The Extremist

by Nadia Dalbuono

  ‘Diabetes,’ whispered a middle-aged man sitting next to her. His short dark hair was pasted to his skull, and his suit was crumpled and stained. Scamarcio realised from his smart shoes and expensive silk tie that he’d normally be considered a snappy dresser; now he was almost in vagrant territory.

  ‘Shut up,’ shouted Barkat. ‘Don’t talk to the hostages.’

  Scamarcio fell silent, quickly trying to think of how to help the woman. He remembered something about sugar on the tongue regarding diabetics and their lows, but he wasn’t sure of the details — the memory was too vague to be useful. If he’d acted sooner, gone to the authorities immediately, maybe this woman would be in hospital by now. Maybe she wouldn’t be in this mess. He willed the thought to disappear, trying to turn his mind blank.

  ‘This way,’ shouted Barkat. ‘Get a fucking move on!’

  Like frightened sheep, they followed him down the stairs, Scamarcio’s anxiety mounting. Where the fuck was Ifran? What the hell was he playing at?

  When they reached the basement, Scamarcio noticed a new smell: iron, with the hint of something else — something rank and potent, but troublingly familiar. It was a smell he’d encountered at many crime scenes. Barkat strode ahead and snapped on the bare bulb in the storeroom. Like a third-rate magician revealing some mediocre trick, he waved an arm and shouted, ‘Tada!’

  Slumped against the far wall, a red spray of bullet holes through his chest, was Ifran.

  ‘That’s what we do to traitors where I come from,’ said Barkat.

  25

  ‘WHY?’ STAMMERED SCAMARCIO, UNABLE to think of anything better. Behind him, he heard Woodman whisper, ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ The staccato swearing sounded like bullets from a gun. Someone else was sobbing; Scamarcio didn’t know who.

  ‘He didn’t have our best interests at heart,’ answered Barkat breezily.

  ‘But …’

  Barkat swung the butt of his rifle into Scamarcio’s face. It made contact with his jaw. Scamarcio almost passed out from the pain, and when he touched the skin, his fingers came away red.

  ‘But nothing. We got wise to him, and now I need to know exactly what he wanted from you.’

  Scamarcio swallowed and tried to quieten his rising panic. His breaths were coming in quick bursts, and he needed to level them out. ‘Didn’t he say?’ he asked lamely. It was obvious now that Ifran wouldn’t have told the terrorists the full story, if he was indeed working for AISE.

  ‘He gave me some cock-and-bull, but now I want the truth, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get it.’

  Barkat motioned to one of his colleagues standing guard over the crew. ‘Take them up to the bar — put them with the rest.’

  ‘Scamarcio, what the fuck?’ hissed Woodman, as he was marshalled back up the stairs.

  ‘I’m working this out,’ said Scamarcio, his voice low.

  ‘Bit late, don’t you think?’

  When they had gone, Barkat said quietly, ‘Stand over there, under the light, where I can see you.’

  Scamarcio shuffled over. The bare bulb made him blink.

  ‘So, this is how it goes: you tell me the truth, and it’ll be quick. You try to spin me a line, and it will be long and painful.’

  Scamarcio shifted his weight from one foot to the other and tried to remember to breathe. He saw that Barkat had a knife pushed into his belt; it had been shoved in there loose, without a case. The blade was wide and sharp, and shone under the light. The ivory handle, Scamarcio noticed, was dented and stained brown.

  ‘Ifran claimed you were going to speak to the authorities: help convince them to address our demands. But I’ve not seen any progress; I’ve not seen any attempt to meet us halfway.’

  Demands, Scamarcio wondered. What demands? But how do I ask this without confirming the lie?

  ‘They need more time,’ he tried.

  ‘More time? They’ve had over twenty-four hours.’

  ‘These things take a while.’

  ‘All they need to do is pick up the phone to their faggot friends in Sicily and tell them to stop the drones. It’s simple — simple enough for even the Americans to understand.’

