20

A FEW MINUTES LATER there was another knock at the door, — it wasn’t the Englishman but a maid in full uniform. She was carrying a wide tray, on which rested a large bottle of water and a plate of food. Scamarcio smelt the welcome aroma of fresh bread, eggs, and bacon. The maid deposited the tray on the desk, and then left without saying a word.

Scamarcio didn’t feel much like moving, but his thirst compelled him. He hobbled over, the throbbing in his stomach quite fierce. He drank down the bottle in one, not bothering with a glass, and then examined the contents of the tray. He took a seat and ate quickly, immediately feeling better as the sugar reached his blood.

There was a knock at the door again, and the Englishman entered, followed by a slightly smaller man with dark hair. He looked about forty — a few years younger than his colleague.

‘I hope the food was OK,’ said the blond guy, actually sounding like he meant it.

‘Yes.’ As an afterthought Scamarcio added: ‘Thank you.’ Perhaps it paid to be polite with the British.

‘So, the thing is,’ said the man, pulling out a chair from a small table to the right of the door. ‘We know, and you know, that Ifran was involved with Scalisi. Obviously, this will never come out, but …’

‘Why do you say “obviously”?’

‘Well, very few people are aware of the connection, and I doubt you’ll be the one to announce it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you want to live.’

There was no drama to the words. The delivery couldn’t have been flatter, more matter-of-fact.

Scamarcio regarded the two of them. They looked back at him. They had stated a truth that he’d already guessed, but which he now didn’t know quite what to do with. He scratched his neck. ‘So if I were to reveal to the world that Ifran had been an asset, the intelligence services would kill me.’

‘Yes,’ said the blond Englishman quickly, as if he was bored of talking about the weather and wanted to move on to something more pertinent.

‘They might not leave it at that,’ said the dark-haired guy, who was still standing. ‘They might decide to go for your family, too. It depends, really — these things can play out in a number of ways. The Italians do business differently. We can’t speak for them, but the general picture would probably be the same.’

‘The general picture,’ repeated Scamarcio, his mind sticking, refusing to move on. ‘What am I to do with all this?’ he asked after a moment. ‘If I’m to do nothing, I mean?’

‘Oh, it’s not entirely a lost cause,’ said the first Englishman, soothingly. ‘You could start by talking to us.’

‘I thought that’s what I was doing.’

It was warm in the room, but Scamarcio suddenly felt cold and exposed in his boxer shorts. ‘Any chance of getting some clothes?’

‘Oh,’ said the dark-haired man, looking slightly vacant. ‘Sorry, I was meant to bring them.’

He left the room and was back a few moments later with Scamarcio’s things, all clean and pressed — although the jacket and baseball cap still felt damp. The sunglasses had been carefully placed in the top pocket of his jacket, but one of the arms looked bent. ‘We’ll have your shoes back in a second,’ said the guy. Scamarcio wondered about the delay: what were they doing with his shoes? Polishing them?

‘Do you know how long Ifran was working for Italian intelligence?’ asked the first Englishman.

‘No, I haven’t got that far,’ said Scamarcio as he tried to get into his clothes without cursing in pain.

‘Do you think Scalisi had any idea this day was coming?’ asked the dark-haired man. It was an important question — a question that had been troubling Scamarcio ever since his last meeting with the colonel. It was the complex smile that had made Scamarcio think that all of this was not as much of a surprise as it should have been. But this was a realisation that had grown gradually, and it hadn’t yet properly taken shape. ‘I’m not sure. He may have known, but of course he’s never said anything to confirm it.’

‘What makes you think that?’

Scamarcio sat back down and sighed. ‘It’s more a hunch: something I read from his body language.’ He thought about mentioning the smile, but it would sound lame. ‘Why would Scalisi do this? Recruit this guy?’ he asked.

‘We’re always on the lookout for informants inside the suburbs — they’re hard to find, but extremely valuable. A kind analysis would say that this is precisely what Scalisi was doing — running an asset inside Torpignattara so Intel knew ahead of the game whether attacks were in the pipeline.’

‘Scalisi works for AISE — they’re foreign intelligence. Why wasn’t this being handled by domestic?’

‘AISI probably have their own assets. There’s a lot of rivalry between agencies. Scalisi was probably just trying to prove that he was up there with the best of them. If he got a result, that would be a great boost for his agency and a kick in the teeth for his rivals. And there’s nothing to lose because if it goes to the wall, as seems to be happening today, his rivals end up with egg on their faces and he escapes the main rap. As you say, everyone expects this to be a matter for domestic Intel, not AISE.’

