Rip Crew

by Sebastian Rotella

  After two miles, Méndez began to suffer. Although Pescatore was taking it easy, he was too young, strong and fast. The sun beat down. Méndez poured sweat. He had difficulty breathing. Silver spots swam in front of his eyes. An itching sensation buzzed through his arms and torso. It escalated into a burning.

  As they labored up an incline in open land, the pain narrowed and mutated into a spear jabbing into his belly. The silver spots accumulated, obscuring his vision. When he reached the top, his legs gave way. He avoided total collapse by sitting down abruptly against a boulder. He experienced an overwhelming desire to sleep…

  “Leo! Leo, are you all right?”

  Pescatore shook him. Méndez blinked. He drank from the proffered water bottle, seeing alarm in the tough earnest face floating above him.

  “Don’t fret, Valentine,” he said, gasping for breath. “I will live to fight another day.”

  “I overdid it, pushed you too hard.”

  “Not your fault.” The runner stumbles, Méndez thought. The embarrassment is worse than the pain.

  Pescatore tried to encourage him. “The time zones, the jet lag, it’s wearing me out too. You okay?”

  “I would like to sit a moment.”

  “Sure.”

  Méndez pulled himself up and sat on the boulder. Pescatore joined him. They passed the water bottle back and forth, silent except for the sound of Méndez’s breathing returning to normal. Pescatore nudged him.

  “Leo, isn’t that the detention facility?”

  Méndez looked. A chain-mesh fence topped a ridge. There was a warning sign in Italian and English. The hillside dipped to reveal a corner of the compound: high walls, floodlights, a courtyard. Laundry hung from barred windows, multicolored African garments like banners festooning a white-walled dormitory. Knots of people ebbed and flowed. Shirtless youths kicked a soccer ball. A murmur of voices reached Méndez on the wind.

  “Looks calm,” he said.

  “The sergeant at the airport said things can get nasty, though. When they riot, they burn mattresses, throw broken glass, rip up furniture for weapons.”

  Méndez drank more water. Pescatore spoke up again.

  “You think we have a chance of locking up these guys, Leo?”

  “Who?”

  “The killers. The masterminds. Everybody involved.”

  “I don’t know, Valentine. I almost prefer dealing with drug lords. That may sound strange. I don’t romanticize them at all, but at least drug lords have personality. And physical courage. And, occasionally, something of a code. Do you remember when they caught Chapo Guzman?”

  “Which time? He escapes so much, I lose track.”

  “The last time. In Sinaloa. He was running from the police. He and a henchman carjacked a woman. The woman left her purse in the car, but before they took off, the henchman reached out and gave her the purse.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was a narco, a killer, at that moment a carjacker. But he was not a thief. Do you think Perry Blake would do the same thing in that situation?”

  “Good question.”

  “We have had perverse good luck—Perry Blake has trouble controlling his vicious impulses. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have much hope.”

  “Why not?”

  Méndez used his shirt to mop sweat from his face.

  “I have learned how much these people get away with. Not just ruthless, unethical business practices—nobody cares about that. No, I mean demonstrable crimes. I wrote an article about it, and I was naive enough to think it would have an impact.”

  “Isabel said your article was great, it shook things up. But her bosses don’t want to mess with Wall Street chingones.”

  “Those chingones have more impunity than drug lords or terrorists or politicians. And they run your country, my friend.”

  Pescatore shifted uncomfortably. “I respect your politics and everything, Licenciado. But China and Venezuela and Cuba are a hell of a lot worse.”

  Méndez grinned.

  “I detect the influence of a certain charming Cuban-American conservative.”

  “Compared to Isabel, I’m more of an independent. But I gotta tell you, I know a guy from my neighborhood. His father made money in the produce business. The son made a fortune in finance. Family man, treats his employees right. He’s a CEO now. They’re not all animals.”

  “Of course not. It’s not a question of ideology, it’s a question of justice. When I was your age, Valentine, I thought capitalism had to be abolished. Now I have a simpler solution. Put handcuffs on the gangsters. Including the ones in business suits.”

