A Cold Flame

by Aidan Conway

  And as trust grew, so they fanned out even wider. One contact spawned another as like found like. They could listen, observe, collate, collect and he would analyse everything, be it a phone conversation, a letter, the contents of a dressing-table drawer. Word of mouth, handwritten notes passed to intermediaries who would have no knowledge of their final destination, even if caught, questioned, even if tortured. Then they could winnow down the harvest to the essential. So far, in spite of all the pain that never left him, he couldn’t believe his luck.

  Twenty-Nine

  “Well, I’m sure I hardly need to tell you I thought we’d seen the back of all this,” said Maroni as he pondered the case notes that had been put before him.

  “What do you two make of the briefings then?” he said, addressing first Rossi and Carrara who were with him, and others of the select group of operatives on special secondment from the RSCS, and who were being pulled now in all directions by circumstances which, if not beyond their control, almost defied even their belief. “There can be no question of there being a coordinated approach. These groups have nothing in common, surely.”

  “You mean other than their bloodlust and ideological rigidity?” said Katia.

  “Well they’re hardly pooling their resources or their intelligence or anything as outlandish as that, are they?” said Maroni, his face betraying his puzzlement.

  “One man’s trouble is another’s opportunity,” said Rossi. “Either that or the moment is ripe, shall we say, in more ways than one, and for more than one current of political thinking.”

  “You call that thinking, do you?” blurted Maroni. “Shooting an innocent man parking his bicycle? A university professor!”

  “I meant the thought which goes into constructing the justification for the act,” said Rossi.

  “What more have we got?” he said turning then to Katia, who he had asked to get hold of the latest information on the gun used. He also wanted to put her through her paces in front of the boss. “Any definite form on the weapon?”

  “Almost certainly a Smith & Wesson revolver, rather on the old side, WWII issue, but that didn’t have any bearing on the outcome, as it were. So, well maintained. And modified ammunition. Soft tops, hunting type. Pretty much guaranteed to be fatal, even without hitting vital organs, if there’s any delay in stemming the bleeding. We got some fragments. Those things deform on contact and rip the shit out of anything in their way leaving a hole you could put your fist in. So, it didn’t have to be any ace marksman.”

  “At least you know those things’ll never jam,” said Rossi not expecting quite so much detail. He had no idea she was an arms expert too. “And with a sitting target, you’ve got all the time in the world.”

  Katia flicked through the printouts she had in front of her. “Ballistics haven’t come in yet but I had a look around myself – I have a little experience there. Provisionally they’re saying it may have been used in other shootings, some of which, from the Seventies and Eighties, remain unsolved.”

  She waited a moment for a reaction. Maroni was suitably impressed. Rossi appeared less comfortable.

  “Well,” said Rossi,. “knocking up some of the familiar faces through the old lines of communication is a definite starter. If someone’s dusting off their gear, are they coming back into the game themselves or passing on the flame?”

  There was a buzz on his phone. He gave it a discreet glance. Gab. Finally. He needed a breakthrough badly.

  Let me know what you want me to do.

  Rossi nudged Carrara.

  “Well, why don’t we get to work on some of these characters with their heads still stuck in the old revolutionary Marxist days?” said Rossi, hoping to get the proceedings adjourned before Katia had upstaged them on every front. “Where can we get the files?”

  “All the relevant files are now on the integrated databases. So, it shouldn’t be too much of a hassle. Then it’s just a case of cross-checking info and knocking on doors and seeing what they’re doing these days. If they’ve kept their IDs up to date, of course. Or not moved out of Rome. Some characters are already under light surveillance but they’re not considered viable threats. At least that’s the intelligence I get fed. But see what you can come up with. Among your myriad other duties.”

  There were knowing looks and nods around the table. Word got round when Rossi was juggling more than one line of enquiry or stepping on other people’s toes.

  “There was just one thing,” said Rossi raising his pen.

  “I was wondering if I might take a trip down to the university again, the CCTV.”

