The Mordida Man

22

The Polaroid snapshot showed Bingo McKay, left ear neatly bandaged, sitting in a chair, actually smiling as he held the front page of the International Herald Tribune up under his chin. There was nothing in the photograph’s background — nothing useful anyway — only a white blur, and the Ambassador decided that they probably had used a bedsheet to block out anything that might have hinted at the location.

“He looks... fit enough, don’t you think?” Faraj Abedsaid remarked as the big man with the round chocolate-colored face and the scarred cheeks produced a small magnifying glass. The big man was His Excellency Olufemi Dokubo, Nigeria’s Ambassador to the United States. Dokubo used the magnifying glass to examine the headlines on the Herald Tribune’s front page.

Dokubo had flown into Rome that morning from Washington and waited at the Nigerian Embassy for the Libyans to call. He had waited all morning. When the call finally came, just after noon, there had been fifteen minutes of silly palaver over where the meeting should take place. The Libyans had insisted on a neutral site. Ambassador Dokubo had suggested several, including the Swiss Embassy, pointing out that nothing could be more neutral than that. But the Libyans — on one pretext or another — had turned down each of his suggestions until Dokubo finally had suggested the place where they were now meeting.

It was an immense conference room — more hall than room — in the UN’s Food and Agriculture Organization complex. Dokubo and Abedsaid sat at the head of a sixty-two-foot-long conference table around which selected food and agricultural experts sometimes gathered to muse about the three billion or so persons in the world who went to bed hungry every night.

The room was high-ceilinged and chandeliered and draped and carpeted. It had a hushed air, as if something monumental was about to be said. Alone in the room, Abedsaid and Dokubo found themselves whispering to each other.

The night before, just prior to catching his flight to Rome, Ambassador Dokubo had had his second meeting with President Jerome McKay. They again had met in the Oval Office. The President looked tired. He had put one foot up on his desk, locked his hands behind his head, and stared at Dokubo.

“We haven’t got him,” the President said.

Because of his quick mind, it had taken Dokubo only a second to realize what McKay was talking about. “Felix, you mean,” Dokubo said, trying to disguise his shock.

“That’s right. We haven’t got him. We never did. We don’t know who has.”

“But they still think you do. The Libyans.”

“Yes.”

“I see.” Dokubo paused as he decided on the phrasing of his question. “Is there any possibility that he may have been — uh — mislaid?”

The President grinned. It was a sour, even bitter grin. “You mean am I sure the CIA hasn’t got him locked up out in a toolshed somewhere? I thought of that myself. They haven’t got him. I made sure. Damn sure.” He looked at Dokubo sympathetically. “Puts you in a hell of a bind, doesn’t it?”

“It reduces my effectiveness as a negotiator.”

“There won’t be any negotiations.”

“You wish me to withdraw?” Dokubo said, not quite sure whether he wanted the answer to be yes or no.

“No, sir, I want you to do me a favor.” The President took his foot down from the desk, unlocked his hands, and leaned forward in his chair. His expression was both grave and candid.

He’s preparing to sell me something, Dokubo thought.

“Around this town you have a certain reputation, Mr. Ambassador,” the President said.

First the flattery, thought Dokubo, nonetheless eager to hear what form it would take.

“The consensus among your peers is this: If their own lives depended upon the services of a skilled diplomat, then ninety-five percent of them would vote for you. I don’t know who the other five percent would vote for. Probably themselves.”

Dokubo could feel the flush of pleasure rising up his neck until it reached his ears. There was also a very pleasant tingling sensation. He kept his face impassive, and his deep voice rich, but modest. “That is very flattering, Mr. President.”

The President shook his head. “I wouldn’t call it flattery. I’d call it a pretty realistic assessment. And that’s why I’m going to ask you for this favor. I’m going to ask you to save my brother’s life.”

Dokubo started to speak, but the President held up a hand. “Hear me out. We’re trying to get Felix back from whoever’s got him. It’s being approached from several angles. If we do get him back, then we’ll ship him out to the Libyans before he even has time to change his shirt. But I’d be a fool to predict anything at this juncture. So I’m asking you — humbly asking you — to do me this favor. I’m asking you to save my brother’s life. If you agree, you’ll need all your considerable experience and skill to do the only thing that will save it.”

“And that one thing is what?”

“Stall.”

Dokubo nodded slowly. “For how long?”

“I don’t know. Days — perhaps even weeks. It’s an art, of course — stalling. I needn’t tell you what the tricks are. From what I hear, it would be like telling my grandmother how to suck eggs.”

Dokubo smiled and tried not to preen. “I have had some small experience,” he said. “At stalling.”

In the FAO conference room, Dokubo put down the magnifying glass and looked up at Abedsaid. “He would seem to be still alive — as of yesterday.”

“He’s quite alive,” Abedsaid said. “I trust you have brought similar proof of Berrio-Brito’s well-being.”

“Felix, you mean?”

