The Extremist

by Nadia Dalbuono

  ‘We’ve got our own ways of resolving this. That boy has spun you a bullshit tale, and you’ve fallen for it hook, line, and sinker.’

  ‘It’s not bullshit.’

  The woman leaned forward, her eyes thin slits in the dim light, the set of her features crueller, harsher now. ‘You saw what Scalisi did to your girlfriend. I’d strongly advise you to butt the hell out — before it gets nasty. As far as he and his guys are concerned, your girl’s a whore, so it’ll be a free for all, believe me.’

  She might have been a woman, but Scamarcio wanted to smash her head against the wall, break her jaw, strangle the life from her. But he said nothing and counted to ten: he had to keep ahead, stay sharp. It wouldn’t help Fiammetta if he lost it.

  ‘Just what are you so worried about?’ he asked when he’d reached eight. ‘You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble to get me here — you could have just grabbed me off the street instead of letting all hell break loose. Why are you so desperate? Why are you sniffing around in something that has nothing to do with you?’

  ‘That’s myopic. Terrorism is a global threat. We cooperate with our allies when we can.’

  Scamarcio held up a palm. ‘Spare me the crap.’

  He let his hand fall as he tried to ignore the burning in his gut. ‘You got your precious Chechen back? I heard he’d been arrested. It must be nice to have him where you can see him.’

  The woman just kept staring. It was as if a shutter had come down. But Scamarcio noticed the guy behind her scratch at his ear with his index finger, then shift the weight in his legs. It was a small gesture, but it was enough.

  ‘We had an interesting conversation, me and your Chechen. I can’t wait to tell my journo friends all about it.’

  ‘You’re finished,’ the woman snarled. ‘Your fuckwit girlfriend, too. And you know what? We’ll let you watch. Her suffering will be the last thing you see.’

  She sprang up, the chair teetering. Once she and the minion had left, Scamarcio realised that he felt properly sick. Two seconds later, he vomited.

  He must have thrown up at least five times. There was nothing left in his stomach, but he was still convulsing and retching, his entire body in spasm.

  As he lay prone, his semi-feverish mind kept turning on the same question: could the Chechen have links to both the Americans and Scalisi? Was Scalisi running him for them? But where did Ifran fit in? Had he come to understand the real interest groups in play? Had he wondered why the Chechen had been going so far as to supply arms? Maybe Ifran feared an illegal entrapment op, or something more toxic: that perhaps Scalisi and his US ‘friends’ had set the wheels in motion, and that they were working to ensure an attack?

  But behind all this lay a wider question: Why had Ifran cut his ties with Scalisi? Was it possible that he’d reached a point where he no longer trusted his handler? The boy knew he was on his own and the only way to stop the madness was to pull the stunt at the café, draw Scamarcio into the fray, and turn the eyes of the world upon Scalisi. To Scamarcio, this theory had weight. Ifran was trying to blackmail the head of AISE into standing down the operation. He was sending a clear signal that he knew about the involvement of the Chechen, whatever that meant, and that it was time to pull the plug.

  Why, then, hadn’t the Americans and Scalisi resolved this? led Ifran and his associates out for a debrief, and then released all the hostages? Why instead did they seem intent on spending all their time hunting down Scamarcio, the innocent bystander? It came back around to the same thing: Scalisi and his US backers weren’t interested in a resolution; they wanted these attacks at all costs. They wanted the story of the Chechen dead and buried along with the terrorists, and whatever hostages they may have taken along the way. The question was, Why?

  Scamarcio retched again, and when he looked up, the woman was back and staring down at him, pitiless. ‘You won’t be feeling better any time soon.’

  ‘What have you given me?’

  She waved the question away and took a seat. She crossed her legs, and then, almost as an aside, said, ‘Bendamustine Hydrochloride has a more permanent effect on a foetus, unfortunately.’

  Scamarcio frowned, his head swimming. ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, didn’t you know?’ she asked, feigning surprise.

  ‘Know what?’

