A Cold Flame

by Aidan Conway

  They had not kept Doctor Okoli long. He had his life to reorganize, again. He had not been able to put any substantive leads their way other than to indicate that plenty of well-protected diplomats in Rome were probably just as likely as any fascist organization to have been trying to kill him. He seemed perfectly credible and their background checks matched his own story. But his final wisecrack about male prostitution had set Rossi thinking more than a little. Okoli had not elaborated, had backtracked even and glossed over it, but the suggestion was that his reluctance might have been because he was working on something and may even have had confidential sources to protect.

  Responsibility for the bombing at the Israeli university had been claimed by an obscure, as yet unheard of organization. An e-mail from one of the galaxy of fundamentalist Islamist websites operating from within the safe havens of the Dark Web had been sent to Iovine, Iannelli’s Editor-in-Chief at The Facet. The organization proclaimed itself the Islamic Caliphate in Europe. ICE. Despite the heat, the effect was rather less than soothing. Iannelli too was able to confirm that it had been received. As for establishing the veracity or other of their claim, that was another story. These days anyone could and would put their name to an unsolved or unclaimed attack, if only for the headlines it would generate, or as a quick shot of publicity for some plan they had hatched.

  In this case, the details furnished by ICE did at least tally with what the Anti-Terror Squad had been able to ascertain from their analysis of the damage inflicted, the recovered bomb fragments, and their assessment of both the size of the device and its method of manufacture. There were also enough elements of novelty to suggest a different supply line to that of any known groups operating either in France or the UK where there had already been attacks. Neither was the hardware homemade. Military-grade explosive had been used, hence the compact nature of the device; all of which pointed to a strong possibility of a Balkan connection, as the best-case scenario. But that was reserved information.

  Then there was nothing. Rossi glanced down at his empty cup, unsatisfied and wanting more coffee. Where they were now was at that point of heightened and uneasy hiatus which accompanies any terror attack. Saturation news coverage, heavy doses of human interest stories – the near misses, the shattered lives, the solidarity of a nation and the wider civilized world. Security is ratcheted up as the media machine evokes the blitz spirit, encouraging, even lauding it as the irrepressible manifestation of a city or a people’s collective character. And yet to the jaded eyes of the cynical, it appears to be some futile attempt to follow the ball rather than get inside the mind of the playmaker and second-guess his next move. Like a gambler always seeing the number he was going to bet on coming up trumps for another. It’s too late.

  Rossi went back to the kitchen, and as he unscrewed the moka to make another espresso he began to prepare mentally for the day ahead.

  In the light of the high-level summit, the City Prefect’s office was planning a press conference to put on a united front and allay the fears of a jittery public and business community. The relevant ministers had convened the heads of police, the mayor, as well as the prime movers in the secret services and wider intelligence community, charging them with formulating a new, coordinated response. Without a clear road map, and without comparable past experience to go on, the Minister of State for Home Security had demanded a shake-up. In other words, he was saying they’d been caught napping or looking the wrong way on this one and they’d better get their act together or heads would roll. The blame game again.

  Maroni had summoned Rossi and Carrara and a handful of the most promising and senior operatives on the RSCS. Following a torrid crossing, their long-time chief had dropped anchor at Civitavecchia the evening after the bombing, having left Corsica only half-discovered. He was, to say the least, irascible when he finally pinned Rossi down to a telephone conversation. The meet was to be today and he wanted everyone to bring “something worth hearing”. Hence Rossi’s prompt start with hopes of getting some inspiration in the relative cool and quiet of the early hours.

  He placed the compact, bomb-like machine on the gas and stared into the quietly hissing flame.

  Maroni was an old hand. He’d been a raw recruit on the hunt for the last cells of the BR, the Brigate Rosse or Red Brigades in the late Eighties. Rossi had heard the stories, second-hand, and despite the ambivalence he sometimes felt towards his superior he had to give him some credit for past glories.

