Dunjee climbed onto the bed, reached up, and removed the air conditioning grille. He took out his wallet, put the grille back, and stepped back down to the floor. He opened the wallet as though to check its contents and let the man catch a glimpse of all the hundred-dollar bills it contained. “Let’s have that drink,” Dunjee said and started counting out ten of the bills.
The man turned toward the bottles. He was not quite as tall as Dunjee, but wider and at least seven or eight years younger. He had thinning blond hair and too much forehead and the sad eyes of a failed cleric. There was just enough chin and perhaps a bit too much mouth. He mixed the drinks deftly and handed one to Dunjee, then raised his own glass and said, “To suicide, mate. I’m thinking you might drink to that this morning.”
“I might,” Dunjee said, formed the ten one-hundred-dollar bills into a small fan with one hand, and held them out to the man. There was a moment of hesitation before the man took the money and stuffed it down into his pants pocket.
“You overpaid, you know.”
“I know,” Dunjee said. “What’s your name?”
“Harold Hopkins, sir, and notice how nicely I handle me aitches.”
Dunjee nodded wearily, moved over to an armchair, and sank down into it. Hopkins sat on the edge of the bed. “I really love that bitch,” he said. “Ain’t that awful?”
Dunjee closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “How long were you inside, Harold?”
“Shows a bit, does it?”
“A bit. You’re way too pale, even for London.”
“Something fell off a lorry. I did fifteen straight without remission. Got out a fortnight ago.”
“What fell off the truck, Harold?”
“A pearl necklace. Some gold and platinum bits and pieces. A few diamonds.”
“I’m looking for somebody,” Dunjee said, his eyes still closed.
“And who might that be?”
“A thief.”
“Shame — an American gentleman like you.”
“I’m looking for a good one, Harold,” Dunjee said and opened his eyes.
After several moments Hopkins said thoughtfully, almost with dignity, “I’m a good one,” and somehow Dunjee knew that he was.
11
When Thane Coombs, the Director of Central Intelligence, came into his large seventh-floor office in the Agency’s Langley headquarters, he had to wake up the big bald-headed man who sat slumped asleep in the bolted-down armchair.
Six of the bolted-down chairs, all identical, formed a semicircle around Coombs’s desk. They were the first thing he had ordered after being sworn in as DCI. The radius of the semicircle formed by the chairs was exactly six feet — which, Coombs had calculated, was exactly the distance needed to keep him from smelling the breath of others. As DCI, Coombs saw no reason why he should have to. He had a sensitive nose and wanted to use it to smell his roses — not breaths that reeked of cigarettes, alcohol, and decaying teeth, and especially not poor digestion brought on by ambition and fear and bad marriages.
As he walked over and snapped his fingers in the big man’s left ear, Coombs wrinkled his nose because he could smell whisky and cigarettes and garlic and Scope and probably just a trace of marijuana. It was how the big man nearly always smelled.
The sleeping man’s name was Alex Reese, and he awoke instantly without apology, but with his inevitable comment, “Must have dozed off there for a moment.”
Reese could sleep anywhere, anytime, and often did. He stood six-four and weighed 270 pounds, and a lot of it, although not all, had settled around his gut. He was a man who scoffed at all gods and demons, held most of mankind in utter contempt, and wasn’t particularly fond of animals. Nine years of his life had been spent with the FBI and twelve with the CIA. He drank a fifth of cheap whisky a day, much of it before noon, and had been hired by the CIA four times, fired three, and given two medals in private ceremonies, only to see them snatched back and locked away in the name of national security. He was forty-four years old, thrice married and divorced, and was now sexually inclined toward teen-age girls, whom he pursued shamelessly. Had it not been for his mind, he would have been impossible. His mind was extraordinary.
Coombs went behind his desk and sniffed suspiciously. “Tell me something,” he said. “Do you ever bathe?”
“Every Saturday night,” Reese said and then added because it was so old and awful, “whether I need it or not.” After that he laughed his nerve-racking laugh which lay somewhere between a sea lion’s honk and an old fox’s sly bark.
Coombs sighed and sat down. Reese tried to hitch his bolted-down chair closer to Coombs’s desk. The movement jarred the papers from his lap and they fell to the floor. Reese went down on his hands and knees to retrieve them. “What do you want to bolt these fucking chairs to the floor for anyway?” he said as he sat back down. “Afraid somebody’s gonna crack a fart?”
Coombs closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “Just read what you have.”
Reese picked up a legal-size sheet of paper from his lap and began reading an excerpt from a White House press conference that had been held twenty-two minutes before. He read in a bass monotone that was totally without inflection.
“‘Los Angeles Times: Mr. President, five days ago the Libyan delegation abruptly canceled its tour and flew back to Tripoli. My understanding is that the tour was canceled because your brother refused to let the Libyans go on a gambling junket to Las Vegas. Would you care to comment on that?’
“‘President: Not really. [Laughter.] I will say that I very much doubt that Bingo would ever try to prevent anyone from doing anything he wanted to do — especially gambling. As you know, my brother is something of a free spirit.’ [Laughter.]
“‘United Press Internationaclass="underline" Mr. President, Frank Milroy, the Las Vegas Chief of Police, says your brother called him from Los Angeles to arrange maximum security for the Libyan delegation. But then the delegation never showed. Chief Milroy has been unable to reach your brother. My question, sir, is can you tell us where your brother is, or if he somehow offended or insulted the Libyan delegation?’
“‘President: That’s two questions. First, Bingo doesn’t check in with me; I check in with him. [Laughter.] I heard from him indirectly a few days back. He did not in any way offend the Libyan delegation, which, I understand, canceled the tour for reasons of its own.’
“‘Chicago Sun-Times: Could you tell us what those reasons were, Mr. President?’
“‘President: I’m afraid you’ll have to ask the Libyan delegation that.’”
“He got off easy,” Reese said as he put the paper back on his lap, took out a cigarette, lit it with a paper match, looked around for an ashtray, and, finding none, dropped the match on the carpet.
Coombs raised himself from his chair just enough to peer over the edge of his desk and make sure the match was out. As he sat back down, he said, “Quite remarkable. He managed to get through it without actually lying. What else?”
Reese didn’t seem to hear the question. He was scratching his crotch and gazing up at the ceiling. “You know what? I think I got crabs.”
“Give me strength,” Coombs whispered.
Reese went on scratching earnestly until he smiled and sighed.
“Ahh! That’s better.” He looked at Coombs then, and the smile vanished. “You gave me this stack of shit when — five days ago? Yeah, five. You gave it to me because I don’t leak and because I’m the only one who might bring it off. Well, I’ve come up with a few juicy items, but before we go into them I wanta talk about the payoff. I want London.”
“Impossible.”
“Fuck it then,” Reese said and started to rise.