  ‘That kind of thing needs to work its way up the command chain. There’s a hierarchy to deal with.’

  ‘Yeah, and there are hostages to deal with here, and if those strikes don’t stop, we’re going to kill them.’

  Scamarcio thought quickly. Strikes, drones, Sicily … He had to be talking about the US raids on Libya that the Italian prime minister had recently countenanced. ‘The government won’t allow itself to be blackmailed like that. They won’t give in,’ Scamarcio said quietly.

  ‘Well, then they’re going to have a shocking amount of blood on their hands.’ Barkat put a heavy emphasis on the word.

  Scamarcio fell silent, trying to work out his next move. After a few moments, he said, ‘They’re defensive strikes from Sigonella. The Americans wanted to use the base for offensive strikes, but we said no to that.’

  Barkat just shook his head as if Scamarcio were a fool. ‘Offensive, defensive — it’s just semantics.’

  ‘So, what do you want?’

  ‘I want you to make them agree. We’ve waited way too long, and I’m starting to think that our demands never reached them — you were here yesterday for some other reason.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Scamarcio, the fear shifting through his intestines, making him sweat.

  Barkat stepped closer and jabbed him in the chest with his rifle butt. ‘Ifran was working for your people, it’s clear. What were you all planning?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m just a policeman — I didn’t understand why he involved me.’

  Barkat jabbed him harder, then released his left hand to finger the blade on his belt. ‘This will have to get messy.’ He almost sounded disappointed.

  Scamarcio thought about the real harm in trying to give this man what he wanted. Wouldn’t it just show division in the ranks — sow some useful confusion? But confusion, he reminded himself, could be dangerous — and then there was the Chechen. He was an unknown quantity, and his relationship to the terrorists remained unclear.

  ‘Ifran was working for the West — you were right,’ he tried.

  Barkat actually looked shocked for a moment, but then his expression morphed into fury. ‘Bastard.’

  ‘But he no longer trusted them. He didn’t feel like they had his back — he’d asked me to help fight his case, if it all went to the wall.’

  ‘What do you mean, “went to the wall”?’

  ‘You must realise that there are only two possible outcomes to all this. Either they take you out alive, and you spend the rest of your days in a maximum security prison, or they shoot you dead when they storm the place. Either way, it’s not looking good.’

  ‘What makes you think that they’ll succeed with a raid?’

  ‘Because you’re badly outnumbered — and from the activity outside, it looks like they’ll be dropping in sooner rather than later.’

  Barkat turned his head and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Ah, but that’s where you’re misinformed. Ifran perhaps neglected to tell you that we have a fallback option — an ejector switch.’

  ‘An ejector switch?’

  ‘A card we can play that will stop them from trying to finish it. As we’ve seen in the past, the lives of hostages start to matter less towards the end. The security services know they have to be seen to be doing something to end the siege, so the hostage issue fades into the background. You can never rely on hostage collateral to see you through.’

  It sounded like he’d attended a lesson on the subject. Perhaps that’s what they’re teaching them in the training camps, thought Scamarcio.

  ‘So, this card?’

  Barkat pushed the rifle butt harder into his chest, and Scamarcio remembered his meeting with th
e boy, when Ifran had done the same thing. Where was good and evil in all this? Was it even where he thought?

  ‘In a few minutes we’re going to let it be known that if they raid this place or the McDonald’s or the nursery, we will detonate a bomb under the Colosseum. The blast will be so massive that it will take out a chunk of your city.’

  Scamarcio tried to look unmoved. ‘I find it hard to believe that you were able to plant a bomb. There is very tight security surrounding the Colosseum.’

  ‘Do you know — it was actually easier than we expected. We’d come ready for more of a challenge. The Vatican had been a headfuck.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve seen the videos — we couldn’t have sent you a clearer message. You were just too busy watching your inane quiz shows or cooking yourselves on the beaches like pigs on a spit to listen.’

