The Extremist

by Nadia Dalbuono

  ‘After today, I can safely say I told you so.’

  ‘So you’re suggesting we head out there?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘But I risk getting picked up; the place will be swarming. I’ll never get back.’

  ‘Scamarcio.’ Rigamonti’s voice was rising now. ‘You’ve got to let it go. You’re not going to make it past the police in the centre!’

  Scamarcio leapt to his feet. ‘So we’re just going to stand aside and let them kill thousands?’

  ‘Thousands?’

  Scamarcio nodded slowly, as if Rigamonti was too dumb to understand.

  ‘You don’t think he was playing you?’

  ‘Like I said, my instincts say otherwise.’ He tried to sound more confident than he felt. Fresh doubt was starting to creep in, but he didn’t feel ready to share it.

  Rigamonti pushed his glasses higher up his nose. Scamarcio noticed that they were the same unfashionable pair he’d been wearing last year, but now there was a small web of tape between the lens and the right-hand arm.

  ‘What if we somehow buy ourselves enough time to check this thing out properly? We make contact with Ifran, tell him he might need to wait — that you’re still working on it,’ suggested Rigamonti.

  ‘How the hell am I going to call him? The authorities are monitoring his line. They’ll control all the calls coming in, and besides, I don’t have his number.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Rigamonti helpfully.

  Scamarcio walked to the narrow window and surveyed the miserable vista beyond. Two mud-brown birds were scrapping over a snail, pecking at each other as the shell came apart. A thought began to form: ‘Actually there might be someone — Vincenzo Guerra. If I got him to call, got him to ask to be put through, they might allow it. He might be able to get a message to Ifran.’

  ‘What’s Guerra got to do with this?’

  ‘They were together in Opera — he and the boy.’

  ‘Why would the authorities allow a criminal like Guerra to talk to Ifran? It wouldn’t make for good headlines.’

  ‘Yes, maybe that’s too simple. What if we give Guerra a message to pass to the authorities that they can relay to the boy? There’d have to be some code which proved to Ifran that it was legitimate, and that the message really was coming from Guerra.’

  Rigamonti sighed. ‘How are you going to get to him? Can prisoners even take calls?’

  Scamarcio pondered it for a moment, and then said, ‘No. They can only phone out, once a message is received. The fucker is that I think they’re only allowed to make calls in the morning. There’s no morning left. We need to find a way to contact him, and he needs a way to call back immediately.’

  ‘Can’t you just go down the official police route? Tell them the truth and ask them to put you in touch with him?’

  They both fell silent, knowing that wasn’t going to work.

  Scamarcio rubbed at his stubble. ‘I could call my boss, but there’s no guarantee he’d play ball. He’d be taking a huge risk.’

  ‘What other options are there?’

  Scamarcio struggled to think of any. He was about to give up, when an idea came to him. It wasn’t an idea he particularly welcomed. ‘There’s a guy I know.’

  ‘A guy …’ echoed Rigamonti, looking up from his notepad.

  ‘He’s from the wrong side of the tracks — a big player down in Calabria. He’s bound to know people inside Opera: people who could get a message to Guerra, people who might have a phone.’

  ‘Then let’s call him!’ Rigamonti’s initial doubts seemed to have vanished.

  ‘It’s not that easy. I don’t have his number — it’s on a second mobile I keep at home.’

  Rigamonti’s eyes widened, and Scamarcio knew that the reporter was suddenly wondering whether the rumours about him were true — whether he was in tight with ’Ndrangheta after all.

  Scamarcio’s thoughts tumbled on. He realised that there was now a high chance that the police would search his apartment and find his secret phone stashed in the safe. He erased the call history after every use, and all the names had been changed, but he knew that wouldn’t be enough. But Fiammetta was sharp; surely she’d find a way to make sure they didn’t get to the important stuff.

  ‘So you don’t have any other ways to reach your Calabrian kingpin?’

