“By whom?”
“By people who pass themselves off as their parents.”
“Accomplices?”
“Well, I wouldn’t be so explicit. You see, the journey is extremely expensive, and illegal immigrants make tremendous sacrifices to gain passage. But the price can be cut in half if they include a minor who’s not part of the family with their own kids. But aside from these, so to speak, ‘chance’ escorts, there are also the more usual escorts, who do it for the money. These are people who in every respect belong to this vast criminal organization. And they don’t always bring the minor in by blending in with a group of illegal immigrants. There are other ways. Let me give you an example. One Friday a few months ago, a ship equipped for passenger and freight service from Durazzo puts in at the port of Ancona. An Albanian woman by the name of Giulietta Petalli, some thirty-odd years old, comes ashore. Attached to her standard residence permit is a photo of a child, her son, whom she is holding by the hand. By the time the lady arrives in Pescara, where she works, she’s alone. The boy has disappeared. To make a long story short, the Pescara Flying Squad ascertained that sweet Giulietta, her husband, and an accomplice had together brought fifty-six different children into Italy. All vanished into thin air. What’s wrong, Inspector, don’t you feel well?”
A flash. For a moment, as a cramp wrenched his stomach, Montalbano saw himself taking the child by the hand, turning him over to the woman he thought was his mother . . . And that look, those gaping eyes, which he would never be able to forget.
“Why?” he asked, feigning indifference.
“You look pale.”
“Every now and then it happens to me. It’s a circulatory problem, nothing to worry about. But tell me something: if this odious traffic occurs in the Adriatic, why did you come here?”
“Simple. Because the slave traders, for a variety of reasons, have been forced to change course. The one they’ve used for years is too well known. The screws have been tightened, and it’s become much easier to intercept them. Bear in mind that last year alone, as I said, one thousand three hundred and fifty-eight minors came over from Morocco. The already established sea-lanes in the Mediterranean had to be broadened and increased in number. And this is what happened when the Tunisian, Baddar Gafsa, became the unchallenged leader of the organization.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that. What was the name?”
“Baddar Gafsa, a character who, believe me, seems straight out of a novel. Among other things, he goes by the name of ‘Scarface,’ so you can imagine. He’s a giant who likes to load himself down with rings and bracelets and always wears leather jackets. Barely thirty years old, he has a veritable army of killers at his command, under the leadership of his three lieutenants, Samir, Jamil, and Ouled. He also has a fleet of trawlers, which are not, of course, used for fishing, but are secretly moored in the inlets at Capo Bono; these are under the command of Ghamun and Ridha, two highly experienced sea captains who know the Sicilian Channel as well as their bathroom sink. Though the law’s been after him for a long time, Gafsa has never been caught. It is said that dozens of corpses of enemies murdered by his own hand are hung on display in his hideouts. He keeps them out for a while where everyone can see them, to discourage potential traitors but also to indulge his own sense of invincibility. Like hunting trophies. You see, he travels a lot, going here and there to settle, in his own special way, disputes among his collaborators and to make examples of those who don’t obey his orders. And so his trophies keep growing in number.”
To Montalbano it seemed as if Spalato were recounting the plot of a rather far-fetched adventure film of the kind the Italians used to call
“But how do you know these things? You seem very well informed to me.”
“Before coming to Vigata I spent almost a month in Tunisia between Sfax and Sousse and all the way out to El Haduaria. I’d arranged beforehand to gain admission in the right places. And I’m experienced enough to know how to cut the fat of urban legends away from the truth.”
“You still haven’t explained to me why you came specifically here, to Vigata. Did you find something out in Tunisia that brought you here?”
Fonso Spalato’s vast mouth quadrupled in size as he smiled.
“You really are as intelligent as they say, Inspector. What I found out—and I won’t tell you how, because it’d be too complicated, though I can vouch for the reliability of the source—is that Baddar Gafsa was seen in Lampedusa, on his way back from Vigata.”
“When?”
“A little over two months ago.”
“And did they say what he was doing here?”
“They hinted at it. Anyway, it’s important that you know that Gafsa has a huge sorting facility here.”
“In Vigata?”
“Or nearby.”
“What do you mean by ‘sorting facility’?”
“A place where he has certain illegal aliens brought, the ones of great importance or value.”
“Such as?”
“Minors, as we were saying, or terrorists, or informers for infiltration, or persons already declared undesirable. He keeps them there before sending them out to their final destinations.”
“I see.”
“This sorting center was in the hands of an Italian before Gafsa became head of the organization. Gafsa let him run things for a while, but then the Italian started getting ideas of his own. So Gafsa came over and killed him.”
“Do you know who he replaced him with?”
