War Lord

Twenty-one

The cab pulled up outside Olympe forty minutes ahead of our booking. We were early because the layout of the place had to be known to us before von Weiss arrived. The restaurant was in a small stand-alone wedge-shaped building in the Rio ’burbs, situated at the end of a narrow one-way street. We expected to be the first patrons to arrive, but inside the door I was surprised to see the maître d’ accompanied by a gorilla in an expensive suit, with a jaw like reinforced concrete and wearing an earpiece. I recognized him from the excursion to Sugarloaf. If nothing else, the forward planning told me the people handling the security for von Weiss were pros.

‘I must examine you,’ he informed us once the maître d’ was satisfied we had a reservation.

‘I’ve had my yearly check-up,’ I told him. He frowned like he didn’t understand, so I made it easier for him. ‘I don’t think so, mac.’

‘We are sorry, sir,’ said the maître d’, wincing, seemingly pained by my reluctance to submit, ‘but tonight there is security. We have a VIP coming to Olympe. If you will not satisfy this request, then we must postpone your reservation for another night.’

‘Go with it,’ Petinski advised me.

The inspection rankled, but I put my arms out from my sides anyway and allowed myself to be patted down. He found nothing.

‘Your wife now,’ he said.

‘Fiancée,’ I said.

Petinski took half a step forward.

The man bent down to run his hands up the inside of her calves. ‘Careful, pal,’ I said, ‘if you value your thumbs.’ He hesitated, probably wondering what the hell I meant, but took his paws elsewhere anyway. There wasn’t much to check. Petinski was all breasts and legs in a flimsy almost see-through babydoll number that hung barely to mid-thigh. After buying it in a hurry from a dress shop at the Palace, she’d told me it wasn’t her style. I told her it should be.

The security guy finished the job by feeling the hollow of her back, and withdrew against the wall with a grunt and a flick of his hand to send us on our way.

The maître d’, a middle-aged guy with a big nose and a tub of product in his hair, directed us to our table.

‘Who’s your VIP?’ I asked him.

He shrugged. ‘Sorry, sir, I cannot say.’

I let it go. I knew who was coming to dinner anyway. The dining area was split into two sections, a room with a couple of larger tables in the center and, off to one side, a long red-paneled seat that ran the length of the wall faced by smaller tables. We were being led to the wall, which meant that either Petinski or I was going to have to sit with our back to the room. I drew the short straw — back to the room.

The maître d’ flipped out the napkin, put it on Petinski’s lap and said, ‘Please, my apology for this.’ He meant the security check rather than the seating or the napkin. ‘Can I get you a drink? It is a courtesy of the house.’

Petinski chose something from the menu, some local extravaganza with pineapple pieces and cherries that looked and sounded like a Carnival float. I ordered my usual, a fine selection of single malts in plain view at the bar.

‘You said you didn’t drink,’ I commented.

‘You’re not the best influence, Cooper.’

I looked her up and down. ‘It’s what I do, but you’re resisting.’

‘Are you referring to the moment back at the hotel?’

‘Maybe. Have you given it some thought?’

‘Haven’t you learned that getting involved with your partner is not such a great idea? I have.’

‘Who wants involvement? I was thinking more along the lines of a shallow meaningless roll in the hay. And you haven’t answered the question.’

‘Despite what you might think, I’m not an ice maiden, Cooper.’ There was the suggestion of a smile in her eyes. ‘Of course I thought about it and I decided against it. Now, can we get back to work, please?’

We spent a few minutes in comfortable silence, looking around, taking in the surroundings. The maître d’ returned with our drinks on a tray. He set Petinski’s on the table in front of her, then mine in front of me. Petinski picked hers up and took the straw between her lips and went back to keeping an eye on the front of house.

An excessive number of waiters stood around, hinting at the size of the tab Uncle Sam would be picking up for Petinski and me. This was no cheap eatery. The bar was not actually a bar but a bench where drinks were prepared. Behind it through a slatted blind was a kitchen half the size of the seating area, staffed by chefs in white aprons and tall white hats.

