His vertigo was the result of the rapid rattling descent of the Alitalia flight from Palermo. And anticipation and uncertainty. And the impact of seeing Lampedusa for the first time. A place that was so far away yet had such resonance for his life’s work.
Across the narrow aisle separating the single-seat rows, Pescatore gazed out of his window like a bombardier. He leaned toward Méndez, raising his voice over the throb of the engines.
“Guys like us just can’t get away from the border, huh, Licenciado?”
Méndez smiled, nodded, and gave him a thumbs-up.
They disembarked with a squad of Italian riot police lugging blue helmets and Plexiglas shields. The burly, bronzed officers were reinforcements for the overcrowded detention center, a powder keg that exploded now and then. East Africans versus North Africans, Muslims versus Christians, everyone versus the cops.
Poveri diavoli, the mustachioed sergeant had said. Poor devils. But if one of them bashes in your head with a fire extinguisher, it doesn’t matter how sorry you felt for him.
Pescatore had struck up a conversation with the sergeant standing at the bar at the Palermo airport. Soon they were all talking and drinking espresso. With smiles and backslaps, the officers celebrated Pescatore’s improvised, Spanish-inflected Italian and his Sicilian ancestry. Pescatore and Méndez avoided discussing the reason for their visit, and the cops didn’t ask. All kinds of foreign VIPs passed through Lampedusa on vaguely important pilgrimages.
In the terminal, Pescatore picked up Méndez’s suitcase. Méndez wrestled it away.
“I’m not a grandfather yet, Valentine,” he said.
“No offense intended. It’s just I figure you’re the brains of the operation, and I’m like the bodyguard.”
In some ways, Méndez thought, the young American hadn’t changed much. Years ago, Pescatore had been a rookie Patrol agent who had infiltrated a drug cartel thanks to his undercover skills and sheer wildness. He still had curly hair, hard eyes, and a compact, powerful frame. Beneath the thuggish look, though, he was serious and respectful. Hard to believe that he and Méndez had despised each other when they first met, a loathing that had culminated in violence. Pescatore never mentioned that incident. He was unfailingly polite to Méndez and spoke to him in Spanish. As Isabel had said, Pescatore had matured. He spoke more clearly, chose his words more carefully. During the flight, he had been reading a book by an Italian journalist who had traveled with African migrants across the Sahara to the Tunisian coast, then posed as a shipwrecked Bosnian to do undercover reporting in the Lampedusa detention center.
“He calls it ‘the New Slave Route,’” Pescatore said. “Good book, Licenciado. I’d read faster in English, but this way I practice a little bit.”
The taxi drove past palm trees in a small drab downtown. Dogs slept in front of a city hall with a low clock tower and smudged pink walls. The people on the streets were mostly police, soldiers, sailors, bureaucrats, medical personnel, aid workers, and others involved in handling the influx of smuggling vessels and human cargo.
“More like a movie set than a town,” Méndez said.
“What’s the population, maybe ten thousand?”
“At most. It has some tourism. But it’s a long way south.”
“I think they used to exile mafiosi here.”
“And political radicals like me.”
“Could be worse, exile-wise.”
Their hotel had a beach, a nautical motif, and a view of boats bobbing in a marina. Méndez and Pescatore checked in, showered and changed for the meeting that had required eighteen hours and three flights to reach this speck of Italy near North Africa.
Two days earlier at Isabel’s house, Méndez had suggested searching in Italy for Abrihet Anbessa’s brother. Zoraida Padilla had told Méndez the bits and pieces about him she recalled from conversations with her Eritrean coworker. The brother was older than Abrihet and had a wife and two children. He had been a policeman or soldier before he and his family sailed illegally to Lampedusa about five years ago. While Abrihet was on the run in Tijuana, she had called him in Italy to ask for money to return to the United States.
Isabel wanted her investigation to stay secret, so she couldn’t ask for help from the U.S. embassy in Rome or from the Italian authorities. Méndez had proposed an alternative. He knew the director of a nonprofit aid organization in Lampedusa.
