Chapter 15
The next morning, on a Saturday, the Montenero neared the port of Valletta, Malta. The captain announced on the intercom that they would be making port at nine-thirty A.M but would only be there for three hours. The crew was asked to stay aboard but passengers were allowed to disembark and tour Valletta if they wished.
When he heard the announcement, Rego began to panic. He knew he had to find a way off the ship. He thought frantically as he did his duties during breakfast. Fr. John noticed he seemed pre-occupied with his thoughts as he rounded their table.
“Are you alright, my son?” Fr. John asked him when he stopped beside him.
Rego snapped out of his trance and looked at the pastor. “Oh yes, Father. I’m quite alright. How are you this morning? Going to see the capital city?”
“Yes, I think I will tour around for a bit, perhaps see the Co-Cathedral of St. John and the Grand Master’s palace,” he said smiling. “The old knights were called The Order of St. John, you know. I thought I should go see what all the fuss is about.”
“Hope you have a good morning, Father,” Rego said and quickly walked back to the wall. He looked at the clock on the wall and it read eight-thirty. Several tables had emptied, so he began to clear them off. He wanted to be done as soon as possible, so he could plan his way off the ship. He needed to try and blend in with the passengers that were getting off in Valletta.
The dining room was soon empty and the servers quickly cleared off each table. Rego dropped the last of his dishes and glasses at the window and made his way for the door.
“Where are you going, mister?” Hector demanded as he stepped between Rego and the door.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” he responded quickly and pushed past Hector’s shoulder. He put his hand to his mouth as he hurried through the double doors. Hector crossed his arms with the clipboard dangling from his hand and shook his head. Erik looked up from his tables and watched Rego leave in a rush.
Rego went down another hallway to get to his cabin from the other side, to avoid going through the kitchen. He stormed into the room, instantly awaking Bolo from his sleep.
“Oh, what the hell, man?” Bolo said annoyed, with his eyes closed.
“Sorry, just getting a few things,” Rego said hurriedly. He didn’t have much to grab. He threw off his uniform and folded it and placed it on his pillow. Then he pulled on one of the shirts Erik had given him. He checked his hair in the mirror and combed it over as best as he could with his hand. He stared at himself for a second and decided that he needed something to try and disguise himself.
“Bolo, do you have a cap or something that I can use? I’ll pay you for it,” Rego asked in desperation.
Bolo sat way up in his bunk. “Why the hell are you rushing around?” he asked rubbing his eyes. Rego looked around the room desperately. “Geez, man. I gotta cap hanging over there on a hook. Take it, it’s yours. Just stop jumping around!”
Rego seized the cap and threw it on his head. “Thanks Bolo, you’re a real pal.” He pulled his jacket from under his bunk and put it on the mattress. Then he knelt down by his locker and opened it, leaving the key inside the key hole. He pulled everything out of the locker and rolled up the brown paper bag in his jacket, then threw the satchel over his shoulders across his chest.
“Rego, what are you doing?” Bolo asked, staring at him like a madman. “You ditching us for another cabin, or what? C’mon man, what’s going on?”
Rego had packed everything. He looked at Bolo with a look of uncertainty. “It’s nothing like that, Bolo.” He took a deep breath and exhaled long and hard. “It’s time to go.”
He stood up with his jacket and satchel and gave a quick, faint smile to Bolo and then walked out. Bolo looked at the door with a crazed and confused expression. He shouted from his bunk, “What do you mean, ‘go’? We’re not supposed to get off here!”
Rego ran quickly down the stairwell to D deck and slowly stepped outside on the walkway on the starboard side of the ship. Several passengers had gathered to watch the ship pull into harbor, so he tried to blend in as much as he could, wearing the cap low on his head.
