by Glenn Meade
“They’re the best kind. Didn’t your mama ever tell you that?”
She giggled. “The copy load sheet, Franco . . .”
“When I’m through with the ship.”
“Well, don’t forget.”
She was only a junior—Franco the senior clearance clerk, fifteen years older—but she talked to him as if she were his boss. Franco liked it. The secretary thought she had him in the palm of her hand, teasing him, wearing those short skirts and tight blouses. But she didn’t: Franco was too clever for that, far too clever. Besides, Franco Scali had other plans.
He turned away as she began to polish her crimson nails, his eyes watching the Maria Escobar creep into the harbor. There was no need for the binoculars now, because the ship was only minutes from docking, the sprawling old city of Genoa off to the left, with its maze of jagged backstreets.
Franco put down the binoculars and winked. “Ciao, sweetie. I’ve got work to do.”
• • •
He went down the stairs to the busy warehouse, picked up the paperwork from the tiny glass-fronted office at the entrance.
An icy wind blew in from the sea, and he pulled on a reefer jacket and crossed the yard apron. His eyes were drawn up to the crane cabin, where Aldo Celli waited to operate the grab. Franco gave the man a wave and then the thumbs-up sign. Seconds later he heard Aldo start up the crane’s motor. “Aldo the Hawk,” they called him. Because the man swooped down with the crane grab on the cargo containers as if they were prey.
Franco saw the Maria Escobar nudging stern-first into the harbor, the men on docks ready to tie her up. He looked around for the customs officer, saw no sign of him, but he’d be here, for sure.
Sometimes customs just checked the seals, or broke the previous port seal and looked inside the big steel cargo containers to satisfy themselves, or just to show their authority. But they had never caught Franco yet. He was always careful, and this one was a peach. There would be enough cash from this one job to buy a new car and plenty left over to spend on the girls in the smart clubs near the Piazza della Vittoria. And he needed money. Everybody needed money these days; things were going so crazy. Even his old man had said it was worse than the old days.
Franco licked his dry lips. The cargo was well hidden, he told himself, relaxing a little. The Maria Escobar almost docked now, Aldo up in the crane, itching to get going with the grab.
Franco ground out his cigarette and felt a nervous flutter in his chest. Coming fast across the yard apron was the fat, waddling figure of Paulo Bonefacio, the customs officer. Paulo the Pest, Il Peste for short, because he hassled you, wanted to check every freaking container, every nook and cranny, like the man was looking for a medal from the Italian Customs Service. What the devil was he doing here? It should have been his day off . . .
Il Peste came up to him, puffing and grunting. “Ciao, Franco.”
“Ciao. I thought Vincenti was on today?”
“He’s sick,” answered Il Peste. “Why, you expecting an easy time?”
Franco forced himself to smile back, the Escobar’s gangway coming down. He could feel the tension returning . . . Of all people, it has to be Il Peste checking the containers . . .
“Come on, Franco, let’s see what we can find, eh?”
Franco swallowed, not too hard, and tried to keep smiling. “Sure.”
The fat customs official grunted and started across the harbor, to where Aldo would drop the containers before the conveyer took them farther along the port.
Franco Scali said a silent prayer, watching Aldo Celli swing the crane grab round and pick up one of the heavy metal containers off the ship as if it were a lightweight cardboard box. The one Franco was waiting for was a blue container with three gray-striped markings, and it hadn’t come out of the hold yet. Only five containers lay on the dockyard apron where Aldo had dropped them. Forty containers this load, and knowing Il Peste, he’d want to check almost every one.
Franco pumped sweat as he helped the men maneuver the containers into place, Aldo swinging them up from the Maria Escobar’s hold and down onto the apron. Let’s get this over with, thought Franco.
Il Peste examined the clipboard list of documents in his hands. Franco knew the man was totally incorruptible, got worked up like a bloodhound when he found something not right on the ship’s manifest or contraband in the containers.
