Bizi called Chocoli next. Arthur caught the words nje shok and Hanife. Translated: friend of Hanife. He also heard several times the word dollars, a word common to many languages.
DiPalma’s crown was swaddled in a turban of bandages, and his purple swollen cheeks and blackened eyes gave him a raccoonlike look. Arthur could tell that the three cracked ribs caused him pain to breathe even shallowly. The only pleasure he took from seeing him flat on his back in a hospital ward was his pathetic, cringing look of contrition.
“I will personally take him by ambulance to Tirana,” said Dr. Muhbarren, in excellent English. “He will have better facilities there, specialists. In the meantime, it is an honour to have him in our little provincial hospital.” He turned to his patient. “You will also be safer in Tirana, Mr. DiPalma — you have too many enemies here.”
He glanced at the two officers standing in the hallway, suggesting even they were not to be trusted. They had delivered Arthur here, on Bizi’s orders. Another officer had been assigned to escort him to Korca the next day, Sunday. He had dismissed all thoughts of backing down, and was almost glad that the expert in all things Albanian would not be tagging along.
Dr. Muhbarren had urged Arthur to keep his visit brief — the concussion had not been a mild one. It would take weeks for his head to heal, months before his ribs mended. The doctor paused on exiting, with a salute. “To the Canadian James Bond, who trapped the Balkan wolf in his lair — our people thank you.”
Arthur got close to DiPalma. “Are you alert enough to exchange a few words?”
“It only hurts when I laugh,” he said hoarsely.
“I have outed you. You may forget Apex Getaways. Let us hope this escapade, and your sudden notoriety here, do not get back to Ottawa before I find Abzal.”
“Carry on regardless. I’m washed up, I’m done.”
Stoned talk, through the analgesic fog. “I will see you in Tirana. Pac fat.”
As of seven p.m., Arthur had done little else but make arrangements for a wire transfer from Canada, the local bank manager obligingly seeing to his needs on a weekend. For the rest of the time he attacked his phrasebook, waiting for the right hour to call Bullingham — too early and he would be dragging him out of bed, with calamitous consequences. But now it was mid-morning in Vancouver, when Bully ought not to be at his dyspeptic worst, breakfast tucked away, a relaxing Christmas Day to look forward to.
His housekeeper answered. Mr. Bullingham had left for the office an hour ago. Arthur remembered that the indefatigable nonagenarian often dropped into the shop on Christmas, a practice that served as a compelling example to the slaves on the lower floors. He dialed Bully’s private line.
A curt “No, I do not accept the charges.”
“Merry Christmas, Bully, it is I.”
A weary “Oh, very well. Keep it short, Arthur.”
“How wonderful, Bully, to hear your voice so clearly from afar.” Great warmth and spirit. “I bring greetings from the wondrous strange land of Albania.”
“I hope this is important and doesn’t involve money. Do you have good tidings or bad?”
Arthur wasn’t going to mention the DiPalma reversal. “We’re closing in on the target. I expect to see him tomorrow.” A deep breath. “Expenses have been heavy, Bully. If I may be blunt, they’re robbing me blind.”
“Who?”
“Officialdom.”
“Then I suspect it’s time to cut the losses. Whether or not your knight errantry proves successful, fairness surely demands you earn back the $29,850 that are currently on the books for this expedition. Not a problem, I think. A.J. Quilter and several high executives of Alta International have just been charged with authorizing corrupt payments to the Bhashyistan government. You’re the counsel of choice, of course.”
Stopping short of a promise, Arthur teased him with the hope he might take Quilter’s case — he was, after all, quickly becoming a corruption specialist. Then he made his pitch: Tragger, Inglis could expect to earn a massive return on its investment. Erzhan’s claim against the Canadian government would start at twelve million, plus all disbursements — including this long-distance call.
He could hear Bully’s brain computing. Finally: “Give me a figure.”
“To be safe, fifty thousand.”
An indecipherable sound, like gasping. A clearing of throat that didn’t clear it. “Fifty?” he rasped. “Fifty, did you say?” The long silence meant he’d calculated the odds as being favourable but was having trouble saying so. “Not a cent more. Tomorrow is Sunday. Monday is also a bank holiday.”
“Do your best.” The old boy not only had the bank manager’s home number, he was on its board. “Trust me, Bully.”
“Sunday breakfast special, eggs any way you like, scrambled, boiled, on pita bread. Best coffee in Europe.” It was seven-thirty, the sun had barely dawned, and Djon Bajramovic was already at his stand. Did he never sleep?
Bizi’s expensive chauffeur had yet to show up at the hotel, so Arthur ordered a coffee.
“I hear from friends about Mr. Ray. Too bad — but he survive, so lucky man. How you make out with shady head copper? Police recreation fund is richer?”
“Thank you for the advice. Yes, that has bought us some apparently needed police protection.”
“Already you have adapted to local economy. You see how Djon Bajramovic can help business adventures here, he has been around the block a few times. But maybe you need protection from police protection. Also from kidnapping for ransom — Apex Getaways is very rich company, yes? My security service comes with personal guarantee, tough guys but cheap, work for tips.”
“Let’s talk about it later, Djon.”
Pulling up was a four-wheel-drive van bearing the insignia of the Albanian State Police. Climbing out, a smiling bearded officer, who held open the passenger door for Arthur. Grigori was his name, and for the enjoyment of his patron, he chose a mountainous route, by the Greek border. They looped around hairpins that Grigori took with wide, heart-stopping turns to avoid potholes, then descended to valleys with raging streams under creaky wooden bridges that were another test of courage. But the views were stunning, and Arthur captured several on DiPalma’s cellphone.
Occasionally, on emerging from scrub and pine forests, they entered areas of small holdings and dilapidated villages where grizzled locals stared after them in amazement, as if their passage were the highlight of the month. Grigori wasn’t shy about using his siren to clear passage between horse carts and fleeing chickens and flocks of stubborn, grumpy goats. Finally, a sizable town, Korca, where they turned north.
Snow was clinging to the roadside as they crested a final high point and took a view of Lake Ohrid, a glassy blue expanse beyond which lay the isolated little Republic of Macedonia. A steep descent took them to a plateau upon which a twelve-foot-high wire fence enclosed a concrete structure with guard turrets at each corner.
Prison 303 resembled an industrial warehouse, featureless and flat, with barred windows, and was abutted by a shedlike administrative office. Some three hundred prisoners were housed here, said Grigori, many of whom he’d bussed in over the years. The gatekeeper recognized him, strapped on his submachine gun as he opened the gate.
Several yard guards lounged about, keeping an eye on the dozen prisoners shovelling snow from the driveway, picking up litter, and washing two prison service vehicles near the office. Grigori barked an order as he and Arthur alighted, and they started in on his muddy van.
A rat scurried under the office annex as Arthur approached its locked steel door. Clearly, he was expected, because he was admitted immediately by a secretary. Several others sat at desks, with the resigned look of underpaid civil servants. A group of uniformed guards was watching a soccer game on a small TV. Rifles and shotguns hanging on the walls.