  Scamarcio turned from the window. ‘There’s a bar in Germaneto …’ He closed his eyes, still not sure whether he was doing the right thing. He tried to cast his mind back: when he’d gone to find Dante Greco for the first time, in Catanzaro, he’d left the car, walked up the street, and then the bar had been there on the right — shabby and peeling, battered chairs outside. He’d taken the steps, gone through the door. Had he even looked at the sign? He must have done … but the name had been written somewhere else, too … on the piece of notepaper that had been handed to him by Foti’s messenger boy. Yes, that was it: Bar Solari.

  ‘Bar Solari in Germaneto — his right-hand man, Mirco, can be found there,’ said Scamarcio, triumphant.

  ‘You want my phone?’ asked Rigamonti, getting up to hand it over.

  Scamarcio used the phone to run a quick web search for the number of the bar, not really expecting to find it, but the details were in the first hit. He rang and asked for Mirco. He thought he’d be fobbed off with ‘wrong number’, but the guy who answered said, ‘Wait one sec — he’s watching TV out back. They all are. It’s a dead zone.’

  Scamarcio swallowed and questioned the wisdom of what he was doing. But he still couldn’t think of an alternative. It felt too risky to involve Garramone.

  ‘Who’s asking?’ said Mirco gruffly, clearly put out to have been pulled away from the news.

  Scamarcio’s stomach tensed, and he felt fresh sweat breaking out between his shoulders.

  ‘Mirco, it’s Scamarcio. Leone Scamarcio.’

  The line fell silent, and Scamarcio counted to five in his head. Eventually, Mirco whispered, ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

  ‘No joke, Mirco. It’s me — the same guy who witnessed your boss, the boss of bosses, reading Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus.’

  ‘Fuck,’ hissed Mirco. ‘You’ve got the whole fucking country out looking for you. Fuck, fuck, fuck, man. You are in so much shit.’

  Mirco clearly hadn’t spent much time improving his vocabulary since they’d last met.

  ‘Yes, I’m aware of that. Can you put me through to Greco? I need a word.’

  ‘Fuck,’ repeated Mirco, under his breath. ‘I don’t believe this.’

  ‘Will you put me through?’

  ‘Wait — I need to ask him if he’ll talk to you. He’ll probably want to stay well clear.’

  Great, thought Scamarcio. It seemed that there was a new hierarchy of criminal decency in place that he’d been hitherto unaware of. It might be OK for Greco to fraternise with Europe’s most prolific drug and arms traffickers, but apparently it just wasn’t form to talk to someone who might or might not be cooperating with terrorists. Scamarcio wanted to tell Mirco to go hang, but managed to hold his tongue.

  After a long wait, Mirco was back, panting slightly. ‘He’ll talk to you. God knows why, but he will. Hang on.’

  Scamarcio wondered if the Snake’s curiosity had simply got the better of him.

  The line clicked, then an unctuous voice said, ‘Scamarcio, my word. You may be many things, but after today’s little farce, I can safely say you’re not a coward.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  ‘Please do. So, how can I help? I sense that whatever it is you want is tied up with the God-awful mess that seems to be unfolding all around you up in Rome.’

  ‘Greco, I didn’t have anything to do with those terrorists deciding to do what they did.’

  ‘Ah, I don’t care,’ sighed Greco tiredly. ‘Just explain
what you want, and I’ll tell you if I can do it. I have to say I’m intrigued.’

  Scamarcio told him about the message he needed to get to Guerra inside Opera, trying to keep other details to a minimum. When he was done, Greco asked simply, ‘What’s in it for me?’

  ‘You’d have helped save the lives of many, and I’d make that known. But that’s as far as it goes. I can’t swing prosecutions, I can’t get the force off your back, I can’t destroy evidence. Been there, done that, and I’m not going back. If those terms aren’t acceptable, I understand.’

  Scamarcio wondered if he’d just put his own personal advancement above the lives of others, but fuck it — he was not going to fall into the same trap with Greco as he’d done with Piocosta. He was moving on, and Fiammetta was a part of that — they’d talked long and hard. He was going to go as straight as he could, and she was going to stop whoring her soul around Rome’s showbiz set — they’d reach their goals the right way. It might take a little longer, but they’d make it.