  She smoothed along the outline of her narrow top lip. ‘Your girlfriend is expecting. Sorry, was expecting.’

  Scamarcio bowed his head and retched again. When he’d got his breath back, he said, ‘Spare me the amateur mind games. She’s not.’

  ‘She was about to tell you — I think she was waiting for the right time.’

  Scamarcio tried to swallow, his tongue was bulky, and he couldn’t get the saliva down. There was a new ringing in his ears, and his breath felt shallow. He turned hot, and then cold. Was that the big surprise Fiammetta had mentioned? He told himself it might all be coincidence; this woman was just bluffing. But when he looked into her eyes he saw an unmistakeable look of triumph that made him sweat. He retched again, then vomited bile — this time all over her leopard-print shoes.

  Scamarcio couldn’t be sure if minutes had passed or hours. He was running a high fever, and his thoughts were careering into each other, cancelling each other out, then fighting and coalescing to build frightening new realities. He was so thirsty he would have cut off a limb for water. There was a fire inside his chest — whatever he did, whatever position he took, he just couldn’t cool down. His breaths were coming in quick, rapid bursts, and he couldn’t even them out — the fever wouldn’t let him.

  Then — he didn’t know how much later — he woke from a nightmare in which a baby had been crying. He hadn’t been able to understand what was wrong until he’d realised that there were flames beneath its cot. But when he’d tried to run over to extinguish them, his legs had turned to stone.

  Scamarcio looked up at the searing blue beyond the window. He felt cold and spent. He was too exhausted to care anymore, there was no discernible emotion. Had thousands died? Perhaps … But when he thought of Fiammetta, the panic started to build. He had to find her.

  He shivered. His cotton jacket was stuck to his body — the damp from his shirt had soaked through and the wet fabric was now cooling against his skin. He pulled off the jacket, his arms heavy. As he tried to peel off the sleeve, his fingers passed over something smooth and hard. He felt around in his pockets, but they were empty. After a few moments searching, he realised that the mystery object was inside the lining. There must have been a rip in his pocket, and it had fallen through. He quickly found the tear and felt around inside the lining until his fingers grasped something cool and hard. When he pulled it out, he discovered his blue Bic lighter, glinting in the thin shaft of light from the window.

  He sighed. His lighter was a fat lot of good without a fag to smoke. It felt like another cruel twist of fate, but he slipped it into his trouser pocket.

  He rose shakily, his head swirling and his ribs aching, and walked towards the wall. When he touched it, the stone was slightly damp. He paced along the edge, tracing the contours, feeling for a break; somewhere a camera might be concealed, or a two-way mirror, but he found nothing. He glanced up at the ceiling, but it was bare. Where was he? It just seemed like a normal room. He walked over to the wooden door. It looked thick, but there was only one large bolt and no spy-hole.

  For the lack of anything better to do, he hammered on the wood, then shouted ‘Hey!’ when no response came. He pushed himself against the door, but it wouldn’t budge. ‘Hey!’ he yelled again, pounding the door with his fists, then immediately feeling weak.

  He returned to the bed and flopped down. A few seconds later, a sharp angle of light cut through the room.

  ‘Why the commotion?’ said the woman. Her voice was exaggeratedly calm, as if she were making a huge effort to maintain her cool.

  Scamarcio remained
sprawled. Her heels clicked towards him. When she was standing very near and no more clicks followed, she whispered, ‘I’m not in the mood.’

  All at once, he jumped up and thrust an arm under her chin, blocking her throat. With his other hand, he pulled out the lighter and lit the flame, bringing it to her skin. ‘Get off me! Get off me, you fuck!’ she screamed.

  He punched her in the stomach, then hit her across the jaw. She was now half-lying on the bed, arms splayed. He knew he should stop while he was still in control of his anger, but he also knew it wouldn’t be enough to immobilise her. He tugged back her head and slammed it against the wall so she passed out. His rage was building too quickly. He gripped his own fist and ran for the door.

