The Snack Thief (15 page)

Does the name Ahmed Moussa mean anything to you?

It was not a shot, but an out-and-out cannon blast. Rah-
man jumped out of his chair, fell back down in it, then
wilted.

What...what...has...Ahmed Moussa got to do
with this? the schoolmaster stammered, breathless.

Pardon my ignorance, Valente continued implacably,
but who is this man you find so frightening?

Hes a terrorist. Somebody who ...a murderer. A bloodthirsty
killer. But what has he got to do with any of this?

We have reason to believe that Ben Dhahab was really
Ahmed Moussa.

I feel ill, Schoolmaster Rahman said in a feeble voice.

From the earth-shaken words of the devastated Rahman,
they learned that Ahmed Moussa, whose real name was more
often whispered than stated aloud and whose face was practically
unknown, had formed a paramilitary cell of desperadoes
some time before. He had introduced himself to the world
three years earlier with an unequivocal calling card, blowing
up a small cinema that was showing French cartoons for children.
The luckiest among the audience were the ones who
died; dozens of others were left blinded, maimed, or disabled
for life. The cell espoused, in its communiquat least, a nationalism
so absolute as to be almost abstract. Moussa and his
people were viewed with suspicion by even the most intransigent
of fundamentalists. They had access to almost unlimited
amounts of money, the source of which remained
unknown. A large bounty had been placed on Ahmed
Moussas head by the Tunisian government. This was all that
Master Rahman knew. The idea that he had somehow helped
the terrorist so troubled him that he trembled and teetered as
if suffering a violent attack of malaria.

But you were deceived, said Montalbano, trying to
console him.

If youre worried about the consequences, Valente
added, we can vouch for your absolute good faith.

Rahman shook his head. He explained that it wasnt fear

he was feeling, but horror. Horror at the fact that his own
life, however briefly, had intersected with that of a cold-
blooded killer of innocent children.

They comforted him as best they could, and as they were
leaving they warned him not to repeat a word of their conversation
to anyone, not even to his colleague and friend El
Madani. They would call him if they needed him for anything
else.

Even at night, you call, no disturb, said the schoolteacher,
who suddenly had difficulty speaking Italian.

Before discussing everything theyd just learned, they ordered
some coffee and drank it slowly, in silence.

Obviously the guy didnt sign on to learn how to fish,
Valente began.

Or to get killed.

Well have to see how the captain of the fishing boat
tells the story.

You want to summon him here?

Why not?

Hell end up repeating what he already told Augello. It
might be better first to try and find out what people down
on the docks think. A word here, a word there, and we might
end up learning a lot more.

Ill put Tomasino on it.

Montalbano grimaced. He really couldnt stand Valentes
second-in-command, but this wasnt a very good reason, and
it especially wasnt something he could say.

You dont like that idea?

Me? Its you who have to like the idea. Your men are
yours. You know them better than I do.

Cmon, Montalbano, dont be a shit.

Okay, I dont think hes right for the job. The guy acts
like a tax collector, and nobodys going to feel like confiding
in him when he comes knocking.

Yeah, youre right. Ill put Tripodi on it. Hes a smart
kid, fearless. And his fathers a fisherman.

The important thing is to find out exactly what happened
on the night the trawler crossed paths with the motor
patrol. Theres something about the whole story that doesnt
add up, no matter which way you look at it.

And what would that be?

Lets forget, for the moment, how he managed to sign
on with the boat. Ahmed set out with specific intentions,
which are unknown to us. Here I ask myself: Did he reveal
these intentions to the captain and the crew? And did he reveal
them before they put out or when they were already at
sea? In my opinion, he did state his intentionsthough I
dont know exactly whenand everyone agreed to go along
with him. Otherwise they would have turned around and put
him ashore.

He could have forced them at gunpoint.

But in that case, once they put in at Vig or Maz,
the captain and crew would have said what happened. They
had nothing to lose.

Right.

