Walking into the Ocean (32 page)

The plan went awry almost immediately. They assumed that Kamatta could be traced through his harbourfront office, a short trip from police headquarters, and so, instead of calling ahead, the three detectives, Korman driving, hustled over to the docks. The office was planted on the second floor of a boxy, nondescript block set back a hundred metres from the water. A woman who looked as if nothing, and certainly not three grim policemen, could impress her occupied a desk and chair in the bleak space. The only decoration was a bulletin board that covered one wall and served as Kamatta's invoicing system. Peter scanned the squibs and sticky notes while the woman stared without emotion. Bahti would play bad cop. Korman stood in the doorway, pretty much blocking out the light.

“Where is your boss?” Bahti said in English, for Peter's benefit.

“On vacation.” She replied, with a heavy Maltese inflection.

She spoke in a smoker's rasp. Her creased face was heavily tanned. Bahti and the woman then conducted an argument in the Maltese language. It grew louder and more threatening on both sides, although there could be no doubt, in her mind or theirs, that Bahti would get his way. Peter understood that Bahti was warning her of a night in jail if she failed to cooperate.

Bahti turned to Peter and reported: “She refuses to say where he is and when he will return.”

By the look Bahti gave him, he knew that the woman understood English quite well. He played along, pretending that she did not. “What was the first thing she said when you asked her where he was?”

“First she told me he was taking a vacation. Then she said that she did not know where he was. Then that he was at the seashore.”

This was an island, and so Peter couldn't read all the nuances of that answer. “Does ‘at the seashore' have a special meaning in Malta?”

“Yes,” Bahti said. “It is what people say when they are going to their home villages. Sometimes it means they are going to a seaside town nearby for a few days, to relax.”

“Can we find out where Kamatta is from?”

Bahti asked. The woman spewed out a stream of insults in Maltese.

“She won't say. I threatened again to close up the office and bring her to the lock-up in Valletta.”

Peter told Bahti to keep working on the woman, but he winked as he said it. He ushered Korman to the landing outside the office doorway and whispered something in the detective's ear. The woman watched them walk away. They went back inside and Korman took his turn questioning the woman; it was a case of hard cop and harder cop. Although Peter comprehended nothing in the Maltese language, he waited for the key word to come up. It would be the same in both languages.

“Terrorism,” Korman said. The woman turned pale. She no longer pretended to be ignorant of English. She looked at Peter — understanding that he was someone foreign, and had special authority — but he shrugged, indicating that he couldn't stop these two aggressive locals. Peter had read the Home Office file. Malta had modelled its terrorism legislation on Britain's, supplemented with model Commonwealth laws developed in the aftermath of the Twin Towers attack. The country had adopted preventive detention as one of its deterrence strategies, significantly with a rather open-ended process for reviewing and revoking that detention. Korman's tone implied that she might languish in jail until her boss resurfaced.

She switched to halting English, perhaps seeking sympathy from the Brit. “Everyone, they know that Kamatta is from Marsalforn. He was born there, but he is not there now. I do not know where he went, but it was not Marsalforn.”

“What the Christ does that mean?” Bahti said, in English this time.

“It means,” Korman answered loudly, “that this lying old seagull thinks Kamatta will hurt her worse than we will. She knows where he is. I will take her to the town.”

The woman began wailing but Korman simply dragged her out the door and down the stairs to the street; Peter heard him instructing her to stay away from the office. All three men knew what was going on, even if the woman did not. They knew Kamatta was likely in his hometown, but they let the lady think she had fooled them.

Bahti and Peter looked in the battered desk and through the papers pinned to the bulletin board. Copies of shipping manifests, business cards and even vacation brochures covered the corkboard; the Maltese coppers would likely confiscate the whole mess. But they found very little to connect the owner to Lasker, though Bahti did find an address that he said was a street in Marsalforn, over on the island of Gozo.

Back in the car, but without the woman, Bahti retraced the route to police headquarters. “We will pick up your luggage and take you to the Marriott.”

