The Extremist

by Nadia Dalbuono

  Scamarcio shook his bony hand. Federico didn’t look much shy of seventy.

  ‘Take a seat,’ he said, motioning to a flowery armchair. ‘We’re going to give you some food, and then we’re off to the embassy.’

  ‘What?’ blinked Scamarcio.

  ‘The British Embassy.’

  Scamarcio remained stock-still. ‘There is no way I’m going anywhere near the British Embassy.’

  ‘You’re jumpy.’

  ‘Half the country’s police are out looking for me.’

  ‘You’re a policeman; you must know how to evade capture.’

  ‘Yes, by staying as far away as possible from places like the British Embassy.’ Scamarcio took a breath. ‘Why there?’

  ‘There’s someone there who knows about your Chechen.’

  ‘Can’t you just pass the information on? Speak to them for me?’

  The old woman returned with a large plate of antipasti and a basket of bread. Scamarcio thanked her.

  ‘Eat up,’ said Federico. He gave Scamarcio a few moments, then said, ‘They tried to turn him, but failed.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your Chechen. If it’s the guy I think it is. Describe him.’

  ‘Blond, built like a brick shithouse, weird pale-blue eyes …’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Federico, cutting him off. ‘A lot of people wanted him. He was quite the prize catch.’

  ‘But he wasn’t working for you guys?’

  ‘My guys? I must stress that I’m no longer with them. But no, he wasn’t. Like everyone else, we were after him, but we couldn’t get him.’

  ‘So did anyone manage?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware.’ Federico sniffed and folded his hands in his lap. ‘Let’s go to Calcata, then,’ he said.

  Scamarcio looked up from his food. ‘Calcata?’

  ‘Did Mr Di Mare show you a picture?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you still have it?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘The guy who took that picture lives in Calcata — he’s your last port of call, given that you won’t go to the embassy.’ Federico made it sound as if Scamarcio was being difficult.

  Calcata was an artists’ community some 50 kilometres from the city. Scamarcio couldn’t think what that place could possibly have to do with the events unfolding in Rome. Besides, he felt nervous about leaving the city again, about exposing himself to security cameras, motorway police, God knew what.

  ‘You need to speak to him,’ said Federico, softly. ‘I wasn’t properly in the know when it came to Scalisi — I just heard rumours.’

  ‘What rumours?’

  ‘You can’t work with rumour — you need fact. I need to make a call. Eat up, and then let’s go.’

  For someone so elderly, Federico displayed remarkable energy, revving the car to the max at every opportunity and waving to pretty girls as they passed. Scamarcio wished he wouldn’t draw quite so much attention. He checked his watch and saw that it was past nine. It was as if time was spinning away, eluding him.

  When they were heading north out of the city and doing way more than 160, Federico said, ‘It’s strange he asked for you, that boy.’

  Scamarcio told him about his contact with Guerra in Opera. When he was finished, Federico murmured, ‘Hmm, I always felt that Guerra was being economical with the truth.’

  ‘In court, you mean?’

  Federico nodded. ‘He always gave the impression that he had pieced together what the state was up to bit by bit, that it was only towards the end that he had some kind of revelation that they’d been helping him. But if you ask me, he and his band of fascist fuckwits decided early on to throw in their lot with the spooks — they knew exactly what was in play. Guerra was an opportunist, just like the rest of them.’

  Maybe, thought Scamarcio. But that revelation didn’t get him any further with his current problem.

  ‘So, this guy in Calcata?’

  ‘He worked with Scalisi. They fell out. He wanted leverage, so he took the pictures.’ Federico made it all sound so rational.

  ‘Why did he think the pictures would give him leverage?’

  ‘Everyone’s looking for leverage. Something might not be of value at the time you find it, but it could become valuable later. That’s how we’re trained to think in my game.’

  ‘And this Chechen?’

  ‘You didn’t want to go to the embassy.’

  ‘Going to the embassy would have been tantamount to capitulation.’

