The Mordida Man (23 page)

“Get on with it, Jack,” Hopkins said.

“Yes, I suppose I should. All of this brings us to the topic that concerns us all—Mr. Bingo McKay, your President's brother.”

“What the fuck's he talking about?” Hopkins said.

“He's not sure yet,” Dunjee said, adding softly, “Are you?”

Abedsaid continued to smile. “We want you to take a trip. All three of you. An airplane trip. The plane is standing by. Now you can either go willingly or you can be smuggled aboard, which would be rather messy—drugs, that sort of thing. I strongly urge you to go willingly.”

“Go where?” Dunjee said.

“Tripoli.”

“Why Tripoli?”

“Someone there wishes to talk to you. Just outside Tripoli, actually.”

“In the desert?”

“Yes, in the desert.”

“Who wants to talk?”

“Colonel Mourabet.”

“Himself?”

“Himself.”

“All right,” Dunjee said. “We'll go.”

23

It was somewhat earlier that same day, around midnight, New York time, that Dr. Joseph Mapangou sat on the bench in Central Park wondering how long it would be before he was mugged. He had been waiting for fifteen minutes on the isolated bench, deep in the park, and already he had turned down the importunings of a sad-faced homosexual who had begged him to let him touch it, just for a second.

Dr. Mapangou, concealing his horror very well, he thought, had politely told the man to go away. The man had offered him eighteen dollars. Dr. Mapangou had started to giggle. It was a high-pitched, almost hysterical giggle. The man had cursed him and gone away. Dr. Mapangou had stopped giggling.

He sat now, legs tightly crossed, his head swiveling at each mysterious sound that came from the night creatures who crept through the jungle that surrounded him. But it is not a jungle, he told himself repeatedly. It is only a well-kept park, and if there are creatures in it, they are probably only lost dogs, small dogs. Tiny poodles, most likely, with rhinestone collars.

Behind Dr. Mapangou, well back in the indigo shadows, the big man eased slowly around an old tree. He stood there staring at Dr. Mapangou's back, which was faintly illuminated by what little light came from the park lamp some forty or fifty feet down the path. The big man stood almost motionless, breathing silently through his mouth, as he watched the homosexual come and go. The big man waited another ten minutes before he began to move, one slow, sure step at a time, toward the fretting man on the park bench.

When he was no more than three feet from Dr. Mapangou, the big man said, “Well?”

Dr. Mapangou jumped from the bench and spun around. He peered into the darkness. “Is it you?”

“Who else?” Alex Reese said, moving into the lamplight so that it made his bald head gleam.

“I do not like this place,” Dr. Mapangou said. “It is frightening. I could have been attacked, robbed.”

“But you weren't,” Reese said as he moved around the bench and sat down. “Well?” he said again.

Dr. Mapangou glanced over his shoulder before he lowered himself gingerly to the bench next to the big man who smelled of whisky.

“The Israelis were difficult,” Dr. Mapangou said.

“How?”

“They wanted to ask questions.”

“But they transferred the money?”

“At two
P.M.
”

“What about the Libyans?”

“At three-fifteen this afternoon. They asked no questions. They were, well—sullen.”

“And the banks?”

“I went to both and made sure that they did exactly as you instructed. The money was transferred to your Mr. Brian Brandon in Montreal. I do not understand who this Brandon is.”

“I already explained it.”

“But I did not understand it.”

“Brian Brandon is no one. But he's left standing orders with the Montreal bank, which has instructions to transfer anything over one thousand dollars in his account to the account of one Arturo Foglio in Panama. There, Señor Foglio has left instructions with the Panama bank that any amount over one thousand dollars deposited to
his
account is to be transferred by wire to the bank account of a casino in the Bahamas. Once the money is transferred, the casino is notified. The casino picks up the money in cash. Seventy-two hours later, the funds, still in cash, but now in different currencies, are picked up at the casino by a messenger. For identification purposes, the messenger—whoever he is—needs only a phrase. That's all. The phrase automatically changes every month. This month's phrase is a quote from James Monroe's first inaugural address: ‘National honor is national property of the highest value.'”

Dr. Mapangou nodded thoughtfully. “Who selects the monthly phrases?” he said at last.