Peter's excitement rose as he began to see the carrot dangling at the end of the stick, even if the carrot apparently was hiding an island away. Kamatta was likely the key to all of André Lasker's false identities. Peter was tired, from the flight and the heat, but the certainty that Lasker existed and was probably headed back to Britain reinvigorated him. Bahti was so dour that Peter had a hard time reading his face, but he immediately liked him; he had a sense that the man was the ultimate street detective, never happier than when he had explicit orders to do what was necessary to apprehend criminals, and to do it fast.

“What about Kamatta, then?” Peter asked.

“It is probably too late to go to Marsalforn tonight,” Bahti replied. “It is on Gozo, the smaller island. But I have a man in Victoria, the capital city of Gozo. He will do what I tell him.”

Peter always tried to be alert to the subtleties of the local police wherever he travelled on an investigation. He was willing to push them to faster action, but there was often a way of doing things, a circular way of getting results, that had to be respected, and Peter was adept at picking up on it. Albanoni, on the other hand, appeared not to see the urgency of following every lead in order to find Lasker
before
he reached English territory; his lethargy, born of bureaucratic ossification, was going to be exasperating. Peter had more confidence in Bahti.

“Okay,” Peter replied, neutrally. “Do you men know Kamatta?”

There was a pause — and not only because Bahti was busy at that moment swerving around a lorry — while the Maltese detectives thought through their answer. “Yes. Kamatta is Maltese,” Bahti said. “We are a small island with many ‘invaders' who bring in drugs, illegal refugees, prostitutes, and so on. But when my fellow citizens get involved, I become wonderfully pissed off!”

They turned into Albanoni's parking space (which was a statement in itself on Bahti's part, but which also indicated that the deputy commissioner probably was still occupied at the airport).

“Get your stuff, Inspector,” Bahti instructed. “We will go to the hotel, and then, if you are interested, we will go for dinner. Korman, I'm afraid, must run home to his pregnant wife.”

Peter immediately agreed to this plan. They reached the Marriott and he went inside to register. By the time he returned, his new partner had made his call to Victoria; Korman had left.

“Here is the arrangement. Marko will drive to Marsalforn right away and check the address we have. He is Gozan. He does not know Kamatta, and he thinks he is not one of the natives of Marsalforn. But Marko knows everyone else who knows anything, and they will tell him if Kamatta is around.”

“And Marko is a police officer?”

“Not exactly. He is my cousin. He is reliable.”

“I believe you, Officer Bahti. Is that your first name or your last?”

“It is both. It's a long story. Call me Bahti. Obviously.”

“Call me Peter. Just for the record, is there a police presence on Gozo?”

“Certainly, and they are very good people. But it is complicated. There are units in Victoria and in Mgarr. Mgarr is the port where the Malta ferry goes. They are used to dealing with tourists and their crises, or with local matters like spousal battery. But it has been a tradition that major cases are supervised from Valletta. In reality, Gozo experiences as much drug and refugee smuggling as Malta. Less prostitution, though. We make sure they save face when we take over a matter — that is the expression?”

“It is.”

“Yes, they are getting involved a lot in counterterrorism and refugee exercises. That is because both involve patrolling the coast, along with the navy.”

Peter thought he had it straight. Bahti would use his cousin to make discreet inquiries regarding Kamatta's whereabouts. Only then would the detectives decide how to proceed. Peter had no doubt that Korman and Bahti would go it alone if that proved to be the most effective tactic. But just to be crystal clear, he said, “But the expertise on passport forgery is in Valletta?”

Bahti shrugged. “We all learn to read a fake passport. You would be shocked at how many forged papers I see. Malta is a crossroads for illegals moving up into Europe from Africa. Much of the forgery work is excellent, I admit. But we do have a very good forensics lab. You may get to meet them,” he added wryly.

He gave Peter the simple directions to the restaurant and they agreed to rendezvous there in an hour. Bahti high-signed several cab drivers parked in front of the Marriott and headed off towards police headquarters.

