The Extremist

by Nadia Dalbuono

  ‘Let’s get you away from this madness,’ Masi said crisply. To Scamarcio, it seemed as if the madness had yet to begin.

  He figured they’d head back to the van and the negotiators, but instead Masi led him to a waiting Mercedes. He held open the back door. For a second, Scamarcio thought about protesting — perhaps doing a runner — but the world’s media was watching, so he climbed in, compliant, already sensing that he was about to be led a dance. As he sank back against the cool leather, momentarily grateful for the respite, he noticed Colonel Andrea Scalisi, head of AISE, in the front passenger seat. Scamarcio no longer felt able to relax.

  There’d been no time to decide how much to say, but just the sight of Scalisi stilled his tongue. His encounters with him on the American case had led Scamarcio to believe that he was the go-to guy for dirty men with nasty secrets, and he reminded himself that whatever Scalisi said, he’d need to think long and hard before revealing the truth about his conversation with Ifran.

  ‘Why aren’t the police here to meet me?’ Scamarcio asked. ‘Surely this is a matter for them and the negotiators.’

  ‘That depends on what our little friend had to say,’ said Scalisi, scratching at the corner of his narrow mouth.

  ‘Not much, as it happens,’ said Scamarcio, looking out at the hordes of media trying to steal an image of him as the Mercedes sped away.

  ‘Detective, you’ll understand that AISE can’t be perceived to be playing catch-up. We need anything you can give us on these men so we can start pinning down identities and drawing up backgrounds. There could be others. And if so, we need to find them fast.’

  Scamarcio thought of what Ifran had said: None of you understand what you’re dealing with. Wouldn’t it be a serious dereliction of duty not to share this? Shouldn’t he let Scalisi know that there probably were others — that they could be looking at mass casualties? But the boy’s warning was still ringing in his ears. And then there was the core problem: he simply didn’t trust Scalisi.

  ‘How can you hope not to be seen to be playing catch-up? There are three groups of terrorists holding hostages in three different locations, children among them. The public is asking how you didn’t know — why didn’t you have these guys in your sights?’

  ‘Who’s saying we didn’t …?’

  ‘But …’

  ‘But nothing. We fucked up. We took our eyes off the ball, and now we need to get back in the game. Talk, Scamarcio — I’m running out of patience. Mancino and I go back a long way, and I know he’s still watching you.’

  Scamarcio had formed the impression that Chief of Police Mancino detested the colonel, but he let the comment hang. He was too thrown by Scalisi’s uncharacteristic display of humility.

  ‘The boy didn’t tell me his full name. He’s young. I’d say no more than early twenties.’

  ‘We know his name,’ muttered Scalisi, frustrated.

  ‘He mentioned Vincenzo Guerra several times — said he was his mentor.’

  ‘Cut the crap. Tell me something useful.’

  ‘He’s not wearing a suicide vest; I don’t think the others are, either.’

  Scalisi just grunted.

  ‘He seemed to want reassurance.’

  ‘Reassurance?’

  ‘That when it all goes to the wall, he’ll be OK.’

  ‘He’s a fucking terrorist, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘I’m just telling you what he said. I got the impression he’d been forced into this — that he wasn’t too happy to be there. I dunno, maybe you could lean on him for info. He didn’t offer that, but …’

  ‘What about the other men with him?’

  ‘There were four.’

  Scalisi shook his head quickly, like he didn’t want to waste time on trifling details. ‘How did they respond to you being there?’

  ‘My guy seemed to be the boss. They didn’t say much.’

  Scalisi frowned as if he wasn’t happy to hear this.

  ‘So what did you tell him?’

  ‘Well, the negotiators said not to promise him anything, so I didn’t.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘So, what now?’

  ‘You’re coming with us to HQ. I need you where I can see you. I don’t like any of this. I don’t like you, and I don’t like Vincenzo Guerra, and I don’t like the two of you being in the middle of this shitstorm.’

  ‘What the fuck? You don’t have the right to detain me. It’s a free country.’

  ‘Not at the moment, it isn’t.’