‘You said that was a kind analysis. Is there a harsher one?’

‘Of course,’ said the blond guy, looking solemn. ‘And that’s the analysis we’re working with.’

‘Care to share it?’

‘Scalisi leans to the right, as much as that can be said for former military men who become spooks. They start on the right, and then move ever closer to the edges.’

‘What happens at the edges?’

‘Dark things, darker than you might imagine …’

Scamarcio thought of the video of Fiammetta again and felt sick to his stomach. He had to find her. He wondered if the British might be able to help.

‘We believe that Scalisi knew full well that today was coming — maybe he didn’t know it as today, maybe it was some unspecified date in the future, but he knew it would happen soon enough. We suspect he deliberately ceased contact with Ifran in order to keep his hands clean, but then that picture surfaced, and now he’s implicated.’

‘But why would Scalisi do this?’ asked Scamarcio. ‘How could he possibly benefit from a terror attack on Rome? Mass casualties? Sure, domestic would take most of the rap, but he’d still be caught up in the post-mortem. He’d still risk looking incompetent, asleep at the wheel.’

This question had been bothering Scamarcio ever since his meeting with Di Mare in the church, but there hadn’t been time to sculpt it, hone it down.

‘Scalisi and a few of his colleagues at AISE have a philosophy that they seem to be pursuing, and they’re not the only ones in the intelligence community to think this way.’

‘What philosophy?’

‘Detective, don’t take this amiss, but you seem to be the one asking all the questions. We need to turn that around for a moment. We need to know what Ifran told you to draw you into this, and we need to know what you’ve found out since. When we’ve covered that, then we can give you the finer details. The ones we have, at least.’

Scamarcio didn’t really need to weigh it up. Scalisi was the enemy. On the other hand, so far, the Brits had provided a comfortable bed, clean clothes, and a decent meal — and they seemed to know a lot. Some might call him an easy lay, but on this occasion he was prepared to put out.

‘OK, but before I tell you about Ifran, I need to ask you one more thing. Scalisi has my girlfriend, he’s done her harm. Do you have any ideas where he might be holding her?’

The blond guy shrugged. ‘Are you sure he’s hurt her?’

Scamarcio nodded, and the guy looked unsettled. ‘She’s probably at AISE HQ — that would be my guess.’ His colleague nodded an assent.

‘I’m not convinced she’s there. Do they use other places?’

‘I’m sure AISE have black sites, but we wouldn’t know their location, I’m afraid. That information would never be made available to us. I’m sorry — we can’t help.’

Unfortunately, Scamarcio believed him.

‘We’ll keep our ears to the ground,’ said the dark-haired guy quietly.

Scamarcio took a breath and tried to focus on the deal in hand. He talked them through what he knew so far, omitting his more recent discoveries about the Chechen because he wanted to save that card for later. When he’d finished, the blond Englishman said, ‘It sounds like Ifran is trying to blackmail Scalisi with the Chechen. The question is, Why?’

‘Yep.’

‘Do you have any ideas?’

‘Probably no better than yours. Is the Chechen Intel? I dunno — you guys tell me. Business in that part of the world seems murky, lines are blurred.’

The Englishman snorted. ‘It’s not murky, it’s impenetrable. You can’t see the bottom.’

‘Do you have a hunch?’

‘We don’t like to work on hunches. But as I’m talking to a policeman, and your rules are different, I suppose I might say that the Chechen’s strings are definitely being pulled by someone.’

Scamarcio tried to suppress his frustration. ‘Someone in intelligence?’

‘Possibly.’

‘Scalisi?’ It was like hammering in nails.

‘We deem it unlikely. If the Chechen is who we think he is, he’s one of a select few. We don’t think he’d do business with Scalisi. He’d have bigger fish to fry.’

‘Bigger fish than the head of AISE?’

‘There’s a huge world out there, full of people with fatter wallets than Scalisi. As the saying goes, follow the money.’

‘You guys must have a big budget.’

The blond Englishman laughed. ‘Not enough to buy the Chechen.’

‘Did you try?’

The Englishman said nothing.

‘So, who does that leave?’

‘Too many to count.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Scamarcio. ‘I don’t get why the Chechen seems so important to Scalisi and Ifran.’

‘That is the mystery we’re all trying to solve — while the clock ticks down.’ He studied his watch, then murmured something to his colleague in English. Scamarcio couldn’t catch it.

‘This philosophy of Scalisi’s — you were going to explain.’

The Englishman turned his gaze from his colleague. ‘Yes, we were. But right now, we’ve got a meeting. We’ll be back later.’

‘How long is that going to take?’

