The Extremist

by Nadia Dalbuono

  ‘What do you mean?’ shot Scamarcio. Rigamonti, he noticed, had pulled out a notebook.

  ‘I took a look at banking and insurance, and there is abnormally high put activity over the past four days. Italian banks are not seen positively right now, so you’ve got to factor that in, but the trading is still way above the norm.’

  Rigamonti laid down his pen. ‘So it’s in the right place, then? You said before that banks would take the most direct hit.’

  ‘Yeah, but they haven’t. Meanwhile, the biggest activity has come in the past forty-eight hours. There’s a major aerospace firm outside Rome — you’ll have heard of it: Ferromeccanica. Someone’s bought over 3,000 puts on their stock. A colleague of mine was told about it just this morning.’

  Rigamonti and Scamarcio fell silent, not knowing what to make of it.

  ‘And then there’s Salucci motors, who trade on the MIB — they’ve seen nearly 4,000 puts since Monday. It’s mad. I mean, if you have a big terror event in the capital, those stocks will slide along with the rest, but I wouldn’t target them specifically. It makes no sense.’

  When Rigamonti and Scamarcio said nothing, De Blasi sighed. ‘Sorry guys, I’m at a loss,’ he opened his palms and sat down. ‘I dunno, maybe someone has info on those companies we don’t — maybe there’s some big surprise in the accounting coming.’ He stopped and shook his head. ‘Jesus, we really don’t need another Parmalat.’

  Scamarcio had been about to concur, when a thought struck him. ‘You said a put option gives you the right, but not the obligation to sell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what if you decide your asset isn’t going to slide; that you don’t want to sell it anymore?’

  Dino shrugged. ‘You simply don’t exercise the option.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Scamarcio, his voice rising. ‘They knew their plans were going to the wall, so they made new ones.’ He looked at Rigamonti. ‘They’ve put a bomb under them, that’s what they’ve done. They knew the Chechen wasn’t going to deliver, so they found new sites, and a new bomber. They needed to act quickly, so they could use events in Rome as cover.’ He paused. ‘Do you know when these two options expire?’

  De Blasi paled again. ‘I checked, ’cos I was curious. Both run till close of trade today.’

  Scamarcio pulled out his mobile and dialled Garramone. There was no time for hello. ‘There are bombs under the factories of Ferromeccanica in Rome and Salucci cars in Turin. All staff need to be evacuated, and the robots sent in.’

  ‘Scamarcio, is that you? What the fuck?’

  ‘The Chechen’s note made sense — whoever was backing him was planning to profit from the attacks. Then he let them down, and they switched to a new plan. Get squads to these sites and get the workers out. If I’m wrong, then fire me.’

  Scamarcio killed the call, not wanting Garramone to waste a second. He didn’t care if he was wrong; he just didn’t want to be right.

  32

  THAT EVENING’S NEWS WAS wall-to-wall with the two explosions. They had killed over three hundred and torn a huge hole through Italy’s already wounded manufacturing heart.

  Scamarcio’s interrogation seemed to have gone on for days. Why had the bombs been set up to fail at some sites and wired correctly at others? Why had the terrorists not worn suicide vests? What was the Chechen’s real role, and why was he communicating with Scamarcio and no-one else?

  At a certain point, the questions had stopped and were replaced with a series of complicated non-disclosure forms, which Scamarcio had been asked to sign. No precise threat had been articulated, but one wasn’t needed: he knew that if he wanted to keep his job he must comply — Rigamonti’s earlier piece in La Repubblica had already ruffled too many feathers.

  It was, of course, a one-way street: Scamarcio’s enquiries to AISE about Colonel Scalisi were shot down. Likewise, his questions about why the Americans had held him captive, and whether anyone was actually holding them to account.

