The Extremist

by Nadia Dalbuono

  I took the seat that was being offered and looked around for a guard, but there was no-one. The visiting room was deserted — it was just me and the strange guy with the stoop.

  It was the day my life began.

  The woman the Chechen was screwing lived in a drab block around the corner from where they’d been sitting. There’d been no need to ring the bell because the downstairs entrance was ajar, the glass smashed. A couple of workers from the town council were trying to repair the damage, but the neighbourhood kids were making their lives a misery, pelting them with eggs and other liquidy missiles that looked a whole lot worse.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Rigamonti, stepping over toolboxes and assorted rolls of tape. The council workers didn’t spare him a glance. They were too busy wiping themselves down.

  When they’d made it to the second floor, Rigamonti turned to Scamarcio: ‘Her name’s Nunzia by the way.’

  ‘What if he’s with her?’

  ‘Then we can ask him to his face.’

  ‘There’ll be no time for that. He’ll be straight on the phone, telling his Intel chums where to find us.’

  ‘Ah, so you buy my theory now?’

  ‘Partly — perhaps.’

  Rigamonti knocked, and after a few moments, a woman in her mid-thirties with long, thick, curly hair and a generous bust opened the door. She wore heavy dark eye make-up and thick red lipstick. Scamarcio thought she was good-looking, but not beautiful. There was nothing delicate about her features — they were too solid, too permanent.

  ‘We’re looking for the Chechen,’ said Rigamonti.

  ‘He’s not here,’ she replied, trying to slam the door in their faces.

  Scamarcio reached into his pocket and thrust his police ID through the gap. ‘We need a word.’

  Rigamonti raised his eyebrows, but Scamarcio sensed that this woman didn’t recognise him; that she’d been too busy doing other things to watch the news. The gap inched wider. She adjusted the bra beneath her tight sleeveless top, then frowned. ‘What the fuck is this?’

  ‘It’s the police, and if you don’t let us in I’ll send a bunch of blokes with a battering ram to do it for you,’ said Scamarcio.

  That seemed to swing it. She slowly opened the door, standing back against the wall to let them through. Scamarcio felt her eyes sizing him up as he passed and imagined that this must be how women felt when builders leered at them in the street.

  ‘So,’ he said once they were all inside, ‘where can we find your boyfriend?’

  She slumped into an armchair with a lurid pink plastic cover and reached for a box of fags on a side table. ‘Which one?’

  ‘The Chechen.’

  ‘No idea, darling, we’re not exclusive.’ She sized him up once more, licking her lips, then smacking them together softly.

  Scamarcio scratched behind an ear. ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you.’

  ‘What, you don’t know where your boyfriend lives?’

  ‘The Chechen comes and goes. Literally.’

  Scamarcio felt suddenly tired and took a seat on a shabby cane settee that looked like garden furniture. Rigamonti, he noticed, seemed occupied with something happening beyond the window.

  ‘You known him long?’

  ‘A few months,’ she said, vaguely.

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘What do you care?’

  ‘Come on, Nunzia, I haven’t got all day.’

  At the mention of her name, she smoothed down her hair, pulled it out from behind her shoulders, and rearranged it over her bust. Then she took a drink from a tumbler on a small table littered with battered cigarette packets and lottery scratch cards. The liquid inside the glass was clear, but Scamarcio sensed it probably wasn’t water. Nunzia needed something to take the edge off her day, and she needed to start early.

  ‘We met at a bar round here, he bought me drinks, I gave him a blow job.’ She fixed Scamarcio with a hard stare.

  ‘Has he told you much about himself?’

  ‘He’s not much of a talker.’

  ‘He mention Chechnya at all?’

  ‘He just says it was shit there, and that he needed to get out.’

  ‘Did he say why he chose Italy?’

  ‘Baby Jesus! Why is everyone so bloody interested in the Chechen all of a sudden?’

  ‘What do you mean “everyone”?’

  She held open a palm. ‘Well, now you, then those arseholes this morning …’

  ‘Which arseholes this morning?’ Rigamonti turned sharply from the window.

