The Extremist

by Nadia Dalbuono

  ‘He doesn’t want me to say. He says they are important sites.’

  ‘What kind of explosives?’

  ‘He says it will be big.’

  ‘We got some of this following your conversation with the home secretary. We’d understood they’d blow the sites if you didn’t keep to the terms Ifran set — terms which you chose not to share …’

  He broke off, and a new voice came on the line. ‘Scamarcio, this is Gianluca Bianchi from AISI. What the fuck are you playing at?’

  ‘It’s as I was telling the negotiator: they have the sites wired — they’re threating to blow them if you raid the hostage locations.’

  ‘So you didn’t give them what they wanted?’ Scamarcio sensed that Bianchi had been briefed on Ifran’s earlier request, but preferred not to discuss it in public.

  ‘It became irrelevant. These new guys want something different — Ifran’s dead, so they’re calling the shots now.’

  ‘What are their terms?’

  ‘No more drones out of Sigonella into Libya.’

  ‘They’re defensive strikes.’

  ‘Doesn’t wash. And they want three helicopters to take them to Libya.’

  Barkat snatched the phone. ‘And before you think you’ll stuff those helicopters with elite forces, think again. If anything happens to us before we reach Libya, our friends will know and they’ll blow your city to shreds.’

  ‘How could they possibly know if we kill you when you’re 20,000 feet up?’

  Scamarcio winced: the guy from AISI didn’t seem to be favouring the diplomatic approach. Perhaps after more than thirty hours he could no longer be bothered.

  ‘They’ll know — you need to believe me that they’ll know, fuckwit.’

  Barkat handed the phone back, his neck red. There was a tense silence on the line before the AISI guy said, ‘Thanks, but no thanks. We’ll take our chances.’

  Scamarcio didn’t think it was his decision alone to make, then remembered the key question. ‘They want to talk to the prime minister. They want you to give me his number.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Or else. They’re still holding a shitload of people, remember.’

  27

  SCAMARCIO WONDERED IF THE message he’d sent with the diabetic woman had got through. That message, coupled with his most recent call to the negotiators, should have set something in motion. But there was no way of knowing.

  From his position at the table, Scamarcio watched Woodman and his crew whispering in a huddle. One of the terrorists had also been watching and walked up and kicked Woodman in the small of the back. ‘Shut the fuck up, prick!’ he screamed in English. Woodman and his colleagues quickly fell silent.

  ‘If they do provide the helicopters, what will happen to all the hostages?’ Scamarcio asked Barkat, who was chewing on a dirty nail and scrolling through something on his mobile.

  ‘We’ll let them go. We’ll tell them to wait five minutes so we have time to leave, and then they’re all free.’

  ‘But all this is contingent on being able to talk to the prime minister?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Appearances. Our media arm wants us to demonstrate a position of strength. Speaking with the prime minister would help with that.’

  ‘Ah, so it’s just a PR stunt.’

  ‘Kind of,’ said Barkat dispassionately. He still hadn’t looked up from his phone.

  ‘I need to talk to the negotiators again.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t think I spelt it out clearly enough. I want another try.’

  Barkat frowned, then looked up. ‘No funny business.’

  ‘No funny business,’ Scamarcio repeated.

  The call was patched through, and the same negotiator picked up. ‘This thing about the prime minister,’ said Scamarcio. ‘Don’t underestimate it. It all hinges on that: once they get the call, everyone goes free — think of the kids at the preschool.’

  ‘A: we don’t believe them. B: it would set a dangerous precedent,’ said the negotiator, his tone neutral.

  ‘I understand that, but you guys have got to consider how it’s going to look if those kids are killed. If the prime minister intervenes and he’s seen to be saving lives by doing so, that would have a hell of a lot of positive play in the press. From where I’m sitting, that’s worth considering. Italians are pragmatists — sticking to the rules doesn’t always score points.’ Barkat frowned tightly and nodded.

  ‘We need time,’ said the negotiator.

