The Mordida Man (12 page)

Down in the small cabin next to what once had been the royal stateroom, Ko Yoshikawa had his right eye pressed against the fish-eye security viewer that had been inset into the bulkhead. Through it Ko could watch as Dr. Abdulhamid Souri changed the dressing on the left side of Bingo McKay's head—the side where he no longer had an ear.

Since the abduction of Felix, Ko had assumed command of the fragmented Anvil Five after an election of sorts had been held in Rome. When the subject of who should lead the terrorist group had come up, Ko had been elected by acclamation, the votes consisting of a bored nod from the lashless German, Bernt Diringshoffen, and an indifferent shrug from the Algerian-born Françoise Leget.

In Rome they had screened four possible recruits to Anvil Five—three Italian communists and an American movement veteran. All had been rejected, the Italians because of provincialism, which meant that they had hinted they would like to be home in time for dinner every night, and the American because of dilettantism, which, in translation, meant he was strung out on hashish and Quaaludes and needed money to support his habit.

Ko turned from the fish-eye viewer to look at the lean, jittery Libyan with the tic near his left eye who perched on the edge of the steel-framed chair. The lean man was Ali Arifi, the Libyan Minister of Defense.

“You actually cut it off, didn't you?” Ko said as Diringshoffen rose and took his place at the viewer. Françoise Leget sat on the edge of the cabin's bunk smoking, her movements nervous and irritable.

Since Ko's question had been rhetorical, Arifi saw no need for a response other than a nod.

“And the Americans' reply?” Ko said.

“President McKay insists on talking to his brother before he will enter into any negotiations. Or so the Nigerians say.”

“Felix is dead,” Françoise Leget said.

Arifi looked at her in surprise and then at Ko. “She had a dream,” Ko said. “In it, Felix was put into an American car and crushed into a cube by a car smasher. She believes in dreams.”

So did Ali Arifi, but he saw no need to mention it. Instead, he looked at his watch and said, “I must be going.”

“We should make them let us talk to Felix,” Françoise Leget said and stabbed out her cigarette. “It was a Chevrolet. The car Felix died in.”

No one paid any attention to her. Bernt Diringshoffen turned from the viewer, an amused smile on his face. “They really cut it off,” he said.

“The Nigerians will be handling the negotiations, right?” Ko said to Arifi.

Arifi nodded. “Their Ambassador to America is flying into Rome. A man called Dokubo. Olufemi Dokubo. He seems a sensible type, if a bit self-centered.”

“You know him?”

“Yes.”

“And Abedsaid is flying down from London when?” Ko was referring to Faraj Abedsaid, the Cultural Attache in the Libyans' London Embassy.

“Sometime tomorrow,” Arifi said. “He will be in full charge of our negotiations.”

“We're wasting our time,” Françoise Leget said. “Felix is dead.”

“Shut up, Françoise,” Ko said without looking at her. She turned and moved to the fish-eye viewer.

“The Americans aren't going to let us talk to Felix,” Diringshoffen said. “They don't work that way.”

“The Colonel insists on it,” Arifi said. “He was adamant.”

“Is he … upset?” Ko asked.

“He is furious.”

Ko nodded, as though not surprised. “I think,” he said, “I think we should give them some proof that McKay is still alive. A Polaroid picture of him holding today's newspaper should do. Then we could insist on similar evidence of Felix's well-being.”

“Where is the woman?” Françoise Leget said, turning from the viewer.

“In the cabin on the other side of the stateroom,” Arifi said.

“Do you let them have time together?”

“We let them have a few moments together earlier today.”

“You should keep them separated,” Françoise Leget said. “You should keep them separated and shackled and blindfolded most of the time. It destroys their morale.”

The tic at the edge of Arifi's left eye began to throb. “Yes, well, you people are the experts in such matters. That is why you will be in charge of security.”

“What about the crew?” Ko said.

“They and the soldiers are instructed to obey your orders and none is allowed ashore.”

“Customs?”

“Generously bribed—but not so generously as to create suspicion.”

“How long can we remain here in Valletta?” Ko asked.