In the distance, he could see the island of Malta. The white and beige buildings of the cities could be seen clearly in the early morning sun. The villas and flats stood over the dark blue waters and carved their way up the hillside and then out of view. He followed the coastline with his eyes and then spotted a giant, walled fortress. It looked like an ancient castle, floating on the edge of the water. The wall wound its way around a long and vast peninsula. As the ship approached, he could see tiny windows and lookout holes in the ancient wall of the fort that surrounded the capital city of Valletta. A jetty stuck way out in the harbor on the port side with a small lighthouse at the end. On the right was another small lighthouse, just off the perimeter wall of the fort, several hundred meters from the other lighthouse. The opening to the harbor was wide and dark blue, the waters running still and deep. He watched in silence as the ship slowly entered the doorway to the Grand Harbour. He could see the city walls clearly and up close now. The walled fortress rose above the water over a hundred meters. He was amazed and astounded at what kind of history lay beyond these walls. An ancient fortress in the middle of the sea! Rego was tremendously impressed, and fascinated at the same time.
A small boat came pushing into the harbor towards the Montenero. It had a sign in English that read Harbour Pilot. He saw the boat disappear to the port side of the ship. He remembered his first ticket to the ship in Lima and he chuckled to himself thinking about it.
As they neared the docks, Rego could now see beyond the walls and into the capital city. The streets crisscrossed the narrow peninsula, all of them lined with buildings, churches and small shops. The rooftops were covered with TV antennas, plants, clotheslines and narrow ventilation pipes. The city was old but it was breathing with life. He could hear the sounds of car horns and slow, old truck engines struggling up the rolling hills, and the common sound of bustling streets. He raised one eyebrow and nodded his head. “Busy place,” he said to himself.
The ship came to rest next to a long dock outside of the walls of Valletta. Passengers started to make their way towards the walkway that was being raised to the ship. Rego stood in line with the rest of the tourists, slowly moving towards the exit. Then, Rego noticed ahead, at the top of the walkway, Lindsey, dressed in her uniform, answering questions from passengers about the island and things to see. Rego turned his head away as he got closer to her. She was right at the foot of the walkway.
“Yes ma’am, the cathedrals in Valletta are very beautiful,” she said smiling to an older woman and her husband. “Be sure to see the museum and the old town center. I hear they have wonderful open-air markets on Saturday mornings.”
All of a sudden, she saw a familiar face draw near the exit. Rego no longer tried to avoid her. He looked straight at her and paused at the top of the walkway. “Rego?” she said with wide eyes. “What are you doing here?”
She looked at him with surprise as he reached out his hand to her. The two tourists behind him stood and looked on curiously and nosily. She grabbed his hand and held it for a brief moment. Then, he smiled at her and said in English, “Goodbye, Lindsey.” He kissed the top of her hand and let it go. Lindsey stared at him in disbelief and watched him walk down towards the landing.
He reached the ground and made his way towards the pedestrian gates that exited the port. He looked all around the area for the agents. But they were nowhere to be seen. He stood in a short line to show his papers at the customs desk. He showed them his papers and he walked through the gates and up a long staircase to the street level. He looked everywhere, keeping a sharp eye out. Where are those bastards? he thought to himself. He looked back one more time at the Montenero. He could see Lindsey still watching him as he disappeared into
Valletta.
The streets of Valletta were narrow and lined on each side with three to four story buildings. Small shops and stores were on every corner. The streets were old but clean. The whole city seemed to be free of any kind of clutter or debris. It was obvious the Maltese took great care in keeping their cities clean.
He knew he had to make his way to the center of the island, so he followed the streets in the most logical direction. He soon found a wider street that appeared to be in the center of the city. He saw the street sign on the side of the building. It read, ‘Republic Street.’ He walked south along the busy street, hoping to find a way to Mdina, or at least a reliable person he could ask for directions. Some of the shops sold pastry bread and the smells wafted into the streets. When he passed by, it smelled wonderful to him. But, still he looked everywhere trying to see anyone following him.
He came to a busy square with café tables setup in the middle of the square. A few tourists and locals sat at the tables sipping tea and coffee and eating the small pastries sold in the nearby shops. He walked between the tables and chairs to get to the other side. He passed by a man dressed in a fine blue suit coat, sipping a cup of hot tea. Before he could pass him by, the man reached up and grabbed Rego’s arm and stopped him.
Rego looked down to see Coutier, not wearing his hat and overcoat for the first time. His hair was combed neatly and his black eye had faded away. Rego stood speechless and in horror next to him. He looked around feverishly for the other two thugs, but they were nowhere to be seen.