  Scamarcio felt a spark of hope. He turned to Barkat. ‘They can’t get this sorted immediately — you know that. You’ll have to give them several hours.’

  ‘Three hours,’ snapped Barkat.

  ‘Four,’ tried Scamarcio.

  ‘Three hours, fifteen.’

  Now he was just being petty. ‘He wants it sorted in three hours and fifteen,’ relayed Scamarcio.

  He heard the negotiator take a breath. ‘Tricky.’

  ‘Sure. But what alternatives do we have?’

  ‘Leave it with us.’

  The line went dead. Scamarcio knew full well that calling up the prime minister and asking for a decision would take no more than five minutes — given today’s events he would be easily contactable. But now he understood why the negotiators were playing for time: the authorities were spooling back through the CCTV, trying to see who had wired the Colosseum and where — and they were doing the same for the Vatican. Once they’d established that, they’d be sending in the bomb squads. It was now up to Scamarcio to keep Barkat sweet and help him pass the time.

  ‘Barkat, what I really don’t get is why you want to go to Libya? Why don’t you want to die in the fight like the rest of them?’ he tried.

  Barkat said nothing, just looked the other way, checking his men still had the line of hostages in sight.

  ‘How did you fall into this?’

  Barkat looked back from the line. ‘If you think it’s a case of falling into it, then you understand nothing.’

  ‘Enlighten me, then.’

  Barkat sat up straighter. ‘We’ve suffered decades of imperialism and exploitation. It’s time to rebuild our empire.’

  ‘But you don’t even live over there. You’ve been in Italy — what? Ten years? Twenty?’

  ‘But I’m not Italian.’

  ‘Why do you say that? You were educated here, you speak the language as well as I; you grew up surrounded by Italians; you lived and breathed our way of life.’

  ‘But that’s where you’re wrong. We keep to our own world — we don’t mix.’

  ‘Whose fault is that?’

  ‘I’d say it’s by mutual consent.’

  ‘But I don’t get why you want to go to Libya. Don’t you want to die a hero?’

  ‘We’ll still be heroes.’

  Scamarcio fell silent and studied the young man in front of him. He noticed the smart mobile phone, the gold bracelet at his wrist, and the chain at his neck. An idea was beginning to form. It took him by surprise and turned him cold. ‘What did he promise you?’ he asked after a few moments.

  Barkat stopped playing with his phone. ‘Who?’

  ‘The Chechen, of course.’

  Barkat said nothing. He got up from the table and approached his men. He whispered something, and then they all looked over at Scamarcio. He stared back, his chest tightening. Why had he pushed it? Curiosity? He’d probably die knowing, when it would have been better to survive ignorant.

  A mobile rang. Barkat put his phone to his ear, his eyes still fixed on Scamarcio.

  ‘Good,’ was all he said, then, ‘No.’ He ended the call and shoved the mobile back into the pocket of his combat jacket.

  ‘I re
ckon it was at least a million euros,’ shouted Scamarcio across the room.

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’ screamed Barkat.

  ‘And you call yourself warriors? Mercenaries, more like.’

  ‘Shut up or I shoot!’ hollered Barkat.

  ‘Do I look like I care?’

  Barkat moved over to Scamarcio fast and punched him hard across the mouth. ‘Silence!’

  Scamarcio’s jaw was pounding again, and he felt sure it was broken. He tasted blood, but all he could ask himself was, Why is Barkat so on edge about the Chechen? Was it because he’d been told never to reveal the true identity of the people funding him?

  But Scamarcio knew he’d gone far enough for now. From here on in, it would be a waiting game. He prayed the authorities had an army of analysts going back through the CCTV. It was the only way they’d get the information in time.

  He glanced at the five terrorists. Then his gaze switched to Woodman and his cameraman, sitting sullen and cowed, their hands in their laps. As he looked at them, Scamarcio thought to himself, Just maybe?