“As long as necessary,” Arifi said. “Rome is an easy flight. Communications with the Colonel in Tripoli are excellent. And the Maltese are both incurious and hospitable.”

“How do we know your security is as good as you say it is?” Françoise Leget said around a cigarette that she was lighting.

“At least,” Arifi said stiffly, “we have no informers in our midst.”

Françoise Leget flushed and started to say something, but changed her mind and puffed furiously on her cigarette instead.

“Well,” Arifi said as brightly as he could manage, “shall we drop in on Mr. McKay?”

It was Ko who took the Polaroid picture of Bingo McKay sitting in a chair and holding that day's front page of the
International Herald Tribune
up under his chin.

“Prove I'm still alive and kicking, huh?” he said.

“Yes, Mr. McKay,” Arifi said. “That's the general idea.”

“And these folks are what's left of that Felix bunch you told me about?”

“They will be in charge of security.”

“They look like a right nice bunch of folks,” Bingo said and winked at Françoise Leget.

“Does your ear pain you, m'sieu?” she said.

“Why, no it don't, little lady, but it was right nice of you to ask. Old Doc Souri here turned out to be a real fine ear slicer. Ever I want my other one cut off, I'll sure know where to go.”

“I will be leaving you now, Mr. McKay, and returning to Tripoli,” Arifi said.

“Well, it's sure been real nice talking to you, Minister. But like I said, you oughta do something about that tic—get the doc here to give you a shot or something before you go.”

Arif's left hand moved up to his left eye where the tic throbbed busily. “Goodbye, Mr. McKay.”

“By the way, Minister, wouldn't be any chance of me getting a little drinking whisky just to keep the chill off, providing, of course, it don't cause you any religious problems. Wouldn't wanta do that.”

“I'll … I'll see to it,” Arifi said and hurried from the stateroom.

Bingo McKay stretched, smiled, and winked again at Françoise Leget. “Not on the Riviera, are we, little lady?” he said. “Reason I asked is you called me m'soo and that's French and so I figured maybe we were docked at Cannes or someplace nice like that.”

Ko smiled, shook his head, and said, “Nice try, Mr. McKay.”

McKay smiled back. “Call me Bingo.”

The Pole that Mario Cagni, the retired smuggler, had gone in search of was actually a third-generation American from Pittsburgh with the Polish name of Frank Krystosik. He was in Malta as a systems analyst for the Alamo Manufacturing Company, which turned out Puncher blue jeans, and was the largest single private enterprise on the Maltese Islands. Krystosik was also a part-time spy for the CIA. At least, that was how he thought of himself. The CIA chief of station in Rome considered Krystosik to be an extremely low-grade asset of doubtful value, while CIA headquarters in Langley was scarcely aware of his existence.

Mostly, Krystosik was a filer of sporadic reports on the Libyans and their economic encroachment on Malta, which had been going on for several years. None of his stuff was particularly useful, and there was little of it that couldn't be found in either
The Economist
or the Rome dailies. But once in a great while Krystosik would turn up something mildly interesting and for that reason the Rome chief of station kept him on and even sent him a little money from time to time.

Krystosik used the money to set up what he thought of, but never revealed to another living soul, as the Krystosik Net. It was composed mostly of old smugglers like Cagni and retired British non-coms who had settled in Malta with their Maltese wives. They had discovered that almost anything they fed Krystosik, real or imagined, was good for at least a lunch and a pint or two and sometimes even a few pounds. The Krystosik Net would have been far larger had not the old smugglers and ex-non-coms jealously guarded its membership rolls. Attrition in the ranks of the net came about only by death or jail, and new members had to be voted in. There was a fairly lengthy waiting list.

Krystosik often used his lunch hour to rendezvous with his agents—a practice that was encouraged by the agents after they found that Krystosik could be counted on to pick up the check.

Cagni and Krystosik met at one o'clock that day in a cafe—not Cagni's regular place, but a far more expensive one that prided itself on its veal. Cagni had just had the veal and was now on his third glass of wine. Krystosik made it a rule never to drink with his agents. He had many rules like that, many of them borrowed from the complete and carefully collected paperback works of David St. John, the pseudonym of a convicted Watergate burglar.

