Brass Go-Between

by Ross Thomas

“You’ve been having some trouble there.”

  “A great deal of trouble, and I am afraid that it will grow much worse before it grows better.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “Are you really? Why?”

  “There’s nothing to be said in defense of human suffering,” I said. “From what I’ve read, there’s a great deal of it going on in your country.”

  “More than most persons realize, far more. But I’m not here to talk about my country except in a rather tangential manner. I’m here to talk about the shield of Komporeen which you have been engaged to buy back from the thieves who stole it from the Coulter Museum.”

  “You seem sure about that.”

  “Quite. And you can rest assured, Mr. St. Ives, that none of the persons with whom you have been dealing has betrayed the confidential nature of either your proposed negotiations or the theft itself. It is simply that we have our source within the Jandolaean Embassy which, of course, has been kept apprised of the entire affair.”

  “I see.”

  Mbwato leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees. Even seated he seemed to loom over me. “Do you know much about the shield of Komporeen, Mr. St. Ives, other than that you have been authorized to offer $250,000 for its return?”

  “Not really,” I said. “I know it’s about a yard in diameter, that it weighs sixty-eight pounds, that it is regarded as something of a symbol, a vital one, I suppose, by both your people and those whom you’re fighting, and that one man has been killed because of it.”

  “One man in the United States,” Mbwato said, “and more than a million in my country. I’m afraid that it has a most bloody history. If we were able to trace that history back for centuries to its origin, the death toll might even reach high into the millions. You seem to understand that the shield of Komporeen is the symbol of authority in my country. It can be compared, but not very closely, with the Crown of England. Or nearer to home and perhaps from a more sentimental viewpoint, at least, it occupies much the same place in the hearts of my countrymen as your original Declaration of Independence does in yours. But even that is not a proper comparison because the shield is more than an historical document. It is the physical embodiment of a legend that exists amongst a people who give very high credence to their legends. But not only do the Komporeeneans value it, so also do the Jandolaeans, and many, many terrible wars have been fought for its possession. In sum, if one were to combine the sentimental, symbolic, and emotional values of the Crown of England, the Cross of Christianity, and your own Declaration of Independence, then one would have some inkling of how the shield is regarded by my people. And, I suppose,” he added thoughtfully, “by the Jandolaeans.”

  Mbwato stopped talking and the silence crept back into the room. He sat there, dwarfing his chair, staring at the carpet. Then he began to talk or rumble again. His voice went with his size, a deep bass that seemed to escape from far down in his chest.

  “The war for us has been going badly,” he said, still gazing at the carpet. “We are short of everything, of ammunition, of weapons, of petrol, and of food. Especially food. The government of Komporeen (and I assure you, Mr. St. Ives, we do have a government) has been recognized by only a handful of countries, mostly African, and almost as poor as we. But there is a good chance, an excellent chance, I should say, that two major European powers will soon grant us recognition and along with it, much-needed aid in the form of food and weaponry.”

  “What countries?” I said.

  “Strangely enough, France and Germany.”

  “That is strange.”

  “Yes, I agree. Britain, of course, is siding with Jandola and your own country has adopted what some have referred to as a ‘hands-off’ policy. In effect, this means that they’re following Britain’s lead. As for Russia—well, Russia is supplying both sides, clandestinely to us, openly to Jandola.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “You do not believe it?” he said, and stared at me in a reproachful manner.

  “I didn’t say I didn’t believe it; I said I didn’t know it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mbwato said. “I believe I’m becoming hypersensitive. It’s something I’ll have to watch. But to continue, Mr. St. Ives, the support from and recognition by France and Germany seems to hinge on our ability to continue our battle for independence. If we can hold out another month, two at the most, then we are confident that the recognition—and the aid—will be granted forthwith. If we can hold out.”

  “Don’t you think you can?”

  Mbwato shook his head. “There is food enough for another month, perhaps even two. Some will starve, of course, but starvation is no stranger to most Africans. There is enough ammunition to continue our fight for perhaps five weeks. With care we can make it last for six. We have the wherewithal to last, Mr. St. Ives. The question is: do we have the will?”

  “Do you?”

  “Our morale is not what it should be. The war has been going on for nine months now and there have been many casualties. Unlike the Jandolaeans, we Komporeeneans are a cheerful people, a gentle people, more concerned with the art of living than with the art of war. The Jandolaeans are, in fact, envious of us because we are what you call in this country ‘quick studies.’ We have taken to technology like a crocodile to the river.”

  “Or a duck to water,” I said.

  “I was going to say that, but I thought I should employ a cliché that smacked of my own country.” He turned on his five-hundred-watt smile again.

  “To continue,” Mbwato said, “we have the highest literacy rate in West Africa. We repair our own lorries; do our own engineering; manufacture our own bicycles; build our own radio stations and keep them operating along with our power plants. We have been able to do all this and more, much more, because we place an extremely high value on learning and we are, I suppose, the most inquisitive people in all of Africa. We seem always to be asking why.”

  “It sounds as though you have a good thing going,” I said.

