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

Rossi was looking in the other direction now to the tarpaulins shielding an area around the university entrance of some 60 to 70 square metres, while a wall of ambulances provided further cover.

“So, how bad?” said Iannelli.

“Maybe six dead, twenty plus injured,” said Rossi, who’d already had a provisional briefing. “No names yet. It wasn’t huge but it was nasty. A nail bomb. It wasn’t term time but there were summer schools going on. These places never close now, and everyone was off guard.”

“I still say you’ve got to see these things coming,” said Iannelli.

“Well, it’s not as if it’s the first time, is it? I mean Jewish, Israeli targets.”

“They shot up the synagogue a couple of times,” said Iannelli. “But this, this here can only be Islamist. Or be meant to look Islamist.”

“I see you haven’t changed your outlook on the world, Dario,” said Rossi.

“Got to keep an open mind on these things, Michael. You of all people should know that.”

“Well, perhaps we can be open-minded enough to start with the facts before we go down the rabbit hole of conspiracy theories. No one’s claimed it yet. Unless you know something I don’t.”

Iannelli shook his head.

“Early days. They’ll wait. See the reaction then see who wants to take it and how useful it will be.”

Carrara was approaching from the far side of the road.

“What’s the story, Gigi?” said Rossi. “Not a car bomb I take it, or a suicide?”

“It’s a mess but it was no suicide. The AT unit’s are on it and Forensics. Working hypothesis of an IED – some sort of large pipe bomb left outside the building. There’s a lot of burn and blast damage. Shrapnel wounds. It just depends where it hits you in these cases.”

“Any witnesses, CCTV?” said Rossi.

“They’re going through the recordings now.”

“Who’s they?”

“The university president’s there. He’s freaking out. I think he’s more worried about the parents wanting to pull all their kids off degree courses. He’s called his press officer back from vacation to work out a PR damage-limitation strategy. Then there’s the assorted services, if you like. ATU. Military and civil. I also have it on good authority that there were undercover guys in the building too. They won’t confirm but you can put money on it.”

“Who are we talking about?” asked Iannelli. Carrara looked at Rossi before getting the nod to go on.

“CIA, maybe Mossad. Whoever they were, they can’t have seen it coming either.”

“And who’s your good authority?” said Rossi.

“The Hare.”

The Hare was a hard-to-pin-down figure. An informer, a fixer, an elusive go-between of Boston Irish stock; he had gone native so long ago that his origins hardly mattered and were barely noticed as his information was always spot on.

Rossi gave an approving nod. He knew the way it worked. The aircraft carriers, the Nato bases, the embassies, the multinationals and then the cultural centres. From Italy to Egypt to Lebanon to Saudi Arabia, US higher education establishments were a way of maintaining a presence, keeping an ear to the ground, and a way of shaping politics, culture and business too. You could send recruits there; you could make new recruits there too.

“Any chance of us mere mortals getting to see those recordings?” he said then.

“Maybe, if you’re very quiet and sit at the back and don’t ask questions. Want to try?”

Rossi gave a nod.

“Dario, how about using strength in numbers? Can your guys create a bit of a diversion or something? I say just flash a badge and keep going. That’s my usual approach.”

“Anything for you, Michael. Come on. But I’m out of here in five. I don’t like getting snapped by the paparazzi, if you know what I mean.”

“Well, while you are here,” said Rossi. “Does the name Jibril mean anything to you? Sicily by chance?”

Rossi was watching for a reaction, but the mention of Jibril didn’t seem to stir much in Iannelli, other than his usual journalist’s suspicions as to why Rossi might be asking.

“Anything I should be interested in?”

“Just working on a lead,” said Rossi. “Or you might say we’re clutching at straws.”

Iannelli’s escort were looking keen to get them off the street, despite the cordon extending around them for a kilometre in every direction.

“Let’s go inside and see what we can get,” said Iannelli, taking the hint. Rossi followed. The name Jibril was not high on Iannelli’s agenda. He would try to jog his memory later.

Francesco hurried down the fire escape and out of the university building with some of the other candidates and the various office workers and public servants who shared the ten-storey complex with them. For most of them, the drill provided a welcome chance for an unexpected break, and the bar across the road was already filling up. As false alarms were frequent, few seemed to be giving any credence to the idea of there actually having been a major incident, but Francesco took out his mobile and called Paola anyway. He was sure she would have done the same if she had heard the news; it was the way she was and some of her attitude had clearly rubbed off on him too. But there was no answer.

There was a temporary lockdown in place in the building but hard news was still at a premium. He ordered a coffee, and as he half listened to the gossip and looked up at the rolling news on the small TV in the corner over the fruit machine, fragmentary accounts began to emerge of an explosion with possible loss of life at or near the Israeli university in Trastevere. So they at least were safe, but they had hit somewhere else, another university. Others were watching the screen now and the jocular tone dropped an octave or two. Then he heard a rumble of talk and a few low, hissed “murdering bastards”.

When the all-clear came, Francesco darted back into the building to dot the i’s and the t’s on some outstanding administrative procedures. He exchanged a few quick words with the other candidates, most of whom knew each other in one way or another, either through work or the periodic ritual of the concorso . One of the candidates had unsettled Francesco. On his own admission, he’d only been in the university sector for some six months, was much younger than any of the other candidates, and yet seemed to exude an air of slightly embarrassed certainty about “the job” and what it would entail. All the others had CVs stretching back to the beginning of the previous decade and they exhibited the worn exteriors to prove it. But what worried Francesco more now was Paola.

As he stepped back out of the building he tried again and as he did so he noticed her text.

Going to see Mom then on my way home. Had a cancellation. Will ring later. XXX P.

The timestamp meant it must have come through late. Network problems, probably, he reasoned. Everyone calling at the same time. So maybe that was why she hadn’t rung and why she wasn’t answering either. He tried again. Still nothing. He closed the phone and looked about and thought about getting a bus, and he was just slipping the phone into his pocket when a call came in. “DadP”. it said on the ID. It was Paola’s father, and he never called but Paola had insisted they swap numbers, just for emergencies.

Francesco felt a sudden hot surge of fear as his thumb hovered over the icon. Her dad must be checking too, like he was. He must have seen the news. He took the call.

“Yes,” said Francesco, ready to rise to the unlikely occasion.

“Francesco,” came the reply, firm, familiar but in a tone he had never heard before. “It’s Paola, she’s not answering her phone. Have you seen the news? She was in Trastevere. Did you know? Has she called?”