30

GARRAMONE RANG TWO HOURS later, as Scamarcio was getting out of the shower. The basilica near his apartment was striking eleven.

‘Chief Mancino just got a call from the home secretary. They’ve located Scalisi — in an Autogrill on the A1 to Naples.’

‘What was he doing there?’

‘Not much. He was found slumped in a toilet cubicle.’

‘Drunk?’

‘Dead.’

Scamarcio ran a tired hand across his mouth. Scalisi had never struck him as a quitter. ‘Did he kill himself?’

‘Not unless he managed to slash his own throat.’

‘Any theories?’

‘Your Chechen friend was kind enough to leave a note.’

‘Him again?’

‘Seems so — they’ve got him on CCTV filling up at the gas station at around the right time.’

‘What’s the note say?’

‘Actually it was addressed to you — you seem to have made quite an impression.’

‘Jesus.’

‘If you can finally spare me the time to answer my questions, I might let you take a look.’

The office was a deafening chaos of ringing phones, arguments, and booming TVs. As soon as Scamarcio walked in, one of his colleagues spotted him, and a half-hearted cheer stuttered across the room. Scamarcio would rather have been anywhere else — perhaps his own funeral. He knocked on Garramone’s door and went straight in; he didn’t want to spend another second out in the pit.

The boss was typing fast. ‘You wouldn’t believe the number of face-saving reports I’m having to write — as if I don’t have anything better to do.’

Scamarcio grunted and pulled out a chair. Garramone looked up. ‘What you did was reckless; it was not the right way to go.’

‘How could I know? Ifran was talking about other sites being wired. It felt reckless not to listen.’

‘But you risked civilian lives when you took that crew in. A man died for God’s sake. If you’d just run it all past us, we could have reached a collective decision. We’d have had earlier intelligence upon which to act.’

‘You know as well as I that the top brass wouldn’t have allowed me to grant Ifran’s request. I couldn’t risk giving them the chance to stop me.’

Garramone sighed. ‘We could be debating this for weeks.’

‘Then let’s not.’

‘That depends on Chief Mancino.’ Garramone scratched the back of his head and pushed some papers away, before retrieving a sheet of A4 that was pinned beneath his keyboard. ‘This is a photocopy of the note. AISI is all over it, and the Farnesina are wetting their pants. Nobody thought to let you see it.’

‘I appreciate your intervention.’

Garramone pushed the sheet across. ‘It’s in English,’ he said, as if Scamarcio couldn’t work that out for himself.

The handwriting sloped elegantly to the right — it looked like something an old lady would write, not some twenty-tonne Slavic meathead.

‘Dear Detective Scamarcio,’ it began.

Our paths keep crossing, but we’ve never really had a chance to talk. From a distance, I’ve admired your determination, your bravery, and your compelling need to establish the ‘truth’, whatever that may be. I feel that, given all you’ve been through, you deserve some kind of explanation.

Ifran pointed you in my direction because he had his doubts — and he was right to have them. Andrea Scalisi got what he deserved — the man is a viper, a cheat, and a double-crossing killer.

Scamarcio thought that was pretty rich from someone who had planned to take out much of Rome, but then he remembered the faulty wiring and wondered if the Chechen’s intentions weren’t quite so simple.

The letter continued:

But Scalisi was just one cog in a very dirty wheel that keeps turning. He may have thought he was working for the US and faithfully keeping his population quiet, but he wasn’t. Sure, the usual suspects were there, calling the shots from Tel Aviv and Washington, hoping that, yet again, the killing would bring Europe to heel, and that the multicultural love fest would spiral into a burning hatred of every Muslim.

But above all that, looking on, was someone with a lot more money and a lot more power. Now here I must hold my hands up: I’m the first to admit that I’m a mercenary whore with no real principles. Where I grew up, they were punched out of you at an early age. So when someone is in on a deal, but knows others who also want the deal to go through but with a bit more colour, a bit more panache, who am I to say no? I’ve never been averse to a bit of moonlighting, especially when there’s serious cash in play.

But this time — I don’t know whether it’s middle age, or weariness, or boredom — something changed. I made the first steps — found a rabble of semi-enthusiastic ‘freedom fighters’ with a taste for bling, promised them a few million rather than the usual heavenly harem, and then we all got to work. But the weird thing is that, with time, I came to regret my decision. When push came to shove, I couldn’t do it. Don’t misunderstand — it wasn’t a road-to-Damascus awakening. I just thought, Why make a bunch of rich fuckers even richer?