It didn’t happen too often, but if Il Peste found anything like that, you were in the slammer. And no one would dare retaliate: the man’s brother, Stefano, was a Carabiniere inspector. Franco tried to time it so that Il Peste wouldn’t be around when he had something special coming in. Only it didn’t always work out that way.
Like today.
Franco cursed under his breath now as another container swung out of the Escobar’s hold, Aldo enjoying himself up there in the crane’s nest—twenty-five more to go—Franco sweating, as he looked over at the customs official. Il Peste stared at the neat line of containers laid out on the apron, waiting until the last one was out before starting work, like an athlete waiting for the crack of the starting pistol.
The wind whistled around the harbor. Franco watched as Aldo swung the crane grab up and into the hold again.
• • •
It was the last container. Blue, a band of three gray stripes around the sides. The one Franco was waiting for. Aldo lifted up the container, swung her across and down, landing her with a smack.
Go easy! What I got in there is worth a whole lot of money, you Genoese moron!
Franco heard the dying whirr of the crane’s motor. Shouts from the men as they finished working and removed their leather gloves, waiting for Il Peste to start. He came up beside Franco, looking ready to do battle.
“Forty containers, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You got all the documents?”
Franco handed them over. All the containers were sealed individually with a stamped customs seal from the last port, or from the port of origin. Franco’s job was to clear his cargo and paperwork through customs as fast as he could. Mostly the customs guys didn’t delay you, took a perfunctory look to cover themselves.
But not Il Peste. He was meticulous. And sometimes he used the duster, a brass knuckle-duster, to tap the insides of the big steel boxes, making sure there were no false bottoms or walls. That was the one fear Franco had today: if Il Peste used the duster.
The fat official looked up from the documents. “Okay. Everything looks in order.”
“How many you want to do?” Franco asked. None, he hoped, but knew that was asking too much. One, two maybe. But please, not the last, not number forty.
Il Peste looked at his watch. “I gotta finish early today. I got a christening to go to. Stefano, my brother, his wife had a baby boy. I’m an uncle again.”
“Congratulations!” Franco slapped Il Peste on the shoulder as he turned to the dockers. “Hey! What you think? Paulo is an uncle again. Stefano’s wife just had a baby boy.”
The men muttered their congratulations. Il Peste smiled, apparently warmed by their mumbled good wishes. It was good, thought Franco, a really good sign. Maybe his prayers had been answered. Maybe the man wasn’t going to be too thorough today.
A chill wind whistled through the harbor as Franco smiled. “You got time afterward, I’d like to buy you a glass of vino to celebrate.”
“Some other time, Franco. I got to be at the church by three.”
“Sure, no problem.”
Il Peste consulted the documents on his clipboard. “We just do . . . let me see . . . number three. The third one.”
Franco beamed. “Okay by me.”
“And then the last one. Number forty.”
Franco tried hard not to show his apprehension, tried to stay cool, but felt his legs begin to tremble. “Sure . . .”
Il Peste turned toward the containers, laid out in aisles of ten, four deep, before looking back at Franco, staring into his face.
“What’s wrong,
Franco? You look pale. You feeling okay?”
Franco felt his bowels shiver, rubbed his stomach, grimaced weakly. “My wife cooked carbonara for dinner last night. It didn’t taste too good.”
Il Peste nodded, mildly sympathetic, then strode quickly toward where the rows of containers began.
• • •
Franco was sweating like a pig.
Come on, man, get it over with.
Number three container done, and no problems. The contents tallying with the customs manifest.
They were outside the last container now, number forty, Franco trying to control his fear as he watched Il Peste break the lead customs seal before two of the men opened the container doors for him.
Whatever you do, don’t use the knuckle-duster, man . . . don’t use the duster.
The official consulted the clipboard. “What’s the port of origin?”
“Casablanca.”
Il Peste studied the documents, shook his head. “No, it’s not.”
