The Extremist

by Nadia Dalbuono

  Scamarcio frowned. It was an odd choice of phrase.

  ‘OK,’ said Romanelli. ‘I’ve changed my life somewhat.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ said the home secretary, scratching at an elbow and looking up finally. ‘Mr Scamarcio, you’re telling me the Americans kidnapped you, and that you were held at Viterbo?’ He sounded as if his credibility was at breaking point.

  Scamarcio wanted to know what the home secretary had meant by ‘How are you holding up?’ He looked at Romanelli, but the former spook gave nothing away. Scamarcio returned his attention to Costantini; he knew he was losing him, and there wasn’t much time to win him back. ‘I’m not making this up. They gave me something — I don’t know what. It hit my stomach, made me vomit. They were trying to mess with my head. They said they’d harmed my partner, went so far as to suggest she was pregnant … that the foetus would be damaged.’

  Garramone’s forehead crumpled with concern. ‘Is she?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Scamarcio, his desperation clear. ‘I’ve got to find her — I know Scalisi has her — or had her. They’re trying to use her to get to me. It’s their one bargaining chip.’

  ‘Scamarcio,’ sighed the home secretary. ‘You must understand that all this is a diplomatic and interdepartmental nightmare, and so far, you haven’t really given me anything concrete. The whole thing might be nothing more than some nutcase conspiracy theory, spawned by a troubled young lad in the throes of a mental breakdown. It’s clear that Ifran has issues.’

  ‘That DVD and the photo aren’t concrete enough?’

  ‘That DVD proves nothing until we locate this Chechen and find out who he’s working for. The photo could have been doctored — we’ll need to run tests.’

  ‘Well, run them, and run them quick — Scalisi is involved in this, I’m sure.’

  The home secretary took a long breath. ‘That’s quite an accusation.’

  ‘I have to say, Sir,’ said Romanelli, his tone placatory, ‘quite a few people in AISE were worried about the colonel. They suspected that he may no longer have been working for the greater good. His behaviour had become quite odd.’

  ‘Odd in what way?’

  ‘Not sharing intelligence, suddenly losing assets — it deviated from the norm.’

  ‘Don’t you spies always keep things close to your chests?’ persisted Costantini.

  ‘To a certain extent. But there is a procedure to be followed, and over the last year or so, Scalisi wasn’t following it. It raised concerns — and quite high up at that.’

  ‘Why did nobody come to me about this?’

  Romanelli scratched at the corner of his nose. ‘I think there may have been a plan to approach you. I heard they were waiting to get some final pieces of evidence, nail their case shut. Then yesterday happened …’

  Why didn’t he mention this before? Scamarcio wondered.

  ‘This theory of Detective Scamarcio’s is illogical,’ said Costantini. ‘How could Scalisi possibly benefit from an attack on home soil? It would make him look incompetent.’

  Romanelli opened his mouth and scratched at his chin, his eyes narrowing as if he was struggling to disguise his surprise at the man’s naivety. ‘Not quite. It would make his rivals in AISI and the anti-terror police look incompetent. Him — not so much.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ sighed the home secretary, non-committal.

  ‘And then there’s the whole push for greater surveillance powers,’ added Scamarcio. ‘The British seem to think Scalisi and a few of his chums are keen on that.’

  ‘Hmm,’ murmured Costantini. ‘There’s been some pressure, but I wasn’t aware Scalisi was behind it.’

  ‘Means nothing,’ said Romanelli.

  The home secretary leaned back against his chair and sighed. He pushed both palms through his hair and said, ‘What a clusterfuck. If it comes out Scalisi had links to Ifran …’ He let the sentence hang. Scamarcio knew what he was thinking. Would Costantini sweep all this aside to save his own skin, or was he bigger than that? How many of them were ever bigger than that?

  The home secretary sighed again, then said, ‘Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll haul in Scalisi — get his side of the story.’

  It wasn’t exactly a breathtaking solution. ‘And?’ Scamarcio pushed.

  ‘And then there will have to be a thorough investigation, being sure not to tread on the toes of our US colleagues.’ Scamarcio took some comfort from the way Costantini said the word: it seemed that he didn’t exactly see the Americans as friends.

