Kill the Angel

by Sandrone Dazieri

  “Go on in. I’ll be right there,” said Curcio.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Curcio walked over to Colomba and Dante, and Dante raised his hand to his forehead in an attempt at a salute. “O Captain! my Captain!” he said. With his puffy lip and the blood on his head, he looked like something out of a zombie version of Dead Poets Society.

  Curcio flashed him a tight smile. “Good evening, Signor Torre. We haven’t seen each other in quite some time. You should have a doctor look at you.”

  “I have a fear of needles.”

  Colomba had leaped to her feet. “Sir . . .”

  Curcio shook hands with her. “Colomba. We’re going to be sailing into a real shit storm, so I expect the utmost cooperation from you. How did you get here?”

  “My men called me after chasing down leads independently while I was at the Islamic center.”

  “Forgive me, but your men can’t even go to the bathroom independently.”

  Dante broke in. “It was me,” he said. “I’d done some research into the young man who was killed at the mosque after I learned that Colomba was involved. The officers decided to make sure I wasn’t making it all up.”

  Curcio looked at Colomba with the expression of someone who couldn’t believe his own ears; she threw both arms wide, concealing her embarrassment. “Like he said.”

  “I understand.” Curcio wondered whether that hastily cobbled-together story could hope to hold together. He hoped so, for Colomba’s sake. “I want a complete report,” he said. “And I want you to remember that from now on, you’re on administrative suspension. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Wait for the magistrate here. You, too, Signor Torre, and repeat exactly what you told me. If possible, with a few extra details. I hope I’ve made myself clear.”

  “Thanks,” said Colomba, understanding the unspoken message.

  Curcio went over to Santini, then together, the two men joined the chief of the Forensic Squad at the center of a small crowd of NOA agents. To Colomba’s disappointment, the likable agent wasn’t there. “I warned you to get the hell out of here. Now you’re going to have to wait for the whole bureaucratic process to unfold,” she told Dante once they were alone.

  “I have no intention of waiting for anyone. As soon as your boss has forgotten about us, you and I are going to sneak out the back door.”

  “Dante, I know that I was the one who got you involved, but you’re making it hard for me to keep from losing my temper with you.”

  “I want to find Musta. Your partners . . .” said Dante, pointing at the uniforms swarming in and out of the building. “They couldn’t find their own assholes with a map. At least not in any reasonable time frame.”

  “We’ve already talked about that, Dante.”

  “I know, but you haven’t convinced me. Except for one thing, CC: that you’re afraid of the answers.”

  “What bullshit,” she huffed.

  “It’s not bullshit. You’ve based your whole life on a clear vision of the world. Over here are the bad guys, over there, the good guys. Sure, there are a few bad apples in with the good ones, a few incompetents, but in the end, all of them are working for the common good. There are no mysteries, gray areas, shadows . . .”

  “Conspiracies . . .” she mocked him, but felt a chill grow inside her.

  “Performances, CC. We’re in the midst of a vast play of which we are not the directors. It’s up to us to dig down to find the reality under the pretense. How many half-truths and outright lies have you seen in your career? How many times have you found out that one of your superiors had interests other than simple justice? That he was lying, and that everyone was fine with it?”

  Too many times, thought Colomba. But she didn’t say so. She didn’t want to pour any more gasoline on Dante’s apocalyptic vision. “I’m starting to get a headache, cut it out.” It was true, Colomba could feel her temples throb. How many hours had she been awake? She couldn’t remember anymore. “Even if I wanted to track down Musta with you, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “I would.”

  “And just where would that be?”

  “I’ll only explain it to you if you come with me now, before they try to stop us. Otherwise I’ll go without you.”

  Colomba stood up. “I swear, if they arrest me for this, I’ll make you pay. Wait for me here,” she said, and walked over to Alberti, standing on the street keeping an eye on the crowd along with the officers from the serious crime squads, and waved for him to follow her around the corner. “I need your handgun,” she said to him once they were out of view.

