Walking Into the Ocean

by David Whellams

  “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.

  As they traversed the first intersection offshooting from the canal, Peter glanced to his left and glimpsed the harbour a couple of streets down. As if looking through a gun slit, he saw all the way to the open Mediterranean, which the Bible called the Great Sea. Bahti remained focused straight ahead along the shadowed street. With basic hand gestures, he stopped Peter at the next corner. He was clearly worried that his nephew, Marko, hadn’t appeared. There was still no one about. Peter halted next to his new partner. He was out of breath and for some reason felt bone-weary. He hadn’t caught up with his sleep yet, but that wasn’t it. Part of it was the constant brightness of the whitewashed rock; the sun was coming up rapidly now, promising to expose everyone and every surface to its spotlight glare. He needed to keep moving, to get this arrest over with, to discover the false name under which Lasker was finally returning home.

  Bahti stayed motionless a minute longer. He looked over at Peter; Marko would find them. And so it proved. The boy, making good use of the morning shadows, appeared out of a doorway in the next block. He waved for them to follow. Silence was understood. The boy was lean and tanned. He wore shorts and a dive-shop T-shirt; Peter noticed that his toes, which stuck out of rubber sandals, were calloused and nicked, presumably from surfing, although Peter knew nothing about the sport. He was taller than the average Maltese and had the sleek black hair and olive complexion of a nascent gigolo.

  Marko led them to an entrance two more streets along; there was no house number, nor a directory at the doorway. He pointed upwards and whispered in Maltese in Bahti’s ear. The detective turned to Peter.

  “He does not think that Kamatta is resident in his flat this morning. But someone saw him last night in a hotel bar in the vicinity.” Peter noted that Bahti’s diction was more heavily accented than before.

  The lobby of the two-storey building presented a dark cocoon, and therefore was dangerous. There seemed to be a back door, but it was too shaded to be certain. On the ground floor, several alcoves, of inscrutable purpose, could allow a man to conceal himself, while the narrow stairs meant that there was only one way up. Neither detective was happy about their exposure. Only Bahti was armed, but he carried two guns; he handed Peter a .38. They both removed their jackets and their shoes, but Bahti told the boy to keep his sandals on and wait on the ground level. Without saying so, he was telling him to do his job as a lookout, but nothing more. Peter expected that the boy was carrying a knife under his shirt. Bahti handed his radio to Marko; this seemed to represent a vote of confidence, and the boy smiled.

  Peter still didn’t like the situation. For one thing, he was unsure about Bahti’s plan. Did he even expect the door to be locked? Did he think that Kamatta would be armed? He wasn’t entirely certain that Bahti and Marko had worked out their signals. They padded up to the second landing. There were only two flats there, one with a bubblegum pink door and the other canary yellow, both chipped and stained. Both appeared to have solid Yale locks.

  Bahti pointed to the yellow one, which showed more pedestrian wear, and knelt down to examine the lock. There was no way of telling if it was engaged,
or if the door was booby-trapped, and there was no keyhole. He rapped and quickly stood back. Waiting a timed sixty seconds, he then shook the doorknob. So ended the pantomime. He and Peter agreed with a look that no further ceremony was justified, and Bahti stood back and kicked in the door.

  Conspirators tended to live in strange rooms, in Peter’s experience. The criminal life and the need to cover it up breed odd practices and bizarre décor. Look for specialty items, an investigator knew. A marijuana grow operation must be kept humid as a rainforest, with the windows blacked out. Narcotics operations have to be sterile and well ventilated. A forger may hide his tools, but he needs a large workbench and a strong lamp. And there it was: a ten-foot table stood along the bigger wall, across from the window, with three gooseneck lamps clamped to it. To be sure, there hadn’t been a serious effort at disguise, unless Kamatta had been planning on protesting that he was a watchmaker or a jeweller.

  Clearly there was no one in the two rooms, but Bahti knew his professional moves. He pocketed his gun while he searched for any form of booby trap or self-destruction mechanism that could immolate the evidence, and them with it. There was little enough in the flat to search. The whole forgery factory seemed minimalist to Peter. The back room contained a sagging bed, a clothes rack with two shirts hanging from the hooks, and a turquoise bathmat with a grinning sunfish on it. For some reason, the man had moved the bathmat to the bedroom; the atmosphere was anything but cheerful. There was an air-conditioning unit wedged in the bedroom window. Bahti avoided the lavatory for now. In the main room, he slid the table drawers open and came up with various scribing tools, ink pads, jars of glue and textured paper. The only out-of-place indulgence was a dehumidifier under the table.

  The two cardboard boxes in the corner offered their best hope. Peter closed the yellow door and placed the two guns on the table. He and the detective each took a carton and opened it. Peter’s contained stacks of both blank and finished European Union passports, but every finished one was missing the photograph — that page had been torn out. Bahti’s carton contained more official documents, including passports from the United States, South Africa and Switzerland. Peter leaned against the end of the table and scanned the room for clues that plainly weren’t there. Bahti sat on the floor against a wall and tapped on the hardwood planks in frustration. The room was stifling.