  Scamarcio heard Greco suck the air in through his teeth, heard it whistle out again. Eventually he said, ‘OK, Scamarcio. I’ll do you this favour because I’m a good man. But don’t insult my intelligence by trying to make me think you’re going to pass me off as the hero. You’d never admit to a connection in a million years.’

  Scamarcio stayed quite still. He wondered if Greco was recording the call.

  ‘Neither would you admit to the fact we worked together on the Piocosta problem. That could cost you your career.’ Greco paused. ‘But perhaps not for the reasons you might think.’

  The serpent was twisting and turning, slithering his way to a deal. Scamarcio felt acid in his gullet. ‘And don’t insult my intelligence by suggesting you’re helping me out of kindness. I’m sure you’ll name your price soon enough.’

  Rigamonti looked up, alarmed, as if Scamarcio was pushing it.

  But all Dante Greco said was, ‘Yes, that’s the beauty of our game — it’s so fluid. Guerra will ring you in half an hour on the number you’re calling from now.’ With that he hung up — no goodbye, no good luck.

  It was Greco’s game, not his, was Scamarcio’s first thought. His second was that it was unfortunate that the ’Ndrangheta’s top boss now had Rigamonti’s phone number. Scamarcio felt momentarily guilty, but really, what could he do? As always, it was a case of lesser evils.

  Vincenzo Guerra called from Opera exactly thirty minutes later. Scamarcio marvelled at the precision of it — at the display of command and control Greco had executed for his benefit.

  ‘Detective,’ said Guerra, his tone grave.

  ‘You know why I’ve contacted you?’

  ‘I’m told it’s about the drama being staged in the centre of Rome right now.’

  ‘Staged’ was an interesting choice of word, but Scamarcio didn’t want to lose time pursuing it. ‘I need you to get a message to Ifran. He wants me back there by 9.00 a.m. tomorrow, but if I’m to do what he asks, I may need more time. I could have trouble reaching him; the authorities may try to block me. I want Ifran to know that if there’s any delay, it doesn’t mean I’ve given up. He needs to know that I’ll show.’

  ‘He wants you back there, or what?’

  Scamarcio preferred not to give him all the details. ‘I’m sure you can guess. You played this game once.’

  Guerra said nothing for a beat, then, ‘How can I trust you?’

  ‘I’m always interested in the truth, be it politically expedient or otherwise.’

  Guerra grunted. ‘Yes, that’s what I figured. That’s why I gave him your name.’

  ‘You’ll need to ring the negotiators — they probably won’t put you through. You need to give them the message to pass on to Ifran. You’ll have to use some kind of code, something that will show Ifran that the message genuinely came from you, that he can trust its authenticity.’

  ‘How can we be sure the authorities won’t screw it up?’

  ‘Good question, but right now they’re our only option. I can’t call Ifran without them intercepting me first.’

  ‘I think the boy’s planning to do them some serious damage, but not in the way you might expect,’ said Guerra, his voice almost a whisper.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘What do you know about him?’

  ‘A little, but not a lot.’

  Scamarcio didn’t have time for the cat and mouse. ‘Whose side is he on?’

  ‘The same as you — the side of truth.’

  That could mean anything, thought Scamarcio.

  ‘What did he tell you today?’ tried Guerra. ‘What does he want?’

  Scamarcio knew that it was too dangerous to give anything away. ‘I can’t go there, not now. The procedure you need to follow is this: Call Chief Garramone at Flying Squad HQ in Rome.’ Scamarcio rattled off Garramone’s direct line. ‘Do not mention me. Tell him you need to get a message to Ifran via the negotiators, but don’t tell him what that message is. He won’t admit it, but basically he won’t want to know — it’s too messy for him. When he’s put you through to the team dealing with the boy, give them the message with your personalised code — simple as that.’

  ‘They’ll be all over me after this.’

  ‘I’d imagined they already were.’

  ‘No, it’s been surprisingly quiet.’ His tone was thick with an irony Scamarcio didn’t quite understand.

  ‘So, you’ll do this?’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Tell me about Ifran,’ Scamarcio tried again.