Annelise Hald met them on the windswept terrace of a bar overlooking the sea. Upturned nose, golden tan, cherubic features beneath short, tousled blond hair. She was in her late thirties but could have passed for a student. She wore a jean jacket with the collar up and laminated credentials on a cord around her neck.
After the greetings and introductions, Hald said, “You have come a long way to visit, Mr. Méndez.”
Her smile had the Scandinavian serenity he remembered. She looked happy to see him, but there was also concern in the slate-gray eyes. Mindful of the need for discretion, he had sent her a cryptic e-mail inquiring about the possibility of locating one of her “clients.” She had responded by saying that she could help him next time he visited her. He understood; this kind of thing required a conversation in person. He had said he would be there the next day. That had no doubt caught her off guard.
“Yes, indeed.” His laugh sounded a bit forced. “And what a lovely spot. After all, last time you came all the way to Tijuana.”
He had met her at an international conference on migration at a think tank in London, an oak-paneled, stone-columned, nineteenth-century sanctum. It was soon after he had become chief of the newly created Diogenes Group, an experiment in border policing that had made him a minor celebrity at the conference. He had participated with Annelise Hald on a panel about comparative border experiences in the Americas and Europe. She presented her project of counseling refugees on Lampedusa and training the Italian police, navy and coast guard on how to treat victims of trauma. Despite her youthful sweetness, she’d struck him as tough-minded and pragmatic. Over drinks with her, he was flattered to learn she knew a lot about his work and its relevance to the surge in migration and the backlash in Europe. They had kept in touch, and a year later, he saw her again when she toured the Mexican border region. He had referred her to friends in law enforcement and human rights groups to ensure that she stayed safe and was not fed nonsense by government mouthpieces.
So he had seen her only twice in his life. He felt it best to ease into his request. He asked how she had held up under the summer’s refugee-smuggling onslaught.
“Last week was bad,” she said. “Twenty-four-hour days. Forty dead. Dozens of boats, thousands of passengers, mostly departing from Libya.”
“Smugglers prefer failed states.”
“The anarchy is extraordinary.” She spoke confident English with a British tinge. “When I began here, Gaddafi’s regime controlled the smuggling. His colonels were greedy sadists, but things were clear. Today, no one is in charge. Soldiers, warlords, Islamists, men with guns—all of them victimizing the refugees, taxing the smugglers, making money. It’s a feeding frenzy.”
“We are seeing the atomization of mafias, as in Latin America.”
She tilted her head. “In what capacity are you here, Mr. Méndez? Reporter? Human rights advocate? Policeman?”
“All three, I suppose.”
Stirring his espresso, Pescatore said, “International man of mystery.”
Hald grinned. She appeared comfortable with the American, though Méndez could tell she was trying to figure out who he was and why he was there. Méndez had introduced him as a colleague.
“Our visit is unofficial, off the record,” Méndez said. “I am here as an investigator, not a reporter. I would like to impose on you for a favor.”
He explained that they wanted to find an Eritrean refugee who could lead them to a witness in a U.S. criminal case. The witness was the refugee’s sister, who was in imminent danger. Méndez gave her Abrihet’s full name; he didn’t have the first name of the brother
. He omitted contextual details except to mention the link to the Mexican border, which he thought might pique her interest. He described what he knew about the brother.
“Not much to work with,” she said. “It is quite possible the family left Italy. Many Eritreans continue to Sweden or the UK.”
Méndez gestured at Pescatore, who pulled a notebook from the pocket of his leather jacket.
“Actually, ma’am, we are pretty sure they’re in Italy,” Pescatore said. “We have phone traffic with Italian numbers. I can help narrow it down as far as time frames and locations.”
Isabel Puente had obtained the records of a cell phone belonging to Abrihet Anbessa. Not with a judicial request, because Isabel didn’t want the obligatory explanations and paper trail just yet. Méndez believed she had gone to a friend in an intelligence agency.