I excused myself, got up and went to the bathroom. The facilities for men and women were side by side, located behind a screen at the rear of the restaurant. The men’s was the size of a closet, with only enough room for two. A small window on the back wall was locked partially open, and barred. The layout of the women’s probably wouldn’t be any different. I wasn’t sure what Shilling had planned, but separating her from von Weiss without raising suspicion, even for a few seconds, was going to be a problem. At least without a little help. I took out my cell and put in a call.

As I returned to our table more diners arrived to experience the unusual greeting at the front door. No one seemed to mind it all that much, which was surprising. Perhaps getting frisked was a regular feature of the fine dining experience in Rio. I understood the reason for the security. In this place, if a gunman with a grudge came through the front door there’d be nowhere to go for von Weiss but straight to hell. I liked to think that White’s missing bodyguard might have had something to do with all the precaution, but then, maybe not. If I was von Weiss’s security, I’d have vetoed this venue. The conclusion I came to at the end of all this consideration was that von Weiss was quietly confident, at least in his hometown.

The joint began to fill fast. I checked my watch: seven twenty-five. Von Weiss was late. And then the door opened and Dolph Lundgren walked in, ducking slightly to avoid bumping his head. Yeah, he was a big motherfucker. He had a few words for his colleague getting personal with the dinner patrons, and then went back out. He came in again a handful of seconds later, another goon following, then von Weiss walked in with Shilling and both were fawned over by the maître d’ and the chef, who raced out from the kitchen. Two more bodyguards brought up the rear, immediately breaking off and going on an inspection of the restaurant, double-checking the facilities, entrances and exits.

‘Turn around, Cooper. It’s impolite to stare,’ I heard Petinski say.

‘Just fitting in with the general trend,’ I said, noting that pretty much everyone in the restaurant, men and women, had also forgotten their manners.

In my case the reason for the etiquette slip was Shilling, who was peeling herself out of a tight-fitting coat to reveal a long filmy canary-yellow dress with no back and barely a front that glimmered in the low light. Her hair did likewise while her skin glowed with a touch of the sun.

‘She’s beautiful,’ said Petinski, stating the obvious.

‘Scrubs up okay.’ I again compared the woman handing her coat to the maître d’ to the one hauling a Minimi light machine gun through the mud. ‘What’s von Weiss doing?’

‘Being shown to their table.’

Behind me, I could hear the maître d’ chatting away, being super friendly, laughing. The mental picture I had of the restaurant told me that von Weiss and Shilling had been allocated the single table in the area behind ours, rather than seating against the wall. The bodyguards, with the exception of Dolph, had taken up stations at strategic points in the restaurant: by the front door, outside the restrooms, outside the kitchen. I glanced over my shoulder quickly and saw that Dolph was standing close to his boss, but not too close.

I was right about where von Weiss and Shilling were seated. Petinski had a clear view of both of them over my shoulder. ‘This is not good for any meeting with Shilling. They’ve got the place bottled up,’ she murmured.

‘Let’s see what develops,’ I said.

‘What are you up to?’

‘Let’s eat,’ I said, motioning at a waiter.

‘We’re not here for the food.’

‘I’m hungry.’

I sensed movement behind me, followed by the scent of expensive perfume. Then I saw Shilling walking to the facilities, every male head in the joint following her progress. The lummox guarding the restroom stood aside to let her past.

Petinski cleared her throat and glanced briefly down at her lap. Something was up. ‘What just happened?’ I asked her.

‘Von Weiss looked at me,’ she replied, leaning forward, using my bulk as cover. ‘It was a certain kind of look. I need a shower.’

‘It was just a look.’

‘Trust me, there was a lot packed into it.’

