“There were two transfers out of New York to the bank in Montreal. One was from the Israelis. The other ten million came from the Libyan Arab Republic’s account at Chase Manhattan.”
“They sold him twice!” Grimes said, staring at the President. “The fuckers went and sold him twice.”
The President nodded wearily.
“And they just gave this kid the money — all twenty million?”
“Less their one percent commission. Their instructions were strict, explicit, and of long standing.”
“And Consentino made a nice little profit.” Grimes frowned. “Okay. You couldn’t find the kid. So you started checking who was in and out of Nassau yesterday. Private planes, boats, yachts, all that. Who?”
“Now comes the real juicy part,” the President said.
Coombs’s eyes flickered around the room as though seeking sanctuary. They finally lit upon a wastepaper basket in a far corner of the room and stayed there. He said something in a voice so low that it was almost impossible to hear.
Grimes leaned forward. “Sorry.”
Coombs repeated the name of the twenty-seven-mile-long, one-mile-wide island Democratic People’s Republic in the Caribbean. “They bought a plane some time ago,” he said. “They bought it for one dollar and then leased it back for one million a year to the person who sold it to them. The plane, a Boeing 727, landed at Nassau yesterday. Only one person got off. He carried a Canadian passport. The airport officials made no record of his name. They never do. Their description was vague. The man returned in an hour and loaded six crates of bonded rum aboard the plane. The customs officials, of course, did not inspect the rum. The plane then took off after filing a flight plan for Miami. It never landed in Miami.”
“The plane,” Grimes said. “Who leases the plane?”
With his eyes still locked on the remote and apparently comforting wastepaper basket, Coombs swallowed and said, “Leland Timble.”
Grimes blinked and then said totally without inflection, “Well, I’ll be goddamned.”
There was a silence while Grimes stared first at Coombs, then at the President, then back at Coombs. “Timble. The boy genius bank robber, right?”
“Yes.”
“The finger. How’d Timble get hold of Felix’s finger?”
“Records at London’s Heathrow show that the plane, the same 727, was there for four days prior to and including the day that Felix was kidnapped.”
“Timble snatched him, then. By himself?”
“It gets even better,” the President said.
Grimes stared at Coombs. “Well?”
Coombs sighed. “Timble has a former FBI special agent and a former CIA employee working for him. Either one — or both — could have engineered the abduction.”
Grimes stared up at the ceiling. “You know what?” he said. “I bet they cut off two fingers and sold one to the Israelis and one to the Libyans. I bet that’s what they did.” He looked at Coombs again. “Okay. The plane. The 727. Where is it?”
“Tell him,” the President said.
“It’s in Haiti.”
“And Timble and his bunch?”
“There is no record of them getting off the plane. However, four men chartered a private plane and flew to Santo Domingo.”
“The Dominican Republic?”
Coombs nodded. “There they caught a commercial flight to Caracas.”
“And in Caracas?”
“We think they flew commercial to Rome. We’re not positive.”
Grimes looked at the President. “Dunjee’s in Rome. Does he know about Dunjee?”
“Ask him,” the President said, nodding at Coombs, who was now giving the small liver spot on the back of his left hand a careful examination.
Without waiting for Grimes’s question, Coombs said, “We became aware some time ago, Mr. President, that you retained or employed this man Dunjee in some private capacity whose exact nature you were not willing to share.”
“I hired him to get my brother back. Or Felix. Or both.”
“I am not sure that you have made a wise choice.”
“I’ll worry about that,” the President said. “What I want to know now is who we’ve got in Rome. I want that little prick Timble. I want him bad.”
“Yes, I quite understand. Well, we have our normal complement in Rome. In addition, I have already sent in several of our best people from both our Paris and Bonn stations.”
“Who’s going to be in charge?” the President said.
“Alex Reese. He was due there yesterday.”
“Reese?” the President said. “Is he that big bald guy with the gut who everybody says drinks like a fish?”
“He’s brilliant, Mr. President. Absolutely brilliant.”
“And he’s the best we’ve got?”
“The very best.”
“God help us. One thing, Coombs.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Tell Reese hands off Dunjee. Understand? Absolutely hands off.”
“I understand, Mr. President.”
The President looked at Grimes. “I’ve asked Ambassador Dokubo to keep the talks in Rome with the Libyans going — to stall, if he has to. He’s good at it.” The President paused. “Rome?” he said and looked questioningly at Grimes.
Grimes nodded decisively. Then he pulled his big, heavy body up as he always did, smoothly, easily. “I’m on my way.”
28
The day after Dunjee was flown back to Rome from Tripoli, he sat with Faraj Abedsaid at a sidewalk table at Doney’s, a brandy and an espresso before him. In front of Abedsaid was a small bottle of San Pellegrino mineral water. It was shortly before two o’clock in the afternoon.
“How many did you say are on you?” Dunjee said.
“When I left my hotel at noon, I think I spotted three. Possibly four. If there is a fourth one, he’s very good.”
“Any of them around now?”
“One behind you about six tables away. Twenty-nine or thirty. He’s found something terribly interesting in the Daily American. There’s also a woman. Twelve tables up. Fat, frumpish, about forty. She’s not bad. Green polyester slacks, orange sweater, mouse hair. She has tourist stamped all over her.”
“Just so we’ve got our audience.”
“We have it.”
“When’s your meeting with Dokubo?”
Abedsaid looked at his watch. “In about thirty minutes.”
“Still at the FAO?”
“Yes.”
“How is he?”
“Dokubo? Very bright, very smooth, very skillful — and exceedingly adept at scrambling about in quicksand. Using charm alone, I think he could keep these negotiations stalled for another six months. Back in Oklahoma, we’d say he was all hat and no cattle.”
Dunjee smiled. “Well, let’s do it.”
“Would you prefer me to be imperceptible — or obvious?”
“Hell, you’re the spy.”
“Yes, and I’m violating every precept of my trade. I do think I’ll be a wee bit clumsy — just so they don’t blink and miss it.”
Abedsaid looked at his watch again. “Well, I really must be going,” he said. Abedsaid started to rise, seemed to notice a forgotten folded copy of the Herald Tribune in his lap, and caught it before it fell. He placed the newspaper on the table as if he had finished reading it. “Keep in touch,” he told Dunjee.
“Right.”
Dunjee continued to sit at the table, people-watching and slowly sipping his brandy. After fifteen minutes, he glanced around as if trying to find his waiter. He spotted the fortyish woman in the green slacks and orange sweater. She seemed to be devoting all of her attention to a rather large mound of ice cream. Dunjee could not locate any young man with a Daily American who fitted Abedsaid’s description.