  “Doesn’t sound radical to me.”

  The wind had picked up. The temperature had dropped.

  Méndez buttoned his tweed sports jacket and raised the collar. Annelise Hald wore a Palestinian scarf furled around her neck with the dexterity of someone who had actually seen Palestinians wear scarves. Behind her, the sunset had left slashes of red and orange across the sky and sea. She occupied the same spot on the terrace as before. Inside the bar, a table of half a dozen officers of the Carabinieri—red stripes on black pants, white diagonal sashes over blue shirts—watched a newscast on a big screen. Their postures suggested they had plenty of time and limited recreational options.

  Pescatore’s slouch was more alert. His fingers toyed absently with the black-thread crucifix around his neck. Like Méndez, he eyed the laptop computer on the table.

  Hald sipped a glass of red wine, her face half hidden in shadow. It appeared to Méndez that her serenity was back and that her misgivings had been offset by curiosity about why this particular name had materialized out of a tsunami of suffering.

  “I think I found him,” she said. “I had to do research. And make phone calls.”

  Méndez nodded appreciatively, not wanting to slow things down with a comment. He was still recovering from his exertions that afternoon. The fog in his head had not entirely cleared.

  She opened the laptop. The glow of the screen illuminated strands of blond above the youthful features. She read in a businesslike voice.

  “Solomon Anbessa. Age forty-six. Accompanied by a wife, seventeen-year-old daughter, ten-year-old son. From Asmara. They were rescued four years ago by the Italian coast guard. They sailed from the Libyan coast near Benghazi. One hundred eighty-seven people on a fishing boat built for twenty. Eritreans, Somalis, Nigerians, a few Syrians. The smugglers chose Mr. Anbessa to steer. He has no maritime experience, but he is a computer technician and a military veteran, a former captain in the army. He seemed capable to them. They gave him a short lesson on how to use the tiller and a satellite phone programmed with the number of the Italian coast guard. He was told to sail for twenty-four hours, then call, ask for help, and pray.”

  She raised her head, glanced around at the terrace and the bar, and resumed.

  “The boat began to leak. Mr. Anbessa called the coast guard. He steered the best he could. They had no food or water. The sea became rough. Two children fell overboard and drowned. Four children, a woman, and an elderly man died of exposure and dehydration. They were rescued on the fourth day. The boat was so crowded there was no room on deck for the rescuers. Most of the passengers suffered third-degree burns.”

  “A fire?” Méndez asked.

  “No. Burns caused by the sun, leaking gasoline, urine, saltwater, chemicals in clothing. The toxic mess mixes together, and they sit in it for days.”

  The horizon had turned black. The wind blew cold. Méndez imagined an armada of ghost ships piled with cadavers sailing through the night, souls swirling in the sky like an aerial escort. He shivered.

  “Is there mention of a sister?” he asked.

  “No. The family applied for political asylum for the usual reasons: they feared the daughter would be forcibly conscripted and abused in the Eritrean military.”

  Two years later, Méndez thought, Abrihet Anbessa migrated as well. But she, for whatever reason, had chosen a separate path and gone to the Unite
d States. He asked Annelise if she was confident that Solomon Anbessa was their man.

  “The timing, the facts and the geography fit the data points you gave me. The first phone number in Sicily is near the Catholic shelter where the family went from here. The most recent residence I can find was in government-subsidized housing—a converted hotel in the Campania region you mentioned. And his face looks something like the photograph of her you showed me, though that is not conclusive.”

  She dictated the details to Pescatore, who took notes. Méndez asked if she had brought a photograph.

  She handed him an envelope. Pescatore leaned forward. Méndez staved him off with a look and tucked the envelope into a pocket.

  Méndez thanked Annelise again. They sipped their drinks. The wind ruffled his hair. He ached. He was cold. He was concerned that he had created problems for Annelise, or damaged their friendship, or both. He was worried about the safety of his family and the future of his marriage. But at this moment, he was happy.

