A Cold Flame

by Aidan Conway

  So, as he had explained, first, you had to fit in. Be like those of the country where you are a guest, or be their idea of how you should be. Play to your strengths, exploit their weaknesses. Ali had protested strongly and some of the others hadn’t been so sure either at first, but as he spoke, building an argument with patient explanation, he had begun to convince them even as he had convinced himself. The more attention you bring to yourself by your difference and your separateness, the more chance they will have of hunting you down, spotting you against the horizon. It was urban camouflage, brothers. Then you could strike unseen when the time was right. But only then. Haste was a fool’s game. Our revolution wears no watch, so it can come at anytime, when least they expect it. Let them sweat it out while we, with cool heads and focused determination, construct the perfect plan.

  He walked back across the hall into his room and picked up his phone off the nightstand. It was new. New second-hand. A decent model about whose provenance he hadn’t been encouraged to enquire. It would give him relative anonymity, linked as it was to a new identity. He would need it for everything legitimate now. There was work lined up, hopefully. He would talk to Olivia about that tonight. She would help and had already proved invaluable as a key to opening the intricacies of Italian society. She was always keen to know how he was “getting on” and whether he was going to get his permit to stay. Well, the story he would recount was that he had every intention of making a go of it and she was an attractive young woman with many of the qualities he admired. Somewhere, behind it all, if he hadn’t been at war, she might have even truly touched his soul. But he had no time for that. Not now. Not after what they had done to him.

  Perhaps they made an unlikely couple: an Italian woman and a Nigerian man. A teacher and an illegal immigrant with false papers? But he was also a care worker now, a social assistant. Once that was his identity it would not seem so strange. And that was where he was heading, on a fast track, and there was plenty of work to be had. These Italians didn’t lock their old people away like they did in some countries, but instead paid carers to shoulder the drudgery of looking after them. And yet they complained about the numbers of foreigners, the hordes of stranieri they had to put up with.

  This Christian nation. Love your neighbour, said Christ. But where was their gospel now? When I was sick, did you care for me? When I was in prison, did you visit me? He thought then of Victor, his friend murdered in Rome some six months before. He recalled their many long discussions before they had been separated. But in those days, so much of it was theory while theory had now become practice. Reality now had grown harsh. “Remember, Jibril,” Victor would say, “when the day comes, what He will say to those on his left. ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels’.” Well, they had killed him – his own Christian brothers – and they would have to pay for it.

  “So, my friend,” he said out loud, as if someone might be there to hear him, “who is the devil now?”

  Seventeen

  The atmosphere in the conference room was tense. The press wanted answers, wanted a story, but they weren’t getting much change out of the eight-strong panel of stony-faced city officials and law enforcement chiefs facing them in the grand hall of the prefettura’s renaissance palace. Security was high and the press had arrived in numbers, among them Elena Serena, sent by Iannelli to do the public work he couldn’t risk undertaking. She had taken up a position near an exit and had set up a tripod stand with a video camera to stream the whole proceeding back to Iannelli. She had opted to use the local WI-FI but it was just her luck to have found the only spot where the signal was shaky.

  “So, we are under attack?” The question came from a staff reporter on The Post. The journalists were hammering the same nail again and again, but the panel was resisting.

  All eyes turned to the City Prefect, Roberto Cavalleggio. It was his job to guarantee public safety and coordinate between the Home Office and local government.

  “As I think my colleagues have already made clear, it was an attack,” he replied, adjusting and leaning into the microphone almost as if in an attempt to find some shortcoming in the hardware that might distract attention from his own. “A vile and cowardly attack, I might add.” He paused, perhaps to weigh his words or to emphasize some greater gravitas. “It is not clear whether this is part of any concerted campaign or an isolated incident. I can say, however, that the police and the security services are working flat out, night and day, to find the perpetrators and bring them to justice.”

  “What do you know about the level of technological sophistication of the device?” a reporter called out from the back of the room. There was another brief pause as, after comments off mic and various sideways glances, the prefect indicated that the question would be taken by the head of the state police, Fulvio Martinelli.

  “From what the forensic police have been able to ascertain so far, it would appear that it was a fairly rudimentary device but lethal nonetheless. It was designed to inflict maximum casualties without requiring a major logistical operation.”

  Elena looked up from where she had, until then, been jotting random notes. Rudimentary? It certainly wasn’t the impression she’d had, and she’d got the low-down from Iannelli who had been on the scene early. He had said all the evidence pointed to C4, high-grade military plastic explosive and a high-spec timing device. He and she had kept that to themselves for now, though. From the front row, it was a RAI TV journalist’s turn to quiz the prefect.

  “We’ve been hearing from the Police Federation recently that in the last few years there has been a chronic lack of funding for the security budget to face an increasingly sophisticated terrorist threat. In the light of these comments, are you able to provide assurances that the public’s safety will be guaranteed? In concrete terms, what is being done?”

