The Mordida Man

12

The retired Maltese smuggler was already past seventy and probably needed glasses, but his eyes were still keen enough to recognize easily the ninety-two-foot yacht with the raked stack. Not many of today’s yachts had stacks raked like the one that had docked that morning. The old man remembered the yacht well, from when it had been built in Valletta under British supervision twenty-five years ago. Or was it twenty-six?

They had built it for the King, he remembered. The King of Libya. He tried to remember the King’s name, but couldn’t, so he gave up and felt content just to sit there on the quay with his back against the sun-warmed wooden crate and let his mind wander as he watched the three customs officials file aboard the yacht.

When the three customs officials hurried off the yacht less than ten minutes later, the old man suspected that each was probably richer by a few quid. He couldn’t blame them. After all, who could really devote himself to a job that required harassing the rich and the powerful? And certainly the Libyans were now both.

The old man didn’t much care for the Libyans, who had been swarming over Malta in recent years with their big talk and their big plans and their oil millions — although the big talk had lessened in recent months. But still he didn’t much care for them — or the British or the Italians or the French, for that matter. The Krauts, too, he decided. They were all over the place nowadays. He didn’t like them either.

The old man had long felt that there were still too many foreigners on Malta. Always had been. Now there were the Libyans and the German tourists and even the Americans with that dungaree factory of theirs. Not so many British any more, though. Not like twenty-five years ago when the British had built that yacht for King Idris.

The old man was pleased when the name of the deposed Libyan King came back to him so easily. But he knew that was the way it always worked. Try to think of it, and you couldn’t. But let your mind go free, let it wander, let it soar a little like a gull riding the air, and it would pop right into your mind. Always. Well, nearly always.

The old man twisted himself into an even more comfortable position against the warm crate, took out a cigarette, and lit it with a French lighter. His name was Mario Cagni, but for years most people had called him Jimmy — or rather Jeemee — because of that American film actor, the one who always played the gangster who got killed, although the actor spelled his name differently — and pronounced it differently, too. But nearly everyone still called the old man Jimmy, although many, especially the young, no longer remembered why — or cared.

Cagni had been a smuggler — and a good one — for more than fifty years, and his interest in boats was more than casual. Retired now and living with his widowed daughter, who couldn’t stand him underfoot all day, the old man spent much of his time down on the waterfront near the boats that for so long had been such an essential tool of his profession.

He had almost decided to rouse himself and head for his favorite cafe and his regular mid-morning cup of coffee when the Japanese went aboard the Libyan yacht. Cagni found that interesting. Not extremely so, perhaps, but interesting enough to keep him on the quay with his back against the warm crate and his eyes on the yacht. He lowered his eyes just long enough to take out a pencil and a scrap of paper and write down, “1 oriental (maybe jap?) 6 ft. w/ camera 10:17 a.m.” Then he settled back with another cigarette to see if anything else interesting might happen.

At ten-twenty the German went aboard. At least he looked German to Cagni — all that blond hair, pale skin, and no neck. So he wrote down, “1 kraut (dutch?) 10:20 a.m. 12–13 stone, 5-10, tres blanc.”

Cagni prided himself on his languages. He more or less spoke four, not including Maltese, and none of them particularly well. He prided himself most of all on his French, which had proved useful in his trade, especially when dealing with the Corsicans. And it was French he used to describe the young dark-haired woman who went aboard the yacht at ten forty-eight that morning. Cagni wrote down that she was “tres jolie.”

After that, Cagni waited until half past eleven, but when nothing else interesting happened, he rose, stretched, and decided to go find the Pole and see whether he could sell him what he had seen.

During the reign of King Idris I, the yacht had been called Sunrise I, and the name had been lettered in gold on her stern and bow in both Arabic and English. Now she had been renamed the True Oasis, out of Tripoli, and all this had been gold-lettered in both English and Arabic in accordance with standard international maritime practice, although the English was noticeably smaller than the Arabic.

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 espionagese.

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.