“He’s right,” Dunjee said.
“You do see it, don’t you, Mr. Dunjee?” Timble said.
“I see it.”
“See what?” Keeling said.
Timble sighed. “We wish to rescue Mr. Bingo McKay from his captors and return him safely to his family. For this patriotic action we, of course, expect to be rewarded. At worst, a light suspended sentence for our past youthful mistakes. Mr. Dunjee’s objective is essentially the same as ours — rescuing Mr. McKay. However, Mr. Dunjee is near his objective, while we are as far away as ever.”
“We’ve got Dunjee,” Keeling said.
“But only Mr. Dunjee has any rapport with Mr. Abedsaid. We have no leverage. Mr. Dunjee does. However, we cannot let Mr. Dunjee go his own way, can we? At least, not until Mr. McKay is safely on his way home.”
Dunjee pressed both hands against his stomach, closed his eyes, and leaned back in the chair. He wondered how long it would be before they arrived at the solution and which one would suggest it first. He decided to place a small private bet on Reese.
He lost. It was Spiceman who said, “We’ve got half the answer already. All we need is the other half.”
Dunjee opened his eyes. Spiceman was staring at him. “What was he going to hand over to you when you gave him the dirty pictures?”
“A map. The real map.”
“When?”
“At six this evening.”
“Where is he now — Abedsaid?”
“At the FAO — negotiating with Ambassador Dokubo.”
“The Nigerian?”
Dunjee nodded.
“The delay in the final transaction,” Timble said, “that was to make sure that the money was actually transferred to Abedsaid’s account in what — some Swiss bank?”
Again Dunjee nodded and closed his eyes. Now it comes, he thought.
“He’s with Ambassador Dokubo now,” Timble said. “How long do these negotiating sessions usually go on?”
Dunjee opened his eyes again. “You talking to me?”
“Yes.”
“Abedsaid told me a couple of hours. Dokubo is stalling.”
“He wouldn’t carry the real map around with him, would he?” Timble said. “No, of course not.”
“Why not?” Dunjee said.
“The scale,” Timble explained, as if to a child. “If the extract you showed us is from the original map, it is an extremely large scale. One centimeter to five meters. It would be most cumbersome.”
“His hotel safe, maybe?” Keeling said.
Timble shook his head. “No, I think not. It might draw attention to it. I think... yes, I think if I were Mr. Abedsaid, I would keep the map in my hotel room. Tucked away securely, of course.” Timble shifted his gaze to Jack Spiceman, the former FBI agent.
“A black bag job,” Spiceman said. “Right?”
Timble nodded. “Don’t you agree?”
“But not me,” Spiceman said. “If I got caught, it would blow everything.”
“No, not you, Jack,” Timble said. “What we need, it would seem, is a rent-a-thief. A good one.” He smiled his happy-face smile and looked around the room.
After a moment, Dunjee said, “I know one. A good one.”
30
In his third-floor room in the Hassler Hotel, Harold Hopkins answered his phone on the second ring with a hello.
“This is Dunjee. We’ve got a small problem.”
“A small one, you say? How small?”
“Almost tiny.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I think,” Dunjee said, “that the Arab’s going to try a cross.”
“Shame on him. What kind of cross?”
“I think he’s going to take his money and run.”
“What about all those lovely pictures? Of him and the German gent with all the blond hair.”
“I think he’s decided to bluff it out — if we send them to the Colonel, which he probably doesn’t think we will.”
“And he’s right, isn’t he?”
“There wouldn’t be much point.”
Hopkins was silent for a second or two. Finally he said, “That means no map.”
“No map,” Dunjee agreed. “Unless you’d like to make an extra — say — ten thousand?”
“Ten thousand. Dollars?”
“Dollars.”
“Something to do with the map, most likely.”
“Take it out of his hotel room.”
“For ten thousand?”
“Ten thousand.”
“No thanks,” Hopkins said.
“Look, Harold, it’s a quick in and out. Abedsaid’s not there. He’s negotiating with the Nigerian Ambassador. You’ve got at least an hour — maybe even an hour and a half. Five minutes’ work and you’re fifteen thousand richer.”
“Fifteen now, is it?”
“Fifteen.”
There was a long silence. At last Hopkins broke it. “Okay. What do I look for?”
Dunjee told him exactly what to look for, and Abedsaid’s room number in the Grand Hotel, and where to bring the map after he had stolen it. Hopkins wrote it all down on a sheet of Hassler stationery.
“I still don’t like it,” Hopkins said.
Dunjee sighed over the phone. “Fifteen, Harold.”
“Not much lolly, is it? — considering the risk and all.”
“Fifteen, Harold. Top price.”
“Well, I had to try, didn’t I?” Hopkins said and hung up.
He turned from the telephone, a smile on his face, and looked at the two persons seated in his room, the man in the chair, the woman on the edge of the bed.
“How was I?” Hopkins said.
“Utterly convincing,” Delft Csider said.
Paul Grimes nodded his head and his several chins. “Perfect.”
“Now it gets a bit tricky, I imagine,” Hopkins said.
Again Paul Grimes nodded. “A bit,” he said.
Hopkins got out of the cab in front of the Grand Hotel, overpaid the driver, looked around casually, and entered the lobby. He turned left toward the newsstand and purchased a day-old copy of the Times of London.
When he turned around, the plump woman in the green slacks and the orange sweater and the mouse-colored hair was just coming into the hotel. Hopkins turned toward the elevators and read the headlines as he crossed the lobby.
He came out of the elevator on the third floor and moved quickly down the corridor to room 318. The newspaper was now tucked under his left elbow. He reached into his right pants pocket, looked sharply left and right, took out a key, unlocked the door, and slipped inside.
The Libyan was standing in the center of the room. He was a tall man of about thirty with a prim, disapproving mouth and totally suspicious eyes. Hopkins wordlessly offered him the room key.
The Libyan took the key and in exchange handed over a thick ten-by-fourteen-inch manila envelope. Hopkins slipped it inside the Times, looked at his watch, then back at the Libyan.
“You speak English, mate?”
The Libyan shook his head no.
Hopkins pointed at his watch, then held up his right hand, all four fingers and the thumb widespread. The Libyan nodded. Hopkins looked around, found a chair, sat down, took out his cigarettes, and lit one. The Libyan moved to the dresser, folded his arms, and leaned against it.
After five silent minutes had passed, Hopkins ground out his cigarette, rose, and moved to the door. He turned and said, “Ciao,” to the Libyan. “Ciao,” said the Libyan as Hopkins opened the door and slipped out into the corridor, closing the door softly behind him.
Halfway down the corridor the mousey-haired woman in the green and orange outfit was slowly walking from door to door, a piece of paper in her hand, a frown on her face. She appeared to be looking for a room number. Hopkins put his right hand up to his face and started rubbing his eye. He averted his face slightly as he strode past the woman. She didn’t bother to look at him.