A Cold Flame

by Aidan Conway

  He raised a pointed finger into the air as a warning of coming war.

  “Foreign powers have occupied and exploited the Islamic lands for too long, Jibril. We are all victims; we have all been victims. But you and I and your brother, Ali, we are the spearhead of a movement to set things straight. The non-believers fear us because we are strong. But it is our suffering that has made us strong. Our hunger, our historic hunger. We know how to move, how to arm ourselves, how to fight without stint. But most of all, we know, too, how to make wealth out of their very weakness and turn it round to bite them with such venom and force, like a viper in its deadliness.”

  The President sat back and looked straight at Jibril, like an artist who has completed a canvas.

  “What moved you to join the fight for Islam, Jibril?” he asked.

  Jibril took a sip of the sparkling water from his heavy blue tumbler and replaced it on the dark smoked-glass table. The discarded metal ring which had sealed the bottle was lying there curled like a piece of shrapnel.

  “Injustice,” said Jibril, and then after a brief pause, “anger. Revenge. And hunger for change.”

  “So true,” the President replied. “Injustice is like a parasite burrowing into your flesh. It eats at you until you rid yourself of it by purifying action, if no one is willing to deliver justice themselves. And as they continue to wage their wars on our people in order to rob them of their well-being and their resources, forcing them to live like rats in their bombed-out houses, justice will be delivered, in the form of revenge.”

  Jibril nodded his agreement.

  Ali was coming back to join them accompanied by a suited member of the President’s staff.

  “So, Ali,” said the President, “Jibril and I have bared something of our souls to each other. But shall we talk now in a little more detail about our joint venture? What exactly do you have in mind for this city? The Eternal City,” he added, bringing a heavy hand crashing down on his own large thigh as his laughter exploded then around them and the whole hotel suite.

  “Yes, we need something spectacular,” said Ali. “An attack on the Christian heart of Europe, and the world. Here we can make headlines like we did with 9/11.”

  The President grunted his approval.

  “And who do you hate, who do you despise the most in the West?”

  “Apart from our persecutors, the hypocrites and the unbelievers, the cowards and dogs who bomb our people in their beds at night?”

  The President nodded and grunted more approval.

  “The homosexuals,” said Ali, with unwavering conviction. “They are the ultimate affront to Allah. Lower than animals. They are vermin to be expunged from the face of the earth.”

  “Yes,” said the President. “They are an abomination, and yet here they ply their trade with impunity. They even demand the right to marry and adopt children. And they criticize us, in my country, of outrageous crimes against them. As if their behaviour is not a crime in and of itself punishable by death.”

  Jibril was showing his approval too.

  “Yes,” he said. “They must see the error of their ways. They must be re-educated with decisive force if they are to turn to Allah. The Prophet himself tells us this. That the sword must be used to convert them if they will not convert by themselves.”

  The President looked at Jibril.

  “Do you have brothers, Jibril?” he asked. Jibril paused for a moment.

  “No,” he said. “Allah did not bless my mother with more than one son. That was his will. I have only sisters.”

  The President did not hide his sympathy for Jibril and his understanding of his disappointment.

  “So, much then rests on your shoulders,” he said.

  “I have decided on my path in life,” Jibril replied.

  “And Allah gives us the means, but our destiny is ultimately in his hands. You know the story of the man who tried to escape when he believed Death was looking for him?”

  “Yes,” said Jibril.

  “And how when this man finally rests at his destination, where he believes he is now safe. And who does he find there waiting for him?”

  “Death,” said Ali.

  “Death,” said the President. “And the man says ‘but how can you be here. I did all I could to avoid you.’ And Death replies. ‘I was waiting. But really I did not expect that you would get here so soon’.”

  Jibril had heard the story before but reacted as if the President was a man of wisdom regaling him with his knowledge as few other men could.

  The President reached out to pick up his phone. “Now, gentleman. I believe someone else is waiting and also has an appointment to keep.”