The Marriott was positioned at the edge of the ancient gates to Valletta. Peter went back to the front desk and retrieved his messages. Of the three, one was from Bartleben and the second from Albanoni, but it was simply a welcoming note that predated his arrival. The third was from Ronald Hamm. Peter got lucky. From his hotel room, the 3G capacity of his mobile kicked in and he heard the phone at Bartleben's end ringing. As usual, he was still at the office.

“Peter! I can hear you fine. Where are you?”

“In my hotel in Valletta.”

“How is Malta?”

“When I see it, I'll let you know. Has Malta Police Headquarters reached you in the last hour or so?”

“No. what's the news?

“Lasker was here. He slipped away from surveillance and flew out of Luga earlier today — ironically, probably about the time I was arriving. Did a Deputy Commissioner by the name of Albanoni contact your office, or anyone else?” Peter could hear him getting up from his desk and walking into the reception area. “Is there something regarding Interpol?” he continued, as Bartleben roamed the office.

“Peter, he called while I was out,” Bartleben answered. “The message states he would be contacting Europol, for a start. Wants me to check back.”

“That's consistent with our understanding. We're on the track of the man who forged his various passports.”

“Right. Here it is; it's on my screen now. Let me see . . . The Europol feed is automatically duplicated on Interpol's standard flow. If it gets a top priority on the one, it will be reflected on the other.” Peter listened as Bartleben tapped on his keyboard. Bartleben was adept with the software; he loved to play with his computer, and Cammon thought that that might be why he so often stayed late at the office.

“Yes, here it is,” he said. “It says André Lasker departed Luga today . . . Probably for Barcelona . . . might have travelled under a false
EU
passport in the name of Herman Willemsea.”

“Not likely,” Peter interjected. “Stephen, I know this is ass-backwards, since I'm the one in Malta, but does it list the possibility of pseudonyms that match the other names on the auto export manifests?” By now Peter knew the names by heart and he listed them for his boss.

“The simple answer is no. The only name on the watch list is Willemsea.”

Peter's hotel room phone rang. “Just a minute, Stephen. I have a call on the room line.”

It was Albanoni, very excited. Peter juggled the corded receiver in an attempt to let Bartleben overhear the conversation. He had no idea whether or not this manoeuvre would work, and he looked foolish, but there was no one to see.

“Go ahead, Antonio.” A little familiarity might smooth the way, he hoped.

“We did not find him,” the distraught official stated. “He did not use the surname ‘Willemsea,' nor did he employ the other names you gave me.”

“I'm not surprised,” Peter responded, in a palliating tone. “It is obvious that he has multiple passports.”

“But Chief Inspector, what name are we looking for?” The tone was plaintive, and Lord knows how it sounded to Stephen across the Mediterranean.

Bartleben grunted over the mobile phone line. The noise had two effects. It let Peter know that Stephen would take care of Interpol. Lyon would not simply add any name to its list, but if British authorities appended the names to its own immigration watch list, they would immediately be copied to the central Interpol directives in Lyon and distributed to every airline security service in Europe. Of course, Lasker could still be flying around Europe under any of a dozen or more names.

The second impact was to make Albanoni suspicious. “Is there someone there?” he asked.

“No,” Peter affirmed. “What do we know about Lasker's clearance to Barcelona?”

Now Albanoni's acumen emerged. It soon became clear that he understood the airline security dimensions of his job. “We have the passenger lists for every departing flight from today. Eighteen of the passengers on the Ryanair flight to Barcelona were booked on the Ryanair plane out of Spain to London. Of course, our suspect could have switched to another airline, and we will look into that, but the earliest arrival time would be achieved by taking the Ryanair connector today.”

“When does that flight leave?”

“It has already left. Even worse, it has already arrived in Britain. One hour ago.”

The problem, as Peter had expected, was expanding exponentially. If Albanoni had distributed his information earlier, British Immigration might have snagged Lasker under whatever name he was using. But there was no firm reason to conclude that the fugitive was on that particular flight. He could have hopped from Barcelona to some other European capital, and could now be biding his time in anonymity.

Peter brought Albanoni up to date on the tracking of Kamatta and the plan to go to Marsalforn. He left out the bit about Bahti's cousin, but he pledged to report back to the deputy commissioner as soon as they were done. Meanwhile, could Albanoni copy the airline manifests from all other flights that had left in the previous twelve hours, and fax them to New Scotland Yard?