“You prefer to call him that?”

“Simpler, don’t you think?”

“All right,” said Abedsaid. “Felix. Have you brought evidence of his well-being?”

“Before we touch on that, I think we should deal with another pressing matter. And that is, When will the President be allowed to talk with his brother by telephone?”

Abedsaid shook his head. “There will be no telephoning.”

Dokubo looked surprised. He did it quite well, even managing to put a measure of shock into his expression. “But it was my understanding that at least one telephone call would be permitted.”

“I’m afraid you were misinformed, Mr. Ambassador. There will be no telephoning.”

Dokubo sighed. “I will have to report this new development to my principals, of course.”

“In the meantime, you can furnish me with the evidence of Felix’s safety and well-being.”

“I’m afraid that will have to be tabled until our next meeting. My instructions are quite explicit. If we could have begun the negotiations for the telephone call, then the evidence you request could have been discussed. Now, however, our discussions must be held in abeyance until new consultations with my principals have been concluded.”

What a slick, smooth son of a bitch, Abedsaid thought. He made his face wrinkle itself into a frown which he hoped was full of foreboding. “I deeply regret the hesitancy that has already crept into our negotiations. My superiors in Tripoli are not men of endless patience. I’m afraid they might even suspect that you could be engaged in delaying tactics.”

“Delaying tactics?” Dokubo said, his deep voice full of surprise and resentment. “These are delicate negotiations, Mr. Abedsaid. It was Colonel Mourabet himself who at the outset stated that the fate of civilization may well hang in the balance. I came to this meeting fully expecting to discuss the arrangements whereby the President could talk by telephone to his brother. But there has been no discussion. No give and take. Only a peremptory rejection of what I think is a most reasonable request. Now I must go back to my principals empty-handed. Unless, of course...”

Here it comes, Abedsaid thought. “Unless what, Mr. Ambassador?”

“You are quite certain that there can be no telephone call?”

“Quite certain.”

“Then what would you say to a tape recording? A brief message from the brother to the President. Perhaps he could read a few of that day’s headlines in the Herald Tribune — and then, say, two minutes of reassuring chat. It would not be nearly as responsive as a telephone call, of course, but I just might be able to convince my principals to accept it as a reasonable alternative.”

“In essence, you’re refusing to give me any evidence whatsoever of Felix’s well-being?”

Dokubo sighed. “I am afraid we cannot begin to touch on that until the President has heard his brother’s voice. About that he was adamant. Now that it is for the first time clear that there can be no telephone call, I think the President might be persuaded to settle for a tape recording along the lines I have suggested. I cannot, unfortunately, guarantee that.”

Abedsaid rose. “I will have to consult with Tripoli.”

“And I with Washington.” Dokubo rose, smiling. “Do you find this place... comfortable?” He made a vague gesture that encompassed the enormous room.

“It will do.”

“Then to allow ourselves plenty of time to make sure that our next session will prove more productive, shall we meet here at this same time— Let’s see, what would you say to forty-eight hours from now?”

Abedsaid smiled coldly. “I’d say you were stalling.”

Dokubo shot up his eyebrows. “Stalling?”

Abedsaid nodded, staring thoughtfully at the Nigerian. “Although I’m not yet sure why.”

“Forty-eight hours then?” Dokubo said with his best smile.

“Twenty-four,” Abedsaid said, turned, and left.

The call from Tripoli had the Libyan Embassy in an uproar. It was Colonel Mourabet himself on the line, demanding to speak to Faraj Abedsaid. When told that Abedsaid was unavailable, the Colonel started sacking Embassy personnel, beginning with the Ambassador himself. By the time the Colonel reached the Third Secretary, Abedsaid returned from his meeting with Dokubo, was rushed to the phone, and spoke soothingly into it in Maghribi.

It was a long conversation, lasting more than an hour. Abedsaid listened mostly at first and then, toward the end, did most of the talking himself. It was there, toward the end, during the last twelve minutes, that the conversation centered around the American, an ex-Congressman called Chubb Dunjee.

Dunjee awoke hungry. His watch was on the nightstand. He reached out with a bare arm and picked it up. They had left a light on across the room — a small lamp with a weak bulb. But it had been strong enough to let them see what they were doing, and he could read his watch by it. It was 9 P.M., actually a minute or two after.

Dunjee turned to look at Delft Csider. She was asleep, breathing softly, her mouth slightly open. The bed covers had slipped down around her waist, leaving her breasts bare. Breasts like what? Dunjee wondered. Larger than lemons, but smaller than melons. Breasts were always being compared to melons. Cantaloupes? Honeydew? Both rather large. More like oranges, he decided, in the scale of things anyway. He reached over and touched the nipple on her left breast.

She stirred, opened her eyes, and smiled. “Again?” she said. “You’ll notice I didn’t say, ‘Not again.’”

“I was just wondering,” he said.

“What?”

“If you’re hungry?”