  Alberti blushed. “Deputy Chief, you know I can’t do that.”

  “You can tell them that I asked to see it on some excuse or another, like I wanted to see if it had been properly cleaned, and then I just kept it. But you’ll only have to say anything if I have to use it, and I hope I won’t. Otherwise I’ll just give it back to you, and no one will be any wiser.” Colomba failed to add that she didn’t believe that in the slightest.

  “What if they ask me why I didn’t stop you?”

  “Because I’m your superior officer.” She laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll take all the blame, you won’t get in trouble, I promise.”

  “Can I ask you what you’re planning to do?”

  “No, you can’t.”

  Alberti knew that if it hadn’t been for Colomba, he’d never have made it on the Mobile Squad at all, so the choice was an easy one. He unclipped his weapon from his belt and handed it to her. “Be careful.”

  Colomba checked the clip and the safety, then slipped it into the holster. “Thanks.” Then she gestured to Dante, and they made their way around an untended field until they reached the skeletons of the Dinosaurs. Here Colomba’s cell phone started vibrating, with Esposito’s number on the screen. She turned the phone off.

  “Are they looking for us?” asked Dante.

  “Of course they are. Remove your battery,” she said, doing so herself. “I don’t want them to be able to track us.”

  He showed her his iPhone. “I’m afraid you can’t do that with one of these.” He pulled out the SIM card and broke the phone by kicking it with the steel toes of his shoes. “I’m starting to spend too much money on this job.” He tossed the phone carcass into a trash can by the side of the road.

  “If you hadn’t insisted, you’d have been done with it long ago,” said Colomba.

  A couple of squad cars whipped past them. Dante and Colomba turned their faces away, pretending to be deep in conversation, and kept walking down the road, which was lined with old public housing and abandoned factories.

  “All right, then, how do you think we can find Faouzi?” asked Colomba.

  “Santiago hacked Youssef’s PC and made a copy of all the data on it. The Forensic Squad is doing the same thing, so let’s see which of them comes up with the right answer first.”

  “You have no proof that there’s anything useful on the hard drive,” mused Colomba.

  “Trust me, there is.”

  “Why?”

  Dante lit a cigarette from the half pack he’d cadged off Guarneri. “We need to find a place to get some tobacco.”

  “Answer me.”

  Dante waved his cigarette like a conductor’s wand. “Whoever put this thing together planned it down to the smallest details. They made sure they eliminated witnesses and stitched up every hole in the story. The video claiming responsibility, the barrels, the money at Musta’s apartment . . .”

  “I follow you this far. If you’re right.”

  “After seeing the corpse, I’m sure I’m right,” said Dante. “Any move those two make is going to have to be clear without leaving any room for theories except excessively fanciful ones. That means there’s an explanation somewhere for what Musta Faouzi is about to do now, and a PC is something that can easily be manipulated, as you’ve seen.”

  “Even if you’ve ruled him out, Musta remains a possible culp
rit. The Forensic Squad found his fingerprints.” Colomba had managed to get the purloined glove back where it belonged just seconds before the squad cars surrounded the shop.

  “If he’d left of his own will, he’d have warned his brother to look out for unwanted visitors. It’s clear that they care about each other.”

  “And how do you know he didn’t?”

  “Because your men have his cell phone, and it hasn’t rung,” said Dante. “But if Youssef’s murderer just wanted to kill him, he would have left the body there. Carrying a kidnapped person away with you is a risky venture.”

  “If you’re right, there’s only one possible reason why he did it,” said Colomba. “Youssef is still useful to him.”

  12

  Musta grabbed the seat belt with both hands as the Hummer accelerated through a green light. The car managed to scoot through just a split second before the red, and the woman with the rubber face turned onto the beltway. Calmly, the way she did everything. It seemed as if nothing could undercut her cool. She’d put on an obviously counterfeit New York Yankees baseball cap and a pair of mirrored sunglasses. From outside, it would be impossible to tell that she was wearing a mask.