“They were all selected years ago. The man who selected them was a trusted employee of the CIA. Dead now. Left a wife and three kids. He called the whole thing the Panama Laundry. It was only used once, but nobody ever canceled it. When he died, I cleaned out his safe. The only records of the transfer route were there, in the safe. Somebody got careless and there just happened to be a small Xerox machine in his office. Afterwards, I turned everything in the safe over to security and made sure it was destroyed. Now nobody knows about the Panama Laundry except you and me.”

“‘National honor is national property of the highest value,'” Dr. Mapangou said and sadly shook his head. “This is not an honorable thing we are doing.”

“No, but it's profitable. Profit and honor aren't often mentioned in the same breath. If you're not as honorable as you were yesterday, you're two million dollars richer. How does it feel?”

Dr. Mapangou didn't seem to hear the question. Again he shook his head, a sad, doleful expression on his face. “But what can I tell them?”

“Who?”

“The Israelis and the Libyans.”

“Tell them the truth. Tell them all about Mr. Arnold and Mr. Benedict. You were just the go-between.”

“They will not believe me.”

“Sure they will,” Reese said and suddenly widened his eyes, as though he had just seen something that startled him. “Don't turn until I tell you to. Then turn very slowly, and look where I say.”

Dr. Mapangou licked his lips and nodded. His own eyes were popped and round with terror. “Now?” he whispered.

“Not yet.”

The two men waited. They waited almost thirty seconds. “Now,” Reese said.

Dr. Mapangou slowly turned. “Where?” he whispered.

“Just a little to your left and forty feet or so ahead. Near the lamp.”

Dr. Mapangou stared into the darkness. Reese rose silently behind him. He slipped one big hand under Dr. Mapangou's chin and clasped the other over his forehead. He jerked the head back and to the right and broke the neck. Dr. Mapangou died still peering into the darkness, his eyes wide open.

Reese lowered the body to the sidewalk. He went through the pockets quickly, removing the wallet, and stripping it of its cash. He thrust the cash into his pocket, and smeared the wallet on Dr. Mapangou's blue suit. He also slipped a gold watch from Dr. Mapangou's left wrist. He put the watch in another pocket. After that, he rose, looked around, and melted away into the darkness of the trees.

Reese had gone only about ten feet into the trees when the voice said, “If you don't stop, you're dead.”

Reese stopped.

“Very slowly,” the voice said. “Hands on top of your head.”

Reese slowly put his hands on top of his bald head.

“There're two of us,” the voice said. “I'm three feet behind you. I've got a thirty-eight Smith and Wesson. It has hollow-points. They won't go through you—not all the way. But they'll make a mess.”

“All right,” Reese said.

“We're going to pat you down,” the voice said.

“All right,” Reese said.

In front of Reese, no more than two or three feet away, a man stepped out from behind some trees. He was a tall man, a bit gangly. “Mr. Arnold, right?” Reese said.

“Hello, Alex,” Franklin Keeling said to his former CIA colleague.

“Who's behind me,” Reese said, “that fucking Spiceman?”

“Uh-huh,” Keeling said and ran his hands over Reese, not forgetting his ankles, his crotch, and the small of his back.

Keeling stepped back. “The way you broke the nigger's neck,” he said. “That was kinda neat.”

It was the same rented limousine that they always used, the stretched Cadillac with the driver called Henry. The dividing window was rolled up. Spiceman sat in one of the jump seats, both hands around the .38-caliber revolver that was pointed directly at Reese's stomach. Keeling sat next to Reese on the rear seat.

Reese looked out the window. “I suppose you want it back,” he said.

“What?” Keeling said.

“The money.”

“What money?”

Reese turned to look at him. The expression on Reese's face was one of surprise, which quickly dissolved into deep suspicion. “The twenty million. That money. The money I took off the Libyans and the Israelis, except Langley went halfeys with the Israelis.”

“No kidding,” Keeling said, his voice totally devoid of surprise. “What'd you use to move it, the Panama Laundry?”

The look on Reese's face quickly rearranged itself back into one of total surprise. “Nobody knew about that. Nobody except Eubanks—and he's dead.”

