That was the obvious course of action. Get some advice from his wily house counsel. If the old sharpie had somehow stuck his wire into the wrong socket, he had a right to know before the media got ahold of this. But maybe Arthur was on the run, because, mysteriously, he hadn’t come home for Christmas.
Christmas Day.
Maxine, Ivy, me, and a hundred partisans are lounging around a Christmas tree in a mad dictator’s winter palace in the foothills of the Altay Mountains. Atun went out with an axe last night as we were sleeping, and brought in this bushy ten-footer. Now it’s all decorated with some surveyor’s tape they found, and some painted ping pong balls from the rec room.
I started to laugh, but then found myself blubbering, imagining my family sitting around another tree, Hank and the kids, Mom, worrying, praying.
Ruslan Kolkov did his best to comfort me: “But you have family here too. We are all family, yes? — here are your brothers, here are your sisters. You come next year with your Hank and your beautiful daughters, to Igorgrad, when the statues of the mad god of Bhashyistan have been toppled, and we will celebrate the best Christmas, we will celebrate the gift of freedom.”
He promised we will soon be able to contact the outside world by sat-phone — Canada, I mean, home — and Maxine and I have been absolutely tense with the prospect of doing so. (“Hi, Hank, we’re sitting in Mad Igor’s winter palace with a huge mob of revolutionaries armed to the teeth. What’s up with you?”) But the young man who left with the satellite phone in search of batteries hasn’t returned, and we’re worried for him.
Anyway, Ruslan and my family here (my brothers, my sisters) got what they wanted for Christmas. A huge cheer went up when we heard on the radio — reception is bad, but we get a Russian station in Omsk — that we, meaning us Canucks, knocked the poop out of Bhashyistan’s military base and its airport and totalled the Information Ministry. A different official version from Igorgrad, though, which Ruslan called “a load of Ivanovich.”
The raid had everyone dancing around and giving us hugs, and they broke open the liquor cabinet and there were so many toasts everyone got a little tipsy. Old Ilyich did something stupid, firing off a fusillade outside, and he’s been demoted to dishwashing detail.
But there’s also bad news, terrible news, from the western steppes, a peasant revolt put down, scores of them shot, hundreds of others forced to flee and regroup in the forested hills. The details were vague on Omsk radio, but we also heard about it from the people still straggling in. They say the government is trucking in troops to eliminate “subversives” hiding in the mountains, which means us.
“Now there will be great danger,” Ruslan warned. “Now we cannot risk taking you to the border. We will be shooting ducks.”
Atun was to have escorted us into the mountains, through a pass to Siberia. But that will be too dangerous, so we’re better off staying with our protectors. Ivy is amazing, she greeted that almost with delight — she’s found love. There’s been a lot of steam rising from the hotsprings.
The new plan is to send scouts to find some safe route out of here, away from the advancing troops. We will break into groups, and descend into the pine forests. Snowshoes, winter tents, several layers of clothing to survive the biting weather. We’re from Saskatchewan, we’ve known thirty below, that’s what I keep telling myself.
The fighters will move west to join the partisans on the steppes, but the three of us will be led to a safe shelter — a friendly farm, a yurt, away from the action. We will be led by Aisulu the brave, who refused to be airlifted from the Igorgrad prison. So we will trust Aisulu, and trust in God.
26
As Arthur walked from the Gjirokaster Hotel into a snappy, bright winter afternoon, he was immediately seduced by the siren call of Djon Bajramovic and his sizzling qebaps. “You, mister resort developer, looking hungry, is lunchtime. Best food all Albania, proof is in pudding. Today starring premium lamb and goat.”
Arthur opted for the lamb. “Mirëdeta, Djon,” he said. “Si ja kaloni?”
Djon roared his approval. “Mirë, thank you, I am very good. Where you learn Albanian so fast? But not pronounce right. I give lessons, good teacher, fair price. How come you wearing suit today, you going church? I show you way.”
“I’m looking for the police station.”
That prompted a flurry of questions, to which Arthur responded candidly, telling of DiPalma’s careless, gonad-driven pursuit of Ledjina, and his current status as a missing person.
