“We’d merely like to clear up a few small details, then you’ll be free to go,” Valente said to reassure him.
“Well, out with it then, for God’s sake!”
“You’ve always maintained that the Tunisian patrol boat was acting illegally, since your vessel was in international waters. Is that correct?”
“Of course it’s correct. But I don’t see why you’re interested in questions that are the concern of the Harbor Office.”
“You’ll see later.”
“But I don’t need to see anything, if you don’t mind!
Did the Tunisian government issue a statement or didn’t they? And in this statement, did they say they killed the Tunisian themselves or didn’t they? So why do you want to hash it all out again?” “There’s already a discrepancy,” Valente observed.
“Where?”
“You, for example, say the attack occurred in international waters, whereas they say you’d already crossed their border. Is that a discrepancy or isn’t it, as you might say?” “No, sir, it is not a discrepancy. It’s a mistake.”
“On whose part?”
“Theirs. They obviously took their bearings wrong.” Montalbano and Valente exchanged a lightning-quick glance, which was the signal to begin the second phase of their prearranged interrogation.
“Mr. Prestia, do you have a criminal record?”
“No, sir.”
“But you have been arrested.”
“You guys really have a thing for old stories, don’t you!
Yes, sir, I was arrested, because some faggot, some sonofabitch had a grudge against me and reported me. But then the judge realized the bastard was a liar, and so he let me go.” “What were you accused of ?”
“Smuggling.”
“Cigarettes or drugs?”
“The second.”
“And your whole crew also ended up in the slammer, didn’t they?”
“Yessir, but they all got out ’cause they were innocent like me.”
“Who was the judge that threw the case out of court?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Was it Antonio Bellofiore?”
“Yeah, I think it was him.”
“Did you know he was thrown in jail himself a year later for rigging trials?”
“No, I didn’t know. I spend more time at sea than on land.”
Another lightning-quick glance, and the ball was passed to Montalbano.
“Let’s forget these old stories,” the inspector began. “Do you belong to a cooperative?”
“Yes, the Mafico.”
“What does it stand for?”
“Mazarese Fishermen’s Cooperative.”
“When you sign up a Tunisian fisherman, do you choose him yourself or is he referred to you by the cooperative?”
“The co-op tells us which ones to take,” Prestia replied, starting to sweat more than usual.
“We happen to know that the cooperative furnished you with a certain name, but you chose Ben Dhahab instead.”
“Listen, I didn’t know this Ben Dhahab, never seen ’im before in my life. When he showed up on board five minutes before we put out, I thought he was the one sent by the co-op.” “You mean Hassan Tarif ?”
“I think that was ’is name.”
“Okay. Why didn’t the cooperative ask you for an explanation?”
Captain Prestia smiled, but his face was drawn and by now he was bathed in sweat.
“But this kind of stuff happens every day! They trade places all the time! The important thing is to avoid com- plaints.”
“So why didn’t Hassan Tarif complain? After all, he lost a day’s wages.”
“You’re asking me? Go ask him.”
“I did,” Montalbano said calmly.
Valente looked at him in astonishment. This part had not been prearranged.
