Nibbling on his kebab, Arthur turned casually, saw a one-ton truck cruise by, recognized Ledjina in the cab, looking miserable, sandwiched between two glowering men. The truck slowed near the hotel entrance, then moved on. They appeared not to have noticed Arthur on the plaza, but the two hefty men he’d seen from his balcony — Djon’s customers, ugly customers — were still staring at him from down the street. Their rain hoods were off; one was hatless and bald, the other in a black toque.
“Not to worry, Djon has special today on accident insurance, especially for visiting famous lawyers. Lifetime guarantee.” He laughed merrily, and slipped Arthur a card with an address and directions. “Close by, in old town, friendly club on second floor where comrades sometime gather. Ten o’clock not too late?”
“I shall meet you there. God willing.”
Arthur considered returning to the hotel, but something in him rebelled at turning tail. Never let a dog sense your fear. In any event, he might be safer on the suddenly sunlit streets than alone in an insecure room. But he was unnerved when, as he began a steep climb up the cobbled streets, the two beefy toughs began to follow. But they were puffing, carrying too much weight, and by the time he attained the fortress summit they’d faded from the chase.
Resting at the barricades, he studied Djon’s card. It translated, as best he could tell, as: “Fabian Branch, Albanian Socialist Party, Reading Room.” An address near the main square — which was spread out below him, the cafes busy, music drifting up from the bars.
It was full sunlight now, the sky a deep afternoon blue. But the same wind that had whipped away the clouds was sharp on his face, and he was about to begin his descent when he saw the two followers — they’d ascended by a different route, like stealthy mountain goats, and were standing by the ramparts, smoking, watching. As he headed downhill, they followed, fifty paces behind. When he stopped, they stopped. The bald man offered a gap-toothed grin. The other was expressionless under his black toque.
But they kept their distance, and soon after, from his balcony, Arthur saw them enter a tavern. He watched the sun dip toward the hazy horizon, turned on his alarm for nine p.m., then worried himself to sleep.
As he set out from the hotel that night, he tried to reconstruct the morbid dream from which he’d awakened: a silent, medieval town, moustachioed giants in dark recesses reaching out for him, body snatchers. But as best he could tell, no one was stalking him now. It seemed foolish to take a taxi for a seven-minute walk, and the streets were well lit, the bars and cafes active.
As he entered a narrow street from the main square, he nearly jumped from his skin as a big man accelerated past him and pulled open a wide wooden door. “Happy New Year, comrade!” he roared. “Pliss to welcome in!” It took Arthur a moment to place him: his bald, gap-toothed follower. There was nowhere to flee — his friend in the black toque was hurrying toward him from across the street.
“Pliss to enter, kanadez,” the bald man urged, holding the door. “Djon Bajramovic waits.”
It came to Arthur, with a gasp of relief, that these weren’t stalkers but bodyguards whom Djon had quietly placed in his service. Tough guys but cheap, work for tips. He gave them each a hundred dollars in leks, and winced with pain at the ferocity of their handshakes.
On the second floor, a doorway opened to a smoke-filled lounge in which a group was in loud debate around a table. A few others were reading or playing cards. Various Albanian heroes glared from the wall, along with Karl Marx, Che Guevara, and an Italian bequeather of a familiar place name, Giuseppe Garibaldi.
Curious looks were satisfied when Djon rose from a chess game and announced his guest, not by name but as “a comrade, good socialist from Canada.” He abandoned his opponent, a young woman, and drew Arthur to a counter where they filled mugs with tea from an urn. Arthur contributed some of his last remaining leks into a collection jar.
“Come, my friend, a quiet corner.” They settled on upholstered chairs near a desk computer and a magazine rack. Djon gestured to the group at the table. “Local party executive, our trusted brains … no, brain trust.”
Arthur was uncomfortable in this coven of radicals. As a stranger in this country, he didn’t want to be caught up in their political feuds and machinations.
“So. Is best I know everything, then bring resources to bear.”
Arthur held nothing back, told him of the rendition, the bombing, the loose talk at CSIS headquarters, his suspicions about an oil giant’s clandestine role, the information gleaned from Bejko and Chocoli, his failed expedition to Tirana, the stonewalling.
“Is junk food, what they feed you,” Djon said. “Abzal Erzhan in isolation, Cellblock A, Prison 303.” He raised a hand, as if to quell any doubts. “Is confirmed, we have ears everywhere.”
His chess partner caught Arthur’s eye and smiled: bespectacled, dark, an expression both serious and confident. She returned her attention to the board, plotting her next move. The brain trust was still in debate, but more muted — occasionally one or the other glanced at Arthur with encouraging smiles.
“And do you see any way to win his release?”
“Of course.”
“Can it be so easy?”
“As I say, I have connection, night captain at 303. He too is former party member, but officially repent. Also corrupt but in good way. Already, I have plan. Tomorrow, I close up shop, we go to Korca in friend’s car. You cross border to Macedonia, stay low in beautiful town of Ohrid, leave everything to Djon Bajramovic.”
This all seemed too quick, too pat. He gave Djon a long, intense scrutiny, the bottle-thick glasses, the confident curl of moustache. During their several encounters, this student of world politics had engaged him pleasantly enough but all too insistently.
“I think, Djon, that you already knew who I was when we first met.”
Djon sipped his tea, slowly lowered his mug, and spoke softly. “My turn to reveal truth.” He reached over for the computer mouse, went online, and searched for “Arthur Beauchamp Canadian lawyer.” From one of the dozens of hits, Arthur found himself looking at a network video of his press conference with Iqbal Zandoo. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts.
Djon clicked forward, to the end, the tomato juice episode. “I always laugh.”
“You suspected I might come here.”
“So did central government — informers tell us this. So I set up shop near hotel you reserve, make friend of you, yes? Then wait for you come with tail between legs after runaround in Tirana.”
“How could you possibly know I’d return here?”
“Because waiting in bank is fifty thousand smackers, less what you pay in bribes. Not much I don’t know, many contacts from former secret police, the Sigurini, many friends still in service. Enough said.”
Arthur picked up a sense of a shadowy past, and didn’t care to pursue it. One vital element of Djon’s stratagem remained unclear. “Dare I ask how much this will cost?”
That was greeted with a pained look, as if the subject were one that gentlemen did not raise. “First and also foremost, this I do for my country. Could scandal topple crooks in power? Maybe yes, worth a try.”
Was Arthur finally dealing with an Albanian altruist, a rare angel not on the take? “You ask for no compensation?”
A shrug, a sly look. “I make offer, Mr. Beauchamp. If I fail, I want only thanks for trying.” He looked at the ceiling, as if calculating. “But if I deliver Abzal Erzhan safely to your hotel in Ohrid … a million dollars.”
There came an image of Roy Bullingham, red faced, collapsing with a coronary.
“Half for party, half for me and Dordana, danger pay.”
“Dordana?”
Djon indicated his chess partner. “Party organizer, even better than me speaking English. Second-best chess player in entire province. You are looking at best. Also Dordana is fourth cousin of friendly night captain.”