The Mordida Man

5

It had been a curious, roundabout message, perhaps garbled in its transmission, but still urgent enough, even desperate enough, to cause the Nigerian Ambassador, His Excellency Olufemi Dokubo, to rouse himself from a sound sleep in his Washington residence on Woodley Road, summon his principal aide and a driver, and arrive at Dulles International Airport at 4 A.M., shortly before the Libyan 727 touched down for refueling.

The message had been radioed to the control tower at Dulles, where it had been passed on by phone to the night duty man at the Nigerian Embassy on 16th Street Northwest. The night duty man was a twenty-three-year-old Ibo from Enugu and a student of economics at Georgetown University.

The student had been reluctant to call the Ambassador, so he had roused the Ambassador’s principal aide instead and read him the message.

“It says, and I wrote it down exactly, ‘Imperative you be at Dulles to meet our plane. Estimated time of arrival 0400. Fate of civilization may hang in balance.’ It’s signed Ali Arifi.”

There was a long pause and then the aide said, “Are you positive about that last part — that fate of civilization thing?”

The student giggled, but quickly recovered himself and said gravely, “Yes, sir. I made them repeat it three times.”

The aide grumpily thanked the student, hung up, and then sat on the edge of his bed staring at the message he had copied down. All Libyans are mad, he told himself. It was a conclusion he had come to after being heavily involved during the past several months in the conduct of their affairs in the United States, a chore the Nigerian Embassy reluctantly had taken on after the rupture in diplomatic relations between the U.S. and Libya.

Still, the message had been signed by Ali Arifi, and garbled or not, it was apparent that something had gone seriously wrong with the Libyans’ junket, which the aide also had had a major hand in arranging. He sighed and picked up the phone again, first glancing at his watch. Two-thirty. The old man is going to be absolutely livid. Reluctantly, the aide began dialing.

With the light, almost non-existent traffic, it had taken them only thirty-three minutes to reach the airport. By the time they arrived, there was another urgent message from the Libyan 727. It was a request for the Ambassador to arrange for refueling and customs and immigration clearance. Ambassador Dokubo had gone about this in his usual skilled, even suave manner, exuding his famous charm, which in the more than twenty-one years since independence, had carried him to near the very top in his country’s diplomatic service.

After the refueling was almost completed, and the suspicious customs and immigration people mollified, Ambassador Dokubo was driven out to the 727 by an airport official who continued to complain about the irregularity of the Libyans’ proposed departure. Ambassador Dokubo smiled and nodded sympathetically, finally observing that, “Well, one must remember, Mr. Druxhall, that most Libyans are just a bit odd. All that desert, probably.” The airport official had nodded his gloomy approval of the Ambassador’s assessment.

The ramp was already in place by the time they arrived at the plane. The airport official waited in the car while the Ambassador went up the ramp and into the 727. The lounge section was empty save for the Minister of Defense, Ali Arifi, who rose and nodded slightly, not quite bowing.

“So, Minister,” Ambassador Dokubo said, glancing around the empty compartment, “I hope you can enlighten me about what I should do to help save civilization at four o’clock in the morning.”

“You found my message melodramatic?”

“A bit.”

Arifi waved the Ambassador to one of the lounge chairs. The Ambassador was a large, heavy man of fifty, quite tall, with a globe of a head whose chocolate cheeks were serrated with Yoruba tribal scars. He had a famous white smile, which he now turned on as he sank down into the chair, not taking his eyes off Arifi. He’s nervous, the Ambassador thought. No, it’s more than nerves. It’s fear.

Arifi had lowered his lean rump to the edge of the chair closest to the Ambassador. He leaned forward, his arms resting on bony knees, a slight tic twitching at the corner of his left eye. It was a dark hollowed-out face whose dominating feature was a heavily boned nose that poked itself out and then down toward a wide mouth that was almost lipless, like a fish.

“I must make this one point first,” Arifi said, his excellent English bearing heavy Italian overtones and his voice curiously deep for so slight a man. “The request I make of you comes not from me, but from Colonel Mourabet.”

“The Colonel is in excellent health, I trust.”

“Yes, his health is excellent, praise be to God.”

“And his family, they, too, are well?” the Ambassador continued, even at four in the morning the total diplomat.

“They, too, through God’s beneficence, enjoy excellent health.”

“I am delighted to hear so. Now, how may I be of service to the Colonel?”

“He would be forever in your debt if you were to deliver to President McKay a message and a small package. They must be delivered to the President only. Again, I must emphasize — to the President only.”

“A small package, you say,” Ambassador Dokubo said, immediately suspecting a bomb. “How small?”

Arifi pulled out a drawer from a built-in cabinet and removed a small Gucci box, approximately three inches square and one inch deep. It was tied with red string and sealed with pink chewing gum. He offered it to the Ambassador almost apologetically. “I regret we had no sealing wax.”

Dokubo accepted the box gingerly. “A gift?” he said, knowing it wasn’t.