  As was to be expected, he’d suggested Rossi and Carrara drop the arson investigations. “Keep an eye on things, you know. Set up some standard surveillance op, but it’s hardly a priority now, is it? I mean, a pyromaniac with a grudge against motorists.”

  Early release for good behaviour, thought Rossi, but hadn’t Maroni been forgetting something?

  “And the attempt on Dr Okoli’s life?” Rossi had ventured, at which Maroni had paused then let out a sigh which Rossi knew all too well. Rossi’s consternation had inadvertently betrayed his growing interest in the Prenestina fire and its victims as well as Lallana’s apparent reluctance to probe deeper, not to mention the question of the timer, the locked security grilles. “Am I to presume you are trying to tie all that in with the Prenestina fire too?”

  “I think it’s a possibility,” Rossi had replied.

  “And who the hell gave you the authorization to dig around there?” Maroni had blurted back down the line.

  “Arson’s arson, isn’t it?” Rossi had countered. “And what if we’ve got a maniac on our hands who only needs a can of petrol and a box of matches to hold the city to ransom? Sooner or later we could be mourning another massacre.”

  There had followed another Maroni pause. Rossi had made his point but knew he was up against a brick wall.

  “The real point here, Rossi, is that you just can’t keep your nose out of another bloke’s patch, can you? The case is closed. If only you could summon up the same enthusiasm for what you’re supposed to be doing.”

  Rossi had let the relatively minor storm blow itself out, judging it wiser to withhold the details of his meetings with Tiziana and Dottor Piredda. But he still had to get Iannelli to spill the beans on Jibril, if there was anything to spill. With the chaos of the bombing, and the journalist’s reluctance to court publicity, they’d had to postpone their tête-à-tête. He’d get on to him today, after the meeting, if that didn’t throw up another mega work fest. Then there were the handover reports to do, which he hadn’t even started. And Yana wanted him to help her get settled back into her flat again.

  The sun came up over the rooftops and began to unleash its fury. Rossi felt he had rather too many irons in the fire.

  Fourteen

  The brothers were sitting cross-legged in the living room of the first-floor apartment in Torpignatarra. Newspapers and other printed materials lay strewn around the flat, on the floor on kilims and the cheap sofa draped with Arabic-style throws. A computer screen showed the fluttering black flags and the looping images of black-clad commandos tramping through dust against a brightly sunlit desert backdrop. Islamic chanting came from the soundtrack as Ali’s hijab-wearing wife left the room, backwards, curved over as if with age and with her eyes to the floor, having served the menfolk their refreshments. She closed the door behind her without making a noise. Ali, the Tunisian, unfolded a real black flag and placed it before them then began to speak.

  “My brothers. You all know the seriousness of your vow of allegiance to this flag and this organization. As your emir, under the guidance of Allah, I shall take all the final decisions. I am responsible for you but you are all, as I am too, willing to die for Islam in the name of vanquishing the infidel and freeing the Islamic people from tyranny in the lands not yet returned to the bountiful and just order of the Grand Caliphate. I will ask you soon, one by one, to speak your minds. We are all from different lands but in Islam we are one. This is our strength. This, and our faith. Soon, it will be our turn to act. The moment ripens day by day. Look aro
und you my brothers at the iniquity and the filth. And they say this is a religious city. It is a den of infidels. It is a rat hole, a sewer. And the vermin must be expunged. We must crush them until, on their knees, in the blood of their children, they acknowledge Allah as the one and only, just as we have knelt in our own children’s blood cursing the unbeliever and the collaborators for their crimes.

  “Now, brothers, I ask you to speak. How shall we act? Where must we strike? Share with me the fruits of your wisdom. Who will put himself forward for the supreme and wondrous act of martyrdom and take then his reward in paradise, where he will be served by angels and his fifty virgin wives will attend to him as is his right, as is written by the Prophet, peace be to his name, in the Holy Qur’an.”

  One of the company raised his hand.

  “Yes,” said Ali. “Speak, Jibril.”