  ‘The British are a law unto themselves. They wouldn’t give you up.’

  ‘Maybe not, but from where I’m sitting it’s far too risky.’

  ‘So, my friend in Calcata is your last hope. Probably.’

  ‘Probably?’

  ‘You’re not very patient, Detective.’

  ‘I don’t have time to be.’

  ‘You probably have more time than you think.’

  ‘Probably? You use that word a lot.’

  ‘Who can deal in certainties these days?’

  Scamarcio said nothing, then asked, ‘You still active?’

  ‘I do a bit of consultancy from time to time, but I prefer to keep it light: too many other commitments.’

  ‘Consultancy for whom?’

  ‘Anyone who comes knocking and has money to spend. I do draw the line at certain r—’ He paused and seemed to search for a better word, ‘interests.’

  Scamarcio looked out at the ragged crests of the Maremma hills rising above the dark woodland of the Treja Valley. Soon, the fortified walls of old medieval villages began to appear, spires and windows capturing the last of the setting sun. Federico took a right turn, and they joined a steep unmade road that wound high up into the hills. After they’d climbed for a few minutes, Scamarcio spotted a thick curtain of houses. They seemed to be built in higgledy-piggledy layers, each one jumbled precariously on top of the other like a complicated sandcastle ready to topple at any moment. Federico pushed the car upwards until they found themselves at the foot of an immense stone wall. He parked at the beginning of a steep incline, saying, ‘The road’s too narrow. We’ll have to do the rest on foot.’

  They made their way up a cobblestone street and past a narrow, locked gate. After they’d climbed for a few minutes, the street began to level out, and they emerged into a wide central square, thick with shadows.

  Federico pointed to an old stone church: ‘Once the home of Jesus’s foreskin.’

  Scamarcio frowned.

  ‘Jesus was a Jew, so of course he was circumcised. The famous foreskin was originally kept in Rome, but then a German soldier stole it during the Charles V occupation of 1527. The enterprising soldier brought it to Calcata, where he hid it until his death. Calcata is a good hiding place.’

  ‘Is that what your friend is doing here — hiding out?’

  Federico ignored the question. ‘He lives up there,’ he said, gesturing to the left of the square, beyond the church.

  They skirted the edge of the piazza and walked down a meandering street, pressed in on by a hodgepodge of medieval houses in various stages of restoration and decay. Scamarcio took in tearooms, restaurants, antique dealers, and artisan workshops, all thrown together in seeming disarray.

  Federico finally came to a stop outside a jewellery shop. The wooden half-door was ajar, and he quickly stepped inside. Scamarcio followed.

  Working beneath a circular desk lamp was a man with thick, shoulder-length grey hair and a dense beard. Narrow rimless glasses were perched on the end of his aquiline nose.

  ‘I thought you’d show,’ he said, not looking up.

  ‘The detective needs a word.’ Federico picked up a necklace of different-coloured glass and fanned it across his palm.

  The man at the desk sniffed and pushed the lamp away. He looked
at Scamarcio and removed his glasses, rubbing beneath an eye. ‘Welcome to Calcata,’ he said quietly.

  Scamarcio nodded, not quite sure what to say.

  ‘Let’s walk,’ said the stranger. He shouted to someone out the back, and a young woman emerged through a doorway. Her long, red hair was braided, and she wore a pale-blue tie-dye top and a long, flowing pink skirt. She somehow looked familiar, but Scamarcio couldn’t think why.

  ‘I’ll be back in an hour,’ said the stranger, leading them out.

  They walked back to the square, then turned down an alleyway to the right of the church, which led to some steep stone steps. The steps brought them up above the rooftops, and after a few moments, they came out onto a terrace that offered a spectacular sunset view of the Treja Valley and the glinting thread of silver that scored through it.

  The jeweller took a seat on a low stone wall that bordered the terrace and motioned Scamarcio to do the same. Federico had already parked himself on a rickety wooden bench and was sitting expectantly, his chin in his hands.

