“So what was that all about,” asked Luckman. “You trying to buy a used camel or something?”
“Donald, you have just had the pleasure of associating with one of the most unsavory characters on the entire Gulf. He and his pals consider simple theft as demeaning.”
“I also detected that he must consider taking baths equally so.”
“He does leave a rather pungent odor behind, doesn’t he? No matter. He may solve all of our problems for us. We shall see. Hopefully this evening.”
“See what?”
“Let me put it this way. Our smelly friend has promised to produce the body.”
“Body!”
“Only figuratively speaking. Like in corpus delicti.”
“Whose body?”
“Wait and see.”
After they had checked into their hotel and had lunch, Nick Topping announced that he was going to take a nap. Donald Luckman thought he’d have a look around Dubai, but after ten minutes in the blistering heat, gave that up. Then, suddenly, he remembered Debbie. It took almost two hours to get through to Lugano. Once she was on the other end, Luckman gave her a play-by-play account of the last twenty-four hours, expecting her to share his excitement, but all he got in response was an occasional “Uh huh.” And at the end, “Well, have fun with your little Arab friends.” Then she hung up, leaving Luckman with an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. Why, he thought, must she always put a damper on everything? A cool shower helped. But when he lay down on the bed, sleep did not come, although, God knows, he was fatigued. He was still lying on the bed, mind shifting from Debbie, to Dubai, and back to Debbie when the phone rang. It was Topping. He would meet him in the lobby at nine.
It was dark when the two men left the De Luxe Ambassador Hotel by foot. They were immediately swallowed up in the masses of people moving to and from the city’s teeming bazaars. People of many nations: mostly Arabs, of course, but also Chinese, Indians, Iranians, black Africans. White faces were rare. Nick Topping barely took notice of the exotic surroundings as he pushed his way through the narrow streets. Suddenly they emerged from the stifling heat and odors of the old city into the port area. The stench was perhaps even more penetrating, but at least there was a breeze coming off the Persian Gulf. The port was jammed. Huge seagoing modern yachts, hundreds of djerbas, oil tankers—all seemed to be competing for parking places in the water.
On land donkeys mingled with seamen, crates of cackling chicken competed with wailing beggars. Suddenly a man reached from the crowd to touch Nick Topping’s shoulder. He reacted like a wounded tiger, spinning and going into a crouch. Then, just as suddenly, he relaxed, as he recognized the man beyond the hand.
“Don’t ever do that again or I’ll cut it off.”
The dark little Arab who had met them at the airport did not react. He just looked Topping boldly in the face, and said:
“Come with me. We will have to wait.”
After the three men entered the dingy Indian café, the Arab went immediately to a table in the rear.
“In one hour,” he said to Topping. “We shall have tea. Yes?”
Green tea in battered cups it was. The Arab put four heaping spoons of sugar in his. The Americans drank theirs straight. The Arab apparently felt no need for conversation, nor did Nick Topping. But Luckman did.
“What’s all this about, Nick?”
“You’ll see.”
And that was that. It was not exactly an ideal place to spend an hour. The restaurant reeked of curry, and was infested with flies. One overhead circular fan revolved slowly in a totally futile attempt to move the heavy air. Luckman must have consulted his watch ten times before, finally, another man entered the deserted café. He just nodded to his compatriot at their table, who said: “It’s here.” The signal to go.
As they left, the darkness outside was total. The crowds had thinned, but there were still a lot of people milling about. The smell of fish now filled the air, replacing the curry. The temperature had sunk considerably. Luckman had trouble keeping up with the other three men as they hurried along the waterfront, past boats of every size and description.
“This one,” said their Arab, as they halted before the smallest and dirtiest of the djerbas. Luckman followed the others, clambering aboard with difficulty, since there was practically no light to guide him.
Within minutes a small engine was started, and they moved slowly out into the harbor. But not very far. No more than 200 yards from the waterfront, still busy with the loading and unloading of small vessels, the engine was cut. The boat hovered there in complete darkness. The dim lights from the main pier did not penetrate that far. Luckman sat alone on a crude bench alongside the starboard railing. The other three men had somehow disappeared. Then two of them, their Arab and Nick Topping, reappeared.
“That one,” said the Arab, as his arm pointed to a rather large fishing vessel which had apparently just docked.
Then both men raised large binoculars to their eyes. Night glasses. The djerba was obviously well equipped.
“There he comes!” said the Arab.
Luckman strained his eyes toward the pier, but saw nothing or no one that seemed out of place.
“The man in white?” asked Topping, after he had swung the glasses about ten degrees to the right.
“Yes.”
“Is he alone?”
“Yes.”
The two men stood almost motionless for at least fifteen minutes, watching the pier.
“I think that first truck is fully loaded and ready to go,” said Topping finally. “You’d better signal your man.”
The Arab immediately lowered the binoculars from his eyes and moved toward the stern of the djerba. From a box he extracted a new instrument—a signaling lamp. He used it for no more than ten seconds. Luckman observed all this with nothing less than astonishment. Maybe everything was on the up and up, but it sure as hell didn’t look that way.