  That was pretty much what the fascist in Fossignano had said. The same doubts kept coming at him. If he’d gone to the authorities with this threat immediately, there may have been a chance to stop all this. But again, Scamarcio tried to banish the worry. ‘But if you scare them into not carrying out a raid, what are you going to do? Sit it out till they send in the disposal robots, and then raid you once the bomb sites are secured?’

  ‘We’re not idiots. We want three helicopters.’

  ‘Helicopters to where?’

  ‘Libya.’

  ‘No fifteen minutes of martyr fame?’

  Barkat screamed in his face, ‘Don’t demean me!’ Then, after a beat, ‘Strategies change.’

  Scamarcio frowned. This felt like too much of a deviation. ‘So where do I come into it?’

  ‘Ifran thought you might be useful, so I’ll use you, too.’ Barkat scratched the stubble on his chin. ‘I want you to pass on my message to the authorities: shut down the drone strikes and get us our helicopters, otherwise Rome burns.’

  ‘Why can’t you just tell them yourself?’

  ‘They’ll listen to you.’

  Scamarcio rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes. He had a headache and he was thirsty. ‘Can I have some water?’

  ‘What do you think this is — a restaurant?’ Barkat laughed at his own stupid joke, then walked over to one of the shelves and pulled out a small bottle from a stack encased in plastic. ‘I’d ask you if you wanted sparkling or still, but it all seems to be still.’

  Scamarcio looked up, but Barkat’s expression was surprisingly neutral. He handed over the bottle, and Scamarcio downed it. When he’d got some breath back, he said. ‘When I go outside, I want to take that diabetic woman with me.’

  ‘What makes you think you’ll be going outside?’

  ‘You just said you wanted me to put your demands to the authorities.’

  ‘Yes, but you’ll be doing that from here.’

  Scamarcio swallowed and looked down at the chipped concrete beneath his feet. ‘OK, but I want that diabetic woman out. It will help your case with the authorities if you show compassion. They will be more willing to negotiate.’

  ‘Have you been listening to anything I’ve said? There is no room for negotiation. We have their city wired.’

  Scamarcio sighed and slumped down on the hard floor, his shoulders against the wall.

  ‘Get up,’ shouted Barkat.

  ‘I don’t want to do this anymore. I’ve been on the run for over twenty-four hours and I’m tired. Just shoot me.’

  ‘What?’ screeched Barkat. ‘Shut the fuck up, idiot.’

  ‘I’ve had enough — put me out of my misery.’ Scamarcio half meant it.

  ‘Don’t try to fuck with me.’

  ‘I’m not fucking with you. I’m tired and I’m burnt out. All the way through, my life has been shit. It’s been shit and just seems to get shitter, and I really can’t be bothered any more. Let’s just call it a day. You’d be doing me a favour.’

  Barkat stared down at him, his forehead a mess of confusion.

  ‘What are you waiting for, Barkat?’

  ‘I need you to talk to the authorities.’

  ‘I’m too tired. Why don’t you ask those American guys upstairs, or someone else? You have plenty of hostages.’

  ‘They’re not connected like you.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I’ll let the diabetic out.’

  ‘Deal,’ said Scamarcio.

  26

  SCAMARCIO HAD INSISTED ON helping the woman to the door himself. ‘I want the media to see.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Barkat.

  ‘It will help your case.’

  Barkat just looked at him as if he were mad. ‘No funny business — we’ll be watching every move.’

  ‘I’m not stupid.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’

  They got the diabetic woman to her feet, but she was so weak she was having trouble standing. ‘I’m going to have to prop her up,’ said Scamarcio. Barkat nodded, then frowned, his AK-47 still trained on Scamarcio’s chest.

  They began making their way slowly towards the door, the woman moaning with every step. She was small and slight, and because Scamarcio was taking nearly all her weight, her feet were barely touching the ground. For a moment, she looked as if she were about to faint — her skin was now so pale it was almost translucent. She closed her eyes, but then after a few seconds she opened them again, as if she was determined to catch her first glimpse of the outside world. Just before they reached the door, Scamarcio moved his head closer to hers and whispered, ‘Tell them to search CCTV on the Colosseum. Go back two weeks. Then check the Vatican.’

