The Extremist

by Nadia Dalbuono

  ‘If he did, he was hardly going to admit it.’

  ‘Does anyone believe the Chechen’s story?’

  ‘Again, no-one’s talking to us about that.’

  ‘And the thing about Tel Aviv?’

  ‘Because everyone’s so tight lipped, I did a bit of digging myself and discovered that there are a load of conspiracy theorists who say the recent attacks in France were the doing of CIA and Mossad. They claim that Mossad are targeting countries who have said they will recognise the State of Palestine — attacks in Norway, Belgium, and France all followed a short while after those countries said they’d recognise Palestine.’

  Scamarcio frowned. ‘That sounds like bullshit.’

  ‘The Chechen might just be throwing a load of chaff in our direction — spinning us a few popular conspiracies to distract us.’

  Scamarcio scratched his head. ‘The thing about me going north though — that’s weirdly specific. What did Costantini et al make of that?’

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘No comment?’

  ‘No-one’s even mentioned it. Reads to me like the Chechen has a screw loose.’

  Scamarcio bit his thumb and thought. ‘I’m not sure, perhaps not.’

  ‘We’ll talk more in the morning. Go home, get some rest.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Scamarcio, his mind still turning, ‘that’s exactly what I’ll do.’

  When he arrived back at his flat it was 1.00 a.m., and Fiammetta was sleeping. There’d been no time to ask her about the pregnancy. When they’d taken a taxi from the Colosseum, she’d nodded off immediately. It had been all he could do to rouse her and get her into bed. He thought about trying to wake her now and asking her outright, but she looked so peaceful.

  He padded to the kitchen and poured himself a large glass of Nero d’Avola, then took it to the lounge. The lights of the city were dancing beyond the windows; there was laughter on the streets and music in the bars. It seemed as if Rome was finally breathing again, as if the oxygen had returned to her lungs.

  He shut the window, stretched out on the sofa, and closed his eyes, opening them only to sip the wine. It was good — for fifty euros, it ought to have been.

  When he’d finished half the glass, he took out the photocopy of the note from the Chechen and read it again. It was true that he spoke in generalities — that his claims could have been fantasy. Whatever the case, it seemed they would remain untested, unless Italian intelligence decided to put it to the CIA that they and their Israeli chums had been interfering. Scamarcio sensed that the etiquette of espionage didn’t work this way, though. It seemed more likely that the Italians would perhaps just put it on the slate to be used against the Americans at a later date. Leverage, as Federico had called it.

  Scamarcio pinched his nose — there was, though, that one very specific reference in the note: The Gelateria Harold. Why was the Chechen telling him to buy an ice cream from this particular place? It was an unusual name, so he pulled out his phone and googled it, in the hope that it might be unique. The first result was the website of an ice cream parlour in Milan. It was the only entry with that name, so he clicked on it and skimmed through the site.

  Organic milk used … fair-trade cocoa … so what, so what? … five stars on TripAdvisor … won some gourmet prize last year … opening a new store in Porta Genova soon. Maybe the Chechen just liked his ice cream? Scamarcio was about to leave the site, still baffled, when he noticed the ice cream parlour’s address: Piazza degli Affari 4, Milan. ‘What?’ he whispered. Like most Italians, he knew that Piazza Affari was synonymous with the Milan stock exchange.

  He googled the address of the exchange to be sure, and found it was located at number six. The ice cream parlour was right next door. He downed the rest of his wine and tried to focus. ‘Fuck,’ he murmured. ‘He wants me to go there. That’s the answer to Cui bono?’

  Scamarcio rose and started pacing. He thought about waiting until the next morning, but knew that, despite his exhaustion, he wouldn’t sleep with all this churning in his head. And besides, the Chechen seemed to be suggesting it was urgent. Why else would he have written ‘NOW’ in caps? Scamarcio needed to get to Milan, see if there was anything to his hunch. As he was contemplating whether or not to wake Fiammetta, his landline rang.

  ‘Have you seen my piece?’