“More a token, I would think.”

“In appreciation of your tour.”

“The tour was not a success,” Arifi said stiffly. “We found it necessary to terminate it.”

“I am sorry. I was hoping it would prove successful.”

“Perhaps another time.”

“Yes, perhaps. But you also mentioned a message.”

Arifi nodded and withdrew a stiff buff-colored envelope from his inside breast pocket and handed it over. It also was sealed with a wad of pink chewing gum. The Ambassador sniffed and could smell cinnamon.

“It, too, of course, is confidential,” Arifi said, the tic near his left eye now throbbing erratically.

“But of vital importance to... uh... civilization?”

“Colonel Mourabet thinks so,” Arifi said in a cold voice. “If I were you, Your Excellency, I would not discount the importance of our request because of its melodramatic nature. Great events often seem melodramatic while happening, but tragic in retrospect.”

He’s completely mad, the Ambassador thought, staring at Arifi’s tic, which now threatened to turn into an uncontrollable twitch.

“I appreciate your confidence in my discretion,” the Ambassador murmured and heaved himself up out of the chair.

Arifi rose, too, and laid a cautionary hand on the Ambassador’s arm. “One more thing, Your Excellency. We would be exceedingly grateful if you would wait until, say, ten o’clock before calling on the President.”

That would give them nearly six hours, the Ambassador thought. At, say, 550 miles per hour, that would put them over — what? Morocco, or perhaps Algeria, if they go that way.

“The President is, as you know, a very busy man,” he said. “I am not at all sure when my appointment can be scheduled.”

“As long as it’s no sooner than ten o’clock.”

“I shall do my best.”

Arifi smiled. His tic throbbed wildly. “One cannot possibly ask for more.”

It was not until 11:45 that morning that Ambassador Dokubo was ushered into the Oval Office. The appointment had been arranged through the urging of the Secretary of State, whom the Ambassador had telephoned at home at 7 A.M. Although Dokubo had been cautiously vague about his reasons for requesting the extraordinary meeting with the President, his reputation for sound common sense and his country’s enormous oil reserves had convinced the Secretary that the meeting should take place.

“You can’t tell me any more than you’ve already told me, I take it?” the Secretary had said.

“No, I don’t see how I really can, Mr. Secretary, and still keep my word.”

“Of course. I understand. Although their tour was unofficial we naturally are deeply disappointed that they canceled the balance of it. Did they give you any inkling as to why they decided to cancel?”

“Only that it was not a success. I believe I’m quoting exactly.”

“I’ve always found this new crop of Libyans to be quite? strange,” the Secretary had said.

“Quite mad, really.”

“Yes. Well, I’ll see what I can arrange.”

After the telephone conversation, Ambassador Dokubo summoned his principal aide, who came in and stood before the large carved desk on which rested the small Gucci box.

“I don’t suppose you have any chewing gum.”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“Do you think you might hunt up a stick or two?”

“Any particular kind, sir?”

“Do you have any idea about what kind this might be?” Dokubo said, indicating that the aide should examine the box.

The aide picked it up and sniffed the chewing gum. “Dentyne, I’d say, sir. Or close to it.”

“See what you can do.”

In a few minutes the aide had returned with a package of Dentyne gum that he had obtained from a youth in the Embassy mail room.

“Chew up a couple of sticks,” the Ambassador said.

The aide peeled the wrapping off two sticks and popped them into his mouth. While he was chewing, the Ambassador carefully examined the Gucci box. He weighed it in the palm of one hand.

“I don’t think it could be a bomb, do you?”

“There are such things as letter bombs,” the aide said.

“Well, we shall soon see,” the Ambassador said. He peeled away the chewing gum that had been stuck to the box’s edges. Then he carefully untied the string. After that, he looked up at his aide and said, “You may leave the room, if you wish.”

The aide swallowed. “No, sir, that won’t be necessary.”

The Ambassador nodded and carefully lifted off the top of the small box.

“Good God!” the aide said.

Ambassador Dokubo’s 11:45 A.M. meeting with President McKay had been sandwiched in between a photo opportunity with a band of 4-H prize winners from Valley City, North Dakota, and a meeting between the President and the Director of the FBI, whose west coast special agents had been alerted to start a search for Bingo McKay and Eleanor Rhodes after repeated calls to the Marriott Hotel in Anaheim had failed to locate them.

There was always the chance, of course, that Bingo, a resolute bachelor, could have bedded himself down with a companion or two in the farther reaches of Hollywood or Malibu or the Marina del Rey. But if he had, he normally would have arranged for Eleanor Rhodes to cover for him. But when neither she nor Bingo could be located by the resourceful operators on the White House switchboard, the President, in view of the Libyans’ hasty departure, had once again silently goddamned his brother’s stubborn refusal to accept Secret Service protection.

