Chapter 3

Thanks to an overwhelming victory, the people of Tunisia elected Fuad Ben Trabeli as their new President. He campaigned under a multiparty system on a platform to further the democratic, right-wing cause because this was most Tunisians’ preference. They didn’t mind Trabeli’s occasional dictatorial style, intertwined with democratic principles. It was always for the better of Tunisia. Their previous leader was an absolute dictator, but Trabeli was a likable, six-foot-tall, good-looking Tunisian — dark hair, mustache, oval face, and narrow nose. His mother was Italian and his father Tunisian. During his college years in Switzerland, he played soccer, and he kept in touch with a couple of his teammates. Besides playing a good game of chess, soccer was his favorite sport. His major was political science, and he practiced politics as the student body president during his junior and senior years. After graduation, he ran for a local office in Tunis. He lost, but he learned about campaigning. During his second try, he won, and he became the youngest city manager in Tunis. Trabeli took notes. In 1952, national elections came up, and he ran for President of Tunisia. He won again. Now he was the youngest Tunisian President that ran his country.

He was the People’s President.

Fuad Ben Trabeli made substantial changes in his country. A majority elected him shortly after Tunisia gained its independence. He was trying to shed colonialism and the influences of the monarchists. He allowed women to attend school, and they were free to wear modest western clothing. Furthermore, he was aware that white slavery, particularly females, was profitable in his Republic. He had a good grip on his country, but the part that dealt with slavery eluded him numerous times. He couldn’t depend on his security forces. They were remnants from the previous President, something that he must fix later. He felt that they were corrupt and on the take. At first, he didn’t know how to stop white slavery. However, recently, he got a lead from a close friend and team member of the soccer team that he met during his college days in Switzerland. His friend suggested to him how to begin attacking the problem of white slavery.

A fellow in Klagenfurt, Austria, by the code name, Sam, is doing special favors for certain people. However, he does it for a hefty price. Fuad remembered the lead.

In his home, Sam was having his dinner, which his mother prepared for him — potato soup and Crepe Suzettes. It was a Friday, and Fridays, he didn’t eat meat. Most Catholics continued this custom after the Second World War. Usually, he hates Fridays, but his mother was an excellent cook, and she always managed to prepare a dish that he liked. No one knows his real name, except his mother, girlfriend, Erika, and partner at the bookstore.

Sam had a long day in his downtown bookstore. Officially, that is what he does for a living, engaging in buying and selling old books. On occasion, Sam takes trips to anywhere in Europe, chasing down unusual books. Then he sells them for an exorbitant price. His store is one level below ground, and it smelled as if someone left seaweed in a candle store. Neither one of the two women in his life knows what else he does. On occasion, Erika takes trips for him, delivering sealed items. She knew that this was unusual — not what Sam usually does, but she never asked him what she is carrying at various drop off places, including at a post office box. Erica has a car, and she uses it frequently when she works for Sam. Sometimes she uses Sam’s car, even though he doesn’t need it, to keep the battery charged because Sam doesn't. Since his home is on a side street, close to his business, he walks to work. He favors public transportation, primarily trains with dining cars, sip a beer, and enjoys filet minion on toast.

The bookkeeper likes living in the city. He loves the sound of his stiff soles tapping the cobblestone roads between tall buildings. He fantasizes that he might have been a tap dancer. It had a unique resonating sound, and it makes him feel important — except tonight. The snow was still covering the dark side street where he walked on his way home.

The phone rang. It is a black phone on the wall. Sam went to his small office, “Hello, who is this, may I ask?”

“This call will most likely surprise you, sir. Please do not hang up on me. Are you the one called Sam?” Asked the man on the other end, secretly, with a slight Arabian accent. Sam thought for a moment, should I acknowledge this call, or should I hang up. Sam has lots of experience in these matters. After all, this is his only source of communication with his clients. On the other end, the fellow seemed convincing and sure of himself, though he had an accent. He doesn’t appear to be an actor or an undercover agent.

“Ah …, yes, that’s what they call me. Who are you, and what can I do for you?” responded Sam, cautiously, with a filter covering the mike.

