The man standing at an office doorway had to be Hasran Chocoli. Saying nothing, sizing Arthur up. Birdlike, twitchy, hints of an anxiety disorder, all masked by another fine example of Albanian facial art, handlebars as thick and wide as a clothes brush.
“Come in, Mr. Beauchamp.” In English, slightly accented.
The secretary followed them in with a tea tray, set it on a side table, and poured. The office was handsomely done, leafy plants, lounge chairs and ottomans, Turkish carpets, walls draped with fabric in Byzantine patterns. Good communist in past life, but repent, kept job.
“How do you take your tea? I usually prefer goat’s milk. Very healthy.”
“No question. I happen to raise goats.”
“A goatkeeper and a lawyer, how unique.”
Tea poured and stirred, they settled into soft chairs, testing each other in conversation. Arthur lied about how much he was enjoying Albania, and complimented Chocoli on his English. The warden said he’d improved it by studying abroad.
His hands were active, playing with his tie, his shirt buttons, his moustache. “I regret this meeting must be brief, Mr. Beauchamp. Abzal Erzhan is no longer in this facility. He was transferred two weeks ago.”
Arthur showed no reaction.
“Here, let me show you.” Chocoli went to his desk, returned with a leather-bound book. It was rather like a guest register, with dates and remarks written in pen after prisoners’ names. Here was Erzhan crossed out, two weeks ago, Monday, December 13.
Arthur checked himself from asking why Chocoli hadn’t mentioned this on the phone yesterday to Captain Bizi. Quickly, cellphone in hand, he snapped a picture of the page. The warden made a half-hearted effort to retrieve the book, but Arthur held on tight, flipping the pages back to late November, looking for Erzhan’s name. Here he was, booked in on Saturday, November 27, ten a.m., confirming Bejko’s account. He took another photo.
“It is not permitted to record government documents.” Chocoli wrestled the register away while Arthur calmly pocketed the phone. The warden seemed uncertain whether to pursue the matter.
“And where was Mr. Erzhan taken?”
“That is a mystery. He was signed out by the State Border Police under warrant sealed by the director-general of prisons.” A tight smile, though Arthur could barely make it out behind the foliage. “No forwarding address.”
“May I see the documents relating to his transfer?”
“You must ask in Tirana for these.”
“But you have copies, I assume?”
“I am not authorized.” He straightened his tie.
“Help me, Warden, I’m confused. Hanife Bejko — you know him, of course?”
“In my official capacity here, yes, I have met him.”
“A month ago, Hanife was in a cell adjoining Mr. Erzhan’s. He observed him being beaten.”
“That was not done. There were even discussions about his safety … Never mind. Hanife has a wayward tongue, he exaggerates.”
Discussions about his safety? “I’m curious to know what my client was charged with.”
Chocoli spread his hands. “It is a criminal offence to enter the country illegally. That is why the border police are involved, yes? I have no control over what they do. Maybe you should ask them. Or the prisons office in Tirana. It’s not my job to keep track of fifteen thousand inmates in thirteen institutions, I am sorry.” He shrugged.
“You were not aware Erzhan was flown secretly here from Canada? And that he was accused of a crime he could not have committed?”
“I know nothing about him. They come, they go, I don’t even look at them.” He was having trouble meeting Arthur’s eye.
“Warden Chocoli, what is the usual penalty for illegal immigration?”
Chocoli drained his tea. “Fine, jail, deportation, there are many solutions.”
“And how much must Mr. Erzhan pay in fines before I escort him out of the country?”
“That would be for decision by judicial authorities.” Shifting in his chair.
A hard bargainer, Bejko said. “Would fifteen thousand dollars pay his debt to society?” To get Abzal out of the country safely and fast, Arthur would be prepared to pay well in excess of that.
Chocoli stood. “Mr. Beauchamp, I would be insulted if I thought you were offering a bribe. But surely you are not, because it is against the law. Now I must close this meeting. I have many things to do.”
“I can arrange for thirty thousand in one or two days. Cash, of course.”
“Cash …” Temptation was written on his face, but there was fear also; Arthur could see it in his eyes. “No, it is not possible.” He indicated the door with a trembling hand.
Arthur calmly sipped his tea. “I am not satisfied with what I’ve been told, Warden. This is a matter with serious international implications. I can’t believe you aren’t aware of that.”
“I have to ask you to leave.” Holding the doorknob. “Please.”
Arthur rose, returned his cup to the tray, then towered over his host for a silent moment, not threatening but demanding, forcing Chocoli to look squarely at him and reveal the mendacity in his eyes. Vultus est index animi. The face is the index of the soul.
Chocoli had broken into a sweat by now. He twitched again, and spoke softly: “I have instructions. There are other people involved, people in Tirana.”
27
For the past couple of days, Charley Thiessen had been hanging at Hoffstutter Blane, the Tory ad agency, where a cluster of witty, bright-eyed women had taken him in charge, sprucing up his message, rehearsing him, dressing him, powdering him, perfecting his handsome, confident John Wayne grin.
His mother had come with him to Toronto, but they’d sent her packing on the first day, she having been considered a disruptive force, a distraction, and there’d been an unhappy scene around that. But the young ladies cooled him out, flattered him, insisting he had great camera presence. He guessed he didn’t come off too bad on some of the takes, but he never felt he was speaking from the heart: these were somebody else’s words, Gus Hoffstutter’s words.
Some of the clips would go national, some just in Ontario, most in Grey County, where he’d also be playing live the next night, New Year’s Eve, with a dozen soirees to visit.
Today’s last taping, for national free-time radio, was important enough that the man himself was guiding him through it, Hoffstutter with his pink face and puckered smile. Several of his girls were here in the boardroom too, hovering about, practically swooning whenever their Einstein came up with another brilliancy.
“Bhashyistan, that’s the ticket we ride to January twenty-four. How did we fare on La Presse’s poll, my darling?”
“We’re up eight.”
“And that’s just in Quebec. Are we charting up with a bullet?” A chorus of agreement. “And do we know what caused that bump?”
“The raid on Igorgrad.”
“Front of the class. We’re riding to victory on the coattails of our air force heroes. I told Clara to get that on the street, and I’m telling you, Charley. Here’s how we’re deep-thinking this thing — if silencing Mukhamet has clawed back eight points, three more shots like that will send us off the grid. We hit them again, and hit them hard. Affirmative, Charley? You with me? Hello? You zoning out on us again?”
“I was just wondering if I should say something about, you know, the environment, capping carbon emissions.” Talk about what’s really important, Dad. Joy had been all over him about Big Oil, the stripping of the boreal forest, drowning him in numbers, charts, graphs projecting climate catastrophe. She’d embarrassed him by signing on as a Greenpeace volunteer.