Foxcatcher

by William H Hallahan

  McCall reflected. Then he nodded. “Two hundred.”

  “Plus expenses of course.”

  “Oui, Monsieur Jamil.”

  Jamil smiled. Then he stood and draped his raincoat over his shoulders. “Then that is the end of Slane. Au revoir, Monsieur Smith, until November twenty-sixth.”

  Under his large black umbrella, Jamil walked into the pelting night. In his hand he carried the plastic bag containing the pinochle box. A creature come from darkness, he soon disappeared back into it.

  On Rue Fontaine, Rock stood on the walk opposite the Café Chanticleer and studied the scattering of people seated at the tables inside. Several waiters stood with arms crossed, looking at the rain, murmuring to each other. It was a very slow night.

  Rumbh sat at a central table reading a paper. Rock studied him carefully, then crossed the road and stood outside the café and looked even closer. There was something about the man he didn’t trust. He seemed too well connected with the Egyptians. Maybe he was a Judas goat for the gooks in the Egyptian Ministry of Defense in Cairo. Rock told himself to be careful. He stepped into the café.

  “Ah. Rock,” Rumbh said, folding up his newspaper.

  Rock nodded. “You said you had very good news.”

  Rumbh reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out an envelope. He handed it to Rock.

  “What’s this?” Rock tore the flap and pulled out a folded sheet of school paper. He opened it to see a note written in Arabic, a child’s scrawl. Within the folds was a photograph. It was a shock, on a rainy night in Paris, in a café ababble with French, far away from her, far away from her Egyptian sunlight, to see her face looking directly at him. The photographer had caught that glance, that mixture of innocence and wantonness. Rock nearly gasped.

  “Her parents have been persuaded to visit relatives in Alexandria. Upon their return, the father has been promised a position with the government of Cairo, a lifetime career.”

  “And the girl?”

  “She remains in Cairo. With an elderly aunt.”

  Rock sat tapping the letter on his thumbnail, regarding Rumbh severely. “How do you do this? Who are your connections with?”

  “Do you want my background, Rock?”

  “I got your background.”

  “So?”

  “I got a rundown on you. You have what is described as a long and distinguished career in crime, mainly in Asia. I know about your involvement with Ho Wat, selling U.S. arms left in Vietnam. I know about your caper in Malta. I know about Hong Kong and Broboff.”

  “Quite right, Rock,” Rumbh said. “That breaks the ice very nicely.”

  “Yeah, well I know a lot of things about you. But I don’t know anything either. I want to know what’s your involvement in Egypt?”

  “I have a client—an Arab gentleman of international stature—who does not want this hatchet-burying ceremony to take place. He wants to keep these two Arab factions at each other’s throats.”

  “Yeah? Why?”

  “Have you got a few hours?”

  “Okay. Forget it.”

  “Oh, one other thing.” Rumbh pulled out another piece of paper. “A translation.”

  “From her? You saw her?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you think?”

  Rumbh looked frankly at Rock. “I prefer boys myself.”

  Rock read the translation. He frowned at it.

  “She’s studying English,” Rumbh said. “In school. That’s as close as she can come.”

  Rock now grinned at it. He could see her struggling with English block letters. Half of them were indecipherable.

  “The coast is clear, Rock.”

  “Hmmmm. You know anyone in the Egyptian Ministry of Defense?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “You said you had a client.”

  “Oh, yes. Highly placed. You would recognize the name. Incidentally, it was he who recommended you for the job. A critically delicate matter, you can appreciate.”

  “Hmmmm.” Rock looked at the photograph again. The coast is clear. He looked at Rumbh. “What if I say no?”

  “No is no. If you turn us down, there isn’t anyone else my Arab client would trust with this job. It would be a catastrophe if the bomb actually went off. You’re the only one with the deft touch this job needs.”

  Rock scratched his neck with the edge of the envelope. “Okay. Let’s go through the drill again. It’s going to be in the Hotel Royal Nile on November twenty-sixth. Right?”

  Rumbh looked past Rock out at the wet night. It was raining harder. “Right,” he said.

