by Len Deighton
Both men watched the awe-inspiring landscape for a moment or two, but the glare of the sun caused them both to turn away at the same time. Papá Cisneros poured more of the potent coffee to which he was addicted. ‘You are not guerrilla material. You have nothing in common with those maniacs. What are you doing here, Colonel?’ He did not give the words great importance. He said them conversationally while selecting a cheroot from a silver box on his desk. They were made specially for him and he savoured the aroma of the fermented leaf almost as much as he enjoyed smoking them.
‘From what I have seen of your Federalistas I’ve nothing in common with them either,’ said Lucas.
Cisneros managed a slight laugh and waved his unlit cheroot as if signalling a hit on the rifle range. ‘My Federalistas are peasants – fit youngsters, ambitious and ruthless. They are exactly the same profile as your guerrillas.’ He sniffed at the cheroot.
The way he said ‘Your guerrillas’ provided Lucas with an opportunity to disassociate himself from them but he did not do so.
Cisneros picked up a cigarette lighter in his free hand and held it tight in his fist like a talisman. ‘Exactly the same profile.’ He moved the unlit cheroot closer to his mouth but spoke before he could put it there. ‘There is attraction between opposing forces. Your guerrillas want to be soldiers. They dress in makeshift uniforms, and drill with much shouting and stamping of feet. They give themselves military rank. Men in charge of platoons are called battalion commanders; men who command companies are called generals.’ He smiled and again brought the cheroot near to his mouth. ‘No longer do I hear about “revolutionary committees”; nowadays this riff-raff have meetings of their “General Staff”. They don’t murder their rivals and praise their accomplices; they shoot “deserters” and award “citations”. Don’t tell me these men are trying to overturn a military dictatorship.’ This time the cheroot reached his mouth. He lit it, inhaled, snapped the lighter closed, gestured with the cheroot and exhaled all in one continuous balletic movement. Snatching the cheroot away from his mouth he said urgently, ‘No, they want to replace this government with a real dictatorship. Make no mistake about what your friends intend, Colonel, should they ever shoot and bomb their way to power.’
‘What would they do?’ asked Lucas.
‘Did my fellows tear your jacket like that?’ Cisneros asked as if seeing Lucas for the first time. ‘I’ll have someone repair it for you … What would they do …’ He placed the cheroot in a brass ashtray that was close at hand next to the photo of his wife. ‘Admiral Benz pushed through the Crop Substitution Bill last winter. Many hundreds of hectares that were growing coca have planted coffee. Loud screams from the coffee farmers because they think their coffee bean prices will tumble.’ He paused. The bitterness in his voice was evident. It was hard to swallow criticism from the coffeegrowers after being their champion for so long. Whatever his motives he was sincere about this part of it. ‘Your guerrillas immediately promised support to the coffee farmers and started a bombing campaign here in the city.’
He paused as if inviting Lucas to speak but Lucas said nothing. Cisneros said, ‘Certain of my liberal middle-class friends say I should not take Yankee money, but the Crop Substitution Bill would falter without Yankee money; maybe collapse. What would the guerrillas do if they took power, you ask? The communists can’t exist without rural support: they need the farmers. The farmers want the money the coca brings them. Your communist friends certainly won’t take Yankee money, and the Americans wouldn’t give it to them. So the communists can do nothing other than build an economy based upon the drug traffic.’
A dozen questions came into Lucas’ mind but he knew better than to ask them. Cisneros was a very tough man and none of this smooth talk could hide it. Lucas wondered what was behind this special treatment and wondered if by some magic the Webley–Hockley had got word of his arrest and told the British ambassador to intercede. He did not entertain this idea for long. The Webley–Hockley could not possibly have heard of his arrest. If they had, there was no way that the collection of superannuated half-wits that comprised the board would have taken any action. And lastly this was not a part of the world where the British ambassador wielded much influence. ‘You make a powerful case, Minister,’ said Lucas deferentially.
‘Then tell me about this fellow, Paz. Is he American?’ He pushed a button on his desk.
