“The harbormaster’s notice board says that ship is scheduled to sail at six ten.”
“Makes sense. They’d want the advantage of the tide. But that’s not an answer. How do I explain to Marta why I abandoned our bed at five o’clock in the morning so I could meet with you?”
“Does Marta have an issue? About you and me?”
“No. And I want it to stay that way.”
“We’re waiting for a white car. If it shows up before that ship sails, it will prove my theory.”
“What theory?”
“That the stolen babies are being transported to the U.S. on Ikaria ships.”
“Why haven’t you mentioned this before?”
“I wanted to be sure.”
“And what makes you sure now?”
“This.” She handed him her cell phone. “I photographed that at one o’clock this morning. It was stapled to an adoption file.”
Marco studied the words in the photograph.
ATROMOS III
BANCHINA F. CRISPI 0530
“Okay. This ship, this pier”—he checked his watch—“and this time. And the white car?”
“You’re going to be angry with me.”
“Maybe. Probably. Speak.”
“I went back to Randazzo.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“To the house where you think they keep the babies.”
“I was right. They do. Carlotta Falcone called it an orphanage, but it’s just a warehouse. What American criminals would call a stash house.”
“You broke in?”
“No. But there’s a small building next to the main one. It’s being used as an office. The door was unlocked. I took a look.”
“Sarah—!”
“There was a folder on the desk. It contained all the paperwork for an American couple to adopt a baby. A little girl. I was getting ready to photograph the whole file, but then a car showed up.” As she was speaking, movement on the pier caught her attention. “That car.”
Marco turned to see a white Renault rolling slowly along the quay from the direction of the Via Cali entrance. It came to a stop at the bottom of Atromos III’s gangway.
The driver popped the trunk and got out. It was the middle-aged woman. A crew member started down the gangway. She had a quick word with him and then he went to the trunk and unloaded a large suitcase. The vehicle’s rear door opened and the younger woman Sarah had seen earlier emerged. She was holding a small bundle wrapped in a blanket. Even from this distance, they could see it was a baby. Without a backward glance, both women started up the gangway. The seaman rolled the suitcase around to the open rear door, retrieved a chevron-patterned bag from the backseat, and lumbered up the steps behind them.
Marco comprehended what he had just seen. He reached for his phone. “We’ll arrest them right now!”
“No, Marco.”
“What do you mean? That’s a kidnapped baby!”
“We’ve only identified some of the people involved. Nelthorp, the consul, Carlotta Falcone, an Immigration officer in the Naples consulate, and those two women down there.”
“And Elias Terenzi.”
“Probably. But we don’t know who’s involved at the U.S. end. If you arrest everyone now, it will be much harder to roll up the entire operation.”
“You want us to let that little baby go?”
“Too many loose ends, Marco! I need to coordinate with Miami. We need to find out who’s landing the babies in the States. My information is that over forty of them have been sent already. Some bogus adoption agency in Florida must be involved. And we need to figure out how many of Ikaria’s captains are in on the scheme.” She gestured at the freighter. “There’s no way that captain doesn’t know what’s happening on his ship. While we’re working on all that, your people should just keep a watch on the suspects we have. Carlotta Falcone probably knows more than she told me. She needs to be handled carefully. If the Lanza family is behind the fake auto parts, then they’re behind this business as well. Offer Carlotta Falcone witness protection and start interviewing her. Use her as a pentito.”
“Sarah, I can’t approve something like this! I’d have to take it to a prosecutor—and he’d probably have to take it to a judge.”
“You’re thinking about that baby.”
“Of course I am! You’re a hard woman, Sarah. That’s some mother’s child.”
The words seared.
They seared, and they struck home, and the anguish of remembered loss tore through Sarah Lockhart like a tsunami.
That old pain again …
That old rain again …
It took a supreme act of will, long practiced, to force it down.
“Marco! I’m just trying to think strategically. Do you think those two women know where the baby came from? Do you think they can tell us how to find her parents?”
“Probably not … if she came off a ferry in one of those white vans.”
“So, if you arrest them and take custody of the infant, where does that get us? The baby ends up in a real orphanage, and our investigation is no further ahead. This way, the baby will still be well cared for, and we’ll be able to arrest everyone on both sides of the Atlantic.”
Marco didn’t answer.
“Even if we find Nelthorp, I doubt he’ll be able to identify that baby’s true parents. These baby-smuggling rings use ‘recruiters’ to find the babies. They don’t ask any questions.”
Marco didn’t answer.
“How about this? Let the ship sail, keep everyone here under surveillance until it arrives in Miami, and then make your arrests. Just keep the roundup quiet. Keep it out of the media. That will give us time to figure out the other end of the chain, get the baby back, and pool our resources to find her parents.”
On the ship, the older woman reappeared on the gangway. As they watched, she returned to her car. There was increased activity on the quay.
“The younger woman stayed aboard,” Marco said.
“Her job is to look after the baby until they get to Miami. Which means she must have clearance to land in Miami as well. That means some organization like a private adoption agency has made sure the nanny’s precleared.”