  He punched in a number then spoke rapidly in his own language, a language of which Jibril feigned his ignorance again. His tone was bullying and peremptory, very different to the suave and inviting tones he had used with them thus far.

  He paused before continuing, this time in the familiar register.

  “So, you have our guest. I trust he had a pleasant trip. Well we shall make a visit to see him. I want to introduce him to two of my friends.”

  He replaced the phone on the table.

  “He too has come early for his appointment with Death.”

  Thirty-Six

  Katia had stayed behind at the Questura with Carrara to tie up as many of the loose ends as they could regarding the Brell murder and to get to work on their hunch regarding the picture.

  Rossi walked out of the Questura into the early afternoon air. It was a warm September day. On the trees, a few of the leaves had begun to fade and contemplate a paler hue of yellow but as yet they remained undecided. There was plenty of summer left it seemed. Bees were intent on their work, moving between flowers like skilled technicians with a mammoth task to complete. Until they think warm days will never cease. Keats. It always came back to him at this time of year. To leave this life unseen.

  At Manzoni, he went down to take the Metro. Then he changed his mind. He would walk. He didn’t want to get anywhere fast. He wanted to think now and put his house in order, mentally. It was as though he were juggling four or five objects and a crowd was watching him, waiting for the whole thing to collapse and give them their crescendo of perverse pleasure. Their schadenfreude. Or, as the Neapolitans termed it, cazzimma.

  The fire, the bombing, the Bonucci murder and now the priest. ICE. The mystery of the painting and his nagging doubts about the dynamic of that murder. Why had he been disfigured? Why had the killer not photographed the final draft of his handiwork, the most revolting and most demeaning? The pathologist had to give him some help on that score. As he walked along Via Filiberto, he made a mental note to get back to her; he remembered also the hint she had dropped about her place in the country. The air in Rome had grown stifling again, thick with smog and pollutants and heavy with the charge of accumulated heat. God knows these radical types going round burning cars and motorbikes had a point, Rossi thought, as he watched the dense stream of traffic going past, nearly every car with a single occupant and pumping out more filth.

  He took out his phone to call Carrara and moved into a doorway to shield himself from the noise while cupping his hand around the phone.

  “Gigi, I was thinking about the kid, the arsonist. Have you had any bright ideas? Are you sure he was working alone?”

  “We went through his flat, his computer, his hard drives. Looked for all the world like a lone wolf.”

  “Well, I want him followed for a bit. See where he goes while he’s out on bail. It’s a shot in the dark but you never know.”

  “OK,” said Carrara.

  “And any luck yet on the artwork?”

  “Slow,” said Carrara. “I’ll call you tonight.”

  Then Rossi remembered one of the other balls he had been juggling.

  “And the disk, the CCTV? Did you get a chance yet?”

  “Encrypted,” said a busy-sounding Carrara. “Gab must have missed something. I sent it back to him.”
r />   “OK,” said Rossi and dropped the phone into his pocket then just as quickly took it out again to make another call to Yana, but there was no answer. “The phone you are calling could be switched off.” Strange, he thought to himself. He stopped and contemplated turning round and walking back to the Metro. He could pay her a surprise visit. Maybe something was up. But he was wasting time. He would call Gab and see if he could hurry things along a bit. His phone buzzed. Someone else was calling. Maroni. He decided to grasp the nettle.

  “Rossi?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you seen the news?”

  “No. What news?”

  “Well get yourself near a TV or something and you tell me what you make of it.”

  “I’m in the middle of the street.”

  “Haven’t you got Internet on your phone yet, Rossi?”

  “I leave that to Carrara,” he replied.

  “Well some bloody Caliphate crowd, one among the galaxy, have come out with a video and a very specific threat, saying they’re ready to march on Rome. The prime minister’s taking it seriously and wants every man we’ve got on the streets to reassure the public. He does not want a 9/11 European style.”

  “Of course,” said Rossi. “We’re doing all we can.”