‘I don’t know, Minister.’
‘He’s rich. It is not difficult to spot these rich college revolutionaries.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Lucas, hoping that he wasn’t giving away a secret Angel Paz cherished.
‘Bring Paz in now,’ Cisneros told the box on his desk. ‘Let me take a look at him.’
6
TEPILO POLICE HEADQUARTERS.
‘And difficult to get out of the carpet.’
Despite his US passport, Angel Paz had not been permitted to go free from the party at The Daily American. Angel Paz had pushed one of the policemen. He had refused to answer any questions. He had argued, shouted and told the police exactly what he thought of them. This had not worked out to his advantage. He’d been punched to the ground, kicked, strip-searched and ‘processed’. Hair cut, fingerprints taken, he’d been thrown under an icy-cold shower and then photographed for the criminal files.
The cell into which he had been dumped was two levels below ground. It was an empty concrete box. There was no bed, no chair, no floor covering, no light and no heat. Despite the fact that this was equatorial South America, it became bitterly cold. Huddled on the floor, Angel Paz stayed awake shivering and miserable. The cold from the concrete had chilled him so that his whole body ached. The cells of course had been built with debilitating discomfort in mind. They were for prisoners who proved too lively.
About three o’clock in the morning the cell door opened. A thin blanket was thrown in for him. He pulled it round him, crossed himself and said a prayer.
For the first time since leaving Los Angeles he regretted this adventure. How had it started? It had not been his idea to go crawling to his uncle Arturo. It was Angel’s father who had made the appointment. He said his uncle Arturo would give him a job. Arturo had sent a limousine for him.
‘Don Arturo will be pleased to see you again,’ the driver said. His name was Luís and he was a thousand years old. He kept trying to engage Angel in conversation. It seemed not so long ago that Luís had been carrying Angel on his back and playing peekaboo with him. Now the young man was silent and distant. Luís was hurt.
In the back seat Angel Paz grunted. He didn’t want to work for Don Arturo or tell Luís anything of his future plans. Don Arturo was a crook. He resented the way that his uncle had sent a white air-conditioned Cadillac limousine, complete with Luís, to collect him. It was a demonstration of his wealth and importance. Paz would have preferred to use his father’s car.
‘Help yourself to a drink,’ Luís said. ‘Ice and everything is there. Scotch, bourbon, vodka, you name it.’ Without looking round, Luís reached back and tapped the walnut cabinet that was fitted over the transmission. His hands were darkly pigmented, strong and calloused: the hands of a manual worker. Luís had worked for Arturo almost all his life. ‘The air can go colder if you want, Angel.’
Angel Paz could never have been mistaken for a manual worker. He’d grown up in California, a rich Hispanic kid. No matter what he did, he’d never look like a worker. Neither was he a drinker. He opened the little mirrored door and took a cold can of Diet Pepsi. He poured it into a cut-glass tumbler and sipped it. He looked out of the window at the sun-scorched streets of down-town Los Angeles. What a dump. South Broadway with its old elaborately decorated buildings and the famous million dollar sign.
Luís saw him in the driving mirror and smiled. ‘Can you believe that this was a fashionable part of the city one time? I can recall the big movie premières here. I was just a kid. Searchlights in the street. You should have seen it, Angel. All the top movie stars, wearing minks and tuxedos.
The cops pushing them through flashbulb photographers and screaming fans. And what cars; Bentleys, Duesenbergs and supercharged Mercedes.’
‘Is that right?’ Angel said. Ever since Angel Paz could remember, Broadway had been a shabby street. It was lined with Mexican fast-food counters, liquor stores, ‘adult movie’ houses and open-fronted shops, with racks of brightly coloured shirts, and cheap dresses arrayed so that they fluttered restlessly. The people thronging the streets came in all shapes and sizes and colours. They were not all Mexican. They were people from all over Latin America; and East Asia too.