  Annelise Hald closed her laptop. She rolled her shoulders. From the refuge of her scarf, she gave him a brief smile.

  “It was a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Méndez. If the situation were different, I could have taken you on a tour. We could have talked to refugees, accompanied a rescue patrol.”

  “Another time. But I am at your orders for any favor you might need in the future.”

  “There is a favor you can do for me.”

  “Name it.”

  “Please get off this island as soon as you can.”

  Chapter 11

  In the glory days of Rome, the emperor Domitian built the coastal road to connect the capital to the commercial and military ports of the Bay of Naples.

  The Via Domiziana belonged now to the Camorra, the Naples mafia. A seaside drag running through criminal empires. Because Neapolitan gangsters disdained prostitution, the Camorra had ceded the racket in the bleak towns north of Naples to the Nigerian mafia—for a fee.

  On the outskirts of Palazzo di Sabbia, African women appeared. A Saturday-night parade of silhouettes in shorts, miniskirts, knee-high boots, multicolored braids, posing and strutting and staggering. Pimps sat on walls, crates and beach chairs. Drug dealers prowled among stopped and slow-moving cars. The rented Fiat passed polluted beaches, trash dumps, empty stores, and car skeletons.

  “Reminds me of Stony Island Avenue back home,” Pescatore said. “All torn up.”

  Pescatore drove through a neon-lit corridor lined by the hulks of faded motels with fanciful names. The helter-skelter architecture dated to the 1980s, when a construction frenzy had enriched the Camorra and its cronies. Grandiose notions of a tourist Riviera didn’t materialize. The hotels and motels had served mainly to shelter victims of an earthquake. Some of the establishments had been abandoned. Others had become cheap housing for immigrants and refugees, mostly from sub-Saharan Africa.

  Pescatore saw men alone with time on their hands. They congregated in the pallid glow of cell phone shops, money-transfer outlets, a storefront chapel, a business called Makalele Exotic Fashions Boutique.

  “Remarkable,” Méndez said. “For a century, Italy was a sending country. So many Italians migrated to the Americas, to northern Europe. And in a few decades, it has transformed into a receiving country.”

  “Migrants or not, this place has always been wild,” Pescatore said. “It’s where the latitanti hide out.”

  “The what?”

  “Camorra fugitives. The police take years to find them in their own neighborhoods. My uncle Rocco says people in this part of Italy have trouble with rules, so it’s a good place to hide. And to be an illegal alien, I guess.”

  “Are we getting close?”

  “A few blocks, I think.”

  They had spent two days driving up and down the Via Domiziana. The information from Annelise Hald had led to a town near Palazzo di Sabbia and a converted motel with small satellite dishes dotting windows and balconies of units occupied by multiple families. Pescatore and Méndez found an apartment where the Anbessas had lived, but the family had moved. The search led to previous workplaces for Solomon Anbessa—a ranch where he had cleaned up after buffalo that produced milk for mozzarella cheese, then an Internet café where he had put his computer skills to use. A Ghanaian at the café said Solomon was managing another Internet spot in Palazzo di Sabbia. The Ghanaian and others they talked to, African and Italian, harmless and hard-ass, hadn’t been enthusiastic about outsiders asking questions.

  The atmosphere aggravated Pescatore’s paranoia, which had amped up after the news about Mrs. Méndez being followed in San Diego. He checked his mirrors again. He hadn’t spotted surveillance, but that didn’t mean much in a region full of eyes and ears. By now, a lot of people knew they were looking for Solomon Anbessa.

  “Look.” Méndez pointed. “Dar es Salaam First Class Internet Service.”

  “That’s the one,” Pescatore said. “They said the owner is Tanzanian.”

  He pulled to the curb. The cybercafé across the street was the only open business in a strip of shuttered or boarded-up locales. The barred windows cast a peninsula of light onto the street. Pescatore backed up. He wanted to see without being seen.

  “Now what?” Méndez asked.

