Читать книгу A Cold Flame: A gripping crime thriller that will keep you hooked - Aidan Conway - Страница 18

Rossi stood on his balcony watching the cloudless sky as the sun’s first rays began to cancel night’s all too brief dominion. It was an implacable scene, like a Cyclops’s blank stare. The temperature gauge in his living room had dropped by two degrees overnight. Small comfort. No breeze. Nevertheless, as he drank his cool coffee and looked out at the still-sleeping metropolis, his mind felt fresh, at least for now, and he reflected on what had emerged from the previous day’s events.

They had not kept Doctor Okoli long. He had his life to reorganize, again. He had not been able to put any substantive leads their way other than to indicate that plenty of well-protected diplomats in Rome were probably just as likely as any fascist organization to have been trying to kill him. He seemed perfectly credible and their background checks matched his own story. But his final wisecrack about male prostitution had set Rossi thinking more than a little. Okoli had not elaborated, had backtracked even and glossed over it, but the suggestion was that his reluctance might have been because he was working on something and may even have had confidential sources to protect.

Responsibility for the bombing at the Israeli university had been claimed by an obscure, as yet unheard of organization. An e-mail from one of the galaxy of fundamentalist Islamist websites operating from within the safe havens of the Dark Web had been sent to Iovine, Iannelli’s Editor-in-Chief at The Facet. The organization proclaimed itself the Islamic Caliphate in Europe. ICE. Despite the heat, the effect was rather less than soothing. Iannelli too was able to confirm that it had been received. As for establishing the veracity or other of their claim, that was another story. These days anyone could and would put their name to an unsolved or unclaimed attack, if only for the headlines it would generate, or as a quick shot of publicity for some plan they had hatched.

In this case, the details furnished by ICE did at least tally with what the Anti-Terror Squad had been able to ascertain from their analysis of the damage inflicted, the recovered bomb fragments, and their assessment of both the size of the device and its method of manufacture. There were also enough elements of novelty to suggest a different supply line to that of any known groups operating either in France or the UK where there had already been attacks. Neither was the hardware homemade. Military-grade explosive had been used, hence the compact nature of the device; all of which pointed to a strong possibility of a Balkan connection, as the best-case scenario. But that was reserved information.

Then there was nothing. Rossi glanced down at his empty cup, unsatisfied and wanting more coffee. Where they were now was at that point of heightened and uneasy hiatus which accompanies any terror attack. Saturation news coverage, heavy doses of human interest stories – the near misses, the shattered lives, the solidarity of a nation and the wider civilized world. Security is ratcheted up as the media machine evokes the blitz spirit, encouraging, even lauding it as the irrepressible manifestation of a city or a people’s collective character. And yet to the jaded eyes of the cynical, it appears to be some futile attempt to follow the ball rather than get inside the mind of the playmaker and second-guess his next move. Like a gambler always seeing the number he was going to bet on coming up trumps for another. It’s too late.

Rossi went back to the kitchen, and as he unscrewed the moka to make another espresso he began to prepare mentally for the day ahead.

In the light of the high-level summit, the City Prefect’s office was planning a press conference to put on a united front and allay the fears of a jittery public and business community. The relevant ministers had convened the heads of police, the mayor, as well as the prime movers in the secret services and wider intelligence community, charging them with formulating a new, coordinated response. Without a clear road map, and without comparable past experience to go on, the Minister of State for Home Security had demanded a shake-up. In other words, he was saying they’d been caught napping or looking the wrong way on this one and they’d better get their act together or heads would roll. The blame game again.

Maroni had summoned Rossi and Carrara and a handful of the most promising and senior operatives on the RSCS. Following a torrid crossing, their long-time chief had dropped anchor at Civitavecchia the evening after the bombing, having left Corsica only half-discovered. He was, to say the least, irascible when he finally pinned Rossi down to a telephone conversation. The meet was to be today and he wanted everyone to bring “something worth hearing”. Hence Rossi’s prompt start with hopes of getting some inspiration in the relative cool and quiet of the early hours.

He placed the compact, bomb-like machine on the gas and stared into the quietly hissing flame.

Maroni was an old hand. He’d been a raw recruit on the hunt for the last cells of the BR, the Brigate Rosse or Red Brigades in the late Eighties. Rossi had heard the stories, second-hand, and despite the ambivalence he sometimes felt towards his superior he had to give him some credit for past glories.

As was to be expected, he’d suggested Rossi and Carrara drop the arson investigations. “Keep an eye on things, you know. Set up some standard surveillance op, but it’s hardly a priority now, is it? I mean, a pyromaniac with a grudge against motorists.”

Early release for good behaviour, thought Rossi, but hadn’t Maroni been forgetting something?

“And the attempt on Dr Okoli’s life?” Rossi had ventured, at which Maroni had paused then let out a sigh which Rossi knew all too well. Rossi’s consternation had inadvertently betrayed his growing interest in the Prenestina fire and its victims as well as Lallana’s apparent reluctance to probe deeper, not to mention the question of the timer, the locked security grilles. “Am I to presume you are trying to tie all that in with the Prenestina fire too?”

“I think it’s a possibility,” Rossi had replied.

“And who the hell gave you the authorization to dig around there?” Maroni had blurted back down the line.

“Arson’s arson, isn’t it?” Rossi had countered. “And what if we’ve got a maniac on our hands who only needs a can of petrol and a box of matches to hold the city to ransom? Sooner or later we could be mourning another massacre.”

There had followed another Maroni pause. Rossi had made his point but knew he was up against a brick wall.

“The real point here, Rossi, is that you just can’t keep your nose out of another bloke’s patch, can you? The case is closed. If only you could summon up the same enthusiasm for what you’re supposed to be doing.”

Rossi had let the relatively minor storm blow itself out, judging it wiser to withhold the details of his meetings with Tiziana and Dottor Piredda. But he still had to get Iannelli to spill the beans on Jibril, if there was anything to spill. With the chaos of the bombing, and the journalist’s reluctance to court publicity, they’d had to postpone their tête-à-tête. He’d get on to him today, after the meeting, if that didn’t throw up another mega work fest. Then there were the handover reports to do, which he hadn’t even started. And Yana wanted him to help her get settled back into her flat again.

The sun came up over the rooftops and began to unleash its fury. Rossi felt he had rather too many irons in the fire.