  ‘But what about Ifran’s request for the crew? He’s banking on that — he made it clear if he doesn’t get the cameras, the killings will start.’

  ‘Detective Scamarcio, you must understand that we can’t let him broadcast his theory to the world while it remains untested. There has to be a proper investigation.’

  ‘A proper whitewash, you mean?’

  The room fell silent.

  ‘So what happens to Ifran?’ Scamarcio’s voice was rising, but he didn’t care. ‘We just let this bloodbath happen?’

  ‘There will be no bloodbath,’ snapped the home secretary. ‘He was just trying to scare you into action.’

  ‘How can you take that risk?’

  ‘It’s a case of lesser evils.’

  ‘A case of saving your own skin?’

  ‘Detective!’ shouted Mancino, slamming a fist down hard onto the table.

  ‘How are you going to end this, Home Secretary?’ asked Scamarcio. ‘How are you going to get all those people, all those children, out alive?’

  ‘That’s my problem, not yours.’

  ‘OK, so I’ll tell you what is my problem — my girlfriend. I need to know where she is, and I need to know now.’

  ‘I can assure you that I’ll have someone look into that as soon as possible.’

  ‘If I don’t have her living and breathing beside me in an hour, I am taking this whole thing to the press.’

  He watched Mancino and Garramone trade troubled glances.

  ‘You will not,’ whispered the home secretary.

  ‘Just watch me,’ said Scamarcio.

  ‘I’ll have you arrested,’ said Costantini, deadpan.

  ‘No, you won’t.’ Scamarcio sounded more confident than he felt. He hoped Costantini wouldn’t play that game. It would be messy and would raise a lot of questions, but on the other hand Costantini could claim that he’d done it to protect the public — that Scamarcio had been compromised.

  The two chiefs were still following the back-and-forth, but neither of them seemed keen to intervene. Scamarcio knew they were wondering the same thing: whether Costantini would have the stomach for anything conspicuous — whether he’d risk a grand gesture.

  ‘Detective, I don’t need to remind you that you have been obstructing police procedure. You should have come forward with Ifran’s demands immediately. Who were you to take it into your own hands?’ Costantini looked to the two police chiefs for back up, but they wouldn’t meet his gaze.

  ‘What would you have done in my position? Ask yourself that,’ said Scamarcio, rising from the table. ‘He’d told me thousands would die.’ He stopped and took a breath, closing his eyes for a second. ‘It’s been one hell of a day. I’m heading home. I expect to welcome my girlfriend there very soon. And while you’re moving heaven and earth, I also need you to locate the journalist Roberto Rigamonti.’ He paused. ‘Mr Romanelli — a word.’

  ‘Scamarcio,’ shouted Garramone, getting to his feet. ‘You can’t just leave. You and I need to talk — about a whole lot of things.’

  ‘Can’t it wait, Chief? I’m exhausted.’

  Garramone eyed him sceptically, then said, ‘I’ll give you a couple of hours, then I want you back here. You’ll take an escort.’

  ‘No escort. But I’ll show, I promise you.’

 
; ‘You’d better,’ sighed Garramone.

  When they were heading down Via San Vitale and approaching the junction with Nazionale, Romanelli said, ‘I take it we’re not going home.’

  Scamarcio adjusted the Ray-Bans. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Back to the hacks?’

  ‘You think Basile will come good?’

  ‘I dunno — he’s probably still got a few of those WP grenades hidden away somewhere.’

  ‘There’s no time left for anything sophisticated.’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘Is it worth you calling Federico, finding out how the land lies?’

  Romanelli pulled out his mobile and dialled. ‘Yeah,’ he said after a few moments. ‘As well as could be expected. They still there?’ He paused, then said, ‘See you in ten.’

  ‘They’re in the pen?’

  Romanelli nodded.

  Scamarcio stopped and bent down to rub his foot. His right heel was still killing him. He felt sure that it was bleeding. He grimaced and said, ‘Can I borrow your phone?’ Romanelli handed it across, and Scamarcio dialled Basile. After today, the number would probably be imprinted on his brain for life. ‘Where are you?’ Scamarcio asked when he picked up.

  ‘Down near the Colosseum.’

  ‘Do you have any props left?’

