Firgus preened. “Well, I suppose I could bring her in down there,” he said. “Be a little tricky, but not impossible.”
“Good.”
Firgus circled twice more before making the attempt. He was clearly nervous, and his nervousness communicated itself to Dortmunder, who almost told him to fly on, they’d find someplace better farther on. But there wouldn’t be anyplace better. Dortmunder couldn’t have Firgus land at a regular airport anywhere, so it had to be something irregular, and at least that was a straight ribbon of concrete down there, and wide enough to land the plane on.
Which Firgus did, very well, once he’d built his nerve up to it. He landed as light as a feather, brought the Vela to a stop in seven hundred feet, and turned a huge smile at Dortmunder. “That’s what I call flying,” he said.
“Me too,” Dortmunder said.
Firgus looked at Bullock again and said testily, “I wish to hell he’d wake up.” He poked Bullock’s shoulder. “Wake up!”
“Let him alone,” Dortmunder said.
“If he doesn’t see you,” Firgus said, “he won’t believe any of this. Hey, Bullock! God damn it, man, you’re missing an adventure!” He punched Bullock’s shoulder again, a little harder than before.
“Thanks for the lift,” Dortmunder said and got out of the plane.
“Bullock!” shouted Firgus, pummeling and punching his friend. “Will you for Christ’s sake wake up!”
Dortmunder walked away into the darkness.
Bullock came up to consciousness amid a rain of blows, sat up, yawned, rubbed his face, looked around, blinked, frowned, and said, “Where the hell are we?”
“Route Eighty in Jersey,” Firgus told him. “Look, do you see that guy? Look quick, will you, before he’s out of sight!”
“Route Eighty? We’re in an airplane, Firgus!”
“Will you look!”
“What the hell you doin’ on the ground? You want to cause an accident? What are you doin’ on Route Eighty?”
“He’s out of sight,” Firgus said, throwing up his hands in disgust. “I asked you to look, but no.”
“You must be drunk, or somethin’,” Bullock said. “You’re driving an airplane down Route Eighty!”
“I’m not driving an airplane down Route Eighty!”
“Well, what the hell do you call it then?”
“We were hijacked, God damn it! A guy jumped on the plane with a gun and—”
“You should of been in the air, it wouldn’t of happened.”
“Back at Kennedy! Just before we took off, he jumped in with a gun and hijacked us.”
“Oh, sure he did,” Bullock said. “And here we are in lovely Havana.”
“He didn’t want to go to Havana.”
“No. He wanted to go to New Jersey. He hijacked an airplane to take him to New Jersey.”
“Can I help it?” yelled Firgus. “It’s what happened!”
“One of us is having a bad dream,” Bullock said, “and since you’re at the wheel I hope it’s me.”
“If you’d woke up in time—”
“Yeah, well, wake me when we get to the Delaware Water Gap. I don’t want to miss the expression on their faces when an airplane drives up to the tollbooth.” Bullock shook his head and lay down again.
Firgus stayed half turned in the seat, glowering at him. “A guy hijacked us,” he said, voice dangerously soft. “It did happen.”
“If you’re gonna fly this low,” Bullock said, with his eyes closed, “why not stop at a diner and get us a couple coffees and Danish to go.”
“When we get to Pittsburgh,” Firgus said, “I am going to punch you in the mouth.” And he faced front, turned the Vela around, took off, and flew in a bright fury all the way to Pittsburgh.
6
The Akinzi Ambassador to the United Nations was a large stout man named Nkolimi. One rainy October afternoon, Ambassador Nkolimi was sitting in his private dining room in the Akinzi embassy, a narrow townhouse on East 63rd Street in Manhattan, when a member of the staff came in and said, “Ambassador, there is a man outside who wants to see you.”
The Ambassador was eating a Sara Lee Cinnamon Nut Coffee Cake at the moment. The whole thing, all by himself, which was one of the reasons he was such a very stout man. It was his midafternoon snack for today. He was drinking with it coffee with cream and sugar. He was enjoying himself hugely, in more than one meaning of the term, and he disliked being interrupted. He said, “What does he want to see me about?”
“He says it concerns the Balabomo Emerald.”
The Ambassador frowned. “He’s a policeman?”
“I don’t think so, Ambassador.”
“What do you think he is?”
“A gangster, Ambassador.”
The Ambassador lifted an eyebrow. “Really,” he said. “Bring him here, this gangster.”
“Yes, Ambassador.”
The staff member went away, and the Ambassador filled the waiting time and his mouth with Sara Lee Cinnamon Nut Coffee Cake. He was just adding coffee when the staff member returned and said, “I have him here, sir.”
