Росс Томас: The Mordida Man

McKay offered apparently practical, eminently sensible solutions and presented himself as an expert on the oil business, which he certainly was, and also as a repentant sinner who had made his fortune by following the same villainous practices he now condemned. His campaign autobiography, which he wrote himself in three weeks, was called Plunder! and it stayed on the New York Times best-seller list for thirty-seven weeks and then did even better in paperback.

The McKay brothers’ strategy was both excellent theater and sound politics. Jerome McKay whipped his rivals in nearly a third of the primaries, secured his party’s nomination on the fourteenth ballot at three o’clock in the morning, and went on to win the national election with 48.3 percent of the popular vote and an electoral vote margin of two. A little less than a year later he found himself caught up in a delicate, even desperate, gamble for oil.

It had started with a whisper in the delegates’ lounge at the United Nations. Then a hint was dropped into the ear of the American Ambassador in Rome. There was nothing firm, of course, said the hinter, but it was just possible that the Libyan Arab Republic, a country rich in both oil and truculence, just might ( might now, you must remember) be willing to increase its production of oil and earmark it for the United States — a firm guarantee, of course — in exchange for the right to purchase some of the latest in American technological gadgetry, including just a few items that might be described as extremely sophisticated weaponry.

Jerome McKay decided to nibble at the tempting bait and sent some murmurings and whisperings of his own to Tripoli by way of Lagos, Nigeria. The American signal in due course reached the ears of the leader of the new military regime in Libya, Colonel Youssef Mourabet, a jumped-up Army major who had come to power after the unexpected death six months before from a heart attack of the still young, often choleric Colonel Muammar Qaddafi. The heart attack, it was rumored widely, had been brought on by a fit of apoplectic rage.

So an unofficial twelve-man delegation headed by Libya’s new Minister of Defense, Major Ali Arifi, had been dispatched to the United States on an informal exploratory window-shopping expedition. And since it was all totally and determinedly unofficial, the President had slipped his brother in as tour guide, thus separating the administration nicely from any official recognition of the junket, but pleasing the Libyans enormously because Bingo McKay, although burdened with no government post, was usually regarded to be either the third or fourth most powerful man in Washington. Many even said second.

The junket had gone nowhere near Washington, of course. Instead, it had started in Houston, where the much maligned oil companies, anxious now to scramble back into the administration’s grace and favor, had laid on a lavish reception. After Texas, it was straight out to Southern California for a demonstration of the new F-18a fighter, which the Libyans were known to covet, even lust after, feeling that the new plane would give far more pause to their increasingly jingoistic Egyptian neighbor than did their current fleet of aging Soviet MiG 25s.

The fighter demonstrations were scheduled for the next day at Vandenberg Air Force Base, and after that there was to be a quick side trip up to Northern California, to San Jose — or Silicon Gulch — where the latest in electronic wizardry would be wheeled out for inspection — and possible barter.

But first there had to be the de rigueur visit to Disneyland, which Bingo McKay had lied his way out of and turned over to his twenty-eight-year-old assistant, Dr. Eleanor Rhodes, whom he had hired fresh out of Johns Hopkins with the promise that “I can’t guarantee you anything except money and the fact that you’re gonna be close to the nut-cuttin’, if that’s the kinda stuff you’re interested in.”

Since her doctoral dissertation had been entitled “Parameters of Deception in the Second Nixon Administration,” it was, indeed, the kind of stuff Eleanor Rhodes was interested in; and her quick mind and remarkable memory had for five years now helped Bingo nearly double his own political acumen, which was immense.

Then, too, he was probably half in love with her, but he had never done anything about it because (1) she was too young and (2) she couldn’t remember World War II and (3) he suspected that she was one of the President’s occasional bed partners, which was something Bingo had decided to keep his mouth shut about unless the Guteater brought it up. The Guteater was Dominique McKay, the President’s one-quarter Choctaw wife.

It was shortly after 5 P.M. (on the day that the man called Felix fell almost a mile into the sea) when the ten-car Libyan caravan, sprinkled with eighteen Wackenhut security men, returned to the Marriott from Disneyland. Members of the delegation immediately retired to their rooms to rest until dinner at eight, when their hosts would be executives of the McDonnell Douglas and Northrop corporations, joint developers of the new F-18a.

At 6 P.M. the call came from Tripoli. The call was from Libya’s new ruler, Colonel Youssef Mourabet. It was taken by his Minister of Defense, Major Ali Arifi. They spoke for nineteen minutes in Maghribi, a Bedouin dialect.

At 6:24 P.M., Ali Arifi summoned Eleanor Rhodes to his suite. He spoke for five minutes without stopping or allowing questions. At 6:33 P.M. Eleanor Rhodes was knocking on Bingo McKay’s door.

After Bingo opened the door, he started to say something sardonic about Disneyland, but changed his mind when he saw the grim expression on her face.

“There’s a problem,” she said once the door was closed.

“How bad?”

“Bad enough. They’re going to Vegas tonight — for gambling. You’ll notice I didn’t say they’d like to go. They’re going.”

“Well, maybe I’d better go try and persuade ’em to change their minds.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think I’d try, if I were you.”

“Like that, huh?”

“Like that. They’re leaving at eight.” She headed for the telephone. “We’re invited, but they’re going whether we do or not.” She picked up the phone.

“You calling the Wackenhut folks?”

She shook her head again. “They don’t want them along. I’m calling Milroy in Vegas.” Frank Milroy was the Las Vegas Chief of Police.

“Tell him to make it tight,” McKay said. “Tell him I want three on one at least.”

Eleanor Rhodes nodded and started dialing. By 6:50 P.M., security arrangements had been completed in Las Vegas, the Northrop-McDonnell Douglas dinner had been canceled, and the nineteen Wackenhut security men had been recalled to form an escort for the Libyans from the Marriott Hotel in Anaheim to Los Angeles International Airport, where the delegation would board its especially equipped Boeing 727 for the short flight to Las Vegas. The 727 had been the personal plane of the late Colonel Qaddafi and was manned by a Libyan crew that had been trained by Pan American.

The Libyans were already in their cars when Bingo McKay and Eleanor Rhodes came out of the hotel and climbed into the last limousine in the procession. Five miles from the airport the caravan picked up a four-man motorcycle escort provided by the Los Angeles Police Department, which led it onto the field. The Libyans got out of their cars and hurried up the ramp into the plane. Last to start up the ramp were Bingo McKay and Eleanor Rhodes.

As they entered the plane, they were greeted by a smiling Ali Arifi. “I’m delighted that you both decided to join us.”

“Kind of sudden, wasn’t it, Minister?” McKay said.

Arifi shrugged. “Who can tell when luck will beckon?”