But they were already through the door. This is the way with the British, thought Scamarcio. They always come across as gentlemen, then rip you off when you least expect it.

He’d given up looking at his watch. It just brought stress and no solutions. And besides, the Englishman was right — he wasn’t ready to be bumped off in some dark alley. He wanted to find Fiammetta. He wanted to return to his former life of semi-challenging cases, interspersed with the occasional head-fuck.

He’d lain back down on the bed and was dozing again, dreams hovering on the edges of nightmares, when the Englishmen strolled back in, newly brisk and invigorated as if they’d just received a pat on the back from a big cheese.

‘It’s been interesting speaking with you,’ said the blond guy. ‘What would you like to do now?’

‘I want to get out of here.’

‘That can be arranged.’

‘And I want to know what Scalisi’s up to. I need to understand his motives.’

The blond guy nodded sympathetically. ‘I’m sure you do. You must appreciate that what we tell you cannot make its way to the media. There’ll be severe consequences if it does.’

Scamarcio smiled thinly; he’d expected nothing less.

‘You’ll need to sign a non-disclosure agreement.’

‘I thought that was just for rock stars.’

‘Do I look like a rock star?’ There was no irony, not even the trace of a smile. The Englishman produced a pen from his top pocket, and his colleague handed over an A4 plastic envelope. The blond guy pulled out a sheet and signed it, then brought it across to Scamarcio. While Scamarcio’s English was solid, he couldn’t make sense of the legalese in a hurry.

‘Do you have one in Italian?’

‘No.’

He just went ahead and signed it. The British were no doubt about to get one over on him, but he needed whatever they knew about Scalisi.

Once the document had been returned to its file, the blond Englishman said, ‘I’ll let my colleague explain. His spoken Italian is better.’ He smiled stiffly at the dark-haired guy, who coughed, then said, ‘You’re a policeman, so I don’t need to tell you that surveillance is a troublesome beast. As a detective, if you wish to bug someone or monitor their email, what is the first thing you must do?’

‘Usually, I need to get permission from a judge.’

‘When you say “usually”, how often do you mean?’

‘I’d say about ninety per cent of the time,’ answered Scamarcio, wondering where this was heading.

‘Ninety per cent of the time — that’s most of the time.’

‘Yes.’ What was this, a lesson in percentages?

‘So imagine, if you will, a law that gives you the right to eavesdrop on the digital and mobile phone communications of anyone linked to a terrorist inquiry, a law that allows you to install secret cameras and recording devices in private homes without requesting prior permission from the judge. Would this new law make your job simpler?’

‘Quicker maybe, but perhaps not simpler.’

‘Imagine, then, that you have access to a device that records the keystrokes people make on their computers. Imagine that internet and phone companies have black boxes that run complex algorithms that can alert the authorities to suspicious online behaviour. Imagine that these same companies are then forced to hand over all that data when asked. All this information would make it so much easier to solve your cases.’

‘And so much easier to make mistakes …’

The dark-haired man just shrugged. ‘Scalisi and a few others inside his agency are pushing for the legalisation of mass surveillance. They’re not alone and they’re definitely following a trend — we’ve seen it happen in France, and it’s starting to happen elsewhere. Scalisi and others are frustrated because, while they have some amazing tech at their fingertips, they don’t have the legal clout to use it. Scalisi knew that if an attack came, besides gaining a bigger budget, he’d also be able to secure much wider powers.’

‘Isn’t that what you all want?’

‘Our colleagues think the solution needs to be subtler, more measured. There’s a danger in taking things too far.’

‘The danger of mistakes being made?’

‘It’s more that they wouldn’t want to unnerve their citizens.’

Scamarcio sighed and tried to make sense of it, knocking it around in his head for a while. After a lengthy silence, he said, ‘Thanks for bringing me up to speed.’

But on his mind, unspoken, remained the conviction that there was more to this — that the real picture was dirtier and more complicated.

Scamarcio had declined their offer of a car, figuring that some European treaty might oblige them to hand him over. He wondered if they would follow him as he walked back towards the Colosseum. But when he checked behind him, the early morning streets were deserted. He assumed that those people who weren’t still asleep were probably glued to their TVs or penned in behind barricades, like rubberneckers at a car-crash.

When he’d left Basile, they’d agreed to meet either back at Torpignattara, if that proved easiest, or at the junction of Via del Cardello where it met Via Cavour. Basile would post a man there to wait for Scamarcio, in case Basile was busy elsewhere. He’d also station a guy back at his office who could give Scamarcio an update in the event he couldn’t reach the centre. Scamarcio had been hoping to give Scalisi the slip when the arrival of the British had put paid to that idea. But as he rounded the corner, Scamarcio was surprised to see the crime boss himself, bathed in the sodium of a street lamp.

