there’s no way they’re going to let you back in there. You’re in cloud-cuckoo-land if you think anything different.’
‘Whatever. That’s my problem. Just tell us how you came to suspect Scalisi. How you came to take that photo.’
Romanelli noticed the espresso in front of him and quickly tipped it back. He glanced up at the ceiling, as if hoping to be spirited out of the bar and back to his workshop.
‘Scalisi is part of a group inside the agency who don’t like the way things are going. They want to roam free and don’t want to have to go running to a judge every two seconds to have their arses covered. They feel that they’ve been reined in for too long, and, given today’s world, it’s time for a change. On a certain level, they might be right, but it’s the way they’re going about things that bothers people like Federico and me.’
‘That’s what the British said,’ said Woodman sounding pleased with himself.
‘The British?’ asked Federico, now looking even more ill at ease. ‘Have you spoken to them?’ he asked Woodman.
‘No. But he has,’ the producer pointed at Scamarcio.
‘When was this?’ asked Federico, his brow scored with doubt. ‘You were adamant you didn’t want to see them.’
Scamarcio sighed. ‘It wasn’t like that. They found me — out in Torpignattara. They brought me back to their place for a friendly chat.’
‘Was it friendly?’
‘Pretty much — I didn’t get the feeling they wanted to kill me, anyway.’
‘Why would they want to kill you?’ asked Federico, looking at Scamarcio as if he were insane. ‘The British go their own way. That’s what I was trying to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.’
Scamarcio wondered why Federico was so put out about the British.
‘Mr Romanelli, do you think this attitude of Scalisi’s, this push for greater powers, could be behind his relationship with Ifran? That it might explain today’s attacks?’ asked Woodman.
‘It’s possible,’ said Romanelli, drily.
‘It’s possible, but you don’t know for sure?’
‘Certainty is a precious commodity. It’s rare, and it takes a long time to cultivate.’
‘So, you don’t know?’ said Woodman.
‘I have my suspicions, as does Federico,’ said Romanelli, gesturing to his colleague. But if you’re asking us if we’re certain, then we’d have to say that we’re not.’
‘And the photo, how did that come about?’ pushed Woodman.
‘I took that picture when I was part of a team running Ifran. We had met him in Frascati that day — he could never come to HQ, of course.’
‘Of course,’ echoed Woodman.
‘We were in Frascati to speak to him about some product he’d delivered on two brothers. These brothers were planning a major attack. Ifran had managed to get close. He’d managed to give them the impression that he would help, and be a part of it.’
‘These brothers have a name?’ asked Woodman.
‘Yeah,’ sighed Romanelli. ‘Barkat and Zabir Alami.’ He paused for a beat, he seemed to be weighing something up. After a moment, he added: ‘They’re the guys with Ifran now. I believe the police have just released the names.’
‘Fuck,’ said Woodman.
Scamarcio wanted to ask why Romanelli hadn’t mentioned this before.
‘So, you were running this guy, and he was making progress …’ coaxed Woodman.
‘And then he skipped out.’
‘You lost contact?’
‘We had no idea where he was. When I left the agency, Scalisi was still looking — and looking hard. I heard he spent a fortune — left no stone unturned.’
Woodman whistled softly. ‘And then Ifran shows up today.’
‘Yes. As for the Chechen, that’s anybody’s guess …’
‘What?’ asked Woodman, looking blank.
‘The Chechen,’ Romanelli angled his head forward, as if Woodman was being slow.
‘Sorry, I don’t follow …’
Both turned to look at Scamarcio. ‘I haven’t gone into it. I didn’t want to confuse things for Mr Woodman.’ In reality, because he still wasn’t clear on the Chechen’s role, Scamarcio knew that any discussion would slow them down.
‘I’m sure I can handle it,’ said Woodman, sounding peeved.
‘Can we just leave the Chechen for a later date?’ Scamarcio said. ‘You’ll get the details, I promise. We just need to prioritise.’