The Cadillac crossed the bridge over the Freeway and they were in Chinatown. Chinese supermarkets, Chinese movie houses, Chinese Free Masons Hall and right in the middle – with vacant lots all round it – Little Joe’s, one of the city’s oldest Italian restaurants. Paz looked at it with satisfaction. He’d grown up in Los Angeles. His father – a successful racing driver – used to take him there and buy him veal escalopes with melted cheese on top. ‘Remember Little Joe’s, Angel? You and your Dad and Don Arturo and all the gang. Those birthday cakes topped with cars made of icing sugar? Those were the days, kid.’
‘I don’t remember.’
Luís swung into an alley for delivery trucks and stopped. He went into the back door of an unidentifiable premises and returned within two minutes. He sighed, started up the big engine, and twisted round in his seat to see as he backed on to the street. Taking advantage of a gap in the traffic, he accelerated violently. Some of Paz’s Pepsi spilled as the long white Cadillac did a U-turn and headed back south.
‘That’s the last one,’ Luís said, although Paz had not complained about the stops they had made. ‘There are some jobs the Don don’t trust to no one but me.’ He stopped speaking as he overtook a cruising police car. ‘I hear you were in Europe, Angel.’ There was no answer. ‘A lot happened since the last time you were in town,’ he added. ‘There’s not so much money about these days. Unemployment: the aerospace plants are cutting back. Getting pally with the Russians costs! Folks are finding that out.’ He said it like a man well-known for his warnings against getting pally with the Russians.
‘Where are you heading now?’
Was there a hint of alarm in his voice? Luís seemed to think so. ‘Easy does it, Angel,’ he said. ‘I’m taking Olympic. It’s the best way to cross town at this time of day. You got synchronized signals on Olympic and it’s residential, so we got no delivery trucks parked in our way.’ He craned his head until he could see Paz in his rearview mirror. He had grown into a good-looking young fellow but he was no longer one of them. Angel was distant and superior. It was college that did that. Luis was glad none of his kids had gone to college, and come back to despise their Dad.
Olympic Boulevard was as Luís had predicted. At Spaulding they passed the Beverly Hills High School, its private oil well pumping away in the school yard. Luís said, ‘That’s another thing you’re going to have to get used to: the Freeways thrombosis. You can’t rely on the Freeways getting you anywhere on time any more.’
Paz sipped his cold drink and said nothing. He preferred to sit and think what he was going to say to his uncle.
‘Here we are,’ said Luís. Entering Beverly Hills brings a sudden and dramatic change. No birds sing from the immensely tall trees; one species of tree to each of fifty-one streets. This is a self-governing neighbourhood with its own police department. The noisy traffic and pushy crowds are left behind. All is quiet and still. Electrically controlled gates open soundlessly and long cars with dark tinted glass glide out onto unlittered streets where there is no one in sight except the gardeners moving quietly across unnaturally green grass. Here are Gothic towers, Tudor fronts, Spanish turrets and Mexican ranchos: an uninhibited conglomeration of styles that began back in the days when producers and stars had studio workers build them houses that were little more than sets. The benign southern California climate permitted such architectural extravagance and now everyone had got used to it.
Ahead of them a tourist bus was moving very slowly along the street while the passengers heard a recorded commentary. There were faces pushed close against the glass. Luís pulled in behind the bus and, moving slowly, signalled a turn. ‘Beverly Hills has become southern California’s top tourist attraction now,’ said Luís. ‘Can you believe it? More people come here trying to eyeball film star homes, than go to Universal Studios! What do they see here? They see nothing.’
The limo turned and Luís pushed the button behind the sun-shield to open the tall gates just in time for them to drive in without stopping. Lining a short front drive were a dozen Lombardy poplars, one of them whitened with the disease that such trees succumb to as they grow old. Vaguely Spanish, the house front was decorated with floral patterned tiles. Two white stunted towers were surmounted with red roof tiles, and each provided with a rudimentary wrought-iron balcony, too small to hold anyone but the slimmest of burglars.