The atmosphere in the restaurant settled down into a kind of normalcy, despite the heavy security and the fact that the staff took every opportunity to grovel over their extra-special guests. Meanwhile, however, I managed to even the score with Petinski over her breakfast effort and ordered a plate of barbecued meats to share. Genuine conversation between us was almost non-existent, though Petinski put on a good show, giggling occasionally, leaning forward to touch my hand, doing the things couples in love do when it’s dinner for two at a swanky restaurant.

Shilling got up again to go to the bathroom. This time I followed her a minute later. Maybe there was something about this restaurant I hadn’t considered, a way we could communicate that I hadn’t spotted. The security guard’s eyes bored unblinkingly into mine as I approached, issuing a kind of primal challenge.

‘Evening,’ I said with a smile as I tried to edge by. ‘Need to do number two.’ I got no sense that he understood anything other than my desire to visit the john. He stopped me, blocking the way, just to show me who was in control, I figured.

I put my hand in my pocket and brought out some loose change. ‘Hey, you keep a nice bathroom, buddy,’ I told him and pressed a few coins into his giant paw. ‘Nice clean towels. I like a clean towel.’

As I sidled past him, I saw the guy look at the money in his hand like it was something picked up off the pavement, drop it on the floor and wipe his hand on his trousers.

I did what I had to do in there, which was basically to inspect the space again. Nothing. Shilling was on the other side of the wall. I tapped on the brickwork but received zip in reply so I washed my hands, dried them with the air blower and went back to my table.

The doorman growled at me as I thanked him again.

‘Darling,’ said Petinski, ‘you’re back. See what that nice rich man over there has just sent us?’ A bottle of Krug sat in a silver bucket on a tripod beside her elbow. A waiter placed two frosted flutes of cut crystal on the table and pulled the bottle from the ice. I glanced over my shoulder and gave von Weiss a friendly nod, which he returned. Out the corner of an eye I saw Shilling angle her way back to her seat, silencing the conversations at the tables she passed. ‘And look what else he sent me,’ Petinski continued, motioning at a silver tray in front of her that I hadn’t noticed. On it was a small black plastic envelope with gold trim. A condom! Fucking cheeky bastard.

Petinski smiled a fake smile at me and said, ‘Measured response, Cooper.’

I picked up the rubber, pushed my chair back and went to have a few indignant fiancé-type words with the man who’d just tried to pick up my bride-to-be. By the time I got there, two goons were already standing behind their boss, one of them being Dolph, ready for whatever I might choose to do in retaliation.

‘What the hell’s the meaning of this?’ I said to von Weiss, slamming the raincoat onto the table in front of him.

‘Your girlfriend is very beautiful, Mr…’

‘She’s my fiancée, pal. You’re lucky I don’t bust you in the nose.’

‘Oh, you are American. Where are you staying?’ he said, looking up at me pleasantly, a long way from being threatened, full of accommodation. ‘You must allow me to—’

One of his security doofuses, the guy monitoring the front door, walked in a hurry across the room and interrupted us to have a word in his boss’s ear.

And suddenly the front door of the restaurant burst open and four helmeted men in black overalls and body armor tagged with the word Polisi stormed in. Consternation filled the room, along with the blue and red flashing lights from law-enforcement vehicles outside the windows. One of the police made an announcement in Portuguese, which drew a muffled scream from a woman somewhere in the room, and everyone was instantly on their feet, rushing for the door.

I grabbed the maître d’ by the arm as he ran past. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Please, there is a bomb threat. We are being evacuated.’ His eyes were wide with fear. I released him and he made a break for the door, pushing in front of restaurant patrons.

Petinski arrived beside me, dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin. ‘Great. Just when we were making progress…’

A worried police officer with an MP5 submachine gun attached to the ammo rack across his chest approached us. ‘Senhor, senhora. Desta forma, por favor. Pressa, pressa…’ he said and ushered us toward the exit.

