begging, I decide to take a little walk, snow or no snow, and have a look at Eight Bruton Street, Berkeley
“Square, London Doubleyou One, heart of Mayfair and all that. I wanta make sure Voodoo, Limited’s a real business and not just some combination Xerox copy shop and accommodation address— know what I mean? And if it is real, then I’ll walk in the next morning unannounced and unexpected.”
“And possibly unwelcome.”
“We’ll see,” Glimm said. “Anyhow, when I walk into your pretty little reception room out there, the first thing I notice is there’s no pretty little receptionist to go with it. Then I notice some dust on her desk—
not much, but enough to tell me she hasn’t been to work in a week or ten days. But so what? Maybe she’s out sick in bed with a doctor.”
Durant smiled faintly. “A temporary indisposition.”
“Just like I thought. And since there’s nobody to receive me, I knock on the door that says Private and wait while all those locks and dead bolts and chains are shot back and undone. Finally, the door opens and I see some guy wearing way too much tan for February—a guy who’s six-three or -four and carries maybe one-seventy-five or -eighty pounds, if that. This is a guy who’ll never see forty again and probably not even forty-five, but who’s got the moves of somebody in their twenties. Okay. Their late, late twenties. And right away I know I’m in
the presence of none other than that fucking Durant, which is what everybody I talked to calls you.”
“My references,” Durant said. “And bona fides.”
Glimm nodded.
“Name two,” Durant said.
“Ever know a Manila police captain called Cruz?”
“I knew a police lieutenant called Hermenegildo Cruz.”
“He got promoted,” Glimm said. “What about a Maurice Overby in Amman?”
Something changed in Durant’s expression—a certain tightening around the mouth. But then it went away and he said, “What’s Overby doing in Jordan?”
“He claims he’s there to analyze the BYK’s personal security system.”
“All by himself?”
“He says his principal resource asset, whatever that means, is Dr.
Booth Stallings, the world-famous expert on terrorism that I never heard of. You ever hear of him?”
Durant only nodded.
Glimm permitted himself another small smile. “I notice you don’t ask what BYK stands for. I don’t know and have to ask Overby. He’s down there in Amman, Jordan, and I’m calling from—well, it doesn’t matter where—and Overby goes all snotty over the phone and tells me BYK stands for Brave Young King, which is what he and all the other old Middle East hands call King Hussein.” Glimm paused. “Even though the King’s not all that young anymore, is he?”
“Overby told you he’s an old Middle East hand?” Durant said.
“You saying he’s not?”
“I’m saying it’s just another fascinating and heretofore undisclosed chapter in Mr. Overby’s life.”
“Okay. So he’s a liar. Who the hell cares about Overby? What about you? You ever been there—the Middle East? I mean on business?”
“Beirut,” Durant said.
“When?”
“A few years ago.”
“A few years ago was when it was still kinda hairy, right?”
Durant only shrugged and waited for what came next, which he assumed would be the sell. Instead, it turned out to be a silence that went on and on until it had Glimm crossing and uncrossing his legs and even shifting a little in the wing-back chair. Because silences had never bothered Durant, he waited it out with a small polite smile, and Glimm finally ended it with yet another question. “What were you doing there —in Beirut?”
“Looking for something,” Durant said.
“Find him?”
“I don’t think I said ‘him.’ “
“Okay. Him? Her? It?”
“We found what we were looking for.”
“ ‘We’ meaning you and Mr. Voo, right?” Glimm said and, not waiting for confirmation, hurried on, his manner and tone brusque and just shy of rude. “What you guys went looking for in Beirut was somebody fairly important’s dead body. I hear this somebody fairly important’s widow wants to collect on her missing-and-presumed-dead husband’s million-dollar life policy, but doesn’t want to wait around seven years—or whatever it is—till he’s declared legally dead. And her dead husband—or whoever he’s working for—must’ve been paying one hell of a premium if the insurance company agreed to waive its act-of-war and insurrection rider, which it sure as hell did or the widow wouldn’t’ve hired you and Voo to go find proof he was dead —or maybe buy it from somebody.”