The records showed calls to and from Italy over four years. Pescatore said the first phone number was in a town in Sicily that housed a government shelter where refugees were transferred after landing in Lampedusa and being processed. The subsequent numbers were in the south of the Italian boot around Naples. An analyst in Isabel’s office had traced the numbers to migrant centers, pay phones, and cell phones. Abrihet had made her final calls—one on the day after Blake attacked her—to a cell phone without a registered owner in a coastal town north of Naples. After Abrihet’s escape to Mexico, her phone and the phone in Italy went dark.
“I think he’s living somewhere around that town,” Pescatore said. “We’ll go there next. But it sure would help to know who we’re looking for.”
Hald drank her tea impassively. The phone data Pescatore had outlined gave off a distinct whiff of secret government machinery in action. The enthusiasm of her greeting had all but evaporated.
“It improves the chances to identify him,” she said.
“Excellent,” Méndez said. “I—”
“But you put me in a difficult position.” She interrupted him, her voice soft and steady. “There are rules and laws governing privacy and confidentiality. My organization, the Italian government, the European Union, the UN—they all have rules and laws. Also, I do not know where this information will go. A newspaper, an intelligence service?”
“I apologize, Annelise,” Méndez said. “I will be careful and discreet.”
“Can you tell me why you must talk to this man?”
“I am afraid not. It is a very serious case. Terrible, remarkable, like nothing I have seen before. If I could explain to you the facts, you would understand.”
“What will be the consequences for him if I disclose his identity? Will he be dragged into an international police investigation? Will it bring him a great deal of public attention?”
“I would like to avoid all that, but honestly, I am not sure.”
“Would it put him and his family in danger?”
“Possibly. But his sister is already in danger. If she is still alive. I cannot imagine he would not want to help.”
She stared at the sea.
She doesn’t want to harm people she’s supposed to protect, Méndez thought. And she could lose her job. Her calling, her obsession. More than most people, I know what this kind of work means to her. And I am asking her to risk it.
“I need to know more,” she said. “Trust works both ways.”
Méndez glanced at Pescatore, who widened his eyes to indicate he would follow the Mexican’s lead.
“Very well,” Méndez said.
He told her about the massacre in Tecate and about Abrihet. Although he didn’t mention the Blakes, he said the investigation had led in unexpected directions and implicated powerful figures. When he finished, Hald said nothing for a moment. One hand lay flat on her collarbone, her thumb and forefinger bracketing her throat.
Her eyes glistening, her voice firm, she said, “Meet me here tonight at eight.”
The plan for the afternoon was to get some rest and then go for a run.
Méndez dozed for a few unsatisfying minutes. He got up and paced. He hoped Annelise could deliver. That depended not just on her willingness but on the vagaries of record-keeping and communication in underfunded, overworked government agencies and nonprofit groups.
Meanwhile, Méndez was having regrets about his deal to give Isabel veto rights over his article. His nostalgia for police work had gotten the better of him. He had surrendered to his eagerness to join the hunt, get inside the investigation, and regain the power—at least figuratively—to kick down doors. In the larger scheme of things, what was one newspaper story more or less? That’s what he had told himself in Washington. Now, though, he pictured the young faces of his staff in San Diego—who knew only that he was chasing a lead overseas—when he tried to explain himself. He had used the website’s funds to pay for a trip that might not result in a story. Annelise’s question echoed in his head: In what capacity are you here?
Méndez stood on the balcony holding his phone. Seagulls cawed. Yachts and fishing boats bobbed in their berths. He checked the time. At this hour, the kids would be in school.
His marriage was in crisis. After Isabel Puente called, it had been a harsh task to inform his wife that he wanted to turn around and leave San Diego again. The best approach, he had decided, was full disclosure. He had told Estela about his breakthrough in New York and Isabel’s mysterious summons to Washington.
Worse than rage or tears, Estela reacted with icy indifference.
When we left Tijuana, you promised to make sure our life as a family was your priority again. Finally, after all that sacrifice and pain, we would come first. What you are saying now, no matter how reasonable and compelling it sounds, shows you weren’t telling the truth.