To continue. Unless Ahmeds intention was to get
killed off the shores of his native land, I can come up with
only two hypotheses. The first is that he wanted to be put
ashore at night, at an isolated spot along the coast, so he could
steal back into his country undercover. The second is that
hed arranged some sort of meeting at sea, some secret conversation,
which he absolutely had to attend in person.

The second seems more convincing to me.

Me too. And then something unexpected happened.

They were intercepted.

Right. But here that hypothesis becomes more of a
stretch. Lets assume the Tunisian motor patrol doesnt know
that Ahmeds aboard the fishing boat. They intercept a vessel
fishing in their territorial waters, they order it to stop, the
fishing vessel takes off, a machine gun is fired from the patrol
boat, and purely by accident it happens to kill Ahmed
Moussa. This, in any case, is the story we were told.

This time it was Valente who grimaced.

Unconvinced?

It reminds me of the Warren Commissions reconstruction
of the Kennedy assassination.

Heres another version. In the place of the man hes
supposed to meet, Ahmed finds someone else, who then
shoots him.

Or else it is in fact the man hes supposed to meet, but
they have a difference of opinion, an altercation, and it ends
badly, with the guy shooting him.

With the ships machine gun?

He immediately realized what hed just said. Without
even asking Valentes permission, and cursing under his
breath, he grabbed the phone and asked for Jacomuzzi in
Montelusa. While waiting for the connection, he asked Valente:

In the reports you were sent, did they specify the caliber
of the bullets?

They spoke generically of firearms.

Hello? Whos this? asked Jacomuzzi at the other end of
the line.

Listen, Baudo

Baudo? This is Jacomuzzi.

But you wish you were Pippo Baudo. Would you tell
me what the fuck they used to kill that Tunisian on the fishing
boat?

Firearms.

How odd! I thought hed been suffocated with a pillow!

Your jokes make me puke.

Tell me exactly what kind of firearm.

A submachine gun, probably a Skorpion. Didnt I write
that in the report?

No. Are you sure it wasnt the ships machine gun?

Of course Im sure. Those patrol boats, you know, are
equipped with weapons that can shoot down an airplane.

Really? Your scientific precision simply amazes me, Jacom

How do you expect me to talk to an ignoramus like
you?

After Montalbano related the contents of the phone call, they
sat awhile in silence. When Valente finally spoke, he said exactly
what the inspector was thinking.

Are we sure the patrol boat was Tunisian?

Since it was getting late,Valente invited the inspector to his
house for lunch. But as Montalbano already had firsthand experience
of the vice-commissioners wifes ghastly cooking,
he declined, saying he had to leave for Vig at once.

He got in his car and, after a few miles, saw a trattoria
right on the shore. He stopped, got out, and sat down at a
table. He did not regret it.

12

It had been hours since he last spoke with Livia. He felt
guilty for this; she was probably worried about him. While
waiting for them to bring him a digestivo of anisette (the double
serving of bass was beginning to weigh on his stomach),
he decided to call her.

Everything okay there?
Your phone call woke us up.
So much for being worried about him.
You were asleep?
Yes. We had a very long swim. The water was warm.
They were living it up, without him.
Have you eaten? asked Livia, purely out of politeness.
I had a sandwich. Im on the road. Ill be back in Vig

in an hour at the most.
Are you coming home?
No, I have to go to the office. Ill see you this evening.
It was surely his imagination, but he thought he heard

something like a sigh of relief at the other end.

But it took him more than an hour to get back to Vig. Just
outside of town, five minutes away from the office, the car
suddenly decided to go on strike. There was no way to get it
started again. Montalbano got out, opened the hood, looked
at the motor. It was a purely symbolic gesture, a sort of rite of
exorcism, since he didnt know a thing about cars. If someone
had told him the motor consisted of a string or a twisted
rubber band as on certain toy vehicles, he might well have
believed it. A carabinieri squad car with two men inside
passed by, then stopped and backed up. Theyd had second
thoughts. One was a corporal, the other a ranking officer at
the wheel. The inspector had never seen them before, and
they didnt know Montalbano.

Anything we can do? the corporal asked politely.

Thanks. I dont understand why the engine suddenly
died.

