‘You’re coming with us,’ panted the mutt.
The head of AISE rubbed tiredly at a patch of crepey skin beneath his right eye. ‘We need one final chat, Scamarcio. Then it will all be over.’
Scamarcio didn’t like the emphasis he placed on ‘over’. He considered his options. He couldn’t try to swing back, elbow the meathead in the gut, because both his arms were trapped. Neither could he duck down and wriggle free — the meathead’s grip was way too tight. He couldn’t even kick back with his foot because the guy was right behind him, like they were dancing some creepy, straight-jacket tango. When it came to options, he didn’t really have any. Where the hell were Basile and Romanelli?
‘Into the van,’ hissed the musclehead. Scamarcio caught a blast of Cool Water and an undercurrent of gum disease.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ boomed a voice from down the street. The meathead tightened his grip and turned, dragging Scamarcio around with him. Scamarcio was surprised to see Chief of Police Mancino standing stock-still a few metres away, as if he’d been frozen to the spot. He was flanked by two uniforms — legs apart, Berettas at the ready. The chief looked both shocked and furious.
‘Leave it alone, Mancino,’ cried Scalisi, his voice rising. ‘Leave it well alone. This is a matter of state security.’ He was almost screaming, and Scamarcio noticed a wave of red making its way up his neck.
‘The hell it is. Let go of my detective — right this minute!’
‘Let’s see what the home secretary has to say about that.’
‘Ring him,’ shouted Mancino, stabbing a finger towards Scalisi. ‘Ring him now!’
As he shakily extracted a mobile phone from his pocket, Scalisi wore the conflicted expression of someone whose bluff had been called. He began to tap a few digits, then seemed to think better of it.
‘Call him!’ yelled Mancino, now also red in the face.
Scalisi looked back at his phone, thought for a few seconds, and then resumed dialling. Scamarcio could hear the line ringing, and then a click, followed by a muffled greeting. The colonel introduced himself, then said: ‘Can you get to Flying Squad HQ? We have Detective Scamarcio. We need your input.’ The words were stilted.
Scamarcio caught another garbled sound before Scalisi cut the call. ‘He’ll be here as soon as he can,’ he said, his eyes dead.
‘Right, then, I suggest we all head inside and try to finally unravel this mess,’ said Mancino. ‘Get your monkey to release my detective.’
‘Get your officers to lower their weapons.’
‘You first!’
Scalisi grunted, then murmured something to the mutt that Scamarcio didn’t catch. He heard a sharp intake of breath before he was reluctantly let go. The mutt was glowering and sweating like a disgruntled golem, but Scalisi dismissed him with a quick flick of the wrist. ‘Take the van,’ he muttered.
The thug ran around the vehicle, jumped behind the wheel, and sped off, leaving Scalisi on the pavement like a rowdy passenger who’d been booted from a taxi.
‘Where’s Fiammetta?’ Scamarcio yelled, stepping closer. They were almost eyeball to eyeball. ‘What have you done with her?’
He turned to Mancino. ‘He took my girlfriend. They’ve beaten her up — told her all kinds of shit. I’m going out of my mind. Her health is at risk.’ He didn’t want to mention the pregnancy. ‘Please, Chief, make him tell us where she is. It’s unconstitutional. She’s being held illegally.’
Mancino just looked at him blankly and said, ‘Come inside, and we’ll resolve this. This fiasco should never have been allowed to escalate.’ It was clear that the dig was intended as much for Scamarcio as it was for Scalisi.
Mancino said nothing more and headed down the street towards HQ, his two officers tightly in step. Scamarcio shuffled behind them, occasionally looking back at Scalisi to check he was following. The spy chief had stopped and seemed to be trying to work out what to do. He was watching Mancino’s retreating frame as if he couldn’t make up his mind whether to run for it or face the home secretary.
Just as Mancino reached the steps of HQ, Basile drove up in a battered green Fiat and deposited Romanelli and Federico on the pavement. The chief of police scrutinised the driver of the Fiat for a long moment, then shook his head, apparently convinced his eyes were playing tricks. Then Mancino looked at Romanelli as if he seemed familiar, but he couldn’t quite place him. The chief ran a tired hand through his hair and continued on inside.
