“In ’sixty-nine.”
“Yes. Idris was in Turkey. We had postponed it twice already. Some of us wanted to postpone again. Qaddafi would not hear of it. He convinced us through his — will, his personality. At two o’clock in the morning we struck. Not one single person died.”
“I remember,” Dunjee said and drank some more of his beer.
Mourabet waited politely until Dunjee lowered the can. “When I asked you how you would identify yourself, I did so for a reason.”
“So I suspected.”
“You see, Qaddafi was convinced — and I shared his conviction — that we have a broader responsibility, one that extends beyond the borders of our country. What we have accomplished here in Libya, we feel we must help others to accomplish.”
“Revolution,” Dunjee said.
“Or justice.”
“Through revolution.”
“As an American, you must believe in revolution.”
“It depends on what comes afterwards.”
“Democracy, you mean.”
Dunjee shook his head. “Not necessarily. Democracy’s never perfect. You can try it, find it doesn’t work, discard it, and then go back to it when the time’s ripe. Nigeria’s an example of that. This time I think it’ll work there.”
Mourabet smiled. “You mean they can afford it now?”
Dunjee smiled back. “Something like that.”
“I think we understand each other. Do you know who my first American was?”
“Who?”
“Captain Eugene Stallings of Memphis, Tennessee, and the United States Air Force. Or rather Madame Stallings. They were my first Americans and I was their first servant. At Wheelus. I was the houseboy. Madame Stallings taught me English — or American, I suppose. I have that accent, I am told.”
“Sort of southern,” Dunjee said.
“Really?”
“But charming.”
“And the grammar?”
“Perfect,” Dunjee said.
“She was a former schoolteacher. She really wasn’t quite sure whether to order me around or adopt me. Later, an American, a black American, told me I was probably what he called the house nigger. I was only thirteen then. But through the Stallings’ efforts, I was later able to enter the academy. Years later, I decided that I quite despised them — especially her.”
“Indebtedness is not always a comfortable feeling,” Dunjee said and finished his beer.
“Another?” Mourabet said.
Dunjee shook his head. “No thank you.”
“These broader responsibilities I spoke of. Several years ago we decided that some of our revenues should be used to finance the efforts of those who were trying to overcome oppression, regardless of its form.”
“So you bankrolled freedom fighters.”
Mourabet blinked. “I was quite sure you would call them terrorists.”
“I am Dunjee, an American. You are Mourabet, a Moslem, one of the Arabs who happens to be a Libyan.” Dunjee shrugged. “Labels.”
Mourabet nodded slowly. He then reached into a pocket of his loose cotton pullover and took out a folded sheet of paper that seemed to have been ripped from the teletype. He unfolded it carefully. “This is your curriculum vitae, I believe it is called. You have had a strange career.”
“Which is probably why I’m here.”
“Yes, I reckon so. That’s southern, isn’t it? Reckon so?”
“That’s southern.”
“This was supplied us by our friends in the PLO.”
“You’ve patched things up then?”
“With the PLO? Oh, yes. Some time ago.” Mourabet looked down at the paper. “The Mordida Man. That means the giver of bribes, I believe. Spanish — or Mexican?”
“Mexican,” Dunjee said.
“What did you do exactly in Mexico?”
“I got people out of jail. Rich people. Rich people’s kids, to be precise.”
“By giving bribes?”
Dunjee shook his head. “Not always. Sometimes those who could arrange the release were more interested in something else.”
“More than money?”
“More than money.”
“What?”
“Recognition.”
“Aaah! I think I understand. And you were able to supply this... recognition?”
“Sometimes.”
“And what else would they want, those who could arrange the prisoners’ release? Some of them already must have had all the money and fame they could use. What else would they want?”
“What else?” Dunjee said. “Usually revenge.”
“Aaah! Revenge. Yes. The colder it is the sweeter it tastes. What form did this revenge take?”
“Political embarrassment mostly.”
“You could arrange this?”
“With enough money, you can arrange almost anything.”
“How severe was the embarrassment?”
“People went to jail sometimes. Sometimes not.”
“So by arranging the imprisonment of one, you secured the release of another?”
“Sometimes.”
“And you did this for a living?”
“That’s right.”
Mourabet turned and opened the refrigerator again. He removed a can of beer and handed it to Dunjee. “Here,” he said. “You look a bit thirsty.”
“Thank you.”
From the refrigerator’s freezer compartment Mourabet also removed something small and oblong and carefully wrapped in heavy aluminum foil. He placed it on the rug in front of him.
“Today — here — you are representing who— Whom, isn’t it?”
“Whom,” Dunjee said. He took a deep breath. “The President of the United States.”
“Really?” Mourabet said and began peeling back the aluminum foil. When he was done a severed finger lay on foil. The finger was pointing at Dunjee.
He stared at the finger for a moment, then looked up at Mourabet. “Felix?”
“Yes. Felix. We paid ten million dollars for it. I’m beginning to suspect that we paid it to the CIA.”
Dunjee shook his head. “No.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’re sure it’s Felix’s finger?”
“We’re sure. It was flown from New York to Paris. The French have his fingerprints on file. At present, we’re rather chummy with the French for a change. Chummy. American or English?”
“Both. But more English than American usually.”
“Yes. Well, they identified it. The French.”
“How’d you pay out the money?”
“Through a bank transfer to an intermediary in New York. He’s Gambia’s permanent representative to the UN.”
“Dr. Mapangou?”
“Do you know him?”
Dunjee nodded. “I’ve been to his parties.”
“An honest man?”
Dunjee thought about it. “Maybe. Also greedy. Very greedy.”
Mourabet shrugged. “Well, no matter. I received a call from New York early this morning. Dr. Mapangou was found dead yesterday in a park. His neck had been broken.”
“So you’re out ten million dollars.”
Mourabet nodded. “Ten million. Mr. Dunjee, we have a country that is two and one half times as large as Texas with a population that barely equals Houston’s. Our per-capita income is among the highest in the world. Ten million dollars to us is of no particular consequence. Felix is. He is to my government an important symbol, not an altogether attractive one perhaps, but. still of great importance to us in our relations with a large number of dissident groups around the world. We gave Felix sanctuary when no one else would. We personally guaranteed his safety. His kidnapping diminishes us in the eyes of those we support. We will — and I wish to stress this — go to any lengths to get him back.”
Dunjee stared at Mourabet for several seconds. Finally, in a clear, firm voice he said, “The Americans don’t have Felix. They never had him.”
Mourabet stared back. There was a long silence. Mourabet finally broke it. “You could be lying.”