  Maroni let out a sigh of contained frustration.

  “You’ve seen it, haven’t you? We all did. They isolated the guy with the hood making a quick getaway. Granted, it could have been anyone or anything. You can take another look at those, if you want more work to do.”

  “Well, no. I had another idea in mind,” said Rossi. “What if someone went back to the scene of the crime? Maybe recently, in the past week or two.”

  “You think they’d be that stupid? You think lightning strikes twice when international terrorism is involved?”

  “Well,” said Katia, “they hit the World Trade Centre twice, didn’t they? The first one was in 1993.”

  “And then waited eight years,” countered Maroni.

  “It’s a hunch,” said Rossi. “I’ll do it in my own time.”

  “I can get you the permission, I suppose,” said Maroni, “Or just go there and say you’re investigating a traffic violation or an assault on the Lungotevere or something. I don’t see it being a problem,” he added, as he began to stack his papers and cast a concluding glance around the table.

  “Everyone’s got something to be getting on with then, I don’t doubt,” he said. “Just keep me in the loop.”

  Rossi allowed himself a half-smile as they filed out of the conference room. Carrara had already begun walking in the direction of the archive.

  “Where are you going?” said Rossi.

  “To get started on the database,” he replied with a look of mild consternation.

  “Sod that,” said Rossi. “We’re going to do some real work. Gab’s waiting. We’re going to see if there’s anything they didn’t want us to see.”

  The university receptionist had just come off the phone again.

  “You can ring through directly to Maresciallo Maroni of the RSCS if you want,” said Rossi, leaning in close to the window separating them. “Or, if you like, I could call him on his mobile while he’s in his meeting with the minister, but I don’t think anyone will be very pleased about that.”

  “One moment,” she replied looking flustered now and failing once more in her attempts to find anyone in the right offices answering their phones.

  “The key’s just there,” said Carrara, pointing to a cupboard, remembering from his last visit where the CCTV recording equipment was located. “We’ll be in and out in ten minutes. You’ve seen my badge.”

  The receptionist put the phone down and then, reaching first for her cigarettes, opened the key cupboard and unhooked the relevant bunch.

  “This way,” she said as she emerged from behind the glass-screened booth and then descended a short staircase into the basement.

  She identified the right key and opened an anonymous white door. She found a smaller key then.

  “This one opens the cabinet. If I’m not back in ten minutes,” she said, holding it up, “lock the door and bring them back. I’ll try security again.”

  Rossi smiled as Gab produced his laptop and a jumble of accessories and set to work.

  “OK,” said Rossi. “We’re one up here. I wasn’t planning on getting access like this. I thought we’d have to get round the head of security first, so I suggest we make hay while the sun shines.”

  “OK,” replied Gab as he hooked up to the system and began tapping away at the keyboard. “It’s all on the hard drive. I did my homework on this model. Here’s real-time images, the last t
wenty-four hours.”

  “They’re supposed to delete anything after twenty-four hours unless there’s a good reason to keep it,” said Carrara. “Like a reported crime. In that case they can keep it indefinitely or until the case closes.”

  “Which, in my experience, is synonymous with indefinitely,” quipped Rossi.

  “And then if you want the last seven days’ images, you just go through here, if they haven’t been deleted,” said Gab, revealing new worlds of images with lightning-fast finger work.

  “Forget about that,” said Rossi. “I want the day of the bombing. How many days is that?”

  “About thirty-five days ago,” said Carrara. “But it could have been deleted, copied or something.”

  “Nothing’s deleted,” said Gab, “if you know where to look. Might take me a bit, though.”

  “Can you do it before she comes back with security?”

  “I’ll give it a go.”

  He began typing away again, scrolling through data logs and code. He stopped, scratched his head, then resumed as before.

  “What was the exact date,” he said.

  Rossi whipped out his notebook. “August 10th. Late morning.”

  More tapping, typing followed.

  “Someone’s coming,” said Carrara.

  “Stall them!” said Rossi. “Think of something.”