‘I don’t think you’re prioritising correctly,’ said Romanelli. ‘The Chechen was what got you into this mess.’
‘What do you mean?’ Woodman’s eyes clouded with mistrust.
‘The DVD that Detective Scamarcio retrieved showed a Chechen man striking some kind of deal with Ifran, probably to supply arms. Ifran wanted Scamarcio to find the DVD; ergo, he wanted Scamarcio to know about the Chechen. I believe Ifran could have been using the Chechen to try to blackmail Colonel Scalisi.’
Once again, Scamarcio tried to remember when he’d mentioned the DVD to Federico or Romanelli. Regardless of how he’d actually come by the knowledge, Scamarcio didn’t understand why Romanelli was now sharing this info so freely. Then Woodman surprised him by saying, ‘Hmm, that all sounds interesting, but the detective was right — it’s probably too complicated for us. It’s more the kind of thing a broadsheet would handle, or our special investigations division.’ But then after a moment he asked, ‘What do we know about this Chechen?’
‘Very little,’ said Scamarcio. Thankfully, this time, neither Romanelli nor Federico offered an opinion.
‘So, we have no idea how he fits into the picture — who he was working for?’ pushed Woodman.
‘My guess would be organised crime,’ said Scamarcio, grateful that Basile couldn’t follow. ‘They have been known to supply arms to terrorists.’
‘But that doesn’t explain why the boy wanted to alert you to his existence,’ insisted Woodman.
Scamarcio held his palms open in defeat. ‘Like I told you, it’s a mystery.’
21
I REMEMBER THE MOMENT he finally won. We’d been sitting in the gardens of Villa Torlonia as the sun was starting to dip, and the heat was beginning to fade. He’d been telling me about the dead and the wounded: the children he’d helped pull from the rubble; the time he’d cried when they’d found a baby still breathing. There was something in his eyes that told me this was for real, that he wasn’t just spinning me a yarn.
After that, it all made sense — every last part of it.
‘I’m going to step outside to make this call,’ said Woodman. ‘I need to concentrate.’
‘You’re ringing your bosses?’ asked Scamarcio.
‘You said it — we’re running out of time.’
‘Don’t mention me, or the police will be all over us.’
‘Do I look stupid?’
‘OK,’ sighed Scamarcio. ‘But make it quick. We’ve been here too long.’
‘Five minutes,’ snapped Woodman.
Through the glass, they watched him pacing the pavement, one long arm raised, his head nodding from side to side as he spoke. After a while, he started opening his mouth wider and swinging his arm higher, and then
he’d turned towards the glass and was kicking the wall below with his big sturdy boot, his red face drawn tight with fury. Scamarcio swore — the last thing they needed was to draw attention. Woodman moved from the window and resumed pacing, his arm pushing up through the air again, his palm flicking at nothing as if he was batting the whole idea away, sending it into the long grass. Scamarcio swallowed.
The producer finally ceased his circuit and lowered his mobile. He tapped the screen, then just stood staring at it, as if he’d forgotten its purpose. But when he finally looked up, he was smiling.
‘What the fuck?’ whispered Romanelli. Scamarcio felt an unwelcome buzz of anxiety.
Woodman strutted back in like a prize cock, ordered something from the bar, and then threw himself down in his chair.
‘So?’ asked Scamarcio. Even Basile had gone quite still.
‘There’s nothing like an ex-wife to give you good advice,’ said Woodman.
‘What?’
The American smiled again. He had a wide surfer smile — it fitted perfectly into his chiselled chin. Scamarcio guessed that he probably didn’t have too much trouble finding women — maybe that’s what had killed his marriage.
‘My ex-wife used to be a news editor at the network. I just ran the whole thing past her,’ said Woodman as if all this were perfectly reasonable.
‘You did what?’
The producer just shrugged.
‘Weren’t you supposed to call your bosses?’ asked Scamarcio quietly, his anger a rising tide.