  ‘Blokes in dark suits — three of them — they were asking the same questions.’

  ‘Did they say where they were from?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did they show you an ID?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why did you let them in, then?’

  ‘They pointed a gun in my face. Seemed like the sensible thing to do.’

  Nice, thought Scamarcio. If they were Intel, they’d tossed out the rulebook. He tried to focus. ‘So, the Chechen didn’t tell you much?’

  ‘I just said that, didn’t I? He claimed that he’d come here because everything was shit over there since the war — he saw this as his chance of finding a job …’

  ‘Has he found one?’

  ‘No, but I don’t think he’s really trying.’ She examined a chipped fingernail and turned her attention to Rigamonti, who was standing in the sunlight from the window.

  ‘Why’s that?’ Scamarcio pressed.

  ‘Well, he stays in bed till noon. Not much chance of finding a job if you can’t be bothered to get up.’

  He thought about that. He wondered what the Chechen was doing with his nights. But instead he asked, ‘And you’ve been seeing him for a few months?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, frowning slightly. ‘I didn’t think he’d hang around, but he keeps coming back for more.’ She picked at her teeth and tilted her head to the side, her eyes on Scamarcio all the while.

  He stared at the woman before him and wondered quite what the Chechen was coming back for. Sure, she was good-looking, but she smelt of BO, and her hair was greasy at the roots. The handsome, well-muscled Chechen could do better. If he was indeed undercover, was it possible that there was something else bringing him here?

  ‘What’s your full name?’

  ‘I’m not telling you.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous — I can get it from your ID card in an instant.’

  ‘Why don’t you, then?’

  ‘Come on, Nunzia — you can save yourself a whole load of grief. I’ll have you down the station on obstruction in seconds. Can you be bothered? I know I can’t.’

  She barred her arms across her huge bust. ‘Basile,’ she hissed, exasperated.

  ‘Basile?’ Scamarcio sat up straighter, more alert now.

  ‘Yes,’ she seethed, suddenly furious. ‘But you can’t lump us all in one basket. I have nothing to do with my brothers. It wasn’t my fault we came from the same womb.’

  Scamarcio exchanged glances with Rigamonti, who was looking confused.

  ‘Your brothers run one of the most powerful clans in the area, Nunzia. How can you avoid them?’

  He caught Rigamonti nodding slowly, the realisation dawning.

  ‘Believe me, it ain’t easy,’ she sighed.

  ‘You tell the Chechen about them?’

  ‘Oh, he already knew, everyone does. With a name like Basile what can you do?’

  ‘Quite,’ said Scamarcio. Then: ‘Did the Chechen ever talk to you about them?’

  She scratched at an eyelid, and then below her nose. ‘He might have done.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘You think I’m an idiot?’

  ‘I will if you don’t tell me. G
ive me a straight answer or you’ll be in Rebibbia before nightfall.’

  She scratched her neck and recrossed her legs. Scamarcio noticed a dappling of cellulite beneath her frayed denim shorts. ‘He wanted me to fix up a meeting. He said he needed to talk to them about a business opportunity.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘A few weeks ago.’

  Scamarcio could guess what that opportunity was. The Basiles were renowned arms dealers; it was said that only ’Ndrangheta had a higher turnover.

  He got up from the sofa, motioning to Rigamonti to follow.

  ‘Thank you, Nunzia, you’ve been most helpful. Where can I find your brothers?’

  ‘Out by the industrial park — Via Zena,’ she replied sullenly, pushing herself out of the chair, the damp plastic peeling away from the back of her thighs.

  As he was heading towards the door, Scamarcio felt a hand on his back. He turned, and Nunzia was staring at him again, her face way too close. He could smell her breath — strawberry bubblegum with a bitter undercurrent, maybe vodka. The BO was overpowering. ‘There’s something you should know about the Chechen.’

  Scamarcio was still trying to move towards the door, but for some reason, Rigamonti had come to a stop and was blocking his path.

