types up to and including man-portable antitank systems like the American LAWs or the Russian RPG-7.”
“Actually, it’s Captain Saint-Sylvestre, Mr. Lanz.” He paused. “What makes you think your services would be of interest to us?”
“Because the pistols your two guards are wearing were designed in the nineteen thirties. So were those submachine guns the guards outside were carrying.”
Saint-Sylvestre glanced down at the passport in his hands and changed the subject. “You were in Mali.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you do any business there?”
“None to speak of. I made a few contacts.”
“And one of them suggested you visit us? Anyone in particular?”
“A man named Ives,” said Lanz, throwing his line into the water. “Archibald Ives.” There was no reaction from Saint-Sylvestre other than a brief note he jotted on a pad close to his right hand. The ballpoint he used was a Montblanc—his own, or booty from an unwary foreigner who’d passed through the bleak little room that was Saint-Sylvestre’s fiefdom?
“And are you bringing any of these weapons into the country?” Saint-Sylvestre asked, nodding toward the single suitcase Lanz carried.
“Just the catalogs,” Lanz answered.
“The suitcase,” said Saint-Sylvestre, indicating the examination table. Lanz lifted the case and spun it around. The guard standing beside Saint-Sylvestre ran the zipper around the edges of the case and threw back the top. Saint-Sylvestre glanced inside. Toiletries, neatly packed summer-weight clothing and a half dozen thick catalogs: Armament Technology Incorporated of Canada, Browning, Bushmaster, the Czech Republic’s eská Zbrojovka Uherský Brod, China’s Norinco, Russia’s Rosvoorouzhenie.
Captain Saint-Sylvestre picked up a catalog at random and leafed through it, then dropped it onto the table. Using the Montblanc, he turned over the clothes in the suitcase. He found only a library-edition copy of Carl Hiaasen’s most recent novel. He picked it up. “What is this?”
“A very funny book about the cult of celebrity in the United States.”
“You don’t have this cult in Canada?”
“It’s hard to tell.” Lanz shrugged. “There are no celebrities in Canada. They all go to the U.S.”
“The book is funny?”
“Very.”
“The author is a celebrity?”
“I suppose,” said Lanz.
“Then he ridicules himself?”
“I don’t really care.” Lanz sighed. He was getting bored with the man’s convoluted interrogation. “I bought it to read on the plane.”
Saint-Sylvestre dropped the book back into the suitcase and changed gears again. “Empty your pockets, please.”
Lanz did so. Saint-Sylvestre picked up his wallet. He examined all the credit cards and counted the cash. There was four thousand dollars in U.S. hundred-dollar bills.
“A great deal of money.”
“I’m a great believer in cash.”
“So am I,” said Saint-Sylvestre. He counted out ten hundred-dollar bills, folded them and slipped the money into the breast pocket of his uniform. He looked up at Lanz and smiled.
“Tax,” he explained.
“That’s what I thought.” Lanz nodded.
“No cell phone?”
Lanz shrugged. “Would I get a signal?”
“No camera?”
“I didn’t come here to take pictures.”
“It is a very beautiful country,” said Saint-Sylvestre. “There are many attractions for the visitor. Many colorful birds and exotic animals.”
“I’m sure.”
“Although the jungle can be very dangerous. Sometimes fatal,” said Saint-Sylvestre. “I strongly advise you to stay in Fourandao. For your own safety.”
“Of course,” said Lanz. Now, what was that all about?
“You may go,” said Saint-Sylvestre. Lanz nodded, repacked his suitcase and put everything back in his pockets, including his wallet.
“Perhaps you could recommend a hotel,” said Lanz.
“There is only one. The Trianon.”
Lanz nodded. The guard at the exit door stepped aside. Lanz picked up his suitcase and left.
“Actually, it’s Captain Saint-Sylvestre, Mr. Lanz.” He paused. “What makes you think your services would be of interest to us?”
“Because the pistols your two guards are wearing were designed in the nineteen thirties. So were those submachine guns the guards outside were carrying.”
Saint-Sylvestre glanced down at the passport in his hands and changed the subject. “You were in Mali.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you do any business there?”
“None to speak of. I made a few contacts.”
“And one of them suggested you visit us? Anyone in particular?”
“A man named Ives,” said Lanz, throwing his line into the water. “Archibald Ives.” There was no reaction from Saint-Sylvestre other than a brief note he jotted on a pad close to his right hand. The ballpoint he used was a Montblanc—his own, or booty from an unwary foreigner who’d passed through the bleak little room that was Saint-Sylvestre’s fiefdom?
“And are you bringing any of these weapons into the country?” Saint-Sylvestre asked, nodding toward the single suitcase Lanz carried.
“Just the catalogs,” Lanz answered.
“The suitcase,” said Saint-Sylvestre, indicating the examination table. Lanz lifted the case and spun it around. The guard standing beside Saint-Sylvestre ran the zipper around the edges of the case and threw back the top. Saint-Sylvestre glanced inside. Toiletries, neatly packed summer-weight clothing and a half dozen thick catalogs: Armament Technology Incorporated of Canada, Browning, Bushmaster, the Czech Republic’s eská Zbrojovka Uherský Brod, China’s Norinco, Russia’s Rosvoorouzhenie.
Captain Saint-Sylvestre picked up a catalog at random and leafed through it, then dropped it onto the table. Using the Montblanc, he turned over the clothes in the suitcase. He found only a library-edition copy of Carl Hiaasen’s most recent novel. He picked it up. “What is this?”
“A very funny book about the cult of celebrity in the United States.”
“You don’t have this cult in Canada?”
“It’s hard to tell.” Lanz shrugged. “There are no celebrities in Canada. They all go to the U.S.”
“The book is funny?”
“Very.”
“The author is a celebrity?”
“I suppose,” said Lanz.
“Then he ridicules himself?”
“I don’t really care.” Lanz sighed. He was getting bored with the man’s convoluted interrogation. “I bought it to read on the plane.”
Saint-Sylvestre dropped the book back into the suitcase and changed gears again. “Empty your pockets, please.”
Lanz did so. Saint-Sylvestre picked up his wallet. He examined all the credit cards and counted the cash. There was four thousand dollars in U.S. hundred-dollar bills.
“A great deal of money.”
“I’m a great believer in cash.”
“So am I,” said Saint-Sylvestre. He counted out ten hundred-dollar bills, folded them and slipped the money into the breast pocket of his uniform. He looked up at Lanz and smiled.
“Tax,” he explained.
“That’s what I thought.” Lanz nodded.
“No cell phone?”
Lanz shrugged. “Would I get a signal?”
“No camera?”
“I didn’t come here to take pictures.”
“It is a very beautiful country,” said Saint-Sylvestre. “There are many attractions for the visitor. Many colorful birds and exotic animals.”
“I’m sure.”
“Although the jungle can be very dangerous. Sometimes fatal,” said Saint-Sylvestre. “I strongly advise you to stay in Fourandao. For your own safety.”
“Of course,” said Lanz. Now, what was that all about?
“You may go,” said Saint-Sylvestre. Lanz nodded, repacked his suitcase and put everything back in his pockets, including his wallet.
“Perhaps you could recommend a hotel,” said Lanz.
“There is only one. The Trianon.”
Lanz nodded. The guard at the exit door stepped aside. Lanz picked up his suitcase and left.
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