  There was a pause. One of those pauses, thought Rossi.

  “Yes,” said Maroni, “but are you? Are you actually getting anywhere, Rossi? Or are you spreading yourself too thinly on your various hypotheses? I mean what kind of solid intelligence have you been picking up? What about tracking all stolen vehicles, vans that could be used for an attack? You know you’re the only one who hasn’t given me a report yet? And it’s been noted not just by me but by higher authorities. And by the way, remember that audit’s coming up?”

  “Yes,” said Rossi, “the internal one?”

  “Was internal. Now it’s external. They’ll be counting everything down to the last paperclip. You can thank those well-intentioned idealists in the MPD on the parliamentary commission for public spending. They want to know what we’re doing, Rossi. Not just polishing the leather on our seats with our backsides. And I don’t think I need to tell you that you personally don’t have many friends in high places. Do you hear me?”

  Maroni had got a grilling and grillings were hereditary, passed down the line like unwanted Christmas presents.

  “We’ve got an interesting lead on the priest killing,” said Rossi.

  “Have you, now?” said Maroni. “Perhaps you’d like to give me the elevator pitch over the phone, seeing as I haven’t had anything in writing yet.”

  “I think there could be some connection with art theft. A painting’s gone missing.”

  “Art theft? How do you know?”

  “One of the nuns confirmed it, then denied it. I think she was lying to cover something up, or confused. Anyway, I’ve got Carrara and Vanessi working on it.”

  So he’d done it. Again. Withholding vital evidence from a superior officer. But Iannelli’s video was the ace up his sleeve. And he would need it. Maroni exhaled deeply into the receiver, his frustration requiring no words.

  “And what about your cutesy theory about the bomber returning to the scene of the crime? How much time did you waste on that one? And you told them a whole bloody pack of lies putting me in a decidedly bad light, Rossi.”

  “We’re working on that too,” said Rossi. “Nothing firm as yet.”

  There was another loaded pause before Maroni came up with his ultimatum.

  “Look, Rossi, you’ve done some good work for me but you have a habit of going off-piste rather too often for my liking. I’m out of the city for a few days as of tomorrow. I’ll be in Bologna for briefings but when I come back I want full reports on my desk for each and every case and something concrete that we can go on. And something I can show to my superiors on the Special Ops Committee. They’ve put a lot of trust in me and they want to see some comeback. Are we understood?”

  “Perfectly,” said Rossi. “It’s only a matter of time.”

  There was a lull in the traffic as the lights changed up at San Giovanni, and Rossi ducked out of the doorway and darted across the road, heading for the more leafy side street of Via Statilia.

  “Well, Rossi, the message we’re getting is that time may not be on our side. The services are picking up increased traffic on the net and in cyberspace. But on the ground it looks like we’re still chasing shadows.”

  “Well a shadow can’t exist without a body,” said Rossi. “And somewhere there’s a sun.”

  “Philosophy again, Rossi?”

  “Jung.”

  “I might have known. The hole in your life, is it?”

  “Could be,” said Rossi more than a little surprised at Maroni’s familiarity with the topic.

  “Well start bloody filling ’em in, will you!”

  The line went dead. Rossi called Yana again. The phone was switched off. Maroni was right. They had too many half-leads and not a single solid one. They had neglected on-the-ground intelligence work and piled everything into his hunches. He was beginning to feel like the gambler who knows he’s getting in deeper and deeper but can’t see an alternative to pulling out.

  No answer. Engaged. He’d be up to his eyes in work now with his business up and running. Rossi began flicking through the alternatives. He could hardly come out and ask for official help. He had no right to be storing those images, and they could throw the book at him if they wanted.

  He pressed on in the direction of Porta Maggiore, deciding to take a longer, more scenic route from there to Piazza Re di Roma and then on to his apartment. Maroni had told him once how in the Eighties they’d spent five months staking out that particular piazza. They’d had a lead on a presumed helper in the Red Brigades who they had followed but then managed to lose. Dalla Chiesa, the general who would eventually defeat the BR, told them to stake it out until he showed up again. It was, he had said, logically only a matter of time. Five months, every day, changing squads three times every twenty-four hours until they got him. And then he had led them to the others.