Djon explained that a system of tight-knit clans was entrenched in Albania. Outsiders were distrusted. These clans tended to guard strictly the honour of their unmarried daughters. “Especially virgins. This girl, Ledjina, was virgin?”
“I doubt it.”
“If so, he dead.” He pointed across the plaza. “There is state police.” A typical two-storey rectangle with inset windows. “Best you talk to chief, Kapitan Bizi. Sorry, he no friend, hates former communists, so I not going with you. Be ready for him asking gift for police recreation fund. Good luck. Paç fat!”
Arthur hurried across to the station, into a waiting room where several citizens, wearing the sad masks of crime victims, were filling out forms before taking their turns at the complaint desk, a long table manned by three bored officers. On a pedestal, overseeing all, was a senior officer. Several other police were drinking tea and gabbing.
Talk stopped as Arthur, in his dark suit, strode to the man on the stool, handed him his card, and asked, in Albanian, if he or anyone else could speak English, French, German, or Italian. No one spoke these languages. But when the name DiPalma was mentioned, the senior officer raised a finger in recognition. “Ah, kanadez.” Then he shook his head sadly. There came sighs from the cops drinking tea. One screwed up his face, wincing, as if demonstrating someone’s great pain.
Struggling with his phrasebook Albanian, Arthur finally got his message through that he wished audience with their leader, Kapitan Bizi, and he was soon ushered upstairs to his office.
Rising from behind a desk was a robust, square-chinned man with a sweeping moustache, the requisite emblem of Albanian manhood. He greeted Arthur with a broad smile and an extended hand. The room was decorated with emblems: soccer, boxing, riflery.
Arthur was relieved to find Bizi had a fair knowledge of Italian. His opening words: “Buon giorno, Signor Beauchamp. I have been expecting you.”
Arthur could barely hide his surprise — or his dread. “Piacere, Signor Kapitan.”
“The situation with Mr. DiPalma is very difficult.” In apologetic tones, Bizi explained that certain clans forbade outsiders from engaging in “adulterous activities with their young women,” an unwritten law of which Signor Beauchamp’s friend Mr. DiPalma had run afoul.
Arthur felt a chill. “What happened to him?”
“It seems the young lady introduced him to her father, Mr. Lushi, the family patriarch, as a developer of holiday resorts. I personally attended on Mr. Lushi earlier today — a good man, a foundry owner — and he gave me this.”
Arthur’s heart sank as Bizi showed him a glossy foldout from Apex International Getaways Corporation, advertising its properties worldwide.
“Mr. Lushi was suspicious of your friend, and he phoned the number that appears here, as I am doing now.” Arthur put on his glasses so he could make out the area code: 514, Montreal. A few moments later, Bizi passed the phone to him. “It is ringing.”
This is what Arthur heard: “Good morning, bonjour, Moishe’s Bagel Bakery, hold the line a sec.” Shouting to a customer: “Plain or sesame?”
Bizi retrieved the phone, set it in its cradle, and handed over DiPalma’s wallet and cellphone. “These were taken from him at the hospital. You may wish to advise him to delete this photo.” Ledjina half out of her bra, puckering her mouth. He then opened its picture folder to the photo of Janice. “Attractive woman, his wife.”
“Former wife,” Arthur said weakly, pocketing wallet and phone, rising. “I must get
to the hospital.”
Bizi stilled him with a raised hand. “There is no rush. He is under heavy sedation. Concussion, broken ribs, multiple bruises. Ledjina’s brothers are well built, their work at the foundry is hard and physical. Please sit. Tell me what is going on. I am not a fool, Mr. Beauchamp.”
“No, indeed you are not.” Arthur retook his chair. A different approach was required, one that was unique, untried. Honesty.
He tapped his finger on the brochure. “This, Chief Bizi, is the disguise behind which Mr. DiPalma hides. Like you, il mio amico, he is a man of the law, but his work is unusual — he is an undercover police agent with the Canadian Security Intelligence Service, our CIA. We mean no disrespect to the Republic of Albania, but we are on a mission to rescue a Canadian citizen who has been illegally transported to your country. Abzal Erzhan. I am his lawyer.” He was taking a chance: a call by Bizi to confirm this with, say, Anthony Crumwell would be counterproductive.
