Росс Томас - The Mordida Man

At the table, Timble said, “Would you get that ruler over there, please, Franklin?”

“Sure,” Franklin Keeling said. He wiped one large hand across his mouth and moved across the room. He picked up a draftsman’s ruler from a table and started back. When he reached the point just behind Harold Hopkins he paused.

“I’d’ve liked to’ve gone inside, you know,” Hopkins was telling Dunjee. “I’d’ve liked to’ve seen where the lions ate the Christians. I used to read about that in school, I did. Seems a pity not to—”

He never finished his sentence. Keeling took the pistol out of his coat pocket in one smooth motion and placed its muzzle just behind Hopkins’s left ear. It was a small pistol, an Italian-made automatic that used .22 longs. An assassin’s pistol. Keeling pulled the trigger twice.

Hopkins stopped talking in mid-sentence. It may have been surprise that spread over his face. Or pain. It was difficult to tell. He managed to squeeze his eyes shut before he fell, slipping down sideways, a little bent at the waist, his arms limp and useless at his sides. He sprawled on the marble floor then, face down, two small reddish-black holes just below and behind his left ear. His right leg moved, kicked slightly, and after that he was still.

Dunjee was up quickly and then down on his knees beside Hopkins. Dunjee’s right hand moved out, as if to touch Hopkins, possibly comfort him, but it hesitated, and hung there as if Dunjee was trying to decide how best to comfort the dead.

He denied it at first — to himself anyway. He denied the inescapable fact that Hopkins was dead. The evidence was plain, but Dunjee denied that, too, until the anger came. It was a hot anger, white hot almost, and directed not against Hopkins’s killers, but against Hopkins himself. It’s all your fault, you poor sod, Dunjee thought, unconsciously using an English expression to describe the dead Englishman. You should’ve stayed in London with your whore. You should’ve stuck to bits and pieces that fell off lorries. You shouldn’t have been so greedy.

The anger didn’t last long, because it quickly turned into rage instead — a rather fine, cold rage that made Dunjee’s face go stiff until he remembered to smile. What he produced was a small set smile whose seemingly ineradicable permanence made it quite terrible.

With the awful smile still there, Dunjee turned to look up at Leland Timble. “That wasn’t—” He broke off because he had wanted to say that wasn’t right. But he knew they wouldn’t understand that. So he said, “That wasn’t — necessary.”

Timble’s expression was solemn. For some reason his eyes looked wise. “But it was necessary, Mr. Dunjee. For two reasons.”

“I’m listening,” Dunjee said pleasantly, wondering when his lips would start to ache.

“First, after your colleague completed his task, he became redundant, totally redundant. And secondly, we very much needed to get your full attention.”

Dunjee looked down at the dead Harold Hopkins. Then he rose, his eyes fastened on Timble, his lips still smiling their terrible smile.

“My attention,” he said.

Timble nodded. “Yes. Your attention. Your full attention.”

Dunjee nodded back. “You’ve got it, laddy,” he said. “All of it.”

Using the full powers of his CIA position, it took Alex Reese only three phone calls to lay on everything — the plane tickets, the ground transportation, the boat — even the weapons, which would be waiting for them in Malta. Almost as an afterthought, Reese also arranged for the disposal of Harold Hopkins’s body. That required the third call.

While Reese’s deep bass rumbled into the telephone at one end of the still sunny room, Leland Timble carefully outlined the situation and options that Dunjee had open to him.

“According to what you’ve told us, the Libyans have removed Mr. McKay from the yacht, along with his female companion, and secured them in this old farmhouse on the island of Comino, correct?”

Dunjee nodded.

“Your Mr. Abedsaid also informed you that the two prisoners are now being guarded only by the three terrorists — two men and one woman, is that also correct?”

Again, Dunjee nodded.

“The two questions that we must now ask ourselves,” Timble said slowly, “is why did the Libyans decide that the yacht was no longer suitable as a jail, and secondly, why did they choose this particular farmhouse and whom does it belong to?”

“That’s three questions,” Dunjee said.

“I stand corrected.”

“First, the yacht was drawing too much attention, or so Abedsaid claimed. The farmhouse is isolated. It’s really not much more than a stone shack. A year ago a rich Libyan tourist saw it, liked it, and leased it for twenty years with the idea of eventually turning it into a vacation home. Abedsaid claims that he ran out of money or interest or both. Abedsaid told me all this, but didn’t tell me where the farmhouse was located. I had no idea it was on Comino.”

Timble pursed his lips. “It does seem logical. I mean, the farmhouse would not only provide a suitable jail, but also sanctuary for our three terrorists. It’s almost clever.”

“What about me?” Dunjee said.

“You? Well, you, I’m afraid, Mr. Dunjee, have only two choices. You can either join your friend in the corner over there—” Timble gestured toward the body of Hopkins, which had been rolled up in the rug and tugged over to a corner. “Or you can join us.”

“You already know my answer,” Dunjee said. “What I don’t understand is why. What’ve I got to offer?”

Timble chose his word carefully. “Credibility.”

“You mean after Bingo McKay is rescued — providing he is.”

“Exactly. It will then be made known to Washington that it was only with the help of me and my colleagues that the rescue was effected. Mr. Reese will also attest to this. Your testimonial will be the icing on the cake, so to speak. Of course, I do expect to compensate you. What would you say to $250,000?”

It was several seconds before Dunjee answered. When he did, the small awful smile was there. “I’d say yes.”

“Good. That’s settled.”

“Tell me something,” Dunjee said. “You expect to get a pardon out of this?”

“Certainly not. My crimes are too... enormous, let’s say. But I think I can reasonably expect a light suspended sentence, don’t you?”

“I have no idea. But why not just stay loose?”

“Because, Mr. Dunjee, I’m homesick.”

The five men took the late afternoon Air Malta flight out of Rome’s Fiumicino Airport. They flew tourist class. This time Dunjee found himself sandwiched in between Franklin Keeling and Jack Spiceman. In the seats just ahead, Alex Reese sat next to the window, Leland Timble next to him.

Timble had used a Canadian passport to slip through customs. He also wore a kind of disguise — a grayish-blond wig that covered his ears and hung a fringe of bangs down over his forehead almost to his eyes. After he put on a pair of dark glasses, he seemed to think he was invisible.

The flight to Valletta took not quite an hour. Because none of them was carrying any luggage, they breezed through customs. Outside the terminal building a thirtyish man with a drooping mustache and a John Deere billed cap on his head held up a scrawled sign that read, “Mr. Arnold.”

“That’s our taxi,” Reese said and moved over to the man. Dunjee was again sandwiched in between Spiceman and Keeling in the rear seat. Timble sat next to the silent driver. Reese sat next to the window and sipped from a pint of brandy. Nobody had to tell the driver where to go.

The boat was docked on the quay at Marsaxlokk. The five men got out of the taxi and walked toward it. Nobody said anything to the driver. Nobody paid him any money. As soon as the five men got out of the taxi, it pulled away.