Once at the door, we got some notion of the pandemonium outside. It wasn’t just the restaurant that was being evacuated, but the entire street outside the Olympe along with the one beside it, two blocks at least. Many of the buildings in the area were apartments, which meant a large number of occupants — frightened people of varying ages being moved along. Here and there, folks were having their IDs checked by police with powerful flashlights and German shepherds. Dark blue police vans were everywhere, along with bomb squads and bomb detection dogs. Fifty yards from the restaurant, a beat-up white Toyota van had been taped off and surrounded at a distance by police. I gathered that’s where the device was.

Dogs barked, lights flashed, infants bawled and people shouted at each other. I was about to say something to Petinski when I realized that she was no longer beside me, the generalized panic having separated us.

‘Cooper, come with me, please.’

It was a police officer, suddenly materialized in my face. He had to say it again before the fact that he knew my name registered on my brain. I looked at him. Black helmet, black armor with the word Polisi on it, side arm strapped to his thigh. He looked familiar.

‘Hey, Cooper, wake up there, boy. Jeb Delaney, here to do some good.’

Recognition. ‘Hey, Delaney.’

‘This way,’ he said.

Four armored Polisi formed a box around us and we hustled across the street to a double-parked white Ford Explorer with darkened windows.

‘Let’s go,’ Delaney said, pulling open the door.

Inside I caught a hint of gold dress. Emma Shilling. The door slammed shut behind me and the Explorer hauled ass, a blue light flashing up behind the windshield, the siren chirping on and off, people scattering in its headlight beams like schools of frightened fish.

‘This bomb scare your idea?’ Shilling asked me.

‘No,’ I said.

Delaney looked over his shoulder from the front passenger seat and grinned. ‘Well, actually, Cooper, it was, kinda… You called and said you needed some action, and that’s what y’all got.’

‘Jesus, Cooper,’ Shilling huffed, ‘you’re determined to get me bloody well killed, aren’t you?’

‘Relax. Your boyfriend will be convinced,’ said Delaney. ‘This is genuine, at least as far as the police are concerned.’

‘You didn’t need to do this,’ she insisted.

‘How were you gonna pull off a meeting at that restaurant?’ I asked.

‘Subtlety.’

‘Subtlety…’

‘You wanted the name of the man von Weiss has been entertaining, right?’

‘Among other things.’

‘Look in your right-hand pants pocket.’

I leaned back to get my hand inside and felt around in there — loose change, some gum, a lint ball and a card. Everything in there I already knew about except the card. I took it out as the Explorer bucked viciously over a curb and accelerated into the general Rio traffic, the sirens and lights by now killed off. There was handwriting on the card. I glanced at Shilling.

‘I slipped it in there when you stormed up to defend your fiancée’s honor,’ she said. ‘Subtlety.’

I angled the card at the streetlights strobing through the window. ‘Gamal Abdul-Jabbar. Who’s he?’

Shilling had her own question. ‘Where are we going?’

‘A safe house,’ said Delaney.

The British agent scanned the streetscape through her window. ‘How far away is it? Not in another bloody country, I hope.’

‘It’s a couple of minutes from here,’ Delaney reassured her.

‘What about von Weiss?’ she asked. ‘He doesn’t like it when people go missing, unless he’s the person who ordered it.’

‘Don’t worry about lover boy. We figure you’ve got forty minutes breathing space.’

‘Forty minutes? No. He’ll call me.’

‘I don’t think so. We killed cell reception in the area. Don’t want our terrorist setting off his car bomb remotely now, do we.’ He winked at us.

The Explorer veered off the main road and reduced speed as it climbed up a hillside. Several wild corners later, we came to a stop.

‘We’re here,’ Delaney announced.

‘Good, I think I’m about to be sick,’ said Shilling.

Out the window was a narrow gray terrace in an old rundown neighborhood. Delaney dangled a Smurf hanging from a key at us. ‘Who wants it?’

‘Twenty minutes and not a minute more, okay?’ said Shilling, snatching the little blue guy. ‘Then you take me back.’

