The Extremist

by Nadia Dalbuono

  Scamarcio pushed the boy out of the way and pumped the gas. He heard him fall hard to the ground, but didn’t care.

  5

  ‘MOST PEOPLE GO THEIR whole lives without making any kind of difference,’ Kadeem used to say. ‘They’re just parasites, consuming resources and polluting the planet.’

  ‘We’re no better.’

  ‘No. We’ll be among the very few who actually do something.’

  ‘Thousands go on marches, wave banners. It never changes anything.’

  ‘Ifran — I’m not talking about marches, I’m not talking about banners. I’m sick of fucking banners. We need to do something — something meaningful. We need to teach them a lesson that they’ll never forget — for all the shit, all the suffering.’

  I don’t remember what I said at that point, but I do remember that I felt afraid. But at exactly the same moment I felt afraid, I also felt excited. It was the same excitement I used to feel as a kid when I freewheeled down the hill with my eyes closed, not knowing whether a car would be coming round the bend.

  Scamarcio took the coast road south, wondering about his chances of finding a place where he could watch the DVD unnoticed. He’d toyed with the idea of heading back inland, but the problem with that option was that the police might now be monitoring the main roads leading into Rome. He’d probably need to keep well clear of the city until it was time to hand over the DVD. He had a vague memory of some kind of national park south-east of Ostia with a lot of woodland where he’d once taken a girl for a weekend hike. If he could find it, it might be a place to sit things out until he understood what he was dealing with.

  He reached the outskirts of Ostia, then drove on for a few kilometres, worried that he may have already missed the turn-off for the reserve. As he passed through one small village after another, he was struck again by the emptiness of the streets. The same scene was playing out time and again: in a bar on the right, he saw a cluster of customers huddled around the wide-screen TV as if Roma were hammering Juventus. In the next bar along, it was the same story. The entire country, it seemed, had ground to a halt. The more time went by, he realised, the greater his chance of being recognised. He wondered whether he should turn his thinking on its head: whether it made more sense to head back early. But his instincts kept drawing him to the woods; something was telling him to stay well away from Rome.

  He left the village and its dusty streets, and continued along the coast, figuring that he should spot the park soon enough. As he indicated to overtake an Apecar, his attention was drawn to a chink of light blinking from inside the laptop bag. He gave a start — that was what he’d meant to ask the boy. They hadn’t checked the battery power. He could have kicked himself; it might yet prove a serious mistake.

  Up ahead on the left, he spotted a trio of parked coaches, and as he drew closer, he noticed a wide gravel area with a large black-and-white sign announcing the nature reserve of Castelporziano. Walking into this public place was not without its risks. He slowed and pulled into the motorbike parking area, where he dismounted and removed his helmet. He lowered his head and strode towards the gates. A few metres beyond them, he spied a souvenir kiosk selling baseball caps, postcards, and all the usual tat. He walked over and pulled out his wallet.

  The cap was a rip-off at fifteen euros, but right now it seemed like a necessity. He chose a blue one with the Italian flag on it; it might prove useful should his patriotism be called into question. Unfortunately, he’d left his sunglasses in the squad room, but he couldn’t spot any for sale here. Wordlessly, he handed over his cash to the bored girl behind the counter, then he turned and quickly walked away, ripping out the label as he went.

  Up ahead were a few picnic tables and several tourists enjoying their morning coffee and brioche. He made for a spot well back from the path, pulled out the laptop, and checked his watch. It was 11.45 already. He had to fight the temptation to look around and check whether he was being observed, knowing it would only make him conspicuous.

  The ancient computer seemed to take an age to boot up, and when the home screen finally appeared, his heart sank. The battery was almost dead — there was less than five per cent remaining. He wondered how long the DVD was, and how much time he would need to make sense of it. He could just watch it now to check, but he didn’t know what the disc contained, and he couldn’t risk the images drawing attention.

  He rose from the table and made his way back to the souvenir kiosk. The girl was now nibbling on a manicured nail as she flicked through a celebrity magazine. Scamarcio spotted a series of paparazzi shots of Alessia Marcuzzi on a beach in Formentera with her new husband.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he coughed.

  ‘Yes?’ The girl huffed as she set down the magazine. He noticed the bee-stung lips and huge brown eyes, which had escaped him the first time around.

  ‘I was wondering if I could ask a favour? I’ve got a work emergency and need somewhere to plug in my laptop.’ He realised that on its own it sounded lame. ‘My boss is making my life a misery. If I gave you twenty euros would you charge it for me?’ He hoped he looked sufficiently desperate. He certainly felt it.

  She hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘We really shouldn’t …’

  ‘I’m begging you. My job’s on the line. I’ll throw in a beer.’

  She smiled, and he noticed her strong cheekbones.

  ‘Well, maybe this time I can make an exception.’ She pointed under his arm. ‘You got the cable?’

  He nodded and handed it all over.

  ‘Where will you be? So I can tell you when it’s ready.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ll just come back in half an hour.’

  As he was about to leave, she said, ‘You must think I’m an idiot.’

  He froze. He’d been crazy to even try this.