  “I think we should scope it out a minute, Licenciado.”

  “Very good.”

  Reclining behind the wheel in his leather jacket, Pescatore scanned the landscape. Past the commercial strip, human and canine shapes meandered in the gloom of an overgrown vacant lot. The area gave him a bad vibe. And he was worried about Méndez. Pescatore had joked in Lampedusa about feeling like a bodyguard, but he was acutely aware of the fact that Méndez lived under threat. He had been alarmed when Méndez almost fainted during their run. The Mexican sat now with his head back, wearing glasses and a rumpled tweed jacket. He looked beat. He had made a comment about troubles back at home.

  You and me both, brother, Pescatore thought. Except I don’t have anyone at home. Just troubles.

  He heard the vehicle before he saw it. African hip-hop thundered from the yellow Maserati convertible that pulled up in front of the Dar es Salaam cybercafé. The driver sported a 1970s-style brimmed cap. The passenger wore wraparound shades on a shaved head. Both men looked better fed, better dressed, and more thuggish than the Africans Pescatore had seen up until now.

  Two women emerged into the light from the thigh-high weeds of the vacant lot. They tottered on platform heels, statuesque in minidresses, long hair swirling. They greeted the men, making a provocative show of leaning into the car for hugs and kisses. The taller woman did a twirling dance step on the sidewalk, arms wide like she was flying.

  After a few minutes of raucous conversation and pounding music, the door of the cybercafé opened. Méndez and Pescatore sat up in unison.

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Pescatore said. “Mr. Anbessa is in the house.”

  “Are you sure? The light could be better…”

  The newcomer was small, trim and straight-backed in a buttoned sweater and pleated khaki trousers. He strode into the street to the driver’s door. He spoke to the driver, a volley of words and gestures.

  “It’s him,” Pescatore said. “Height, weight, age. Look how he carries himself, like a guy with military experience.”

  Judging from the contours of the arm propped on the door, the driver was a lot bigger than the Eritrean. Yet he listened impassively to the diatribe, glancing around as if to confirm he was really the target. The others watched. Solomon Anbessa stood like a sheriff ready to draw. The driver spoke to the women. The women climbed into the convertible without opening the doors, generous curves in motion, bare legs bending and extending.

  “Looks like he told them to move the party elsewhere,” Méndez said.

  “I like him already.”

  The convertible sped off, trailing its sound track. Solomon glanced up and down the block. His gaze paused on the Fiat. He marched back inside.

&n
bsp; Pescatore killed the engine. He and Méndez crossed the street.

  The door triggered a warning bell. Pescatore smelled air freshener and bug spray. An aisle in the middle of the high-ceilinged space led through clusters of computer cubicles, two dozen in total, four of them occupied by three African men and a young Italian couple with faux dreadlocks and piercings. The equipment, partitions, and furniture were old but well kept. The carpet was green and clean. Signs announced services—long-distance calls, wire transfers, express mail—and warned against noise, litter, smoking, and assorted misbehaviors. A neatly organized bulletin board contained notices and flyers in Italian, English, French, and several African languages. Computers clicked and whirred.

  Shipshape, Pescatore thought. And there’s the captain on deck.

  Solomon Anbessa was visible in the rectangular window of a back office a half a story above the rest of the place. Seeing Pescatore and Méndez in the aisle, he descended a short steel staircase built against the back wall.

  “Buona sera.” The voice was cultivated and accented.

  “Excuse me,” Méndez said in English. “Mr. Anbessa?”

  They had decided Méndez would take the lead. He was less likely than Pescatore to be mistaken for a local cop or criminal.

  Solomon stopped near the bottom of the staircase, head and torso visible over the wall-like railing.

  “Yes.”

  He stood poised on the stairs, a fight-or-flight stance. Pescatore couldn’t see the right hand. He wondered if it held a pistol or, as had occurred to him during the dispute in the street, if there was a gun beneath the sweater. Pescatore bumped Méndez slightly sideways, thinking he could push him into the cover of a cubicle if necessary.