“Eubanks didn't think it up,” Keeling said. “I thought it up and handed it to him.” Keeling reached into a pocket and brought out a small blue notebook with a leather cover. He thumbed through it. “You wanta hear this month's code phrase? Listen to this: ‘National honor is national property of the highest value.' Right?”

Reese nodded slowly, then turned his head to stare out the car's window. “All right. You win. I lose. Now what?”

“You don't lose,” Spiceman said. “Not if you work it right.”

Reese turned back. “Okay,” he said. “How?”

“You know something, Brother Reese,” Keeling said, “we're sure glad it's you. Christ, when I think of some of the guys it could've been. You know, real dummies. Or tightasses. That'd've been even worse. But you, you've always been kinda flexible.”

Reese nodded slowly. “Flexible,” he said. “How flexible?”

Keeling waved one of his big thick hands back and forth. He did it with curious grace. “You're gonna have to bend with the breeze. First one way, then the other.”

“I don't think he wants to talk about the breeze,” Spiceman said. “I think he wants to talk about the money. The twenty million.”

“Well, shit, he can have that. I thought that was all cleared up.”

Reese licked a dry tongue over dry lips. “You got anything to drink?”

“Drink? Sure. What're you drinking nowadays, bourbon?”

“Bourbon.”

Keeling leaned forward and pulled out a miniature bar. He filled two small glasses with bourbon from a decanter and handed one to Reese, keeping the other for himself. He didn't offer any to Spiceman, who kept his hands wrapped around the revolver that was still aimed at Reese's stomach.

“I can keep the money?” Reese said slowly, as if asking the question of some foreigner whose English depended on the two dimly remembered sessions at Berlitz long ago.

“Sure,” Keeling said. “Hell, Spiceman and I don't need it. We've got plenty. Right, Jack?”

“After the first five million, who counts?” Spiceman said, but smiled in a way that kept Reese from believing him.

“What about your boss?” Reese said.

“He's going to be happy it's you,” Keeling said.

Again Reese nodded thoughtfully and finished his whisky. “All this started with Felix, didn't it?”

“Felix was just a tool,” Keeling said.

“A tool to do what with?”

“To give us a handle.”

“On me.”

“Or somebody like you.”

“What happens to Felix now?” Reese said. “You going to hand him back?”

Keeling looked questioningly at Spiceman. After a moment, Spiceman shrugged. Keeling turned back toward Reese. “Well, poor old Felix, he sort of had an accident.”

“An accident?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Bad?”

“Pretty bad. Fatal.”

“No shit?” Reese said.

“No shit.”

Reese held out his glass. “How about another little touch, just to ease the sorrow.”

As Keeling poured him another drink, Reese said, “The fingers. Was he dead or alive when you cut them off?”

“Dead. He just went to sleep and never woke up. It must've been real peaceful.”

“They think it was us.”

“Who?”

“Felix's bunch, Anvil Five. They think it was Langley. So do the Libyans.”

“Is that a fact,” Keeling said, not quite succeeding in making it a question.

“But that's all anybody's going to get back—the two fingers?”

“That's all that's left. By now, the fish have had the rest.”

“They're going to start wondering what happened to their money.”

“Well, I guess they'll just have to ask old Doc Mapangou about that, won't they?”

Reese was silent for a moment. Finally he said, “Mapangou could have told them about you.”

“You mean about Mr. Arnold and Mr. Benedict? That's all he ever knew us by.”

“Yeah, that was sort of cute. They could backtrack though. Especially the Israelis. They're not bad at it.”

Spiceman shook his head, not taking his eyes off Reese's stomach. “They're not all that good either. But let's say they did get a line on us. Guess who we'd lead them to.”

Reese's big chin went up and down three times in a trio of slow, thoughtful nods. “What've you got—pictures?”

“Of you and Mapangou?” Keeling said. “Yeah, we've got pictures. Jack here's the camera nut. Fast film, infra-red. Whatever. He's got you coming out of the bushes and sitting down and getting up and breaking Old Black Joe's neck and all that. But look at it this way. If you pick up the money down in the Bahamas, we really won't need the pictures, will we?”