  “We do—or did,” Mbwato said, “but the demands of the Jandolaeans became impossible. We had no choice but to secede and go our own way. I think we shall succeed providing, of course, that the morale of the people does not disintegrate. And that’s why I’m in the United States and that’s why I’m having this chat with you.”

  “It’s something to do with the shield, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Mr. St. Ives, it is.”

  “What?”

  “To be perfectly and, I suppose, brutally frank with you, we had planned to steal the shield from the museum ourselves. One of our chaps here is a quite brilliant electrical engineer and he had even figured out a way to circumvent that formidable warning system which the museum employs. It was an absolutely brilliant scheme. You see, the shield’s return to Komporeen would serve as a tremendous boost to morale. It would give our people the will to continue our fight, not just for two or three months, but for as long as is needed. This must be difficult for a European, or rather an American, to understand, but I can assure you it’s quite true.”

  “I believe you,” I said. “When were you planning to steal the shield?”

  “Yesterday,” Mbwato said. “Sunday.”

  “But it already had been stolen.”

  “Yes. We found out about it as soon as our source at the Jandolaean Embassy could get to a safe telephone.”

  “Well, if somebody had to steal it, I’m sorry it wasn’t you. It sounds as though you could use it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. St. Ives. That’s most kind.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Now then,” he said, “we come to the crux of the matter. We are, as I’ve told you, most anxious to recover the shield, not only because it would tremendously raise the morale in our country, but because it rightfully belongs to us and not to the Jandolaeans. Our source in the Jandolaean Embassy informs me that you will receive $25,000 to negotiate the return of the shield to the museum. I am authoriz
ed and prepared to offer you $50,000 to return it to us. I’m sorry and must apologize that it cannot be more. I assure you that it would be if we could possibly afford it.”

  When he was through with his proposition he leaned back in his chair and once more turned on his light-of-the-world smile, as if we had just concluded a multimillion-dollar deal that was going to enable both of us to retire to Majorca next week for the rest of our lives.

  I smiled back at him and then shook my head slowly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mbwato, but it’s impossible. I can’t go back on my commitment to the museum.”

  He shrugged as if he had expected the answer, gave me another smile, and rose. “I was afraid that you would say that, Mr. St. Ives, but I had to try. I think you understand.”

  “I think so.”

  He moved toward the door, a brilliantly dressed black giant, with a winning smile and a losing country. He turned at the door and gave me the warm benefit of that smile again, but his eyes seemed sad and troubled. “You have been most gracious, Mr. St. Ives, and I want to thank you for your courtesy. And perhaps I can thank you best by warning you.”

  “About what?” I said.

  “When I was reciting the many virtues of us Komporeeneans, I neglected to mention one that is well known throughout West Africa, especially by the Jandolaeans.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We are among the most cunning thieves in the world. We will try to steal the shield from the thieves who stole it from the museum. Failing that, we shall surely steal it from you. Good night, Mr. St. Ives.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  SOMEDAY, I FEAR, I shall live in a house in the suburbs with crab grass that I can mow, snow that I can shovel, tax assessments that I can rail against, and a next-door neighbor’s wife who will jump into bed of an afternoon, forty-five minutes before she has to pick up the kids at school. But all of this, like my death, is some time off, and though I view both events with equal trepidation, I meanwhile shall continue to live in the disintegrating inner core of the city and make the most of the privacy it affords, the services that it offers, and the rude wit that can be enjoyed while trying to cross almost any street against the red light. “Whassamattah, shithead, colahblind or sumpthin?” Stimulating.

  For nearly three years home had been the Adelphi, a medium-sized, medium-priced residential hotel that catered exclusively to anyone who could scrape up the monthly rent. I had what was known as a de luxe suite which meant that they installed a Pullman kitchen sometime in the 1950’s and the rent had been increased by fifty percent. In addition to daily maid service, the Adelphi offered a restaurant and bar that were steadfastly ignored by all the printed guides to New York, a cigar stand that was always running out of stamps, and a switchboard answering service which got the messages right at least a third of the time. Two aging bellhops, one during the day and the other from four till midnight, ran a small book along with whatever errands the guests might have in mind.

  After the shuttle from Washington finally quit circling LaGuardia and the pilot brought the plane in only forty-five minutes late, I took a cab to the Adelphi. The phone rang while I was unpacking and when I answered it, Myron Greene wanted to know what had happened.

  “I got the job,” I said.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “They paid me half in advance.”

  “Go on.”

  “The Washington cops figure that it was an inside job and the inside man’s already been killed. His wife hung herself. They were both heroin addicts. Or so the Washington cops say.”

  “Jesus!” Myron Greene said.

  “It gets better,” I said. “You’ll like the next part.”

  “Just tell what happened.”

  “Well, I got a call from a woman who said she’s representing the thieves. Somebody’s supposed to call me here in New York either today or tomorrow. Then there was Conception Mbwato, a representative of Komporeen which, he says, is the rightful owner of the shield. He offered me fifty thousand to hand the shield over to him, once I get it back. I turned him down—reluctantly, I might add—and he promised to steal it—either from me or from whoever’s got it now. And I asked Frances Wingo to have a drink, but she refused.”

