The Extremist

by Nadia Dalbuono

  ‘Do you want to peel off? Woodman and I can go on ahead.’

  ‘Yeah, I need to sort a few things. We’ll see you at the press pen.’

  ‘You taking these two?’ asked Scamarcio.

  ‘They’re strategists,’ said Basile, chewing on a piece of gum. ‘We’re going to put our heads together — there are variables to consider. We’ll call the Yank when we’re in proximity.’

  The language was new, and Scamarcio wondered if it was for Romanelli’s benefit. The others all exchanged numbers, and Scamarcio made sure he memorised Basile’s. The crime boss started walking away with the others, then turned back to Scamarcio and rubbed his thumb and first finger together, in case Scamarcio had forgotten the terms of their deal. Scamarcio just shook his head.

  When the three of them were distant specks, a pretty young woman rounded the corner of Via Madonna dei Monti.

  ‘Ah, great,’ said Woodman.

  The woman was about thirty, with long dark hair the colour of coal, and huge blue eyes. She was carrying a silver case.

  ‘Now, Clare,’ said Woodman, as she drew level. He placed both hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. As a gesture, it seemed far too intimate for a working relationship, thought Scamarcio.

  ‘I need you not to freak out,’ said Woodman.

  ‘Why should I freak out?’

  ‘When I introduce you to this gentleman, I need you to stay calm, stay focused. And then I need you to transmit that calm to the crew. I don’t want any of the vipers in the pit cottoning on to what we’ve got, which, by the way, is a massive exclusive — probably the exclusive of your career.’

  ‘Paul, what the fuck?’ She had a soft, very controlled New York accent. It could have been the voice of an actress.

  ‘Remember, Clare, no freaking now.’

  She frowned. Woodman gestured to the man beside him.

  ‘Clare, this is Detective Scamarcio — the policeman who met the terrorists yesterday morning.’

  Clare remained quite still. She didn’t blink, she didn’t open her mouth, she didn’t adjust her hair; her hands stayed by her side, one gripping the silver case. After a couple of moments studying Scamarcio, she turned to Woodman and asked, quite calmly, ‘Paul, are you out of your fucking mind?’

  Woodman shook his head quickly. ‘If you want to make it, you’re going to have to learn to take risks, Clare.’

  ‘The police are looking for him, Paul. It’s our obligation to hand him in.’

  ‘Clare,’ said Woodman, his voice rising. ‘Who do you work for? The world’s third-largest news network, or the fucking cops?’ Woodman sounded like the one who needed to stay calm, thought Scamarcio.

  ‘Fuck you,’ hissed Clare, and bit her bottom lip.

  ‘So, are you with me or not? I need you on the same page. This is the biggest opportunity of our careers — don’t blow it for all of us.’

  After a long time staring at the pavement, she finally looked up. ‘OK. I’ll indulge you on this one, but I really can’t speak for the rest of the team.’

  ‘Indulge me? I’m handing you a freakin’ golden ticket here.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘Clare — everyone has to be in agreement, or this will end in disaster. Help me make the others see sense. I need to know that you’ll try.’

  Scamarcio thought Woodman was starting to sound a little crazed.

  ‘I’m guessing the hat and glasses are for him,’ said Clare flatly, pulling them from her pocket and handing them over.

  Scamarcio thanked her and stepped over to a covered doorway, checking first that there were no street cameras nearby. The cap was a military green with a wide brim and small air holes, and the sunglasses were silver-tinted Aviators. He removed his old pair along with the baseball cap, and stuffed them in his pocket. He looked back at Woodman and his assistant: a terse silence seemed to have descended. Scamarcio didn’t like the friction — it felt dangerous. But on the other hand, he was out of options.

  They began making their way down Via del Cardello, back towards the Colosseum. Scamarcio carried the silver case, which was lighter than he’d expected. Soon, he saw the backs of the crowds penned in behind the cordon, their T-shirts damp; their hair slick. It had to be at least twenty-five degrees already. There was a strange emptiness about the scene, and it took him a moment to understand: there was no birdsong, he realised. All the birds had fled.