‘Ah, so you’re still alive,’ he said by way of hello, sounding slightly disappointed. But although Basile looked tired, his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were alert. Scamarcio sensed that just the thought of a partnership with Dante Greco was having the same effect as a shot of adrenalin. Sure, Basile had Torpignattara all sewn up but, without a helping hand, he was never going to make it into the premier league. An association with Greco could change that overnight. And if Basile played it well, he could make millions. Scamarcio had grossly exaggerated his connection to Greco and had no idea how he was going to work his way out of the lie, but he decided not to think about that for now. There were more pressing matters to consider.

‘Let’s walk,’ said Scamarcio as they headed down the hill, away from the main road. ‘Did you get anywhere?’

‘We found a crew. There’s a producer who is willing to talk to you. You need to call this number.’ Basile fished a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it over.

‘I don’t have a mobile.’

Basile felt for his phone in his jacket pocket and passed it across. Scamarcio slowed and made towards the entrance of a smart apartment block, where he took a position away from the steps. He dialled, and the number was answered after a few rings.

‘Woodman,’ snapped an American voice. The man sounded wired on coffee and adrenalin.

Scamarcio introduced himself, his addled mind slow to switch into English.

‘Jesus,’ said the producer, once he was done. ‘Your guy told our fixer that he had an important source, but I didn’t expect it to be you. You’ve got a helluva lot of people after you, Detective.’ Woodman paused. ‘Obviously, we’d be very keen to get ahead of the curve, but right now I’ve got no proof that you are who you say you are.’

‘I understand,’ said Scamarcio. ‘Can we meet?’

‘Can you get close to the Colosseum?’

‘Hold on,’ said Scamarcio.

He began walking down Via Cavour, motioning Basile to follow. There was a blue and green awning a few metres down, but Scamarcio couldn’t see any chairs or tables outside. Perhaps they hadn’t opened up yet. He drew closer and realised that it was a small boutique, not a bar. He kept on going, and soon enough spotted a small, somewhat dingy café. He peered through the glass and noticed that, while chairs were still up on tables and the lights were dimmed, there was a glow coming from a room out back. He guessed they’d be opening for the breakfast rush soon. ‘Bar Mirabel, Via Cavour. I’ll be waiting for you.’

‘Is that far?’

‘No more than five minutes, but with the road blocks it might take longer. Come alone — don’t bring your fixer.’

Scamarcio didn’t want to hammer on the door, but luckily he didn’t have to. As they were waiting outside the café, the main lights came on, and a young man started removing chairs and wiping down tables. Scamarcio turned away to face the street. A few minutes later, the guy unlocked the front door, and Basile entered. Scamarcio followed a couple of minutes later. The crime boss had ordered them both cappuccino and brioche, and had found a table by the back wall.

The producer, when he arrived, was sweating, and his face was tight with stress. Woodman was tall and well built, with shoulder-length brown-blond hair and a greying beard. He seemed combat-ready in a tan jacket with a startling array of zips and flaps. On his feet was a pair of sturdy walking boots, and Scamarcio noticed a lurid green K-Way backpack slung over one shoulder. Scamarcio raised his palm in an almost imperceptible gesture, but the American spotted it straight away. He looked hesitant and slowly started to approach. Scamarcio knew that there was no way the producer could recognise him until he removed the sunglasses and cap.

‘Er, Detective?’

Scamarcio pushed up the glasses for little more than a second. Woodman’s expression morphed into shock, then relief, then back to stress again. ‘Good to meet you,’ he whispered, extending a quick hand. He sat down opposite and deposited the backpack on the floor by his feet.

‘I guess my first question would be, Why us?’ he said, reaching into one of the flaps on his jacket and pulling out a small leather-bound notebook and ballpoint pen.

‘Can you hold off taking notes?’ Scamarcio asked.

‘Sure.’

‘I didn’t choose you. The boy did.’

‘The boy in the café? They’re saying his name is Ifran Shebani.’

‘Yes, Ifran.’

‘And what does Ifran want from us? Your associate here,’ he motioned to Basile, ‘he told my fixer he had a source close to Ifran — he didn’t give us further details.’

Basile nodded at the wrong moment, and Scamarcio knew he didn’t understand.

‘Ifran asked me to bring you back to the bar this morning with a live link open,’ said Scamarcio, knowing the effect this would have.

As expected, the American gave a jolt. He rubbed his chin and said, ‘My bosses would never agree to that. It could be carnage — Shebani might be using us to broadcast his sick little snuff movie in real time.’