  ‘This is quite a shitstorm,’ said the jeweller, narrowing his eyes at Scamarcio.

  ‘Not really of my making,’ said Scamarcio.

  ‘I wasn’t saying it was.’

  ‘You took those photos — of Scalisi and the boy?’

  The stranger nodded.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Scalisi’s lost it.’

  ‘In the sense that he’s not behaving normally?’

  ‘In every sense. He’s lost control of his man, he’s lost control of the situation, and he’s possibly lost his mind.’

  Scamarcio noticed the man’s intense blue eyes; there was a coldness to them, an impenetrability. ‘The boy in the picture was working for Scalisi?’

  The jeweller glanced at Federico before turning back to Scamarcio. ‘How do we know we can trust you?’

  ‘It all depends which side you’re on, I guess. I’m clearly not working with the authorities at the moment …’

  This seemed to settle something. The stranger nodded, then said, ‘It’s very difficult to get someone inside those communities, so when you finally manage it, you go to town and throw everything you have at it.’

  Scamarcio wondered why he hadn’t answered the question. ‘When was Ifran recruited?’

  ‘When he got out of jail, although I believe we started working on him when he was still inside Opera.’

  ‘What was he promised?’

  The man frowned. ‘Not as much as you might think. A decent salary for sure, but it was more of a PSYOP — the chance to make a difference. The chance to mean something. That can work wonders on guys who have always felt marginalised.’

  ‘What was Ifran’s job? What did Scalisi want from him?’

  The stranger sighed. ‘Forgive me, but we’ve only just met.’

  ‘I’ve got the police on my back and a terrorist threatening to blow the city to shreds …’

  The man scratched the back of his head and looked away. Federico coughed.

  Eventually, the stranger said, ‘We needed Ifran to keep his eyes and ears open, let us know if plans were afoot and who was making them.’ Scamarcio noted the ‘we’ again. He wanted to ask more about this man’s past, but the guy was clearly jumpy. Instead he said, ‘How was Ifran meant to do that?’

  ‘By making sure he hung around with the right people — the likely contenders.’

  ‘It’s all so different from what he told me this morning.’

  ‘What’s his version?’ the stranger asked quickly.

  ‘He says he was approached by two extremists, and that they tried to persuade him that he needed to do more than a few protest marches.’

  ‘He’s probably just inverting roles.’

  ‘So, he was the one persuading them to act? Isn’t that entrapment?’

  The jeweller waved the idea away. ‘I doubt it went down exactly like that; they were probably ready to roll before Ifran showed.’

  ‘So you don’t have the facts?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Why “of course not”?’

  ‘It’s need-to-know.’

  ‘So, what went wrong?’ asked Scamarcio.

  Federico coughed again, and they both turned. The old man was leaning forward on the bench, his bird-legs crossed, as if he was enjoying a semi-interesting piece of street theatre. He circled his hand, motioning them to continue.

  ‘Ifran stopped answering his phone, stopped turning up for meets — our boy became a ghost.’

  ‘So what did Scalisi do?’

  ‘He went wild — used anything and anyone he could to track him.’

  ‘Did he find him?’

  ‘He found him today, when Ifran pitched up at the café.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘So who’s Ifran really working for?’

  ‘Nobody knows.’

  ‘And where do I fit in?’

  ‘The way I see it, Ifran’s using you to blackmail Scalisi.’

  ‘How do you work that out?’

  ‘Federico told me about the DVD. It seems to me that Ifran wanted you to find that disc, wanted to alert you to the Chechen. The question is, Why?’

  ‘Why do you think?’ asked Scamarcio, but his mind was already turning on a new question: he didn’t think he’d mentioned the DVD to Federico. Was it possible that Letta had told him?

  ‘I don’t know much about the Chechen, but I suspect Scalisi does,’ said the stranger. ‘It’s probably quite simple — Ifran wanted to make it clear to Scalisi that he knows about the existence of the Chechen. He wanted to use him as leverage.’