“I am the President of Tunisia, Fuad Ben Trabeli.” Sam was in deep thought. He didn’t hang up the phone, but he didn’t answer either. The President of Tunisia? What the hell would he want from me? What should I do?

Time passed.

“Hello, is anyone there? Sam, are you there?”

“Yes, yes, I’m here. Would you repeat that, please? Ah — Mr. President?”

“As I said before, I am the President of Tunisia. I need your services,” said Trabeli impatiently. Sam finally believed the President. He cleared his voice, “Well — what can I do for you, Sir?”

“One of my emissaries will call you. Meet him at a place of your choice. He will instruct you of my requirements, and I know that you are the right person for what I have in mind. Do you have any questions?”

“Not really. Very frankly, Mr. President, right now, I wouldn’t know what to ask. I’ll just have to wait for the call,” said Sam, excited, perplexed, and his mind racing.

“Good. We’ll be in touch soon.” The President disconnected, and Sam looked at his phone, still dumbfounded, shaking his head. He returned to his cold, neglected dinner and finished it.

“Who was that?” asked his mother curiously.

“What a strange phone call that was? I’m still trying to figure it out,” said Sam, trying to change subjects. “I think it was a wrong number,” looking at his mother sheepishly.

While he finished his dinner, he looked at his two telephones in the office. He kept one phone on his desk, and he had the other mounted on the wall. He was glad that he had enough foresight to install both phones. The phone on the desk was for social calls, with the number listed in Klagenfurt’s phone book. However, the second phone, the phone on the wall, was untraceable, and that was the phone line that the Tunisian President used. All of his business calls, except calls related to the bookstore, are made using the phone on the wall. Sam took his dirty dishes and placed them in the sink. His mother will wash them later. Then he poured himself a mug of Turkish coffee. He took a sip — it was more potent than usual — “Aahh.” He returned to the office, sat by his desk with the shoe soles on it, and wondered how in the hell the Tunisian President got hold of his phone. I shouldn’t wonder about that. That’s my business.

Yes, Sam has connections. He works with a significant list of people who will perform a variety of services. Sam is an intermediary, and that is his primary income. He is of average height and average looks — his hair is receding and combs forward to cover the bald spot, giving him a boyish look. Sam doesn’t stand out in a crowd, and the man doesn’t make an impression when he steps into a room filled with people. He usually wears a wrinkled suit, pockets drooping, and a tie, even when he goes out for dinner with his friend, Erika.

“Did you see the man entering the restaurant?” asked the wife of a detective, curiously, spooning her soup.

“What man,” responded the detective, “I only saw an attractive woman.”

Sam liked it that way. People will notice Erika. She is attractive, and she is ten years younger than he is. They have known each other for four years, and they are planning to get married one of these days.

The following Saturday was a cold and miserable day. After dinner, Sam was going to check up on his manager at the bookstore. Perhaps he sold a few books. He still had six copies of Herman Melville, ten of Alexander Dumas, and a box full of the original Sherlock Holmes. It seems that after all these years, these novels are still his best sellers. He looked for his snow boots when the phone on the wall rang.

“Yes, who am I speaking to?” asked Sam cautiously.

“I am the emissary of Fuad Ben Trabeli. Am I speaking to Sam?”

“Yes, you are,” said Sam surprised to hear from the President’s emissary so soon.

“Where can we meet?” asked the emissary. Sam thought for a moment, “I’ll be in the confession booth of the catholic garrison-church, downtown.”

“Downtown, Klagenfurt, I presume?” asked the emissary.

“Of course, where else. I’ll be there a six in the afternoon.” At this time, the confession booth is usually empty. However, the church is still open.

“That is agreeable with me.” The emissary disconnected, and so did Sam. The emissary was already in town. But that didn’t trouble Sam because he liked the idea. The sooner he will get this started, the better — just another contract and, hopefully, a sizable commission.