At thirty-two, Krystosik was single, pudgy, and losing his hair. Because of his weight he had had only a salad for lunch. As Cagni finished his veal, Krystosik took off his tinted glasses, polished them, and then repolished them. He polished them yet another time, put them back on, and said, “Well, what've you got?”

Cagni used his right elbow to inch a folded newspaper toward Krystosik. He had rescued the paper from a trash can and slipped his morning notes into it. Krystosik liked folded newspapers, and duplicate plastic briefcases, and twin cigarette packages—all examples of what he thought of as tradecraft. Cagni tried to please him.

Krystosik nodded significantly and let his right hand fall casually on top of the folded newspaper. Cagni swallowed the last of his third glass of wine and signaled for another.

“A Jap and a Kraut,” he said after the wine had come. “Or maybe a Dutchman, and a woman, maybe French, maybe Spanish. All going aboard a Libyan yacht this morning within an hour of each other. What do you think of that, hey?”

Krystosik pushed out his lower lip and nodded significantly, indicating that he wasn't at all surprised by this new turn of events and their obviously dire implications. “It figures,” he said.

“What does?”

But Krystosik only shook his head cryptically. Cagni wondered whether he should risk ordering yet another glass of wine, but decided against it. No need to go to the well too often. “It's the
True Oasis,
” he said.

“What?”

“The name of the yacht. It used to be
Sunrise One,
but now it's the
True Oasis.
I wrote it all down in there. Should be worth a little extra something, hey?”

Krystosik picked up the folded newpaper with his left hand and reached into his pants pocket with his right. He rose and extended his right hand to Cagni. It was now almost clenched into a fist because of the bill he was trying to palm, but Cagni was used to the American's clumsiness. The old man palmed the bill smoothly, transferred it to his own pocket, then picked up the luncheon check and handed it to Krystosik. “You almost forgot this.”

Once outside the cafe, Cagni looked at the bill. An American twenty. The man's a complete fool, he thought happily, and headed back down toward the waterfront to the warm wooden crate where he would wait and watch some more.

That evening at the Alamo Manufacturing Company, after everyone had gone for the day, Krystosik locked the door to his office, unzipped his portable Lettera typewriter, and proceeded to translate Cagni's note into what he considered proper es-pionagese.

When he was through typing he carefully burned Cagni's notes in an ashtray, went into the men's room, and flushed the ashes down the toilet. He then went back to his office and typed out the Rome accommodation address on a plain white envelope.

With luck, the letter would be in Rome the day after tomorrow and delivered the day after that, depending on the mood of the Rome postal workers. Actually, it was to take four days for the letter to reach the Rome accommodation address. And it wasn't until a day later that the CIA chief of station there finally saw it. But by then Chubb Dunjee had already arrived in Rome.

13

The apartment building was fairly new—new for South Kensington anyway—and the Saudi who owned it was from Jidda on the Red Sea. Although the rents were well up in the stratosphere, it didn't seem to bother any of the tenants, nearly all of them from the Middle East, and there was a long waiting list, possibly because the place was completely staffed by Arabic-speaking personnel who were, to a man, impecunious if distant members of the Saudi landlord's enormous family.

Holding down the reception desk when Chubb Dunjee and Harold Hopkins, the thief, walked in at 2
P.M.
wearing their gray coveralls with “Belgravia Locks Ltd.” stitched in red across their backs, was Saleh Khoja, the landlord's twenty-seven-year-old third cousin on Khoja's father's second wife's side.

Hopkins, followed by Dunjee, moved over to the desk, set his tool kit down, fumbled in his breast pocket for a folded sheet of paper, and spread it out on the countertop. He looked at Khoja suspiciously.

“You in charge, mate?” Hopkins said in the extra loud voice he always unconsciously used when addressing those who came from across the sea.

Khoja leaned on the counter and looked off into space. “I am in charge,” he said.

“I got an order here to install two new deadbolts on 531,” Hopkins said, reading from the form, which was headed “Work Order, Belgravia Locks Ltd.” Hopkins squinted at the name written on the form. “Mr. Faraj Abedsaid, if that's how you pronounce it.”