‘I don’t believe it’s that,’ said Scamarcio calmly.

‘Why not?’

‘What I’m about to tell you is off the record. I might allow it to go on the record later, but for now it’s between you and me — can you put the notebook away?’

The producer quickly did as instructed.

Scamarcio took a breath, and then began to talk him through his conversation with Ifran. But when it came to the DVD, he held back the finer details. ‘That DVD, and a photo that has come into my possession, lead me to believe that Ifran has been working for Italian intelligence. It’s also possible that US intelligence is aware.’ Again, he resolved to leave the Chechen right out of it — he didn’t want Woodman muddying the waters.

‘Holy shit,’ said the producer. ‘Is this for real?’

‘I think so.’

‘It’s one hell of an allegation.’

‘I know …’

‘But what would be the point?’

‘I’ll get to that.’

Woodman took a long breath. ‘Let’s get this straight: you’re telling me there was a DVD — in the exact place the boy said it would be — and that that DVD demonstrates collaboration between him and the intelligence services?’

‘That DVD suggested it. The confirmation came with the photograph.’

‘I’ll need to see that photo.’

Scamarcio had been expecting this, and turned to Basile.

‘Do you have my wallet and the picture?’ he asked in Italian. The crime boss nodded and lifted them from his inside pocket. When he handed over the photo, Scamarcio saw that the corners were now slightly crumpled. He passed it to the producer, who studied it closely. Wordlessly, Basile also handed across the DVD, and Scamarcio pocketed it while the producer’s eyes were still on the photo.

‘You made the copies?’ Scamarcio whispered.

‘Sure,’ murmured Basile.

‘That guy does look like the stills they’ve released for the boy in the café, but who is the big man with him?’ asked Woodman, laying down the photo.

‘Colonel Andrea Scalisi, head of AISE. That’s our foreign intelligence agency.’

‘I know what AISE is, but I don’t know this guy. I’ll need to verify the image.’ Woodman pulled out an iPhone from another of the flaps on his jacket and started tapping and scrolling. Scamarcio presumed he was running a web search for Scalisi. Soon enough, the producer seemed to find confirmation. ‘Damn,’ was his only reaction.

‘Happy?’ Scamarcio asked.

‘Not exactly …’ The producer ran a hand through his hair. ‘This is dynamite,’ he muttered, looking away.

‘In more ways than one. So, do you want the story or not?’

Woodman sighed and ran the tips of his fingers across his forehead, then scratched his neck. ‘But why is Ifran insisting on this live link?’

‘He wants to tell his story to the world. He thinks this will be his only chance.’

‘So what happened with his relationship with AISE? How did it go so wrong?’ Woodman stared at Scamarcio hard; he still seemed to be sizing him up.

‘I’m not convinced it did go wrong.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It could be that the guy running Ifran wanted to arrive at this point.’

‘You’re not serious?’

‘I’ve just had quite an informative chat with some spooks at the British Embassy. The Brits seem to think that Scalisi and a few chums have an agenda — that they’re pushing for broader surveillance powers.’

‘Why the fuck would the Brits tell you that?’

‘That was my question, but it seems that they were looking for information — they showed me theirs, I showed them mine.’

‘Information on Ifran?’

‘Yes.’

‘I can’t believe they just let you go with half the world looking for you.’

‘They play by their own rules. Ally or enemy doesn’t seem to be a solid state.’

‘Hmm.’ Woodman sighed again and swore softly. After a few seconds spent staring into space, he rubbed beneath his nose and said, ‘How did you get the picture — I understand how you got the DVD, but you didn’t explain the picture.’

‘It was given to me by a guy who recently retired from AISE. He knew there was a shitstorm coming and wanted out before someone switched on the fan.’

Woodman kneaded his chin as if he was trying to sculpt it down, make it less prominent. ‘So, he took the photo before he retired?’

‘No, someone else took the photo. A guy who’d also left, for similar reasons — I met him last night. I believe him to be credible.’

‘Where is he, this photographer?’

‘In a village fifty kilometres from Rome.’

‘I’ll need to see him — I’ll need to verify the whole thing. That photo could be faked. They can do anything these days.’

‘You’re thinking about your story — all that will come. But we need to focus on the live link — that needs to happen soon. Ifran wants it by 9.00 a.m.’

‘Or?’

‘Rome burns.’

‘What?’

‘He says they’ve got a lot of other sites wired — that we could be looking at thousands of casualties.’

‘But how is that even possible?’

‘I’m just telling you what he said.’