They pulled up to the edge of the road and got out. The
afternoon Vig-Fiacca bus stopped a short distance away,
and an elderly couple got on.

Motor looks fine to me, was the officers diagnosis.
Then he added with a smile: Shall we have a look at the gas
tank?

There wasnt a drop.

Tell you what, Mr....

Martinez, Claudio Martinez. Im an accountant, said
Montalbano.

No one must ever know that Inspector Montalbano was
rescued by the carabinieri.

All right, Mr. Martinez, you wait here. Well go to the
nearest filling station and bring back enough gasoline to get
you back to Vig.

Youre very kind.

He got back in the car, fired up a cigarette, and immediately
heard an ear-splitting horn blast behind him. It was the
Fiacca-Vig bus wanting him to get out of the way. He got
out and used gestures to indicate that his car had broken
down. The bus driver steered around him with a great show
of effort and, once past the inspectors car, stopped at the
same point where the other bus, going in the other direction,
had stopped. Four people got off.

Montalbano sat there staring at the bus as it headed towards
Vig. Then the carabinieri returned.

By the time he got to the office it was already four oclock.
Augello wasnt in. Fazio said hed lost track of him since
morning; Mim stuck his head in at nine and then disappeared.
Montalbano flew into a rage.

Everybody does whatever he pleases around here! Anything
goes! Ragonese will turn out to have been right, just
wait and see!

News? Nothing. Oh yes, the widow Lapra phoned to
inform the inspector that her husbands funeral would be
held Wednesday morning. And there was a land surveyor by
the name of Finocchiaro whod been waiting since two to
speak to him.

Do you know him?

By sight. Hes retired, an old guy.
Whats he want?
He wouldnt tell me. But he seems a tad upset.
Let him in.
Fazio was right. The man looked shaken. The inspector

asked him to sit down.
Could I have some water, please? asked the land surveyor,
whose throat was obviously dry.

After drinking his water, he said his name was Giuseppe
Finocchiaro, seventy-five years old, unmarried, former land
surveyor, now retired, residing at Via Marconi 38. Clean
record, not even a traffic ticket.

He stopped, drank the last gulp of water remaining in the
glass.

On TV today, on the afternoon news, they showed a
photograph. A woman and child.You know how they said to
inform you if we recognized them?

Yes.
Yes, period. One more syllable, at that moment, might
have sparked a doubt, a change of mind.
I know the woman. Her names Karima. The kid Ive

never seen before. In fact I never knew she had a son.
How do you know her?
She comes to clean my house once a week.
What day?
Tuesday mornings. She stays for four hours.
Tell me something. How much did you pay her?
Fifty thousand. But...
But?

Sometimes as much as two hundred thousand for ex

tras.
Like blow jobs?
The calculated brutality of the question made the sur

veyor first turn pale, then red.
Yes.
So, let me get this straight. She would come to your

house four times a month. How often did she perform these

extras?
Once a month, twice at the most.
How did you meet her?
A friend of mine, retired like me, told me about her.

Professor Mandrino, who lives with his daughter.
So no extras for the professor?
There were extras just the same. The daughters a

teacher, so shes out of the house every morning.
What day did Karima go to the professors house?
On Saturday.
If you havent anything else to tell me, you can go, Mr.

Finocchiaro.
Thank you for being so understanding.
The man stood up awkwardly and eyed the inspector.
Tomorrow is Tuesday, he said.
So?
Do you think shell come?
He didnt have the heart to disappoint him.
Maybe. If she does, let me know.

162

Then the procession began. Preceded by his howling
mother, Ntonio, the little boy Montalbano met at Villaseta,
whod been punched because he wouldnt hand over his
food, walked in. Hed recognized the thief in the photo they
showed on TV. That was him, no doubt about it. Ntonios
mother, shouting loud enough to wake the dead and hurling
curses and expletives, presented her demands to the horrified
inspector: thirty years for the thief, life imprisonment for the
mother. And in case earthly justice did not agree, from divine
justice she demanded galloping consumption for the mother
and a long, debilitating illness for the boy.