  28

  SCAMARCIO KEPT STARING AT Woodman and Jake, but Barkat started to notice, so he turned to look at one of the other hostages — the balding man in his mid-fifties with dark sweat patches under the arms of his once pristine shirt. Barkat glanced away again, preoccupied, and Scamarcio immediately returned his gaze to the Americans, willing one of them to look up. But they didn’t. He could feel Barkat’s eyes on him again, so he bent down and started pulling off his right shoe. He was almost afraid to see what had happened to his heel. It was now giving him as much pain as his jaw, which seemed crazy.

  The back of his sock was wet with blood, and he decided not to remove it for fear of infection. He pulled on the shoe again, and could clearly feel something biting into his skin. He removed the shoe a second time, took off the sock, and examined the bruised and bloodied skin. It looked nasty, but it would have to wait.

  He glanced up at the Americans, but they were still staring into nothing, looking like they’d given up. Jesus, thought Scamarcio, show some initiative. He went to put his shoe back on, but as he did so, his finger caught against something in the lining. There was a thick lump the width of a 50-cent coin inside the canvas where it covered his heel — that’s what had been causing him all this trouble.

  He looked to see what Barkat was doing and, satisfied he wasn’t being observed, examined the shoe under the table. There was a small round protrusion sitting just above the stitching at the back. The blue stitches looked as if they had been opened, and then neatly resewn, but the new stitches formed a darker, thicker line when he compared them with those of the left shoe. He checked Barkat again — he was talking to the smallest, youngest-looking of the three terrorists. Scamarcio felt his left shoe — there was no lump under the canvas.

  He thought back. What could have happened to his shoes in the last twenty-four hours? He was pretty sure that lump hadn’t been there when he’d left his flat yesterday morning, and his shoes had only started to bother him in the past day, really. His mind suddenly flashed on his bare feet on the floor of the room where the British had questioned him. They’d brought back his shirt and jacket, but had claimed to have forgotten the shoes. They’d handed them over just before he left. You sly fuckers, he thought. Then, in the next instant he tapped his heel. ‘Hey,’ he whispered. ‘If you’re listening, tell NCOS that they’ll need to stand by for entry. We’re going to try something from the inside.’

  ‘Why are you muttering?’ yelled Barkat from across the room.

  ‘Like I told you, I’m losing my mind,’ shouted Scamarcio, hoping Woodman would finally glance round. He did. Scamarcio stared at him, unblinking. Woodman just stared back, perplexed.

  Scamarcio sank back into a bored silence and noticed a paper napkin dispenser on the table in front of him. He pulled out a few sheets and began making origami birds, trying not to think about Fiammetta, trying not to worry about the baby, trying not to wonder if it had ever existed. How would he feel if she was pregnant? He knew it was too dangerous to allow his mind to go there. He couldn’t be railroaded by emotion; he had to stay sharp.

  After he’d observed a dense column of ants cross the floor beneath his table and then return fifteen times with tiny crumbs of bread on their backs, after he’d counted over twelve different configurations in the chimes from a nearby church, and watched as the small strips of daylight surrounding the black flag on the window dimmed to almost nothing, Scamarcio finally used up the last serviette, and finished with the birds. Fifty swans now covered his table, miniature and pristine, but destined never to take flight.

  ‘Fifteen minutes left until the deadline,’ announced Barkat. He looked back at his phone, nonchalant, as if he was simply counting down the minutes until his favourite show was due on TV.

  It was now or never. ‘Give me your rifle!’ yelled Scamarcio.

  Barkat just shook his head, irritated, as if he really did believe Scamarcio was mad.

  ‘Give me your gun!’

  ‘Shut up, cretin!’

  Scamarcio suddenly started bashing his head against the table, like a guy possessed. Birds scattered onto the floor in all directions. The four terrorists all turned to look at him. He heard murmurs among the hostages, then shouts. ‘Stop it!’ Barkat was screaming. ‘Stop it, you moron!’

  ‘We need to kill him,’ said one of the terrorists. ‘Now, Barkat!’

  Scamarcio heard triggers being released, breath being held. Please, someone have some initiative, he prayed.