Franco glanced at the documents over Il Peste’s shoulder. “Oh, sure . . . I forgot, it’s . . .”
“Montevideo,” corrected Il Peste. “Casablanca was first port of call.”
“Yeah, Montevideo.”
Containers from South America usually put the customs guys on guard. Narcotics were the big thing. Franco, sweating, stepped a little into the container, twenty-six boxes inside, twenty-six big and small, but still room for more, the big container not full.
“What’s the manifest say?” Il Peste asked, but not waiting for a reply, looking down at the document himself on the clipboard. “Twenty-six boxes. All machine parts, except one box of medical supplies. Okay, let’s have a look.”
They stepped into the container, and Franco saw him take a flashlight from his pocket. He flicked it on and counted the boxes, checking that none had been tampered with. Il Peste finally grunted his satisfaction, ticked off one of the entries on his customs form, then suddenly he sniffed the air.
“You get a funny smell?”
Franco sniffed. “No . . . I don’t smell nothing.”
“The medical supplies . . . Which box?”
Franco moved several of the boxes aside, felt the sweat drip down his back, on his brow. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
“I think I see it,” Franco said.
Il Peste moved to where the box lay on top of another and picked it up, sniffed it, then put the box of medical supplies aside. “It’s okay.”
Franco almost sighed out loud. But Il Peste didn’t put his flashlight away. Franco saw the man’s right hand go into his coat pocket, the gold-colored knuckle-duster coming out. No, man . . . not the duster! Franco watched, horrified, as the man fitted the chunky brass metal into his fat fingers.
He smiled at Franco. “A couple of taps . . . for luck.”
Franco smiled back, tried not to betray his unease, watching nervously as Il Peste went around the container tapping the sides, stopping, then tapping again, listening carefully to the sound, comparing it to the previous one, as if he were a piano tuner.
When he moved toward the right container wall, Franco felt his heart beat even faster, the pumping in his chest coming through his ears, through his whole body, feeling his pulse in the tips of his fingers.
Not the right wall . . .
The duster kept tapping . . .
Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . .
Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . .
Il Peste suddenly stopped.
Franco saw the man’s head turn slightly to the right. I don’t believe it . . . he’s found it! Franco wanted to weep, felt the blood drain out of his body as Il Peste hit the spot again.
Tap . . . tap . . . tap. . . . The brass knuckle-duster smacked against the right side wall, down near the back of the container, Franco listening, hearing the slight difference in sound, just a touch.
Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . .
Franco wanted to throw up. Il Peste was now hitting a spot less than a yard away from the hidden compartment. “Hey, Franco . . .”
Franco looked up, startled, his heart beating in his ears like hammer blows.
“Yeah?” The question came out like a croak in his throat.
Il Peste looked up at him in the dim-lit back of the container, pointing the flashlight away. “You got the right time?”
“What . . . ?”
“The time . . . What’s the time?”
Franco looked at his watch, hand trembling. “Two . . . two-thirty . . .”
“I’ve got to call my brother at the station. You mind if I use your telephone?” Franco shook his head dumbly and swallowed. Had the flashlight been shining on Franco’s face, Il Peste would have seen its paleness.
“Why . . . what’s up?” Franco asked quietly.
Il Peste tapped at his own watch. “My watch . . . it’s stopped; that’s what’s up. I’m gonna be late for the christening. Let’s wrap her up.”
Franco sighed audibly, the sigh sounding like a small breeze. Il Peste heard it, shone the flashlight in Franco’s face.
“Hey . . . You look sick, Franco. You okay?”
Franco belched with fear and smiled innocently. “It must have been the pasta.”
• • •
It was raining on the Via Balbi when Franco parked his car across the street from the bar.
He saw the man as soon as he stepped inside. Blond, thin-lipped, sitting alone at the counter, in his mid-twenties and wearing glasses. He flicked a glance at Franco, removed his glasses, and wiped them with a handkerchief.
