Snow Job (40 page)

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 and 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.”

“Let’s talk about it later, Djon.”

Pulling up was a four-wheel-drive van bearing the insignia of the Albanian State Police. Climbing out, a smiling bearded officer, who held open the passenger door for Arthur. Grigori was his name, and for the enjoyment of his patron, he chose a mountainous route, by the Greek border. They looped around hairpins that Grigori took with wide, heart-stopping turns to avoid potholes, then descended to valleys with raging streams under creaky wooden bridges that were another test of courage. But the views were stunning, and Arthur captured several on DiPalma’s cellphone.

Occasionally, on emerging from scrub and pine forests, they entered areas of small holdings and dilapidated villages where grizzled locals stared after them in amazement, as if their passage were the highlight of the month. Grigori wasn’t shy about using his siren to clear passage between horse carts and fleeing chickens and flocks of stubborn, grumpy goats. Finally, a sizable town, Korça, where they turned north.

Snow was clinging to the roadside as they crested a final high point and took a view of Lake Ohrid, a glassy blue expanse beyond which lay the isolated little Republic of Macedonia. A steep descent took them to a plateau upon which a twelve-foot-high wire fence enclosed a concrete structure with guard turrets at each corner.

Prison 303 resembled an industrial warehouse, featureless and flat, with barred windows, and was abutted by a shedlike administrative office. Some three hundred prisoners were housed here, said Grigori, many of whom he’d bussed in over the years. The
gatekeeper recognized him, strapped on his submachine gun as he opened the gate.

Several yard guards lounged about, keeping an eye on the dozen prisoners shovelling snow from the driveway, picking up litter, and washing two prison service vehicles near the office. Grigori barked an order as he and Arthur alighted, and they started in on his muddy van.

A rat scurried under the office annex as Arthur approached its locked steel door. Clearly, he was expected, because he was admitted immediately by a secretary. Several others sat at desks, with the resigned look of underpaid civil servants. A group of uniformed guards was watching a soccer game on a small TV. Rifles and shotguns hanging on the walls.

The man standing at an office doorway had to be Hasran Chocoli. Saying nothing, sizing Arthur up. Birdlike, twitchy, hints of an anxiety disorder, all masked by another fine example of Albanian facial art, handlebars as thick and wide as a clothes brush.

“Come in, Mr. Beauchamp.” In English, slightly accented.

The secretary followed them in with a tea tray, set it on a side table, and poured. The office was handsomely done, leafy plants, lounge chairs and ottomans, Turkish carpets, walls draped with fabric in Byzantine patterns.
Good communist in past life, but repent, kept job
.

“How do you take your tea? I usually prefer goat’s milk. Very healthy.”

“No question. I happen to raise goats.”

“A goatkeeper and a lawyer, how unique.”

Tea poured and stirred, they settled into soft chairs, testing each other in conversation. Arthur lied about how much he was enjoying Albania, and complimented Chocoli on his English. The warden said he’d improved it by studying abroad.

His hands were active, playing with his tie, his shirt buttons, his moustache. “I regret this meeting must be brief, Mr. Beauchamp. Abzal Erzhan is no longer in this facility. He was transferred two weeks ago.”

Arthur showed no reaction.

“Here, let me show you.” Chocoli went to his desk, returned with a leather-bound book. It was rather like a guest register, with dates and remarks written in pen after prisoners’ names. Here was Erzhan crossed out, two weeks ago, Monday, December 13.

Arthur checked himself from asking why Chocoli hadn’t mentioned this on the phone yesterday to Captain Bizi. Quickly, cellphone in hand, he snapped a picture of the page. The warden made a half-hearted effort to retrieve the book, but Arthur held on tight, flipping the pages back to late November, looking for Erzhan’s name. Here he was, booked in on Saturday, November 27, ten a.m., confirming Bejko’s account. He took another photo.

“It is not permitted to record government documents.” Chocoli wrestled the register away while Arthur calmly pocketed the phone. The warden seemed uncertain whether to pursue the matter.

“And where was Mr. Erzhan taken?”

