“Ahmed, who needs to attend an important meeting involving weapons or political support for his movement, comes to Italy under the protection of our secret services.
The meeting takes place at sea, but in all likelihood it’s a trap.
Ahmed didn’t have the slightest suspicion that our services were double-crossing him, and that they were in cahoots with the people in Tunis who wanted to liquidate him.
Among other things, I’m convinced that Fahrid himself was part of the plan to do away with Ahmed. The sister, I don’t think so.”
“Why are you so afraid for the boy?”
“Because he’s a witness. He could recognize Fahrid the way he recognized his uncle on TV. And Fahrid has already killed Karima, I’m sure of it. He killed her after taking her away in a car that turns out to belong to our secret services.” “What are we going to do?”
“You, for now, are going to sit tight. I’m going to get busy creating a diversion.”
“Good luck.”
“Good luck to you, my friend.”
o o o
By the time he got back to headquarters it was already evening. Fazio was there waiting for him.
“Have you found François?”
“Did you go home before coming here?” Fazio asked instead of answering.
“No. I came directly from Mazàra.”
“Chief, could we go into your office for a minute?” Once they were inside, Fazio closed the door.
“Chief, I’m a cop. Maybe not as good a cop as you, but still a cop. How did you know the kid ran away?”
“What’s with you, Fazio? Livia phoned me in Mazàra and I told her to call you.”
“See, Chief, the fact is, the young lady told me she was asking me for help because she didn’t know where you were.”
“Touché,” said Montalbano.
“And then, she was really and truly crying, no doubt about that. Not because the kid had run away, but for some other reason, which I don’t know. So I figured out what it was you wanted me to do, and I did it.” “And what did I want you to do?”
“To raise a ruckus, make a lot of noise. I went to all the houses in the neighborhood and asked every person I ran into.
Have you seen a little kid like so? Nobody’d seen him, but now they all know he ran away. Isn’t that what you wanted?” Montalbano felt moved. This was real friendship, Sicilian friendship, the kind based on intuition, on what was left un-said. With a true friend, one never needs to ask, because the other understands on his own and acts accordingly.
“What should I do now?”
“Keep raising a ruckus. Call the carabinieri, call every one of their headquarters in the province, call every police station, hospital, anybody you can think of. But do it unofficially, only by phone, nothing in writing. Describe the boy, show them you’re worried.” “But are we sure they won’t end up finding him, Chief ?”
“Not to worry, Fazio. He’s in good hands.”
o o o
He took a sheet of paper with the station’s letterhead and typed:
to the ministry of transportation and automobile registration:
for delicate investigation into abduction and probable homicide of woman answering to name karima moussa need name owner automobile
license-plate number am 237 gw. kindly reply promptly. inspector salvo montalbano.
God only knew why, whenever he had to write a fax, he composed it as if it were a telegram. He reread it. He’d even written out the woman’s name to make the bait more appetizing. They would surely have to come out in the open now.
“Gallo!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Find the fax number for Auto Registration in Rome and send this right away. Galluzzo!”
“At your orders.”
“Well?”
“I took the old lady to Montelusa. Everything’s taken care of.”
“Listen, Gallù. Tell your brother-in-law to be in the general vicinity of headquarters after Lapècora’s funeral tomorrow. And tell him to bring a cameraman.”
“Thanks, Chief, with all my heart.”
“Fazio!”
“I’m listening.”
“It completely slipped my mind. Did you go to Mrs.
Lapècora’s apartment?”
“Sure did. And I took a small cup from a set of twelve.
I’ve got it over there. You wanna see it?”
“What the hell for? Tomorrow I’ll tell you what to do with it. For now, put it in a cellophane bag. Oh, and, did Jacomuzzi send you the knife?”
“Yessirree.”
o o o
He didn’t have the courage to leave the office. At home the hard part awaited him. Livia’s sorrow. Speaking of which, if Livia was leaving, then . . . He dialed Adelina’s number.
“Adelì? Montalbano here. Listen, the young lady’s leaving tomorrow morning; I need to recuperate. And you know what? I haven’t eaten a thing all day.”
One had to live, no?
2 0 1
0p>
15
Livia was on the veranda, sitting on the bench, utterly still, and seemed to be looking out at the sea. She wasn’t crying, but her red, puffy eyes said that she’d used up her supply of tears. The inspector sat down beside her, took one of her hands, and squeezed it. To Montalbano it felt as if he’d picked up something dead; he found it almost repulsive. He let it go and lit a cigarette. Livia, he’d decided, should know as little as possible about the whole affair. But it was clear she’d given the matter some thought, and her question went right to the point.
“Do they want to harm him?”
“Actually harm him, probably not. Make him disappear for a while, yes.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Maybe by putting him in an orphanage under a false name.”
“Why?”
“Because he met some people he wasn’t supposed to meet.”
Still staring at the sea, Livia thought about Montalbano’s last words.
“I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“If these people François met are Tunisians, perhaps illegal immigrants, couldn’t you, as policemen—”
“They’re not only Tunisian.”
Slowly, as if making a great effort, Livia turned and faced him.
“They’re not?”
“No. And I’m not saying another word.”
“I want him.”
“Who?”
“François. I want him.”
“But, Livia—”
“Shut up. I want him. No one can take him away from me like that, you least of all. I’ve thought long and hard about this, you know, these last few hours. How old are you, Salvo?” “Forty-four, I think.”
“Forty-four and ten months. In two months you’ll be forty-five. I’ve already turned thirty-three. Do you know what that means?”
“No. What what means?”
“We’ve been together for six years. Every now and then we talk about getting married, and then we drop the subject.
We both do, by mutual, tacit consent. And we don’t resume the discussion. We get along so well just the way things are, and our laziness, our egotism, gets the better of us, always.” “Laziness? Egotism? What are you talking about? There are objective difficulties which—”
“—which you can stick up your ass,” Livia brutally concluded.
Montalbano, disconcerted, fell silent. Only once or twice in six years had Livia ever used obscenities, and it was always in troubling, extremely tense circumstances.
“I’m sorry,” Livia said softly. “But sometimes I just can’t stand your camouflage and hypocrisy. Your cynicism is more authentic.”
Montalbano, still silent, took it all in.
“Don’t try to distract me from what I want to say to you.
You’re very good at it; it’s your job. What I want to know is: when do you think we can get married? Give me a straight answer.”
“If it was only up to me . . .”
Livia leapt to her feet.
“That’s enough! I’m going to bed. I took two sleeping pills and my plane leaves Palermo at noon tomorrow. But first I want to finish what I have to say. If we ever get married, it’ll be when you’re fifty and I’m thirty-eight. In other words, too late to have children. And we still haven’t realized that somebody, God or whoever is acting in His place, has already sent us a child, at just the right moment.” She turned her back and went inside. Montalbano stayed outside on the veranda, gazing at the sea, but unable to bring it into focus.