  All at once a voice from out in the corridor boomed, ‘And what the fuck might that be?’ The voice was male and abnormally deep. There was violence behind it and strength — immense strength.

  Rigamonti turned to Scamarcio, quite pale. The Chechen was standing before them, six feet six inches of pure muscle and sinew. But all Scamarcio really noticed at that moment was the Glock 43 levelled at Rigamonti’s chest.

  11

  THE CHECHEN PUSHED THEM back inside the flat, saying, ‘Not a word from either of you.’

  Scamarcio picked up the strange American twang beneath the Italian. There was no hint of a Russian accent.

  The Chechen gestured with his wide chin towards Nunzia Basile. ‘You need to learn to keep your mouth shut.’

  ‘They’re the fucking pigs — what the hell was I supposed to do?’

  He ignored her and thrust the gun into Rigamonti’s chest, driving them back towards the rear of the flat. Scamarcio took in the Chechen’s wide neck and the enormous biceps straining beneath his taut Jack Daniels T-shirt — just the sight of him made Scamarcio sweat.

  ‘In there,’ grunted the hulk.

  Scamarcio felt his back come up against a door. It gave, and he almost lost his balance. They were standing in a narrow bedroom, an unmade double bed pushed up against the wall. Above the bed was a set of empty shelves, and on the small side-table lay a box of tissues, some KY jelly, and an open packet of condoms. There was a thin red curtain across the window, staining the sunlight. Scamarcio noticed a smell in the room he didn’t much like.

  ‘You’re here until I say otherwise.’ The Chechen pushed the Glock harder into Rigamonti’s chest, and he toppled backwards onto the bed. The giant moved back out of the room, his eyes trained on them. He slammed the door shut, and they heard a key turning in the lock and then a series of loud bangs and thuds on the other side of the door as it trembled on its hinges. After a minute or so, the bangs were replaced by hammering. The Chechen was boarding them in.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Rigamonti exhaled and sank back against the bedhead, then seemed to think better of it and sat up quickly.

  Scamarcio lifted the filthy curtain away from the glass. They were two floors up. They could jump, but they risked breaking a limb in the process.

  ‘His accent bothers me,’ said Scamarcio.

  ‘That’s all you’re worried about?’

  ‘There’s no way that guy’s from Chechnya.’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s got that Slavic look, that shape to the eyes, the cheekbones.’

  Scamarcio shook his head. ‘That means nothing.’

  Rigamonti sighed and shook his head, angry now. ‘It all comes back to the same thing. He’s deep cover and he needs it to stay that way.’

  ‘Deep cover for who? Our guys? Does that even make sense?’

  Rigamonti had been about to reply when they heard shouts from the living room, then a loud slap followed by the sound of something hard, but at the same time soft, making contact with the wall. There was a quality to it that turned Scamarcio’s stomach. ‘Fuck, I think he’s killed her,’ he whispered.

  Rigamonti paled. Scamarcio lifted the curtain once more and looked down at the kids pelting each other with water balloons. One of them was howling like a banshee, clutching his wrist, which was bent at a strange angle. Play was rough in Torpignattara.

  One of the council workers was crossing the scorched grass towards a van on the pavement, his right hand wielding the toolbox. For a crazy moment, Scamarcio considered shouting down to him, asking for help, but he stopped himself. The guy’s colleague was joining him at the pavement, and Scamarcio watched the two of them carefully deposit their equipment in the back before walking around to the cabin and opening the doors.

  The first guy had been about to get in, but then he turned to the kids and raised his fist, slapping his bicep with the other hand — Italian for ‘up yours’. The kids wasted no time in returning the gesture, and Scamarcio watched the smallest of them bite his own little hand meaning ‘if I catch you, I’ll kill you’. The guy from the council just shook his head in distaste and climbed into the driver’s seat. As the van sped off, the children ran out into the road and hurled stones and bits of plaster, but from where Scamarcio was standing it didn’t look like any of them had hit their target. At the sight of the van disappearing around the corner, he felt a sudden hollowness in his chest.