  Musta felt nauseated and was sweating. “Why?” he asked, unable to speak properly.

  The woman gave him the side-eye, and Musta averted his gaze immediately. “Why what?”

  “Why are you doing . . . what you’re doing.” Musta couldn’t think of a better way to say it. “If you’re not from ISIS, then why are you killing people?”

  “Because I have to.”

  “What do you mean, you have to? No one’s making you. You can stop everything whenever you want.”

  “Do you seriously think your fate is in your own hands? It isn’t. Neither is mine.”

  “You’re saying some strange things.”

  “I’m not good at talking. And I’ve already talked too much.”

  They rode in silence for another handful of minutes. Musta felt worse and worse. He felt like puking, but when he opened his mouth, instead of vomit, out came a hysterical, high-pitched laugh that soon changed into a weird guffaw. He bent forward as he laughed, unable to stop. The woman with the mask didn’t even seem to notice.

  The Hummer’s engine revved down, and they pulled over on the side of a semi-deserted road. In the distance were the outlines of industrial buildings.

  “We’re here,” said the woman. Then she unlocked the doors and got out. From outside came the smell of distant rain and wind. Musta, whose fit of hysterical laughter had ceased, thought of trying to run, but he considered it a remote and implausible eventuality. He felt weak, detached, and indifferent to whatever was about to happen. He climbed down onto the cracked asphalt and joined the woman behind the luggage compartment in the back of the car. A semi roared past, shaking the ground and kicking up whirlwinds of dust.

  “That’s the building,” the woman said, pointing all the way down the road. “I can’t get any closer.” Then she opened the back of the vehicle. “Here’s everything you’re going to need.”

  Musta saw what the back of the Hummer contained, and the unnatural calm that enveloped him was ruffled for a brief instant. “I can’t do it,” he said.

  The woman took off her dark glasses and lifted his face with her fingertips, forcing him to look her in the eyes. They looked like they were made of glass, like the eyes of a stuffed animal. “You will perform your task. Exactly as I instructed you.”

  “I don’t feel good. God, I feel as if I’m about to faint,” said Musta. The world spun around him in a whirling vortex.

  “Sssshh,” she said, continuing to stare at him. “It will be over soon.”

  Musta seized on to those eyes, and at that moment everything changed. Her voice echoed in his head with the force of an old-fashioned church organ, hundreds of brass pipes vibrating. Musta, too, began to vibrate, in tune with the universe. He understood that he and the masked woman were bound together for all eternity. That what he was going to do was inevitable and beautiful. Nothing was really important, it was all just a shadow destined to pass without leaving a trace, painlessly. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the rest of the world calls a butterfly. It was a phrase he’d read somewhere, attributed to some Chinese philosopher, and it seemed perfectly appropriate. His fear vanished completely, and Musta felt strangely euphoric, as if he had just shed a burden that he’d been dragging behind him his whole life.

  “You’re about to be reborn,” the woman told him.

  Musta nodded energetically. He couldn’t wait. “Thank you, thank you,” he said with tears of gratitude in his eyes. “Can I know who you are?”

  The woman helped him to get into the equipment, then she leaned over him and spoke gently into his ear. He had behaved well, and now he deserved a reward.

  She told him her name.

  13

  Santiago joined Colomba and Dante at the Chinese bar where they’d taken shelter. He honked his horn, and everyone there turned to stare at the young man, tattooed on neck and hands, driving a carrot-orange BMW 330d with whitewall tires. He was with a very skinny young woman wearing leggings and dreadlocks that hung to her shoulders. Her name was Luna, and she was a prostitute who’d only recently ceased to be a minor.

  Santiago and Luna hugged Dante and kissed him on both cheeks, then sat down with them and ordered a beer for Santiago and a glass of spumante for the girl. “This is your treat, of course,” Santiago told Dante. He was a good-looking young man with cinnamon-colored skin and a strangely dignified demeanor that contrasted sharply with the truculent symbolism on his tattoos and his jacket. His shoes were golden. “How you doing, CC?”

