“What good would it do?”
Mourabet seemed to consider that. He ran his fingers through his hair. After a moment, he carefully began rewrapping the finger in the aluminum foil. When he was done, he replaced it in the small refrigerator’s freezing compartment and turned back to Dunjee.
“Do you think he’s alive?”
Dunjee shook his head. “No. Do you?”
Mourabet sighed. “Probably not. You want something, of course.”
“Yes.”
“President McKay’s brother. That is what you want, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Mourabet cocked his head slightly to one side as he studied Dunjee. “And you are prepared to offer me something in exchange. I am trying to decide what it will be. Not money, of course.”
Dunjee smiled slightly. “Hardly.”
“What then?”
“I’ll give you whoever kidnapped Felix.”
“Aaah! Revenge!”
“Revenge.”
“You are, I’m beginning to think, a very clever man, Mr. Dunjee. You’re offering me the one thing you know I cannot resist. But, of course, I first have to give you something in exchange, don’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Not money.”
“No.”
“I could make you quite wealthy, you realize.”
“It’s tempting.”
Mourabet smiled. “But not tempting enough?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“You tell me where Bingo McKay is being held. That’s all.”
“That is not much of a bargain. If I told you that, then your President could send in a CIA or Army team to try to rescue him.”
Dunjee shook his head. “You’d kill him first.”
Mourabet nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, we would, I’m afraid.”
“And besides, I’m not going to tell the President.”
“You distrust his associates?”
“I distrust their ability to keep their mouths shut.”
There was another lengthy silence as Mourabet again studied Dunjee, much in the way he might study an interesting but abstract piece of sculpture, which he found himself liking, although he wasn’t at all sure why.
At last, he said, “I think I finally have decided what you really are, Mr. Dunjee.”
“What?”
“A patriot. A curious one, but a patriot nonetheless.”
Dunjee grinned. “Does that mean we have a deal?”
“Yes,” Mourabet said. “With a few caveats on my part, I really believe we do.”
“Bingo McKay,” Dunjee said. “He’s in Malta, isn’t he?”
For the first time, Mourabet scowled. “I must insist on knowing who told you.”
“It was none of your people.”
“Who?” Mourabet demanded.
Dunjee tried to decide how best to describe the Wreck in Rome. At last he said, “A family friend.”
27
In the small denlike office on the third floor of the Old Executive Office Building, the Director of Central Intelligence, a stiff, stubborn look on his face, said, “For the record, Mr. President, I must object to Mr. Grimes being present at our discussions.”
Paul Grimes smiled sleepily, as if trying to fight back a yawn. The President shifted in his chair behind the desk and stared at Thane Coombs with a look that mingled amazement with dislike.
“Let me tell you something, friend,” he said. “You’re not in any shape to be objecting to anything.”
A tide of pink rushed up Coombs’s neck and brightened his ears. “For the record, Mr. President,” he said stubbornly.
“Noted,” the President snapped. “Now tell him what you told me.”
“That is an order?”
“Tell him, god damn it!”
“Yes. All right.” Coombs shifted in his chair so that he could look at Grimes. Actually, he looked at a spot that was an inch to the left of Grimes’s right ear. “The Israelis in New York were approached by Gambia’s permanent representative to the UN, a Dr. Mapangou. He claimed to represent the kidnappers of Gustavo Berrio-Brito.”
“Felix,” Grimes said.
“Yes. Felix. Dr. Mapangou had evidence. The evidence was in the form of Felix’s severed right forefinger. Its print matched those on file in Paris. Mapangou said the kidnappers were demanding a ransom of ten million dollars. The Israelis contacted us. We agreed to pay half the ransom. The ransom, the entire ten million, was paid. A few hours later, Dr. Mapangou was murdered in Central Park. Nothing has been heard from the kidnappers.”
Grimes nodded. “What about Bingo?”
“His name was never mentioned during the negotiations, according to the Israelis.”
“Ten million,” Grimes said. “A lot of money. It wasn’t cash?”
“No. A bank transfer.”
“Can’t you trace it?”
Coombs turned back to look at the President. It was an almost beseeching look.
“Tell him,” the President said.
“The method used to transfer the money was set up by the CIA several years ago. It is virtually foolproof. The money, changed into several currencies, was picked up yesterday afternoon at a casino in the Bahamas.”
“Where in the Bahamas?”
“Nassau.”
A wise smile spread across Grimes’s face. “Who owns it?”
Coombs opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He closed his mouth, snapped it shut actually, then opened it to try again. He failed.
Grimes looked at him almost sympathetically. “Let me guess,” he said. “It’s owned by Gogo Consentino and his bunch.”
“They are not the owners of record,” Coombs said.
“Well, bullshit, mister, you’d better get your head out of the sand. What was their payoff for washing the money?”
“One percent.”
“And what did you call it — the system, the route, whatever?”
Coombs shifted in his chair again and resumed his examination of the spot an inch to the left of Grimes’s right ear. “The Panama Laundry,” he said after clearing his throat.
Grimes nodded. “All right. Now the obvious question. Who thought up the Panama Laundry — invented it?”
“The man is dead. His name was Eubanks.”
“Okay. Eubanks is dead. But who else knew about it — other than Eubanks?”
“Only two persons.”
“Who?”
Coombs gripped the arms of his chair. He stared at the space on the carpet between his feet. “The former Director... and myself.”
“Well, hell, he’s ambassador to where now — Brazil?”
“Brazil,” the President said.
“And you,” Grimes said, staring at Coombs, who still sat, head bowed, gazing at the floor. “Well, hell, you don’t look hungry enough. So there must’ve been somebody else.”
“There was nobody.”
“Nobody you know about anyway.”
“Tell him the juicy part,” the President instructed Coombs.
Coombs slowly raised his head and turned to stare past Grimes and out the window. The view between the drapes was a small slice of Pennsylvania Avenue that included the top floor of Blair House.
“At two P.M., Nassau time, yesterday afternoon,” he began in a dry, distant, precise tone, “a young black man approximately seventeen or eighteen years old drove up in front of the casino in a van. He identified himself to the casino authorities as Samuel—” Coombs stopped and sighed. “Samuel Jones. He then recited the coded phrase.”
“The password?” Grimes said.
“Yes, all right, the password. Or words. The money was transferred to the youth’s van. It was later found abandoned. The youth has not been located.”
“They just gave him the money?” Grimes said, trying to keep the incredulity out of his tone, but failing. “All ten million?”
“It was actually twenty million,” Coombs said in a whisper.
“Twenty million! How the fuck could it be twenty million.”