  Woodman headed right, where a row of cameramen were standing, their reporters stationed in a line as they recorded pieces to camera. The sky was brightening, but the reporters and their teams were still bathed in the artificial glow of huge lights, their generators whirring and pumping out unwelcome heat.

  The press was held back behind its own cordon, and before Woodman could get any closer a policeman asked for ID. The producer showed him his badge, and then gestured to Clare and Scamarcio. Scamarcio had been ready to take out the ID Clare had provided, but the police officer just waved them on behind Woodman. Sloppy indeed …

  Once inside the pen, they were just fifty metres or so away from the negotiators’ van. It was hard to see it through the throng, but Scamarcio reckoned that if he made his way to the end of the line, he’d have a clearer view. Woodman had stopped in front of a strong-boned blonde who was talking into the camera. From one look at her, Scamarcio guessed she’d be called Gretchen or Madchen or one of those Minnesota Dutch names. Woodman tapped him on the shoulder. ‘This is us,’ he whispered, as if Scamarcio couldn’t work that out for himself.

  When the woman had finished, and a young man had handed her a plastic cup of something, Scamarcio asked, ‘Is there any chance we can all move from here?’

  ‘Not in hell,’ said Woodman. ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t see the van,’ said Scamarcio. ‘We need to get closer.’

  ‘These are prized positions,’ said Woodman. ‘We give this up, we might not get another. We’ll have to take it in turns to surveil the van. Didn’t Basile say he’d call once they were near?’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Scamarcio. ‘Do you have a cell phone signal?’

  Woodman pulled his phone from his pocket and frowned. ‘Yes. Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Sometimes they’re scrambled in emergency situations.’

  ‘Nah, the authorities need to communicate with the outside world just like the rest of us. They’ll keep it running.’

  Scamarcio said nothing, knowing Woodman was wrong.

  ‘I need to have a word with the team before I introduce you,’ said the producer. ‘Can you give us five minutes?’

  Scamarcio nodded and walked off behind the cameramen towards the end of the press line. He took in six policemen standing guard outside the negotiators’ van. He hadn’t remembered seeing that many this morning. They were all armed with the standard Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns, and their feet were set wide, ready for trouble. Quite how Romanelli was going to get past all that, Scamarcio had no idea. He hoped Romanelli’s intelligence credentials would pull some weight, but much depended on who was in charge. He wondered whether Scalisi would be inside the van now.

  Scamarcio studied the scene for a few seconds more and was about to turn, when he spotted five snipers on the roof of the building next door to the café. Some had balaclavas and red patches on their jacket sleeves, which told him that they were from the elite SWAT unit of the anti-terror police — the NOCS, or Nucleo Operativo Centrale di Sicurezza. The NOCS were trained in high altitude military parachuting, bomb disposal, and combat shooting, and considered themselves to be the best of the best. They probably were, figured Scamarcio.

  He counted two at the front of the building facing the street and one off to the right. They weren’t in sniper positions, but it did seem as if they were preparing for something: one was talking into his headset, while the other two scanned the crowds below, guns at the ready. It didn’t r
eally make sense for them to be up there — they had no direct view of the café. Then Scamarcio closed his eyes and took a breath. But of course it did make sense if they were about to storm the place. He looked for ropes and abseiling gear, but it was impossible to see properly as the lip of the roof was in the way.

  He threw one last look at the van and then hurried back to Woodman, his gut churning. The snipers were not good news and just added to his anxiety about the approaching deadline.

  When Scamarcio reached the crew, the rugged cameraman took off his cap, which seemed identical to the one Scamarcio was wearing, scratched his grey head, and looked at him hard. The man seemed more perplexed than anything else.

  ‘I’ve told them not to greet you,’ said Woodman. ‘The good news is that we’re all in agreement: we’ll do this thing. For the moment though, you’re the camera assistant, so you’ll be passing Jake whatever he needs.’

  Scamarcio nodded, not really feeling the consensus.