  “That’s not my name,” she said, keeping her eyes glued to the television set.

  “Not according to my amigo.”

  “He can use it. You can’t. Okay?”

  “What has she got against me?” Santiago asked Dante.

  “Don’t worry. She’s been suspended, and she can’t legally arrest you.”

  “What did she do wrong?” asked Luna, opening her mouth for the first time. She had a small, faint voice.

  Colomba slammed down the cappuccino cup on the table. “Mind your own business. Did you bring everything, Santiago?”

  Santiago held out a hundred-euro bill to Luna. “Go play some video poker.”

  She wrinkled her pert little nose in distaste. “I don’t want to.”

  “All right, then, don’t play, just watch and don’t do anything else, ¿comprendes?” said Santiago in a harsh tone. The girl hastened to grab the cash and vanish.

  Colomba stared at Santiago with a ferocious glare, her eyes a dark green. “Do you beat her?”

  He laughed. “Day and night. Unless there’s someone paying her.” Colomba went on staring at him. Santiago stopped laughing. “I’ve never hit her. Never.”

  “Good. You’d better not.”

  Santiago put his bag on the table and pulled out a laptop that looked to be held together with spit and duct tape. A junker that he’d be able to abandon with a light heart if necessary. “I don’t even know why I came here just so you can treat me like shit. After last time, I ought to steer well clear of you.”

  “Well, as long as you’re here, shut the hell up,” said Colomba.

  Santiago pointed at her but spoke to Dante. “What did I tell you? She thinks I’m her slave. Anyway, I took a tour through the hard drive. I found pictures of suicide bombers taken off the Internet and maps of the train stations in Rome and Milan.”

  “Anything else?” asked Dante.

  Santiago typed in a password that seemed to never end, and the screensaver with the tiger made way for a list of documents. “More pictures of trains. Links to jihadist sites. Instructions for homemade bombs. The usual terrorist stuff, so much per pound.”

  “He didn’t delete the history?” asked Dante.

  “No. And he didn’t use a VPN or anything else to anonymize the connection. Very stupid.”
/>   “Or very clever. What else?”

  Santiago snickered. “Some nice footage of you smashing through the plate-glass window. The webcam was still on. Do you want to see it?”

  “Maybe later.”

  “And two emails in Arabic.”

  “Youssef didn’t speak Arabic,” said Dante.

  “Then he learned how, hermano, because they’re in his mailbox. I think they have something to do with a trip to Libya last year. But I’m not sure, you can just imagine the automatic translation.”

  “Can you figure out if the emails are authentic or if somebody stuck them in later?” Colomba asked.

  “You’d have to get to the server that sent the emails, and hope that the logs are still there, but after almost a year . . .” He shrugged.

  “Any other searches, aside from the ones concerning trains?” asked Colomba.

  “Just one.” Santiago brought up a map of a neighborhood in Rome. “Tiburtina Valley.”

  “Which is what?” asked Dante.

  Colomba looked at him in astonishment. “It’s a neighborhood east of town. I don’t know how many tech companies and factories are out there. How can you not know about it?”

  “I’m not a taxi driver,” said Dante. “Did he check any streets in particular?”

  “No,” Santiago replied.

  “All right, then, I think we ought to go take a look around the area.”

  “What do you think Musta wanted to do in Tiburtina Valley?” asked Colomba.

  “He didn’t want to do anything, but the person who took him might be planning another terror attack. If you want, you could alert the task force instead of us going on our own. I’ll bet in a couple of weeks they’d believe you.”

  Colomba heaved a sigh and got up. “We’re going to need your car,” she said to Santiago.

  14

  Colomba was driving, gripping the wheel so tightly that her knuckles were practically white, almost identical to Dante’s on the door handle. “Everything all right, CC?” Dante asked when they stopped at a traffic light and he was able to open his eyes again. His forehead was beaded with sweat.