Since Ko’s question had been rhetorical, Arifi saw no need for a response other than a nod.
“And the Americans’ reply?” Ko said.
“President McKay insists on talking to his brother before he will enter into any negotiations. Or so the Nigerians say.”
“Felix is dead,” Françoise Leget said.
Arifi looked at her in surprise and then at Ko. “She had a dream,” Ko said. “In it, Felix was put into an American car and crushed into a cube by a car smasher. She believes in dreams.”
So did Ali Arifi, but he saw no need to mention it. Instead, he looked at his watch and said, “I must be going.”
“We should make them let us talk to Felix,” Françoise Leget said and stabbed out her cigarette. “It was a Chevrolet. The car Felix died in.”
No one paid any attention to her. Bernt Diringshoffen turned from the viewer, an amused smile on his face. “They really cut it off,” he said.
“The Nigerians will be handling the negotiations, right?” Ko said to Arifi.
Arifi nodded. “Their Ambassador to America is flying into Rome. A man called Dokubo. Olufemi Dokubo. He seems a sensible type, if a bit self-centered.”
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
“And Abedsaid is flying down from London when?” Ko was referring to Faraj Abedsaid, the Cultural Attache in the Libyans’ London Embassy.
“Sometime tomorrow,” Arifi said. “He will be in full charge of our negotiations.”
“We’re wasting our time,” Françoise Leget said. “Felix is dead.”
“Shut up, Françoise,” Ko said without looking at her. She turned and moved to the fish-eye viewer.
“The Americans aren’t going to let us talk to Felix,” Diringshoffen said. “They don’t work that way.”
“The Colonel insists on it,” Arifi said. “He was adamant.”
“Is he... upset?” Ko asked.
“He is furious.”
Ko nodded, as though not surprised. “I think,” he said, “I think we should give them some proof that McKay is still alive. A Polaroid picture of him holding today’s newspaper should do. Then we could insist on similar evidence of Felix’s well-being.”
“Where is the woman?” Françoise Leget said, turning from the viewer.
“In the cabin on the other side of the stateroom,” Arifi said.
“Do you let them have time together?”
“We let them have a few moments together earlier today.”
“You should keep them separated,” Françoise Leget said. “You should keep them separated and shackled and blindfolded most of the time. It destroys their morale.”
The tic at the edge of Arifi’s left eye began to throb. “Yes, well, you people are the experts in such matters. That is why you will be in charge of security.”
“What about the crew?” Ko said.
“They and the soldiers are instructed to obey your orders and none is allowed ashore.”
“Customs?”
“Generously bribed — but not so generously as to create suspicion.”
“How long can we remain here in Valletta?” Ko asked.
“As long as necessary,” Arifi said. “Rome is an easy flight. Communications with the Colonel in Tripoli are excellent. And the Maltese are both incurious and hospitable.”
“How do we know your security is as good as you say it is?” Françoise Leget said around a cigarette that she was lighting.
“At least,” Arifi said stiffly, “we have no informers in our midst.”
Françoise Leget flushed and started to say something, but changed her mind and puffed furiously on her cigarette instead.
“Well,” Arifi said as brightly as he could manage, “shall we drop in on Mr. McKay?”
It was Ko who took the Polaroid picture of Bingo McKay sitting in a chair and holding that day’s front page of the International Herald Tribune up under his chin.
“Prove I’m still alive and kicking, huh?” he said.
“Yes, Mr. McKay,” Arifi said. “That’s the general idea.”
“And these folks are what’s left of that Felix bunch you told me about?”
“They will be in charge of security.”
“They look like a right nice bunch of folks,” Bingo said and winked at Françoise Leget.
“Does your ear pain you, m’sieu?” she said.
“Why, no it don’t, little lady, but it was right nice of you to ask. Old Doc Souri here turned out to be a real fine ear slicer. Ever I want my other one cut off, I’ll sure know where to go.”
“I will be leaving you now, Mr. McKay, and returning to Tripoli,” Arifi said.
“Well, it’s sure been real nice talking to you, Minister. But like I said, you oughta do something about that tic — get the doc here to give you a shot or something before you go.”
Arif’s left hand moved up to his left eye where the tic throbbed busily. “Goodbye, Mr. McKay.”
“By the way, Minister, wouldn’t be any chance of me getting a little drinking whisky just to keep the chill off, providing, of course, it don’t cause you any religious problems. Wouldn’t wanta do that.”
“I’ll... I’ll see to it,” Arifi said and hurried from the stateroom.
Bingo McKay stretched, smiled, and winked again at Françoise Leget. “Not on the Riviera, are we, little lady?” he said. “Reason I asked is you called me m’soo and that’s French and so I figured maybe we were docked at Cannes or someplace nice like that.”
Ko smiled, shook his head, and said, “Nice try, Mr. McKay.”
McKay smiled back. “Call me Bingo.”
The Pole that Mario Cagni, the retired smuggler, had gone in search of was actually a third-generation American from Pittsburgh with the Polish name of Frank Krystosik. He was in Malta as a systems analyst for the Alamo Manufacturing Company, which turned out Puncher blue jeans, and was the largest single private enterprise on the Maltese Islands. Krystosik was also a part-time spy for the CIA. At least, that was how he thought of himself. The CIA chief of station in Rome considered Krystosik to be an extremely low-grade asset of doubtful value, while CIA headquarters in Langley was scarcely aware of his existence.
Mostly, Krystosik was a filer of sporadic reports on the Libyans and their economic encroachment on Malta, which had been going on for several years. None of his stuff was particularly useful, and there was little of it that couldn’t be found in either The Economist or the Rome dailies. But once in a great while Krystosik would turn up something mildly interesting and for that reason the Rome chief of station kept him on and even sent him a little money from time to time.
Krystosik used the money to set up what he thought of, but never revealed to another living soul, as the Krystosik Net. It was composed mostly of old smugglers like Cagni and retired British non-coms who had settled in Malta with their Maltese wives. They had discovered that almost anything they fed Krystosik, real or imagined, was good for at least a lunch and a pint or two and sometimes even a few pounds. The Krystosik Net would have been far larger had not the old smugglers and ex-non-coms jealously guarded its membership rolls. Attrition in the ranks of the net came about only by death or jail, and new members had to be voted in. There was a fairly lengthy waiting list.
Krystosik often used his lunch hour to rendezvous with his agents — a practice that was encouraged by the agents after they found that Krystosik could be counted on to pick up the check.
Cagni and Krystosik met at one o’clock that day in a cafe — not Cagni’s regular place, but a far more expensive one that prided itself on its veal. Cagni had just had the veal and was now on his third glass of wine. Krystosik made it a rule never to drink with his agents. He had many rules like that, many of them borrowed from the complete and carefully collected paperback works of David St. John, the pseudonym of a convicted Watergate burglar.