  13

  The rain had followed Brewer from London. But it was a different rain in Paris. London was unaffected by rain—a customary occurrence that was part of the setting. The city didn’t miss a beat.

  Paris became introspective and sad. It seemed to withdraw until the rain ended.

  Brewer sat in the tiny lobby of the Taft hotel in Paris, not far from the Gare St.-Lazare. He read France Soir with scant interest, looking up occasionally at the wet street. He could see the fine drizzle dimpling the puddles.

  The Taft was an old hotel, one of the many that at one time flourished around the train stations of Paris. Five floors and no elevator.

  The lobby was a tiny affair. Marble flooring with an umbrella stand, one chair, and a small registration desk under the stairs. It told the inquirer exactly what the rooms were like abovestairs: all furnished alike from the same hotel outfitter sixty years before, all the same, and all in the same state of decay.

  In each room a threadbare rug, a rickety double bed with an exhausted mattress that curled along the edges like a hammock, a creaking, sagging wooden chair. Old and discolored pseudo-lace curtains, a badly battered dresser, a sink, perhaps a bidet, and time-darkened wallpaper that once showed a garishly colored floral print. The woodwork would be scraped, scratched, peeling in places, and hand-rubbed along the door edge. There would be one light, overhead, hanging from the ceiling with one bare bulb that made anyone inside the room look ill and aged.

  Day or night in any season, the hallways and stairways would be in darkness, lighted only by a lamp that would stay lit for about fifteen seconds. One spent one’s time, going up or down, repushing fifteen-second light switches.

  And throughout the hotel, from top to bottom, all five floors had the same deeply imbedded, ineradicable, offensive garlic odor from sixty years of cooking. And that was a puzzle because the Taft had no restaurant.

  The census of such rooms in Paris must have been in the thousands; the recollection of them must have been burned into the memory of uncounted hordes of students, budget travelers, itinerant Algerian workers, and prostitutes.

  The Fat Man was taking a long time. And that amused the young girl behind the desk. She smirked at Brewer, then barely but eloquently shrugged her left shoulder.

  In the newspaper Brewer read a dismal account of the Paris traffic problem: The Boulevard Périphérique, which circled all of Paris, was suffering gridlock from the impossible traffic. It was jammed night and morning, turning a normal fifteen-minute commute into hours and hours of sitting and crawling while too many cars tried to use the same road at the same time. Paris was strangling. And no one knew what to do about it.

  At last, Brewer heard a sound in the hallway. Two voices, low and urgent. The stairway light went on.

  “Voilà,” a man’s voice said on the stairway.

  “But, monsieur,” a woman’s voice said, “it is only half the fee.”

  “So?” the man whispered. “I had only half the pleasure.”

  “But it is not my fault if—” The light clicked off.

  “If what? When nothing happens, nothing happens in the wallet either.” The stair light was put on again.

  “Ah, monsieur. It was a failing on your part. I was ready. I did everything.” Her whisper was barely audible now as she recited a list. The light went off again.

  “So?” The man was
unsympathetic. He switched the light on to descend.

  “So, this is the third time you have failed.”

  “I see. Are you counting?”

  Her voice became intimate, concerned. “Cheri. You worry. And the more you worry, the more difficult it is for you to—but you understand. I have other clients who occasionally—as you see.”

  “Other clients? Do you discuss me with your other clients?”

  “Monsieur!”

  “Listen. You don’t discuss me with anyone.” The light went on again.

  “Monsieur, shall I give your appointment to a new client?”

  “Another! No!”

  “But I cannot afford half-fees, monsieur.”

  “Eh. Voilà.”

  “Merci, cheri,” she said. “The next time—the very next time—anytime night or day, when you are ready, you come to me and we will accomplish this thing. Without charge! Do you understand? My honor is at stake.”

  “There is more than your honor at stake here,” the man said. He began to descend the stair.

  Behind him the woman descended partway, her ample breasts swinging freely inside her gown. She made a pitying face at his descending back. She drew his fat shape in air with her hands and shook her head.

