The Extremist
Page 26
Over her shoulder he saw a road full of emergency crews, but no press and public: they must have been moved back. Then he spotted Costantini striding towards him, flanked by a very jumpy security entourage.
‘As you can see, we found her,’ said the home secretary, his tone noncommittal. Scamarcio noticed Garramone hanging a few paces back. Scamarcio glanced at him, but nothing in his expression helped him understand if he was about to be fired or applauded.
‘Thank you,’ said Scamarcio. ‘What about the bomb sites?’
‘In the end, we had just enough time to work with. It took us two hours to identify the locations from the CCTV and forty minutes to secure them. As soon as they were made safe, we prepared to raid the nursery, the McDonald’s, and the café. That was just before you started playing the madman.’
Something wasn’t adding up. ‘It took you only forty minutes to secure the sites?’
‘I’ll get to that shortly — it’s odd.’
‘Any civilian fatalities?’
‘Two male hostages at the McDonald’s, but strangely the other terrorists weren’t wearing suicide vests, either. It saved us a heavy death toll.’
‘These bomb sites …’
‘Why don’t we go back to the van? We can debrief you there.’
For someone whose capital city had just escaped being blown to shreds, the home secretary seemed remarkably composed, thought Scamarcio.
Once they were all inside, and he’d been handed a cup of good espresso along with a tired slice of pizza, Scamarcio looked about him in the rather crowded van and noticed two people lurking behind Costantini who he hadn’t spotted on arrival.
‘We meet again,’ he said quietly.
One of the Brits held up a weary palm. The other just looked strung out.
The home secretary flicked his mane of hair away from his shoulder: ‘The British are always cropping up where you least expect them.’ He didn’t sound pleased about it.
‘So — the bomb sites?’ Scamarcio pressed.
‘We had thirty analysts going back through that CCTV — five days ago, three men turned up in a white van outside the Colosseum. The logo of a local cleaning company was visible on the side, but the van was different from the one that normally comes. The job also took far longer than usual, and the arrival time of 2.00 a.m. was out of the ordinary. Night security tried to call the maintenance manager to check, but their phone was switched off, so the guards just waved the fake cleaners through. This kind of deviation from the rules can never be allowed to happen again.’
‘These imposters somehow managed to turn off all the CCTV inside and outside the site. They also interrupted the wi-fi connection to the main control room, which made security think they were looking at an internet problem, rather than a camera issue. Unfortunately for the criminals, though, they forgot one camera. This meant that its feed was eventually backed up to the security hard drive, which allowed us to observe them make their way down to a specific section of the viewing platform above the lower hypogeum, where they descended to the ground below. We searched that area and discovered an explosive device attached to the second pillar. It had been skilfully concealed inside a red housing so it looked like part of the structure.’
‘You detonated it?’
‘We didn’t need to.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll get to that in a minute. It was much harder to locate the Vatican bomb, but we eventually found the same van approaching the Piazza San Pietro on the Borgo Pio at 2.00 a.m. three nights earlier. We’d spotted a similar report of interrupted wi-fi to the control room, which gave us a vital head start.’
‘And that device?’
‘It’s fine.’
‘What do you mean, “it’s fine”?’
‘Again, we didn’t need to act.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘Because whoever had wired these devices — and we think we know who they are — had wired them incorrectly.’
‘But—’
‘We believe it was deliberate.’
‘Why would it be deliberate?’
‘When we find your Chechen, that’s the first thing we’ll be asking.’
‘It was the Chechen?’
‘The forgotten CCTV camera at the Colosseum shows him plain as day. And we’ve matched his gait to a Vatican street cam that night.’
Scamarcio took a moment to absorb this. ‘And now you don’t know where he is?’
‘We’re looking hard.’
Scamarcio stepped outside. The evening air was cooler than he would have expected. Beyond the old press cordon, which was now strewn with cigarette butts and discarded food wrappers, he spotted Romanelli. He waved half-heartedly in Scamarcio’s direction.
‘I just need to speak to this guy,’ Scamarcio said to Fiammetta, who was sitting waiting for him by a medical tent. He looked at her for a long moment, anxiety creeping through him, encircling his heart. The fear in her eyes took him back to a past experience, and he felt sick at the thought that he might be about to lose everything that really mattered.
‘They didn’t do anything bad. I’m OK,’ she said, answering his unspoken question.
He pulled her to him.
‘They tried to tell me all kinds of bullshit about you, but I never believed them.’
‘I knew you wouldn’t.’
He kissed her, long and hard, and then reluctantly made his way over to Romanelli.
‘Evening,’ said the former spy, his tone flat. Scamarcio noticed that his eyes were red, as if he’d been crying or was suffering from some kind of allergy.
‘You heard about Ifran?’
‘Just found out, as it happens.’
Scamarcio understood then. ‘You’re cut up?’
Romanelli inclined his head slightly, the gesture noncommittal yet somehow confirmatory.
‘I think he tried to stop all this,’ said Romanelli. ‘He wanted to lead you to the Chechen because he knew that if you brought it all into the open, the Chechen would withdraw. He wouldn’t blow those sites.’