  There was, however, one issue that the home secretary and his remaining intelligence chiefs had deigned to address. The trades against the two leading FTSE MIB companies had been handled by two respected brokerage firms. Under police caution, their employees claimed the options had been purchased by the same trader: a twenty-nine-year-old Anglo-Italian New Yorker by the name of David Morrati. It came as quite a coincidence when Morrati was found some hours later, hanging from a light fitting in his apartment near Central Park. The trail seemed to grow cold as quickly as Morrati’s decomposing corpse.

  When Scamarcio had finally shaken off the spooks, he sat down with Garramone for a beer in the café at the end of Via San Vitale, which was usually avoided by his colleagues due to its greasy brioche.

  ‘Christ,’ was the boss’s opener. ‘I’m going to move you to Vice for a quiet life.’

  Scamarcio still felt he owed him an explanation — that he hadn’t made his point well enough. ‘I know it looks off, but I was just trying to do what I thought best. I had to believe Ifran would blow those sites, because if he did, and I hadn’t tried to find that DVD, I’d have those deaths on my conscience forever.’

  ‘Sure, I get that now … After what happened today,’ Garramone added quietly.

  ‘As for Milan, I had no idea whether I was on a fool’s errand. It didn’t become clear until too late.’ He fished in his pocket and pulled out half the wad of hush money Scalisi had given him for the photo. ‘That’s for the victims’ families.’

  Garramone riffled through the pristine notes, then said, ‘Fuck!’

  ‘Scalisi parted with it willingly.’

  ‘Again, what the fuck, Scamarcio?’

  He just waved the question away and sank back into silence. He could think of nothing but the carnage he’d seen on TV.

  ‘No point beating yourself up,’ tried Garramone. ‘I don’t think you were really meant to find out in time — you just stumbled upon it at the last minute.’ He paused. ‘The picture’s becoming a little clearer now. AISI discovered a diary belonging to Ifran. It seems like he no longer knew which side he was on. He was a very confused young lad.’

  ‘I’m not convinced. I still think he was trying to do the right thing.’

  Garramone studied his beer. He seemed to be debating whether to share something. ‘There’s a war being waged,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Isn’t there always?’ muttered Scamarcio.

  ‘The prime minister is locked in combat with AISE.’

  Scamarcio looked up. ‘Really?’

  ‘The Brits weren’t far wrong when they said Scalisi and his cronies were pushing for wider powers. The PM had been keeping an eye out, apparently, knowing there was trouble brewing. Now this Scalisi business has thrust it all into the open. There are major firings in the offing — they don’t like to call it a purge, but in essence that’s what it will be.’

  Scamarcio raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Could be you end up with a well-placed contact inside AISE.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Alessandro Romanelli is set for the top job, if I’ve heard correctly. They’re trying to persuade him to come back.’

  ‘Oh …’

  ‘I’ve got another piece of good news. Well, some might interpret it as good, but in your case I’m not so sure.’

  Scamarcio felt his shoulders tense; he didn’t know whether it was excitement or fear. ‘Spit it out,’ he said, taking a long drink.

  ‘The president wants to award you the medal of honour.’

  He almost choked.

  ‘Steady on,’ said Garramone. ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’

  33

  FIAMMETTA LOOKED TIRED. ACTUALLY, if he thought about it, he’d never seen her look quite so drained. There were deep, grey grooves beneath her eyes, and her skin was pale and drawn.

  ‘Let’s go for a
drink,’ he tried.

  ‘I don’t feel like it.’

  ‘You always feel like a drink.’

  ‘Well, today I don’t.’

  The question was still there, hovering between them, but he couldn’t bring himself to voice it. He needed to know, but he was scared of knowing. He was unsure of his own reaction; he didn’t trust himself not to run screaming for the hills. After all this time, he was still working hard to get a grip on himself, salvage the inner wreck.

  ‘Why don’t we go for dinner, then? There’s that Thai place round the corner.’