  ‘Rigamonti! Fuck! Where have you been?’

  ‘Enjoying a nice stay courtesy of your friends at AISE — until the home secretary intervened on my behalf.’

  ‘What did they want from you?’

  ‘The obvious: Where were you? What were Ifran’s demands? I kept them occupied for a while, then for some reason they seemed to lose interest. A few hours later, a guy from Costantini’s office storms in and starts throwing his weight around. It got quite heated. If you ask me, there’s a civil war going down.’

  ‘You’ve managed to write something already?’

  ‘Go get yourself a copy of La Repubblica — they came good this time. They were interested in our Chechen ghost and have been bolder than I would have expected.’

  ‘You want a follow-up?’

  ‘They’re after an exclusive with you. That’s why I’m calling.’

  ‘I dunno, Rigamonti. This investigation is far from closed, and I’ve got my police bosses breathing down my neck.’

  ‘You just asked me if I wanted a follow-up!’

  ‘I received a letter from the Chechen a few hours ago — before he disappeared, leaving Scalisi’s body behind. The letter was strange, but informative.’

  ‘He killed Scalisi?’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s not what you should be interested in.’

  ‘It gets better?’

  ‘The Chechen seems to want to help me understand all this. He’s suggested that I should head up to Piazza Affari. It seems like there might be information there which will explain who was really behind these attacks — the people who were pulling Scalisi’s strings are not the end of the story, apparently.’

  ‘What do you mean, “pulling his strings”? He was involved?’

  Scamarcio suddenly realised how much had happened since he and Rigamonti parted.

  ‘His connection to Ifran has been confirmed. He was involved with the Chechen, too.’

  Rigamonti whistled. ‘So who does the Chechen say was behind Scalisi?’

  ‘He calls them the usual suspects — which we think could mean the CIA and Mossad — but he suggests someone else muscled in, and that they wanted these attacks to go off with a bigger bang. I think he’s telling me the trail starts at the stock exchange.’

  ‘Money?’ Rigamonti paused. ‘But why’s he helping you?’

  ‘For the same reason he didn’t wire the sites like he was supposed to. He says he doesn’t want to make a bunch of rich fuckers any richer.’

  There was a long silence. He could almost hear Rigamonti’s synapses whirring. After a few moments, Scamarcio asked, ‘You still there?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said the reporter, his voice distant. ‘I’m just thinking about how to access that kind of information. I can start with some financial reporters I know — see if they have contacts at the exchange.’

  ‘I went to university with a guy who’s now a trader. Last I heard, he was about to retire at the ripe old age of thirty-nine. I was thinking of dropping him a line.’

  ‘Yeah, do that. And I’ll try my guys …’

  ‘I don’t want to waste time. I think we should head up there now, before these people get a chance to cover their tracks — there are no trains till six, so we’ll have to drive.’

  ‘What’s your address? I’ll pick you up.’

  Scamarcio gave him the details and hung up. When he walked back into the bedroom, Fiammetta was snoring softly. Again, he decided it would be best not to wake her. He’d just write a note.

  He was about to leave t
he room when a small voice said, ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m sorry, something has come up.’

  ‘What now — after the day we’ve just had?’

  ‘I need to check it out — it might help wrap this whole thing up.’

  She fell silent. He wanted to know about the pregnancy, but he didn’t want to do it in a hurry as he was leaving. It needed to be handled right.

  ‘OK,’ she said firmly. ‘I understand.’

  There was no undertone. He knew that she meant it.

  31

  PIAZZA DEGLI AFFARI WAS already busy at 7.00 a.m., coming to life in time for the start of trading in an hour. Scamarcio and Rigamonti crossed the square, stopping for a moment to take in ‘Il Dito’ — the sculpture of a hand with its middle finger raised, by the artist Maurizio Cattelan. To Scamarcio, the huge marble ‘up yours’ seemed clearly directed at the world of high finance behind it. For the life of him he couldn’t understand why two successive mayors had left it in place. He was no great fan of twenty-first-century capitalism, but given that Milan was the economic powerhouse of the country, it seemed a tad disrespectful.