  He couldn’t be sure if she’d heard. She just stared straight ahead, her glassy eyes tightly focused on the door and the world beyond.

  ‘Why the fuck are you talking to her?’ screamed Barkat behind him.

  ‘I’m just trying to get her to take some weight — she’s getting heavy.’

  Scamarcio stopped in front of the door and turned back to the terrorists. ‘Tell me when.’

  ‘Wait!’ yelled Barkat. They fanned out around Scamarcio so he was covered by a gun at every angle. It wasn’t a great feeling.

  ‘Now!’ yelled Barkat.

  Scamarcio pulled open the door, his every nerve-ending on fire. Immediately, he was blinded by a thousand camera flashes and a sea of electric blues and reds — there were emergency vehicles in all directions, light-bars whirring, radios buzzing. He heard shouts and cries from the press and smelt raw petrol on the wind, and the afternoon musk of baked tarmac and old nicotine. Two terrified paramedics were running towards him with a stretcher. Scamarcio barely had time to push the woman in their direction before an arm yanked him back inside, and the door slammed shut.

  ‘Done,’ said Barkat. ‘Now we start the conversation. Do not tell them which sites are wired. You just say important sites.’

  ‘The phone?’

  Barkat pulled an iPhone from his pocket and waved it in the air. ‘Out back — I don’t want them listening.’ He gestured to the hostages, who now seemed fidgety and on edge. Maybe witnessing the woman’s exit had made them think that their luck was out.

  Barkat strode off towards the stairs. ‘That corner,’ he said, pointing. ‘There’s no reception in the basement.’ He was motioning Scamarcio towards the back wall of the café where a wooden table was covered in an array of electronic equipment. He noticed walkie-talkies, AA batteries, and a tangle of black cables of different thicknesses. ‘Don’t get any ideas,’ said Barkat.

  Scamarcio didn’t know what ideas he was supposed to have, looking at all that.

  ‘Make the call,’ barked the terrorist.

  ‘I don’t have the number — you want me to speak to the negotiators, I take it?’

  ‘No, you fuck, I want you to call the prime minister.’

  Scamarcio looked up, expecting to see another sarcastic smirk, bu
t Barkat’s stern expression told him he wasn’t joking.

  ‘I don’t know his number,’ said Scamarcio tiredly.

  ‘Ask the monkeys in the van to put you through.’

  Yeah, Scamarcio thought, I can see how that’s going to go down.

  ‘I don’t have the negotiator’s number.’

  ‘It’s on speed dial under “Infidel bastards”.’

  ‘For God’s sake …’

  He looked up and again realised Barkat was serious. The day was becoming evermore surreal. Scamarcio found the number and placed the call, his heart pounding. What the hell were the authorities going to say, after he’d led them a dance? But right now, that was the least of his troubles.

  ‘Barkat?’ asked the negotiator crisply — it sounded like a different guy. The pair from yesterday had no doubt gone off shift.

  ‘It’s not Barkat; it’s Detective Scamarcio.’

  ‘Yes, Detective, we just spotted you at the door. We were somewhat surprised to see you.’

  ‘Look,’ said Scamarcio, ‘there’s no time to explain. Did you know Ifran’s dead?’

  There was silence down the line, and then sudden chatter in the background, like bees swarming. Barkat stirred impatiently beside him.

  ‘We wondered what had changed,’ said the negotiator after a few beats, ‘… why they’d switched. Barkat’s listening in, I take it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Again, I can’t go into that. Barkat wants you to know that they have two major tourist sites in the city wired. If you raid any of the three current hostage locations, these major sites will blow.’

  ‘Which sites?’ asked the negotiator, still cool and calm, as he’d been trained. The hum of voices kicked off again in the background.