Росс Томас - The Mordida Man

“Tell him,” the President said.

“It’s in Haiti.”

“And Timble and his bunch?”

“There is no record of them getting off the plane. However, four men chartered a private plane and flew to Santo Domingo.”

“The Dominican Republic?”

Coombs nodded. “There they caught a commercial flight to Caracas.”

“And in Caracas?”

“We think they flew commercial to Rome. We’re not positive.”

Grimes looked at the President. “Dunjee’s in Rome. Does he know about Dunjee?”

“Ask him,” the President said, nodding at Coombs, who was now giving the small liver spot on the back of his left hand a careful examination.

Without waiting for Grimes’s question, Coombs said, “We became aware some time ago, Mr. President, that you retained or employed this man Dunjee in some private capacity whose exact nature you were not willing to share.”

“I hired him to get my brother back. Or Felix. Or both.”

“I am not sure that you have made a wise choice.”

“I’ll worry about that,” the President said. “What I want to know now is who we’ve got in Rome. I want that little prick Timble. I want him bad.”

“Yes, I quite understand. Well, we have our normal complement in Rome. In addition, I have already sent in several of our best people from both our Paris and Bonn stations.”

“Who’s going to be in charge?” the President said.

“Alex Reese. He was due there yesterday.”

“Reese?” the President said. “Is he that big bald guy with the gut who everybody says drinks like a fish?”

“He’s brilliant, Mr. President. Absolutely brilliant.”

“And he’s the best we’ve got?”

“The very best.”

“God help us. One thing, Coombs.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Tell Reese hands off Dunjee. Understand? Absolutely hands off.”

“I understand, Mr. President.”

The President looked at Grimes. “I’ve asked Ambassador Dokubo to keep the talks in Rome with the Libyans going — to stall, if he has to. He’s good at it.” The President paused. “Rome?” he said and looked questioningly at Grimes.

Grimes nodded decisively. Then he pulled his big, heavy body up as he always did, smoothly, easily. “I’m on my way.”

The day after Dunjee was flown back to Rome from Tripoli, he sat with Faraj Abedsaid at a sidewalk table at Doney’s, a brandy and an espresso before him. In front of Abedsaid was a small bottle of San Pellegrino mineral water. It was shortly before two o’clock in the afternoon.

“How many did you say are on you?” Dunjee said.

“When I left my hotel at noon, I think I spotted three. Possibly four. If there is a fourth one, he’s very good.”

“Any of them around now?”

“One behind you about six tables away. Twenty-nine or thirty. He’s found something terribly interesting in the Daily American. There’s also a woman. Twelve tables up. Fat, frumpish, about forty. She’s not bad. Green polyester slacks, orange sweater, mouse hair. She has tourist stamped all over her.”

“Just so we’ve got our audience.”

“We have it.”

“When’s your meeting with Dokubo?”

Abedsaid looked at his watch. “In about thirty minutes.”

“Still at the FAO?”

“Yes.”

“How is he?”

“Dokubo? Very bright, very smooth, very skillful — and exceedingly adept at scrambling about in quicksand. Using charm alone, I think he could keep these negotiations stalled for another six months. Back in Oklahoma, we’d say he was all hat and no cattle.”

Dunjee smiled. “Well, let’s do it.”

“Would you prefer me to be imperceptible — or obvious?”

“Hell, you’re the spy.”

“Yes, and I’m violating every precept of my trade. I do think I’ll be a wee bit clumsy — just so they don’t blink and miss it.”

Abedsaid looked at his watch again. “Well, I really must be going,” he said. Abedsaid started to rise, seemed to notice a forgotten folded copy of the Herald Tribune in his lap, and caught it before it fell. He placed the newspaper on the table as if he had finished reading it. “Keep in touch,” he told Dunjee.

“Right.”

Dunjee continued to sit at the table, people-watching and slowly sipping his brandy. After fifteen minutes, he glanced around as if trying to find his waiter. He spotted the fortyish woman in the green slacks and orange sweater. She seemed to be devoting all of her attention to a rather large mound of ice cream. Dunjee could not locate any young man with a Daily American who fitted Abedsaid’s description.

After paying the bill, Dunjee rose, tucked the folded Herald Tribune under his arm, and turned right down the Via Veneto in the general direction of the American Embassy. He walked slowly, strolling really, and at the next corner turned right, as though wandering back toward his hotel.

He stopped several times to gaze into shopwindows. He even turned around once to go back and inspect a display of antique jewelry that seemed to fascinate him. As far as he could determine, no one was following.

His casual, almost peripatetic stroll led him past the Eden Hotel. He continued to stop frequently at shopwindows. It was seventy-five yards past the Eden Hotel that the green Peugeot sedan pulled up in a no-parking space and the big man with the bald head and the sloped shoulders opened the rear door and got out. In the front seat, near the curb, was another man with a big jaw and a rubbery face. His eyes never left Dunjee.

The big bald-headed man walked slowly back toward Dunjee. As he came he hitched his pants up over his protruding stomach, but they immediately slid back down.

“You’re Chubb Dunjee?”

“That’s right.”

“We’d like to talk to you.”

“Who’s we?”

“My name’s Reese. Alex Reese. We’re with the government.”

“Whose government?”

“Your government.”

Dunjee stared at Reese. Then he smiled. It was Dunjee’s best smile, full of charm and exceedingly white. “See my lawyer,” he said and turned away.

The front door of the Peugeot popped open. The man with the big jaw and the rubbery face was now blocking Dunjee’s path. It had taken less than a second.

“You with the government, too?” Dunjee said.

The man wiped a hand hard across his mouth. It seemed to be a habit. Perhaps a nervous habit, although Dunjee thought the man looked about as nervous as a rock.

“My name’s Arnold,” the man said. “I’m with him.”

“There’re two of you,” Dunjee said, as if slightly surprised at how his addition had turned out.

“And one in the car makes three,” Reese said.

“Have you got anything that says you’re with the government — a piece of paper, a badge maybe?”

Reese reached into a pocket and came out with a plastic sealed card with a photograph on it. “This do?” he said, giving Dunjee a glimpse of it.

“A guy flashed something that looked like that at me in East St. Louis once,” Dunjee said. “It wound up costing me about three hundred bucks.”

“He’d like a closer look,” said Franklin Keeling, who had said his name was Arnold.

“Here,” Reese said, and handed Dunjee the ID card.

“Alex Merrifax Reese,” Dunjee read. “I used to know some Merrifaxes in Borger, Texas. Any kin?”

Reese shook his head.

Dunjee went back to his reading. “Twenty-two forty-one Bonnie Brae Drive, Bethesda, Maryland. Bonnie Brae. Is that out near Glen Echo along the C and O Canal?”

“Around in there.”

“Nice part of town.” Dunjee read some more. “United States Department of Agriculture.” He looked at Reese. “Chicken inspector?”