“A corrupt Immigration officer at the port?”
“Exactly right.”
Marco thumbed his phone.
Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”
“Calling the gate.” He put the phone to his ear. “Sergio? Marco Sinatra. Yes … listen, please. A white Renault is coming toward you. Woman driver … that’s right. No, leave her. Just get the license number. Grazie.”
Atromos III lifted her gangway, dropped lines, and eased into the channel.
They kept watch until the freighter passed the breakwater.
“Sicily is an island that is not island enough,” Marco pronounced sadly as they trudged across the roof toward the ladder. He answered her questioning look with a melancholy smile. “Old saying.”
21
After logging on to a website that tracked over one hundred thousand vessel movements worldwide, Sarah established Atromos III’s estimated date of arrival at the Port of Miami.
They had ten days.
She called Phyllis Corbin.
“Lovely that you called, dear girl, but when I asked for more frequent reports, I meant in writing.”
“Some of what I’m going to tell you can’t go in a report.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know who else is reading them.”
A pause. Then, “Okay. I’m listening.”
Start easy …
“The containers are on their way. They’re aboard the Atromos III. She’s due at Miami on the fourteenth.”
“Okay.”
“And, there’s a baby on that ship.”
Dead silence.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes. Go on.”
Carefully omitting Dickie’s involvement, Sarah relat
ed everything that had happened since their last conversation.
“Unbelievable.”
“You said that before.”
“No! Unbelievable that you’re running around in the middle of the night on the territory of a foreign ally, breaking into buildings, chasing a case that’s outside your authority. And unbelievable that you’re doing all this while another boatload of migrants is landing at Syracuse! Or do you even know that?”
Sarah had had enough of this.
“Unbelievable?” she shot back, white heat in her voice. “It’s more unbelievable that you don’t seem to give a damn! This is human trafficking, Phyllis. Hu-man traf-fick-ing! If you can’t be bothered with it, maybe it’s time I called someone higher up the fucking food chain!”
“I do give a damn!” Apparently rattled by Sarah’s fierce reaction—or by her threat to go over her head—Corbin’s tone immediately softened. “I’m sorry! I really am! But you need to understand, we’re getting it from all sides here. Terrorism. Illegal immigration. The politicians are climbing all over us. Counterfeit goods? The lobbyists are all over the politicians, and the politicians pass on the aggro. It never stops.”
With an effort, Sarah calmed her own tone. “I’m sorry, too. And I get it. I do. I know how Washington works and I know you’re always getting political pressure. But we have to do something. My Guardia contact has agreed to coordinate with us. They’ll hold off making arrests, to give us time. If we do nothing, how is that going to look?”
“Okay, we’ll do this: I’ll get onto the ICE investigator I’ve been talking to. We’ll fix it so the Immigration officer who goes out on the pilot boat will clear everyone—crew, nanny, baby. Once the ship’s alongside, we’ll do a random inspection of the cargo, find the fake goods, arrest the ship, and detain the captain. Meanwhile, ICE will put a tail on the nanny and see where she delivers the child.”
“I can help! Bring me home.”
“We need you there. I’m sorry. The baby’s name … what did you say it was?”
“I didn’t. It’s Gisella. Gisella Pelizo … no, Pelizon.” She spelled it. “I think there was a middle name, but I don’t remember it.”
“What about the parents?”
The first names hadn’t registered, but Sarah clearly recalled the adopting couple’s surname.
Eden.
But now she hesitated. Always hold something back, Nonna had taught her. Always keep a key piece of information to yourself.
Never give up control.
More than once during Sarah’s notorious previous assignment, that advice had proved its value.
“Sorry. Didn’t get a name. I only had a second and then I had to bail.”
“Okay. I’ll keep you advised. Meanwhile, get your ass down to Syracuse.” A pause. “Sorry. Will you please get your ass down to Syracuse?”
“Yeah. I will.”
She hung up.
Sarah left for Syracuse the next morning. The drive on the autostrada only took an hour, but the teeming mass of humanity in the migrant compound presented her with the daunting prospect of long days and little time for rest. She’d intended to commute from home, but by the end of day one she surrendered to reality, shopped for a few essentials, and booked a hotel room. But whenever she had a waking moment to herself, which wasn’t often, all she could think about was the baby on the ship.
Eight days later she returned to Catania, exhausted by long hours of emotional encounters with the human flotsam of civil war and social chaos.
It was late when she reached her apartment, but she took a chance on upsetting Marta and tried Marco’s cell number. It went straight to voice mail.
She went to bed, but her mind refused to shut down. There was something she’d forgotten to ask Dickie. It was still suppertime on the East Coast, so she turned the light back on and tried calling him.
Before she could get a word in, he started jabbering.
“You know those names you emailed? The kids on those certificates the priest gave you—?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, their paperwork did come here, and the department sent out certificates of citizenship, but I can’t match those kids to any travel manifests on any incoming flights on the dates they officially entered the U.S. Not only that, none of the adopting parents traveled to Italy. They never left the country, and yet those kids are now living in the States. The question is: How did they get here?”