  Fifteen

  “We’ve been given a pretty open brief here,” Maroni continued leaning forward again over his notes. One document was headed in bold lettering “Combined Security Committee”.

  “CSC want us to approach it intellectually and operationally, given the abundant expertise we have in both those fields. Which, as far as I’m concerned, means keeping your eyes and ears open and doing proper police work.”

  He sat back then and looked up, scanning the faces gathered round the oval table in the conference room. He forced a wry smile. “I prefer the operational side myself but as you know I am always ready to hear your suggestions.”

  “Ah, glad you could make it,” he said then as Rossi made his way into the meeting and grabbed a chair, more than a little late. “You know everyone, I’m sure. If not, get acquainted during the break.”

  Rossi sat down opposite Carrara on the other side of the table.

  “I had just been telling everyone here that you’re one of our top languages men, but Arabic’s not on your list, is it?”

  “Not as yet, sir,” Rossi replied.

  “Any suggestions as to how we might approach surveillance and intelligence gathering on the ground? The question’s open to you all,” Maroni continued, eying the gathered operatives one by one now over his rimless reading glasses.

  “I was wondering,” said Carrara, “about the tech side. Is that all in the hands of the usual crew? The Telecoms Police and their, shall we say, ‘subsidiaries’? I assume their GIS mapping is going to be central, but what about our role? Do we have any added capabilities?”

  “Well you can forget about ClearTech for now,” Maroni said, looking to close quickly on that score, “Judicial inquiry’s out on that one, as if you don’t remember.”

  Rossi and Carrara remembered very well. They hadn’t been able to prove it but, during The Carpenter case, they had found enough to suggest that the outsourced computer forensics had been manipulated to keep them off the trail. Silvestre, an integral part of the RSCS but never one to see eye-to-eye with either Rossi or Carrara, had been seconded to assist ClearTech just before. They didn’t think it had been any coincidence.

  “The problem,” said Rossi, cutting in, “as I see it, and from what I’ve gathered from Europol, and our French counterparts in particular, is that these groups, the radicalizers and the potentially radicalized, initially get together via chat rooms and forums. They sound each other out first and then they move onto secure encrypted platforms, things like Telegram. There’s very little you can do to intercept the coms.”

  “Well at least you’ve been doing some homework, Rossi,” said Maroni. “But I think our lot are on to that and aware of the limitations of straightforward phone taps.”

  “If they’re any good at all, they hardly even use phones,” said Rossi. “They use word of mouth, trust and community protection, couriers.”

  “So what’s the big idea then? I assume you’re going to get to your point.” The surprise contribution had come from Silvestre. He had popped up at the corner of the table where he’d been slouching, lying low as usual. “I say we pile into the ghettos and stop and search till they’re sick of the sight of us. See a car with a couple of Arabs in, we turn it over. Send ’em a message, the murdering scum.”

  “You’re assuming we’re dealing only with Arabs then Silvestre?” Rossi countered.

  “You know exactly what I mean. Come down heavy on the lot, I say. Show ’em who’s boss. Take no prisoners. Flush ’em out of their holes.”

  “But you use your head first,” said Rossi, “like Dalla Chiesa did with the Red Brigades. He played a long game, and he didn’t take any innocent lives doing it. If we go in like you’re proposing there’ll be an exponential growth of home-grown terror.”

  “All right, gentlemen,” said Maroni, “let’s keep on an even keel here. This is neither the Wild West nor the Seventies or the Eighties. I was there for some of that and I knew the general, personally. So let’s leave it at that.”

  “You can’t go antagonizing a whole community, if you don’t want a war,” said Rossi unable to resist the parting shot. “If you target them as Muslims it will be wholly counterproductive. That’s how their recruiters work, telling these kids that their religion is their common bond, regardless of their nationality. We’d be doing their job for them.”

  “And the government doesn’t want the city in a lockdown scenario either,” said Maroni. “It’s bad for the economy, and God know’s it’s already on life support. The moment is delicate, gentlemen, very delicate. And there’s the Olympic bid to consider. There’s a lot of pressure on that front too, I don’t mind saying.”

