A Cold Flame

by Aidan Conway

  “Police! Get down. He’s armed!” Rossi shouted.

  A bearded figure then lunged forward and hurled himself towards Yusef just as he had freed an automatic pistol from its holster and aimed it at the crowd. In the confusion at close quarters, Yusef lashed out and struck his assailant a powerful blow across the face with his weapon before losing the brief battle decisively as his hand was slapped down onto the pavement. The weapon skittered away on the flagstones and as it did, the others piled in, pinning Yusef to the ground.

  “Disarmed,” said a cool voice as Rossi finally fought his way through, holding his badge out in front of him like the gorgon’s head as Carrara followed with his gun drawn ready for a possible third assailant.

  The bearded young man who had spoken turned to look up at Rossi.

  “His weapon jammed. I was lucky.”

  He had a gash in his head but he would make it. Their prisoner’s face, meanwhile, was locked in a rictus of rage but he too would live. Rossi frisked him then tossed a pair of cuffs to the leader of the ragged bunch from the centri sociali.

  “Good bit of work there. What’s your name?” he said.

  “Francesco,” came the reply.

  Rossi turned to Carrara who was still scanning the immediate vicinity for other threats.

  “Stay here, Gigi, and call for backup. There could be others mixed in with the crowd. But I think we found today’s hero.”

  “Just doing my duty as a citizen,” said Francesco, and through his pain, there was the hint of a smile.

  Rossi looked up. The Hotel Incantevole was about another fifty yards away. He raced towards the entrance, extending an arm clutching his ID as a leather-clad cop also drew alongside on a motorbike. Rossi could see it was a female officer but he was already bounding up the broad stone steps leading to the lobby. As Rossi saw her in the dark reflection of the doors and she saw him, some fine needle of doubt pricked his subconscious. But the cop stood her ground and gave him the reassuring nod he needed and set about blocking anyone else from gaining access to the hotel.

  “The President,” Rossi shouted, as he threw open the glass doors and barrelled towards the reception desk. “Where is he?” Which floor?”

  A Latino chambermaid was sitting at the foot of the stairs, clearly in a state of shock.

  “Fifth floor,” she said. “Black man, with a gun.”

  Rossi leapt up the stairs two at a time until he was below the fifth-floor landing. There was a trolley thrown at a strange angle outside an open door. Inside, a burly, suited African was writhing slowly in agony, semi-conscious on the floor. A quick glance at his bruised face and blood-soaked trousers told Rossi all he needed to know – that he had been immobilized by an experienced but not ruthless hand. Another door led presumably to the bedroom. He heard mumbled voices and then a patter of stockinged feet as a leggy, scantily clad hooker ran out screaming and flew down the stairs like an ill-clad long jumper.

  “Jibril,” Rossi called out, “don’t shoot. I know everything now.” As he advanced, he could see the gunman pointing an automatic at the huge, naked figure on the bed. “Jibril, I know they had Victor killed. I know about your brother too. If you shoot, I’ll have to shoot you.”

  Jibril had scarcely moved a muscle. Rossi edged closer.

  “Drop the gun!”

  Jibril went left then in a slight arc to a position where he could turn to hit Rossi and hold the President pinned where he was.

  “He came here with his whore,” said Jibril in a cool detached tone. “That was his mistake.”

  He raised his voice then to address the glistening bulk of the unmoving figure on the jumble of silken sheets.

  “I heard her speak. Remember? She spoke in the dialect. My old dialect. And that’s when I knew I could have you. See you at the Incantevole, same day, usual time.”

  The President was biding his time, weighing the situation. He didn’t lack experience but the odds were stacked against him.

  “That was sloppy,” Jibril continued. “But now I am going to tell you the story. The story of who I am and why I am here. Jibril is the name I took when I left my country, the name of a brother I never knew who died in infancy.”

  Rossi moved slowly, positioning himself so that the double doors flung almost fully open would allow him a clear shot at either or both of them. Jibril looked quickly across at him. Rossi thought for a second of his radio. His sleeve mike had been torn out at the station when the bomb exploded. Carrara would have already called for backup at the piazza but if they arrived here now it could endanger his life. He thought about calling them off but even moving to use it or just a crackle of static could be enough for Jibril to let fly.

  “But maybe you remember a young man called Banjoko,” said Jibril. “Well, he was my brother, back in the village, a long time ago.”

  A flicker of recognition crossed the President’s gleaming sweat-drenched face. He knew that his odds of survival had lengthened considerably if this really was who he claimed to be. He gambled.

  “Your brother was an animal. A degenerate. He got what he deserved.”

  “He was an artist,” Jibril hissed back. “An intellectual. But you had him killed to build your own popularity through hate. I was young then and understood little but I’ve always felt it on my skin, always had to hoard those images against my will. But later I learnt of your role in that mystery they kept from me. I discovered why my brother was killed, and when I did I swore to keep the flame burning. But I knew it had to be a cold flame, otherwise it would have consumed me with hatred. Still, I have never let that flame go out.”

  The President risked a minor movement, a repositioning of his weight that might give him a sliver of an advantage.