  Then she descended another few steps and clutched his rotund face in her hands and kissed his mouth. She nibbled his lips. “I will not fail you. Do you understand?” She pulled him closer to her.

  “Aha,” she exclaimed. “What is this? See. You still have the capacity. Aha.”

  They embraced.

  “You are a lion, cheri,” she said. She pulled him up several steps. They embraced again in the dark hallway. “Aha,” she said softly.

  There was a scuffling and a stamping of feet, ascending. A door banged shut.

  Brewer went back to the gridlock on the Paris Périphérique. A while later, the stair light went on again.

  “Ah, cheri,” the woman said. “Do not be disappointed.”

  “Enough. I must go.”

  “You will see. All men have these moments, you understand. Be not afraid. You are still the man you always were. The fault is the couscous.”

  The Fat Man descended with a heavy tread, gravely, frowning with concern. “Couscous.”

  “’Revoir, cheri,” she called. “Remember, anytime, day or night.”

  He waved an impatient hand to dismiss her.

  Brewer laid aside his newspaper and stood. “Monsieur.”

  “Monsieur.” The Fat Man looked with profound suspicion at Brewer.

  “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

  “Yes?” His suspicion remained. He put his hand on the brass door-push.

  “Perhaps you would join me in a coffee.”

  “Ah, no, monsieur. I am told I need the exercise.”

  “Shall we walk?” Brewer asked.

  “I have very little time, monsieur.”

  Brewer nodded. “I need but a few moments.”

  “I cannot place your face, monsieur. Where have I seen you before?”

  “On several occasions. Perhaps you recall Cahors?”

  The Fat Man grunted. “Well, yes, perhaps. As one ages, various parts of the anatomy begin to malfunction. My memory—you see.”

  “Yes,” Brewer said. “I understand.”

  Under the Fat Man’s enormous umbrella they strolled slowly along the street. The Fat Man had bad feet, and he rolled from side to side as he walked.

  “Couscous,” he said.

  “Pardon?” Brewer frowned at him.

  “Couscous, monsieur. I am passionate about eating my wife’s couscous. But I am told”—he glanced back at the hotel—“that couscous and love make strange bedfellows. So I walk. Tell me what is on your mind.”

  “I have some merchandise, monsieur.”

  “Ah.”

  “I have it here and I want it there—you understand.”

  “We have met, you say?”

  “I will mention Gorki Sembranovich.”

  “Ah.”

  “And Sanders Elliott.”

  “Ah.”

  “And I have a very clean all-cash deal for you.”

  “Ah.”

  As they walked, Brewer felt the man’s eyes upon him. A light film of perspiration made the Fat Man’s forehead glisten. He walked more slowly.

  “Perhaps now, a coffee.” He led Brewer into a small café of some nine tables. The waiter stood in deep reverie holding an iron pole for the awning.

  The Fat Man sighed as he sat.

  They ordered two demis of coffee. The Fat Man put five cubes of sugar in his. He took a sixth and dipped it in the coffee, then put it between his teeth and sucked the coffee out of the cube. He drew the cube into his mouth and swallowed.

  He stirred his coffee slowly as he gauged Brewer’s demeanor.

  “So, monsieur. We are quite alone. Merchandise, I think you said.”

  “I want it transferred from Paris to Damascus.”

  “Damascus. Very sensitive place. The Syrians are very excitable these days. Very wary. What kind of merchandise is it?”

  “Mainly electronic parts. Computer parts.”

  “I see. Computer parts. Small pieces?”

  “Yes. Nothing larger than this.” Brewer drew a small square with his two index fingers.

  “Uh huh. Uh huh. Small pieces. How many?”

  “Perhaps seven, eight hundred pounds.”

  “Uh huh. Destined for Israel?”

  “No. Not Israel.”

  “You understand, monsieur. I do not touch merchandise that is destined for Israel—directly or indirectly. I do not approve. Also it is very bad for my health. You must tell me where this merchandise is going ultimately.”

  “I would rather not say at this time, except that it is very bad news for the Israelis.”