‘They tell me he hadn’t wired them correctly. Deliberately so.’
Romanelli’s mouth fell open slightly.
‘And you’re still telling me you really don’t know who he is, this Chechen?’ tried Scamarcio.
‘Ifran thinks he was working for Scalisi — but who was Scalisi working for? I’m not even sure that the Americans are the answer anymore.’ Romanelli ground out a cigarette Scamarcio hadn’t noticed, its smoke still dense in the stale city air.
‘But they kept me captive.’
‘There could be various reasons for that.’
‘Anyone seen them? Or Scalisi?’
‘Scalisi’s gone to ground. No-one in AISE has heard from him in hours.’
‘Funny that — both Scalisi and the Chechen disappearing at the same time.’
‘Hmm.’
‘What did the home secretary mean when he asked you how you were holding up?’
‘Ah,’ sighed Romanelli, patting down his jacket pocket and then pulling out a packet of Marlboros.
‘This is the first time I’ve seen you smoke,’ observed Scamarcio.
‘Desperate times,’ muttered Romanelli.
‘So?’
‘Why can’t you just let it lie?’ Romanelli extracted a new cigarette, and then seemed to remember his manners and offered Scamarcio one. After he’d lit up for the pair of them, he took a long drag and said, ‘He was talking about my wife. She died in an operation last year.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. What was wrong with her?’
‘No, not a medical operation, an AISE operation.’
Scamarcio fell silent. ‘I hadn’t realised she worked with you.’
‘Why would you?’
‘How did it happen?’
Scamarcio was starting to see it more clearly now. ‘Your superior?’
‘Do I need to spell it out?’
‘Fuck,’ he whispered. ‘It was you. You had the house in Ostia?’
‘Yep.’
‘You buried the DVD for Ifran?’
‘Guilty as charged.’
‘You wanted to see Scalisi go down.’
‘Do you blame me?’
In that moment, Scamarcio finally understood one small detail that had been bothering him. The girl with the red hair in Romanelli’s shop in Calcata who had seemed so familiar — she was the same young girl playing ball on the film. That was where he’d seen her before — the eyes were the same. The DVD must have been recorded over one of Romanelli’s old home movies.
‘Why didn’t you use a fresh disc?’ Scamarcio asked, knowing it was a ridiculous question, but too confused to let it go.
‘Scalisi never knew about the DVD, but in the event that he did come to learn of its existence, I wanted him to spot a clue. I wanted him to understand that I had his number. Only he could have reached that conclusion. He’d been to the house, you see —met my family in happier times.’
‘Did you tip him off about the photo? Tell him I had it?’
‘I imagine his gunmen at the basilica would have told him, but, yes, I might have made an anonymous call. I wanted to make him sweat.’
‘So, is any of this actually true: his involvement with Ifran; the Chechen?’
‘Of course it’s true!’ Romanelli’s pupils flared. ‘We just wanted to make sure that Scalisi went out with a bang. A quiet word to Costantini would not have been enough.’
‘Hell,’ whispered Scamarcio. ‘You risked one fucking big bang.’ He paused. ‘Who’s “we”?’
‘Me and Federico mainly — along with some others still in AISE.’
‘Where is Federico?’
‘Trying to make a swift exit.’
Scamarcio sucked hard on the cigarette, drawing the nicotine down deep. ‘What got into him these past hours?’
‘He’d been doing a bit of freelancing, then it all got messy and he found himself in the middle of a diplomatic shitstorm. He needed to beat a retreat.’
‘Freelancing for the British?’
But Romanelli didn’t answer. He just raised his chin and muttered, ‘Your gangster wants a word.’
Scamarcio turned and saw Basile locking up a white BMW motorbike. It looked like the same model as Rigamonti’s. Scamarcio thought of the reporter and wondered where he was.
Basile did not look happy. But as he drew nearer, Scamarcio changed his assessment: the man was seething. ‘Nice wheels,’ Scamarcio tried.
Basile just shook his head. ‘I won’t have you stringing me along.’
‘I’ve only just got out of there alive. I haven’t had a chance to call Greco yet.’
Basile looked at his watch. ‘Then do it now, while I’m here.’
‘I need to go home, have a shower, be with my girlfriend,’ said Scamarcio, trying to tamp down his anger.
‘I know your reputation. Don’t try to pull a fast one — it wouldn’t be clever.’
‘Yeah, and it wouldn’t be great if the police found out you were dealing arms to the Chechen.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
‘You wouldn’t fucking dare!’
‘I enjoyed meeting you, Nino. I’ll be in touch.’
30
GARRAMONE RANG TWO HOURS later, as Scamarcio was getting out of the shower. The basilica near his apartment was striking eleven.
‘Chief Mancino just got a call from the home secretary. They’ve located Scalisi — in an Autogrill on the A1 to Naples.’
‘What was he doing there?’
‘Not much. He was found slumped in a toilet cubicle.’
‘Drunk?’
‘Dead.’
Scamarcio ran a tired hand across his mouth. Scalisi had never struck him as a quitter. ‘Did he kill himself?’