‘And risk falling at the first hurdle?’
‘What did your ex-wife have to say?’ The tide was almost at the shore — it was about to break.
‘She says there’s no fucking way they’ll let this run. I’ll need to strike out on my own.’
‘On your own?’ Scamarcio’s hand was twitching; he was about to throttle him.
‘I’ll tell them I’ve got an exclusive on something else — something innocuous like “head of police” or “counterespionage” — insider insights into the ongoing operation, et cetera, et cetera. I’ll get the live link all set up, and then I’ll go in. She thinks they won’t kill it immediately — they’ll be too freaked out, perhaps even too curious to see how it plays out.’
‘And if they shut it down once Ifran starts speaking?’
‘They may, they may not — they’ll have been caught off guard, they’ll be running around like chickens with their heads cut off. It might give us some time to play with.’
‘You could lose your job.’
‘Or I could become the most lauded producer in the history of TV news. I’ll take my chances.’
‘Can you trust your ex-wife not to tell anyone?’ asked Scamarcio.
Woodman puffed out his cheeks. ‘She’s one of the few people I can trust.’
Romanelli sniffed loudly and shook his head. In Italian, he muttered, ‘This is all very nice, but you’re forgetting your main problem — how are you going to get back in there?’
Nino Basile surprised them all by saying, ‘I have an idea.’
Scamarcio ushered them out of the café. He wanted to find a quieter place to sound out the crime boss.
When they’d filed into an empty car park at the back of a Standa minimarket, Basile took him aside and whispered, ‘If I do this, I’ll need to see some very solid returns. You really need to get that.’
Scamarcio rolled his eyes. ‘I grew up in the life, Nino. I get it.’
‘Good.’
Basile grabbed him by the arm and almost pushed him back to the others. Scamarcio did not enjoy the feel of his grip.
The crime boss coughed, then said, ‘If there was an explosion, we could distract them long enough to get inside.’
‘An explosion?’ Scamarcio didn’t like the sound of it already.
‘They’d be herding everyone back; it wouldn’t work,’ countered Romanelli.
‘Where are the negotiators?’ asked Basile.
‘In a van to the right of the café — a few metres down,’ said Scamarcio impatiently. He wanted to shift the discussion on to something more sensible.
‘We rig it there — all eyes will switch to the van. There’ll be a few moments of opportunity,’ said Basile, as if all this was completely reasonable.
‘The area is crawling with cops and special forces,’ said Scamarcio, his voice becoming shrill. ‘They’ll have their eyes locked on that café. They’ll have been trained not to be distracted by anything. They know all about the danger of diversions — it’s textbook.’
Basile held his palms open as if to say, I was only trying.
Romanelli said, ‘You may be overestimating them, Scamarcio — they’ll be tired and they’ll be jumpy. The last twenty-four hours have been unprecedented. I wouldn’t dismiss Mr Basile’s idea out of hand.’
‘Are you along for the ride?’ asked Scamarcio, sounding colder than he’d intended.
‘I’m curious.’
Scamarcio’s mind was already turning on something else. ‘How the hell are you going to rig the van, Basile? It will be a secure zone — there’s no way you’ll be able to get close enough.’
‘There might be,’ said Nino. ‘While you lot were wetting your pants about a bunch of stuffed shirts in New York, I was trying to work out how to do the job. Who gives a shit if somebody’s boss says yay or nay if you can’t even get inside?’
‘Quite,’ said Romanelli.
‘My boys have been watching that van. They get deliveries, take outs — they’re human, they’ve got to eat. The food is coming from a restaurant up the road — Bistro Colosseo. It’s brought by delivery boys on Vespas. The Vespas pass a certain junction. My guys can be waiting there to intercept them and make sure the breakfast brioche arrive nice and hot.’
‘Hot?’ Scamarcio felt sick.
‘There’s a gel we can use. When it reacts with a lighter, it will trigger a blast that blows your balls off,’ said Basile with a smirk. Scamarcio imagined him lighting firecrackers as a boy; terrorising the neighbourhood.
