A Cold Flame: A gripping crime thriller that will keep you hooked - Aidan Conway

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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.

       Fourteen

      The brothers were sitting cross-legged in the living room of the first-floor apartment in Torpignatarra. Newspapers and other printed materials lay strewn around the flat, on the floor on kilims and the cheap sofa draped with Arabic-style throws. A computer screen showed the fluttering black flags and the looping images of black-clad commandos tramping through dust against a brightly sunlit desert backdrop. Islamic chanting came from the soundtrack as Ali’s hijab-wearing wife left the room, backwards, curved over as if with age and with her eyes to the floor, having served the menfolk their refreshments. She closed the door behind her without making a noise. Ali, the Tunisian, unfolded a real black flag and placed it before them then began to speak.

      “My brothers. You all know the seriousness of your vow of allegiance to this flag and this organization. As your emir, under the guidance of Allah, I shall take all the final decisions. I am responsible for you but you are all, as I am too, willing to die for Islam in the name of vanquishing the infidel and freeing the Islamic people from tyranny in the lands not yet returned to the bountiful and just order of the Grand Caliphate. I will ask you soon, one by one, to speak your minds. We are all from different lands but in Islam we are one. This is our strength. This, and our faith. Soon, it will be our turn to act. The moment ripens day by day. Look around you my brothers at the iniquity and the filth. And they say this is a religious city. It is a den of infidels. It is a rat hole, a sewer. And the vermin must be expunged. We must crush them until, on their knees, in the blood of their children, they acknowledge Allah as the one and only, just as we have knelt in our own children’s blood cursing the unbeliever and the collaborators for their crimes.

      “Now, brothers, I ask you to speak. How shall we act? Where must we strike? Share with me the fruits of your wisdom. Who will put himself forward for the supreme and wondrous act of martyrdom and take then his reward in paradise, where he will be served by angels and his fifty virgin wives will attend to him as is his right, as is written by the Prophet, peace be to his name, in the Holy Qur’an.”

      One of the company raised his hand.

      “Yes,” said Ali. “Speak, Jibril.”

       Fifteen

      “We’ve been given a pretty open brief here,” Maroni continued leaning forward again over his notes. One document was headed in bold lettering “Combined Security Committee”.

      “CSC want us to approach it intellectually and operationally, given the abundant expertise we have in both those fields. Which, as far as I’m concerned, means keeping your eyes and ears open and doing proper police work.”

      He sat back then and looked up, scanning the faces gathered round the oval table in the conference room. He forced a wry smile. “I prefer the operational side myself but as you know I am always ready to hear your suggestions.”

      “Ah, glad you could make it,” he said then as Rossi made his way into the meeting and grabbed a chair, more than a little late. “You know everyone, I’m sure. If not, get acquainted during the break.”

      Rossi sat down opposite Carrara on the other side of the table.

      “I had just been telling everyone here that you’re one of our top languages men, but Arabic’s not on your list, is it?”

      “Not as yet, sir,” Rossi replied.

      “Any suggestions as to how we might approach surveillance and intelligence gathering on the ground? The question’s open to you all,” Maroni continued, eying the gathered operatives one by one now over his rimless reading glasses.

      “I was wondering,” said Carrara, “about the tech side. Is that all in the hands of the usual crew? The Telecoms Police and their, shall we say, ‘subsidiaries’? I assume their GIS mapping is going to be central, but what about our role? Do we have any added capabilities?”

      “Well you can forget about ClearTech for now,” Maroni said, looking to close quickly on that score, “Judicial inquiry’s out on that one, as if you don’t remember.”

      Rossi and Carrara remembered very well. They hadn’t been able to prove it but, during The Carpenter case, they had found enough to suggest that the outsourced computer forensics had been manipulated to keep them off the trail. Silvestre, an integral part of the RSCS but never one to see eye-to-eye with either Rossi or Carrara, had been seconded to assist ClearTech just before. They didn’t think it had been any coincidence.

      “The problem,” said Rossi, cutting in, “as I see it, and from what I’ve gathered from Europol, and our French counterparts in particular, is that these groups, the radicalizers and the potentially radicalized, initially get together via chat rooms and forums. They sound each other out first and then they move onto secure encrypted platforms, things like Telegram. There’s very little you can do to intercept the coms.”

      “Well at least you’ve been doing some homework, Rossi,” said Maroni. “But I think our lot are on to that and aware of the limitations of straightforward phone taps.”

      “If they’re any good at all, they hardly even use phones,” said Rossi. “They use word of mouth, trust and community protection, couriers.”

      “So what’s the big idea then? I assume you’re going to get to your point.” The surprise contribution had come from Silvestre. He had popped up at the corner of the table where he’d been slouching, lying low as usual. “I say we pile into the ghettos and stop and search till they’re sick of the sight of us. See a car with a couple of Arabs in, we turn it over. Send ’em a message, the murdering scum.”

      “You’re assuming we’re dealing only with Arabs then Silvestre?” Rossi countered.

      “You know exactly what I mean. Come down heavy on the lot, I say. Show ’em who’s boss. Take

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