“I’m playing aboveboard,” the colonel continued, after waiting for him to return. “It’s probably the best way, with you. That’s why I chose to come in that car, for which you twice requested information on the owner.” From his jacket pocket he withdrew two sheets of paper, which Montalbano recognized as the faxes he’d sent to Automobile Registration.
“Only you already knew who the car belonged to; your commissioner must certainly have told you its license number was cloaked. So, since you sent me these faxes anyway, it must mean their intention was more than simply to request information, however imprudently. I therefore became convinced—correct me if I’m wrong—that for your own reasons, you wanted us to come out into the open. So here I am: your wish has been granted.” “Would you excuse me a minute?” Montalbano asked.
Without waiting for an answer, he got up, went into the kitchen, and returned with a plate on which was a huge, hard piece of Sicilian cassata ice cream. The colonel settled in pa-tiently and waited for him to eat it.
“Please continue,” said the inspector. “I can’t eat it when it’s like this. It has to melt a little first.”
“Before we go any further,” resumed the colonel, who apparently had very strong nerves, “let me clarify something.
In your second fax, you mention the murder of a woman named Aisha. We had absolutely nothing to do with that death. It must surely have been an unfortunate accident. If she’d needed to be eliminated, we would have done so immediately.” “I don’t doubt it. I was well aware of that too.”
“So why did you state otherwise in your fax?”
“Just to turn up the heat.”
“Right. Have you read the writings and speeches of Mussolini?”
“He’s not one of my favorite authors.”
“In one of his last writings, Mussolini says that the people should be treated like a donkey, with a carrot and a stick.”
“Always so original, that Mussolini! You know something?”
“What?”
“My grandfather used to say the same thing. He was a peasant and, since he wasn’t Mussolini, he was referring only to the ass, the donkey, that is.”
“May I continue the metaphor?”
“By all means!”
“Your faxes, as well as your having persuaded Vice-Commissioner Valente of Mazàra to interrogate the captain of the fishing boat and the head of the prefect’s cabinet, these and other things were the stick you used to flush us out.” “So where does the carrot come in?”
“The carrot consists in the declarations you made at the press conference you held after arresting Mrs. Lapècora for the murder of her husband. You could have dragged us into that one by the hair, but you didn’t. You were careful to keep that crime within the confines of jealousy and greed. Still, that was a menacing carrot; it said—” “Colonel, I suggest you drop the metaphor; at this point we’ve got a talking carrot.”
“Fine.You, with that press conference, wanted us to know that you had other information in your possession which, at that moment, you were unwilling to show. Am I right?” The inspector extended a spoon towards the ice cream, filled it, and brought it to his mouth.
“It’s still hard,” he said to Lohengrin Pera.
“You discourage me,” the colonel commented, but he went on. “Anyway, since we’re laying our cards on the table, will you tell me everything you know about the case?”
“What case?”
“The killing of Ahmed Moussa.”
He’d succeeded in making him say that name openly, as duly recorded by the tape in the videocamera.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I love the sound of your voice, the way you speak.”
“May I have a glass of water?”
To all appearances, Lohengrin Pera was perfectly calm and controlled, but inside he was surely close to the boiling point. The request for water was a clear sign.
“Go get it yourself in the kitchen.”
While the colonel fussed about in the kitchen with the glass and faucet, Montalbano, who was looking at him from behind, noticed a bulge under his jacket, beside the right buttock. Want to bet the midget is armed with a gun twice his size? He decided not to take any chances and brought a very sharp knife, which he had used to cut the bread, closer to him.
“I’ll be explicit and brief,” Lohengrin Pera began, sitting down and wiping his lips with a tiny handkerchief, an embroidered postage stamp. “A little more than two years ago, our counterparts in Tunis asked us to collaborate with them on a delicate operation aimed at neutralizing a dangerous terrorist, whose name you had me repeat just a moment ago.” “I’m sorry,” said Montalbano, “but I have a very limited vocabulary. By ‘neutralizing’ do you mean ‘physically eliminating’?”
“Call it whatever you like. We discussed the matter with our superiors, naturally, and were ordered not to collaborate.
But then, less than a month later, we found ourselves in a very unpleasant position, where it was we who had to ask our friends in Tunis for help.”
“What a coincidence!” Montalbano exclaimed.
“Yes. Without any questions, they gave us the help we wanted, and so we found ourselves morally indebted—”
“No!” Montalbano yelled.
Lohengrin Pera gave a start.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“You said: morally indebted.”
“As you wish. Let’s say merely ‘indebted,’ without the adverb, all right? But excuse me; before going on, I have to make a telephone call. I keep forgetting.”
“Be my guest,” the inspector said, gesturing towards the phone.
“Thanks; I’ve got a cell phone.”
Lohengrin Pera was not armed. The bulge on his buttock was his portable phone. He punched in a number that Montalbano was unable to read.
“Hello? This is Pera. All’s well, we’re talking.” He turned off the cellular and left it on the table.
“Our colleagues in Tunis discovered that Ahmed’s favorite sister, Karima, had been living in Sicily for years, and that, through her work, she had a vast circle of acquaintances.” “Vast, no,” Montalbano corrected him. “Select, yes. She was a respectable prostitute; she inspired confidence.”
“Ahmed’s right-hand man, Fahrid, suggested to his chief that they establish a base of operations in Sicily and avail themselves of Karima’s services. Ahmed rather trusted Fahrid; he didn’t know he’d been bought by the Tunisian secret services. With our discreet assistance, Fahrid came here and made contact with Karima, who, after a careful review of her clients, chose Lapècora. Perhaps by threatening to inform his wife of their relationship, Karima forced Lapècora to reopen his old import-export business, which turned out to be an excellent cover. Fahrid was able to communicate with Ahmed by writing coded business letters to an imaginary company in Tunis. By the way, in your press conference you said that at a certain point Lapècora wrote anonymously to his wife, informing her of his liaison. Why did he do that?” “Because he smelled something fishy in the whole arrangement.”
“Do you think he suspected the truth?”
“Of course not! At the most, he probably thought they were trafficking drugs. If he’d discovered he was at the center of an international intrigue, he’d have been killed on the spot.” “I agree. At first, our primary concern was to keep the impatience of the Tunisians in check. But we also wanted to be certain that, once we put the bait in the water, the fish would bite.” “Excuse me, but who was the blond young man who showed up now and then with Fahrid?”
The colonel looked at him with admiration.
“You know that too? He’s one of our men who would periodically go and check up on things.”
“And while he was at it, he would fuck Karima.”
“These things happen. Finally Fahrid persuaded Ahmed to come to Italy by tempting him with the prospect of a big weapons shipment. As always with our invisible protection, Ahmed Moussa arrived at Mazàra, according to Fahrid’s instructions. Under pressure from the chief of the prefect’s cabinet, the captain of the fishing boat agreed to take Ahmed aboard, since the meeting between Ahmed and the imaginary arms dealer was supposed to take place on the open sea.