  A call was coming in. Gab calling back.

  “Rossi.”

  “Ciao, Michael.”

  “News?”

  “Nothing. Sorry.”

  “What do you mean ‘nothing’?”

  “Well, I haven’t had much time but so far I can’t crack it. Look. it’s going to take a while. I don’t know how long and I’m not sure I can give you the time you need.”

  “What’s it worth to you?”

  “It’s not the money, Michael. I’m snowed under with work. It’s really taken off, and I’m doing it all myself.”

  “You have to help me out, Gab. This is the last one. Just this one.”

  There was a pause. Silence.

  “I’ll try. I’ll see what I can do. But I can’t promise. It’s fucked up what they do in there. It’s impenetrable. I got all the files and saved them but I can’t open them. I might be able to get at some of it but I can’t guarantee you anything.”

  “Look, just get me something from before and after the bomb. I’m counting on you, Gab.”

  “OK.”

  Rossi walked on. The day was not going to plan. As he neared his flat, he dropped in at the supermarket and did the rounds for essentials and a few treats. Comfort food, wasn’t it? Except in his case he went for high-quality and expensive treats, whether he could justify the cost or not. What the hell. He dropped more stuff into the trolley. Cheese, Parma ham, a bottle of overpriced craft beer. A bottle of red, a bottle of white. You never know. Fresh fish, gamberi, calamari. Cantucci biscuits. He might even do a paella. If he could get through to Yana, he could invite her over. If there was time.

  There was no mail in his box in the downstairs vestibule, but when he pushed open his front door, an envelope was waiting on the floor. Yana’s writing. Inside, there was a note.

  Michael. I’ve decided to go away for a while. I’ve left Marta in charge of the ce
ntre. She’s fine with it and will benefit from the experience. I’ll be staying with a friend of mine in Bologna. I need to have a break from Rome and everything there and reflect on things. It hasn’t been easy finding time to talk to you recently about this and maybe it’s my fault as much as anything. We’re both busy people. But there you are. I will call you in a while but don’t worry about me. Good luck with the investigation.

  Love, Yana

  xxx

  He read and reread it. Then he took out his phone to call her. The same reply. Unavailable. He picked up his groceries and, contrary to habit, began putting things away. He stopped and went over the salient points again. It hasn’t been easy. My fault as much as anything. So that meant his fault. He could go to the Wellness Centre. Perhaps Marta could give him some clue about how she’d been feeling. But Maroni wanted the reports. Something concrete. He couldn’t let a lover’s squabble get in the way now. And it was her choice.

  He opened the fridge and shoved the fresh fish into the freezer. He left the rest on the table and headed back out.

  When Rossi arrived at the Questura, Carrara was still there but had just been on the phone to Katia.

  “She went off to meet with some expert at the university. Says she’s making ‘limited progress’ with the painting,” said Carrara to Rossi, who was now slumped and thoughtful in his chair. “So it’s still going to be a slow process.”

  “Did you get anymore out of the nuns and monks?” Rossi asked.

  “Quiet as church mice. Seems the whole thing’s more than a little bit taboo and they’re not exactly courting the publicity.”

  “Do they want this to happen again?” said Rossi, straightening up now in his chair. “Don’t they care that there’s some kind of freak on the loose? We’ve got people being burnt alive in their beds and an elderly priest dispatched like a lump of meat. If he hadn’t been disturbed, the guy might even have torched the whole place or killed everyone in their beds.”

  “There’s absolutely nothing to link any of them with the murder.”

  “But how did he get in? Are you telling me it was just good fortune?”

  “It’s a lockdown, if you ask me,” said Carrara. “They’re closing ranks. The casual staff too. They saw nothing, know nothing. They seem afraid.”