“Yes, I have heard of your intelligence service. But I must tell you that Canada is not viewed sympathetically in Tirana, because of your problems with a fellow Muslim country.”
“I presume the name Krajzinski is familiar to you, sir. The Balkan wolf. The Serbian general who committed genocide upon a village of Kosovan Albanians.”
Bizi turned and spat unerringly into his wastebasket. “Forty years. He should have his testicles stuffed down his throat and his body dragged through the streets.”
“It is Ray DiPalma you must thank for General Krajzinski’s arrest. It was his hired infiltrator who taped his incriminating boasts.”
Bizi took a while to digest this. “Remarkable. Yes, I have heard there was a Canadian involved, it was widely rumoured. Ray DiPalma, you say. I shall check that out. If it is true, a dishonour has been done to him.” He held his hands up, expansively. “He will get the best possible care.”
Arthur prayed that DiPalma’s injuries were not so serious as to demand an emergency call to the Canadian consul in Tirana, or even to CSIS in Ottawa. This rescue mission was in shambles, and he feared it might have to be aborted. “I really must run to the hospital.”
“Yes, yes, you will see the surgeon, Dr. Muhbarren. I will arrange for it.” Then his face contorted, as if with pain. “But, sadly, there is still the matter of his insult to this young girl’s family. The situation is not entirely under my control. He will need to be guarded. And so will you — the Lushi family may regard you as in league with him.”
Arthur was sure this was leading to nowhere good.
Bizi stroked his long moustache, thoughtfully. “This Canadian who was transported to our country — is that what prompted you to visit Hanife Bejko?”
Arthur managed not to flinch. “Ah, yes, Hanife. He was most helpful to Mr. DiPalma and me. A generous fellow.” Is why I get arrest, not pay enough to police chief.
“He is not always so generous. Sometimes he has to be reminded.” A broad smile. Bizi seemed not to mind sharing these corrupt intimacies with Arthur, who, as a lawyer, was presumed to be equally dishonourable. “Hanife spoke highly of you, Mr. Beauchamp. Indeed, he asked me to smooth the way for your meeting with the warden of Prison 303, Hasran Chocoli, also a friend. I can do this. I can offer a driver to take you to Korça.”
“You are extremely kind.”
“I can offer this service for three hundred thousand leks.”
Arthur calculated: nearly three thousand dollars.
“As I say, you and Mr. DiPalma will need protection while you are guests in our town. There is much danger here, plus Serbian spies may seek revenge on the man who caused Krajzinski’s downfall. Unfortunately, our resources are strained. Worse, the Gjirokaster police recreation fund is over budget on our new firing range.”
This was a twist on the old protection racket. Arthur resigned himself to it, and ultimately they settled on an honorarium to the recreation fund of seven thousand dollars — Arthur would come by later with the traveller’s cheques. After totalling all expenses and bribes, he would have less than a third left of his original twenty thousand.
Warden Chocoli would be even more rapacious, he assumed. But Bizi seemed to understand that, and graciously called the manager of a local bank, attesting for Arthur and arranging an appointment so a top-up could be wired from his law office in Vancouver. Now Arthur must steel himself for a call to Bullingham.
Bizi called Chocoli next. Arthur caught the words një shok and Hanife. Translated: friend of Hanife. He also heard several times the word dollars, a word common to many languages.
DiPalma’s crown was swaddled in a turban of bandages, and his purple swollen cheeks and blackened eyes gave him a raccoonlike look. Arthur could tell that the three cracked ribs caused him pain to breathe even shallowly. The only pleasure he took from seeing him flat on his back in a hospital ward was his pathetic, cringing look of contrition.
“I will personally take him by ambulance to Tirana,” said Dr. Muhbarren, in excellent English. “He will have better facilities there, specialists. In the meantime, it is an honour to have him in our little provincial hospital.” He turned to his patient. “You will also be safer in Tirana, Mr. DiPalma — you have too many enemies here.”
He glanced at the two officers standing in the hallway, suggesting even they were not to be trusted. They had delivered Arthur here, on Bizi’s orders. Another officer had been assigned to escort him to Korça the next day, Sunday. He had dismissed all thoughts of backing down, and was almost glad that the expert in all things Albanian would not be tagging along.