  ‘Affirmative.’

  ‘Sit tight, I’m heading your way.’

  He handed the phone back to Romanelli. ‘There’ll be no hanging around. I’ll be spotted as soon as we get there, and God knows where Scalisi is lurking.’

  Romanelli rubbed at a cheekbone. ‘I’ll accompany you down there, but I’m going to sit this one out. I’ve always been a good second man — you wouldn’t want me on the inside for this.’

  There was something about the way he said it that made Scamarcio wonder.

  24

  WHEN THEY REACHED THE press pen, Romanelli flashed his old Intel ID, and they were let through. Romanelli shook his head, unimpressed by the lack of rigour.

  When he spotted them, Woodman raised his eyebrows before killing the call he was on. ‘We thought we’d seen the last of you. Seems like someone set off a small IED — could have been a lot worse.’

  Scamarcio just wanted to move on. ‘You ready for your exclusive?’

  ‘What? Now?’ Woodman looked alarmed.

  ‘No time like the present.’

  ‘Jesus. You don’t dick about.’

  ‘On the contrary, there’s been way too much dicking about.’

  ‘Give me a minute.’ Woodman hurried over to his team.

  Scamarcio saw hands waving and heads shaking as the crew gathered around. Woodman seemed to be having a hard time of it, but after a few minutes of back-and-forth, things simmered down, and there were a few nods of apparent assent. The cameraman even slapped Woodman on the back in a ‘go get ’em’ gesture.

  He was soon back, the alarm replaced by adrenalin. ‘But isn’t the deadline long gone? Isn’t it too late?’

  ‘It seems like I may have bought us some extra time,’ said Scamarcio, praying this was the case.

  ‘OK,’ said Woodman quietly. ‘I’m going to call to set up the link — it may take a while.’

  Behind him the cameraman was paring down his kit, changing lenses, and switching the battery pack. The girl called Clare was following his instructions, opening pockets and extracting equipment from a canvas bag.

  Scamarcio motioned to Romanelli for the phone. ‘Where are you now?’ he asked Basile when he answered.

  ‘Level with the cordon — I can see the press.’

  ‘They probably won’t let you in without ID. Someone will come out and meet you, and you’ll need to explain that you’re a contributor or something. Have you got any kind of ID?’

  ‘This is all getting a little too close for comfort.’

  ‘You could just pass me the grenade, and I’ll be the one to throw it.’

  ‘Nah — you might fuck it up.’

  ‘What’s to fuck up?’

  ‘I’ll try to get close. Any problems and I’ll call.’

  ‘Wait a sec — Woodman’s trying to get the link. Don’t hang up.’

  The producer was tapping him on the shoulder, his face flushed. ‘An item’s fallen through — we can have it in five.’

  Scamarcio nodded, his throat tight. ‘Basile, count down slowly from three hundred, then toss that grenade if you’re near enough.’

  ‘Your man needs to come good.’

  ‘He will, don’t worry.’

  ‘Oh, I’m no worrier. Three hundred it is.’

  Scamarcio cut the call and turned to Woodman. ‘Ready when you are.’

  The producer expelled a blast of stale breath and whispered, ‘Fuck, I’m nervous.’ Then he ran back to the cameraman and started speaking into his ear.

  Romanelli coughed and said, ‘Time to leave — I’m asthmatic.’

  Scamarcio smiled and shook his hand, before Romanelli vanished into the crowd.

  ‘Get a cloth — soak it in water, cover your face,’ Scamarcio said to Woodman when he was near. ‘Tell your crew to do the same.’

  ‘Shit, of course.’

  Scamarcio pulled his jacket over his face, not caring that he was drawing attention to himself. Very soon peoples’ focus would be elsewhere. He was still wearing the sunglasses — they were being pushed into his skin by the jacket, but he didn’t care. He began counting down, although he had no idea how many seconds still had to pass.

  The answer came sooner than expected. There was a hissing to his right, followed by another to his left, like a hundred baskets of vipers being overturned. When he glanced out from beneath his jacket, he saw a column of white smoke rising into the air. All around him people were shouting. Someone nearby was coughing so hard they were almost throwing up — the raspy, dry-retching sound went on and on, and Scamarcio wanted to yell at them to stop. The air was now thick with clouds of phosphorous smog, and when he turned to look for Woodman, he couldn’t see anything beyond his own hand. But then he felt a grip on his shoulder.

