Killing Pace Page 9

  “It is for security.”

  “Explain.”

  “When I am carrying that bag, I can go straight into his office without being searched.”

  Sarah was beginning to wish she’d been tape-recording this bizarre interview.

  “You mentioned an orphanage. Where is it?”

  “If I tell you, what can you do for me?”

  “You’re looking for a deal?”

  “I have watched your American television shows.”

  Sarah had already been thinking about how she could steer around making more trouble for Carlotta Falcone and her grandmother.

  “Okay. Help me understand. Do you know where these children come from? Before the orphanage?”

  “I’m not sure. Unwed mothers … dead parents…”

  “You were never told?”

  “No.”

  “You just understood that if you helped with the adoptions, the babies would go to America.”

  “That is what they told me.”

  “You must know that whatever ‘deal’ I make with you, the Guardia, and your Italian prosecutors, they are not bound by it.”

  “If they come to see me one day, will you help me with them?”

  Sarah thought about that. “I will keep your name out of my investigation for as long as I can, but you must understand that eventually, your involvement will become known.”

  “Yes. I understand.”

  Sarah took a notebook from her pocket. After a moment of writing, she tore out the page and handed it to Carlotta. “Those are my contact details in Catania, and also at the U.S. Customs office in Miami, in the United States. Keep that paper in a safe place. If the Italian police eventually come to see you about this, tell them to call me. I will do everything I can to help you.”

  Carlotta breathed a sigh.

  “In return, Carlotta, I want you to do two things for me.”

  “What things?”

  “First, I want you to promise me that if you receive any more of those baptismal certificates, you will call me. Immediately. Do you agree?”

  “Yes.”

  “Second, I want you to tell me where they keep these babies.”

  “They were all from the same orphanage. It is called Piccoli Angeli.”

  “Little Angels. How comforting. Where is it?”

  The woman went silent. Sarah wondered if their “deal” was about to collapse.

  “Near Randazzo, on Strada 89.”

  “Write down the address.”

  13

  A week later, after once again telling her Italian team that she had business in Palermo, Sarah drove to Randazzo (Rannazzu, as the Sicilianu dialect pronounced it), an ancient comune located on the northern slopes of the dominating feature of the landscape, Mount Etna. Ominously, Randazzo was the Sicilian town closest to the volcano’s brooding summit and its active central vent.

  The “orphanage” was a long, low, gray stone building roofed in cracked and broken tiles, set well back from the main road. It was located off Strada Provinciale 89, some distance east of town, nestled in greenery next to the Fiume Alcantara, the fast-moving river that flowed down to meet the Ionian Sea ten miles south of Taormina. The building wasn’t easy to identify, but Carlotta’s pencil-drawn map had helped.

  Standing with her back to the smoking specter of Etna, Sarah’s first impression was that it would be difficult to put the building under surveillance. While she was assessing the possibilities, a trickling of running water intruded on her thoughts. She noticed a thin stream passing through a narrow stone culvert under the highway a few feet from where she stood. Following the path of the stream uphill, she spied a mountain road carved into the slope above, and, passing under its roadbed, another culvert.

  It was a broad, vine-covered watercourse with a yawning black entrance that looked like the entrance to a mine.

  Sarah returned to her car and began retracing her earlier route from the town center. Less than a minute of driving brought her to the turnoff she was seeking. The road led higher on the mountain and directly to the culvert she had spotted. She continued for a quarter mile, parked on the shoulder, grabbed her jacket and binoculars, and hiked back. With no traffic in sight, she slid down the slope, pushed her way through a thicket of broom, and ducked into the channel under the road. The passage was almost head-height and the rivulet running through it barely two feet wide. She settled on a conveniently placed boulder near the downstream exit. The screen of shrubbery and the impenetrable darkness of the culvert made her effectively invisible to anyone on the roadway and property below.

  Even in that damp redoubt, her nostrils picked up a faint whiff of sulfur in the air.

  Etna non dorme mai.

  Etna never sleeps.

  She began her vigil.

  By late afternoon, after nearly six hours of standing and sitting, numb with the chill from her damp surroundings, Sarah was getting ready to call it a day. From time to time, she’d detected a whisper of movement through one or another of the three small windows visible from her position. Three times, she’d seen a middle-aged woman dressed in pleated slacks and a matching jacket emerge from the main door and walk to the east end of the building. There she’d entered a small structure that was set against the end wall of the main building, remained within for several minutes, and then returned.

  She’d seen no evidence of children of any age.

  Without more to go on, she’d need Carlotta’s full cooperation, and a long, confessional talk with Marco—and probably with some fastidious, pouchy-faced public prosecutor—to secure a decreto di perquisizione, the Italian version of a search warrant.

  She was about to force her way back out through the shrubbery and return to her car when movement caught her eye. The wrought iron gate that blocked entry into the building’s long driveway suddenly began to swing open, obviously activated by an electronic command. Then she saw a car approaching on the main road. A gray sedan with tinted windows. It slowed, turned in, and continued onto the property, rolling to a stop near the front door of the building.

  Sarah retreated into the darkness of the culvert and raised her binoculars.

  The driver’s door of the vehicle swung open.