‘They’re wheeling out the big guns,’ said Romanelli, watching Mancino as he disappeared through the doorway. ‘You want us there for the debrief?’
‘Might be useful,’ said Scamarcio.
‘Federico’s squeamish.’
‘Why?’ asked Scamarcio, turning to the old man.
‘It’s a tangled tale. Romanelli will see you right.’ He paused. ‘Are you still planning to set something in motion?’
‘Possibly.’
‘If you need me, I’ll be near the café with Woodman.’ He headed back to the car. He had been about to get in when he patted his pocket. ‘I almost forgot — here’s one of the copies. Oh yeah, and this …’ He handed Scamarcio the DVD and a leather beret and Ray-Bans.
‘It’s July …’ moaned Scamarcio.
‘I believe that’s crime-boss chic year-round.’
Federico got back into the waiting Fiat with Basile, and they sped away.
Scamarcio wanted to ask Romanelli what was eating his friend, but instinct told him to let it lie. He glanced behind him to check on Scalisi, but he’d disappeared.
‘Fuck,’ hissed Scamarcio. He could guess what Scalisi was thinking: AISE was the law; he shouldn’t have to answer to the police. How the hell was Scamarcio going to find Fiammetta now? Would Mancino have any idea?
He took a breath and headed inside with Romanelli.
When they reached the squad room, the few detectives who were in stared at him as if he were a ghost. ‘What the fuck?’ whispered one as he passed.
Another, who Scamarcio had never liked, started shaking his head. He pushed his trendy glasses higher up his nose and said, ‘Scamarcio, as a friend I should warn you that you are now officially in deep, deep shit.’
‘Thanks for the searing insight.’
‘Fine, but did you know that Mancino’s just stormed past?’ he pointed to Garramone’s office. ‘He looked like he just caught his best friend screwing his wife.’
Scamarcio rolled his eyes as if to say ‘heard it all before’, and headed for the boss’s door. He knocked, and Garramone barked, ‘Enter.’ Just from that one word, Scamarcio knew he was furious.
Scamarcio stepped inside, followed by Romanelli. Garramone gave them a look he usually reserved for career criminals and said, ‘This had better be good, Scamarcio. This had better be fucking excellent.’
Uninvited, Scamarcio pulled out a chair opposite the chief’s desk, which looked like a hurricane had blown through it. He gestured to Romanelli to take a seat to his right. The place to the left was already occupied by a puce-coloured Mancino.
‘This is Alessandro Romanelli,’ said Scamarcio. ‘Until recently, he worked for AISE. I’ve brought him with me to help explain what is going on — what I’ve been doing these past hours.’
He saw a look of recognition cross Chief Mancino’s face.
‘These past hours?’ Garramone leaned forward, resting his forearms on a sea of crumpled and coffee-stained papers. ‘Scamarcio, you’ve been gone since nine yesterday morning. The whole country has been looking for you!’
‘That’s what I’m here to explain.’
‘Where’s Colonel Scalisi?’ asked Chief Mancino.
‘He’s scarpered.’
‘What?’ frowned Mancino.
‘Surely you didn’t expect him to stay?’
‘Scamarcio, remember that Chief Man
cino is your superior,’ muttered Garramone.
Scamarcio closed his eyes, then quickly opened them. He didn’t have time for irrelevancies. ‘You’ll understand when I talk you through it.’
‘So get on with it!’ shouted Garramone.
‘Shouldn’t we wait for the home secretary?’ asked Scamarcio.
‘What the fuck has he got to do with it?!’ Garramone was still yelling.
‘Sorry, I hadn’t got around to explaining,’ said Mancino. ‘I’ve called him in. He should be here shortly.’
‘Unless Scalisi has rung him to cancel it,’ offered Scamarcio.
Mancino grimaced at the thought, then seemed to have a change of heart and pulled out his mobile. ‘Yes, sorry, Massimo,’ he said after a few moments. ‘I just wanted to check you were on your way. Ah, OK, that’s great.’ Mancino cut the call. ‘He’s pulling up.’