  His university friend Dino De Blasi had told them to ring from the foyer of the exchange building. When they entered the office rented by De Blasi’s financial services firm, a fat, balding man with rosy cheeks whom Scamarcio didn’t recognise waved, then gestured apologetically to the phone against his ear. Scamarcio was about to frown, then managed to freeze his expression at neutral; his old friend might have made a few million, but he had not aged well.

  A secretary motioned them to a minimalist leather sofa and assured them that De Blasi wouldn’t be long. She stared at Scamarcio with undisguised curiosity, then seemed to remember her manners and returned to her desk.

  It was another twenty minutes before De Blasi was able to extricate himself from his call.

  ‘Leo, so good to see you!’ he said, striding over to where they were sitting. Scamarcio stood up to greet De Blasi, who kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Sorry — since yesterday it’s been a whirlwind. My screen has been a sea of red. But I’m expecting a fair bit of green when we reopen. Given that little damage was done, we have to see an uptick.’ De Blasi spoke so fast it was hard to make out the individual words.

  ‘I guess people could remain jumpy for a while,’ offered Scamarcio.

  ‘There are a few interesting variables to add to the mix — nervousness about a bond rout, the Europeans moving to phase out QE, not to mention a possible German banking collapse. Sometimes, I wish I’d retired last year.’

  ‘Why didn’t you? I hear you’re pretty comfortable.’ Scamarcio smiled.

  ‘It’s the gambler’s disease. Just one more spin of the wheel, then I’ll call it a day.’

  De Blasi nodded at Rigamonti, and Scamarcio quickly introduced them.

  De Blasi shook Rigamonti’s hand, then took a seat on the sofa. ‘Sorry about the set-up — I don’t have my own office, and it’s too noisy on the desks for a decent conversation.’ He smoothed down his suit trousers. ‘Well, even though I barely came up for air yesterday, I did have time to catch you on the news, Leo.’

  Rigamonti sat back down, but Scamarcio chose to remain standing. ‘It was quite a ride.’

  ‘What the hell happened? They said that terrorist put the thumb screws on you.’

  ‘That’s about the size of it. The job gets more interesting by the day.’

  De Blasi chuckled. ‘Who’d have thought it — you, with the Flying Squad!’ Then he read something in Scamarcio’s expression and changed tack. ‘So, what can I do for you? You said it’s in connection with what happened. I’ll help in any way I can.’

  De Blasi had always had a can-do attitude. He’d never been hampered by the semi-depressed lethargy that seemed to have afflicted Scamarcio for so much of his early twenties.

  He scratched his head. ‘The thing is, Dino, I don’t actually know what I’m looking for. Someone on the inside has hinted that there were people behind these attacks who stood to benefit if they went ahead. The suggestion is that this would have been a financial benefit, perhaps something playing out on the exchange. What you probably don’t know, because it wasn’t made public, is that the terrorists told us they had a number of tourist sites wired. We thought they were going to trigger massive explosions and wipe these places off the map.’

  The trader’s cheeks lost some of their dangerously high colour. ‘Which sites?’

  ‘The Colosseum and the Vatican …’

  De Blasi’s small eyes widened.

  ‘So I guess my first question is, if these bombs had gone off, who would have benefited on the markets? The second question would be, has there been any unusual trading activity in the last few days — the days leading up to the attack?’

  De Blasi stroked his chin. ‘Well … if a number of sites around Rome were to blow — if it was perceived that Italy was in a state of emergency — you’d see free fall. Everything would tumble. Just like 9/11 in the States. The NYSE took a hit of nearly eight per cent — and that was when it reopened a whole week later. They’d kept it closed that long to avoid meltdown.’

  ‘So, nobody benefits?’

  ‘No, somebody always benefits. The system will always give you a chance to win.’

  ‘How can you win if all hell is breaking loose?’

  De Blasi kept rubbing his chin. ‘You ever hear the rumours about put options on 9/11?’