And so I leave it to you, ‘Detective’ — for that’s what you are in the very best sense of the word. You need to ask ‘Cui bono?’ And don’t pose the question in the comfort of your flat, or while enjoying a stroll by the Tiber. Gather your things NOW and take a trip north. Clear your head, see the sights — maybe enjoy an ice cream at the superb Gelateria Harold. Life is short, embrace the day!

And with that, the letter ended.

‘What the fuck?’ said Scamarcio.

‘Yeah, that’s precisely what Intel are asking themselves.’

‘Did Scalisi’s colleagues at AISE know he was working with the Americans? Maybe it was an official collaboration? a joint op?’

‘From what I’ve heard there was nothing official about it,’ said Garramone crisply. ‘AISE is in disarray. Costantini has confirmed that both the DVD and photo are genuine — Scalisi is seriously implicated.’

‘That reference to bringing Europe “to heel”?’

‘Chief Mancino asked Costantini about that. He said that the Chechen was implying that a major terror event might be more likely to keep us in line with the US. The thinking is that it would make us more frightened about going our own way — along with France and the rest.’

‘Did the home secretary buy that analysis?’

‘If he did, he was hardly going to admit it.’

‘Does anyone believe the Chechen’s story?’

‘Again, no-one’s talking to us about that.’

‘And the thing about Tel Aviv?’

‘Because everyone’s so tight lipped, I did a bit of digging myself and discovered that there are a load of conspiracy theorists who say the recent attacks in France were the doing of CIA and Mossad. They claim that Mossad are targeting countries who have said they will recognise the State of Palestine — attacks in Norway, Belgium, and France all followed a short while after those countries said they’d recognise Palestine.’

Scamarcio frowned. ‘That sounds like bullshit.’

‘The Chechen might just be throwing a load of chaff in our direction — spinning us a few popular conspiracies to distract us.’

Scamarcio scratched his head. ‘The thing about me going north though — that’s weirdly specific. What did Costantini et al make of that?’

‘Guess.’

‘No comment?’

‘No-one’s even mentioned it. Reads to me like the Chechen has a screw loose.’

Scamarcio bit his thumb and thought. ‘I’m not sure, perhaps not.’

‘We’ll talk more in the morning. Go home, get some rest.’

‘Yeah,’ said Scamarcio, his mind still turning, ‘that’s exactly what I’ll do.’

When he arrived back at his flat it was 1.00 a.m., and Fiammetta was sleeping. There’d been no time to ask her about the pregnancy. When they’d taken a taxi from the Colosseum, she’d nodded off immediately. It had been all he could do to rouse her and get her into bed. He thought about trying to wake her now and asking her outright, but she looked so peaceful.

He padded to the kitchen and poured himself a large glass of Nero d’Avola, then took it to the lounge. The lights of the city were dancing beyond the windows; there was laughter on the streets and music in the bars. It seemed as if Rome was finally breathing again, as if the oxygen had returned to her lungs.

He shut the window, stretched out on the sofa, and closed his eyes, opening them only to sip the wine. It was good — for fifty euros, it ought to have been.

When he’d finished half the glass, he took out the photocopy of the note from the Chechen and read it again. It was true that he spoke in generalities — that his claims could have been fantasy. Whatever the case, it seemed they would remain untested, unless Italian intelligence decided to put it to the CIA that they and their Israeli chums had been interfering. Scamarcio sensed that the etiquette of espionage didn’t work this way, though. It seemed more likely that the Italians would perhaps just put it on the slate to be used against the Americans at a later date. Leverage, as Federico had called it.

Scamarcio pinched his nose — there was, though, that one very specific reference in the note: The Gelateria Harold. Why was the Chechen telling him to buy an ice cream from this particular place? It was an unusual name, so he pulled out his phone and googled it, in the hope that it might be unique. The first result was the website of an ice cream parlour in Milan. It was the only entry with that name, so he clicked on it and skimmed through the site.