  ‘Aaaaaaaaaargh.’ There was an almighty roar, like in a rugby haka, and Scamarcio looked up to see the cameraman, Jake, swinging a fist into the side of Barkat’s face. The blow sent him crashing into the wall. One of the other terrorists turned and ran at him, but Woodman and his presenter, along with a young male hostage, managed to wrestle him to the ground. Scamarcio caught the glint of something metallic in Woodman’s hand.

  Jake was still striking Barkat, again and again, until he slid to the floor, where Jake began kicking him while he was prone. But Barkat wasn’t their only problem.

  A third terrorist was aiming his rifle at Jake, and, with a sick feeling, Scamarcio knew he wouldn’t be able to get there in time. The young hostage apparently realised the same thing and threw himself on the terrorist as if he was trying to ride piggyback. The other hostages were now all up off the floor and helping pull at the terrorist’s legs and arms, dragging him down. He landed with a crash.

  Barkat was writhing on the ground, blood gushing from a wound in the side of his head.

  Scamarcio turned and saw that Woodman and the second terrorist were now locked in hand-to-hand combat, the blade in Woodman’s hand grinding slowly back and forth between them. Scamarcio suddenly realised that, with his other hand, the terrorist was reaching for a small pistol at his belt. He dove at him, wrenched the gun from his hand, and shot the man in the head, splattering Woodman and his assistant, Clare, with blood and brain matter.

  Clare just blinked a few times and wiped her face with her sleeve. She seemed preoccupied with what was happening to her right. Scamarcio followed her gaze, and saw that the third terrorist was on the floor, the hostages all piled on top of him. We can’t kill them all, thought Scamarcio. We need answers. But then a gunshot exploded, and he turned to see Jake sprawled on his back, blood seeping from his chest.

  Barkat was attempting to sit up, his rifle shaky. Scamarcio ran over and tried to punch him in the jaw, but missed. His vision was too blurry from blood — whose, he wasn’t sure. He swung at Barkat a second time, this time connecting, and Barkat’s head fell back and slammed into the floor. His eyes closed, and his mouth drooped open, and Scamarcio knew that he’d be out for more than a few minutes.

  Scamarcio tried to breathe, tried to think. The hostages to his right were still wrestling with the third terrorist. Where was the fourth one? Sca
marcio hadn’t seen him in any of this.

  ‘If you can hear me, send in NCOS. But hold fire,’ he shouted, thinking there was no way they’d make him out above the din. But, whether by coincidence or design, just seconds later the glass door shattered, and a troop of snipers crashed in through the barricade of furniture. They resembled a black swarm, their green NiteSites pulsing like fireflies. The commander took a quick look at the scene and yelled, ‘Vests?’

  But before Scamarcio could reply, there was a bang, and one of the snipers started spinning and twitching. Scamarcio traced the direction of the fire and spotted the fourth terrorist, barricaded behind some tables at the back of the café. He was shooting wildly, panic taking hold. The SWAT team had their weapons trained on him in seconds, and he swirled and jerked like a manic marionette as their bullets took him down.

  ‘No vests,’ shouted Scamarcio.

  ‘Contain the suspect,’ barked the commander through his mike.

  The hostages parted as the snipers took over. The fourth terrorist was rolled onto his chest, and his arms bound with thick black wire. While this was being done, two other snipers were checking for a suicide vest. The procedure was being repeated on each of the other terrorists.

  ‘Any more?’ shouted the commander.

  ‘Just them,’ said Scamarcio, exhaustion hitting him like a freight train. ‘It’s just them, now.’

  29

  AS HE WAS LED outside behind the hostages, Scamarcio noticed a figure running towards him. It took him a while to realise it was Fiammetta.

  ‘Jesus,’ she gasped, touching his face, then examining her bloodied fingers.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’

  ‘This is crazy,’ she whispered, pulling him to her. ‘I thought I’d never see you again.

  He hugged her hard, just grateful for the sight of her, the smell of her.

  She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and looked away. He knew that she had a problem with emotion. She didn’t like to reveal her vulnerabilities, and the present situation would be putting that seriously to the test.