  ‘OK then, back to work,’ said Woodman, his eyes dancing.

  Scamarcio scanned their faces. The good-looking reporter didn’t seem able to take her eyes off him, and this bothered him. He hoped Woodman would say something. Clare seemed to be on the telephone to their office and kept saying ‘yes’ and ‘no’, and glancing furtively in his direction. He could hear the crackle of comms coming from the cameraman’s headset — someone was counting down from one hundred. The reporter took another quick sip from the plastic cup, then checked her make-up in a small mirror, which she stowed in her handbag.

  The cameraman replaced his headset and said, ‘OK, Anneliese, thirty.’

  They all consulted a small TV monitor on the ground, which showed a head-and-shoulders shot of the reporter on the left of the screen and the studio anchor on the right.

  After a few moments, Woodman said: ‘Fifteen.’

  The presenter readjusted a wire behind her ear, then followed Woodman’s hand as he counted down the final seconds. From the small monitor, Scamarcio heard a male voice in the studio say, ‘Anneliese van Buren is reporting from the café near the Colosseum. Anneliese, have there been any new developments at this hour?’

  ‘Well, Mason, right now the authorities are not saying much. The terrorists are still in the café behind me, where they’re holding fifteen hostages. We have not heard any gunfire and we’re certainly hoping this will remain the case. There has, however, been increased activity off to my left, where SWAT teams appear to be mustering. It’s possible they’re considering storming the building, given so many hours have now passed. From where I’m standing, it certainly does look as if some kind of plan is being put into effect.’

  Scamarcio wondered how she could see anything from where she was standing.

  ‘Anneliese, can you tell us exactly what you’ve witnessed in the last few minutes?’ asked the studio anchor.

  ‘I’ve seen a reinforcement of heavily armed police arriving, along with additional emergency vehicles. This has been in course for fifteen minutes or so.’

  ‘Right, Anneliese — this sounds significant. We’ll keep our eyes on developments there,’ said the anchor. ‘But for now, we’ll cross over to our correspondent at the Spanish Steps …’ Woodman killed the sound and said, ‘Clare, get back to the muster point and see what’s happening.’

  She hurried off. Woodman turned the audio on the monitor back up, but Scamarcio was having trouble making out the words above the cacophony of different languages being spoken all around him.

  ‘I’m going to head back towards the van,’ he said to Woodman. The producer pulled out his phone and frowned. ‘Nothing from Basile.’

  ‘OK.’

  When he reached the end of the line, Scamarcio saw that there were now eight police outside the van and ten snipers on the roof. The reporter had been right — something was about to go down. He glanced at his watch. There was now less than ten minutes left till 9.00 a.m. His heart lurched as he prayed that Basile and Romanelli would show soon. If the SWATs were about to go in, it was all over. He’d never reach Ifran.

  Scamarcio was about to head back to Woodman when he felt as if he was being observed. He swung around, but couldn’t spot anyone looking at him. Then, out of the corner of his vision he saw someone wave, and when he glanced left, there was Basile, looking relaxed. The crime boss quickly pulled down the skin below his eye with his index finger to indicate cunning. Then he inclined his head to the right.

  Scamarcio looked and saw Romanelli approach one of the policemen standing furthest from the van.

  Why the fuck didn’t they call first?

  Romanelli had pulled out a card and was showing it to the officer. The policeman turned it over, and then said a few words into his radio. After ten seconds or so, a figure emerged from the back of the van. Scamarcio recognised him as Deputy Chief of Police Leopardi.

  Leopardi shook hands with Romanelli, taking him by the elbow in a way that suggested they’d met before. Romanelli spoke, Leopardi listened, a hand at his mouth. But after a few moments he began rubbing beneath his ear, and Scamarcio sensed that Romanelli was losing the argument. Leopardi tilted his head and opened his palms in a ‘I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do’ gesture.

  Scamarcio bit down on a thumbnail as he watched their one final chance slip away, but then something Romanelli said seemed to change the mood, and Leopardi began to nod, curious now. He stopped, and steepled both hands together at his mouth. Romanelli said a few more words, and then they were both heading towards the van. The deal, it seemed, had been sealed.

