Without answering, Montalbano dashed to the phone, completely naked.
“Catarella, get the fuck off the line and pass me Fazio on the double. Fazio? In one hour, at the latest, I want you all at the office. Got that? All of you. If anybody’s missing, I’m going to go nuts.” He hung up, then dialed another number.
“Commissioner? Montalbano here. I’m embarrassed to say, but I can’t make it to dinner tonight. No, it’s not because of Livia. It’s got to do with work. I’ll explain everything.
Lunch tomorrow? By all means. And please give your wife my apologies.”
Livia had got out of bed, trying to understand how her words could have provoked such a frantic reaction.
Montalbano’s only answer was to throw himself on the bed, dragging her along with him. His intentions were perfectly clear.
“But didn’t you say you’d be at the office in an hour?”
“Fifteen minutes more or less, what’s the difference?”
o o o
Crammed into Montalbano’s office, which was certainly not spacious, were Augello, Fazio, Tortorella, Gallo, Germana, Galluzzo, and Grasso, who had begun working at the station less than a month ago. Catarella stood leaning against the door frame, an ear to the switchboard. Montalbano had brought along a reluctant Livia.
“But what am I going to do there?”
“Believe me, you might be very useful.”
But he hadn’t given her a single word of explanation.
In utter silence, he drew a rough but sufficiently precise street map of Villaseta, which he then showed to all present.
“This is a little house on Via Garibaldi in Villaseta. No one is living there at the moment. Here behind it is a garden . . .”
He went on to illustrate every detail, the neighboring houses, the street intersections, the smaller cross streets. He had committed everything to memory the previous afternoon, when alone in Karima’s room. With the exception of Catarella, who would remain on duty at headquarters, they were all to have a part in the operation. Using the map, the inspector pointed out the position that each was to take up.
He ordered them to arrive at the scene one by one: no sirens, no uniforms—in fact, no police cars at all. They were to remain absolutely inconspicuous. If anybody wanted to bring his own car, he must leave it at least half a kilometer away from the house. They could bring along whatever they wanted, sandwiches, coffee, beer, because it was probably going to take a long time. They might have to lie in wait all night, and there wasn’t even any guarantee of success. Most likely the person they were looking for wouldn’t show up.
When the streetlights came on, that would signal the start of the operation.
“Weapons?” asked Augello.
“Weapons? What weapons?” Montalbano muttered, mo-mentarily bewildered.
“I don’t know, but since it seemed like something serious, I thought—”
“Who is it we’re looking to capture?” Fazio cut in.
“A snack thief.”
Everyone in the room seemed to stop breathing. Beads of sweat appeared on Augello’s forehead.
o o o
It was a clear, moonlit night, windless and still. It had only one flaw, in Montalbano’s eyes. It seemed as if time didn’t want to pass. Every minute was mysteriously expanding, di-lating into five more.
By the light of a cigarette lighter, Livia had put the gutted mattress back on the bedspring, lain down, and gradually fallen asleep. She was now sleeping in earnest.
The inspector, seated in a chair beside the window that looked out the back, had a clear view of the garden and the surrounding countryside. Fazio and Grasso were supposed to be in that area, but no matter how hard he squinted, he could see no trace of them. They were probably hidden among the almond trees. He felt pleased with his men’s professionalism; they’d embraced the assignment wholeheartedly after he told them the little boy was probably Francois, Karima’s son. He took a pull on his fortieth cigarette and glanced at his watch by the faint glow. He decided to wait another half hour, after which he would tell his men to go back home. At this exact moment he noticed a very slight movement at the point where the garden ended and the countryside began; but, more than a movement, it was a momentary break in the re-flection of the moon on the straw and yellow scrub. It couldn’t have been Fazio or Grasso. He had purposely wanted to leave that area unguarded, as if to favor, even suggest, that approach. The movement, or whatever it was, repeated itself, and this time Montalbano could make out a small, dark shape coming slowly forward. It was the kid, no doubt about it.
He moved slowly toward Livia, guided by her breath.
“Wake up, he’s coming.”
He returned to the window and was joined at once by Livia. Montalbano spoke into her ear:
“As soon as they catch him, I want you to go immediately downstairs. He’s going to be terrified, but when he sees a woman he might feel reassured. Stroke him, kiss him, tell him whatever you can think of.” The little boy was right next to the house now.They could see him clearly as he raised his head and looked up towards the window. Suddenly a man’s shape appeared, descended on the boy and grabbed him. It was Fazio.
Livia flew down the stairs. Francois, kicking, let out a long, heartrending wail, like an animal caught in a
