“You’re doing it yourself, with your own two hands.”
“No! No! This has gone too far!” said Prestìa, very upset.
“They guaranteed me that . . .”
He stopped short, wiped off his sweat.
“Guaranteed you what?” Montalbano and Valente asked at the same time.
“That I wouldn’t have any trouble.”
“Who did?”
Captain Prestìa stuck his hand in his pocket, dug out his wallet, extracted a calling card, and threw it ontoValente’s desk.
o o o
Having disposed of Prestìa,Valente dialed the number on the calling card. It belonged to the prefecture of Trapani.
“Hello? This is Vice-Commissioner Valente from Mazàra.
I’d like to speak with Commendator Mario Spadaccia, chief of the cabinet.”
“Please hold.”
“Hello, Commissioner Valente. This is Spadaccia.”
“Sorry to disturb you, Commendatore, but I have a question concerning the killing of that Tunisian on the fishing boat—”
“Hasn’t that all been cleared up? The government in Tunis—”
“Yes, I know, Commendatore, but—”
“Why are you calling me?”
“Because the crew chief of the fishing boat—”
“He gave you my name?”
“He gave us your card. He was keeping it as some sort of . . . guarantee.”
“Which indeed it was.”
“Excuse me?”
“Let me explain. You see, some time ago, His Excellency . . .” ( Wasn’t that title abolished half a century ago?
Montalbano wondered while listening in on an extension.)
“. . . His Excellency the prefect received an urgent request.
He was asked to give his full support to a Tunisian journalist who wanted to conduct a sensitive investigation among his compatriots here, and who, for this reason, among others, also wished to sign on with one of our fishing boats. His Excellency authorized me to oversee the matter. Captain Prestìa’s name was brought to my attention; I was told he was very re-liable. Prestìa, however, had some worries about getting in trouble with the employment office. That’s why I gave him my card. Nothing more.” “Commendatore, I thank you very much for your thorough explanation,” said Valente. And he hung up.
They sat there in silence, eyeing each other.
“The guy’s either a fuckup or he’s putting one over on us,” said Montalbano.
“This whole thing’s beginning to stink,” Valente said pensively.
“Yeah,” said Montalbano.
o o o
They were discussing what their next move should be when the phone rang.
“I told them I wasn’t here for anyone!” Valente shouted angrily. He picked up, listened a moment, then passed the receiver to Montalbano.
Before leaving for Mazàra, the inspector had left word at the office as to where he could be found if needed.
“Hello? Montalbano here. Who’s this? Ah, is that you, Mr. Commissioner?”
“Yes, it’s me. Where have you run off to?” He was irritated.
“I’m here with my colleague, Vice-Commissioner Valente.”
“He’s not your colleague. He’s a vice-commissioner and you’re not.”
Montalbano started to feel worried.
“What’s going on, Commissioner?”
“No, I’m asking you what the hell is going on!” Hell? The commissioner said “hell”?
“I don’t understand.”
“What kind of crap have you been digging up?” Crap? Did the commissioner say “crap”? Was this the start of the Apocalypse? Would the trumpets of Judgment soon begin to sound?
“But what have I done wrong?”
“Yesterday you gave me a license-plate number, remember?”
“Yes. am 237 gw.”
“That’s the one. Well, I immediately asked a friend of mine in Rome to look into it, to save time, at your request, and he just called me back, very annoyed. They told him that if he wants to know the name of the car’s owner, he must submit a written request specifying in detail the reasons for said request.” “That’s not a problem, Commissioner. I’ll explain the whole story to you tomorrow, and you, in the request, can—”
“Montalbano, you don’t understand, or perhaps you won’t understand. That’s a cloaked number.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the car belongs to the secret services. Is that so hard to understand?”
That was no mere stink, what they had smelled. The air itself was turning foul.
o o o
As he was telling Valente about Lapècora’s murder, Karima’s abduction, Fahrid, and Fahrid’s car, which actually belonged to the secret services, a troubling thought occurred to him.
He phoned the commissioner in Montelusa.
“Excuse me, Commissioner, but when you spoke with your friend in Rome about the license plate, did you tell him what it was about?”
“How could I? I don’t know the first thing about what you’re doing.”
The inspector heaved a sigh of relief.
“I merely said,” the commissioner continued, “that it involved an investigation that you, Inspector Montalbano, were conducting.”
The inspector retracted his sigh of relief.
o o o
“Hello, Galluzzo? Montalbano here. I’m calling from Mazàra. I think I’m going to be here late, so, contrary to what I said, I want you to go immediately to Marinella, to my house, pick up the old Tunisian lady, and take her to Montelusa. All right? You haven’t got a minute to lose.”
o o o
“Hello, Livia? Listen very carefully to what I say, and do exactly what I tell you to do, without arguing. I’m in Mazàra at the moment, and I don’t think they’ve bugged our phone yet.” “Oh my God, what are you saying?”
“I asked you, please don’t argue, don’t ask questions, don’t say anything. You must only listen to what I say. Very soon Galluzzo will be there. He’s going to pick up the old woman and take her back with him to Montelusa. No long good-byes, please; you can tell François he’ll see her again soon. As soon as Galluzzo leaves, call my office and ask for Mimì Augello. You absolutely must find him, no matter where he is. And tell him you need to see him at once.” “What if he’s busy?”
“For you, he’ll drop everything and come running. You, in the meantime, will pack François’s few possessions into a small suitcase, then—”
“But what do you want—”
“Quiet, understand? Quiet. Tell Mimì that, on my orders, the kid must disappear from the face of the earth. Vanish. He should hide him somewhere safe, where he’ll be all right. And don’t ask where he intends to take him. Is that clear? You mustn’t know where François has gone. And don’t start crying, it bothers me. Listen closely. Wait for about an hour after Mimì has left with the kid, then call Fazio. Tell him, in tears—you won’t have to fake it since you’re crying already—tell him the kid has disappeared, maybe he ran off in search of the old lady, you don’t know, but in short you want him to help you find him. In the meantime, I’ll have returned. And one last thing: call Palermo airport and reserve a seat on the flight to Genoa, the one that leaves around noon tomorrow. That’ll give me enough time to find someone to take you there. See you soon.” He hung up, and his eyes met Valente’s troubled gaze.
“You think they’d go that far?”
“Farther.”
o o o
“Is the story clear to you now?” asked Montalbano.
“I think I’m beginning to understand,” replied Valente.
“Let me explain better,” said the inspector. “All in all, things may have gone as follows: Ahmed Moussa, for his own reasons, has one of his men, Fahrid, set up a base of operations. Fahrid enlists the help—whether freely offered or not, I don’t know—of Ahmed’s sister, Karima, who’s been living in Sicily for a few years. Then they blackmail a man from Vigàta named Lapècora into letting them use his old import-export business as a front. Are you following?” “Perfectly.”