  Rossi shook his head.

  “We need to think like they do,” said Rossi. “Try to understand what these young guys want, and they will be young, for sure. Then we can isolate them within their communities, get them to rat on each other once they realize it’s in their interests. And we can take advantage of the fact that there aren’t any true no-go areas in Rome yet, at least not like in Brussels and Paris. We can still manage this situation.”

  Inspector Katia Vanessi had raised her hand to speak. New to the team, and the only woman on RSCS, she was an as yet unknown quantity as far as Rossi was concerned.

  “Every domestic terrorist act is underwritten by a prevailing sense of social injustice validating if not the means then certainly the end.”

  Rossi adjusted his position from a half slouch to interested. He could see Maroni was growing impatient.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I get the point but we are not the UN here. We are not delivering global solutions for the hard done by. We are trying to stop Islamist extremists planting bloody bombs in our city!”

  But Rossi wasn’t going to let it go yet.

  “In its day,” said Rossi, “the Red Brigades had a wide support base, and they did have a certain Robin-Hood quality, at least initially. But is that the case here? Putting bombs in public places?” he said, letting his own open question hang in the air like incense. “To me, it smacks more of fascism – the disdain for the masses for the advancement of a private agenda.”

  Katia appeared to have let her attention wander for a moment. Rossi waited, expecting a personalized response that didn’t come as she continued to make unhurried but assiduous notes.

  She had heard a lot about Rossi and was working out as she wrote how best to comment on his little speech. Yes, she’d heard about his intellect, his unusual background, his barely concealed disdain for authority, and his reputation for getting results, often against the odds. Well, she reflected, dotting a final i on her notepad before laying down her pen – he seemed to be able to talk the talk at least. She raised her hand.

  “Well, Inspector Rossi,” she said, giving him her firm and confident attention now, “that’s a nice little story but, given your experience on the ground, what do you propose we actually do about it?”

  Sixteen

  Jibril wiped the steam off the mirror to make sure he didn’t cut himself with the new razor. Olivia had been surprised. Yes. Very surprised. So, she was finding out that he wasn’t quite as shy and res
erved as she had thought him to be. And he had made the first move. Well, really the first move had come from her and not just the invitation. That had been an open invite. But giving him her phone number as she had a few weeks earlier. Then the other stuff. Picking him out with her eyes every time there was a question that needed answering. She was drawn to him. And he’d let it happen whether he had needed it or not. It was true that she would be part of his cover but he realized he had wanted it too. So, in a corner of his battered heart, perhaps not all hope was lost. Some innocence maybe still thrived. And the others must have known too. But what of it. The class favourite? The teacher’s pet? He’d already learnt about that from his own school days in the village and after. Days that had finished so abruptly, so cruelly.

  He stopped himself. Have to keep focused. He rinsed and wiped his face with a towel then slipped his shirt on and adjusted the collar so that the chain hung around his neck against his skin just above the topmost fastened button. He smoothed his chin with one hand. His beard was gone but he’d never really got used to having it. When the rebels had first tried to reimpose the old ways on the men in the village, his father and uncles and many others had laughed at their attempts, calling it out as the harking back to some failed distant ideal, their new-found love affair with ideology, with ancient Wahabist rules and certainties.

  Yet things had changed somewhat since then, and Jibril had also lived a little in the true believers’ shoes. Now that his journey had brought him to the point where he’d understood the need for decisive action, such symbols were only that: symbols and nothing else. He’d made his case and made it well. He had bided his time with the brothers. In his hour of need they had been there for him. This much was true. He was strong, had always been, but embracing his religion and its comforts had helped him to be stronger. He had felt weakness when he had first come to Rome. Fatigue and hunger, but the strength of true brotherhood had quickly lifted him. There were decent, honest brothers who acted in good faith, but there were those, he knew very well, whose minds and hearts dwelt elsewhere. Such was life. But he was taking control in that regard too and the younger ones knew it.