5 Gaultier

Gaultier didn't want to tell the One-Armed Man about the helicopters. He'd already promised them to the Jordanians, who wanted at least six US-made Cobras with 20 mm rotary machine guns. Beautiful surgical instruments for a coup was the way he'd spoken of them at their last meeting in Paris. The men were set to meet on the upper terrace of the Cairo Four Seasons with a fantastic view of the beach along the Nile, old wooden sailboats floating along the edge of the city, shapely women down by the kidney-shaped pool shaded by the palms. It was all very European and very cosmopolitan. The best thing about the violence in Egypt these last few years is that it scared off all the tourists.

The waiter asked if he wanted another Stella. Of course. Why not? It had been a long flight from London and he planned to stay at the hotel until tomorrow morning. He had checked in only thirty minutes before and changed into a fresh white linen suit, navy shirt, and leather sandals. After relaying the unpleasant news on the deal, he would treat himself to an early dinner at the hotel restaurant. Stuffed grape leaves, grilled lamb chops, and an entire bottle of Obelisk Rosetta Red. As a Frenchman, he'd been a little skeptical, but he'd learned not to fear Egyptian wine. He'd take it ten times over anything made in California. Perhaps even buying a few bottles as a novelty for his girlfriend back in Paris.

Gaultier checked his watch as the waiter brought him his second Stella. Merci. Non, non. Rien. He was more than fine, enjoying the coolness of the Nile and watching the women by the pool. One caught his attention with such a wonderful sinewy body and slick black hair wetted against narrow shoulders. A few years ago he'd have made himself known to her, back when he'd been with the Legion in Sarajevo, Rwanda, and the Congo. So much fighting and blood. He tried to dismiss it from his mind, watching the young black-headed beauty dive into the pool again and disappear under the cool turquoise of the water.

"Monsieur Gaultier?"

Gaultier nodded. The One-Armed Man towered over him, dressed as you might expect an American to be in Cairo. Military-style pants, a black T-shirt reading ranger joes overlaid with a Tac vest. He believed he had said the Four Seasons in his communique with the man, but despite his best efforts, all Americans were barbarians at the core. The One-Armed Man had an oversize, scruffy head and a thick neck, thick chest, short legs, and half of one arm topped with a hook.

"Welcome to Cairo," Gaultier said. "Won't you please join me?"

"Where's the shitter?" the One-Armed Man said. His real name was Jack Dumas, but he often was just called Sarge by those who worked with him. Gaultier preferred "the One-Armed Man" because it sounded more Graham Greene, and in Cairo, at the Four Seasons and dressed in a white linen suit, what could be more fitting?

The man disappeared for a moment and Gaultier scanned through some images on his tablet to show Dumas. He may not have helicopters today, but there were plenty more items to broker for whatever little adventure Dumas and his mercenaries had planned. The last he'd heard, there had been some security work against pirates in Djibouti, good work and high wages from oil companies.

The One-Armed Man finally returned to the table up along the empty expanse of the terrace. It was too late for lunch and too early for dinner but a perfect time for cocktails. The man mopped his face with his good hand and plopped the wet towel onto the table.

"I have bad news for you, my friend," Gaultier said. "All the helicopters have been sold. Whoosh. Very fast. But I do have some lovely Panzerfausts from my supplier in Germany. They could make quick work of your pirates."

"What pirates?"

"I thought you and your team were off in Djibouti."

"There ain't no pirates," the man said.

"Oh?"

"Not no more."

The man stared at Gaultier across the café table. A warm wind blew off the Nile and ruffled his hair as Gaultier took a drink and watched the flat, cool expression on the One-Armed Man's face. He had the appearance of a man suddenly awake after a long, disturbing dream. Apparently the helicopter issue had really thrown him. There had been talk of Libya, some assistance in finally ousting that madman Gaddafi.

"I don't give two shits about no helicopters," he said. "I'm looking for Peter Collinson."

"Your partner?" Gaultier said and shrugged. "I have no idea. I imagined that he would be joining us today as always."

The man shook his head. "Nope," he said. "But I think he came to you about some shipping problems. He checked into his fancy-ass hotel yesterday and now they're saying he's gone. Don't tell me y'all didn't cross paths."

Gaultier shrugged again. It had been some time since he'd done any business with Peter Collinson. The arrogant American always wanting to have a concours de penis, a dick measuring contest with him. Wanting to know just how bloody it had gotten in Rwanda, as if the man had missed some kind of sporting event.

"There were two Conex containers sitting at Haydarpa?a Port," the One-Armed Man said. "You know damn well what I'm talking about. He needed passage back to the States."

"I'm sure Collinson was more than adept at finding his way home."

"With the containers, you French fuck," the One-Armed Man said.

"No need to be unpleasant," Gaultier said, waving to the waiter. "Please. Let's have a drink. All right. The helicopters being gone was unfortunate. No need to discuss business."

The man leaned into the table. "Everything is business, Pepé Le Pew."

Gaultier understood the reference, the man calling him a little cartoon skunk. Zee cabbage does not run away from zee corn beef. There'd been a time when he'd choked a man to death for such an insult. But at his age, it was just too much work. Gaultier checked his Rolex, growing weary of this American prick.

"I think we are done." Gaultier stood and fished some Egyptian pounds from his pocket, finished the beer, and set the glass on the table. He looked down to see his lithe, tan beauty emerge from the pool and find a chaise lounge under the shade of a crooked palm. Such a small swimsuit in a Muslim country.

As Gaultier turned, the One-Armed Man flipped over the table and lunged for Gaultier. He clasped his arm with his hook and pushed Gaultier backward toward the railing facing the Nile. Gaultier tried to catch his balance as the world turned and he found himself hanging upside down. The One-Armed Man held him by the legs as he looked down upon the sand and the rocks, the lovely sailboats floating by as if captured in oil on canvas.

"Collinson."

"He's gone."

"Where?"

The pounds and loose piastres fell from his pocket and out into the open air. The One-Armed Man was stronger than he could have imagined, holding Gaultier up with little effort, a firm grip on his crocodile belt as he fluttered loose. A quick drop would surely kill him. He held on to his tablet for dear life, everything personal and business was on it.

"Home," Gaultier said. "He flew home two days ago from London."

The One-Armed Man said nothing, but within seconds yanked him up over the railing and set him down on his feet. The man didn't even appear to be sweating. But for a brief moment, he smiled, smoothing down Gaultier's lapels and clasping that cold steel hook on the back of his neck.

"Where is home, Pepé?"

"Memphis."

"Memphis?" the man said. "You sure?"

"The one in America," Gaultier said. This was no business of his. "Once when we were very drunk, he told me he had a family. In the town of Memphis."