Franco ordered a vino rosso and lit a cigarette. The blond man’s action was his signal. The cigarette was Franco’s: no problems, he had the box. The blond stood, paid for his drink, and left the bar. Franco waited another couple of minutes, finishing his cigarette and wine, then paid the barkeeper.
He climbed into the Fiat and drove around the corner to the deserted parking lot opposite the Banco d’Italia.
A dark-colored Fiat was already waiting. The blond young man sat in the front with a passenger, a man whose face was partly hidden in shadow. Franco rolled down the window, the rain falling more softly now.
“You have the cargo?” the man said in good Italian.
“Sure. You have the cash?”
The man handed across a large envelope. Franco flicked through fresh banknotes in thin wads.
“The box,” the man said.
Franco pressed the button underneath the dashboard, the lid flicking open. His own secret cubbyhole; he had fitted it himself and it was virtually undetectable. The smuggled box just about fit. It was so heavy Franco had to support it on the car’s window frame. He wondered what it contained. Gold, must be, judging by the weight of it. Heavy, like all the others. But it wasn’t any of his business what the Germans were smuggling. His business was to make sure he was paid. He hefted it out and handed it across through the window gingerly.
The man passed it carefully to his passenger.
“Don’t forget our arrangement. Any problems, any inquiries, you contact us.”
Franco said, “That was the last one?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The young man sensed Franco’s change of tone. “Why? Was there a problem?”
“No. But there could have been. The customs guy today . . . He looked hard, you know what I mean?”
A slight edge of panic in the blond’s voice. “But he found nothing. Suspected nothing?”
“You think I’d be here if he did?” Franco shook his head. “No . . . I’m getting out of this smuggling business. From now on, you want something delivered, you don’t call Franco, okay?”
“I think that’s a wise decision.”
Franco started the car, said it aloud as he pulled away in the white Fiat: “So do I, amico. Ciao.”
19
STRASBOURG. THURSDAY, DECEMBER 8
The flight from Asunción to Madrid had been delayed, and it was almost midday when they landed
in Frankfurt.
Volkmann drove Erica to his apartment, then he left her and headed to the office to type up a preliminary report. He put a copy in Ferguson’s mailbox with a note saying he’d be in the next morning before noon.
At five, he had an early dinner with Erica in a small restaurant near the Quai Ernest, and they walked back to his apartment. After he had unpacked, he made up the spare bedroom and poured two brandies.
The afternoon before, Sanchez drove them to a small cemetery on the outskirts of the city. Volkmann and the detective waited under a jacaranda tree while Erica said her prayer.
Later, Sanchez had taken them to the house in La Chacarita where the bodies were discovered, and there were brief interviews with Mendoza and Torres, but neither man had been able to add to their statements. They visited Tsarkin’s residence in the late afternoon, and Volkmann saw the manicured lawns, the paintings on the walls, the open safe in the study. Sanchez’s men had searched the rooms again, top to bottom, but found nothing.
At the airport, Sanchez promised to get the report on Tsarkin’s background to Strasbourg as quickly as possible. His men were still digging through the files at the immigration office.
“I hope to have some information within the next twenty-four hours,” Sanchez said as he led them to departures. Erica thanked him, and the detective smiled and said to Volkmann, “Look after her, amigo. Take care, and good luck.”
On the flight back, Volkmann explained that he wanted her in Strasbourg should Ferguson need to talk with her. When they landed she was exhausted, and she had accepted his suggestion that she use the spare room in his place instead of booking into a hotel. They could arrange that next day if Ferguson needed her for longer.
After Erica went to bed, Volkmann poured himself another brandy. Darkness had fallen beyond the window, the spire of the Gothic cathedral illuminated in the distance. No heat here, just a cold, chill wind rattling the windows.
As he sat sipping the brandy, feeling the aching tiredness take hold, he heard Erica tossing restlessly in her sleep. He thought of the white house and the photograph of the woman taken a long time ago.
He wondered what the heck Ferguson and Peters would make of it all.