Méndez recalled the aloof goodbye at the airport, her grudging acceptance of his kiss. He didn’t have the energy to talk to her right now. He sent her a text message to say that he had arrived, told her to give his love to the children, and promised to call when he could.
Two minutes later, she called him.
Her tone crushed any hope that her mood had improved. Her words sent his stress level soaring. She was being followed.
“I noticed the day you left,” Estela said. “Coming back from the airport, I saw a gray truck behind me, a Suburban. I thought I had seen it when we left the house. Then I spotted it again yesterday taking the kids to school, and again going to the university. So I did one of the maneuvers we learned: I exited the freeway and got right back on. They stayed with me the whole way.”
Porthos had taught Méndez and his wife evasive driving, how to spot and lose a tail, how to thwart a carjacking or ambush. Estela was levelheaded and didn’t tend to imagine things.
“This is serious, mi amor,” Méndez said. “How about this morning?”
“A black Jeep when I dropped Renata off. It followed me part of the way home.”
“Do you see anything strange on our street now?”
“No.”
“Have you called the number they gave us at the federal building?”
U.S. agents had set up emergency protocols, including a phone number the family could call day or night.
“No, Leo. I did the logical thing and called you first.”
Méndez banged a hand down on the balcony railing. It was the worst possible moment for this to happen. The vault of cloudless sky above him worsened the sense of being marooned and out of position.
“Call them right away. Even if nothing else happens, it’s important that we document this.”
“You call them.”
“What?”
“You call them.”
“Estela. I am halfway around the world on an island in the middle of nowhere. In the middle of an investigation.”
“Don’t tell me about your problems.”
He was infuriated by her coldness, her use of the potential danger to worsen his guilt feelings. Composing himself, he said, “Fine. Of course, they will just turn around and call you, and probably pay you a visit, so be ready for that.”
“Fine.”
“Call me again if anything happens. If you have even the slightest sense of danger, call 911 right away.”
“Fine.”
“Tell me when you hear from them. Kisses to you and Juan and Renata. Please take care of yourself, mi amor.”
She hung up. Méndez dialed the emergency number and was relayed to a San Diego police detective on the federal antidrug task force. The detective promised to look into it. Méndez called Isabel Puente in Washington and got her voice mail. He left a message explaining what had happened and asking if she could check with her people in San Diego. He called his wife again. It was a short conversation.
Any lingering notions of taking a nap had disappeared. Méndez put on sweatpants and a T-shirt and went to the small, marble-floored lobby. He found Pescatore at the bar hoisting yet another espresso. Pescatore’s green Border Patrol T-shirt and baggy shorts emphasized his tanklike physique. He ordered coffee for Méndez and asked what was wrong.
“Is it that obvious?”
“You look upset, that’s all.”
Méndez described the call from his wife. Pescatore’s eyes widened.
“You think it’s connected to the Blake security guys tailing the Guatemalan lady in New York?”
“It occurred to me.”
“The other night, after we met at Isabel’s house, I could have sworn I spotted vehicles following me.”
His stomach tightened. “Really?”
“Yeah. But I wasn’t on the ball like your wife. I wasn’t able to confirm it. Can’t jump to conclusions.”
“The situation is conducive to paranoia.”
“Absolutely.”
“Another possibility is that Mexican operatives related to this somehow are doing surveillance on Estela. Also, I have accumulated an assortment of other enemies for other reasons.”
“I don’t like any of those scenarios.”
“Me either. Let’s get some exercise.”
At first, the run was a welcome release. Pescatore led him on a route through hills above the rocky coast. They ran past sumptuous villas, vacation bungalows, and older, flat-roofed dwellings of stone and wood. A resort lifestyle juxtaposed with a national security outpost, a penal colony, in a limbo between north and south. Living in Lampedusa was a bit like living in the Playas de Tijuana neighborhood near the beach during the years when the migratory madness at the Mexican border was at its peak, Méndez thought. Enjoy the view—if you can ignore the despair.
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