She thought about it. “We didn’t eat, did we? Not food anyway.”

“Not much nourishment in the other. A trace of protein, I think.”

She stretched and yawned, not bothering to cover her mouth. He noticed she had no fillings in her teeth. “What’s wrong with your teeth?” he said.

“Wrong?”

“No fillings.”

“They don’t decay. No matter what I eat, nothing happens to them. I’ve got good gums, too. See?” She snarled at him.

“You’re lucky,” Dunjee said and reached for the phone. They were in his bedroom. Two hours earlier, still holding their drinks, they had almost wandered into it from the living room of the $220-a-day suite with its fourth-floor view of the Spanish Steps. The preliminaries had been brief and largely silent. The lovemaking had been both vigorous and a bit noisy. They had discovered that they were both talkers. Delft Csider was also something of a screamer — small joyous screams that she cut off by biting anything handy. But she didn’t bite too hard, and after a time Dunjee almost began to enjoy it.

“What would you like?” he said when room service answered the phone.

“Eggs and shrimp,” she said. “Something gooey and Italian made out of eggs and shrimp. Lots of shrimp.”

Dunjee ordered two scampi omelettes and some wine. After he hung up the phone, he looked at her. “Drink?”

She nodded. “Make it weak.”

Dunjee rose and went into the living room, returning with two glasses. He handed her one and sat down on the edge of the bed next to her.

“Were you born cockeyed?” she said, touching him gently just beneath his left eye.

He shook his head. “Bayonet practice. A sergeant was teaching me the vertical butt stroke. It shattered the cheekbone. The bone didn’t heal right, and ever since I’ve looked like something out of Picasso.”

“It’s nice,” she said. “It makes you look a little like a—” The knock at the living-room door kept her from completing her comparison. “That couldn’t be room service,” she said. “Not this soon.”

“Maybe it’s the tickets.”

“To Malta?”

“You did tell them to send them up, didn’t you?”

She nodded. “But they said they’d send them up in the morning.”

“Maybe it’s Hopkins,” Dunjee said, looked for his pants, found them on the floor, and slipped them on. He looked for his shirt, discovered it on the floor on the other side of the bed, and put it on, not bothering to tuck in its tails. He went to the living-room door dressed like that, barefoot, drink still in hand, and opened it.

There were four of them, including Harold Hopkins, who was sandwiched in between two large men with mustaches. The two men were young, in their late twenties. The fourth man had done the knocking. He held a pistol in his right hand. The pistol, an automatic, was down by his side, not pointing at anything. The man with the pistol was Faraj Abedsaid.

Abedsaid smiled. “I think,” he said, “that you and I must have a talk, Congressman.”

Dunjee backed away from the door. Abedsaid waited until the two large men herded Hopkins into the room. Abedsaid followed them in and closed the door, making sure it was locked. The two men moved over and leaned against it.

Hopkins looked at Dunjee and then let his glance roam around the room. “I didn’t have no fucking choice, mate,” he said and headed for the Scotch bottle.

“Here,” Dunjee said, holding out his own glass. “Add a touch to mine.”

Hopkins took the glass and began mixing the drinks. Abedsaid waved his pistol toward the bedroom door. “Miss Csider?”

Dunjee nodded.

“Ask her to come out, please.”

Again, Dunjee nodded and moved into the bedroom. Delft Csider was already dressing. “We’ve got a little trouble,” Dunjee said.

“How bad?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“I’ll be right out.”

Dunjee went back into the living room and accepted the drink from Hopkins.

Abedsaid smiled pleasantly. “It’s been rather a frantic day. Much of it was spent in checking you out, Congressman. Our own facilities are a bit limited, so here and there we had to use our friends. You have quite a reputation — at least in Mexico. The Mordida Man. It means the bribe giver, doesn’t it?”

“Something like that,” Dunjee said.

Delft Csider came out of the bedroom, nodded coolly at Abedsaid, ignored the two who were leaning against the door, and lowered herself into a chair.

“Would you care for a drink, Miss Csider?” Abedsaid said.

“No thank you.”

He nodded, looked around, decided on an armchair, and sat down. He held the pistol loosely in his lap. Dunjee and Hopkins continued to stand.

“It was, of course,” Abedsaid continued, “no coincidence that you sat next to me on the plane this morning. Allow me to congratulate you on your performance. It was quite convincing. You succeeded in arousing my curiosity, which, I presume, is exactly what you intended to do.” Although Abedsaid hadn’t posed it as a question, he waited as though expecting an answer.

After a moment, Dunjee said, “Something like that.”

“You were signaling, if I’m not mistaken, your availability.”

“Or maybe I was just trying to hustle a rich Arab.”

Abedsaid smiled again. “Now Mr. Hopkins here is almost equally interesting. Mr. Hopkins is a thief — and a good one, if my informants in London are correct. My apartment there was burgled a few days ago. Another small coincidence.”

“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.”