Sam knew every corner and niche of the old church. He was an altar boy in his younger years, and he also did odd jobs for the priest. Early on, he found out that he could enter the church through a tunnel built in the seventeenth century, from across the street. Then it was a dirt road, partially covered with gray cobblestones. The tunnel was an escape route from invasions of foreign armies. The town folks hid in the church, and when invaders raided it, the people escaped through the tunnel. Invaders couldn’t enter the church over the top wall because the builder embedded sharp glass particles, interlaced with spikes, on all flat surfaces. That was all right, and it kept undesirables out.

Sam knows the back entrance to the two-part confession booth. It was a solid structure, built from eighteenth-century mahogany wood, and it smelled of myrrh. Uncomfortable benches hugged the back walls of the confession stalls.

When he was fourteen, he played tricks on the girls that went to confession, and he found out private things about them in school — being religious, they confessed all their sins. And that included his art teacher. Sam liked his art teacher. She was young, she wore tight and short skirts, and he could see the outline of her skimpy panties when she bent over to helped another student in front of him. That turned on Sam to no end. He couldn’t help himself. Then, one Saturday evening, his art teacher entered the confession booth while Sam was attending and confessed that she had sex with the school principal, and she was asking for forgiveness. Sam forced her to relate detailed information to him about the place where she had sex.

“Why do you have to know the details, Father?” asked the art teacher, perplexed.

“According to Catholic doctrine, this is necessary to impose the correct punishment,” said Sam, grinning from ear to ear, finishing the sentence with a Latin phrase. After all, he was an altar boy, and he knows the church doctrines.

She explained that to him to the best of her ability. Sam tried to visualize it, and again, he had trouble containing himself, and he sighed

“What was that?” asked the teacher, turning her ear in the direction of the sound.

“Nothing.” Sam cleared his throat. “For this sinful behavior, you will say twenty-five rosaries in front of the altar,” said Sam, disguising his voice, holding a paper in front of his mouth.

“But, Father, that is way too much. That will take me two hours to finish,” said the disappointed woman.

“How long were you engaged in your sexual activity, my dear,” asked Sam.

“About one hour.”

“Then, two hours is as light punishment. According to our catholic doctrines, double punishment is less than normal.”

“All right, Father, I’ll do that,” said the teacher, reluctantly. Then she walked to the altar and prayed.

Sam lounged in his soft chair. While thinking about his younger years and the diversions and enjoyments he had, he dozed off, dreaming about Erika. Someone screamed on his television. He woke up, and he looked at the clock on the wall: five-forty-five. God damned, I’m going to be late, thought Sam. He donned a windbreaker, put on his slippers, and ran to the building that contained the tunnel entrance. While Sam ran, he pulled his key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and ran through the barely illuminated, rat-infested tunnel, breathing heavily. He stepped on vermin, resulting in a horrible sound that could have only come from a mature rat. At this time of the year, it was an unfriendly place, damp and cold. Sam shivered. When he reached the church, he entered the priest’s cubicle of the confession booth from the rear entrance. The emissary was there, waiting.

“You are late,” said the emissary, perturbed.

“Sorry. I got into heavy traffic. People are still learning to drive their VW stick shifts. An accident blocked the avenue.”

“That’s too bad,” said the emissary, testily, “and that doesn’t concern me,” Sam observed through the slots in the partition. The clergy arranged the confession booths smartly. The priest’s side was dark, but the confessor’s wall had a narrow beam of light shining on the person’s face through an artificial crack in the wooden ceiling.

“Tell me, what’s on your mind,” said Sam. He could see the emissary clearly, and Sam remembered his dark face. He was an exceptionally well-dressed Arab, an oval face, short curly hair, and a finely trimmed mustache. The emissary explained what President Fuad Ben Trabeli had in mind, combating white female slavery, starting with the warehouse in Villach and why the slave runners used it. T hat was all that the emissary knew. When he finished, he asked, “Do you have any questions?”

“Not for now. How can I get in touch with you if I need something?”

“Call the president’s office and ask for the emissary.” Sam heard the emissary stand up and leave. Sam remained in the booth for another ten minutes. Then he left quietly the way he came.