The Mordida Man

29

They went up three flights of stairs, Alex Reese leading the way, with Dunjee next and Keeling and Spiceman bringing up the rear. They were narrow wooden stairs, located in the rear of the building. Dunjee decided they were the servants’ stairs. The building appeared old enough to have been built back when there were still servants to be had.

At the top of the stairs they walked down a short hall and into a large sun-drenched corner room that seemed to be mostly windows and angular furniture made out of chrome and glass and leather. There was also a marble floor. Part of it was covered by a thin worn rug that looked old and expensive.

Seated in one of the chrome and leather chairs was Leland Timble. He wore an Indian-made military style shirt with many busy pockets in the sleeves, tan slacks, and on his face a happy smile that Dunjee thought looked silly. Timble studied Dunjee carefully. Dunjee only glanced at Timble and then looked out the windows at the view of Rome. He decided it was a splendid, probably expensive view, but one that did nothing at all to tell him where he was.

“You are, I expect, Mr. Dunjee,” Timble said.

Dunjee looked at Timble again. “I’m Dunjee.”

“I am Leland Timble.”

Dunjee nodded. “You rob banks.”

Timble giggled. “And you are the Mordida Man.”

“Newspaper stuff.”

“Isn’t it dreadful?”

“Terrible,” Dunjee said. He turned toward Alex Reese. “This is the patriot you were telling me about?”

Reese smiled and shrugged. “He’s working on it.”

“Now then, what does Mr. Dunjee have for us?” Timble said.

Reese took the Grand Hotel envelope out of his pocket and handed it to the seated man. Timble slipped out the folded sheet of paper and opened it. He studied it carefully.

“Exceedingly well drawn; quite detailed.” He looked up at Dunjee. “The building would appear to be a farmhouse of some kind.”

“I didn’t get a very good look at it,” Dunjee said.

Timble held out the sheet of paper. Dunjee moved over, accepted it, and looked at it carefully. “As you said, a farmhouse.”

“It would appear to be near the sea,” Timble said.

Dunjee nodded, still examining the map. “Looks that way.”

“But what sea?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Dunjee said and handed the map back to Timble. It took several seconds for Timble to refold the map and slip it back into the envelope. The happy-face smile vanished. He looked up at Franklin Keeling and nodded glumly.

Keeling turned quickly and hit Dunjee hard in the stomach, just below the belt buckle. The air exploded out of Dunjee’s mouth. Keeling hit him again, again very hard, in approximately the same place. Dunjee doubled over holding his stomach. He fought for air, but his lungs refused to work properly. He sank to his knees on the marble floor, still doubled over. The nausea came then and Dunjee tried to fight it back, but lost, and vomited on the marble floor.

Jack Spiceman turned and left the room. When he came back, Dunjee was still bent over on the floor. Spiceman tossed him a rag. “Here,” he said. “Clean it up.”

Dunjee straightened slowly. He tried a series of quick shallow breaths. They seemed to help. He used the rag to mop up the vomit. Then he rose slowly, took out a handkerchief, and used it to wipe the tears from his eyes and the vomit from his mouth.

“That was to save time, Mr. Dunjee,” Timble said. “We’re extremely short of time.”

“What do you want?” Dunjee said.

“Why don’t you sit down — over here by me?” Timble said, patting a chair.

Dunjee moved over and lowered himself into a leather chair whose chrome frame somewhat resembled a Z.

“What we want is quite simple,” Timble said. “We want Bingo McKay. The President’s brother,” he added, as if there might be several of them.

Dunjee nodded.

“Abedsaid knows where he is, doesn’t he?” Reese said.

Again, Dunjee nodded and pressed his right hand against his stomach. It did nothing to ease the pain.

“The way I figure it,” Reese said, “it’s a two-stage deal. That little map. That’s the first stage. The second stage is where you get the map coordinates, the latitude and longitude and all that good stuff, which you need to tell what country it’s in, right?”

Dunjee cleared his throat. “Something like that.”