‘How can I make the case for a live link if I haven’t corroborated my story? We can’t just go blindly in. Not that I believe my bosses would ever let it happen.’ Woodman looked at his watch. ‘It’s 6.45. Christ, I mean, it’s not like we even have any time.’

Scamarcio knew there was no way to get the producer to Calcata and back and the crew in place for the deadline. ‘He’ll come to you,’ he said before the thought had properly coalesced. ‘I’ll get my source to drive here.’

‘Well, all right,’ said Woodman sounding reluctant. ‘I need his name, his former position — I’ll need to start checking out his background.’

Scamarcio frowned. He understood where the journalist was coming from, but he was asking the impossible. Scamarcio nudged Basile for his phone and pulled out the card Letta had given him when he’d left to meet Federico. When the professor picked up, he sounded drunk on sleep. ‘So, you’re still alive?’

It was turning into a theme.

‘Federico took me to see this guy in Calcata last night. I need the pair of them to meet me in the centre, Bar Mirabel, as soon as possible — it’s an emergency.’

‘I thought I told you to back off, Scamarcio.’

‘I can’t; it’s not that simple.’

‘I can call Federico, but he might not want to take this further. He’s already gone out on a limb, and everyone’s jumpy.’ Letta said it as if he didn’t quite understand why.

‘Please, just call him.’ Scamarcio paused. ‘This friend in Calcata — you ever heard of him?’

‘I think Federico may have mentioned him once or twice,’ said Letta vaguely.

‘I need his name.’

‘I can’t give you a name.’

‘Letta, you’ve got to trust me when I say this is important.’

Letta whistled down the line. ‘At the end of the day, I don’t really know you, Scamarcio. I helped you with a case once, but that’s it.’

‘Trust your gut.’

The line fell quiet for a few moments before Letta said, ‘I know him as Alessandro — Alessandro Romanelli.’

‘And he worked for AISE?’

‘He worked for AISE — high up — with Federico.’

Scamarcio exhaled. ‘You’ve done the right thing.’

‘Only time will tell,’ said Letta before hanging up.

Scamarcio gave the details to Woodman, who immediately resumed pecking at his iPhone. Then he brought it to his ear.

‘What are you doing?’ Scamarcio asked.

‘What does it look like?’

‘No,’ said Scamarcio, trying to grab it.

‘I need to call my fixer to research Romanelli,’ hissed Woodman, trying to move out of the way.

‘Don’t!’ Scamarcio finally managed to prise the phone away.

‘What the hell?’ seethed Woodman.

‘It can’t get out that you’re looking at Romanelli. I don’t know your fixer; I don’t know who they might be talking to. Don’t you have another way you can find out about him?’

Woodman’s expression thawed ever so slightly. ‘I could use our Intel guy in the States, ask him to consult his international sources. But that’s a roundabout route.’

‘I’d rather that than alerting your fixer.’

‘People will know sooner or later that I’ve been asking …’

‘We’ll take the risk. Maybe in a few hours it won’t matter.’

Scamarcio handed back the iPhone, and Woodman shook his head, still put out. He placed the call and quickly supplied his contact with the details. ‘Get it back to me as soon as you can,’ he said before hanging up. ‘There’s an Intelligence Community database that he uses. He’ll run the name through that. If it draws a blank he’ll call his contacts.’ Woodman scrolled down his phone. ‘Google has no results,’ he said after a few minutes.

‘Not exactly surprising,’ said Scamarcio under his breath.

Woodman’s phone pinged, and when he looked at the message, he laughed. ‘That’s impressive,’ he said. ‘He’s sent me a file already.’

He scrolled down the screen. ‘There is a Romanelli who was with AISE.’ He turned the phone to Scamarcio. ‘Is this your guy?’

Scamarcio looked at the picture — it was indeed the same man he’d met in Calcata, but he looked very different in this photo. He was clean shaven in a dark suit and tie, and his hair was cropped short. His skin was several shades paler, and he seemed older and more careworn.

‘What does it say he did with AISE?’ asked Scamarcio.

‘It just says counterintelligence. Apparently, he joined two years ago; he’d been at AISI previously — that’s domestic, isn’t it?’

Scamarcio nodded. There was something bothering him about this information. Hadn’t Romanelli said that he and Federico went back a long way? Perhaps they’d known each other privately before AISE? Or perhaps Federico had also come from AISI?

Woodman was patting his jacket for his notebook again. ‘I’ll need to take some of this down, for background.’

‘OK,’ said Scamarcio, still preoccupied.

When he had finished, Woodman said, ‘I’m just wondering why you didn’t do this before — find out about this source?’