  Carrara leapt up the steps two at a time. Rossi and Gab heard Carrara’s muffled tones.

  “Good morning,” he said. “Inspector Luigi Carrara, RSCS. I was just wondering, is there another camera at the rear of the building?”

  There was a monotone response.

  “Is it also connected to this recorder? Is there a remote data collection unit too? There should be. This is a sensitive security area.”

  The next reply was more curt and the pleasantries brief as two pairs of footsteps then began to draw nearer.

  “Nearly there?” said Rossi, looking over Gab’s shoulder.

  “One sec, I think and …”

  A progress bar was filling but not fast enough for Rossi’s liking.

  “70%, 73%, 80% …”

  “Just downloading everything onto an external. Nearly there. Got it.”

  He disconnected the drive and slipped it into Rossi’s pocket and then began scrolling in a leisurely way through the time-lapse images of the smoking students and traffic on the Lungotevere.

  “So, yesterday was it you wanted, Inspector?”

  “Allow me,” came the reply as a burly, suited security operative strode into the tiny room.

  “Maroni, RSCS,” came the reply from over his shoulder. It was the receptionist. “Just had him on the phone. His meeting with the minister must have been postponed,” she said with more than a hint of dry irony. “But he’s faxing through authorization now.”

  “And what crime were you investigating, exactly,” the security operative cut in.

  “I think we have seen all we need,” said Rossi with a smile. “It was pretty straightforward.”

  Rossi and Carrara were heading back to the Questura and the day job.

  “Makes you wonder though, doesn’t it?” said Carrara as he guided the Alfa through another tight squeeze on a double-parked street.

  “Almost tempted to get out and fine the lot of them,” said Rossi surveying more burgeoning chaos. A seriously dressed middle-aged man who couldn’t get out of his parking space leant through the window onto his horn until the miscreant parker blocking him in might return. Rossi turned back to Carrara. “What was that you said?”

  “It makes you wonder whether that was just a one-off at the university or something concerted, meant to get bigger.”

  “Well they picked up a guy at Piazza Re di Roma this morning with a portable arsenal in the boot of his car. Grenades, handguns, AK47s. So far he’s refused to divulge.”

  “What do you make of it? Eastern European? Gangs?”

  “No, Italian as you or me. I fancy he’s had an order come in for hardware and knows where to get it. It’ll be Bosnian stuff, ex-Yugoslavia.”

  “Easiest way in,” said Carrara, getting some speed up now as he hit the Via Cristoforo Colombo. “Straight across the border at Trieste, probably in a few discreet cars with reinforced suspension for the weight.”

  “But who’s buying?” said Rossi. “And if he won’t talk. He probably doesn’t even know.”

  “Well, it’s got to be for something. What about the narcos?”

  Rossi nodded.

  “Could be. Could be any of them, but it doesn’t bring us any nearer.”

  He fondled the hard drive in his pocket. Gab had left it with them promising to catch up later.

  “What can we do with this?” he said.

  “I can take a look if you like,” said Carrara. “I’ll convert it into a user-friendly format,” he said with the hint of a smirk.

  “I’m making great strides, I’ll have you know,” said Rossi, who had his phone out.

  “The good lady?” said Carrara.

  “Mmm,” said Rossi. “Says we need to have a bit of a talk.”

  “Sounds a bit ominous.”

  “Nah!” said Rossi, shoving it back into his pocket and toying then with the hard disk. “The usual story. I’ve not been around much since all this got kind of interesting.”

  “Take a night off,” said Carrara. “Let me go to work on the footage, and I can get some names out of the files and then tomorrow we head out for a chat with the ex-brigatistas and die-hard Maoist revolutionaries. Probably all computer programmers and web designers now.”

  Rossi reached for his phone again. The thing was he enjoyed it. He liked not having a minute, having to shuttle between the office and crime scenes and trying to come up with answers to questions that he was still trying to formulate himself. He wanted to get back on the Prenestina fire too. There were too many loose ends flapping away in some wind of his own imagining. The Ivan story, the almost esoteric tale about the priest they had heard from Nurse Rinaldi. Then there was the chance meeting with Tiziana and the link with Iannelli that had started it all.