  The makeshift cell gave onto another room, which was lined with shelves containing plastic binders and thick books that looked like manuals. There were maps on the walls and a few fluorescent safety vests hanging from hooks. A couple of desks stood in the corner, laden with computers and telephones.

  He came out into a hallway where he saw more fluorescent vests and a row of hard hats tacked to the wall. Below them were sandbags. There was no sign of the ginger-haired guy. Scamarcio felt a current of warm air against his cheek and turned to see a door ajar further down the hallway to his left. As he approached, he caught the unmistakable scent of freshly cut grass and jasmine. But beneath it was a different, chemical smell — like petrol, but not quite. It was headier, more intense.

  He opened the door, and his ears were immediately assaulted by a deafening boom. The air all around him was vibrating, humming. About thirty metres from where he was standing, two huge turbines were whirring: a Gulf Stream jet was pushing back from its stand, getting ready to taxi. It was being escorted by a small truck, two guys inside bobbing about like figurines. Scamarcio looked left, then right. There were two stationary planes to his right — small jets, not airliners. To his left, the concrete came to an end and a wide patch of mown grass took over. Terracotta flower pots bursting with geraniums marked the edges. Scamarcio’s first thought was, Private airfield. His second was, Run.

  He sprinted off across the grass, his legs already aching, and his lungs burning. Through the heat haze, he could see red brakelights passing behind the metal mesh of a fence some forty metres up ahead. There was shouting behind him, some kind of announcement on a loudspeaker, but he kept on running — he didn’t dare look back.

  As he neared the fence, he saw an entry gate with a sentry box. A car was at the barrier, getting ready to leave. The barrier was rising, the brakelights were dipping. Scamarcio ran as fast as his battered body would allow until he was through the barrier, the guard yelling at him to stop. He was almost on a road now, a dual carriageway, not a motorway — the traffic was moving fast, and there was very little verge. He kept running, horns blaring, then quickly fading. He noticed a truck in a lay-by some fifty metres ahead — it was heaving off, about to pull away. In an instant, he realised that this was it: his last hope.

  His muscles were screaming, and his right shoe was cutting into his flesh as he ran. He cried out from the pain as he hoisted himself up onto the moving ledge of the truck door just in time — it had almost left the lay-by. He hammered on the glass, his palms slipping as he tried to grab the handle. The driver swung towards the window, alarmed. He was a big guy, his hands covered with huge rings. Scamarcio noticed a skull and crossbones.

  ‘Open up,’ he yelled. He knew that in his current state he looked less than trustworthy. But he kept pounding on the glass, refusing to give up.

  23

  THE DRIVER LOOKED PETRIFIED — his hand was still on the gear lever, and he made no sign of being about to release the window. Scamarcio feared that he was about to speed away and throw him to the ground. But if it had been him, he’d probably have done the same.

  ‘Please, I’m Detective Scamarcio from the Flying Squad — open up. I can show you my credentials.’

  As soon as he said it, the guy’s eyes widened, and he took his hand off the gears. His fingers hovered over the central locking for what seemed like an eternity, then he suddenly seemed to make up his mind and pressed it. Scamarcio ran around the other side and jumped in.

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be asking otherwise.’

  ‘This is the SS675.’

  ‘That airfield?’

  ‘Viterbo.’

  ‘How far are we from Rome?’

  ‘About an hour.’

  ‘Can you get me to the city? I need to talk to my colleagues. I have no phone, no way to communicate.’

  ‘They’re saying those terrorists forced you into doing something bad.’

  ‘Not true,’ said Scamarcio. ‘Please, can you take me?’

  The guy just stared at him, confused now, as well as alarmed. ‘I’ve just been through Calais. What, with the crisis there, and the chaos here …’ The words petered out. He kept staring at Scamarcio. ‘My wife won’t believe it.’

  ‘Please?’

  The driver just looked at him, dumbfounded, then shook his head and pushed the truck into gear. They juddered away. Scamarcio noticed that he seemed to be spending a long time checking his wing mirror. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘No. There’s someone in a jeep trying to flag us down.’

  ‘Ignore them.’