‘Mr Woodman,’ said Scamarcio, trying to keep his tone even, but finding his arm pushing up through the air anyway. ‘Until yesterday, I had no idea that there’d be a siege, or that I’d be right in the middle of it. When I got out from seeing Ifran, AISE all but kidnapped me. They seized my mobile, which has meant that I’ve had no access to digital information. Most of my time has been spent trying to evade capture. Where you come from, you might call that police obstruction or not cooperating with the authorities, but right now I can’t be sure that the authorities don’t want to do me serious harm.’ Scamarcio stopped. He’d been about to tell Woodman about the stunt Scalisi had pulled with Fiammetta, but then thought better of it. It was too private, and besides, he didn’t want to scare the man off.

Woodman spent the next forty-five minutes making numerous calls, squinting at his phone and scribbling. Scamarcio had already ordered two espresso and was starting to feel shaky and on edge. He could sense Nino Basile growing increasingly restless beside him.

‘My contacts will be here soon,’ said Scamarcio, worrying about the amount of time he was spending in one place. He’d thought about sending the crime boss away, but figured that a bit of extra muscle might come in useful. ‘Are your boys still at the cordon?’

‘Yeah — they’re wondering what the plan is. Is there a plan?’

‘Sure.’

‘What is it, then?’

Scamarcio sniffed. ‘I’ll share it when the last pieces are in place. No point jumping the gun.’

Basile just shook his head, unimpressed. ‘And Greco?’

‘He’ll be in Rome next week,’ Scamarcio lied.

He noticed Woodman glance up from his notes, and when he followed his gaze, he saw Federico and Romanelli entering the café. They seemed irritated and curious by turn.

‘What’s the big emergency?’ asked Romanelli, eyeing the American with suspicion.

‘Haven’t you seen the news?’ said Woodman, looking him up and down, clearly struggling to match this dishevelled hippy with the photo he had just seen.

Romanelli frowned and pulled out a chair. Federico went to the bar and returned with two espressos. As he sat down, Scamarcio noticed that he looked quite nervous, definitely not as relaxed as he’d seemed just hours before. What or who has got to him? Scamarcio wondered.

‘So,’ he said, trying to stay focused, ‘this gentleman here,’ he gestured to Woodman, ‘is with CNN.’ He thought he noticed Federico blanch, but he pushed on. ‘He’s here because Ifran asked me to return with a live TV link open at 0900. He wants to talk to the world. I’m trying to persuade Mr Woodman to grant this request.’

Romanelli pursed his lips, then barred his arms across his chest. ‘There’s no way that CNN will agree to that. It could be horrific,’ he said in English. There was little trace of an accent.

‘Quite,’ said Woodman, under his breath.

‘Mr Woodman is very interested in the tale I’ve told him so far about Ifran and his relationship with AISE. But he needs to corroborate the story before he calls his bosses.’ He turned to Romanelli. ‘And that’s where you come in. You gave Di Mare the photo; you took that photo. We now know your former position, but we don’t know the circumstances surrounding that picture.’ Scamarcio turned to Woodman. ‘Is that the essence of it?’

He nodded.

Romanelli sniffed and pushed his glasses higher up his nose. ‘Didn’t we go through all this?’

‘Not really, Mr Romanelli — it’s more like we skirted around the edges,’ said Scamarcio.

‘How did you get my name?’ asked Romanelli.

‘Does that really matter?’

Romanelli scratched behind an ear and muttered, ‘Letta.’

Federico shook his head. ‘I doubt it.’

‘Who else would it be?’

‘Listen,’ said Scamarcio, losing patience. ‘Can’t we just pin down the facts? We have just over an hour before Ifran’s deadline.’

Romanelli rubbed his cheek and shook his head slowly. ‘I admire your persistence, I really do. But there’s no way they’re going to let you back in there. You’re in cloud-cuckoo-land if you think anything different.’

‘Whatever. That’s my problem. Just tell us how you came to suspect Scalisi. How you came to take that photo.’

Romanelli noticed the espresso in front of him and quickly tipped it back. He glanced up at the ceiling, as if hoping to be spirited out of the bar and back to his workshop.

‘Scalisi is part of a group inside the agency who don’t like the way things are going. They want to roam free and don’t want to have to go running to a judge every two seconds to have their arses covered. They feel that they’ve been reined in for too long, and, given today’s world, it’s time for a change. On a certain level, they might be right, but it’s the way they’re going about things that bothers people like Federico and me.’

‘That’s what the British said,’ said Woodman sounding pleased with himself.

‘The British?’ asked Federico, now looking even more ill at ease. ‘Have you spoken to them?’ he asked Woodman.