Delaney agreed, ‘Okay, twenty minutes. The alarm code is CIA-have-a-nice-day.’

Shilling rolled her eyes and we both got out.

Inside, the safe house appeared to be someone’s home. Football trophies were arranged in a glass case, photos of kids playing the game shared the walls with cheap artwork from the tourist market. On the floor, old green carpet complete with stains. In the kitchen, an ancient fridge painted up like the Brazilian flag contained some cheeses, various bottles of spices and condiments, plates of leftovers and so forth.

‘So what do I call you?’ I said. ‘Shilling or Shaeffer?’

‘Shilling. Let’s keep it in character.’

‘You want a drink if I can find anything?’

‘Love one. There’s sure to be a bottle of cachaça somewhere.’

‘What’s that?’

‘National drink of Brazil. If there’s a choice, I’ll have scotch.’

The woman had taste. ‘You get the glasses,’ I said. ‘I’ll have rocks.’ I found the liquor in a cupboard. ‘What’s cachaça distilled from?’ I held a bottle of the stuff with a graphic of a squid on it.

‘Sugarcane.’

‘Not calamari?’

‘No.’

I was intrigued, but I put it back anyway and found a liter of Cutty Sark moored in the back of the cupboard. Shilling had glasses with ice on the benchtop. I took the card she’d slipped into my pocket and flicked it over, repeating my earlier question. ‘Gamal Abdul-Jabbar — who is he?’

‘A Somali pirate. He was involved in that cock-up back in ’11 with the Italian cruise ship. The one where three of the crew were shot. We think he might’ve been one of the shooters. Before that he was a hit-man for Al-Shabab, killing opposition elements in Mogadishu. Not particularly skilled, just your average psychopath. He’s twenty-two, illiterate and already has five million US in a Swiss account. He’s learned that crime pays.’

On my cell, I pulled up a photo that Petinski had sent me of the tarantula guy taken poolside and showed it to her.

‘Yep — that’s him. We going to have that drink or we going to let it age in the bottle a little longer?’

I grinned and poured. ‘What’s he doing with von Weiss?’

‘Don’t know. Not exactly. He’s not a direct customer, not a buyer. London suspects he’s acting on someone’s behalf. He’s a middleman, or a lieutenant perhaps. More than likely he’s representing a big fish back home in Mogadishu, one of the city’s war lords. Several of them are von Weiss’s regular customers. What’s your interest in him?’

The only question that mattered was whether he had anything to do with a missing W80, but I couldn’t go there. ‘Is it possible Gamal might be striking out on his own?’

Shilling picked up her drink. I followed her out of the kitchen into the front room where she turned on a lamp and switched off the main ceiling light. I noticed she wasn’t wearing underwear.

‘London doesn’t think so,’ she said. ‘But you don’t know until you know, right?’ She clinked my glass with hers. ‘Cheers, Vin Cooper, number twelve on the World’s Sexiest People list.’

‘You googled me.’

‘Of course.’

‘No biggie. Homer Simpson was number eleven.’

She sipped her drink. ‘I also read about your escapades in the Congo with those celebrities. What were they like?’

‘Like you’d expect they’d be.’ I went back to the business at hand and scrolled through the photos on my cell till I found the one I was looking for.

‘Yes, that’s Randy,’ she said when I showed it to her. ‘Nice photo. Who’s the woman?’

‘His girlfriend.’

‘She’s pretty.’

‘At the moment, she’s pretty worried.’ The photo was a headshot of the both of them, laughing, the Vegas skyline at sunset in the background. ‘You manage to get anything more on Randy’s whereabouts?’

‘No, not in the few hours since this morning’s escapades. I can’t exactly go round asking direct questions, you know. I pick things up in conversation, or not at all. I’m just an ornament with ears.’

And now that she mentioned it, those ears of hers had ornaments: a three-carat stone on a fine platinum chain swung from each lobe, the light refracting through the facets, breaking into rainbows.