The house was set in three-quarters of an acre of lawn, a garden vast by Beverly Hills standards. Sprinklers made soft white bushes on vivid green grass. Pink and cream-coloured roses and bougainvillaea clung to the house. More of them hung low over the elaborate fan-shaped portal which had once been the entrance to a medieval church.
As he got out of the air-conditioned car Paz was assailed by the sticky heat of a summer afternoon and the smell of the freshly cut grass. The massive door opened for him. Paz was greeted soberly by a white-coated manservant. He followed him along the corridor. Inside the house the air was chilly and there was the sound of the air-conditioning; not the rattle and roar that usually comes from such machinery, just a faint expensive hum. The ecclesiastical motif of the entrance was extended by massive pieces of antique furniture – tables, wardrobes and carved benches – and old floor tiles. The interior was gloomy, so that the polished furnishings made razor-thin lines in the darkness.
‘Come in, Angel kid!’ Don Arturo was standing by a huge stone fireplace in a room that was dominated by four long shapeless sofas and a grand piano. The bookcase held a dozen books on military history. Reading such books was Arturo’s favourite way of relaxing. The slatted blinds were half-closed. Most of the light was provided by two cut-glass chandeliers and several big vase-like lamps. The room was busy with knick-knacks, and cut flowers. On the walls hung large coloured photos, ornately framed and varnished to resemble oil paintings. On the piano, arrayed around bowls containing mints and cashew nuts, stood photos in silver frames. They all showed four well-groomed children at various stages of growth.
The man that everyone so respectfully called Don Arturo embraced his nephew demonstratively in his big muscular arms. He was about forty years old; stocky and big-boned with red braces over a starched white shirt, club tie and dark trousers. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and he glittered with gold: rings on his stubby fingers, cuff-links, a diamond tie-pin and large gold buckles on his patent-leather shoes. Despite a large bald patch and blue chin he was handsome in that heavy bull-like way that Latin men sometimes cultivate. Arturo consulted his heavy gold Rolex watch as if apportioning time for this meeting.
Arturo looked at his visitor. His cheerful little nephew seemed to have become a vain young man since their last meeting. His complexion had darkened and his hair was long and wavy. His glasses – austere, with circular steel rims – gave him a scholarly appearance. A thin chain hung round his neck with some sort of charm suspended from it. His beige cotton shirt had buttoned pockets and shoulder flaps. It was heavily starched. His jeans had whitened at the knees and his tennis shoes were battered.
‘It’s good to see you again, Angel. Not so much time for your uncle nowadays.’ Angel of Peace. He’d told his cousin not to call the kid ‘Angel’ but he wouldn’t listen. His cousin was an imbécil. Only an imbecile would risk his life driving racing-cars when he could have had a good job working for Arturo. ‘You want a drink?’ Arturo asked. Paz shook his head. ‘How is your father?’
‘He’s in Germany this weekend.’
‘Well, he keeps winning. He must be making a lot of money. And your mother?’ Arturo spoke accented English overlaid with nasal New York tones.
‘My mother is dead.’
‘I mean Consuelo.’ He’d forgotten how much the boy hated his stepmother.
‘I don’t see her much.’
‘But you are living in the house with her.’
‘I don’t see her.’
‘I told your father not to send you to that lousy college in Spain. We got colleges in America, don’t we?’ Paz said nothing. Arturo said, ‘They tossed you out. What for?’ When Paz remained silent, Don Arturo smiled scornfully. ‘You think you got a secret?’
‘Possession of explosives.’
‘They should have locked you up.’
‘They did lock me up. They held me for nearly six months. My father fixed it.’
‘What took so long?’
‘Dad came right away. The college made a big production out of it. He had to get all kinds of lawyers. Finally they didn’t press charges. The college board decided they didn’t want publicity and neither did Dad.’
‘And neither did you, right? But they revoked your Spanish visa, I hear. And your father tells me you can’t get in a college here.’
‘Because I am a Marxist.’
‘How would the college know that?’
‘In Spain I made a statement to the student newspaper.’