“I will be very happy to accomplish that, Chief Inspector!” Peter understood the importance of keeping the man busy. He hung up the room phone.

“Did you hear that, Stephen?”

“Yes, Peter. I'll take care of Interpol. I'll also work with Immigration on vetting all visitors coming in today or tomorrow. Where do you think he's gone?”

“Everything tells me he wants to get back to Britain as soon as he can. I'm not sure why, but that's my instinct.”

“Well, your instinct is good enough for me. What are you going to do next?”

“My best angle is to find Lasker's contact here, which I'm sure is also the fellow he worked with on importing the vehicles. We know where he's likely to be, but I can't get to him before tomorrow morning. We'll see if there's any trace of other false names that our man might be using.”

“Let's agree to talk tomorrow afternoon. By the way, is that cell phone you're using secure?”

“Probably not. Last thing, Stephen, but could you call Detective Ronald Hamm at Whittlesun Police? He left me a message here at the hotel and I have no idea what it's about, except that he knows the Lasker case.”

“Wasn't he the man you took a dip in the sea with, while pursuing the Rover chap?”

“It's not about the Rover. I hope.”

Peter dodged the bright yellow British Leyland buses that circled around the staging terminus outside the Valletta gates. He passed through the ancient stone portal and strolled down the main avenue towards the harbour. Cafés and jewellery shops lined the Triq Republica; lights and strings of ribbons hung above the street, giving it a permanent carnival feel. Arabs, Turks and Crusaders had traversed this area for five centuries and rivers of blood had run between these stones. The town had that self-contained feel that old, walled cities retain; an added effect was the ease with which places could be found inside an unchanging grid of narrow streets, prominent churches and the orderly layout of the stone fortifications.

A small neon sign advertised the restaurant in glowing blue letters:
Giorgio's
. It stood at the spot where the main street began its descent to the Grandmaster's Palace. Peter resolved to find time for a quick tour of what he had been told was a Wonder of the Manmade World, the battlements constructed — and defended to the death — by the Order of the Knights of St. John. He followed the entrance path to a sheltered courtyard, which in turn led to an open terrace. He could not have seen this view from the street, but now he found himself looking out at three fingers of land projecting into a section of the Valletta harbour. The notches between those fingers created vast marinas, all jammed with sailboats and yachts. The view was extraordinary — peaceful, calculated, profoundly blue.

Bahti was waiting at a table by the iron fence at the edge of the patio. He had spruced up a bit but Peter could tell that he was making no real concession to the tourist ambience of the restaurant, and it soon became clear that the manager was happy to have a policeman or two as customers.

“Sit down, Inspector,” the smiling host said.

Peter did. Bahti put out his cigarette. “Chief Inspector.”

“Call me Peter. There's no need for formality.” This was police lingo. Peter was again sending a signal that tomorrow they would be doing whatever needed to be done to find Kamatta. They would be working as a team, and there was no doubt that they would go in heavily armed.

The manager, clearly also the owner, came over and asked if Peter would like some wine. He asked for a local beer. The host, grinning and obsequious, was pleased to recommend a “special” Maltese beer. He left menus, which Bahti ignored, and left to get Peter's drink and a refill of Bahti's Strega.

“Everything is ‘special' with him,” Bahti said, “but there is only one dish for a visitor to try.”

Peter adjusted his chair, but before he could settle in, he was startled to find the manager already back with his beer and a plate of olives. Bahti ordered in Maltese.

Peter had already decided to disclose everything about the Lasker case to Bahti. He spoke non-stop for twenty minutes. A second beer appeared on the table. He reviewed his conversations with Albanoni and Bartleben and the steps that London was taking to distribute the possible aliases that Lasker might use.

“Good,” Bahti said, after Peter had finished his long update. “I don't need to phone the deputy commissioner back tonight.”

“Did you hear from your cousin?”

Bahti smiled, a combination of family pride and game-is-afoot slyness.