  Scamarcio was about to hurry back to Woodman when a roar of air lifted him from the pavement and hurled him hard against a car. His arms flailed as he tried to protect his mouth and nose from a searing heat. The heat was followed by a burst of light so bright that it felt as if his eyes were burning inside his skull, and his lungs were melting. There was a ringing in his ears, and a broken hammering in his chest, and all around him he heard people screaming and coughing.

  All he could think at that moment was that the explosion was too big and too soon. Basile’s smoke grenade was meant to cause a distraction and be let off once Romanelli was inside the van, but Romanelli hadn’t even made it to the door. He couldn’t have.

  Then, just seconds later, someone was seizing Scamarcio by the arms and hauling him up off the ground. He was being bumped along the pavement and pulled into a vehicle. But before he could reflect on the efficiency of the ambulance services, he was punched in the teeth, and a black sack was drawn over his head.

  22

  THE WATERS OF THE Tiber are black and fetid, and I think that if I were to jump in, some monster from the deep might seize me and drag me to the bottom. It’s a welcome thought, this chance to drown my doubts, depart unnoticed.

  When Scamarcio came to, he found himself in a dim room on a hard, narrow bed. The walls were bare, and there was only one meagre window directly below the ceiling to his right. It felt a long way from British hospitality.

  He rubbed his bruised jaw and tried to wet his tongue. His stomach was sore, but not as if it had been punched — it felt more as if he’d eaten something rotten. He tried to straighten, but couldn’t — the ache in his gut was too painful. He let out a moan, took a shallow breath, and looked down at his battered shoes. He was exhausted; he wanted this over with. He needed to find Fiammetta and hold her tight. Scalisi had been right: he was just an ordinary guy. This was too big for him to carry.

  He heard a door scrape and looked up to see a thin brunette stride into the room. She was accompanied by a shorter muscular man with curly red hair. The woman looked as if she was in her fifties, the man about ten years younger.

  The woman scratched at her neck, and then drew out a plastic chair from a table which had been pushed against the wall. She carried it over to the bed. The man remained standing a few feet behind, a lackey waiting for orders.

&
nbsp; She took a seat and surveyed Scamarcio, hands folded in her lap, one long red nail tapping her other palm. ‘You’ve caused us quite a lot of trouble, Mr Scamarcio.’ She pronounced his name wrong, in the way so many Americans did, with the emphasis on the ‘o’.

  ‘That wasn’t my intention.’

  ‘Your intentions are irrelevant.’ She sniffed. She had an angular, pinched face. Her nose was long and thin, and her chin jutted out. Her eyes, however, were wide and attractive. ‘You need to give it up, Detective. You can’t help Ifran, and you can’t help his victims. It’s time to leave it to the people who can.’

  ‘The people who can don’t seem to be doing much.’

  ‘About that, you have no idea.’

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  She scratched at the corner of her lips ‘It’s not important.’

  ‘I’d say it is, given that I’ve been dragged into all this against my will.’

  ‘Bullshit. If you’d just shared your information with the authorities from the start you wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘I don’t understand what it’s got to do with the Americans. This is an Italian matter. Why am I being held in this … cell?’

  ‘It’s not a cell.’

  Scamarcio said nothing.

  ‘We brought you here to try to make you see sense.’

  ‘“Seeing sense” is giving up and walking away, I take it?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I’m not prepared to do that.’ That wasn’t exactly how he felt, but her arrogance was stoking a new fire in him.

  ‘Why not? You’ve got a lot to live for.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘No. Why did you read it that way?’

  ‘I’m not going to go round in circles. I need to get back to that café by…’ The last words vanished. He checked his watch, but it had stopped. He looked at the window, knowing already what he’d see. The glass framed a patch of deep blue; the milky early-morning light was long gone. But he couldn’t think about defeat; he couldn’t let it distract him. ‘Why don’t you want me to help Ifran, if it might bring a resolution?’