  She smiled unconvincingly. ‘If you like …’

  They left the flat and headed out into the dusty chaos of a Rome summer evening. The heat was still throbbing off the pavement in long, suffocating blasts, and the air was heavy with a confusing blend of warmed citrus, fried garlic, and overworked drains. Colour had returned, the people keen to taste their freedom. With so much energy all around, Scamarcio’s plans to wait until later vanished. There was so much life, so much hope on the streets, that he suddenly wanted to be a part of it. ‘Are you pregnant?’ he asked, still walking, not even looking at her.

  Fiammetta came to an abrupt stop, causing someone behind her to curse. ‘What?’

  ‘Are you pregnant?’ His tone was unintentionally cold. He didn’t know why — perhaps he was angry that she hadn’t told him. Perhaps he was angry that she’d let it happen. Perhaps he was just trying to protect himself.

  She turned. There was a hardness in her eyes that he hadn’t seen before. ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Those Americans said you were.’

  She frowned. ‘Why would they think that?’

  ‘Maybe they got it from Scalisi …’

  She said nothing.

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘No,’ she said softly. There was a lost look in her eyes that suggested this wasn’t the end of it. But he was too blindsided by his emotions to focus. It felt as if someone had kicked him in the stomach; the disappointment was so intense, so biting that he almost couldn’t take the weight of it. He wanted to sit down, but he couldn’t see a wall.

  ‘Leo, are you all right?’

  He had been about to lie, fob her off, but he could no longer be bothered. ‘No. I’m gutted.’

  ‘You’re … disappointed?’

  ‘Of course I’m fucking disappointed.’

  She looked at him, her eyes wide with concern, but then the sound of a car screeching to a stop made them turn. A silver Bentley had pulled up at the kerb. A tall grey-haired chauffeur emerged and opened the back door. In an instant, Dante Greco materialised. Like an evil spirit escaping from a bottle, thought Scamarcio. Greco wore a light-blue shirt and pale chinos, but without his cashmere coat he seemed naked.

  ‘Leone,’ he said, turning up his nose as he caught a whiff of the summer drains. He studied Fiammetta from head to toe, then gave her a long approving stare.

  Scamarcio’s mouth turned dry. ‘Give us five minutes,’ he said, nudging her towards the window of a nearby shop.

  ‘I’m not happy,’ snapped Greco.

  Scamarcio clenched his jaw. Why couldn’t that little shit Basile have waited? He’d given him the rest of Scalisi’s hush money — a quarter of a million euros, for Christ’s sake — that was supposed to buy him some time. ‘Is this about Torpignattara?’

  Greco pressed the heels of his hands and fingertips together and shook them up and down. ‘How dare you promise favours on my behalf to the little league? What gives you the right?’

  ‘I was in a bind — I needed Basile’s help. I didn’t know who else to ask.’

  Greco stabbed a finger into his chest. It hurt. ‘Just remember this: every time you use my name, I will use yours, Scamarcio.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You know exactly what it means.’

  With that, Greco turned and disappeared back inside the Bentley.

  Scamarcio watched as the car evaporated into the dusk. ‘When will it be over?’ he sighed.

  ‘You’re about to receive the medal of honour,’ said Fiammetta, reappearing beside him. ‘Buck up.’

  34

  THE MEAL HAD BEEN good, but there was still something unsaid occupying the space between them — some secret doubt that neither of them was able to acknowledge. Its presence felt dark, and Scamarcio worried that it might signify the start of a bigger problem — perhaps even the beginning of the end. Fiammetta hadn’t said so, but he wondered whether the fact she’d gone so long without hearing from him had been a turning point — whether this was something she couldn’t forgive, regardless of whether he was at fault or not.

  He poured himself a large glass of Amarone and sat at his living-room window, trying to work it all out. Are things going wrong? Was she even telling the truth about the pregnancy? Did she lose a baby?

  His mobile buzzed. There were half a dozen new emails, some disturbingly headed ‘Congratulations’. Then he spotted a sender he didn’t recognise — an Ivan Lovov. He opened the email. There was no ‘Dear Mr Scamarcio’, no introduction.