“Tell me,” Reese said. “What’re you using on Abedsaid — bribes or blackmail?”

Dunjee stared up at him. “A little of both.”

Reese nodded, almost in approval. “How little’s a little — the bribe, I mean?”

“A million.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Paul Grimes,” Dunjee said. “He transferred it this morning.”

“Grimes got it from the President?”

Dunjee nodded.

“And the million paid for our little map, right?” Without waiting for an answer, Reese continued. “What’s going to buy the coordinates?”

“Pictures,” Dunjee said.

“Dirty pictures?”

“Filthy,” Dunjee said. “The Colonel’s something of a prude.”

“Where’d you get the pictures?” Reese said.

“Abedsaid’s apartment. In London.”

“What’re the pictures of?” Spiceman said.

“Abedsaid and the German — Diringshoffen.”

“In the sack together?”

Dunjee nodded.

“No kidding?” Spiceman said. He looked at Reese. “Does Diringshoffen swing that—”

Leland Timble interrupted. “We’re at an impasse,” he said in a tone that ruled out any further discussion.

Franklin Keeling smiled at Dunjee. “Leland’s always a little bit ahead of the rest of us slow thinkers.”

“He’s right,” Dunjee said.

“You do see it, don’t you, Mr. Dunjee?” Timble said.

“I see it.”

“See what?” Keeling said.

Timble sighed. “We wish to rescue Mr. Bingo McKay from his captors and return him safely to his family. For this patriotic action we, of course, expect to be rewarded. At worst, a light suspended sentence for our past youthful mistakes. Mr. Dunjee’s objective is essentially the same as ours — rescuing Mr. McKay. However, Mr. Dunjee is near his objective, while we are as far away as ever.”

“We’ve got Dunjee,” Keeling said.

“But only Mr. Dunjee has any rapport with Mr. Abedsaid. We have no leverage. Mr. Dunjee does. However, we cannot let Mr. Dunjee go his own way, can we? At least, not until Mr. McKay is safely on his way home.”

Dunjee pressed both hands against his stomach, closed his eyes, and leaned back in the chair. He wondered how long it would be before they arrived at the solution and which one would suggest it first. He decided to place a small private bet on Reese.

He lost. It was Spiceman who said, “We’ve got half the answer already. All we need is the other half.”

Dunjee opened his eyes. Spiceman was staring at him. “What was he going to hand over to you when you gave him the dirty pictures?”

“A map. The real map.”

“When?”

“At six this evening.”

“Where is he now — Abedsaid?”

“At the FAO — negotiating with Ambassador Dokubo.”

“The Nigerian?”

Dunjee nodded.

“The delay in the final transaction,” Timble said, “that was to make sure that the money was actually transferred to Abedsaid’s account in what — some Swiss bank?”

Again Dunjee nodded and closed his eyes. Now it comes, he thought.

“He’s with Ambassador Dokubo now,” Timble said. “How long do these negotiating sessions usually go on?”

Dunjee opened his eyes again. “You talking to me?”

“Yes.”

“Abedsaid told me a couple of hours. Dokubo is stalling.”

“He wouldn’t carry the real map around with him, would he?” Timble said. “No, of course not.”

“Why not?” Dunjee said.

“The scale,” Timble explained, as if to a child. “If the extract you showed us is from the original map, it is an extremely large scale. One centimeter to five meters. It would be most cumbersome.”

“His hotel safe, maybe?” Keeling said.

Timble shook his head. “No, I think not. It might draw attention to it. I think... yes, I think if I were Mr. Abedsaid, I would keep the map in my hotel room. Tucked away securely, of course.” Timble shifted his gaze to Jack Spiceman, the former FBI agent.

“A black bag job,” Spiceman said. “Right?”

Timble nodded. “Don’t you agree?”

“But not me,” Spiceman said. “If I got caught, it would blow everything.”

“No, not you, Jack,” Timble said. “What we need, it would seem, is a rent-a-thief. A good one.” He smiled his happy-face smile and looked around the room.

After a moment, Dunjee said, “I know one. A good one.”