Read Online The Mordida Man by Ross Thomas - Free Book Online

thinking about computers. Then on one warm August afternoon in 1976, using only the touch-tone telephone in his Santa Monica apartment for a terminal, Timble had transferred thirty million dollars from the First National banks in Tulsa, Fort Worth, Omaha, Denver, Memphis, Portland, and Indianapolis to a blind account in Chase Manhattan and from there to numbered accounts in Panama and Nassau. Timble was twenty-four then; now he was twenty-nine.
    So brilliantly and logically had the money been stolen that it was three full months before it was even missed. From Panama and Nassau the money was eventually traced to a Luxembourg bank, where it had been quietly withdrawn in cash over a period of two months by employees of an armored car firm who later claimed to have delivered the cash at various dates to (1) a middle-aged Frenchwoman, (2) an elderly Arab, (3) a young Texan, and (4) a nondescript Swede, none of whom could ever be found.
    Three years after the embezzlement an anonymous article entitled “How Ma Bell Can Make You Rich” had been received in the mail by Scientific American. Although the title was snappy, only one of the learned editors at the magazine could even dimly perceive what the article was trying to explain, so esoteric was its symbolic language and mathematics.
    The editors turned the article over to the FBI, who had it translated by a Nobel laureate, who advised them to burn every single copy unless they were willing to watch the national banking system collapse.
    The only clue the FBI had was the Rio de Janeiro postmark on the envelope that the article had arrived in. It had taken special agent Jack Spiceman six months to track down Leland Timble in Rio. After a quiet chat lasting no more than fifteen minutes, Spiceman had agreed to go to work for Timble for $300,000 a year. It was Spiceman, in fact, who suggested and negotiated for the sanctuary on the island republic. And it was Spiceman who suggested that Franklin Keeling, the disgraced ex-CIA man, would make a valuable addition to Timble’s small entourage.
    In a reply now to Timble’s suggestion that a ten-million-dollar ransom be considered, Keeling came back with a non sequitur, which was what his conversations with Timble often consisted of.
    â€œThe doc’s back on the sauce,” he said. “Dead drunk.”
    â€œI should think the United Nations again, don’t you?”
    â€œYou still want to use Old Black Joe?” Keeling said.
    Old Black Joe was what Keeling called Dr. Joseph Mapangou, Gambia’s permanent representative to the United Nations. On an annual retainer of fifty thousand dollars, Dr. Mapangou had proved useful in a number of ways, not the least being his uncanny ability to be first with the latest rumor. It was Dr. Mapangou, in fact, who had come up with the hint that Anvil Five might be found in London.
    â€œHow much did it all cost?” Timble asked, taking out a small spiral notebook and a ball-point pen. When it came to money, Timble’s air of mild bemusement vanished. His large brown eyes narrowed, even glittered, and his face, at twenty-nine still almost as round and unformed as a child’s, seemed to lengthen itself into a sterner, more adult shape.
    Keeling was ready with the figures. “It took thirty-four thousand just to get the lead on them.”
    Timble jotted down the figure.
    â€œThen I jewed Zlatev down to nineteen thousand for the umbrella.”
    â€œThe Bulgarian,” Timble said and made another quick note.
    Keeling nodded. “The de la Cova woman was a bargain, twenty thousand.”
    Timble’s small mouth pursed itself into appreciation at the figure as he wrote it down.
    â€œThat little fag who used to be with MI 6—he wouldn’t budge for less than forty thousand.”
    Timble frowned, but said nothing, and made another note.
    â€œThat East End crowd I told you about came through with the taxi and driver for five thousand, and then