“That is a mystery. He was signed out by the State Border Police under warrant sealed by the director-general of prisons.” A tight smile, though Arthur could barely make it out behind the foliage. “No forwarding address.”

“May I see the documents relating to his transfer?”

“You must ask in Tirana for these.”

“But you have copies, I assume?”

“I am not authorized.” He straightened his tie.

“Help me, Warden, I’m confused. Hanife Bejko — you know him, of course?”

“In my official capacity here, yes, I have met him.”

“A month ago, Hanife was in a cell adjoining Mr. Erzhan’s. He observed him being beaten.”

“That was not done. There were even discussions about his safety … Never mind. Hanife has a wayward tongue, he exaggerates.”

Discussions about his safety? “I’m curious to know what my client was charged with.”

Chocoli spread his hands. “It is a criminal offence to enter the country illegally. That is why the border police are involved, yes? I have no control over what they do. Maybe you should ask them. Or the prisons office in Tirana. It’s not my job to keep track of fifteen thousand inmates in thirteen institutions, I am sorry.” He shrugged.

“You were not aware Erzhan was flown secretly here from Canada? And that he was accused of a crime he could not have committed?”

“I know nothing about him. They come, they go, I don’t even look at them.” He was having trouble meeting Arthur’s eye.

“Warden Chocoli, what is the usual penalty for illegal immigration?”

Chocoli drained his tea. “Fine, jail, deportation, there are many solutions.”

“And how much must Mr. Erzhan pay in fines before I escort him out of the country?”

“That would be for decision by judicial authorities.” Shifting in his chair.

A hard bargainer, Bejko said. “Would fifteen thousand dollars pay his debt to society?” To get Abzal out of the country safely and fast, Arthur would be prepared to pay well in excess of that.

Chocoli stood. “Mr. Beauchamp, I would be insulted if I thought you were offering a bribe. But surely you are not, because it is against the law. Now I must close this meeting. I have many things to do.”

“I can arrange for thirty thousand in one or two days. Cash, of course.”

“Cash …” Temptation was written on his face, but there was fear also; Arthur could see it in his eyes. “No, it is not possible.” He indicated the door with a trembling hand.

Arthur calmly sipped his tea. “I am not satisfied with what I’ve been told, Warden. This is a matter with serious international implications. I can’t believe you aren’t aware of that.”

“I have to ask you to leave.” Holding the doorknob. “Please.”

Arthur rose, returned his cup to the tray, then towered over his host for a silent moment, not threatening but demanding, forcing Chocoli to look squarely at him and reveal the mendacity in his eyes.
Vultus est index animi
. The face is the index of the soul.

Chocoli had broken into a sweat by now. He twitched again, and spoke softly: “I have instructions. There are other people involved, people in Tirana.”

F
or the past couple of days, Charley Thiessen had been hanging at Hoffstutter Blane, the Tory ad agency, where a cluster of witty, bright-eyed women had taken him in charge, sprucing up his message, rehearsing him, dressing him, powdering him, perfecting his handsome, confident John Wayne grin.

His mother had come with him to Toronto, but they’d sent her packing on the first day, she having been considered a disruptive force, a distraction, and there’d been an unhappy scene around that. But the young ladies cooled him out, flattered him, insisting he had great camera presence. He guessed he didn’t come off too bad on some of the takes, but he never felt he was speaking from the heart: these were somebody else’s words, Gus Hoffstutter’s words.

Some of the clips would go national, some just in Ontario, most in Grey County, where he’d also be playing live the next night, New Year’s Eve, with a dozen soirées to visit.

Today’s last taping, for national free-time radio, was important enough that the man himself was guiding him through it, Hoffstutter with his pink face and puckered smile. Several of his girls were here in the boardroom too, hovering about, practically swooning whenever their Einstein came up with another brilliancy.

“Bhashyistan, that’s the ticket we ride to January twenty-four. How did we fare on
La Presse
’s poll, my darling?”

“We’re up eight.”

“And that’s just in Quebec. Are we charting up with a bullet?” A chorus of agreement. “And do we know what caused that bump?”