The Mordida Man

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.