  There weren’t many who approached things like Rossi did. It was as if he were producing something resembling a work of art and, as such, taking the path well travelled for him was an indication of predictability and thus of defeat. Granted, it wasn’t that he could always pull it off, but if he stuck at it, if he believed in it, if he could see something coming together, he thought there might be a moment where a crack might open, a key might fall into his hands. And he didn’t want to miss that moment.

  “So?” said Carrara as he stopped to park the car outside the Questura. “Are you coming in with me or going to use that sophisticated communication device to get your personal life back on track?”

  “What about yours?”

  “I’m a married man, with kids. It’s different. She knows I’m a second stringer on these operations. She wouldn’t have married me otherwise. Besides, I gave up on the stake-outs precisely for that reason.”

  “So, it was a condition?”

  “It wouldn’t have been possible any other way. We both knew. And we knew it was worth it.”

  “OK,” said Rossi, “I’ll leave it in your hands for now and take a breather.”

  “Might be productive,” said Carrara. “Where shall I drop you?”

  “Think I’ll have a walk,” said Rossi, handing over the hard drive. “It’s a wonderful day, isn’t it?”

  He was about to get out of the car when he stopped. “I’ve just realized we have made a major faux pas.”

  “What?”

  “Jibril, the mortuary. CCTV.”

  “We didn’t check it, did we? But wasn’t it too far back?” said Carrara seeing that Rossi was kicking himself.

  “Gab reckons you can find it, if you know where to look.”

  “But this is not something we can ask Maroni about it, is it? He’s not fully in the picture on this.”

  Rossi was thinking.

  �
�Get on to Tiziana, if you can,” he said. “See what she says. She’ll play ball, if you ask me. It’s a long shot but why not try.”

  “OK,” said Carrara.

  “At least we might have a face to go on.”

  Thirty

  Rossi was sitting back and enjoying the afterglow of good food while pondering another glass of well-chilled Falanghina.

  “Did you notice the new stuff I got for the lounge?” said Yana as she took another strawberry from the bowl between them. The flat was clean and ordered and had the kind of equilibrium of colour, proportion and style which Rossi admired but could never imagine for himself.

  “The cushions,” she said, indicating the furnishings, but Rossi’s thoughts had returned elsewhere, even if he knew it was a miracle he had actually sat down and had a proper meal with her for the first time in about two weeks. He turned around to look again.

  “Nice,” he said, trying to distinguish between old and new.

  “So,” she said then. “Tomorrow?”

  Rossi leaned over to take a last strawberry for himself. Tomorrow?

  “Are we going to go somewhere, stay the night maybe, before the bad weather comes? September’s practically still summer.”

  “Yes,” said Rossi. “But this weekend?”

  “What’s wrong with this weekend? I’m taking a few days off, and I thought we could do something together.”

  Rossi drained his glass. Soon be time to move back to the red wine with autumn coming. He pictured some mountain retreat. A glass of Montepulciano. It wasn’t that the idea of a break didn’t appeal to him. But he wanted to make another push. He realized they might have slipped up with Tiziana and the CCTV, and now they had the footage from the university, time was of the essence as there was every chance that they had already been deleted after the statutory seven days.

  “Michael?”

  Rossi looked up.

  “Michael. I’ve met someone else.”

  “Have you?” he said. Her words could just as well have been “Michael, would you like more wine?”

  “No. Of course not. But if I had? Would you notice? Or would it make things easier for you?”

  Rossi looked at Yana across the empty plates, the knives and forks arranged in the manner which, had they been in a restaurant, signalled that her plate could now be taken away. She had put on a little weight, but in a good way. The days spent in the hospital were long gone. He would have liked to have been able to think about nothing else but her, yet he knew that was not possible. Not now.