  Don’t give up, my friend! Take a trip to the States — start with a little outfit on Wall Street called Mason, Simons and Brown. Then pay a visit to Julius Nevitt (212 645 3618).

  These men had everything that money can buy, but now they’ve lost their most vital asset: immunity. I am stripping it from them piece by piece, favour by favour, bribe by bribe. And you are helping!

  Sleep tight, my friend.

  ‘The Chechen’

  Scamarcio emptied the glass. Whoever these men were, they’d worked hard to stay hidden. Could he really be the one to smoke them out?

  He turned. Fiammetta was standing in the doorway, a hand on the wall. ‘I owe you an apology.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I haven’t been honest with you.’

  She’s been having an affair, was his first thought. His second was, Who? Someone from TV? Some sleazy producer, or that fake-tanned arse of a host on her show? He took a breath. No, Fiammetta is better than that.

  ‘What?’ was all he could come up with.

  ‘I am pregnant. I just needed time to understand how I felt. Your question took me by surprise — I realised that, with everything that had happened, I hadn’t had a proper chance to think things through.’

  ‘Think things through?’ he echoed, his mind suddenly vacant.

  ‘I’ll be the mother. I’ll be the one giving birth — the one looking after the baby. It’s a huge change; my life will never be the same.’

  Scamarcio was silent.

  ‘I …’ She hesitated, gave up. After a long moment, she said, ‘I do want this baby. I’m sure of that now.’

  She looked scared, standing there in the doorway — as if she knew she was throwing her cards into the wind with no idea where they might scatter.

  Scamarcio said nothing, didn’t move. ‘But they told me they’d harmed you … harmed the fetus …’

  She shook her head. ‘One of them punched my face. That was it.’

  She was standing quite still, as if she feared the slightest movement might change the course of her life. He knew he should walk over and embrace her, but he didn’t feel like it. He wasn’t in the mood.

  ‘Aren’t you going to give me a hug?’ she said quietly.

  He rose slowly. He felt like he was carrying some dead weight. He walked towards her and pulled her to him, but he didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. He felt her hot tears against his neck and knew he should say something. But the words wouldn’t come.

  His mind hurtled forward. Everything would change now: their life together, his work. There’d be someone else to think of — someone who’d need protecting. He thought about his father and how he’d died. Would he make that same mistake? Would he let his child suffer because of his own flawed choices
?

  He remembered the new email from the Chechen. One day, Scamarcio would try to find the answers, but it couldn’t be now. But then a new, more troubling thought hit him: was it already too late? A child would be his weak spot, his Achilles’s heel. For the first time, he’d be truly vulnerable. Sure, he might want a baby with this challenging and beautiful woman more than anything, but that wasn’t the issue. The issue was, could he? Was it fair to allow a child into his world? Wouldn’t it mean a life of paranoia, a life of constant worry for both he and Fiammetta? He wasn’t sure of the answer, and it frightened him. It frightened him more than anything had ever frightened him before.

  Acknowledgements

  I’D LIKE TO THANK my lovely agent Norah Perkins at Curtis Brown, and the superb team at Scribe for their continued encouragement and razor-sharp feedback. I’d also like to thank my husband Marco for putting up with my mood swings. He and our two little monsters constantly remind me of what’s truly important in life.

  Letter to my readers

  IT HAS MEANT A lot to read all the comments from readers who have taken the trouble to contact me. Thank you.

  If you enjoyed The Extremist, I’d be very grateful if you could write a review. It need only be a few words or so, but it makes a big difference and helps new readers discover the Scamarcio series.

  I’d also welcome hearing your thoughts. What did you make of Scamarcio? And what would you like to see happen next in his life?

  You can reach me through Twitter, Goodreads, or my website (nadiadalbuono.com). I read every message and will always reply.