  “I saw then but in a glass darkly,” Jibril went on, “but now I see face to face. You know where that comes from, big man? The Bible. A friend taught me that. My good friend. But he is dead now, killed by hypocrites who profess to follow another religion. So many hypocrites. So many liars. Well, I swore vengeance for my murdered brother and I swore justice for Victor too. But somebody got to his killer before I could. The fake Father Brell had Victor killed, the cardinal whose other enemies dealt him the justice he deserved.”

  Rossi held his stance, arms rigid with cramp, but he dared not move suddenly.

  “And with some detective work of my own, we found his secrets – the cardinal’s ring he couldn’t bear to be without, the diary with his coded references to my friend. But I had no intention of killing him. The only vengeance I sought and seek now is justice, an admission, and penance fitting for their crimes.”

  He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a compact tape recorder then placed it on the bed.

  “Now, you will confess your sins. If not, you will die. I give you the chance you denied to others. Confess to the murder of my brother, to the crimes you have committed here, your drug trafficking, the killing of the oilman, Mondo. Ali has paid the price already, and I gave him his wish – to die a martyr with a gun in his hand. So be it. The wages of sin is death, too. But now, the choice is yours.”

  Now Rossi had heard it all. The last piece in the puzzle was falling into place.

  From close to the window onto the street there came then an almost deafening boom that shattered the silence as some rogue demonstrators exploded a paper bomb firework in the street below. As the glass shook, it was enough to distract Jibril for the fraction of a second necessary to allow the President to throw himself from the bed. He grabbed a weapon and squeezed off a desperate burst of automatic fire. Jibril fired twice, but a sash of bullet holes leapt through the mattress and across the wall and his body. Rossi threw himself clear and onto the stairs. Crawling back he edged into a firing position on the floor.

  “Don’t move or you’re a dead man! Drop the gun!” Rossi shouted.

  The President released his weapon and pushed it across the floor. Rossi got to his feet and advanced. Jibril’s now lifeless corpse was slumped against the wall, the
tape recorder still turning on the bed. Rossi kept low and approached. He clicked it, the wheels froze and he slipped it into his pocket.

  The President had taken hits to the shoulder and upper chest but would live. He would.

  “Backup needed at the Hotel Incantevole,” said Rossi into his radio. “Medical units.”

  “You can cancel that!” said a muffled voice behind him. A female voice: one he knew.

  “There’s a gun at your head, Rossi. If you make a false move you will be the next dead man here. Don’t turn around. Cancel it.”

  Rossi waited a second or two then countermanded the request.

  “Marini,” said Rossi.

  “That is not the name I go under these days, Inspector, but yes I am who you think I am and I have indeed had a hand in the recent events.” She pressed the muzzle hard into the nape of his neck, and he heard the familiar creak of bike leathers. She lifted her visor with a click. The cop on the motorbike outside. It was her.

  “We will take care of this little mess. You can have Jibril but I think this other gentleman will be needing private medical care and his own trusted doctors. Besides, he knows far too much and we still have a lot of business to finish. But all things considered, today things went moderately well for us.”

  “Not enough deaths for you?” said Rossi.

  “Like I said,” Marini replied. “Moderate success. It soon adds up and it will help to get the ball rolling for the bigger projects. We need to get involved in another war you know, Rossi, in our backyard, the Middle East, North Africa. We don’t have to lead it, just as long as we can join the party.”

  “Libya? Is that it?” said Rossi. “Or Egypt? Syria? You want to get a slice of the pie now that it’s shaping up to become a free-for-all.”

  “If there’s a gap in the market it gets filled. Besides, the economy needs the boost and what happens in Rome has to happen here in order for us to profit from it over there. And over here the mob likes to know who its enemy is. It keeps everyone polarized, nicely at loggerheads, makes it all black and white and easy to manage.”

  “So you just let things happen and give a helping hand if it serves your purpose, and get in our way when we’re trying to save lives.”

  “We let the narrative build, Rossi, and the terror threat brings everyone onside sooner or later. The President here helps us get the funds moving, and he has a certain gravitas within his own community. Then we make sure the sweeteners go to the right people. Call it seed capital before the bigger earners come in.”

  “And you want to murder students, kids and couples at demos so you can keep the tension at the desired level.”

  “Well, you never know when a real threat might arrive. So, it’s best to be ready. Militarized. Keep the plebs on their toes, right?”

  Rossi’s hand crept to his jacket pocket where the tape recorder was. He pressed what he thought was the record button.

  “You hit the university didn’t you?”

  There was a pause then before the unexpectedly wrong-footed Marini answered.

  “Let’s say that was more of a private matter and the way events played out dovetailed nicely with other pressing demands.”

  So Iannelli had been right. The Israelis must have got mixed up in some sort of deal.

  “I know you had the cardinal killed too,” said Rossi. “If it really was the cardinal you wanted us to think it was.”

  “And why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Well, I’m not entirely convinced any corpse went missing from that church. Was that another of your double bluffs? Nice bit of work, putting the blame on the Muslims for the butchery in the monastery. And who’s got their hands on the Borgia painting? Two birds with one stone was it? Cheap at the price.”