‘No. But he has,’ the producer pointed at Scamarcio.

‘When was this?’ asked Federico, his brow scored with doubt. ‘You were adamant you didn’t want to see them.’

Scamarcio sighed. ‘It wasn’t like that. They found me — out in Torpignattara. They brought me back to their place for a friendly chat.’

‘Was it friendly?’

‘Pretty much — I didn’t get the feeling they wanted to kill me, anyway.’

‘Why would they want to kill you?’ asked Federico, looking at Scamarcio as if he were insane. ‘The British go their own way. That’s what I was trying to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.’

Scamarcio wondered why Federico was so put out about the British.

‘Mr Romanelli, do you think this attitude of Scalisi’s, this push for greater powers, could be behind his relationship with Ifran? That it might explain today’s attacks?’ asked Woodman.

‘It’s possible,’ said Romanelli, drily.

‘It’s possible, but you don’t know for sure?’

‘Certainty is a precious commodity. It’s rare, and it takes a long time to cultivate.’

‘So, you don’t know?’ said Woodman.

‘I have my suspicions, as does Federico,’ said Romanelli, gesturing to his colleague. But if you’re asking us if we’re certain, then we’d have to say that we’re not.’

‘And the photo, how did that come about?’ pushed Woodman.

‘I took that picture when I was part of a team running Ifran. We had met him in Frascati that day — he could never come to HQ, of course.’

‘Of course,’ echoed Woodman.

‘We were in Frascati to speak to him about some product he’d delivered on two brothers. These brothers were planning a major attack. Ifran had managed to get close. He’d managed to give them the impression that he would help, and be a part of it.’

‘These brothers have a name?’ asked Woodman.

‘Yeah,’ sighed Romanelli. ‘Barkat and Zabir Alami.’ He paused for a beat, he seemed to be weighing something up. After a moment, he added: ‘They’re the guys with Ifran now. I believe the police have just released the names.’

‘Fuck,’ said Woodman.

Scamarcio wanted to ask why Romanelli hadn’t mentioned this before.

‘So, you were running this guy, and he was making progress …’ coaxed Woodman.

‘And then he skipped out.’

‘You lost contact?’

‘We had no idea where he was. When I left the agency, Scalisi was still looking — and looking hard. I heard he spent a fortune — left no stone unturned.’

Woodman whistled softly. ‘And then Ifran shows up today.’

‘Yes. As for the Chechen, that’s anybody’s guess …’

‘What?’ asked Woodman, looking blank.

‘The Chechen,’ Romanelli angled his head forward, as if Woodman was being slow.

‘Sorry, I don’t follow …’

Both turned to look at Scamarcio. ‘I haven’t gone into it. I didn’t want to confuse things for Mr Woodman.’ In reality, because he still wasn’t clear on the Chechen’s role, Scamarcio knew that any discussion would slow them down.

‘I’m sure I can handle it,’ said Woodman, sounding peeved.

‘Can we just leave the Chechen for a later date?’ Scamarcio said. ‘You’ll get the details, I promise. We just need to prioritise.’

‘I don’t think you’re prioritising correctly,’ said Romanelli. ‘The Chechen was what got you into this mess.’

‘What do you mean?’ Woodman’s eyes clouded with mistrust.

‘The DVD that Detective Scamarcio retrieved showed a Chechen man striking some kind of deal with Ifran, probably to supply arms. Ifran wanted Scamarcio to find the DVD; ergo, he wanted Scamarcio to know about the Chechen. I believe Ifran could have been using the Chechen to try to blackmail Colonel Scalisi.’

Once again, Scamarcio tried to remember when he’d mentioned the DVD to Federico or Romanelli. Regardless of how he’d actually come by the knowledge, Scamarcio didn’t understand why Romanelli was now sharing this info so freely. Then Woodman surprised him by saying, ‘Hmm, that all sounds interesting, but the detective was right — it’s probably too complicated for us. It’s more the kind of thing a broadsheet would handle, or our special investigations division.’ But then after a moment he asked, ‘What do we know about this Chechen?’

‘Very little,’ said Scamarcio. Thankfully, this time, neither Romanelli nor Federico offered an opinion.

‘So, we have no idea how he fits into the picture — who he was working for?’ pushed Woodman.

‘My guess would be organised crime,’ said Scamarcio, grateful that Basile couldn’t follow. ‘They have been known to supply arms to terrorists.’

‘But that doesn’t explain why the boy wanted to alert you to his existence,’ insisted Woodman.

Scamarcio held his palms open in defeat. ‘Like I told you, it’s a mystery.’