  The Fat Man studied Brewer’s face again, trying to place it. “Well, we will discuss that at a later time. For now, we say the destination is Damascus. What are your thoughts on this movement of merchandise? Will it be soon?”

  “Yes, soon,” Brewer answered.

  “And the merchandise—how will it be brought in?”

  “End User’s Certificate.”

  “Ah. That means we will have a very short time to repackage it.” The Fat Man made a doubt-filled mouth.

  “Perhaps seventy-two hours.”

  “Seventy-two! That is exceedingly tight.”

  “Yes,” Brewer said, “it is.”

  “Monsieur. Do you have a preferred method of transportation? That is, you understand—the airlines, for example, are impossible lately. The terrorists and hijackers have done it. The airlines are so closely guarded and watched, I no longer use them. Forget the airlines. This time of the year I do not like small boats in the eastern Aegean. The storms, you see. Besides, the Israelis and the Americans and the Russians are all fiercely patrolling those waters, especially around Syria. And of course, with such a tight time schedule, we cannot break up the shipment into small parcels and ship over an extended period of time. So you see we do not have many options. Perhaps I will make a suggestion.”

  “I had an auto caravan in mind,” Brewer said.

  “Precisely, monsieur. My cousin, here in Paris, does a used-car business in the Mideast. It’s a shoestring operation, you understand, monsieur, but he makes a profit. The cars, they are driven individually by homesick Arabs who cannot afford the airfare. So they get a free ride home and my cousin, he gets free chauffeurage for his used cars. You see? All it costs him is gasoline. I am told that small things can be shipped in such vehicles with great success.”

  “We are in accord.”

  “Ah, you know my cousin?”

  “I know of him. A large man with a passion for couscous and walking in the rain.”

  The Fat Man smiled and nodded his head. “I think, monsieur, you and I will do some business.”

  Brewer walked in the rain, turning over in his mind the pros and cons of using cars to smuggle the parts.<
br />
  The one advantage was also a disadvantage: Most of the cars could be expected to get through the various customs checks on that long road to Damascus. But then some surely would not. If the important items—like the ANAC parts—were to be intercepted, the whole shipment would be almost useless. What he needed to do, according to the Fat Man, was to divide up the parts among all the cars so that at least some of each type would get through.

  Brewer pictured the long drive across Europe, from Paris south through Provence to the Italian border, then into Liguria, across the northern plains of Italy to the Yugoslav border, traversing that nation to the Turkish border near Bulgaria, across Turkey, another long ride, to the Syrian border, then a long run south to Damascus.

  Slane watched them go through the military drill: one hundred mercenaries re-creating the original training mission. By his side stood Malpina, El Presidente’s personal counselor, who had been sent as technical adviser to the filmmakers.

  No one knew this was a fake movie they were making. The film crew, the cameramen, the grips, the prop people, the director—an alcoholic old queen—all diligently went through each item on the shot list, screening the rushes every night and bickering with the film editor.

  The meres had been told they were in a movie and comported themselves like stars. They watched the rushes at night and each became an expert cinematographer eager to advise the film people.

  Malpina, who had been in the original camp with the original band of patriots, had grown soft, he missed his city and his comforts. The food was basic and not to his liking. There were no women. There was fine dust everywhere. And every evening, Slane managed to get from the capital, to feed Malpina, some gossip that made the man run to the phone to talk to his associates at length. Malpina cast his eyes longingly eastward. He was bored and hungry, dusty and eager to get back where the action was.

  About midmorning he made a solemn announcement: Full of regret, waving his hand at the disappointment of Slane, he indicated that he was returning to the city. By midafternoon he had left to make a glowing report to El Presidente.

  Slane had slapped him on the back and assured him that he would see him on the beaches November 26. A few scant days away.

  Rock sat in his hotel room in Paris. He had before him on the desk a tablet of white paper, a supply of pencils, a fresh pot of coffee, and several expensive cigars. From his neck, on a leather thong, dangled a stopwatch. He was about to create another masterpiece, a nonexplosive explosive.