  A male figure stepped out.

  Conrad Nelthorp.

  He circled the car and opened the off-side rear door. Someone inside handed him a large red-and-white chevron-patterned soft-sided bag. He stepped back and a woman got out.

  The woman was holding a baby.

  Carrying the bag, Nelthorp led the way into the building. He walked straight in without knocking.

  Sarah waited, frozen in place, trying to process what she had just seen. Minutes passed. Finally, Nelthorp reappeared. He was alone. He returned to the car. It rolled back down the driveway to the highway and turned east.

  Sarah clawed her way back up to the road and sprinted back to her car. She got in and lead-footed it, heading east, hoping the road she was on would offer an intersection that would take her back to SP89.

  It did, but by the time she rejoined the highway, Nelthorp’s car was nowhere in sight. She reasoned that if he was heading for Autostrada 18, the main artery that ran north–south along the eastern shore of the island, he’d have cut over to the fastest route, Strada Statale 120. Risking a speed camera, and not really optimistic about regaining contact, she took a chance and put her foot down.

  Fifteen miles later, the gamble paid off. Just north of Piedimonte Etneo, the last comune on SS120 before the A18 interchange, she spotted a gray sedan stopped in a line of vehicles waiting at a rail crossing. Back at the culvert, she’d identified Nelthorp’s car as probably a German make, maybe an Opel, but she couldn’t be sure. The car she was looking at now matched what she remembered, and as the traffic started moving, she took a chance and followed, maintaining contact but keeping a few cars between her and the target. She’d expected it to take the A18 south, but when they reached the coast it took the north ramp, heading in the direction of M
essina. When it made the hard turn into the ramp, she was close enough to confirm that Nelthorp was behind the wheel.

  On reflection, it almost made sense. At Messina, Nelthorp would have a choice of ferries to the mainland, and … maybe he was thinking … no chance of running into a certain American Customs agent.

  Look behind you, smart ass.

  Sarah trailed his car for a few miles, toying with the idea of sauntering up to him when he eventually stopped, just to see the expression on his face. She quickly rejected the idea. She’d seen enough. She took the next exit and headed back to Catania. As she rolled south, her mind was replaying a conversation she’d had three weeks earlier.

  “How often do you come to Sicily?”

  “Once a month. Sometimes twice.”

  “Call me next time you’re in town.”

  “I will. But I’m here now. So what is it? Need more time to background me?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Thought you’d done that already.”

  “Never hurts to recheck your work.”

  By the time she reached home, Sarah had made a decision. She knew that the time would come when she would be obliged to share her investigation with Marco Sinatra.

  But that time was not yet.

  She needed to think about her next move.

  * * *

  Within a few days, that next move was handed to her.

  She was deep in a discussion with a port worker at the ferry terminal, which was located near the southern end of the port facility. While they were talking, the 9:30 A.M. ferry from Naples was discharging vehicles. Late in the unloading process, the port worker interrupted their conversation.

  “Hmm … there they are again.”

  Sarah followed his gaze. Two identical white panel vans were driving off the ferry, one directly behind the other. Neither bore any commercial markings or insignia.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Every month or so, those two vans come off that ferry. I’ve never seen them go back on. They must leave from some other port.”

  “Sorry, but why is that—?”

  “Watch.”

  The vans eased along the exit lanes marked on the jetty, but then, instead of exiting left onto SS114 with the rest of the traffic, they both swung right onto the port road.

  “They always take the long way through the port.”

  The narrow lane the vans had accessed ran north, inside the security fence, and through the container area. The main exit from that sector was almost a mile away, and the port speed limit was 10 kmh.

  So why take that route?

  Sarah’s car was parked nearby. “Maybe I’ll just take a look. Talk to you later.”

  “Something else…”

  “What?”

  “They were here last week. I don’t usually see them that often.”

  Sarah jumped in her vehicle and followed. She caught up with them just inside the port’s northern gate. They were both parked off to one side, next to the Catania Nautical Club. As she drove past, a woman got out of the passenger seat of the lead van. She was carrying a baby and a large, soft-sided bag.

  It was the bag that riveted Sarah’s attention.

  She’d seen that red-and-white chevron pattern before.

  The woman started walking toward the gate.

  Sarah rolled out through the gate and parked in front of the on-site car rental office. She watched for the woman to pass. After she did, she got out of her car and followed. She kept her in sight as she crossed the main highway at Via Cali, walked east, and then turned into a small piazza across from the Guardia di Finanza’s main office.

  She watched the woman approach a car, open a rear door, and get in.

  It was a gray Opel with tinted windows.

  The vehicle drove away.

  Sarah immediately retraced her steps back to the port to check on the vans.

  They were both gone.

  When she returned to her office, the receptionist told her that Signor Nelthorp had called. The woman’s mouth twisted with mild amusement as she added, “He said he would be in Catania tomorrow and he would like to buy you dinner.”

  “Did he mention where he would be staying?”

  “At the Villa Romeo. He will be arriving very late tonight—”

  Sarah had a pretty good idea why.

  “—but he said you could call him at the hotel before nine o’clock tomorrow morning, or anytime on his cellulare. He said you have his card.”

