The Mordida Man by Ross Thomas

Mr. President.”
    â€œTry.” Try was obviously not what the President had in mind.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat’s your best guess—the Israelis?”
    Coombs let doubt spread over his face. “A possibility, except that if the Israelis had Felix I think the entire world would have heard about it by now. You see, the problem is that the Libyans have made a great many enemies during the past ten or twelve years. When the oil money really started flowing, Qaddafi began messing about in the internal affairs of other countries—the Philippines, Somalia, Northern Ireland, Ethiopia, Afghanistan, Lebanon, Chad, Malta, Uganda for a while, even Iran. He had all that oil money to play with, so some of it went to finance terrorist groups like Anvil Five. Qaddafi even pensioned off a couple of burnt-out cases at a thousand or so a month. So we must assume that whoever abducted Felix must have wanted to strike back at Libya. It’s a possible assumption, at least.”
    It was difficult to tell whether the President had been listening. His gaze was directed at some spot just over Coombs’s left shoulder.
    Still staring at the spot, he said, “I’m going to have to lie. Through the Nigerian Ambassador I’m going to let the Libyans believe that we really do have Felix. That’s my first lie. My second lie will be to the media about my brother’s whereabouts. And third, I’m going to have to lie about why the Libyans went home in a snit. None of these lies will stand up for long.”
    â€œNo,” Coombs said. “They won’t.”
    â€œBut I will lie to keep my brother alive and to keep United Parcel from delivering his fingers and toes to me one by one. And while I’m busy lying I want that outfit of yours to do two things.”
    Coombs nodded carefully.
    â€œFirst, I want you to find out where they have my brother stashed. If it’s a city, I want the exact address and the phone number. I want the map coordinates. If it’s a room, I want to know how many windows it’s got. If it’s a tent, I want the color.”
    â€œThat may be … difficult, Mr. President.”
    â€œDifficult or impossible?”
    â€œDifficult,” Coombs said at last, seeing no good reason why he should lose his job. “May I ask what you intend to do with the information?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œSecond, I want you to find out who’s got Felix and to get him back. I don’t care how you do it or how much it costs. You’ve got carte blanche.”
    â€œI’d like that in writing, Mr. President.”
    â€œI don’t blame you,” McKay said. He took out a sheet of White House stationery and started writing. He wrote only one sentence, signed it, read it over, and handed it to Coombs. “That do?”
    Coombs read the sentence slowly. “Yes, sir,” he said. “That will do nicely.”
    It was just twenty-four hours after the November election when Bingo McKay had walked into the President-elect’s suite on the eighth floor of the Skirvin Tower Hotel in Oklahoma City, looked around, and told everybody to get out—including Dominique, the future First Lady.
    The President-elect hadn’t questioned his brother’s order. Instead, he grinned and asked, “What’s up?”
    â€œThere’s a guy I want you to meet.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œSit down, kid,” Bingo McKay told the President-elect, “and listen real good.”
    Jerome McKay sat down with a very weak Scotch and water and a fond amused smile. “Jesus, Bingo, you’ve got that end-of-the-world look on your face again.”
    â€œJust listen. One of these days, something might happen. I don’t know what or when. But it might be messy and I might not be around.”
    Jerome McKay had started to say something, but his brother held up a hand. “Just listen. If I’m not around, then