George Chesbro - Shadow of a Broken Man

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"Fi-"

"Where are you?" I had to hold the receiver away from my ear. Abu Bhutal's good nature was habitually expressed at a decibel level higher than the human ear could tolerate.

"Downstairs, Abu," I said. "I'd like to talk to you if you've got a few minutes."

"A few minutes ? I am your servant , Mongo! You just wait right there! I'll be right down!"

Less than a minute later, Abu emerged from the elevator, went up on the toes of his patent leather Gucci shoes, and started looking around for me. His jet-black hair flashed blue highlights in the fluorescent light of the lobby. He was wearing a vested sharkskin suit. Abu had a taste for expensive, well-cut Western clothes, and he looked well in them.

He spotted me and took off across the lobby at collision speed. There were tears in his eyes when we shook hands. His effusiveness and warmth embarrassed me; I was the one who'd broken off contact.

Abu ushered me past the security guard, into the elevator, and up to his office, where he sat down behind his desk and sighed expansively. "It's good to see you, Mongo."

"And you, Abu. You look wonderful."

"I thought we were friends, Mongo," he said quietly, tapping his fingers lightly on the top of his desk.

"We are friends."

"Then why haven't I heard from you?" he asked reproachfully. "It's been years. I discovered you were no longer with the circus only when I called to try to get you to do another benefit."

The bitterness and tension I'd felt in those years, the bridges I'd burned, were not among my favorite subjects. I mumbled some apologies and promised not to let it happen again.

He seemed appeased and grinned broadly. "So, my friend, I suspect it's more than old times' sake that brings you here."

I cringed. "You never were one to be fooled. Abu, I could use your help."

"There is no way I could refuse. How can I help you?"

"Have you ever heard of Victor Rafferty?"

Abu thought about it, then shook his head. "I can't say that I have."

"He was an architect. I understand he did a lot of volunteer work for the U.N., so he definitely had connections here. I'm trying to find out who those connections were. I'd like to go over a list of names with you."

"May I ask why, Mongo?"

"I'm investigating Rafferty for a client who's in trouble. Some of these people may have information that could be useful to me. Abu, do you know a man by the name of Elliot Thomas? He may work here."

"No, my friend, I can't say that I do. But wait just a minute." He took a U.N. personnel directory from a drawer and thumbed through it. "Aha!" he exclaimed, stabbing the page with a bejeweled, stubby finger. "Elliot Thomas! He's on the American staff of UNESCO. Came here in '71. It says here he has an office on twenty-six."

"Does it mention in there what he does?"

"He's a stress engineer."

"Now, what do you suppose a 'stress engineer' does?"

Abu grinned. "How do you say? 'Beats me'?"

"Don't give me any of that 'ignorant foreigner' crap, Abu. You know more American slang than I do." I wrote down the information on Thomas in my notebook, then handed Abu the conference list. "Do you know any of these men personally? For now, just the names I've circled."

"Yes, I remember this conference well," he said as he thumbed through the program. "It was very successful." He moved a thick finger down the page of names. "Samuel Atkins is with UNESCO now. Ronald Tal is Special Assistant to the Secretary General, and Hillary Peterson, I believe, left a year or so ago."

Abu continued down the list of names he was familiar with while I took notes, crossing off the names of men Abu characterized as under thirty-five, Oriental, black, or Puerto Rican. I ended up with twenty-three names.

"Abu, do you suppose any of these people would agree to talk to me?"

"I can ask. Who would you like to speak with first?"

"Why not start at the top? What about Tal?"

Abu picked up the telephone. "I must warn you that Ronald is an extremely busy man. I'll have to tell him who you are and what you want."

"Of course."

Abu spoke to Tal on the phone, and I listened. I couldn't catch Tal's words, but his voice was low and well modulated, like that of a man who does a lot of public speaking- which Tal did, much to the distress of a good many Americans who didn't like what he had to say. Abu did a good job of building me up, then mentioned Victor Rafferty and why I was there. When the conversation was over, Abu slowly hung up the phone and looked at me. He seemed vaguely surprised. "Your fame and reputation for good works precede you. Ronald recognized your name and is most appreciative of what you've done for this agency. He'll see you in"-he looked at his watch-"forty-five minutes. His offices are part of the Secretary General's suite. You'll be expected. In the meantime, I'll make inquiries as to who may have known Victor Rafferty." He clapped his hands once, loudly. " Now! You've got forty-five minutes to kill. What say we have a little drink?"

"For breakfast ? Thanks, Abu, but give me a rain check. I want to see if I can get a line on this Thomas. I'll be in touch." I made a mental note to call him for dinner after I got back from Acapulco, if I didn't hear from him first.

Now that I was actually inside the working quarters of the U.N., internal security didn't seem to pose a problem. I had no trouble getting to the twenty-sixth floor, but once there, I wasn't sure how to proceed. There was no receptionist, no directory-just a long antiseptic-green corridor with small offices on either side. I ambled down the corridor, hands in my pockets, trying not to look like a lost tourist. I rounded a corner and almost bumped into a man who was wearing a pale blue, three-piece suit. His full auburn beard just reached the top button of his vest.

"Excuse me," the man said as he backed up, gripped my shoulder solicitously, and limped around me.

"Mr. Thomas?"

He turned and smiled quizzically. "Yes?" He had a kind face with kind eyes that were the wrong color-brown. But he could have been wearing contact lenses; the hair and the beard could be dyed, or phony altogether. I knew very well what wondrous things could be done with cosmetics and plastic surgery.

"Elliot Thomas?"

"Yes," he said easily. "Can I help you?"

"My name's Frederickson," I said quickly, stepping forward and offering my hand. "I'd like to talk to you if you have a few minutes."

"Sure," he said, shaking my hand tentatively. The hair around his mouth parted slightly to reveal a set of even, white teeth. "What is it that you'd like to talk to me about?"

"I, uh … uh …" Clever detective that I am, this marvelous stroke of luck found me totally unprepared; I hadn't thought up a cover story. I went right at him with, "I'm looking for Victor Rafferty."

It got a response. The teeth disappeared, and I thought I saw something move behind the earth-brown eyes. But then, I was looking pretty hard; I didn't want to be fooled by my own expectations.

"Interesting," he said pleasantly. "Why don't you come into my office?"

He led the way into a small but neatly appointed office with a nice view overlooking Manhattan. My reflexes were quicker than my thinking had been; as he moved around his desk, back to me, I reached out and snatched a cheap plastic protractor from the midst of a pile of papers and drafting tools. I was hoping he wouldn't miss it as I dropped it into my inside jacket pocket.

"Is this a joke?" Thomas asked as he sat down. His smile was wearing thin, but that seemed understandable. "Victor Rafferty has been dead for some years."

"But you are familiar with the name?"

"Of course," Thomas said, gesturing to indicate that the answer was obvious. "I'm a stress engineer."

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