  14

  The Hotel Villa Romeo was located on Via Platamone, less than half a mile from the northern gate to the port.

  Villa Romeo?

  Maybe Nelthorp had been fantasizing about some imaginary romantic finale to their dinner date.

  At eight thirty in the morning, Sarah stood against a locked iron gate in an alcove two doors down from the hotel entrance. She called Nelthorp’s room. He was in, and he sounded delighted to hear from her. They agreed to meet at eight that evening at Hosteria del Panda, a seafood restaurant he swore would not disappoint.

  “Rates high on TripAdvisor. You’ll love it, believe me!”

  After the call, she stayed in position, waiting and watching.

  A few minutes after nine, Nelthorp walked out of the hotel.

  She tailed him. He began his stroll by pretending to window-shop. To Sarah, his attempts to check if he was being followed were amateurish. Although she was fully aware of her capacity to turn heads when it suited her, she had long ago learned to become invisible when invisibility was needed. She knew how to become just another anonymous face on a street, bland and unremarkable.

  Sometimes, all that was needed was a prop—like a bicycle.

  Today, it was shabby clothes, sunglasses, a knitted cap, and a collapsible hand cart stuffed with groceries.

  Twice, Nelthorp looked right at Sarah Lockhart and failed to see her.

  Eventually he ducked into an espresso bar. A few minutes later, Sarah ambled slowly past the establishment’s broad window. Its awning cast just enough of a shadow that she was able to make out Nelthorp sitting at a back table. There was another man with him.

  Counting off seconds, she ambled to the next corner, then reversed course. She passed in front of the bar again. This time she was able to identify Nelthorp’s companion. It was Elias Terenzi, one of the young Italian Customs officers who had been flirting with her. Sarah knew he was supposed to be on duty today, but right now he was wearing civilian clothes.

  As she watched, Nelthorp slid something across the table. Terenzi quickly pocketed it.

  Sarah moved down the block, crossed the street to a bus shelter, and waited. When the two men emerged from the bar, they immediately separated. Nelthorp walked west, then made a right at the first corner, probably heading back to his hotel. Terenzi crossed the street and headed in Sarah’s direction. As he neared her position, she leaned forward and made a show of digging through the contents of one of her grocery bags. Unseeing, Terenzi breezed right past her.

  Sarah followed.

  After a couple of turns, it was clear he was heading for the port.

  At the next corner, Sarah came upon an old woman dressed in black. She was sitting on a tattered blanket. A wooden bowl in front of her contained a few coins. Sarah stopped, parked the grocery cart next to the old woman’s bony figure, and said, “Per te, Nonna.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “Grazie! Grazie! Dio ti benedica…!” Gnarled hands reached to clutch Sarah’s.

  Sarah smiled. She put a finger to her lips, and walked on.

  Keeping her distance, she followed Terenzi into the port. She was puzzled when she realized he was heading straight for the Green Channel—the sector where containers were stored after being screened and cleared for loading on a U.S.-bound ship. He strode down a row of dry cargo containers as if he knew exactly where he was going. When he stopped at one particular tier of twenty-footers, Sarah sidestepped into a narrow passage.

  As she watched, Tere
nzi placed a high-security bolt seal on the container.

  Her first thought was: Why isn’t it already sealed?

  Her quarry turned to look around. She pulled her head back just in time to avoid being spotted. After a few seconds, she heard his footsteps approaching. She backed into the gloom and waited until he had passed. When she finally risked another look, he was gone.

  She moved directly to the container he’d tampered with. She checked the ISO code painted high on the door. She felt sure this container was one that she had inspected a few days before. One that she had personally sealed. She examined the security bolt. It bore the CBP stamp and an alphanumeric serial number. She took out her phone and photographed the ISO code and the security bolt number. Then she headed for the office. As the only female officer in the Customs headquarters, she’d been provided with a small locker in the women’s restroom. She ditched the cap and sunglasses, changed clothes, and went to her workstation.

  Terenzi was the only officer in the operations area. He’d changed into uniform and was sitting at his cubicle a few stalls away from her own. She smiled a reply to his cheerful “Buongiorno,” logged onto her computer, and shuffled papers, killing time. Eventually Terenzi stood, stretched, and headed down the corridor that led to the men’s toilet.

  As soon as she heard the door close, Sarah moved quickly to the supervisor’s office. Deputy Director Zago spent the first half of every day out on the docks, after which he would invariably take a two-hour lunch before settling down in the afternoon to do paperwork. Today was no different from any other, so there was little danger of him walking in on her while she was searching his desk. She quickly leafed through the records in his out-tray, looking for her own work from the previous day. It took less than a minute to find the inspection she was looking for—it bore the same bolt seal serial number as the one she’d just seen Terenzi place on the container.

  She pocketed the document and went back to her desk.

  Sarah had sealed that container late in the afternoon two days ago. Since then, someone had cut off the seal, probably tampered with the cargo, and then, she assumed, Terenzi had been paid off to reseal it with the same number. There was only one explanation of what she had witnessed: Conrad Nelthorp was involved in some kind of smuggling operation, and he was covering his tracks with counterfeit CBP bolt seals.