28
On this first day of the new year, Arthur had decidedly little to celebrate. He’d just returned to his hotel in Gjirokaster after six days of bureaucratic hell, so morose that he was fighting the seductive pull of the half-litre of cognac DiPalma had left behind.
Ray was still in Tirana — he’d been transferred from its National Trauma Centre to a Catholic clinic and hospice for recovery care. On his several visits Arthur had seen physical improvement but also emotional decline — DiPalma was oppressed by an intense sense of failure. Gone was the braggadocio, replaced by teary confessions of incompetence — not just in the field of espionage but in life generally. His inability to sustain a marriage or a love affair or any kind of deep friendship; this he blamed on the early loss of his mother, the disaffection of his father.
He’d entered an extreme depressive phase, said his physician, who was concerned that the concussion may have accelerated the symptoms of Parkinson’s he’d observed. It was as likely, Arthur thought, that DiPalma no longer had the strength to hide the shakes. Adding hugely to the tolclass="underline" he was battling addictions to alcohol and nicotine.
But Arthur too endured a sense of failure after his week in the Albanian capital. He’d been hung out to twist in the wind, shuffled from one prison official to another, his inquiries met with grins and shrugs. None were able to unearth records of Abzal’s transfer from Prison 303. Arthur had made it as far as the assistant director-general of prisons. “If Warden Chocoli says he was taken away by the border police, then I’m sure he’s correct.” He professed to know nothing about Arthur’s client; he had too many problems at work to follow the world news.
The border police had no evidence Abzal Erzhan had even entered the country — though they were aware, from Interpol bulletins, that a man by that name was wanted. “We escort prisoners into the jails, not out,” said a senior officer who opened computer records showing they’d not visited Prison 303 on December 13 or any other day that month. He begged Arthur to believe Warden Chocoli had made an honest error — some other policing agency must have taken custody of Mr. Erzhan.
A bored clerk in the Justice Ministry asked him to come back in ten days while they checked on the matter. Immigration officers knew nothing. Doors of more senior officials were closed for the holidays.
Arthur refused to believe Abzal was lost within the labyrinthine oblivion of the country’s jail system. This was a classic case of stonewalling, an effort by corrupt officials to hide their illegal role in a high-profile rendition. There are other people involved, people in Tirana. People who’d been paid a vaster sum than Arthur’s laughable offer of thirty grand to Chocoli, their underling. He had a sick feeling that Abzal might have been disappeared permanently. A sham accident or suicide.
Arthur had never been inclined toward paranoia, but had sensed a strong whiff of it in Tirana. On every street he’d walked, he’d glanced back to see followers. Sometimes a man, sometimes two, sometimes a man and a woman — ducking into shadows or doorways. He stopped venturing from his hotel at night. In the day, he took taxis. Even then he sensed pursuit, felt danger. The message: don’t get too close to the truth; you can disappear too.
The Gjirokaster had kept his room for him, and from its balcony he stared out at a fittingly dismal, wet day, murky clouds hanging low over the hills, the street vendors protecting their wares under umbrellas — among them Djon Bajramovic, wiping his thick glasses clear of the steam rising from his curbside cookery as he served two burly men in rain hoods.
He glanced back at that flagon of Skenderbeu konjak, but was rescued from temptation as much by firmness of will as by recall of the New Year’s Eve revelry on the streets of Tirana, the hapless, roaming drunks, a fight spilling from a tavern. That morning, the driver of his minibus, dangerously hungover, had nearly skidded off the road.
To make matters worse, his cash reserves were down to five hundred dollars’ worth of leks, and the local bank was closed for New Year’s. Happily, Bully’s fifty thousand was there — the bank manager had confirmed this by telephone. Unhappily, he could conceive of no useful way to spend it: he was at a dead end, his campaign beyond resurrection.
The money would stay in the bank for now — Arthur would feel very jittery carrying big sums around. Doubtless his contract with Chief Bizi for police security had expired — unless those two heavyweights munching Djon’s qebaps and looking up at him were undercover police.
He returned inside, gave the operator the Blunder Bay phone number. Savannah answered with a poorly smothered yawn, and he realized it was five a.m. there.
“I’m sorry, I’m obviously quite discombobulated.”
“Hey, I was going to get up anyway.”
“Please don’t wake Margaret. Tell her I’m returning to help with her campaign as soon as I can make arrangements. I’ll call her later in the day.”
“Where are you anyway? Somewhere exotic I heard, but nobody’s saying.”
“All will be known soon.”
“Sounds like you’re not having a happy new year.”
“The most dismal I can recall.”
Pride goeth before a fall. Reckless in his anger at Anthony Crumwell, Arthur had vowed to solve what that thief of privacy had been unable or unwilling to grapple with. He would look moronic on his return to Canada. Going cap in hand to the Foreign Ministry, to CSIS, seeking forgiveness for DiPalma, begging help to rescue Abzal.
He’d gathered some evidence to confirm the rendition, but would an infamous fence like Hanife Bejko be believed? Might Warden Chocoli spirit away the Prison 303 guest register? Arthur had photos of it, but the prospect of presenting such paltry proofs to Crumwell caused his stomach to clench.
That stomach would feel better filled. He put on his coat.
“For best customer all of Albania, unless you are observing Jew or Muslim, best buy today is pork. New Year special. Organic, from farmer friend, Christian like me. How is Mr. DiPalma?”
“He’s very depressed.”
“You also look not happy, Mr. Beauchamp.”
“There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.” Seneca’s despairing cry.
“You not have success in Tirana? Did I warn you? Hire Djon Bajramovic, otherwise they jack you around.”
“Djon, I am not a developer. I am a criminal lawyer.”
“The truth is revealed.” Djon passed him a thick nugget of braised pork. “You try, you like. Feast of gods.”
“I am representing a client unlawfully detained in your country.”
“Ah, yes, Abzal Erzhan. Why you not say so earlier?”
Arthur gagged on the meat. “What? What? You know about this?”
“Is secret? Not to Djon Bajramovic. Erzhan is well-known outlaw, famous in news. In Prison 303, north of Korca.”
“He was there, but no longer. I talked to the warden.”
“Chocoli? A scared mouse, he would lie to his mother to save ass.”
“For God’s sake, Djon, how did you learn about Erzhan?”
“I explain for umpteenth time, Djon Bajramovic have many contacts.” A wink and a wide smile that copied the sweeping curl of his Dali moustache. “As example, friend who is in same clan as night-shift captain at Prison 303.”
Arthur looked up to the heavens. It had stopped raining; the clouds were breaking up. The power of Djon. “Do you ever not work, my friend? You seem to be perpetually in this spot.”
“Seven in morning to nine at night, with break for lunch.”
Arthur handed him twenty thousand leks. “An initial retainer. You are hired.”
Djon wiped his thick glasses, stared at the bills for a moment. “About time.” He slipped them into a pocket.
“Why don’t you pack up early, Djon, and come to my hotel room to talk?”
“Is maybe not safe. Not even safe here.” A glance at the street, a silent message.