After stowing the signaling lamp, the Arab returned to Nick Topping’s side and resumed his vigil with the night glasses.
“There goes the truck,” said Topping, after another ten minutes. “Let’s hope your man has his timing right.”
Now, for the first time, there was excitement in his voice. Another three minutes passed in silence. Then:
“He’s got him!” This time it was the Arab. Now both binoculars were trained on the waterfront itself. “And I think he managed to tip it over.”
“O.K.,” said Topping. “Let’s get out of here.” Within seconds the engine was started, and still without showing any lights whatsoever, they returned to their original berth in the port of Dubai. Almost the moment the djerba came alongside shore, Topping and his friend jumped out, leaving the second Arab to complete the docking procedures. Luckman was far behind when he too left the boat and hurried to catch up with the two other men.
After no more than 100 meters, all stopped. Once again they were almost directly in front of the Indian café. Another 50 meters away, a large crowd had gathered. Apparently two trucks had collided in the middle of the broad concrete strip which ran along the entire waterfront. One of the trucks had tipped over, and part of its cargo— wooden crates about a yard long and two feet high—had been spilled out. At least a half dozen men, in the middle of the crowd, were hurriedly trying to load them into a third truck. A man in a tropical white suit was giving the orders. The whole operation was completed in no more than twenty minutes. The third truck then pulled off, leaving the crowd of curious Arabs surrounding the two wrecks, both empty. Apparently no one had been hurt. It was just one of those accidents which happen almost daily in the chaos of a port on the Persian Gulf.
“I think we should have another tea,” was the only comment of the dark, dirty consultant of Nick Topping. So back to the rear of the Indian café they went. By now it was almost eleven o’clock. Another Arab— yet a new one—was at the table waiting. For three minutes he spoke rapidly, and uninterrupted, in Arabic. Then he answered three que
stions; rose abruptly, and left.
“All right,” said Topping. “Let’s have it.”
“Everything is confirmed,” said the Arab, his words coming out in a staccato fashion. “The crates contained silver bars. One split open. Two of my men saw the silver. There can be absolutely no doubt.”
“Where are they taking it?”
“Undoubtedly to the warehouse of Mr. Nebbu, the Indian. He is a partner of the Iranian. It is heavily guarded, and it is impossible to get any information from the people working there. Nebbu pays very well, and his employees are all Indians. They are very loyal to him.”
“Can you be sure the silver is going there?”
“Yes. Another of my men is watching the warehouse. He will identify every truck that makes any deliveries tonight, or in the process of the next few days. This will allow us to also determine rather exactly the amount of silver Firdausi is landing.”
“Are you still watching Firdausi?”
“Yes. He arrived around six o’clock this evening at the airport, and we have watched him ever since. He is, by the way, also staying at the De Luxe Ambassador. His sister is with him.”
“Well, Ali, you and your people have, as usual, done a superb job. Would you like your money now?”
“Yes. In cash, as arranged. But I’m afraid that it will cost slightly more than I originally estimated.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid the truck will now be a total loss.”
“I understand.” With that, Topping reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and removed both an envelope and his wallet. After extracting some bills from his wallet, he laid them on top of the envelope and pushed the neat little pile across the table. They disappeared into Ali’s clothes almost in the same motion.
“It is a pleasure to do business with you, Mr. Topping. You shall hear further from me.” He rose, glided through the restaurant, and out the door into the darkness beyond.
Now Donald Luckman rose, but was told to sit down again by Topping.
“We don’t want to be seen with that lot any more than is necessary.”
“I’m not sure I want to be seen with you any more either,” replied Luckman, and this time there was not the slightest touch of humor in his voice.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Wrong with me! Look, you and your pals here engineered that whole thing, didn’t you?”
“Of course.”
“What if somebody had been killed in that crash!”
“Nobody was.” “What kind of business is this, anyway?”
No answer. Then two minutes later.
“O.K. Let’s go back to the hotel. We’ll walk.”
They walked in complete silence. Twenty minutes later they entered the De Luxe Ambassador.
The man in white was at the desk asking for his key. Beside him was a beautiful young girl.
Luckman, seeing them, said, “Look, Nick, that’s . . .”
“Shut up.” Topping grabbed Luckman under the elbow, and almost lifted him into the waiting elevator. He then pressed the button immediately for the fifth floor.
“Come on to my room for a minute, Luckman. I see I’ll have to explain a few things to you.”
In the room, Topping produced a large bottle of whiskey and poured two glasses. He didn’t bother to ask about ice, since none was available. Luckman didn’t care in the least. In fact, he had downed half of the glass before he even sat down.
“Now I’ll make it quick,” said Topping. “That man downstairs is Agha Firdausi. And the girl with him is his sister. That was his djerba that brought in the load of silver. It’s the second load that’s come in so far tonight. My friend Ali and his pals alerted us they were coming. But they didn’t convince me. Now I’m convinced. Firdausi and that bank in Lugano have struck on a major source of silver in Iran. And they’ve obviously set everything up in Switzerland very cleverly. Lately they’ve started dumping it in London or New York. They are warehousing the silver here in Dubai.”