“They didn’t come by air, Dickie. They came by sea, through Miami.”
“What?”
She gave him a quick summary of events since they’d last spoken.
“I don’t get it. Why ship babies on freighters? Why take days when it can be done in hours?”
“Chain of custody.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about all that fake paperwork—an Italian court order that was obtained by fraud, the consul’s endorsement, the visa issued by the Immigration officer in Naples. If these people are smart, they’ll want to make sure nothing ends up in the Immigration database. They’ll want to maintain custody of every baby—and all its paperwork—and keep it inside the organization. So there’s got to be an Immigration officer at the Port of Miami who’s on the payroll, to make sure both the baby and the nanny get cleared and the child gets passed on to the new parents. That way, when the parents apply for the child’s citizenship, they’ll send certified copies of the paper file to State. Italy’s a Convention country, so how many department clerks are going to bother running a computer check to see when and where some kid arrived in the country when they’ve got copies of the adoption papers and the visa sitting right there on the desk?”
“I see what you’re saying.”
“Dickie, there’s something else I want you to look into.”
“What’s that?”
“Have you ever heard of Dominic Lanza?”
“No.”
“He lives in New Jersey. He’s supposed to be some kind of mob boss.”
“As in, Mafia?”
“Yes. There’s nothing on him in the Homeland database, and when I crawled through the internet, all I found was one long article full of rumors and a couple of gangland fanboy sites full of hero worship. If there’s ever been a serious investigation of this guy, it went nowhere and the FBI aren’t talking about it.”
“I’ll see what I can find out. But I want you to understand one thing.”
“What?”
“I won’t hack the FBI. Not even for you.”
“Got it.”
* * *
The next morning, Marco was waiting for her at her workstation. His eyes were red-rimmed and he looked exhausted.
“I tried calling you last night,” Sarah said.
“Had my phone turned off. I just got back and saw the missed call.”
“Back from where?”
“Palermo. I’ve been up all night.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
He dropped a newspaper on her desk.
Sarah stared at the headline.
STATI UNITI CONSUL TROVATO MORTO
“Nicosia’s dead?”
“I thought that was why you called me,” Marco said.
“No. When I got back from Syracuse, I just wanted to check in with you before I went to bed.” She quickly scanned the story. “Suicide? I find that hard to—”
Marco stopped her with a warning gesture. She looked around. Customs officers were watching them with undisguised interest.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Marco said.
He led her to the far end of the Nautical Club dock.
“He went off the balcony outside his office. The fall killed him. It was made to look like he jumped.”
“You’re saying he didn’t.”
“We think he was thrown.”
“Physical evidence?”
“A dislocated shoulder. Not caused by the fall. Marks in the skin of the same arm, as if it was held in a strong grip.”
“That’s
it? Is that enough to—”
“The pathologist says yes.”
“Do you have a time of death?”
“7:23 P.M. A man was standing at an ATM, around the corner on Via Villabianca, when the consul struck the pavement two meters away. The bank machine’s camera fixed the time.”
“I remember his office faced Villabianca, but the building entrance is on Via Vaccarini. That made it easy for whoever did this to get away. All the commotion would have been on the other street.”
“There’s more. That Immigration officer at the consulate in Naples…”
“Benedict Hunter.”
“He didn’t show up for work today.” Marco laid a big hand on her shoulder. “You know what this means, Sarah.”
“The Mafia knows we’re on to them. They’re eliminating witnesses.”
“I’m assigning two men to protect you.” He saw her expression. “No arguments. And we’re moving up the timetable. We picked up Carlotta Falcone and her grandmother early this morning. They’re being moved to a safe house on the mainland.” His mouth twisted. “The old woman was a lot calmer about it than Carlotta.”
“Somehow that’s not a surprise.”
“We have officers watching the stash house, as you call it. The white Renault is there. Our prosecutor obtained a search warrant and a Polizia Stradale car is on its way to deliver the warrant to the team leader. I just pray they don’t find any babies when they go in.”
“With all this activity, some journalist is going to start connecting the dots.”
“We can isolate Consul Nicosia’s death. Pretend to treat it as a suicide while we investigate it as a murder. We can make any other arrests look unrelated. Our prosecutor has agreed to this approach. But there are no guarantees. Your investigators may not have much time after that ship arrives. You must warn your supervisor. I’m surprised she hasn’t called you already about the consul’s death. As you can see, it’s in the news.”
“When did the story hit the wire services?”
“I don’t know.”
Sarah pulled out her phone.
“Are you calling your boss?”
“No. I want to check something first.” She logged on to a search engine. After a few seconds, she showed the screen to Marco. “Corbin has a digital subscription to The Washington Post. She’s always checking it for breaking news. This story hit the wires at ten minutes after ten our time last night. That was four ten yesterday afternoon in Miami.”
Killing Pace Page 12