The Negotiator

Kuyper let the name sink in slowly, thought for a while, furrowed his brow, and shook his head. “Paul who?”

“Damned if I can remember. We were both twenty then. Long time ago. We just called him Big Paul. Huge chap, over six feet six. Wide as a truck. Must have weighed two hundred fifty pounds. Damn… what was his last name…?”

Kuyper’s brow lightened.

“I remember him,” he said. “Yeah, useful puncher. He had to get out, you know. One step ahead of the fuzz. That’s why he went to Africa. The bastards wanted him on a rape charge. Hold on… Marchais. That was it, Paul Marchais.”

“Of course,” said Qui

Steve Pyle, General Manager of the SAIB in Riyadh, got the letter from Andy Laing ten days after it was posted. He read it in the privacy of his office and when he put it down his hand was shaking. This whole thing was becoming a nightmare.

He knew the new records in the bank computer would stand up to electronic check-the colonel’s work at erasing one set and substituting another had been at near-genius level-but… Supposing anything happened to the Minister, Prince Abdul? Suppose the Ministry did their April audit and the Prince declined to admit he had sanctioned the fund-raising? And he, Steve Pyle, had only the colonel’s word…

He tried to reach Colonel Easterhouse by phone, but the man was away, unknown to Pyle, up in the mountainous North near Ha’il making plans with a Shi’ah Imam who believed that the hand of Allah was upon him and the shoes of the Prophet on his feet. It would be three days before Pyle could reach the colonel.

Qui

“I lost sight of him in ’67,” said Qui

Kuyper chortled, looked around, and tapped the side of his nose in the gesture of the foolish who think they know something special.

“He came back,” he said with glee. “He got out. Came back here.”

“To Belgium?”

“Yup-1968, must have been. I’d just got out of the nick. Saw him myself.”

Twenty-three years, thought Qui

Kuyper shook his head. “No chance,” he said drunkenly. “He’s disappeared. Had to, didn’t he, with the police thing and all that. Last I heard, he was working on a fun fair somewhere in the South.”

Five minutes later he was asleep. Qui

“Time to earn your keep,” he told Sam. “Go to the tourist information office and ask about fun fairs, theme parks, whatever. In the South of the country.”

It was 6:00 P.M.He slept for twelve hours.

“There are two,” Sam told him as they had breakfast in their room. “There’s Bellewaerde. That’s outside the town of Ieper in the extreme West, up near the coast and the French border. Or there’s Walibi outside Wavre. That’s south of Brussels. I’ve got the brochures.”

“I don’t suppose the brochures a

Just before ten he hoisted their luggage into the car. Once they picked up the motorway system it was another fast run, due south past Mechelen, around Brussels on the orbital ring road, and south again on the E.40 to Wavre. After that the theme park was signposted.

It was closed, of course. All fun fairs look sad in the grim chill of winter, with the dodgem cars huddled in canvas shrouds, the pavilions cold and empty, the gray rain tumbling off the girders of the roller coaster, and the wind ru

“What now?” asked Sam.

“Mr. Van Eyck, at his home,” said Qui

The jovial face of the theme park’s director, Bertie Van Eyck, beamed out of the title page of the brochure, above his written welcome to all visitors. Being a Flemish name, and Wavre being deep in French-speaking country, there were only three Van Eycks listed. One was listed as Albert. Bertie. An address out of town. They lunched and drove out there, Qui

It was a pleasant detached house on a long country road called the Chemin des Charrons. Mrs. Van Eyck answered the door and called for her husband, who soon appeared in cardigan and carpet slippers. From behind him came the sound of a sports program on the television.

Though Flemish-born, Bertie Van Eyck was in the tourist business and so was bilingual in French and Flemish. His English was also perfect. He summed up his visitors as Americans at a glance and said, “Yes, I am Van Eyck. Can I help you?”

“I sure hope you can, sir. Yes, I surely do,” said Qui

There was a roar from the television. Van Eyck looked visibly worried. The Belgian league leaders Tournai were playing French champions Sainte Étie

“I fear I am not related to any Americans,” he began.

“No, sir, you do not understand. I’ve been told up in Antwerp my mother’s nephew could be working in these parts, in a fun fair. Paul Marchais?”

Van Eyck’s brow furrowed and he shook his head.

“I know all my staff. We have no one of that name.”

“Great big guy. Big Paul, they call him. Six feet six, wide as this, tattoo on his left hand…”

“Ja, ja, but he is not Marchais. Paul Lefort, you mean.”

“Well now, maybe I do mean that,” said Qui

“Wait, please,”

Bertie Van Eyck was back in two minutes with a slip of paper. Then he fled back to his football match. Tournai had scored and he had missed it.

“I have never,” said Sam as they drove back into Wavre town, “heard such an appalling caricature of an American meathead on a visit to Europe.”

Qui

“Worked, didn’t it?”

They found the boardinghouse of Madame Garnier behind the railway station. It was already getting dark. She was a desiccated little widow who began by telling Qui

“But he is out, monsieur. He has gone to work.”

“At the Walibi?” asked Qui

“But of course. The Big Wheel. He overhauls the engine for the winter months.”

Qui

“Always I miss my friend,” he complained. “Early last month I came by the fair, and he was on vacation.”

“Ah, not vacation, monsieur. His poor mother died. A long illness. He nursed her to the end. In Antwerp.”

So that was what he had told them. For the second half of September and all of October he had been away from his dwelling and his workplace. I bet he was, thought Qui