Free The Gun Runner's Daughter by Neil Gordon Page B

expression on his face. He spoke with the hostess, then followed her in a casual walk to a table for one.
Disregarding the seat she proffered, which gave the largest view of the restaurant, he rounded the table and took a chair that allowed him directly to face Allison.
    And yet, he wasn’t really looking at her, now, but at Martha, who had followed her friend’s gaze, turning casually to look over at the man. Allison felt her stiffen as she turned
away again, quickly. She stood very close as they regarded each other, Alley raising an eyebrow in question. Martha whispered.
    “You seen him before?”
    Alley nodded. “He’s been following me around.”
    “You speak to him?”
    “I gave him the finger.”
    Martha nodded, serious. Then without any hesitation she cocked her head toward the door.
    And, a dozen oysters and a salad having composed their dinners, the two slipped out onto the street without good-byes.
    A deep sea fog was in over the town, a thick, muffling blind through which dripped, dropped, a desultory rain. Circuit Avenue was ghostly, deserted. Only the Ritz was alive, a
yellow light leaking into the fog, spilling loud music unabashed into the empty town. Hugging themselves against the moist chill, the two women kept silent until they were away from the line
forming at the Oyster Bar’s door. Only then did Alley say:
    “Okay, let’s have it.”
    Martha did not look at her. “Have what, baby?”
    “Who was it?”
    A pause. Then, with a deep breath, she replied: “It’s not good, Alley girl. That’s Nicholson Dymitryck.”
    “Yeah? Who’s that?”
    “You’re kidding, right?” When Alley didn’t answer, Martha glanced at her. Allison was looking down as she walked, shaking her head no. “Christ sakes, Alley. It was
Dymitryck who broke the story on your dad for the
North American Review.
”
    “Very impressive. A reporter. So what?”
    “Dymitryck’s not just a reporter, Alley girl. No one knows more about the arms trade except, maybe, the buyers and sellers. Dymitryck’s the guy who was at Harlanstrasse 14. You
with me?”
    Alley’s stomach was plummeting now. She knew about Harlanstrasse 14, the address of a brutal bombing in Munich, where a Turkish arms dealer had been killed during an interview, along with
a cameraman. Dymitryck, the interviewer, had been the only survivor, and one of the scoops he had brought from the interview—exactly what the bombers, reputed to be Israeli, were supposed to
have been trying to prevent—was that Ronald Rosenthal had been doing business in Bosnia. The Turkish dealer had been one of Rosenthal’s sources. But Martha was still talking.
    “I got a whole file on this guy. I wrote it for the
Financial Times
, and then again for the
Observer
, but neither of them would publish it. Know why? They didn’t
believe it. Dymitryck’s bankrolled by Stan Diamond—you know him? Organic Communications? Old SDS guy turned software magnate? Dymitryck’s the one who documented the pipelines to
the Haitian attachés and to the mujahideen.”
    Diamond. For a second, the name was familiar. But she was too busy being scared, suddenly, to pursue it. “Okay, okay. So what’s it mean that he’s here?”
    “It means that he thinks there’s something to learn from you, Alley. That’s all it can mean.”
    “Well then, he’s wasting his time, isn’t he?”
    “I guess so.” Martha, to her friend’s dismay, sounded doubtful.
    “What?”
    “It’s just that this guy doesn’t waste a whole lot of his time.”
    And Alley, thinking about this, forgot to tell her friend about Dee.
    They were at the Ritz now. Just inside the door, Martha put her arm around the bouncer’s shoulders, and spoke in his ear. Allison knew what she was saying: there was a little bastard in a
jacket bothering her, would he keep the guy out? Smiling, the bouncer nodded and took a twenty-dollar bill from her. Then someone put his arms a round Martha, and, with a worried look to Alley,