  “You’d better mail me the check,” Myron Greene said, “and I’ll have Spivack deposit it for you.”

  “If they have any stamps,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “The cigar stand.”

  “You’re dissembling again,” Myron Greene said. “You always do that when you’re nervous.”

  “I’ll take something for it. The cigar stand might have something along with the stamps.”

  “What do you do now?”

  “I wait for the phone to ring.”

  “What did the Washington police say?”

  “That I make too much money.”

  “Do they think that whoever stole it were professionals?”

  “I don’t think I even asked,” I said. “It seemed obvious that they were. They killed the guard which means two things to me. One, they’re either professionals or gifted amateurs, and two, you didn’t ask for enough money.”

  “It’s not too late for that in view of subsequent developments,” Myron Greene said. “I can probably work something out.”

  “Do that.”

  “What are your plans now?”

  “As I said, I wait for the phone to ring. Then I might try to find out if anybody knows anything. The thieves know who I am. That means that they might know somebody whom I know. And since they’re the types who go around shooting people in the back of the head, perhaps I should find out.”

  Myron Greene wheezed for a moment. “It might not be a bad idea,” he said finally. “As long as it doesn’t disrupt the negotiations.”

  “If I find out that they’re the kind who don’t leave any witnesses around at all, there won’t be any negotiations.”

  “You have to remember that you’ve already committed yourself.”

  “Not to get killed,” I said.

  “Of course not. I didn’t mean that.”

  “You mean you need $2,500?”

  “No, damn it, I don’t need $2,500 and if you think my fee is too high, I’ll forget about it.”

  “Calm down, Myron. Remember what excitement does to your asthma.”

  “Screw my asthma, St. Ives.” Myron Greene never called me St. Ives unless he was upset.

  “What’s bothering you?” I said.

  “I received a call this morning from Washington.”

  “From Frances Wingo?”

  “No. From the State Department.”

  “What do they want?”

  “They, or rather an assistant under-secretary for African Affairs, a Mr. Littman Cox, wants Jandola to get that shield back. This Mr. Cox—I think he said he was an assistant undersecretary, whatever that is—wanted to know if the State Department could be of any assistance.”

  “How?” I said.

  “That’s what I asked him. He said that he could bring in the FBI.”

  “What did you tell him, Myron?” I said.

  “Don’t get that tone in your voice, St. Ives,” he said. “I told him that it would be totally unnecessary and that we preferred to work alone and that if he wanted to be of assistance to us, he could make sure that the FBI stayed out of the case until the transaction was completed.”

  I decided that Myron Greene liked having the State Department call him. Even more, he liked turning them down and getting himself into what he considered to be the thick of things and referring to us and we. “What else did the assistant under-secretary of State for African Affairs have to say after you said no?”

  “Well, to be frank, he seemed upset. He kept telling me that I was in no position to assess the international significance of the shield and that its return was of what he called—I even wrote it down here—‘paramount salience to the future relations between Jandola and the United States.’ He sounded like a prick.”

 
“All that means is that State is cozying up to the British and doesn’t want either France or Germany to start giving aid to Komporeen.”

  “How do you know that?” Myron Greene said.

  “Conception Mbwato told me.”

  “I see,” Myron Greene said, and from the tone of his voice I could tell that he didn’t see at all, but the story was too long to tell. “Anyway,” he said, “I turned him down and told him that if he brought the FBI in, we would back out.”

  “What did he say when you said that?”

  “He wanted to know about your professional competence and integrity.”

  “You assured him that they are of the highest order, of course.”

  “Of course. I also pressed him about the use of the FBI; he promised me that they would not be called in. You know something?”

  “What?”

  “Perhaps I should have gone into the diplomatic service instead of law—especially if Cox is typical of what State has working for it.”

  “You could have made a great contribution,” I said with as much sincerity as I could muster.

  “I might’ve at that,” Myron Greene said. “Keep me informed, Philip.”

  “Every step of the way.”

  When he hung up I called down to the desk and asked Eddie, the day bellhop, to bring me up a steak sandwich and a glass of milk.

  “Steak’s not too good today,” he said.

  “How’s the liverwurst?”

  “Better.”

  “Make it a liverwurst.”

  While I waited for him, I endorsed the check, put it in an envelope, and addressed it to Myron Greene. When Eddie arrived with the sandwich, I paid him, gave him two dollars to put on a horse I’d picked on the plane, and a letter to mail.

  “They’re out of six-cent stamps at the cigar stand again,” he said. “But I got some.”

  “How much?”

  “Dime each?”

  “I’ll buy one,” I said, and handed him a dime. It’s what I’ve always liked about New York. Neighborly.

  I ate the sandwich and spent the rest of the afternoon waiting for the phone to ring and reading a paperback novel that I’d picked up in the Washington airport. It was about a CIA man who wandered around Red China for a couple of years doing good works like poisoning the water supply.