The Mordida Man by Ross Thomas Read Free Book Online

don’t forget to check out what we’ve done to upset that Libyan bunch—you know, like serving them pork chops for lunch.”
    â€œI’ll see to it immediately, Mr. President.”
    When Ambassador Dokubo was ushered into the Oval Office at precisely 11:45, the President was quick to note the Nigerian’s grim expression. After they shook hands and exchanged routine pleasantries, the President said, “You’ve brought me bad news, haven’t you?”
    Dokubo nodded. “I don’t believe it will be good.” He picked up his attaché case, put it on his lap, and opened it. He took out the buff envelope first and then the Gucci box and placed them on the President’s desk.
    â€œI took the precaution of having my security people examine both of these,” he said. “They assure me that they contain no explosives.”
    The President examined the small box first and looked up. “Chewing gum.”
    â€œThey apologized for having no sealing wax.”
    â€œThey say what was in it?”
    â€œA token—according to Ali Arifi.”
    â€œHe’s the Minister of Defense, right?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHe say what kind of token?”
    â€œNo, Mr. President, he didn’t.”
    The President snipped the red string binding the box with a pair of scissors, then peeled away the chewing gum and lifted off the lid. He was a tall man with a tennis pro’s rangy body and the careless good looks of a man who for some reason had always assumed that he was ugly and didn’t particularly care. In a few years, possibly as many as ten, he would look far more distinguished than he did now, but perhaps not as capable. He had a high, wide forehead and deep-set greenish eyes, an unremarkable nose, a mouth that in repose appeared sardonic, but not when he smiled, and an almost perfect chin, which compensated for the batwing ears that had been handed down to McKay men for generations along with enough thick blondish-gray hair to cover them up.
    After the President opened the box, his year-round tan seemed to fade and he said, “Sweet Jesus Christ almighty!” and looked up quickly at Ambassador Dokubo, whose eyes had been recording every nuance of the scene for his half-completed memoirs.
    The severed ear rested in the Gucci box on a bed of surgical cotton. It was a large ear, quite drained of blood and no longer pink—indeed, almost white—and the Ambassador’s eyes traveled from it to the left ear of the President and matched them up. It’s his brother’s, he finally decided. Those idiots have cut off the brother’s ear.
    The Ambassador made a slight clearing noise far down in his throat and said, “It would appear to be an ear, Mr. President. A human ear.”
    The President’s right hand seemed to move unbidden up to his own right ear, which he touched reassuringly. Not taking his eyes from the box, he picked up the buff envelope and ripped it open. He read its contents at a glance, read them again, more slowly, and then tossed the letter across the desk toward Ambassador Dokubo. The Ambassador wasn’t at all sure whether he was intended to read the letter, but when the President spun around in his big chair and stared out the window at the White House south lawn, Dokubo almost snatched up the letter and hungrily read its crabbed writing, trying to burn every word into his memory.
    There was no date, and the letter’s salutation was a brusque “Mr. President.” The body of the letter read:
    Your notorious CIA jackals have kidnapped Gustavo Berrio-Brito, the freedom fighter known to the oppressed millions of the world as Felix. We have taken as hostage your brother and his female companion. Unless you immediately release Gustavo Berrio-Brito, we will send your brother back to you piece by piece. Herewith is a token of our determination.
    The letter was signed simply but rather grandly with the Libyan