  ‘Leverage for what?’

  ‘Leverage to get himself out of whatever mess he’s in.’

  ‘Ifran told me about an American accent on the phone — he took a strange call that was meant for his friend that specified today’s date …’

  The jeweller cut him off. ‘That I would write off as a tempting piece of bait to hook you and draw you into the game. Regardless of whether he answered the phone, I doubt it even went down like that.’

  Scamarcio got up and walked over to the wall of a crumbling house. He kicked at a few stones and closed his eyes. The fading light was a palish pink beneath his lids. ‘I don’t know where to take this thing.’

  ‘You need to get back to Ifran. Give him the DVD, and he’ll work out the rest. You’ve done your bit.’

  ‘But was I right to even listen to him?’

  ‘For a while it seemed that Ifran was on the side of good — at least, he did an excellent job of convincing us that’s where he stood. He may in fact still be there.’

  ‘How can he be on the side of good if he’s holed up in a café threatening to blow the heads off fifteen hostages and then some?’

  ‘It’s more complicated than that.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  The jeweller just shook his head. He’d said enough.

  ‘And Scalisi?’ Scamarcio tried.

  ‘Scalisi is anyone’s guess — he could have sold himself to the highest bidder.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Exactly what it sounds like. You can’t trust him.’

  ‘Then who can I trust? Who is going to protect me from Scalisi?’

  ‘There are people: people who’ve been watching him; people who still wield some power. You’re not as alone as you might think.’

  Scamarcio frowned and looked down at the darkening valley, at the matchbox cars winding their way along the wisps of road, at the shadowy patchwork of olive groves and farmland. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Federico and I go back a bit,’ said the man, nodding to his friend. ‘I waited a little longer to get out, needed a little more convincing.’

  Federico rose from the bench and ca
me to stand by Scamarcio. ‘Do you still have the photo Di Mare brought you in the church?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take that to Ifran — it could prove useful. Scalisi won’t want it out there. It would destroy him.’

  ‘Why are you trying to help the boy?’ Scamarcio asked. ‘Like you said, we don’t know whose side he’s on.’

  ‘For the same reason as you,’ said Federico. ‘Because your gut’s telling you to listen.’

  The stranger rose from the wall. ‘I need to get back to the shop — keep your cool, and this may all come good. You have the power to turn this around.’

  With that, he was gone, and even though the old man was standing beside him, Scamarcio thought he had never felt more alone.

  Federico dropped him on the corner of Via Cavour and Via degli Annibaldi, just before the roadblocks started. ‘Good luck,’ he said, before he sped away. ‘Listen to my friend’s advice. He knows what he’s talking about.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Scamarcio tried one more time.

  ‘Better you don’t know.’ With that, he threw him a cheery wave and hared off into the traffic.

  Scamarcio looked around. The pavements were empty, and the sound of the television news was still whispering from the bars and cafés, as if the city itself was heaving one long haunting sigh. He spotted a lone pedestrian at a zebra crossing; he was stepping into the oncoming traffic, his eyes glued to his tablet. It almost ended in disaster.

  Scamarcio was about to turn into Via degli Annibaldi and begin making his way towards the Colosseum, burdened with questions and no solutions, when a voice behind him cried, ‘Hey, you!’

  Clearly the baseball cap and sunglasses hadn’t been enough. He glanced around, ready to bolt. Nino Basile was standing there, flanked by two of his goons. ‘You’re coming with us,’ he said, in the same way he might say ‘You’re going to take a nice swim to the bottom of the ocean.’

  ‘Why the fuck would I want to do that?’

  ‘The Chechen wants to see you.’

  ‘The Chechen?’

  ‘You heard. Come on,’ said Basile, striding towards him, the heavies close behind.

  Scamarcio tried to make a run for it, but he’d only managed to sprint a few metres before they grabbed him, and then bundled him into a waiting Punto. ‘How did you know how to find me?’ he panted.