  Masi left him alone with a cup of decent coffee in a small room two doors down from Scalisi’s office. Scamarcio had wanted to call Garramone and Fiammetta, but Masi had seized his cell phone. Scamarcio worried about being out of contact. Things with Fiammetta were good: solid. Finally he’d found someone who was interesting and challenging, as well as being unafraid of who he was. He couldn’t allow today’s events to compromise that.

  He thought about summoning his lawyer to remind Scalisi and his goons of his basic human rights, but he knew there wasn’t time. He needed out of there quickly; he needed to find a way to read the scrap of paper in his pocket and locate an exit. Given that he was sitting in the headquarters of the country’s foreign intelligence service, pulling out the note now and reading it seemed like a bad idea. The hidden cameras watching me are probably sending a feed back to Scalisi’s computer in real time, the sick freak, thought Scamarcio.

  It occurred to him that all this might be used as a way to get back at him after his clash with Scalisi and his powerful friends on the American case. He spent a long moment thinking about those friends, and then wondered about the strange call Ifran claimed to have answered. Scamarcio reflected on why AISE had collected him from outside the bar. Strictly speaking, this was an internal security matter. AISE were the external agency dealing in foreign intelligence. It was almost as if Scalisi had been wheeled in because he’d dealt with Scamarcio in the past — because he was familiar with the troublesome detective.

  ‘Masi!’ Scamarcio shouted. He waited, but there was no response. ‘Hey, Masi!’ Scamarcio waved at a corner of the wall, certain that he was looking into a concealed camera.

  Within seconds, Masi was back in the room.

  ‘I need to use the bathroom.’

  Masi seemed wrong-footed.

  ‘Or don’t I have the right to do that anymore?’

  Masi rolled his eyes. ‘No need for drama. It’s left down the hallway, just before the swing doors. Don’t be long. Chief Scalisi and some others are coming in for a debrief — they want the spit-and-cough.’ He threw Scamarcio a concerned look, then left. It seemed that no-one had time for chitchat today.

  Scamarcio waited a minute, and then got up and walked down the corridor, the sound of numerous TV sets, all tuned to the same channel, following him as he went. He half-heartedly tried the swing doors, but, as expected, they required a swipe card to exit. He located the bathroom and quickly chose a cubicle, impressed by the cleanliness of the place. Flying Squad HQ might take note. He sat down and pulled the scrap of paper from his pocket, hunching over so that his hands were obscured from above. Before he opened the note, he looked up at the ceiling. He couldn’t spot any cameras, but knew this didn’t mean much.

  He unfolded the paper. On it were five words scrawled in blue biro: Villa Morena, Via Roma, Ostia.

  He pushed the note back in his pocket, rose from the toilet, pulled the chain, and exited the stall. He noticed that there was just one window in the wall to his right, but it was very high and very narrow. There would be no way to reach it from the ground. He wondered about the wisdom of putting a window all the way up there — what was the point?

  While he was standing there, staring, there was a noise, and he turned to see a small Asian man wheeling in a cart of bathroom supplies. The cart was deep and high, and had a kind of short curtai
n in blue check running around the sides. Scamarcio looked at the man, then at the cart again, and knew that this might be his one opportunity. He patted his trouser pocket for his wallet. Fortunately, Masi hadn’t taken it when he confiscated his phone. He flipped through the notes and counted two hundred and twenty euros in cash. He’d been to the ATM on his way into work that morning — he seemed to be burning through money lately, but that was what happened when your life was full. He pulled out two fifty-euro notes and showed them to the cleaner, expecting to be frogmarched back to Masi for even trying.

  ‘This is yours if you get me out of the building,’ Scamarcio said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. There was no way this stern-faced guy was going to cooperate — no doubt he’d been trained for this very eventuality. But the man surprised him by nodding calmly, as if this wasn’t the first time he’d acceded to such a request. Scamarcio handed over the cash, and the man pocketed it quickly. Scamarcio studied the cart. He figured that, bunched up, he could perhaps get inside, but that the guy would need to drape a towel or something over the top to hide him. ‘You’ll have to cover my legs. The curtain won’t be enough,’ he said.

