Росс Томас - The Mordida Man

“So you bankrolled freedom fighters.”

Mourabet blinked. “I was quite sure you would call them terrorists.”

“I am Dunjee, an American. You are Mourabet, a Moslem, one of the Arabs who happens to be a Libyan.” Dunjee shrugged. “Labels.”

Mourabet nodded slowly. He then reached into a pocket of his loose cotton pullover and took out a folded sheet of paper that seemed to have been ripped from the teletype. He unfolded it carefully. “This is your curriculum vitae, I believe it is called. You have had a strange career.”

“Which is probably why I’m here.”

“Yes, I reckon so. That’s southern, isn’t it? Reckon so?”

“That’s southern.”

“This was supplied us by our friends in the PLO.”

“You’ve patched things up then?”

“With the PLO? Oh, yes. Some time ago.” Mourabet looked down at the paper. “The Mordida Man. That means the giver of bribes, I believe. Spanish — or Mexican?”

“Mexican,” Dunjee said.

“What did you do exactly in Mexico?”

“I got people out of jail. Rich people. Rich people’s kids, to be precise.”

“By giving bribes?”

Dunjee shook his head. “Not always. Sometimes those who could arrange the release were more interested in something else.”

“More than money?”

“More than money.”

“What?”

“Recognition.”

“Aaah! I think I understand. And you were able to supply this... recognition?”

“Sometimes.”

“And what else would they want, those who could arrange the prisoners’ release? Some of them already must have had all the money and fame they could use. What else would they want?”

“What else?” Dunjee said. “Usually revenge.”

“Aaah! Revenge. Yes. The colder it is the sweeter it tastes. What form did this revenge take?”

“Political embarrassment mostly.”

“You could arrange this?”

“With enough money, you can arrange almost anything.”

“How severe was the embarrassment?”

“People went to jail sometimes. Sometimes not.”

“So by arranging the imprisonment of one, you secured the release of another?”

“Sometimes.”

“And you did this for a living?”

“That’s right.”

Mourabet turned and opened the refrigerator again. He removed a can of beer and handed it to Dunjee. “Here,” he said. “You look a bit thirsty.”

“Thank you.”

From the refrigerator’s freezer compartment Mourabet also removed something small and oblong and carefully wrapped in heavy aluminum foil. He placed it on the rug in front of him.

“Today — here — you are representing who— Whom, isn’t it?”

“Whom,” Dunjee said. He took a deep breath. “The President of the United States.”

“Really?” Mourabet said and began peeling back the aluminum foil. When he was done a severed finger lay on foil. The finger was pointing at Dunjee.

He stared at the finger for a moment, then looked up at Mourabet. “Felix?”

“Yes. Felix. We paid ten million dollars for it. I’m beginning to suspect that we paid it to the CIA.”

Dunjee shook his head. “No.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re sure it’s Felix’s finger?”

“We’re sure. It was flown from New York to Paris. The French have his fingerprints on file. At present, we’re rather chummy with the French for a change. Chummy. American or English?”

“Both. But more English than American usually.”

“Yes. Well, they identified it. The French.”

“How’d you pay out the money?”

“Through a bank transfer to an intermediary in New York. He’s Gambia’s permanent representative to the UN.”

“Dr. Mapangou?”

“Do you know him?”

Dunjee nodded. “I’ve been to his parties.”

“An honest man?”

Dunjee thought about it. “Maybe. Also greedy. Very greedy.”

Mourabet shrugged. “Well, no matter. I received a call from New York early this morning. Dr. Mapangou was found dead yesterday in a park. His neck had been broken.”

“So you’re out ten million dollars.”

Mourabet nodded. “Ten million. Mr. Dunjee, we have a country that is two and one half times as large as Texas with a population that barely equals Houston’s. Our per-capita income is among the highest in the world. Ten million dollars to us is of no particular consequence. Felix is. He is to my government an important symbol, not an altogether attractive one perhaps, but. still of great importance to us in our relations with a large number of dissident groups around the world. We gave Felix sanctuary when no one else would. We personally guaranteed his safety. His kidnapping diminishes us in the eyes of those we support. We will — and I wish to stress this — go to any lengths to get him back.”

Dunjee stared at Mourabet for several seconds. Finally, in a clear, firm voice he said, “The Americans don’t have Felix. They never had him.”

Mourabet stared back. There was a long silence. Mourabet finally broke it. “You could be lying.”

“What good would it do?”

Mourabet seemed to consider that. He ran his fingers through his hair. After a moment, he carefully began rewrapping the finger in the aluminum foil. When he was done, he replaced it in the small refrigerator’s freezing compartment and turned back to Dunjee.

“Do you think he’s alive?”

Dunjee shook his head. “No. Do you?”

Mourabet sighed. “Probably not. You want something, of course.”

“Yes.”

“President McKay’s brother. That is what you want, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Mourabet cocked his head slightly to one side as he studied Dunjee. “And you are prepared to offer me something in exchange. I am trying to decide what it will be. Not money, of course.”

Dunjee smiled slightly. “Hardly.”

“What then?”

“I’ll give you whoever kidnapped Felix.”

“Aaah! Revenge!”

“Revenge.”

“You are, I’m beginning to think, a very clever man, Mr. Dunjee. You’re offering me the one thing you know I cannot resist. But, of course, I first have to give you something in exchange, don’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Not money.”

“No.”

“I could make you quite wealthy, you realize.”

“It’s tempting.”

Mourabet smiled. “But not tempting enough?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“You tell me where Bingo McKay is being held. That’s all.”

“That is not much of a bargain. If I told you that, then your President could send in a CIA or Army team to try to rescue him.”

Dunjee shook his head. “You’d kill him first.”

Mourabet nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, we would, I’m afraid.”

“And besides, I’m not going to tell the President.”

“You distrust his associates?”

“I distrust their ability to keep their mouths shut.”

There was another lengthy silence as Mourabet again studied Dunjee, much in the way he might study an interesting but abstract piece of sculpture, which he found himself liking, although he wasn’t at all sure why.

At last, he said, “I think I finally have decided what you really are, Mr. Dunjee.”

“What?”

“A patriot. A curious one, but a patriot nonetheless.”

Dunjee grinned. “Does that mean we have a deal?”

“Yes,” Mourabet said. “With a few caveats on my part, I really believe we do.”

“Bingo McKay,” Dunjee said. “He’s in Malta, isn’t he?”

For the first time, Mourabet scowled. “I must insist on knowing who told you.”

“It was none of your people.”

“Who?” Mourabet demanded.

Dunjee tried to decide how best to describe the Wreck in Rome. At last he said, “A family friend.”