  ‘Sorry?’ He turned slowly, trying to keep his tone casual.

  ‘You said you’d give me twenty euros.’

  He remembered to breathe again. ‘Oh, sorry — I forgot.’

  She frowned, but it was quickly followed by a playful grin.

  He handed over the cash. But as she went to take it, she seemed to think again, and said, ‘No, you keep it. If you’re about to lose your job, you’ll be needing it.’ There was something in her tone that suggested she didn’t quite buy the sob story.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, re-pocketing the money. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Don’t forget to bring that beer.’

  He smiled, feeling increasingly nervous about the amount of time he’d spent talking to this girl.

  He didn’t want to sit it out at the picnic tables, so he decided to head into the park a little way. He spent a few minutes at the entrance, studying the maps on the information board. They confirmed what he vaguely remembered: there were a couple of main roads running through the centre of the reserve. He would need to do his best to avoid them. At the centre of the park’s woodland stood the Porziano Castle and its estate, and again he decided that it would be best to steer clear. He’d opt for some woodland not too far from where he’d left the Vespa, but not too close to the tourists.

  A quick scan of the information box next to the map revealed a new problem: only pre-booked tour groups could enter. He looked around and spotted a guy in a small booth stamping tickets — Scamarcio knew he wouldn’t be able to just wing it. His stomach began to growl, so he headed for the café beyond the picnic tables and bought two brioche and a cappuccino. He downed the coffee and stepped back outside to think while he ate. To the right of the map, there was now a party of around twenty tourists and their female guide, getting ready to enter the park. Scamarcio realised that this would have been a good tour to join had he not been waiting for the laptop. He headed towards them, wondering if he had time to grab the computer and tag on to their group.

  ‘You’ve got ten minutes for a toilet and snac
k break, and then we’ll be starting,’ said the guide in English. There was some murmuring before a few of them broke away and headed towards the café.

  Scamarcio swung around in the direction of the souvenir kiosk. It was already late in the morning, and there might not be another group where he could blend in so easily. The Japanese party standing off to his left wouldn’t work. He’d retrieve the laptop now, and just chance it.

  He hurried towards the kiosk, anxious and impatient, but when he was just ten metres away, he froze.

  The girl was standing outside, talking to two Carabinieri and pointing in Scamarcio’s direction. His chest tightened and his breathing became shallow. He turned. It took every ounce of self-control not to break into a run. He slowly walked away, expecting to feel a grip on his arm any second. When the tour group was just a few metres ahead, he stopped and pulled his cap down lower. He pretended to study a brochure he’d picked up in the café as he willed the minutes to pass. He just wanted to escape into the forest and disappear.

  More tourists were beginning to hover around the guide now. He could hear footsteps behind him, but he didn’t dare look. He just kept thumbing through the leaflet, the words swimming. After what seemed like an eternity, the guide said, ‘OK, if everyone’s ready, let’s get going.’

  The people in front moved forward, and Scamarcio kept in step close behind. The guide handed over the tickets, and they shuffled past the guy in the box. Scamarcio tensed, expecting him to shout out the error, but no sound came.

  After they’d crossed a flat treeless area, and were approaching the woods, the guide began her spiel: ‘This park covers fifty-nine square kilometres and stretches twelve kilometres inland. It is the most important coastal forest area in the country, and belongs to the President of the Republic.’

  Scamarcio smiled grimly to himself at the irony of hiding from the secret services in the President’s backyard.

  ‘If you keep your eyes open, you might be lucky enough to spot wild boar, deer, hares, weasels, foxes, badgers, porcupines, and hedgehogs. The estate at the centre of the reserve is home to rare Maremma horses and cattle. We’ll head over there shortly, but first I want to show you something.’ She hunched down by the side of a lone tree. ‘The trunks of these old and majestic oaks provide shelter to several species of woodpeckers, jays, and barn owls, as well as nocturnal and diurnal raptors such as buzzards. The reserve has been documented since the fifth century, when it was in the possession of the basilica of the Holy Cross in Jerusalem …’

  As she spoke, she hitched a backpack off her shoulder and laid it on the ground. Scamarcio saw that it was slightly open, the silver corner of something metallic glinting in the sun. He stepped closer so he could see better, and realised that he was looking at a laptop. He tuned out her commentary as he tried to think about how he might steal it. It seemed impossible — there were too many witnesses.

  All at once, there was a commotion to his right. One of the tourists was shouting ‘Deer!’ and pointing at a cluster of dark smudges on the horizon. The group were all turning their heads in the same direction, and, as they did, Scamarcio made a split-second decision: he grabbed the rucksack and sprinted towards the forest. Behind him he heard camera shutters and cries, and he prayed to the God he still didn’t quite believe in that the group’s attention was staying locked on the wildlife.

  He reached the shadows of the forest, his chest burning. He kept on running, branches and twigs cracking underfoot. After a while, the foliage started to thicken, bringing with it darkness and an unfamiliar musk. The air gradually grew cooler, the dank tang more intense. He had a stitch in his side, and he panted to a stop, laying the bag carefully on the ground. He thought he heard faint shouts in the distance, but wondered if this was just his imagination playing tricks.

