19

‘WHERE’S MASI?’ SCAMARCIO ASKED the back of Scalisi’s head as they pulled away from wherever it was they’d been holding him. The car they were travelling in had normal windows, and Scamarcio now realised they hadn’t been at AISE HQ. He didn’t recognise the surrounding area.

‘Otherwise engaged.’

‘You wanted to keep our little side-trip a secret?’

The colonel remained silent.

‘I know someone who has a machine for checking whether euros are counterfeit,’ said Scamarcio, pulling out the wad from the top of his jacket and fingering the notes.

‘It’s legit.’

‘It had better be.’

They drove on in silence, Scamarcio wondering whether he’d find Basile in Torpignattara or whether he and his men would still be in town, doing exactly what Scamarcio had convinced them to do. How he had persuaded them was the source of some mental turmoil, but he pushed his doubts aside and tried to focus. It felt altogether wrong to be heading back to Torpignattara, but he didn’t want to lead Scalisi into the eye of the storm. He needed to keep him out of the way until he knew Basile had made headway. With luck, he’d find a way to leave Scalisi once they reached the suburbs.

‘Take a left here,’ Scamarcio instructed the driver. ‘Then left again.’

As they made their way up the road to Basile’s lot, Scamarcio checked his watch and saw that it was 3.00 a.m. He wondered yet again how much time he really had left until people started dying.

‘So, you got your Chechen back?’ he tried.

But Scalisi remained motionless, his mountainous shoulders quite still.

‘That must be a relief.’ It was the mention of the Chechen that had persuaded Scalisi to round up half a million, not Ifran. Scamarcio felt quite sure of it.

They approached the gates, and Scalisi’s driver got out to see if there was any kind of entry system. He hung around for a while, but nobody appeared. The place seemed deserted — there were no lights in the outbuildings, and no cars in the forecourt. Scamarcio hoped the clan were all still in the centre, working hard.

‘We’ll have to sit it out until they get back,’ said Scamarcio.

‘Where the fuck are they?’ asked Scalisi.

‘None of your business.’

‘I’d say it was, given I’ve just handed you half a million euros.’

‘Half a million doesn’t buy much these days. Given the stakes, it’s a modest deposit.’

‘God, you’re one stubborn son of a bitch.’

‘When will you get me the rest?’

‘By close of play.’

‘You make today’s events sound like a football match.’

‘That, Scamarcio, is the first intelligent analysis you’ve made.’

‘Tell me about your Chechen.’

‘He’s not my Chechen.’

‘So whose is he?’

The colonel said nothing.

‘Why are you such an incompetent fuck, Scalisi? How did you manage to lose him?’

At that, Scalisi got out of the car, tore open Scamarcio’s door, and seized him by the neck. One look at the dark fury in his eyes was enough to tell Scamarcio that he intended to kill him. ‘I should have had you finished at the basilica,’ hissed Scalisi. ‘It wasn’t worth the wait — you’ve given me nothing.’

With one hand still around Scamarcio’s neck, he punched him hard in the stomach, and Scamarcio slumped forward. He immediately tried to straighten and mouth ‘Stop,’ but he couldn’t even form the word — the pain was too intense. From a great distance, he heard murmurs and shouts, and then a blast of hot air rushed into the car and two strong hands pulled him away, out of Scalisi’s reach.

Scamarcio fell hard onto the pavement, his head slamming against the concrete. The world began to shrink as a black border in his vision grew thicker and thicker. Soon there was nothing left but a tiny pinprick of light followed by a thousand starbursts.

He opened his eyes and tried to raise his head so he could locate Scalisi. But all he could see were tyres and black boots. Somewhere nearby an engine was idling. It made a low hum. It was surprisingly quiet — quieter than he would have expected.

‘Motherfuckers,’ he whispered, before the world disappeared again.

When he came to, he was in a comfortable bed with clean white sheets and plump pillows. It looked like a hotel bedroom — there were plush burgundy curtains at the tall windows and thick cream carpet. The furniture was antique: some rich, dark wood, polished to perfection. To the right of the bed was a wide desk, but he could see none of the usual accoutrements. There was no complimentary bottle of water with frilly-coaster covered glasses. This was a shame as the back of his throat felt burnt.

He tried to get out of bed, but everything ached: his biceps, his legs, his abdomen. His back felt like it had taken a thousand blows. He wondered if he’d been beaten up while he was unconscious. He lifted the sheet and looked at his stomach. It was covered in bruises, some small, some large. There were a few more on his thighs. He thought for a moment about internal injuries, but he didn’t feel unwell — just sore and very thirsty. How strange, he thought, to beat someone when you couldn’t witness their suffering — hear them beg, confess what they knew.

He wondered what had happened to his clothes. All he had left were his boxers.