“Why don’t you sit down, Rego?” Coutier said in a gentleman like tone. “There is no sense in running anymore. Let’s just sit down and talk this over, shall we?”
Rego shook in fear. His first impulse was to run as fast as he could. “I’m not here to hurt you, Rego. I just want to talk with you. Please, sit down.” he said politely again. He released Rego’s arm and Rego slowly walked backward to a chair opposite of Coutier. He slowly sat down in the small white chair. He stared at Coutier in disbelief.
“You’ve come a long way, kid, I applaud your determination.” Coutier continued. “But it’s time to give this up. What you have there does not belong to you. It belongs to the people of Brazil.”
“It belongs to my Uncle Enso,” Rego finally said with his voice shaking.
“Enso is dead!” Coutier answered quickly.
“Yeah, and it was you bastards that probably drove him to his grave, too!” Rego said angrily. “Just like you did to Jacomé! That was you who killed that poor man. And for what? This stinking leather case!” Rego stood with anger in his eyes, holding the case out in front of him. Gomes and LaBonne stepped out from behind the corner of the building behind the table. LaBonne had finally gotten rid of his neck brace. Rego glared at both of them.
“You can’t run anymore, Rego. This is an island, there is nowhere else to go,” Coutier said still sitting at the table. “You can’t have what doesn’t belong to you.” Gomes and LaBonne slowly inched their way toward Rego.
“What are you going to do, shoot me right here in front of all these people?” Rego said trembling.
“No, all we want is the case. Now please, just sit back down.”
Rego gave a firm look to Gomes and LaBonne, and then back at Coutier. “If you want this case, then you fat bastards are going to have to catch me!” He flipped a chair towards Gomes and LaBonne and took off running through the tables and chairs. Coutier slammed his fist on the table. Gomes and LaBonne threw the chair aside and took off after him.
Rego sprinted past the entrance of the St. John Co-Cathedral and down a side street that led to the outskirts of the city. Rego had stored up plenty of energy on the ship and was ready to outrun the agents once and for all. He ran like the wind down the narrow streets and alleyways of Valletta. He turned down every which way he could. He tossed his hat aside as he ran and threw his jacket off too. The men were close behind but Rego ran further and further ahead of them, changing direction anywhere he could. He dashed past people and tourists in the streets. He ran past a post office and even a police office. He ran as fast as he could. He ran up a small hill towards the harbor side of the city, around a bend, then past another church entrance. He turned a corner and flew past a large iron gate. Etched on the iron beside the gate was a sign that read ‘Upper Barrakka’. He found himself in a large multi-level garden terrace with park benches and tables for people to lounge around and sip cold drinks and tea. The gardens provided a spectacular view of the Grand Harbour in both directions. Rego frantically ran down each level of the gardens, looking for a way out. He ran down to a level that was lined with park benches against a short wall, all of them overlooking the view. Some were occupied by tourists and lovers alike, some were empty.
Coutier, Gomes and LaBonne came running into the gardens, looking everywhere for Rego. All of them were gasping for air. “Go that way,” Coutier ordered, coughing a wheezing for air.
Rego ran to the far railing and looked over. All he could see was the water, far below the gardens. He turned quickly and froze in his tracks. Gomes stood right on top of him.
“That’s far enough, kid,” Gomes said, still gasping for air. “There’s no way out of here!” Gomes signaled to the other men. Coutier and LaBonne came up behind him quickly. Rego backed against the railing.
“There’s nowhere else to go, Rego,” Coutier said. “You’ve made it this far, but it’s time to hand it over. Your grandmother wouldn’t want you to keep fighting this.”
“You leave my grandmother alone. Leave us all alone!” Rego shouted, his voice cracking. He pulled the strap over his head and held the case in front of him. “Don’t come any closer!” Gomes stepped forward. “I said, don’t come any closer!”
“It doesn’t belong to you, Rego,” Coutier said firmly.
Rego glared at him and snarled back, “It doesn’t belong to you, either!”
“I’m taking that case, kid, and that’s that,” Gomes said smartly.