  She rammed the gun harder into Rossi’s skull and clasped a gloved hand over his mouth. He could smell her, feminine despite it all.

  “Don’t expect me to tell you every fucking thing, Rossi. There wouldn’t be any surprises otherwise, would there? Jibril had his private revenge agenda and even if he was getting too close for comfort we were able to piggyback on his zeal, let’s say. Was it Father Brell or Cardinal Terranova he was planning on hitting, before someone got there first? I’ll leave that one hanging, Rossi, like the Prenestina blaze. Like the Reichstag fire back in the day. Perhaps it was the communists after all.”

  She released her grip over Rossi’s mouth, the gun still jammed at his skull.

  “I don’t see any mystery there,” said Rossi. “Ivan knew Victor had been involved with the cardinal before he was killed. Okoli knew about the skin trade too. Perhaps he got a warning, did he? But Ivan knew what they were prepared to do to keep it all quiet, and he paid the price for not keeping his mouth shut. By the way, did you send that priest to the hospital to check Ivan wasn’t going to make it, or to finish him off?”

  He smelt her and the leather and felt her breasts pushing firm against his back. Her finger was on the trigger. He felt it tense, the mantis winding up for the ultimate of hits.

  “And how is Yana, by the way?” she said then with surprising softness. “I hear things haven’t been great recently between you two. I hear a lot, actually. Do you think those phone calls that come are from her lovers or from someone else?”

  She knew where to hit Rossi. He knew when to cut his losses.

  The President was dragging himself up on to his feet. A sorry figure but alive.

  “Leave by the fire exit,” she said, letting Rossi go then as suddenly as she had grasped him. The President began to struggle into a bathrobe. “There’s a car waiting,” she said.

  “You think you can get away with this?” said Rossi.

  “Of course,” she replied. “Why wouldn’t I? We write the fucking script.”

  The next thing Rossi remembered, Katia was looking down at him and Carrara was slapping him about the face.

  “Who hit you, Mick? You’ve been out for a good while,” said Carrara.

  “The tape,” said Rossi. His head was pounding. “In my pocket.”

  Taking the cue, Katia fumbled in the pocket of the jacket now slung over a chair and found his keys, the revolver, and all the usual junk.

  “What tape?” said Carrara.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Rossi, “I’ll tell you later.”

  Seventy-Four

  Inspectors Rossi, Carrara and Vanessi were sitting in a bar overlooking the station.

  “Well, at least we averted a massacre. That’s all I’ve been hearing for the last few days,” said Rossi as he sipped on a non-alcoholic cocktail.

  “We were lucky the gun jammed,” said Katia.

  “And lucky that those guys made sure he didn’t get the chance to put it right,” said Carrara.

  “That wasn’t luck,” said Rossi, “that was courage.”

  “And what if it was meant to jam?” said Carrara. “I mean, Jibril could have been sabotaging the whole operation as it was being set up. He might have knobbled the weapons too. It was all a means to an end for him.”

  “I think he was counting on taking them out, with the element of surprise, but the best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men…”

  “Quoting again?” said Carrara.

  “Well, you didn’t do too bad yourself, Inspector,” said Katia.

  What sense would being a police officer have had otherwise? Of course, he had thought, in a split second, subconsciously. Perhaps somewhere deep down he’d even seen it as a way out, whatever might have happened. So he was thinking of himself? Or had he done it to avoid having to deal with the guilt? Yana said once that he was in love with danger, that he couldn’t live without being on or close to the edge. He would have to accept that it was an aspect of his nature which had played no small part in her decision to leave.

  “Well, talk about a dish best enjoyed cold,” he said, changing the subject for them and for himself.

  “He didn’t get what he wanted though, did he?” said Katia. “Even if it was taking the law into his own hands
, the President got away.”

  “And there was no material proof that would hold up in any court,” said Rossi. “Besides, he killed Jibril in self-defence. In Nigeria, he would scarcely be considered a criminal for what he did back then, if it could be proved.”

  “And Mondo, the fake Father Brell, the newly resurrected Marini,” said Carrara. “You still think we were right? All that was choreographed too?”

  Rossi nodded but was reflecting also on his own escape. Perhaps it had been too public or the President’s being there had made it too dangerous for her to kill a cop. She was a psychopath but she’d played it safe. And after all, she was officially dead and he was in no position to say otherwise, trapped as he was in that parallel world he had been drawn into.

  Katia looked from one to the other with a quizzical expression. They were speaking in some secret language now it seemed.

  “Perhaps we should let her in on some more reserved information,” said Rossi. “For what it’s worth. You can keep a secret, can’t you?”

  Carrara gave Rossi a nudge.

  “Here he is.”

  They all looked up as a tall, rangy and bearded figure approached across the piazza. He was carrying a light attaché case and was wearing a jacket and tie despite the heat. He made his way deftly between the crowded tables in rather different circumstances to when Rossi had first laid eyes on him during the melee in Piazza Repubblica.

  “Glad to see you could make it,” said Rossi, rising first to shake his hand and pulling out a chair for him. “Let me introduce you to the team.”

  There were handshakes all round.

  “Now, Francesco,” said Rossi, “what’s all this about you wanting to become a police officer?”