  An ashen-faced prefect suppressed something akin to a stifled yawn or a sigh as he prepared to speak.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, assuming a tone both informal yet recognizably patrician, “as I continue to reiterate, everything in our power is being done. Rest assured,” he continued, glancing up at the crowd just long enough for the flashes’ brief frenzy, “that no stone will be left unturned and no effort spared. With specific reference to the question regarding our resources, let me say this.” He reached for a pair of reading glasses, then taking a sip from his glass of mineral water, he looked down to where he appeared to have a speech of sorts prepared. “Regardless of the resources and hardware at the disposal of its law enforcement personnel, no city can ever be 100 per cent safe, just as no other daily action we take can be in 100 per cent safety. The moment you set foot outside your apartment you are inevitably exposed to risks. You are, incidentally, statistically exposed to a great many more risks within the four walls of your home. However, when you do venture out onto the streets of your city, what we can do and what we are striving to do is to reduce those risks, to contain them, just as the rules of the road and the actions of the police aim to reduce the number of fatal traffic accidents.

  “Yet,” he paused and looked up again to deliver the most sententious part of his speech, “there is no single strategy which can protect a city and its inhabitants and its visitors from determined and ruthless terrorists. These are not individuals who can be deterred by the prospect of receiving a fine or temporarily losing their freedom. Their commitment to their immoral course of action is often total. Fortunately, fortunately for us, the men and women of the police and the carabinieri and the security services are also immovable in their dedication to protecting the people and upholding the principles of the constitution. I should add, however, that the citizenry too must play its part by being vigilant and cooperative. The importance of your contribution cannot be underestimated. Therefore, if you do witness suspicious behaviour, if you do feel uncomfortable, do not hesitate to contact the police. By working together we can defeat this threat to our city and our freedom.�
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  Elena took out her earpiece for a moment and raised a hand to speak, catching the prefect’s eye.

  “Yes,” he said, pointing in her direction, “just one more question signore e signori, please.”

  “As yet there is no name or even a nationality for the attacker. Do you suspect he was part of a cell? Could there be others ready to assume command?”

  The prefect shook his head.

  “It’s too early to say, and so as not to compromise the work of the counterterrorism unit I am sure you will understand that we have to withhold some information.”

  Elena put back her earpiece and, in a low voice, checked that Iannelli had got what she had been hearing.

  They haven’t got a clue, Iannelli, concluded to himself from the dull safety of his hideout. Not a clue.

  A message buzzed on his phone. It was Rossi.

  Are we good?

  Good for what? he thought, then he remembered. The Jibril story. He hadn’t given it another thought. Perhaps he had started sketching out some bigger picture already. Maybe he wasn’t really clutching at straws. But he still couldn’t see where, if anywhere, he fitted in. He pondered the notes he had been making, as Elena commented on what was happening out of shot on the stream. Iannelli wanted that too. The reactions, the looks, the nudges and smirks. Well, they were already suppressing evidence and, if they didn’t have any leads, maybe they were making it look that way. Because what they knew was too damned explosive for the public domain.

  Well, if Rossi really was onto something he too was beginning to feel things might just be getting very interesting.

  Eighteen

  Rossi had left the meeting and intercepted Carrara before he might be tempted into going straight back to work. The whole thing had dragged on well into the afternoon, and they’d had to sit through a series of presentations on new techniques in crime solving, which were basically the old ones dressed up with Powerpoint and a new English-inspired lexicon. Rossi hated Powerpoint with a passion. He hated the whole culture of the presentation. The chopping up of an interesting topic into disposable chunks, the misspellings and poorly constructed sentences that the presenter then read anyway before handing them a printed handout of the same. Straight in the recycling bin.

  Still, he had to admit that Katia’s take on things had been fresher and mercifully brief. And not a single error in her slides. So, she was a perfectionist, or just very good at her job. All of which was confirmed from the first glimpse he had managed to get at her CV during the coffee break. Well, she certainly had all the pieces of paper. But know-how? Experience? They couldn’t teach you that on a Master’s course or a PhD. And she was a classical dancer. The polymaths were coming, he concluded, and she might want to make getting his job another first on her record. He would have to keep her onside and within reach.

  He looked down at the small but slightly more visible bulge at his waistline as they descended the stairs. He wasn’t overweight but these days when he looked in the mirror in the mornings there wasn’t so much to get excited about. When he had been in his thirties and running he had clocked some good times, but he’d let it slip.

  “You still keep in shape, don’t you, Gigi?” he said.

  “Ten kilometres three times a week, gym twice. It’s as much as I can manage these days, what with the family.”

  Should have known, said Rossi to himself.

  “How about a drink? I fancy a cooling draught of the Hippocrene. Need to get the cogs whirring.”

  Carrara smiled. Coffee, or iced tea for him, that was for sure. Well, it was better to have one steady hand, if only for the driving. They got into the waiting Alfa and headed for the centre.

  “See you’re on that phone again,” said Carrara, as Rossi checked it for the fifth time in as many minutes. “Something I should know about?”