‘Not unless he managed to slash his own throat.’
‘Any theories?’
‘Your Chechen friend was kind enough to leave a note.’
‘Him again?’
‘Seems so — they’ve got him on CCTV filling up at the gas station at around the right time.’
‘What’s the note say?’
‘Actually it was addressed to you — you seem to have made quite an impression.’
‘Jesus.’
‘If you can finally spare me the time to answer my questions, I might let you take a look.’
The office was a deafening chaos of ringing phones, arguments, and booming TVs. As soon as Scamarcio walked in, one of his colleagues spotted him, and a half-hearted cheer stuttered across the room. Scamarcio would rather have been anywhere else — perhaps his own funeral. He knocked on Garramone’s door and went straight in; he didn’t want to spend another second out in the pit.
The boss was typing fast. ‘You wouldn’t believe the number of face-saving reports I’m having to write — as if I don’t have anything better to do.’
Scamarcio grunted and pulled out a chair. Garramone looked up. ‘What you did was reckless; it was not the right way to go.’
‘How could I know? Ifran was talking about other sites being wired. It felt reckless not to listen.’
‘But you risked civilian lives when you took that crew in. A man died for God’s sake. If you’d just run it all past us, we could have reached a collective decision. We’d have had earlier intelligence upon which to act.’
‘You know as well as I that the top brass wouldn’t have allowed me to grant Ifran’s request. I couldn’t risk giving them the chance to stop me.’
Garramone sighed. ‘We could be debating this for weeks.’
‘Then let’s not.’
‘That depends on Chief Mancino.’ Garramone scratched the back of his head and pushed some papers away, before retrieving a sheet of A4 that was pinned beneath his keyboard. ‘This is a photocopy of the note. AISI is all over it, and the Farnesina are wetting their pants. Nobody thought to let you see it.’
‘I appreciate your intervention.’
Garramone pushed the sheet across. ‘It’s in English,’ he said, as if Scamarcio couldn’t work that out for himself.
The handwriting sloped elegantly to the right — it looked like something an old lady would write, not some twenty-tonne Slavic meathead.
‘Dear Detective Scamarcio,’ it began.
Our paths keep crossing, but we’ve never really had a chance to talk. From a distance, I’ve admired your determination, your bravery, and your compelling need to establish the ‘truth’, whatever that may be. I feel that, given all you’ve been through, you deserve some kind of explanation.
Ifran pointed you in my direction because he had his doubts — and he was right to have them. Andrea Scalisi got what he deserved — the man is a viper, a cheat, and a double-crossing killer.
Scamarcio thought that was pretty rich from someone who had planned to take out much of Rome, but then he remembered the faulty wiring and wondered if the Chechen’s intentions weren’t quite so simple.
The letter continued:
But Scalisi was just one cog in a very dirty wheel that keeps turning. He may have thought he was working for the US and faithfully keeping his population quiet, but he wasn’t. Sure, the usual suspects were there, calling the shots from Tel Aviv and Washington, hoping that, yet again, the killing would bring Europe to heel, and that the multicultural love fest would spiral into a burning hatred of every Muslim.
But above all that, looking on, was someone wi
th a lot more money and a lot more power. Now here I must hold my hands up: I’m the first to admit that I’m a mercenary whore with no real principles. Where I grew up, they were punched out of you at an early age. So when someone is in on a deal, but knows others who also want the deal to go through but with a bit more colour, a bit more panache, who am I to say no? I’ve never been averse to a bit of moonlighting, especially when there’s serious cash in play.
But this time — I don’t know whether it’s middle age, or weariness, or boredom — something changed. I made the first steps — found a rabble of semi-enthusiastic ‘freedom fighters’ with a taste for bling, promised them a few million rather than the usual heavenly harem, and then we all got to work. But the weird thing is that, with time, I came to regret my decision. When push came to shove, I couldn’t do it. Don’t misunderstand — it wasn’t a road-to-Damascus awakening. I just thought, Why make a bunch of rich fuckers even richer?
And so I leave it to you, ‘Detective’ — for that’s what you are in the very best sense of the word. You need to ask ‘Cui bono?’ And don’t pose the question in the comfort of your flat, or while enjoying a stroll by the Tiber. Gather your things NOW and take a trip north. Clear your head, see the sights — maybe enjoy an ice cream at the superb Gelateria Harold. Life is short, embrace the day!
And with that, the letter ended.
‘What the fuck?’ said Scamarcio.
‘Yeah, that’s precisely what Intel are asking themselves.’
‘Did Scalisi’s colleagues at AISE know he was working with the Americans? Maybe it was an official collaboration? a joint op?’
‘From what I’ve heard there was nothing official about it,’ said Garramone crisply. ‘AISE is in disarray. Costantini has confirmed that both the DVD and photo are genuine — Scalisi is seriously implicated.’
‘That reference to bringing Europe “to heel”?’
‘Chief Mancino asked Costantini about that. He said that the Chechen was implying that a major terror event might be more likely to keep us in line with the US. The thinking is that it would make us more frightened about going our own way — along with France and the rest.’
‘Did the home secretary buy that analysis?’