Organic milk used … fair-trade cocoa … so what, so what? … five stars on TripAdvisor … won some gourmet prize last year … opening a new store in Porta Genova soon. Maybe the Chechen just liked his ice cream? Scamarcio was about to leave the site, still baffled, when he noticed the ice cream parlour’s address: Piazza degli Affari 4, Milan. ‘What?’ he whispered. Like most Italians, he knew that Piazza Affari was synonymous with the Milan stock exchange.

He googled the address of the exchange to be sure, and found it was located at number six. The ice cream parlour was right next door. He downed the rest of his wine and tried to focus. ‘Fuck,’ he murmured. ‘He wants me to go there. That’s the answer to Cui bono?’

Scamarcio rose and started pacing. He thought about waiting until the next morning, but knew that, despite his exhaustion, he wouldn’t sleep with all this churning in his head. And besides, the Chechen seemed to be suggesting it was urgent. Why else would he have written ‘NOW’ in caps? Scamarcio needed to get to Milan, see if there was anything to his hunch. As he was contemplating whether or not to wake Fiammetta, his landline rang.

‘Have you seen my piece?’

‘Rigamonti! Fuck! Where have you been?’

‘Enjoying a nice stay courtesy of your friends at AISE — until the home secretary intervened on my behalf.’

‘What did they want from you?’

‘The obvious: Where were you? What were Ifran’s demands? I kept them occupied for a while, then for some reason they seemed to lose interest. A few hours later, a guy from Costantini’s office storms in and starts throwing his weight around. It got quite heated. If you ask me, there’s a civil war going down.’

‘You’ve managed to write something already?’

‘Go get yourself a copy of La Repubblica — they came good this time. They were interested in our Chechen ghost and have been bolder than I would have expected.’

‘You want a follow-up?’

‘They’re after an exclusive with you. That’s why I’m calling.’

‘I dunno, Rigamonti. This investigation is far from closed, and I’ve got my police bosses breathing down my neck.’

‘You just asked me if I wanted a follow-up!’

‘I received a letter from the Chechen a few hours ago — before he disappeared, leaving Scalisi’s body behind. The letter was strange, but informative.’

‘He killed Scalisi?’

‘Yeah, but that’s not what you should be interested in.’

‘It gets better?’

‘The Chechen seems to want to help me understand all this. He’s suggested that I should head up to Piazza Affari. It seems like there might be information there which will explain who was really behind these attacks — the people who were pulling Scalisi’s strings are not the end of the story, apparently.’

‘What do you mean, “pulling his strings”? He was involved?’

Scamarcio suddenly realised how much had happened since he and Rigamonti parted.

‘His connection to Ifran has been confirmed. He was involved with the Chechen, too.’

Rigamonti whistled. ‘So who does the Chechen say was behind Scalisi?’

‘He calls them the usual suspects — which we think could mean the CIA and Mossad — but he suggests someone else muscled in, and that they wanted these attacks to go off with a bigger bang. I think he’s telling me the trail starts at the stock exchange.’

‘Money?’ Rigamonti paused. ‘But why’s he helping you?’

‘For the same reason he didn’t wire the sites like he was supposed to. He says he doesn’t want to make a bunch of rich fuckers any richer.’

There was a long silence. He could almost hear Rigamonti’s synapses whirring. After a few moments, Scamarcio asked, ‘You still there?’

‘Yeah,’ said the reporter, his voice distant. ‘I’m just thinking about how to access that kind of information. I can start with some financial reporters I know — see if they have contacts at the exchange.’

‘I went to university with a guy who’s now a trader. Last I heard, he was about to retire at the ripe old age of thirty-nine. I was thinking of dropping him a line.’

‘Yeah, do that. And I’ll try my guys …’

‘I don’t want to waste time. I think we should head up there now, before these people get a chance to cover their tracks — there are no trains till six, so we’ll have to drive.’

‘What’s your address? I’ll pick you up.’

Scamarcio gave him the details and hung up. When he walked back into the bedroom, Fiammetta was snoring softly. Again, he decided it would be best not to wake her. He’d just write a note.

He was about to leave the room when a small voice said, ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m sorry, something has come up.’

‘What now — after the day we’ve just had?’

‘I need to check it out — it might help wrap this whole thing up.’

She fell silent. He wanted to know about the pregnancy, but he didn’t want to do it in a hurry as he was leaving. It needed to be handled right.

‘OK,’ she said firmly. ‘I understand.’

There was no undertone. He knew that she meant it.