  The guy’s gaze kept returning to the mirror. ‘I don’t believe this.’

  ‘They still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Scamarcio waited ten seconds until he asked again.

  ‘Hang on.’ The driver lifted a walkie-talkie from the dashboard and said, ‘Miki Three, do you read me?’

  There was a crackle on the line, and then a big, deep voice said, ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Can you get between me and that silver jeep in front of you? I’ll explain later.’

  ‘Sure,’ said the other driver, his tone a question.

  A few horns blared, then the guy turned from the mirror, his face pale.

  ‘They’ve got jammed up in traffic.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Scamarcio. He glanced at a digital display on the dashboard, which read 13:30. ‘Is that the right time?’ he asked.

  ‘Yep,’ said the guy, checking his mirror again.

  ‘You got a phone?’

  The guy frowned, but nodded towards a console below the dashboard.

  Scamarcio took out the handset and dialled Basile.

  ‘You’re alive,’ said the crime boss. He sounded more impressed than relieved.

  ‘Were you and Romanelli hit?’

  ‘We lost a few minutes — nothing serious.’

  ‘What the fuck was it?’

  ‘God knows, but it was professional. There were injured. Someone seems to have had the same idea about creating a distraction …’

  ‘Are you still near the site?’

  ‘I was going to give you another half-hour before calling it a day. Your spook friends were prepared to leave it a little longer.’

  ‘Has anyone been into the café?’

  ‘No-one’s been in; no-one’s come out.’

  ‘They didn’t send in the SWATs?’

  ‘After the bomb, it all went quiet. I reckon they were forced into a rethink.’

  ‘Get Romanelli and Federico and tell them to meet me at Flying Squad HQ in an hour.’

  ‘You wanna meet there?’

  ‘I’m out of options.’

  ‘You’ll understand if I prefer to keep my distance.’

  ‘Don’t sweat it. Just get them there, then head back to the Colosseum. Oh, and bring me a spare cap and sunglasses.’

  Basile sniffed. ‘Right.’

  ‘And a copy of the DVD.’

  ‘Will that be all?’

  The truck driver dropped him ten minutes away from Via S
an Vitale. He’d wanted to leave Scamarcio at Roma Ostia Station, but Scamarcio feared that the metro would be closed, and even if it was open the police would be a problem. There seemed to be more people on the streets now, and he wondered for a stupid moment if Basile had got it wrong — whether there had in fact been some kind of showdown or resolution.

  Scamarcio turned into Via San Vitale and stopped. Parked at the kerb, just a few metres ahead, was a white van with its side door open. Leaning against it, his right arm gripping the roof, was Scalisi. His huge forehead was drawn, and the underarms of his shirt were soaked with sweat. Scamarcio was surprised to see him; somehow he’d expected the Americans would have bundled him off and contained him by now. Yet here he was, keen to welcome him back.

  ‘Get in the van,’ snapped the colonel. As he drew closer, Scamarcio noticed that Scalisi was quite pale, and that his eyes were rimmed red with tiredness. His breath stank, and Scamarcio thought he could detect his poison this time: whisky.

  Scamarcio wanted to grab him by the neck, wring the truth about Fiammetta from him — but then he noticed an over-tanned and over-ripped musclehead jumping from the vehicle. He sprung onto the pavement, blocking Scamarcio’s way. ‘Get in the van,’ he parroted.

  Scamarcio ignored him and turned back to Scalisi. ‘I’ve had it with you and your American pimps. Where’s my girlfriend?’

  Scalisi just shook his head.

  ‘Spit it out, or I’ll take this to my boss, and then his boss. After that, perhaps I’ll have a word with the commissioner — send this right to the top.’

  The musclehead shoved him, and Scamarcio lunged back. In an instant, the thug had grabbed him by the wrist, spun him around in a violent pirouette, and rammed a rock-hard forearm up against his windpipe. Scamarcio was struggling to breathe, but could do nothing to dislodge him. The guy’s other hand quickly pinned back Scamarcio’s remaining arm in a vice-like grip.