The Mordida Man (32 page)

“Well, Mr. Dunjee,” Abedsaid murmured. “Everything went according to plan, I see.”

Dunjee nodded. “Almost.”

“Now, let's see, this one?” He pointed at Leland Timble.

Dunjee nodded.

“And this one?” This time the rolled-up newspaper was pointed at Franklin Keeling. Again, Dunjee nodded.

“What about this one?” Abedsaid asked, pointing at Jack Spiceman.

“Him, too.”

“And this gentleman?”

“My name is Alex Reese and this is all part of a CIA operation. I suggest you—”

Abedsaid cut him off. “Mr. Dunjee?”

Before Dunjee could answer, Jack Spiceman said, “He's a fucking liar.”

Abedsaid turned toward Spiceman and lifted an eyebrow. “Dissent—so soon?”

“My left lapel,” Spiceman said. “Have somebody cut it open.”

Abedsaid turned toward one of the men in black and said something in Arabic. The man produced a knife and slit open Spiceman's left lapel. He removed a narrow piece of folded-up paper, a little more than an inch or so wide and almost seven inches long. He handed it to Abedsaid, who unwrapped the paper carefully.

“Negatives, it would seem,” Abedsaid said, “and contact prints.” He moved over to one of the candles for a better look. “It would appear that the gentleman with the bald head is in the process of breaking some black gentleman's neck. What do you think?”

Abedsaid offered the contact prints to Dunjee, who examined them near the candle. They showed Alex Reese rising from the Central Park bench; putting his hands to Mapangou's neck and head; twisting the neck, and Dr. Mapangou falling to the ground.

“Dr. Mapangou,” Dunjee said. “He was Gambia's representative to the UN.”

“Really,” Abesaid said. “Well, what do you say about our bald-headed friend then?”

“Sure,” Dunjee said. “Him too.”

Again, Abedsaid said something in Arabic. One of the black-clad men reached behind and brought out five pairs of handcuffs that had been taped together with masking tape to keep them from jingling. He stripped the masking tape off.

The first to be handcuffed was Leland Timble. “I demand to see the United States consul,” Timble said. “I demand to speak to the—”

He stopped speaking when the man who had the handcuffs produced a roll of wide surgical tape, ripped off a piece, and slapped it across Timble's mouth.

“What'll he do with them?” Dunjee asked as he watched the last of the handcuffs being snapped into place.

“The Colonel? I'm not sure what he really does have in mind,” Abedsaid said. “Something weird probably.” He turned toward the four handcuffed men. “Anything you'd like to say to them before they depart, Mr. Dunjee?”

“No,” Dunjee said. “Nothing.”

Abedsaid snapped something else out in Arabic and the six black-clad men led Leland Timble, Alex Reese, Jack Spiceman, and Franklin Keeling out through the door of the stone farmhouse. Abedsaid watched them go with evident satisfaction.

“Well, now,” he said, turning back to Dunjee. “I believe that does it, and very nicely done, too. The Colonel will be most pleased.”

“It does it except for Bingo McKay and the girl.”

“Oh, yes. Well, they should be down in the cellar—through that door over there. If they're still alive, of course.”

“You think they might not be?”

“That's really not my concern, is it, Mr. Dunjee?”

Abedsaid turned to go, but then turned back. “Shall I give your regards to the Colonel?”

“Do that,” Dunjee said.

It was a thick door that led down to the cellar and it was secured by a heavy padlock. Dunjee walked back and knelt down by the dead body of Ko Yoshikawa. He went through Ko's pockets and found the key in the second one he tried.

Dunjee rose and looked around for the flashlight that Keeling had carried. He found it on the table where the candles burned. After unlocking the door, he started down the stone steps that led to the cellar. Halfway down he paused to listen. He could hear nothing. He started to speak, but decided not to, afraid that there would be no answering voice.

At the next to the last step Dunjee paused and flashed his light over the small cellar. There was a pile of sacking that seemed to have served as a bed. Next to it was a bucket and a water jug. Dunjee continued to flash the light around the room. He found them in the farthermost corner.

The man had managed to rip a heavy piece of wood from somewhere. The woman crouched behind him. The man held the piece of wood like a club, his lips drawn back in a snarl.

Dunjee quickly reversed the flashlight and held it so that it shone up into his own face.

“It's me, Bingo,” he said.

“Dunjee?” Bingo McKay's voice was a harsh croak.

“It's over. It's all over.”

Bingo McKay let the club fall from his hands. He turned to the woman who cowered behind him. Eleanor Rhodes looked gray and dirty and disheveled. Her eyes seemed to be coated with a film. Nothing registered in them.