He eased back against the pillow and closed his eyes. But then he heard the door open. ‘Detective.’ The Italian word was pronounced with the exaggerated open vowels of a British accent. ‘How are you feeling?’

A tall, slender man was approaching the bed. He had a pleasant wide face with square cheekbones, and light-blue eyes behind wide tortoiseshell frames. His strawberry-blond hair was cut in that short-at-the-back, long-at-the-sides style so favoured by the British establishment, and he wore a conservative grey suit with a yellow and blue polka-dot tie. The tie seemed a little ostentatious for the sober suit.

‘You beat me up, and then you ask how I’m feeling?’

‘We didn’t beat you up.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You should have come to see us, as your friend suggested.’

‘What friend?’

‘I believe you know him as Federico.’

Scamarcio blinked, then tried to sit up straighter in the bed, but it hurt too much so he remained prone, looking up at the seemingly respectable man before him. ‘Are you from the embassy?’

‘In a manner of speaking. You’ve got yourself in quite a jam, Detective.’

Scamarcio chose to say nothing.

The stranger pulled out the chair from beneath the desk and angled it towards the bed. He took a seat, draping a relaxed arm over the back and crossing his long legs in front of him. Scamarcio saw navy-blue silk socks and heavy brown brogues — too heavy for the kind of weather they’d been having in Rome lately.

‘There are quite a few people who want a word with you, so we thought we’d get ahead of the game. We like to move in early if we can.’ He pushed his wide glasses higher up his thin nose.

‘You came on a motorbike …?’ Scamarcio asked, still trying to piece it all together.

‘Yes.’ He adjusted the glasses once more. ‘We’d been following you and the colonel, keeping tabs, as it were.’

‘So who kicked the shit out of me?’

The man opened his palms and shrugged — it was a small, almost fleeting gesture. ‘Mr Scalisi lost his cool, I’m afraid, before we could whisk you away. We’re not sure whether it was just for show or whether he really hates you. Either way, you should be grateful we eventually got you out of there.’

‘“Grateful” is not the word I’d choose.’

‘What word would you prefer?’

‘What the hell do you want?’

‘I think it’s more the other way around. We might be in the position to help you. But we require some information from you first.’

‘I’ve heard that line before.’

‘I know you come from a tough background and that you’ve witnessed a lot of violence.’

What the fuck is it with this guy? ‘That’s got nothing to do with it. I’m just telling you that I’m sick and tired of being played. Don’t try to play me, or you’ll lose.’

The man looked at him, but said nothing. Scamarcio heard a trapped fly buzzing against the window, its body beating frantically against the glass.

‘It’s like this, Detective: we know a little, but not a lot. You probably also know a little, but not a lot. But your little might be different from our little, and together that might add up to a lot.’

Scamarcio sighed. ‘I haven’t got time for this. There’s a siege going down; people are about to die. I’d like to get back there and try to help bring this mess to some kind of peaceful resolution.’

‘The have-a-go hero. That’s all very nice, and the papers would lap it up, but I’m sure you can see that the authorities aren’t ever going to let you go back in.’

Scamarcio was no longer listening. ‘Fuck, what’s the time?’ He suddenly realised that he had no idea how long he had been out of it. The curtains looked thick — it could be daylight outside.

‘4.30 a.m.’

He took a breath. Thank God. ‘Where’s Scalisi?’

‘No idea.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Why would I lie?’

‘Because you’re a spy and that’s what spies do.’

The man flinched as if Scamarcio had called him a murderer or a paedophile. Scamarcio remembered the video of Fiammetta, and his chest felt hollow.

‘Ifran has been saying a lot of things. The problem is working out which of them are true.’

‘On this, we don’t disagree,’ said Scamarcio tiredly.

‘We believe he was working with Italian intelligence. Is that your assessment?’

Scamarcio felt a strange burning at the corner of his mouth. He touched the spot, trying to come up with a reply. ‘Yes,’ he said. But that was all.

‘Do you think the relationship could have changed? That perhaps, more recently, Ifran decided to strike out on his own?’

‘That’s possible.’

‘Why would he do this?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

‘Perhaps not …’ The last word trailed off, it was barely audible.

Scamarcio wanted to know about the Chechen. He needed to understand why Ifran was preoccupied with him — why his name had tripped a switch for Scalisi. It felt like time to trade: ‘OK, I’ll give you my theory. But first, you make a guess for me. Who’s the Chechen, and what’s he doing in the middle of all this?’

‘The Chechen?’

For a moment, the elegant man looked a little unruffled in his perfect suit. ‘Describe him.’

Scamarcio went through the same spiel he’d given the guy in Calcata.

‘Hmm,’ said the Englishman once he’d absorbed it. ‘You’ll need to give me a moment.’

And with that he left.