  Wordlessly, the man started removing the supplies and stacking them against the wall as if it was all part of the service. Scamarcio helped him. When the space under the cart was empty, Scamarcio scrambled inside, worried that Scalisi or Masi would storm in at any moment. There was even less room than Scamarcio had imagined, and his back was already hurting from the awkward angle.

  He saw some kind of striped material descend, then, within seconds, the cart was in motion. Scamarcio felt himself being wheeled down the long corridor, and then heard a button being pressed and the singsong bleep of a swipe card being accepted by the reader. The trolley lurched forward, and there was a suck of rubber as doors sealed shut behind them.

  After a brief pause and another bleep, he felt the ground below him drop — they were in an elevator. Then he heard the suction sound of the doors opening again, and they started moving more rapidly, the wheels click-clicking beneath him. The trolley suddenly swung right, and they rolled up some kind of ramp and came to an abrupt stop. Scamarcio’s back scraped painfully against the top of the cart. A hand reached under the curtain and grabbed him, and soon he was scrambling to his feet.

  They were in a janitor’s room. He took in shelves lined with cleaning fluids, and a row of brooms and long dusters hanging from the wall. The cleaner was pointing to the right. Scamarcio followed his gaze and saw another window, this one standing open. The layout was the same as in the bathroom.

  ‘You need to get up there,’ said the guy, in a thick accent. ‘Is only way. You lower down now — fall won’t kill you.’

  The guy pointed to a small ladder resting against the wall. It didn’t look anywhere near high enough to reach the window. ‘Use that.’

  Scamarcio took the ladder and pushed it into place, while the cleaner stood watch at the doorway. Even at the top of the ladder, Scamarcio was still about a metre beneath the opening. He was glad he’d decided to return to the gym — a few months back he wouldn’t have had the strength to lift himself. He reached out above his head for the window ledge, took a breath, and then heaved himself up and through in one movement. There was no space to swing around, so he just let himself fall, catching only the quickest of glimpses as the concrete rushed towards him. He landed hard, and for a moment he lay quite still, his legs bent, fearing that he’d broken something. He felt no pain, but wondered if that was necessarily a good thing.

  He rose and looked around. He was at the back of the building. Several white-and-yellow recycling bins lined the wall, along with some disused gas canisters. He scanned the area and spotted a small alleyway running to the right of the building, away from the main drag. This was good, he figured. It wouldn’t make sense to use the major roads, which were covered by CCTV. He hadn’t yet decided exactly what he was going to do, but the one thing he was sure of was that he wanted to get away from Scalisi as fast as possible — he wanted to exercise his human rights.

  As he made his way down the alley, he thought of all the hostages who were injured at the McDonald’s, of the people who lay huddled in the bar, and of the children at the nursery. What were his options? Should he go back to Garramone and seek advice? Or should he take Ifran’s words at face-value and do what had been asked? Could he really live with deaths on his conscience? Even if he was just dealing with hypotheticals, could he just sit idly by? He didn’t want to heed it, didn’t even want to acknowledge it, but his instincts were telling him to listen to the boy — that if there was any real chance of helping these hostages, he would need to work with Ifran somehow.

  Scamarcio pulled out the scrap of paper and read it again. The question was, how was he going to get to Ostia without a car and without being spotted? He turned left into an alley, which ran behind a large Fascist-era building that looked like another government institution. There was a man standing beside a Vespa some twenty metres ahead. His helmet was in his hands; he was fiddling with the strap, getting ready to leave. Without even thinking, Scamarcio shouted, ‘Hey, you!’

  The man turned, helmet aloft.

  Scamarcio ran towards him, pulling out his badge, but making sure that his thumb obscured his name. The man stowed the helmet under his arm and leaned in to study the ID.

  ‘I’ve got an emergency. I need to borrow your bike.’

  ‘No way.’ He was a big guy, heavy-set, and Scamarcio wasn’t too sure of his chances in a fight.

  ‘I promise that it will be returned in full working order, and that you’ll be paid for the trouble.’

  ‘Do I look like I was born yesterday?’