  He turned to look at Rigamonti. He was hunched at the end of the bed, apparently deep in thought.

  ‘What?’ Scamarcio asked impatiently. He knew they were in trouble, but he wanted the positive spin. He didn’t have the energy to keep geeing this guy up.

  ‘We’re fucked. Every which way we cut it, we’re fucked.’

  Scamarcio rubbed at the troublesome knot at the back of his neck and said, ‘Come on, we’ll sort this.’

  Rigamonti was shaking his head. ‘Yeah, and if we make it out of here, it won’t be long before the spooks have our balls in a vice. We’re probably better off letting the Chechen finish us.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Scamarcio, louder than he’d intended. But then he swung around as the sounds of shouting and screeching tyres rushed up from outside. He peered through the window and saw the kids hurling rocks at a couple of police Panthers that were shrieking to a stop at the kerb.

  ‘It’s the pigs, the stinking pigs,’ the kids were chanting. ‘Kill them! Kill the stinking pigs!’

  ‘Shit it,’ hissed Scamarcio.

  Rigamonti joined him at the window. ‘Jesus,’ was all he offered.

  They watched as the officers scrambled from the Panthers and ran up to the entrance, one of them wielding a steel battering ram. Then they heard glass smash, and Scamarcio thought briefly of the wasted council money. Why couldn’t they have just tried the buzzers? The kids were now clustered on the steps in front of the door, clearly expecting to dart through the gap behind the police. It appeared that nobody was trying to stop them, because they soon disappeared, save for three of the younger ones — two boys and a girl, perhaps no older than seven — who were staring up at the apartment block open-mouthed, as if they hoped to track the police’s progress through the mean slits of windows.

  Suddenly, there was an explosion from somewhere out in the corridor, and Scamarcio heard, ‘Hands up, you’re under arrest! Drop your weapon or I’ll shoot! Drop it now!’

  A sharp volley of gunfire followed before someone shouted, ‘There’s a woman in the corner.’

  There was silence for a moment, then Scamarcio heard a lar
ge weight being shifted. ‘On your feet,’ someone was yelling. ‘On your feet, now!’

  Scamarcio thought fast. This was the time to end it, to hammer on the door and declare themselves, but some unspoken force was drawing him back to the window. He pulled the curtain aside and opened the latch, releasing the window from its rotting frame.

  ‘Hey, you,’ he heard himself shout to the kids below.

  The three tiny figures looked up, open-mouthed still.

  ‘We need to jump — help us, and I’ll give you fifty euros.’

  The three little mouths seemed to open even wider.

  ‘Quick! Find us something to land on.’

  The kids looked about them, then the girl tugged one of the boys by the arm, and they ran off. The seconds crawled, and Scamarcio was beginning to despair of ever seeing them again, but then they were back, dragging a filthy bundle of what looked like blankets behind them. One look told Scamarcio it wouldn’t be enough.

  Shouting was still coming from the living room. He thought he heard the ram against the bedroom door now, but wasn’t sure. ‘Rigamonti, time to go.’

  The reporter looked startled, as if he hadn’t heard any of the conversation at the window. ‘What?’

  ‘Come on! Now!’

  Rigamonti hesitated, but then something clicked and he was behind Scamarcio, helping him scramble out. Scamarcio swung his legs through the gap, then sat perched on the ledge like a guy with suicide in mind. His heart started to race. He fixed his eyes on the useless pile of blankets, then let go, the air rushing past, the ground zooming towards him. He was light, then heavy, and then suddenly the burnt earth hit him with a thud. As he stumbled to his feet, dazed, the kids cheered, then held out their palms. But there was no time to find his wallet. ‘Ask my friend,’ he panted, sprinting for the bike.

  But when he glanced behind him, there was no sign of Rigamonti. Scamarcio looked up at the window of the apartment and saw him staring down, motionless, a rabbit caught in headlights.

  12

  SCAMARCIO JUST KEPT LOOKING, willing him to jump. He knew he was wasting time, but he couldn’t move. It was like watching the aftermath of a car crash and not being able to tear yourself away.