“What you say makes sense. But why you have been willing to go to such lengths to establish all this, does not. Hiring a bunch of thugs. Staging what might have been a fatal accident. Sneaking around like thieves. You already said that a man got killed trying to break into the property of Firdausi. At the time I thought you were putting me on. But no longer. I don’t want anything more to do with this.”
“Luckman, you were instructed to look at a bank in Lugano, with the objective of possibly acquiring it. My instructions were to find out where all that silver was coming from via Dubai. And if it was coming from a mine in Iran, to acquire said mine. Your bank obviously owns part of my mine. Your bank also appears to have Firdausi in its hip pocket. Because he’s borrowed from them up to the hilt to finance this whole project. Now listen carefully. We will get that bank for you. All we want in return is that you let us have that mine. We will pay very handsomely for it. In fact, the odds are that, when all is said and done, you are going to get that bank for nothing. Now wouldn’t that make you a big hero back in San Francisco?”
“Not if it turns out that we’re dealing with a bunch of crooks.”
“Easy, easy. What’s crooked?”
Luckman’s eyes narrowed.
“Well?”
“Nothing much. Except for that accident, that attempted break-in in Iran, and probably a dozen other things I don’t know about. And there’s bound to be more.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s no way you could get the owners of that bank to part with it. No way—legally. Because, together with Firdausi they’ve got one great big money machine going. Why in the world should they sell out to us?”
“Leave that to me. Believe me, it will all be done legally. We always work that way.”
“Sure you do. Which brings me to another point. Who exactly is ‘we’?”
“People who are interested in silver.”
“That tells me one hell of a lot.”
“Look, would your boss back in California tell you to work with me if he didn’t know who we are?”
Again Luckman had to think.
“Hardly, no.”
“Does your boss want you to buy that bank?”
“Yes, apparently.”
“Do you know how to swing it?”
“No. Like I said, there simply can be no way, legally. Except at an enormous price.”
“O.K. Now let’s go back to square one. I know how to acquire that bank. I’ll need a little help from you, but not a great deal. And I guarantee—guarantee—that we can close the deal within sixty days. Maybe a lot less. Now we’re going to stay in Dubai for at least two more days. I’ve got to know exactly how much silver Firdausi is bringing in, and it will take my friends that long to find out. You just take a little rest. Except for one thing. You get on the blower to your boss. Tell him exactly what I just told you. And then ask him whether you are to proceed. Then let me know. I’ll be in and out of the hotel.”
Luckman did just that only one hour later.
He was given Foreman’s personal authority to proceed, as rapidly as possible.
That night he slept easily. He was covered.
11
THE green Michelin says of Gandria: “a little village right on the shore of the Lake of Lugano, much frequented by artists. Its flowery terrace, its pergolas, leafy arbours, and arcaded houses make a charming picture.” The red Michelin lists but one restaurant, the Antico. It not only does not have three stars, it has not even one. But the concierge of the Hotel Villa Castagnola insisted that this was pure and simple French prejudice. Because Italians did not smear thick red wine sauces over their food, the inspectors from that tire company obviously regarded all their restaurants as primitive. Anyway, he said, what does a tire company know about food? His logic was unassailable. So Debbie Luckman asked him to book a table for just one. When? Eightish. She also booked a limousine. If the bank was paying, it might as well live up to its reputation as a multi-billion d
ollar institution.
The village itself clung to the edge of the rocky mountain which descended directly into the waters of the lake itself. Its narrow stairs were hardly suitable for even Fiat 500’s, much less Daimler limousines. So Debbie had to walk the last two hundred yards from the parking lot above. She kept looking for the “pergolas” in the fading light, but not knowing exactly what they were, failed to detect any. The many leafy arbors made up for it. The Antico itself was unexpectedly interesting. It seemed to have been built in a large cavern in the rocks, facing the lake below. The terrace was closed. All tables were reserved, but nobody was there except for a sole gentleman in the tiny bar at the rear.
“So what,” thought Debbie. Damned if she’d stay in that hotel alone for one more night. And damned if she wasn’t going to have a drink at the bar.
The barman eyed her with interest, especially the area between neck and waist. He even licked his lips slightly before saying “Buona serra, signora,” He knew full well that she was American, but he also knew full well that Americans loved to be mistaken for something slightly more sophisticated. So he kept up the game.
“Quanto chiede all’ora?”
Debbie looked bewildered. Then the sole other occupant of the premises intervened.
“Excuse me, madame. I’m afraid our friend behind the bar is trying to be amusing. May I, perhaps, be of assistance to you?”
It was now Debbie’s turn to do some eyeing. She liked what she saw.
“Well,” she said, “that is most kind of you.”
The tall slender man rose from his bar stool, and extended his hand.
“May I introduce myself? Gianfranco Pietro Annunzio di Siracusa.”
“Oh,” replied Debbie. “I’m Deborah Luckman.”
“Deborah. That is a lovely name. Now the drinks. What may I order for you?”
The Silver Bears Page 13