  “Trying to fix a meeting with Iannelli, but he’s playing hard to get,” said Rossi. “About this Jibril story. What do you make of it? And Tiziana, the ID on the body?”

  “Definitely worth probing,” said Carrara accelerating smoothly as the road opened up and then swinging off Via Nazionale and round towards the Quirinale Hill.

  “What do you say to parking round here somewhere and having a walk?” said Rossi, as he took in the view across the city that the hill afforded. Armed units were posted in and around the Presidential Palace, the highest point in the centre of Rome and its symbolic apex.

  “Put a sniper over there, say, on the top floor of the museum,” said Rossi. “Take them out, then move in with a car bomb and it’s buona notte, good night Rome, isn’t it?”

  “Not even that,” said Carrara, as a pair of deeply tanned South American tourists in hot pants and holding a map sidled up to a professional, but clearly very willing, soldier. “A suicide bomber with a backpack. It’s a no-brainer. How do you defend against it?”

  “Over there?” said Rossi, indicating a shaded café bar.

  ***

  Rossi took a long welcome draught of ice-cold Moretti. The sun was punishing, but under the awning its power was held at bay. He looked approvingly at the beads of condensation, the glass’s ghosted exterior, like a fairy mist. Then, as he traced a vertical line with a finger along its length, the images of the world around him swam into a reduced focus through its narrow amber lens. Carrara could guess what might be coming next. He’d had an idea.

  “For now,” said Rossi, “‘we see as if in a glass darkly, but then face to face’.”

  “Bible?”

  “St Paul. 1 Corinthians, 13:12.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, by glass, he was referring to a mirror. They would have used polished metal, bronze or something. But what I was thinking,” he continued, “was about the university. We really need to see those images.”

  “The CCTV?”

  “Yes,” said Rossi. “But all of it, not just the edited highlights.”

  Carrara took a sip on his mineral water.

  “I assume that means you’ve got some sort of plan lined up here, Mick, because the counterterrorism boys weren’t dishing out favours last time I knocked on their door.”

  Rossi nodded again.

  “Well they wouldn’t, would they? It’s their gig and highly sensitive first off, but, as Iannelli might have us think, it’s also potential raw material for steering a narrative. There’s a possible suspect, but they didn’t see the guy parking the bike because of the crowds. Someone leaves in a hurry but it could be anyone. Apart from the fact that there’s no name or face to go on, they could say whatever they want. That might help somebody. That might help to provide a sideshow while they, or we, are all looking for who did it and trying to predict the next one. Still, how does the saying go? God helps those who help themselves?”

  Carrara knew well what it meant.

  “Hang on,” said Rossi, reaching for his phone again then flicking through to his messages. “OK!” he said. “Well, at least we’re in business with Dario. ‘His place, tonight. Await further instructions. Dinner will be provided’.”

  “Need me?” said Carrara.

  “No, take the night off,” said Rossi livening up and polishing off his beer before it could become even remotely warm.

  “Well, how about I head to the hospital, about this Ivan character,” said Carrara breaking the contemplative silence that had briefly enveloped them. “While you continue to sketch out this plan of yours?”

  Rossi nodded his approval. In this heat, everything was a theoretical yes. He nodded again. “Good call. But get everyone and anyone who had any dealings with Ivan. Find out if he spoke to them. If they’re on another shift or if they left the hospital, get their names and contacts and follow it up.”

  “OK,” said Carrara. “So what about Dario? Are you getting anything?”

  Rossi gave a half shrug.

  “Don’t ask me what exactly, but I think he might have sensed something’s going on too.”

  Another, smaller, beer arrived at Ros
si’s elbow.

  “I didn’t even see you order that,” said Carrara.

  Rossi smiled and took a sip.

  “Dario was on the scene fast, and he saw enough before things got tidied away. So I reckon he’s spotted a role for himself in the game, once again. He’s ambitious. Very ambitious and when he’s involved things invariably tend towards both the fair and the foul.”

  “Have you swallowed a library today?”

  A sequence of heavy vehicles and SUVs roared past leaving a trail of diesel fumes. “Especially in Rome’s fog and filthy air.”

  “Your round, Dante?” said Carrara as the waiter deposited the bill.

  “Again?”

  “Forgot to put money in my purse,” said Carrara, slapping his pockets.

  Rossi counted out the exact change, this time adding a modest tip. “Now,” he said, as if in the full flush of love with the possibilities of phone technology, “let’s see if our friend Gab’s still in town.”

  Gab was Rossi’s twenty-year-old dope-smoking go-to tech wizard for when the official lines of communication were either too slow or too legal and moral imperatives dictated he could not afford to wait. His fees were nominal as Rossi could guarantee him a steady flow of legitimate clients seeking both his quality and speed. Since their first chance and decisive encounter at a key moment during The Carpenter case, his stock had increased rapidly in value both for Rossi and his own growing list of clients. So a bedroom hobby had turned into a small but flourishing business. As for trust, Rossi didn’t ask too many questions but still tended towards the feeling that his consultant had not knowingly been drawn to the dark side. At least not yet.