‘Get those on a captain’s salary?’ I asked.

Shilling knew what I was referring to and her fingers came up and fiddled with one of them self-consciously. ‘They were gifts. And even though I’ve bloody well earned them I don’t get to keep them. As for Randy, I’m sorry — especially for his significant other.’ She rested up against the edge of a table. ‘I wish I knew more.’

The fact that he just seemed to have disappeared was making me think of the vultures up on Sugarloaf.

Shilling sipped her drink. ‘He tortures people, you know. There was a man not so long ago — von Weiss had his hands smashed, all of his fingers and knuckles. Then he beached him on an island off the coast here called Queimada Grande. The place is full of venomous snakes. Von Weiss laughed his head off watching the poor sod die.’

‘You were there?’

‘On the boat.’

Snakes. Queimada Grande. The FedEx package sent to Alabama. ‘His name was Fruit Fly,’ I said.

She was surprised. ‘You know about that?’

‘There’s something big going down in, we think, around eight days time,’ I said.

‘But you can’t tell me what it is?’

I shook my head. ‘No, but we think it involves this guy.’ I brought up a photo of Lieutenant Ed Dyson, alias Stu Forrest, the weather guy who stole a plane from Nevada Aircraft Brokers and flew it south at pretty much the moment Petinski and I turned up there to ask questions.

‘Yeah, I’ve met him before. Several times. He stayed with us just yesterday, and then he left.’

‘Headed where?’

‘I walked in on a conversation between him and von Weiss. I heard Dar mentioned.’

‘Where?’

‘Dar es Salaam.’

‘Africa?’

‘D’uh.’ Shilling smiled, glints in the flecks in her eyes matching the ones in her diamonds. ‘Anyway, as you say, there is a kind of countdown going on in the von Weiss world. I don’t know what it’s about — you do, obviously — but O Magnifico’s up to his neck in it. I’ve been told to pack. We’re leaving tomorrow or the next day. Meanwhile, everyone’s jumpy as hell. And pulling that vanishing act on White’s bodyguard today didn’t help.’

‘You travel with von Weiss a lot.’

‘Yes.’

‘Does he usually tell you where you’re going?’

‘Yes.’

‘But this time he’s being vague about it.’

‘I don’t think the vagueness is directed at me. Even though I’ve heard it mentioned, I just don’t think we’re going to Dar es Salaam. Berlin is more his speed, sometimes Rome. Just lately he’s taken a shine to Moscow.’ She examined my face. ‘You think because he hasn’t told me where we’re going I’m under suspicion?’

‘Would you jump ship if you thought you were?’

‘In a heartbeat. Von Weiss takes great pleasure watching people die.’

I wasn’t convinced she’d be going anywhere in a hurry. Shilling was a conscientious employee and maybe too eager to please for her own good.

‘Hey, I know what I’m doing, okay.’ She poured another splash of Cutty for herself and a regular sousing for me. ‘Anyway, along with the usual suspects, I’ve heard Dubrovnik mentioned, along with Cape Town, Tel Aviv, Malta. Von Weiss knows there are other moles in his organization, aside from the ones he’s unearthed. Not being specific about our destination is just him being careful. Loose lips and all that.’ She took a big mouthful of whisky and passed it from one bulging cheek to the other like she was rinsing her mouth.

I showed her another photo. ‘How about this man?’

‘Sure. That’s Laurent Duval, von Weiss’s personal pilot.’

‘His real name is André LeDuc, formerly of the French Air Force. He’s a deserter. He’s also wanted by Interpol and the Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure for illegal weapons trading, murder, conspiracy to murder, and extortion.’

She smiled. ‘Yeah, but can he fly?’

The jury was out on that one. ‘The one time I flew with him he crashed the plane, so maybe not.’

Shilling snorted. ‘Jesus, this just keeps getting better.’