“You hear that, sugar?” Bingo McKay said gently. “It's all over.”

Eleanor Rhodes continued to crouch in the corner, staring up at him, seeing nothing.

33

Two months later they held the reception for the new Ambassador in the Thomas Jefferson State Reception Room on the eighth floor of the U.S. Department of State Building. The room was a slight snub, almost imperceptible except to the most seasoned observers of such things in Washington. The seasoned observers were of the opinion that if the reception had been really first rate, it would have been held in the somewhat larger John Quincy Adams State Drawing Room, which contained the desk where Benjamin Franklin had signed the treaty of Paris in 1783 ending the revolution.

All the Thomas Jefferson room had were those awful blue walls, white woodwork, the famous chandelier, and that statue of Jefferson himself, plus all those Chippendale chairs, which nobody used during a reception anyway. The seasoned observers were to change their minds about the snub later on in the evening.

Chubb Dunjee and Paul Grimes stood on the far side of the room and watched the Nigerian Ambassador, Olufemi Dokubo, go through the line, chat with the Secretary of State, and then beam down on the new Ambassador from Libya. Dokubo was wearing his native robe getup of brilliant blue with intricate white embroidery. On his head was perched a red round cap that looked something like a pillbox. The Libyan Ambassador wore a blue three-piece suit, white shirt, and dark tie. He might have been going to a funeral.

As they watched Dokubo and the new Ambassador chat briefly, Grimes said, “Cuts a hell of a figure in that robe, doesn't he?”

“Dokubo?”

“Yeah.”

Dunjee nodded. “Is Bingo still on his honeymoon?”

“Still,” Grimes said.

“Where'd they go?”

“Caracas.”

“Caracas?” Dunjee said. “What's in Caracas?”

“Twenty-million dollars, Bingo thinks. It belongs to us, the Israelis, and the Libyans. Bingo thinks he might be able to get it back.”

“How's his bride?”

“Better.”

“Good.” Dunjee looked at his watch. “He's late.”

“He's always late,” Grimes said.

He wasn't all that late though. Not more than ten minutes. First into the reception room slipped the four Secret Service men with the X-ray eyes to see if there were any bomb throwers present. After that came the President of the United States, Jerome McKay.

He moved down the reception line, the State Department spieler at his elbow to murmur the names of those he might not know. After shaking hands with the Secretary of State, whom he had last seen only three hours before, the President stopped before the Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the Libyan Arab Republic, the Honorable Faraj Abedsaid.

“Mr. Ambassador,” the President said.

“Mr. President.”

“We'll have our talk next week when you present your credentials. A long one.”

“I'm looking forward to it.”

“So am I,” the President said, his eyes already roaming the room to see whose hand he next should shake.

Not present and notable by their absence at the reception were the Ambassadors from Israel, the United Arab Republic, the Philippines, Chad, Niger, Algeria, and Tunisia, all of whom were still feuding with Libya about one thing or another. Also not present was the Ambassador from the Soviet Union, who was still grumpy over the resumption of relations between the U.S. and Libya.

The President worked the crowd skillfully, moving around the room in clockwise fashion until he reached four o'clock, where Dunjee, Grimes, and the rest of the nobodies were standing. “I don't think you know Chubb Dunjee, Mr. President,” Grimes said.

The President grasped Dunjee's hand. “Dunjee,” he said thoughtfully. “Dunjee. You were having a little tax problem, weren't you?”

“A misunderstanding,” Dunjee said. “It's all been resolved.”

The President nodded. “Good,” he said. “Good.” He gave Dunjee's hand a final pump and said, “Well, keep in touch—through Paul here.”

“All right,” Dunjee said.

Dunjee came out of the 21st Street entrance and climbed into the front seat of the rented car driven by Delft Csider.

“What'd he say?” she asked.

“He said keep in touch.”

“Well, that's almost as good as thank you.”

“Almost,” Dunjee said.

When they were on the George Washington Memorial Parkway about halfway to Dulles airport, Dunjee said, “I wish you'd change your mind.”

“What would I do in Portugal?” she said.

Dunjee thought about it. “Read, listen to music, run a few miles, do some shopping, hit a few bars—maybe screw a lot.”

“And when the money ran out?”

“Well, I guess then we'd go out and get us some more.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

She turned to stare at him briefly. “You really are serious, aren't you?”

“Totally.”

“I'll think about it.”

Dunjee smiled his best smile—very white, very warm, very winning. It was his politician's smile.

“Do that,” he said.

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copyright © 1981 by Ross Thomas

cover design by Jason Gabbert

This edition published in 2011 by
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