  ‘What’s a put option?’ asked Scamarcio, embarrassed by his ignorance.

  ‘It’s a device which gives the owner the right, but not the obligation, to sell an asset at a specified price by a certain date. After that date, your put option expires and you have to go with the market. Usually, when you buy a put, it’s interpreted as a negative sentiment about a stock’s future value. The most obvious use is as an insurance: you buy enough puts to cover your holdings, so if there’s a dramatic downturn you have the right to sell your stock at the price originally struck. But another use is for speculation — an investor can buy the put option on the stock without trading in it directly. That would be like a pure bet on which way the stock will go, without owning any of the stock yourself. That’s what I’d be looking for in this case.’

  ‘Why did you mention 9/11?’

  De Blasi scratched an eyebrow. Scamarcio thought he looked slightly ill at ease. ‘Just before the attacks, an extraordinary amount of put options were placed on United and American Airlines stock — the trading levels on the Chicago Exchange were abnormally high. The investors in those put options netted a five-million-dollar profit after 9/11, although their names remain undisclosed. Interestingly, the five million still sits unclaimed in the Chicago Exchange account. No other airlines saw these volumes of puts in the days before the attacks.

  ‘Likewise, insurance groups like Citigroup saw about forty-five times the normal trading volume in the three days before 9/11 — but in that case it was on options that profit if the stock falls below forty dollars. Morgan Stanley, which had twenty-two floors at the World Trade Centre, also experienced higher-than-normal pre-attack trading of options that profited when stocks fell.’ He paused for a moment and looked around to check no-one was listening. ‘There were a whole host of abnormal trades on companies who would have been both negatively and positively effected by 9/11.’

  Scamarcio pinched his nose and thought. If he’d heard this a few years ago, he would have been shocked. But his experience on the American case had shifted his outlook. ‘So, if you were considering yesterday’s events, and more importantly, the planned bombings that never came to pass, you’d be looking for these kinds of trades?’

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘But in which industries?’ pressed Rigamonti.

  ‘Well, on 9/11 it was pretty obvious that the two airlines and the insurance companies who would be paying out a fortune in claims wo
uld be the hardest hit. There was also a defence contractor whose stock surged after the attacks. In this home-grown case, it’s slightly more complicated. I’d be thinking about airlines again — Italy’s tourist trade would be badly affected by the bombings. Likewise, I’d consider hotel groups. But those industries don’t feature on the main FTSE MIB. Also, with the decline of Alitalia, the interests tend to be wrapped up in non-Italian holdings, like easyJet or Ryanair. Same goes for the hotel groups.

  ‘This means it’s a subtler thing: the reaction on stock price would be diluted. That said, Italian banks and insurance companies are on the MIB. They would take a more direct hit with more drastic moves, so they’d be my first place to look.’

  ‘And how long would it take to get this kind of information?’ asked Scamarcio. But De Blasi wasn’t listening. He was gazing into the middle distance, his mind turning on where to find the answers.

  ‘Oh,’ he said after a few moments. ‘There was something — a few days back. A colleague was complaining that someone was trying to drive Italian bank stocks down at a time when they were already on their knees. It might not have been puts, but …’

  ‘Will it take long to find out?’

  ‘I don’t trade banking, but no — if I ask the right people it should be quick.’ He was already on his feet. ‘Don’t move.’

  Scamarcio took a breath. He thought about the strange tale Dino had told. Would it not be the same here as in the US? That the names of any investors would remain undisclosed?

  ‘What do you make of it?’ asked Rigamonti.

  ‘Could be something, could be nothing.’

  Rigamonti shrugged in assent. Scamarcio checked his second mobile, which he’d been using since he returned home. Fiammetta hadn’t called. He was both relieved and disappointed, but then he reminded himself that she was probably still asleep.

  Just fifteen minutes later, De Blasi was back, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It’s weird.’

  Scamarcio got up, keen to stretch.

  ‘We’ve found the puts — there are a hell of a lot of them — way more than normal. The problem is, they’re in the wrong place.’