‘I don’t get why he’s come,’ said Garramone, still furious. ‘He has enough on his plate.’
‘There are big issues here,’ said Mancino, seemingly about to say more, then thinking better of it.
A couple of minutes later, there was a knock at the door, and Garramone rose to open it himself.
Scamarcio caught a glimpse of one of the detectives outside, gaping at the famous politician and his entourage. Scamarcio tapped the side of his nose in a ‘mind your own business’ gesture. Why he was bothering to rile him, he didn’t know, but it did give him some small satisfaction when the guy flipped him the bird.
The home secretary was hovering in the doorway, shaking first Garramone’s, then Mancino’s hand. Scamarcio had never met him before, and was surprised to see that he was much taller than he appeared on TV. Home Secretary Massimo Costantini cut an impressive figure, with his wavy, silver hair, piercing blue eyes, and tanned skin. He was wearing a sharp blue suit that could have been Armani, and a crisp light-blue silk tie against a brilliant white shirt. For a man who was probably experiencing one of his most stressful days in the job, he was impeccably turned out.
Costantini mouthed ‘five minutes’ to a couple of preppy young flunkeys, and they hung back, the detectives in the bearpit throwing them semi-hostile glances.
Costantini turned from the handshakes to survey Scamarcio. ‘So, Detective, here you are finally — and apparently with quite a story to tell. We’re all very interested in hearing it, although I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say we really wish you’d chosen to share it earlier.’ The tone was ice, and Costantini’s eyes were hard with a rage he was making no effort to conceal. Scamarcio wondered if there was any hope of reaching him — persuading him that he’d acted, or at least tried to act, for the best.
Chief Mancino vacated the chair to Scamarcio’s left, waving the home secretary over, but Garramone said, ‘Let’s take the table.’ He motioned them over to a mahogany conference table at the back of the room. It was surrounded by new high-backed chairs that Scamarcio didn’t remember seeing before. His neck and shoulders were killing him, and he thought the new chairs looked highly uncomfortable.
‘Where’s Scalisi?’ asked the home secretary.
‘Long story,’ said Scamarcio, ‘but I think once you’ve heard what I’ve got to say, it might become a little clearer.’
When they were all seated, and Costantini had pulled a notepad and pen from his Louis Vuitton briefcase, he said, ‘Can we have the news on?’
Garramone nodded and stood up to swing around the small screen on the corner of his desk. He seemed to be having some difficulty operating the remote, and Scamarcio had to help him. He wondered why he hadn’t had the TV playing already. Maybe he could no longer watch.
The cameras were still focused on the bar near the Colosseum. The packs of emergency crews had swelled yet again, and the intense sunlight was bouncing off the windows of the café, making it hard to see anything through the small strip of glass not covered by the flags. Scamarcio was relieved that Ifran was still in there, but worried about the state of the hostages. Were they injured? Were they even alive? What was going on in the boy’s head? Did Ifran understand that Scamarcio was still trying to meet his demands, or did he think it was all over? Scamarcio didn’t really want to ask the question, but he forced himself: ‘Has there been any shooting at the café?’
The home secretary frowned as if just the sight of him was somehow distasteful. ‘No, not as far as we know. We haven’t heard anything, and we have laser microphones trained in all directions. Ifran and his men seem to be biding their time. For what, we do not know …’ He said it like he was expecting Scamarcio to provide the answer.
‘And the other locations? Are the hostages still in there?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the situation with all of them is unchanged?’
‘As far as we know, yes.’
Scamarcio suddenly felt a huge wave of gratitude towards Vincenzo Guerra for his role in getting the message through.
Costantini seemed to pick up on his relief and said quickly, ‘We have some wounded. Luckily, there’s a doctor caught up in the McDonald’s siege, and he’s doing the best he can. But the injured have been inside a long time. We must bring all of them out alive — they can’t become fatalities.’
Costantini pursed his lips and looked down, as if he couldn’t face their stares.
‘OK,’ said Scamarcio like a man who knew his time was up. He wanted to ask them about Fiammetta, get things moving, but he knew they’d need his story first. ‘I’ll start at the beginning …’
‘That would make sense,’ sneered Costantini.
