“Did you know him?”
“He came and introduced himself to me about ten days ago. He knew who I was and what I represent. You see, last January or thereabouts, a Tunis newspaper published an arti-cle on our school.” “And what did he say to you?”
“He said he was a journalist.”
Valente and Montalbano exchanged a very quick glance.
“He wanted to do a feature on the lives of our country-men in Mazara. But he intended to present himself to everyone as somebody looking for a job. He also wanted to sign on with a fishing boat. I introduced him to my colleague El Madani. And he put him in touch with Signora Pipia about renting a room.” “Did you ever see him again?”
“Of course. We ran into each other a few times by chance. We also were both at the same festival. He had become, well, perfectly integrated.”
“Was it you who set him up with the fishing boat?”
“No. It wasn’t El Madani, either.”
“Who paid for his funeral?”
“We did. We have a small emergency fund that we set up for such things.”
“And who gave the TV reporters the photos and information on Ben Dhahab?”
“I did. You see, at that festival I mentioned, there was a photographer. Ben Dhahab objected; he said he didn’t want anyone taking his picture. But the man had already taken one. And so, when the TV reporter showed up, I got hold of that photo and gave it to him, along with the bit of information Ben Dhahab had told me about himself.” Rahman wiped away his sweat. His uneasiness had increased. And Valente, who was a good cop, let him stew in his juices.
“But there’s something strange in all this,” Rahman decided.
Montalbano and Valente seemed not even to have heard him, looking as if their minds were elsewhere. But in fact they were paying very close attention, like cats that, keeping their eyes closed as if asleep, are actually counting the stars.
“Yesterday I called the newspaper in Tunis to tell them about the incident and to make arrangements for the body.
As soon as I told the editor that Ben Dhahab was dead, he started laughing and said my joke wasn’t very funny: Ben Dhahab was in the room right next to his at that very moment, on the telephone. And then he hung up.” “Couldn’t it simply be a case of two men with the same name?” Valente asked provocatively.
“Absolutely not! He was very clear with me! He specifically said he’d been sent by that newspaper. He therefore lied to me.”
“Do you know if he had any relatives in Sicily?” Montalbano stepped in for the first time.
“I don’t know, we never talked about that. If he’d had any in Mazara, he certainly wouldn’t have turned to me for help.”
Valente and Montalbano again consulted each other with a glance, and Montalbano, without speaking, gave his friend the go-ahead to fire the shot.
“Does the name Ahmed Moussa mean anything to you?” It was not a shot, but an out-and-out cannon blast. Rahman 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?”
“He’s a terrorist. Somebody who . . . a murderer. A blood-thirsty 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.
o o o
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 communiques at least, a nationalism so absolute as to be almost abstract. Moussa and his people were viewed with suspicion by even the most intran-sigent 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 Moussa’s 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 you’re worried about the consequences,” Valente added, “we can vouch for your absolute good faith.” Rahman shook his head. He explained that it wasn’t 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.