He grew even more concerned when the Secretary of State telephoned with the news of the Libyans’ strange early-morning meeting with the Nigerian Ambassador. “Have we done anything to piss them off — anything at all?” the President had asked.

The Secretary was careful in his reply. “Nothing that I am aware of, Mr. President.”

“That leaves a whole lot of territory unexplored, doesn’t it?”

“An immense amount, sir.”

“Well, check around and see what you can find out. And I suppose I’d better see Dokubo at — let’s make it eleven forty-five. Maybe he’ll have something I can pass on to the FBI.”

“I’ll inform the Ambassador of the time.”

“And don’t forget to check out what we’ve done to upset that Libyan bunch — you know, like serving them pork chops for lunch.”

“I’ll see to it immediately, Mr. President.”

When Ambassador Dokubo was ushered into the Oval Office at precisely 11:45, the President was quick to note the Nigerian’s grim expression. After they shook hands and exchanged routine pleasantries, the President said, “You’ve brought me bad news, haven’t you?”

Dokubo nodded. “I don’t believe it will be good.” He picked up his attaché case, put it on his lap, and opened it. He took out the buff envelope first and then the Gucci box and placed them on the President’s desk.

“I took the precaution of having my security people examine both of these,” he said. “They assure me that they contain no explosives.”

The President examined the small box first and looked up. “Chewing gum.”

“They apologized for having no sealing wax.”

“They say what was in it?”

“A token — according to Ali Arifi.”

“He’s the Minister of Defense, right?”

“Yes.”

“He say what kind of token?”

“No, Mr. President, he didn’t.”

The President snipped the red string binding the box with a pair of scissors, then peeled away the chewing gum and lifted off the lid. He was a tall man with a tennis pro’s rangy body and the careless good looks of a man who for some reason had always assumed that he was ugly and didn’t particularly care. In a few years, possibly as many as ten, he would look far more distinguished than he did now, but perhaps not as capable. He had a high, wide forehead and deep-set greenish eyes, an unremarkable nose, a mouth that in repose appeared sardonic, but not when he smiled, and an almost perfect chin, which compensated for the batwing ears that had been handed down to McKay men for generations along with enough thick blondish-gray hair to cover them up.

After the President opened the box, his year-round tan seemed to fade and he said, “Sweet Jesus Christ almighty!” and looked up quickly at Ambassador Dokubo, whose eyes had been recording every nuance of the scene for his half-completed memoirs.

The severed ear rested in the Gucci box on a bed of surgical cotton. It was a large ear, quite drained of blood and no longer pink — indeed, almost white — and the Ambassador’s eyes traveled from it to the left ear of the President and matched them up. It’s his brother’s, he finally decided. Those idiots have cut off the brother’s ear.

The Ambassador made a slight clearing noise far down in his throat and said, “It would appear to be an ear, Mr. President. A human ear.”

The President’s right hand seemed to move unbidden up to his own right ear, which he touched reassuringly. Not taking his eyes from the box, he picked up the buff envelope and ripped it open. He read its contents at a glance, read them again, more slowly, and then tossed the letter across the desk toward Ambassador Dokubo. The Ambassador wasn’t at all sure whether he was intended to read the letter, but when the President spun around in his big chair and stared out the window at the White House south lawn, Dokubo almost snatched up the letter and hungrily read its crabbed writing, trying to burn every word into his memory.

There was no date, and the letter’s salutation was a brusque “Mr. President.” The body of the letter read:

The letter was signed simply but rather grandly with the Libyan ruler’s last name, “Mourabet.” Underneath in a far different, somewhat shaky Palmer method was written, “These suckers aren’t kidding.” The postscript was signed “Bingo.”

Ambassador Dokubo put the letter carefully back down on the desk as the President slowly turned around in his chair, his expression grim, his face ashen.

“You read it?”

Ambassador Dokubo nodded. “I did, Mr. President.”

The President rose. So did the Ambassador. The President looked at the Nigerian thoughtfully for a few moments and then spoke, carefully choosing his words. “I’m not sure yet just what steps we will take, Mr. Ambassador. But it could be that we might call on you to serve in an intermediary role of some kind. Would you agree?”

Dokubo nodded gravely. “My country and I are at your service, Mr. President.”

“Thank you. And I’m also sure that I can rely on your complete discretion.”

“Complete, Mr. President.”

After leaving the Oval Office, Dokubo hurried to his waiting Mercedes. Before the chauffeured car had even reached the south gate, Dokubo, using his attaché case as a desk, was making frantic notes about the morning’s meeting, which he had already decided to make the epiphanic chapter in his memoirs.

The President, meanwhile, had again turned away from his desk to stare out at the south lawn. When he turned back, his face was no longer ashen. Instead, it had resumed its normal tan except for the rosy flush that had crept up his neck to his ears. His mouth was stretched into a thin, furious line as he picked up the telephone.

When the secretary answered, his voice was a snarl. “Get me that fucking Coombs out at that fucking CIA.”