“He is really my nephew and he is seventeen years of age. He is a smart boy, the smartest kid I have ever met. He wants to be a cop. He went to Marsalforn and called me from there. Kamatta has not been seen there today but was in the town either yesterday or the day before, no one was sure. But my nephew did find Kamatta's house. He is watching it.”

“He's not exposing himself to danger, I hope.”

“He is a smart boy. He will be just another teenager wearing flippers.”

“I beg your pardon?” Peter said.

“Marsalforn is a place for sea divers. There are dive shops everywhere, and that's how my nephew knows who to talk to. You see, his friends are in a position to see every new foreigner who arrives in the town.”

Peter saw that the detective was building to something.

“And,” Bahti continued, “there was somebody new there last week. A Brit.”

“Why does your nephew think it might be Lasker?”

“Because the man acted like he was moving there. He looked at flats. He wasn't there to go diving or sail, but he did ask at the quay about boats.”

“Your nephew doesn't have a picture of Lasker?”

“No,” Bahti admitted. “The man was blond and had a moustache.”

As far as Peter knew, André Lasker had never worn a moustache.

The meal arrived and the owner announced: “Tagine with rabbit and couscous!” He seemed pleased when Peter ordered a third beer. They sorted out their meal and began eating.

“So,” Bahti said, “do you get seasick?”

“Never.”

Bahti smiled. “It will be faster in the morning to take a police launch to Mgarr, then a local man will take us to Marsalforn. We could land at the harbour in Marsalforn, but that will give us away if Kamatta is still in the town. Besides, you will get to see the knights' fort and have a tour of the coast. Very beautiful.”

Peter proceeded to recount the saga of his scramble across the Jurassic Cliffs with Ronald Hamm, and their tumble into the Channel. Bahti was soon laughing and tossing back shots of Strega. Peter ordered a fourth beer, and then a fifth.

The four policemen stood on the hilltop looking down on the sleeping town of Marsalforn. They were early, and there was no sign of Bahti's nephew.

A Coast Guard launch had conveyed Peter and Bahti at dawn from the boat slip in Vittoriosa to the ferry terminal in Mgarr, where two Gozo officers met them with a police vehicle. Nowhere was very far on Gozo, and they reached the village in minutes.

It was still early, and the four men shared coffee from a vacuum flask. The pause gave Peter time to appreciate the beauty of Malta and the surrounding Mediterranean, now emerging a special blue under the rising sun. Even in the half-hour voyage from Vittoriosa, he had glimpsed extraordinary sights: the magnificent battlements constructed by the Knights of St. John; the ancient prison where Caravaggio, himself a member of the order, had languished; and the great, crumbling seawall that protected Valletta Harbour. The Maltese were survivors who prevailed by embracing the sea. The Coast Guard boat had cruised past pockmarked and weather-stippled cliffs as forbidding as any on the Channel coast, yet if there was any space at all for a human structure, someone had erected a house, or at least a crofter's shack.

It was a fine spot for a man to hide out. From the top of the S-curve, Peter could see directly through to the scoop-shaped harbour of Marsalforn. A freighter and a cruise ship sat at anchor a kilometre off shore. The senior man, Sergeant Martens, gave Bahti a radio, and they checked the frequency; Bahti concealed it under his shirt. He pointed out the centre of the town and pushed his hand forward, indicating to Peter that Kamatta's flat, and hopefully Bahti's nephew, were lodged several streets in from the water. A short argument followed; it was in Maltese, but Peter grasped that Martens's young partner wanted to join the party in town. The real problem, Peter appreciated, was that Martens and his partner were wearing full police uniforms, a neon warning to any suspect. Peter stood away from the argument, on the verge of the roadway, and gazed down at the quiet village.

The dispute resolved, the four men, Peter in the back with Bahti, got into the car and zipped down the hill into the back streets. Nothing was moving in the town, at least in the main square. Martens let Peter and Bahti off by the bus shelter, which was adjacent to a short canal on one side, with a new hotel flanking the other. The car left, and the Maltese detective at once led Peter down a side street and out of sight.