  Scamarcio decided that he didn’t, so, on impulse, he kneed him in the groin. He watched, almost shocked, as the guy dropped what he was holding, toppled to the ground, and writhed around, his hands clawing at his crotch. Scamarcio grabbed the helmet and keys from where they’d fallen by his feet.

  He jumped on the bike, shouting ‘Sorry!’ as he sped away. He glanced over his shoulder, but the man was still prone and didn’t seem to hear.

  Scamarcio knew that he was in the northwest of the city, and that to reach Ostia he’d need to travel south. The centre was probably in lockdown, and there might be blockades in place on the ring roads, so he decided to take the smaller streets and just hope that there would be enough road signs to direct him. The west of the city was not an area he knew well, so he was winging it. At least the helmet would prevent him from being picked up by CCTV for a while.

  His mind stuck on Fiammetta again. There was no doubt she’d have seen him on TV by now, and would be going crazy. He thought back to their conversation before he’d left for the day. She’d seemed preoccupied, and when he’d asked her what was wrong, she’d just smiled and said she had a surprise, but that she’d tell him what it was at dinner. There was something about that smile that had bothered him; it had seemed half-hearted, strained. Now, he wasn’t even sure if he’d make it home, and there was no way of letting her know. Aside from the immediate issue of having no phone, there was a second problem: he knew that once Scalisi realised he’d done a runner, he’d place a tap on his landline and, most probably, Fiammetta’s mobile. Any communication would be impossible. Scamarcio sighed and tried not to let the worry distract him. Fiammetta was tough — she’d find a way to handle all this.

  He returned his focus to the muddled streets. Here in the west of the city, it was almost as if life was attempting to carry on as normal. He saw pensioners wheeling shopping trolleys, mothers pushing small children in carriers, elegant society ladies towing coiffured pooches. But the illusion was soon shattered when, through the windows of bars and cafés, he noticed small crowds huddled around televisions, heads all turned in the same direction. He passed a petrol station forecourt that was full of motorists, all their radios tuned to the same station.

  After a few m
inutes, Scamarcio spotted the first sign for Ostia and merged to join the dual carriageway. He wondered about the villa. Would there be anyone home? If so, how the hell was he going to dig up their garden? And what the fuck did he think he was doing anyway?

  He soon realised that he hadn’t dressed for a forty-minute ride at maximum speed. Even though it was a hot day, by the time he left the dual carriageway and entered the outskirts of Ostia, there was a chill on his skin. The sea breezes didn’t help. He stopped at the side of the road to take stock and let the sun warm his back.

  Ahead of him, he noticed a sign with a tourist map embedded in plastic. He left the bike and ran his finger down the index. Via Roma was just below where someone had stuck a piece of used bubblegum. He was surprised to see that it ran directly opposite the seafront. He knew that street — there were some art deco masterpieces across from the beach, and he wondered if Villa Morena would be one of them. Why did the boy choose such an exposed spot? he wondered. He hoped the place was set back behind a high wall. Anything else would make his task too difficult.

  He got back on the bike and made his way towards the seafront, navigating against the crisp swatch of blue ahead. Ostia could never be described as beautiful: the soulless modern apartment blocks lining the approach to the beach looked as if they’d been plucked straight from a Milan suburb; the fascist functionality of the place robbed it of all charm.

  Scamarcio swung the Vespa onto Via Roma and made his way along the seafront, looking for a point where the bland apartment blocks gave way to more elegant villas. After a minute, he spotted the first — an ornate pink affair with pastel green shutters and dense bougainvillea. He checked the plaque for the house number, and after just thirty seconds found himself outside Villa Morena.

  The high stone walls didn’t allow much of a view of the residence beyond, and he hoped the back garden would be equally protected. He dismounted and, out of habit, checked the street. The question was whether to walk right up and ring the bell or whether to try a subtler approach. A lot of these villas lay empty in the winter, but, given it was now the middle of summer, the chances of someone being home were high. He needed to come up with a legitimate reason for being here. He’d have to talk to the owner and convince them to let him in — it was the only way to gain access without a drama unfolding.