  ‘Come on,’ shouted the American.

  As he tried to push forward, Scamarcio was blocked by people kneeling or running in all directions, fearing there was worse to come. The police were shouting at everyone to proceed calmly, but no-one was listening. Scamarcio weaved his way through the chaos, trying to steady his manic pulse. By his calculation, if he turned right a few metres up ahead, he would find the end of the cordon and the start of the pavement running parallel with the coffee bar. He’d identified a landmark earlier to look out for — a wooden tobacconist’s kiosk, now abandoned. It lay to the right of the café doorway by a couple of metres.

  He pushed forward and nearly stumbled over someone on the ground. He veered round them, narrowly avoiding a slick pool of vomit near their feet. The smog was slowly starting to clear, and he could just about make out people and emergency vehicles parked up at the kerb. He looked to his right, and some twenty metres up ahead, further away than expected, stood the kiosk. He trained his eyes on it and upped his pace. ‘Quick,’ he said to Woodman, still close behind him, ‘Before the smoke clears.’

  He made it to the kiosk, and then headed for the café, running the last few metres to the front door. Behind him, he could hear Woodman panting. Scamarcio hammered on the glass, trying to find his breath. ‘Ifran! Ifran! Open up. It’s Scamarcio. I’ve got the crew. Let us in.’ He closed his eyes for a moment, unable to believe that he’d made it this far.

  He turned and saw that, while Woodman and his presenter were now right behind him, Clare and the cameraman had only just reached the kiosk.

  Scamarcio kept banging on the door, knowing that they could be spotted at any moment. It felt like the seconds were turning into minutes, but then a shadow appeared on the other side of the glass. The figure was almo
st level with them, but as the door opened, Scamarcio realised that it wasn’t Ifran but the other man, Barkat. The same guy who’d been talking to the Chechen in the video.

  ‘I’ve brought the crew,’ Scamarcio repeated, his nerves jangling.

  ‘Ifran won’t be needing any crew.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Leave now, before I kill you.’

  Scamarcio looked around and saw that the cameraman was now filming. And there was a new problem: three snipers, shadows in black, were pounding up the pavement behind them. In an instant, Scamarcio knew that they were about to be caught in a gunfight, chances of survival: zero.

  Scamarcio was halfway through the door. ‘Let us in, before they kill us all.’

  As if he’d just reached the same conclusion, Barkat stepped back so they could rush inside, the cameraman only just making it through before the snipers reached the door.

  ‘Stand down, or I shoot the hostages,’ screamed Barkat through the glass. ‘Stand down, or we shoot all the children at the preschool. Stand down, or we kill the people at McDonald’s. This is a final warning: police, hold your fire!’

  Scamarcio heard the crackle of comms outside. Barkat and the other terrorists started throwing tables and chairs against the door, barricading themselves in. ‘Help us,’ he yelled to Scamarcio and the crew. ‘Quick.’

  To Scamarcio, it didn’t seem that he had much choice. They all started lugging overturned pieces of furniture and whatever else they could find, jamming them up against the glass. When there was nothing left, Scamarcio asked, ‘Where’s Ifran?’

  ‘You want to see Ifran?’ asked Barkat, a strange, whiny tone to his voice.

  ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘You give that to me,’ screamed Barkat, trying to grab the camera. The cameraman looked horrified and just handed it over. ‘What the fuck?’ he said, turning on Woodman. ‘Is this some kind of set up?’

  ‘Stay calm, Jake,’ said Woodman, looking anything but calm himself.

  Barkat and two of his men started patting them down, spending slightly too long on the presenter, Anneliese. When they were satisfied, Barkat began herding them towards the back of the café. Scamarcio passed the same line of hostages on the floor — it was as if nobody had moved an inch since yesterday morning. The smell, however, had got worse. He noticed one middle-aged woman with her eyes closed, her head resting against the wall. She was deathly pale, covered in small beads of sweat, and shaking. ‘What’s wrong with her?’ he asked the other people on the floor.