‘They’ll search your guy,’ he sighed.
‘They won’t check the brioche though. And according to my boys, they’re getting blasé. They patted down the delivery guys the first couple of times, but now they just wave them in. As your associate says — they’re tired. This siege has gone on too long.’
‘Are you talking about triacetone — peroxide-based?’ asked Romanelli.
‘Yep,’ said Basile, still looking pleased with himself.
‘It’s very difficult to create a stable bomb with TATP, and it’s even harder to detonate.’ Romanelli looked both concerned and intrigued. ‘You shouldn’t be playing with that stuff.’
‘We’re not amateurs, we know what we’re doing,’ said Basile in a tone that didn’t invite further question.
Romanelli shook his head. ‘No, it’s crazy — you can’t use it.’
‘Why the fuck not?’ Basile stepped closer, ready to get right in his face.
Romanelli didn’t blink. ‘Because it will end in disaster and create more problems than it solves. We need something smaller.’ He paused. ‘What about smoke grenades? We smoke them out, but nobody dies.’
‘How the fuck am I going to get a grenade inside a brioche?’ Basile opened his hands and swung them aloft.
‘What if I flash them my ex-Intel credentials — tell them I have info relating to Scamarcio and that there’s imminent danger,’ tried Romanelli.
‘Won’t they search you before they let you inside?’ countered Basile.
‘If I say that there’s a bomb threat — that I must speak to the negotiators, there might be a chance.’
Basile pouted like a child. ‘The TATP still gets my vote.’
‘It’ll turn your guy to mush before he even reaches the van,’ said Romanelli, deadpan.
<
br /> Scamarcio glanced at his watch and frowned. ‘Let’s go with Romanelli.’ Then, as an afterthought: ‘How do we get hold of the grenades?’
Basile frowned at him as if he were simple. ‘Not a problem, Scamarcio.’
Scamarcio thought about the last time he’d approached the café. ‘I don’t think I should try to get back there until the last minute, when you’ve got your crew in place, and Romanelli is ready,’ he said to Woodman as they left the car park.
Woodman drew out his top lip with his finger. ‘How are you even going to make it past the crowds? There are a lot of people, and more will be gathering now it’s light.’
‘Last time I came close, I was spotted after a minute.’
‘I didn’t know you’d already made an attempt …’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Hmm,’ Woodman pinched his nose. He pulled out his mobile and started dialling. After a moment, he said, ‘Can you leave the location? Come up to Via …?’ He turned to Scamarcio for the name.
‘Leonina.’
Woodman repeated it.
‘Tell them to head up Via Cardello if they can, and then swing a right onto Via Madonna dei Monti — Leonina is at the end,’ said Scamarcio.
Woodman passed it on. ‘I know this sounds weird, but can you bring Jake’s cap and sunglasses, a press ID, and a spare D5? I’ll explain later.’ He paused. ‘Well, yeah, put a card in, but we won’t be using it until we’re back.’ He stopped, then added, ‘That will all become clear.’
Romanelli, Federico, and Basile were a few metres up ahead, walking briskly. The former spooks seemed to have found common ground with the head of organised crime in Torpignattara.
‘My assistant will be here soon,’ said Woodman. ‘What should we do about those three?’ He gestured ahead. ‘Will they want to hang out? Do we want them to?’
‘No,’ said Scamarcio. He began to head over to the group, but stopped and bent down to rub his right heel. The canvas of his shoe was starting to dig uncomfortably into his skin, or maybe it was his heel that was the problem. He wondered if he’d sustained some kind of injury that was only now making itself known. It seemed odd that it would be the shoe, as they’d always been so comfortable. He finished adjusting the heel and walked on, but the pain persisted. He tried to ignore it. He tapped Basile on the shoulder, and he swung round, his street-smart instincts priming him for a fight.
The Extremist Page 19