‘How about this guy?’ I asked, pulling up another mug shot.

‘Yeah. He came to dinner on von Weiss’s boat over a month ago. Can’t remember his name.’

‘Ty Morrow.’

‘What’s his claim to fame?’

‘Attempted murder, conspiracy to murder, conspiracy to import drugs, illegal weapons smuggling.’

‘Well, you wouldn’t expect von Weiss’s pals to be missionaries. Do you really know what’s going on? What von Weiss is up to? Or is this just a CIA fishing expedition?’

‘I’m not CIA,’ I told her.

‘Jesus, Cooper, of course you bloody well are. Maybe you just don’t know it. Your partner, Kim Petinski — I’ve seen her before. In London a year back at some US Embassy bash. Before I came here. We weren’t introduced, but she was pointed out to me as a Company girl.’

Petinski, CIA… Of course I knew that. I just hadn’t been prepared to accept it.

‘So, you know of course that von Weiss is a snake expert, and now you know he enjoys making people suffer. Oh — and he’s a big fan of the Nazis, which is connected in his mind, I’m sure, to his bastard father, Josef Mengele.’

‘We know,’ I said.

Realization dawned on her. ‘Hey, it was you who broke into his home, wasn’t it?’

‘I didn’t break anything. The door was open.’

‘You took his Mein Kampf signed by Hitler. You know that’s his most treasured possession? O Magnifico was mad as hell when he realized it was gone. There’s half a million dollars on your head because of that.’

‘That’s a lot of money. I might turn myself in.’

‘Well, it’s not on your head, exactly,’ she said. ‘Von Weiss doesn’t know who stole it, but the word is out. The man who tries to sell that diary will end up like Mr Fruit Fly.’ Shilling finished her drink and put the glass down on the table beside her. She was getting edgy, conscious of the time.

‘What can you tell me about von Weiss? What kind of man is he?’

‘Well, for one thing, he hates the United States. And perhaps hate isn’t a strong enough word for it. He’s in a constant rant about what he calls “the American evil”.’

‘What’s his problem?’

‘He’s convinced that if we hadn’t entered the war, Hitler — his big hero — would’ve won.’

‘Maybe he’s right,’ I said. ‘And maybe someone should remind him it was Adolf’s fault for declaring war on us.’

‘I’m sure he knows that.’

‘How does he feel about you guys — the Brits? You won that war too, didn’t you?’ I grinned at her.

‘We’re okay. We’re Anglo-Saxons, almost as pure as the Aryan master race, don’t you know. The Nazis saw us as brothers in the great fight.’

‘The great fight…?’

‘The one against the Jews. The fact that the States is such a supporter of Israel is where his tirades usually end up.’

Was von Weiss’s hatred of the US the driving force to steal a nuke and use it against us?

‘He rubs his hands together with joy at the problems you’re having in the Middle East — with Iran, with Afghanistan and Pakistan. He believes Islam will one day triumph. All they need is a standard to rally behind. Or a leader perhaps.’

I drank my drink. Von Weiss — when all was said and done he was just another nutcase with a grudge.

‘What else can I tell you about O Magnifico,’ she said, joining me in a sip. ‘Well, fortunately for me, he’s not the kind of man who likes to fuck.’

‘Then what kind is he?’ I replied, doing my best to keep my tone nice and even while wiping my nose with the back of my hand, catching the trickle of Cutty I’d just snorted back through it. Shilling was cool, the way a gin and tonic in a long tall glass with ice and a slice of lemon is cool. I had to admit thoughts about the nature of her relationship with von Weiss had crossed my mind.

‘He’s the kind who prefers to watch. He likes to dress women in uniform — a Nazi SS uniform, preferably — and watch them masturbate with whatever comes to hand. He’s got a python. He likes to watch me do it with that.’ She picked up the bottle. ‘Y’know, I probably shouldn’t drink scotch. It’s my own personal sodium pentothal…’