  He undid the zip on the backpack and felt the smooth metallic edges of the laptop. As he pulled it out, he saw that it was compact, but not miniature — still big enough to have an optical drive. He studied the side and exhaled when he saw a long slit and the DVD symbol.

  He sat down, pulled out the disc from the top pocket of his jacket, and slipped it into the machine. The laptop had been left on stand-by, and the home screen loaded without a hitch. His luck, it seemed, was finally in.

  He waited as the DVD whirred, his blood pounding. Whatever was on it might either confirm his actions as rank stupidity, or justify the risks. After a few seconds, a blurred image appeared, and he pressed play.

  He saw a group of three men seated in free-standing plastic chairs on what looked like the edge of a football pitch or tennis court. There were a couple of tall sodium lamps and a white chalk outline on the patch of green behind them. From the low light and long shadows, it looked as though the video had been recorded in the early evening, just before dusk. The camera had framed the subjects from head to toe, and Scamarcio sensed that the cameraman was hiding out some distance away, because the figures sometimes became blurry, as if they were on the long end of a lens. The audio was good, and suggested some kind of microphone had been planted among the group.

  Scamarcio studied the faces. Two of them were dark skinned, Middle Eastern in appearance — he thought they might have been the same men he’d seen at the café with Ifran, though it had been too dark to see anyone’s face clearly. They both looked young, and were dressed in jeans, white trainers, and T-shirts. The third man was extremely blond, almost white-haired, with milky blue eyes and a handsome, tanned, angular face. He looked to be in his early forties, and although he was seated, Scamarcio could tell from his huge, long legs, which he’d stretched out in front of him, that he was big boned and very tall. He was wearing a navy-blue polo shirt, pale chinos, and smart brown boat shoes. To Scamarcio, the man did not look like a terrorist, but he told himself that that meant nothing.

  ‘So, did you take them our list?’ one of the young men was asking the giant.

  The giant shifted in his chair and folded his wide hands. He looked ill at ease.

  ‘I did …’

  Scamarcio immediately detected the American accent. Is this the man who Ifran spoke to on the phone? he wondered.

  ‘And …?’

  ‘They’re a little uncomfortable with what you’re proposing, Barkat.’

  ‘Uncomfortable?’ the boy repeated, his voice thick with irony. Scamarcio noticed his long nose and large ears, and thought again that perhaps he’d seen him in the coffee bar that morning. ‘You think we’re fucking comfortable?’

  The blond man scratched at his neck. ‘No-one forced you into this.’

  The young man shook his head, his thin mouth opening slightly. ‘That’s twisting it.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  The darker skinned, slightly smaller guy frowned and turned away as if he didn’t want to be there.

  The boy called Barkat sighed and said, ‘So, what’s the problem? What are they so scared of?’

  ‘It’s what they call the chain of evidence — they need to remain in the shadows.’

  The young man threw a hand out. ‘Even I don’t know who they are. They’re just being paranoid.’

  ‘Where I come from we have a phrase: plan for the worst, hope for the best.’

  ‘So that’s why you’ve been dragging your heels?’

  ‘We can’t do otherwise — it’s due diligence.’

  ‘So where does that leave us?’

  ‘Things are going to take a little longer. And it won’t be coming from me.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘Some friends — with contacts down south.’

  Scamarcio thought he read genuine astonishment in Barkat’s eyes. After a few seconds, the boy said, ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding.’

  The blond man shook his head. ‘I haven’t told you who these friends are. You’re jumping to conclusions.’

  The smaller guy seemed finally about to spe
ak, but Barkat held up a hand to stop him.

  ‘Whatever. When will we get it?’

  The blond giant got up to leave, slowly unfolding himself like a massive spider. Scamarcio reckoned he stood at 6 foot 5, but without anyone else to compare him to, it was hard to be sure. The camera was trying to adjust to the new parameters, but the image was becoming shaky.

  ‘I’ll be in touch. Give me a few more days,’ said the giant, smoothing down his chinos. With that he left the frame, and the camera made no attempt to follow him. Scamarcio caught the expression on Barkat’s face — he looked worried.

  The video ended. Scamarcio returned to the main menu of the DVD to see if there were any other clips listed. There was one.

  He pressed play, and an image appeared of two young girls, a redhead and a blonde, playing ball in a garden somewhere. The lawn was lush, and there were neat flowerbeds behind them, full of roses and buddleias. He sped through the clip, but the image remained unchanged. The girls were still throwing the ball back and forth, laughing and singing in Italian. Then the screen went black. Scamarcio let the video play on, but although the tracker at the bottom had not reached the end, no more pictures appeared. He skipped to just before the end of the timeline, but found nothing more. It looked like this was the remnant of an old family movie, and that the disc had been reused to store the footage of the three men.

  He played the first film again, looking for clues to where it had been shot, but he couldn’t find any. There weren’t any trees visible, which might have given him an idea of the surrounding landscape — coastal or inland, green north or drier south. He could hear the low hum of cicadas in the background, but that didn’t tell him much. He searched for timecodes, but found nothing. What was the significance of the meeting between these men? Was there any significance? Was it even for real?