Dr. Muhbarren had urged Arthur to keep his visit brief — the concussion had not been a mild one. It would take weeks for his head to heal, months before his ribs mended. The doctor paused on exiting, with a salute. “To the Canadian James Bond, who trapped the Balkan wolf in his lair — our people thank you.”
Arthur got close to DiPalma. “Are you alert enough to exchange a few words?”
“It only hurts when I laugh,” he said hoarsely.
“I have outed you. You may forget Apex Getaways. Let us hope this escapade, and your sudden notoriety here, do not get back to Ottawa before I find Abzal.”
“Carry on regardless. I’m washed up, I’m done.”
Stoned talk, through the analgesic fog. “I will see you in Tirana. Paç fat.”
As of seven p.m., Arthur had done little else but make arrangements for a wire transfer from Canada, the local bank manager obligingly seeing to his needs on a weekend. For the rest of the time he attacked his phrasebook, waiting for the right hour to call Bullingham — too early and he would be dragging him out of bed, with calamitous consequences. But now it was mid-morning in Vancouver, when Bully ought not to be at his dyspeptic worst, breakfast tucked away, a relaxing Christmas Day to look forward to.
His housekeeper answered. Mr. Bullingham had left for the office an hour ago. Arthur remembered that the indefatigable nonagenarian often dropped into the shop on Christmas, a practice that served as a compelling example to the slaves on the lower floors. He dialed Bully’s private line.
A curt “No, I do not accept the charges.”
“Merry Christmas, Bully, it is I.”
A weary “Oh, very well. Keep it short, Arthur.”
“How wonderful, Bully, to hear your voice so clearly from afar.” Great warmth and spirit. “I bring greetings from the wondrous strange land of Albania.”
“I hope this is important and doesn’t involve money. Do you have good tidings or bad?”
Arthur wasn’t going to mention the DiPalma reversal. “We’re closing in on the target. I expect to see him tomorrow.” A deep breath. “Expenses have been heavy, Bully. If I may be blunt, they’re robbing me blind.”
“Who?”
“Officialdom.”
“Then I suspect it’s time to cut the losses. Whether or not your knight errantry proves successful, fairness surely demands you earn back the $29,850 that are currently on the books for this expedition. Not a problem, I think. A.J. Quilter a
nd several high executives of Alta International have just been charged with authorizing corrupt payments to the Bhashyistan government. You’re the counsel of choice, of course.”
Stopping short of a promise, Arthur teased him with the hope he might take Quilter’s case — he was, after all, quickly becoming a corruption specialist. Then he made his pitch: Tragger, Inglis could expect to earn a massive return on its investment. Erzhan’s claim against the Canadian government would start at twelve million, plus all disbursements — including this long-distance call.
He could hear Bully’s brain computing. Finally: “Give me a figure.”
“To be safe, fifty thousand.”
An indecipherable sound, like gasping. A clearing of throat that didn’t clear it. “Fifty?” he rasped. “Fifty, did you say?” The long silence meant he’d calculated the odds as being favourable but was having trouble saying so. “Not a cent more. Tomorrow is Sunday. Monday is also a bank holiday.”
“Do your best.” The old boy not only had the bank manager’s home number, he was on its board. “Trust me, Bully.”
“Sunday breakfast special, eggs any way you like, scrambled, boiled, on pita bread. Best coffee in Europe.” It was seven-thirty, the sun had barely dawned, and Djon Bajramovic was already at his stand. Did he never sleep?
Bizi’s expensive chauffeur had yet to show up at the hotel, so Arthur ordered a coffee.
“I hear from friends about Mr. Ray. Too bad — but he survive, so lucky man. How you make out with shady head copper? Police recreation fund is richer?”
“Thank you for the advice. Yes, that has bought us some apparently needed police protection.”
“Already you have adapted to local economy. You see how Djon Bajramovic can help business adventures here, he has been around the block a few times. But maybe you need protection from police protection. Also from kidnapping for ransom — Apex Getaways is very rich company, yes? My security service comes with personal guarantee, tough guys but cheap, work for tips.”
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