Scamarcio quickly talked them through it, from the meeting at the café, to the drive with Scalisi, to the journey through Ostia and the discovery of the DVD. He realised that the whole thing sounded like some peculiar dream, and he understood that if he were hearing this for the first time, he, too, would have trouble believing it. When he arrived at the part about Ifran’s connection to Scalisi, Romanelli helpfully produced the surveillance photograph. The home secretary studied it, and then made a note. Scamarcio wondered what he had written: 1. Fire the Head of AISE, hopefully. When Scamarcio had finished talking, Mancino said, ‘Have you got the DVD?’
Scamarcio handed the disc over, and Garramone slipped it into his laptop.
Garramone pressed play, and the home secretary scratched his chin and frowned, as if he was watching a low-budget drama that failed to convince. After the second clip with the two girls stopped, Scamarcio drew their attention to the hidden audio.
Costantini made a few more notes on his pad and asked, ‘So this guy agreeing to get them something — the man they appear to be discussing in the audio — who do we think he is?’
‘Don’t you know? I thought you were looking for him — that you’d arrested him?’ asked Scamarcio, unbelieving.
Costantini just knotted his brows. When he turned to Mancino and Garramone, they looked equally blank.
‘But there was a whole appeal on the news for him,’ pushed Scamarcio.
Chief Mancino pinched his nose. ‘That might have come from the anti-terror squad, or Intel. Departments aren’t coordinating well today. It’s a lesson for the future.’
‘But surely the home secretary would know!’
Scamarcio looked at Costantini, but he still seemed bemused.
‘I’ll chase it up,’ was all he said. He glanced down at his notepad, and Scamarcio couldn’t get any sense of whether he was lying or not.
Scamarcio tried to regain focus. He talked them through the theory he and Rigamonti had formed when they were out in Torpignattara — that the Chechen was in fact Intel’s eyes and ears on the ground. Then he brought it all up to date with his encounter with the Americans. The home secretary paled, but said nothing.
‘The thing to remember,’ said Romanelli, speaking for the first time, ‘is that Ifran was being run by Scalisi. It was his pet project, his bid fo
r glory. Then Ifran comes to have doubts about the involvement of this Chechen and his possible links to Scalisi. From experience, I’d suggest that there is a US angle — they could well be behind this mystery Chechen.’
‘But why does Ifran want us to look into it?’ asked the home secretary.
‘Because he’s worried, and he didn’t know who else to ask,’ replied Romanelli. ‘He signed up to fight terrorism, not to stoke it. And he no longer trusts his handler, Scalisi.’
‘But what exactly has this Chechen done? He may have supplied arms, but we have no solid proof. We don’t know where he is to ask him, and—’
‘I just don’t get it,’ interrupted Scamarcio. ‘The police were after the Chechen; they were all over him out in Torpignattara. But now you’re telling me that you don’t know who he is?’
The home secretary opened his palms. ‘Detective, can’t you just let it go? The last twenty-four hours have been unprecedented. We’ve been rounding up a lot of people. Maybe when I consult my paperwork I’ll spot a match, but right now I don’t have it.’
Mancino was still shaking his head. ‘It’s not come across my desk,’ he said.
‘Mine neither,’ said Garramone.
Scamarcio wondered for a moment if they were all playing him for a fool.
‘So,’ said Costantini. ‘Let’s try to get this straight. We have this boy in the café who for some reason thinks you’re the man to help him tell the world about the Chechen. But Ifran didn’t tell you about his own connection to Colonel Scalisi — that’s significant.’
‘You think so?’ asked Romanelli, clearly unimpressed. ‘I think it just shows how isolated Ifran feels. He never expected Scamarcio to believe him, so he decided to let Scamarcio find out for himself.’
The home secretary displayed no discernable reaction. He finished scribbling something on his pad, then stared down at the ink, pen suspended in mid-air as if he were about to add more. ‘Mr Romanelli, our paths have crossed, haven’t they?’
‘I wasn’t sure you remembered.’
‘It just took me some time to place you, that’s all. How are you holding up?’
The Extremist Page 22