“Well then, I hope you can fly,” Rego said gritting his teeth, and whirled the case around by the strap. The men backed off as he quickly turned to throw the case over the railing. Just before he released it into the air, the sound the three guns cocked behind him. Rego froze in mid-air, holding the case by the strap from his outstretched arm.
“Don’t be a fool, kid. It’s over.” Coutier said stepping up behind him. He held the gun to Rego’s head and slowly took the case from his hands. The three men backed off slowly, still pointing their guns straight at Rego. The onlookers on the park benches were horrified. Coutier motioned to his men, “Let’s go.”
All of a sudden, several more guns cocked behind the agents from the steps above. “Freeze!” a voice yelled to the three men. Standing above them on the steps were ten Maltese police officers, all pointing guns straight at the Brazilian agents. “Drop those weapons, now!” he shouted again.
“Back off!” Coutier shouted back in English. “This is business of the Brazilian government!”
“I don’t care if you’re the Queen Mother herself!” the officer exclaimed. “You men drop those weapons and come with us immediately!”
Coutier motioned to his men to do as they were told. They all dropped their weapons and raised their hands. The police quickly took them into custody and gathered the weapons and escorted them away.
Rego, and all the bystanders, looked on in shock as the police took the men away. Rego breathed a heavy sigh of relief. His shoulders slumped as he stared at the pavement. His jaw dropped in realization that the chase was finally over. He leaned on the railing and stared towards the view of the harbor. The onlookers started to disperse and talked amongst themselves about what they had just seen. Rego stumbled across the way towards one of the park benches and collapsed on it. He sat with his head leaning against the wall, exhausted. He just stared at the beautiful harbor.
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The police hurried the three agents into a holding cell. Coutier cursed and swore at them in his native language and in English, telling them they were making a big mistake.
“You have no right to keep us here!” Coutier protested. “I demand you release us! We are officers of the Brazilian government! We must report back to our superiors immediately!”
“Shut up!” the officer yelled back at him. “You’re not going anywhere until we hear from your government, so pipe down!” The officers thumbed through paper documents that they confiscated and even inside the leather satchel. Coutier glared at them through the cell bars as they searched everything. After they were done, the officer walked to the cell and handed them the papers and the satchel. “You can have these back, they’re all clean.”
Coutier grabbed the leather case and sat down on the bunk inside the cell. He quickly opened the satchel and looked inside. He threw his hand inside and searched it all around and came up with nothing. The entire case was empty. He swore under his breath and examined the case all around the outside. There were no letters or initials on the flap at all. His faced looked incredulous as he turned the satchel over and found wording on the bottom. The lettering read in English, ‘Made in Morocco’.
Rego still sat with his head resting against the wall. Then, he gathered his strength and sat up on the bench. He took a deep breath, then reached down under the bench behind his feet and pulled out the old, worn leather satchel. He sat the satchel on his lap and stared at it. The flap had the faded initials of his late uncle etched on the flap. Slowly, a thin smile appeared on his face.
He had hidden it away under his shirt the entire time before he got off the ship. The other satchel he carried was identical to the one he had originally. He had found the exact same case on the streets of Gibraltar.
The Maltese officer held the telephone close to his ear, keeping his back turned to the agent’s cell, listening intently to the voice on the other end of the line. He examined the three handguns they had confiscated from the agents. He looked at one in particular, and nodded as he spoke softly into the telephone, “Yes, we have such a weapon, of that very same description, same caliber.” He nodded once again, “Yes, from the agent himself.” He peered over his shoulder and glanced at Coutier, scribbling some notes down on a sheet of paper. Coutier glared back at him intently. “Very good, sir. Grazie. Ciao.”
The young officer put the telephone down and placed the pistols into an evidence box. He slowly approached the holding cell with a smug look upon his face, clutching his rolled up notes in his hands. “Well, Captain, it appears you are wanted for questioning by your superiors in Brasilia.”
“Concerning what?” Coutier answered coldly and uninterested, staring at the stone floor.
“Concerning the murder of one, Jacomé Pascoal.”
Coutier slowly turned his stare upwards at the officer. He knew he was finished.
“So, it appears you will be going home after all,” the officer said as he turned away, leaving Coutier with a blank expression.
The Brazilian Page 15