The Ambassador waved a hand to have the gangster brought in, and Dortmunder was ushered into his presence. The Ambassador motioned for Dortmunder to sit down across the table, and Dortmunder did so. The Ambassador, still chewing and swallowing, made hand motions suggestive of offering some coffee cake to Dortmunder, but Dortmunder said, “No, thank you.” The Ambassador drank some more coffee, swallowed hugely, patted his lips with his napkin, and said, “Ahh. Now. I understand you want to talk about the Balabomo Emerald.”
“That’s right,” Dortmunder said.
“What do you want to say about it?”
“In the first place,” Dortmunder said, “this is just between you and me. No police.”
“Well, they’re looking for it, of course.”
“Sure.” Dortmunder looked at the staff member, standing alertly near the door, and back at the Ambassador. “I don’t like saying things in front of two witnesses, that’s all,” he said.
The Ambassador smiled and shook his head. “You’ll have to chance it, I’m afraid,” he said. “I prefer not to be alone with strangers.”
Dortmunder thought about it for a few seconds, then said, “All right. A little over four months ago, somebody stole the Balabomo Emerald.”
“I know that,” said the Ambassador.
“It’s very valuable,” Dortmunder said.
The Ambassador nodded. “I know that too,” he said. “Are you building up to an offer to sell it back to me?”
“Not exactly,” said Dortmunder. “Most valuable stones,” he said, “have imitations made up by their owners, to put on display here and there. Are there any imitations of the Balabomo Emerald?”
“Several,” said the Ambassador. “And I dearly wish one of them had been on display at the Coliseum.”
Dortmunder glanced mistrustfully at the staff member, then said, “I’m here to offer a trade.”
“A trade?”
“The real emerald for one of the imitations.”
The Ambassador waited for Dortmunder to go on, then said with a puzzled smile, “I’m afraid I don’t understand. The imitation, and what else?”
“Nothing else,” Dortmunder said. “A straight trade, one stone for the other.”
“I don’t follow that,” the Ambassador admitted.
“Oh, and one thing more,” Dortmunder said. “You don’t make any public announcement that you’ve got it back until I give you the all-clear. Maybe a year or two, maybe less.”
The Ambassador pursed his lips. “It seems to me,” he said, “you have a fascinating story to tell.”
“Not in front of two witnesses,” said Dortmunder.
“Very well,” said the Ambassador and turned to his staff member. “Wait out in the hall,” he said.
“Yes, Ambassador.”
When they were alone, the Ambassador said, “Now.”
“Here’s what happen
ed,” Dortmunder said, and told him the whole story, without names, except for Major Iko’s. The Ambassador listened, nodding from time to time, smiling from time to time, tut-tutting from time to time, and when Dortmunder was done he said, “Well. I suspected the Major might have something to do with the theft. All right, he tried to cheat you and you got the emerald back. Now what?”
“Someday,” Dortmunder said, “the Major’s going to come back with two hundred thousand dollars. It might be next month, next year, I don’t know when, but I know it’ll happen. He really wants that emerald.”
“Talabwo does, yes,” the Ambassador said.
“So they’ll raise the cash,” Dortmunder said. “The last thing the Major shouted after me was that I should hold on to the emerald, he’d come pay me, and I know he will.”
“But you don’t want to give him the emerald any more, is that it? Because he cheated you.”
“Right. What I want to give him now is the business. And I will. That’s why I want to work this trade. You get the real emerald, and keep it under wraps for a while. I take the imitation and hold on to it till the Major shows up. Then I sell it to him for two hundred thousand bucks, he takes it home to Africa on the plane, you break the story about having the real emerald back.”
The Ambassador gave a rueful smile. “They would not treat the Major well in Talabwo,” he said, “if he paid two hundred thousand dollars for a piece of green glass.”
“That’s what I kind of thought.”
Still smiling, the Ambassador shook his head and said, “I must make a memo to myself never to try to cheat you.”
Dortmunder said, “Is it a deal?”
“Of course it’s a deal,” said the Ambassador. “Aside from having the emerald back, aside from anything else at all, it’s a deal because I’ve waited years to give the Major one in the eye. I could tell some stories of my own, you know. Are you sure you won’t have some coffee cake?”
“Maybe just a little slice,” Dortmunder said.
“And some coffee. I insist.” The Ambassador glanced over at the rain-smeared window. “Isn’t it a beautiful day,” he said.
“Beautiful,” said Dortmunder.
Editor’s Note — The John Dortmunder series (to date):
The Hot Rock (1970)
Bank Shot (1972)
Jimmy the Kid (1974)
Nobody’s Perfect (1977)
Why Me? (1983)
Good Behavior (1986)
Drowned Hopes (1990)
Don’t Ask (1993)
What’s the Worst That Could Happen? (1996)
Bad News (2001)
The Hot Rock Page 20
