27

SCAMARCIO WONDERED IF THE message he’d sent with the diabetic woman had got through. That message, coupled with his most recent call to the negotiators, should have set something in motion. But there was no way of knowing.

From his position at the table, Scamarcio watched Woodman and his crew whispering in a huddle. One of the terrorists had also been watching and walked up and kicked Woodman in the small of the back. ‘Shut the fuck up, prick!’ he screamed in English. Woodman and his colleagues quickly fell silent.

‘If they do provide the helicopters, what will happen to all the hostages?’ Scamarcio asked Barkat, who was chewing on a dirty nail and scrolling through something on his mobile.

‘We’ll let them go. We’ll tell them to wait five minutes so we have time to leave, and then they’re all free.’

‘But all this is contingent on being able to talk to the prime minister?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Appearances. Our media arm wants us to demonstrate a position of strength. Speaking with the prime minister would help with that.’

‘Ah, so it’s just a PR stunt.’

‘Kind of,’ said Barkat dispassionately. He still hadn’t looked up from his phone.

‘I need to talk to the negotiators again.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t think I spelt it out clearly enough. I want another try.’

Barkat frowned, then looked up. ‘No funny business.’

‘No funny business,’ Scamarcio repeated.

The call was patched through, and the same negotiator picked up. ‘This thing about the prime minister,’ said Scamarcio. ‘Don’t underestimate it. It all hinges on that: once they get the call, everyone goes free — think of the kids at the preschool.’

‘A: we don’t believe them. B: it would set a dangerous precedent,’ said the negotiator, his tone neutral.

‘I understand that, but you guys have got to consider how it’s going to look if those kids are killed. If the prime minister intervenes and he’s seen to be saving lives by doing so, that would have a hell of a lot of positive play in the press. From where I’m sitting, that’s worth considering. Italians are pragmatists — sticking to the rules doesn’t always score points.’ Barkat frowned tightly and nodded.

‘We need time,’ said the negotiator.

Scamarcio felt a spark of hope. He turned to Barkat. ‘They can’t get this sorted immediately — you know that. You’ll have to give them several hours.’

‘Three hours,’ snapped Barkat.

‘Four,’ tried Scamarcio.

‘Three hours, fifteen.’

Now he was just being petty. ‘He wants it sorted in three hours and fifteen,’ relayed Scamarcio.

He heard the negotiator take a breath. ‘Tricky.’

‘Sure. But what alternatives do we have?’

‘Leave it with us.’

The line went dead. Scamarcio knew full well that calling up the prime minister and asking for a decision would take no more than five minutes — given today’s events he would be easily contactable. But now he understood why the negotiators were playing for time: the authorities were spooling back through the CCTV, trying to see who had wired the Colosseum and where — and they were doing the same for the Vatican. Once they’d established that, they’d be sending in the bomb squads. It was now up to Scamarcio to keep Barkat sweet and help him pass the time.

‘Barkat, what I really don’t get is why you want to go to Libya? Why don’t you want to die in the fight like the rest of them?’ he tried.

Barkat said nothing, just looked the other way, checking his men still had the line of hostages in sight.

‘How did you fall into this?’

Barkat looked back from the line. ‘If you think it’s a case of falling into it, then you understand nothing.’

‘Enlighten me, then.’

Barkat sat up straighter. ‘We’ve suffered decades of imperialism and exploitation. It’s time to rebuild our empire.’

‘But you don’t even live over there. You’ve been in Italy — what? Ten years? Twenty?’

‘But I’m not Italian.’

‘Why do you say that? You were educated here, you speak the language as well as I; you grew up surrounded by Italians; you lived and breathed our way of life.’

‘But that’s where you’re wrong. We keep to our own world — we don’t mix.’

‘Whose fault is that?’

‘I’d say it’s by mutual consent.’

‘But I don’t get why you want to go to Libya. Don’t you want to die a hero?’

‘We’ll still be heroes.’

Scamarcio fell silent and studied the young man in front of him. He noticed the smart mobile phone, the gold bracelet at his wrist, and the chain at his neck. An idea was beginning to form. It took him by surprise and turned him cold. ‘What did he promise you?’ he asked after a few moments.

Barkat stopped playing with his phone. ‘Who?’

‘The Chechen, of course.’

Barkat said nothing. He got up from the table and approached his men. He whispered something, and then they all looked over at Scamarcio. He stared back, his chest tightening. Why had he pushed it? Curiosity? He’d probably die knowing, when it would have been better to survive ignorant.

A mobile rang. Barkat put his phone to his ear, his eyes still fixed on Scamarcio.

‘Good,’ was all he said, then, ‘No.’ He ended the call and shoved the mobile back into the pocket of his combat jacket.

‘I reckon it was at least a million euros,’ shouted Scamarcio across the room.

‘Shut the fuck up!’ screamed Barkat.

‘And you call yourself warriors? Mercenaries, more like.’

‘Shut up or I shoot!’ hollered Barkat.

‘Do I look like I care?’

Barkat moved over to Scamarcio fast and punched him hard across the mouth. ‘Silence!’

Scamarcio’s jaw was pounding again, and he felt sure it was broken. He tasted blood, but all he could ask himself was, Why is Barkat so on edge about the Chechen? Was it because he’d been told never to reveal the true identity of the people funding him?

But Scamarcio knew he’d gone far enough for now. From here on in, it would be a waiting game. He prayed the authorities had an army of analysts going back through the CCTV. It was the only way they’d get the information in time.

He glanced at the five terrorists. Then his gaze switched to Woodman and his cameraman, sitting sullen and cowed, their hands in their laps. As he looked at them, Scamarcio thought to himself, Just maybe?