  ‘Nah, not on this phone. The Calabrians might think they have it all sewn up, but I don’t trust anyone in here. If you want a proper chat, you’ll have to make the trip to Milan.’

  Scamarcio thanked him and cut the call.

  ‘So, what now?’ asked Rigamonti.

  ‘We need to get moving, get things done as fast as we can in case the deadline still holds.’

  ‘I’ll need to contact my friends in Torpignattara.’

  A vaguely familiar voice interrupted them from out in the corridor: ‘Torpignattara? What the fuck are you doing going near that rat hole?’

  Rigamonti quickly held a finger to his lips, and as he removed it, the owner of the house strolled back into the room.

  ‘Come on, Roberto, I asked you a question,’ said the tattooed guy.

  Scamarcio hoped things weren’t about to get nasty.

  ‘It’s just for a story,’ said Rigamonti, hastily gathering his things.

  ‘Do I look like I was born yesterday?’ said the guy, but he didn’t seem particularly angry. A bit put out, but not angry. ‘There’s been way too much peacemaking going on if you ask me. The pope kissing Muslims’ feet, covering up statues … Then, if that’s not bad enough, we have them moving in next door. It makes me spew.’

  Scamarcio stayed quite still.

  The tattooed guy jabbed a finger at Rigamonti. ‘Everyone’s forgetting what these fuckers have been telling us right from the start. Rome has been in their crosshairs since day one. Of the four metropolises of the ancient Roman Empire, how many are still standing? Just list them: Rome, Carthage, Alexandria, and Antioch — only the first still belongs to the West. Islam wiped out all the rest. One look at their shitty videos should have told us this day was coming — they’ve got the black flag of the caliphate waving over the Vatican, they’ve got the Colosseum in flames. Those bastards couldn’t have sent us a clearer message if they’d scrawled it in blood on the Spanish Steps, but now everyone’s running around like blind dogs in a meat market, like it’s all some massive fucking surprise.’

  ‘The Vatican certainly knew it was coming,’ muttered Rigamonti.

  ‘What?’ asked his friend.

  ‘Shifted all their gold to Switzerland, didn’t they? Quite recently,’ said Rigam
onti to the floor.

  Scamarcio broke in. ‘Listen, I think we need to go.’ He turned to Rigamonti’s friend. ‘Thank you for helping us — I appreciate it.’

  The guy went to fist bump him, and Scamarcio spotted the letters ‘S-K-I-N’ tattooed across his forefingers. A quick glance at the guy’s left hand confirmed his hunch — ‘H-E-A-D’ was tattooed on his other fist. What charming company Rigamonti keeps.

  When they’d made their farewells and were heading back to the car park, Scamarcio said, ‘What the fuck was that?’

  ‘Met him for a story last year on white extremism. We’re going full circle today — first him, and now my friends out in Torpignattara. I can safely say that we’ll be getting the complete picture, the 360-degree view, as it were.’

  ‘Doesn’t it bother you, hanging out with blokes like that?’

  ‘He’s a means to an end — you’d know how that is.’

  Scamarcio didn’t like Rigamonti’s tone, but he ignored it. Instead he said, ‘All this talk of “extremism” — I mean, is it helpful? If you’ve lived through certain experiences, you’ll have certain views. But does that mean you’re an extremist?’ He realised he was echoing Ifran.

  ‘Yeah, the language is clumsy, and the narrative needs to change, you’re right. But the media thinks we’re all simpletons who can’t deal with ambiguity. Or at least it suits them to think that. Anyway,’ Rigamonti sighed and popped up the saddle on his bike, ‘enough. I want to know what that lad is up to, then I want to put this exclusive to bed. After that, it’s home, bath, and a nice glass of Ripasso.’

  From where Scamarcio was standing, this seemed like a highly unlikely outcome.

  7

  IT’S FUNNY HOW THEY all felt the need to do drugs, get drunk, have sex in car parks. It was like they were looking for a way to escape the stability of their existence — the suffocation of success. For me it was different: if you’ve always been on the outside, and if your parents have always been on the outside, what is there left to rebel against? An outsider can never rebel. He’s trapped in his own internal rebellion with no one there to notice it.