MAMista

by Len Deighton

  The two American captives were permitted to take a place at the table. They eyed the villagers with mixed feelings, wondering perhaps if they would be given shelter here. They had been warned that the immediate response to any attempt to rescue them would be their execution. But they also knew that Rosario was on the radio net and it was one of the regular calls of the Federalista armoured-car patrols.

  Yet it was the two Americans who later that evening got the Dodge going. The repairs done that morning had proved ineffective. It wouldn’t even turn over. Instead of stripping the transmission down again, the two mechanics had sat and stared at it. One of them was Novillo the machine gunner, who falsely believed he understood machinery of all kinds. He pronounced it irreparable. Lucas – who might have bullied them back into action – had been called away to see a pregnant woman who had been bitten by a snake. Charrington became exasperated at the inaction. He started the repairs himself and shamed them into working.

  ‘Not like that,’ Charrington said. His Spanish was excellent and he could even attempt Novillo’s dialect. He leaned across, took the mended casting in his hands and turned it over. ‘Can’t you see it will never fit?’ The Indian mechanic smiled broadly, as if caught out in a mischievous prank.

  Singer said, ‘Get a file and we’ll remove all these rough edges.’ He made motions with his fingers to be quite sure that the man understood.

  Ramón came to watch the Americans, as did eventually almost every child in the village. The two Americans were not much more skilled or knowledgeable than the two MAMista ‘mechanics’, but they had a feeling of both sympathy and superiority to the machinery. The others had neither.

  It was almost dark when the Dodge was started up. It roared loudly and crawled across the plaza like a wounded beast. Cheers went up from the guerrillas and villagers alike. Ramón was pleased. His determination to get the reconnaissance car repaired had become an issue between him and Maestro. Now Ramón’s persistence was vindicated and Maestro was honest enough to declare it to all.

  ‘Find shelter for the men,’ Ramón told him. ‘The roads get worse from here onwards. We go through the cratered zone. Better to start at first light.’

  Angel Paz interrupted them, ‘It was a maxim of Ché that guerrilleros must never spend even one night under a roof.’

  Ramón was becoming weary of Angel Paz’s strictures. For the first time he showed his anger. ‘Because Ché had asthma, must I sneeze?’

  ‘No, comrade Ramón.’ Paz was genuinely contrite.

  ‘Ché Guevara died many years ago. Many years ago.’ He repeated it as if to himself. ‘The world has changed.’

  ‘Yes, comrade Ramón.’

  ‘Go with Maestro and help him arrange matters.’

  Young wives and mature daughters were locked away. The guerrillas were reluctantly allotted roofs under which to sleep. In recognition of the work they had done on the Dodge, the Americans were given extra blankets.

  ‘They will start south in the morning,’ Lucas informed them when he brought them their supper in an old lidded pot.

  ‘They’ll avoid the cratered zone at night,’ Singer said knowingly. He lifted the lid and doled himself a portion of the mixture. Then he put some on Charrington’s plate and passed it to him. It was a starchy stew of yams, tapioca and plantains cooked in coconut milk.

  ‘What is the cratered zone?’ Lucas asked.

  ‘It’s a slab of land that stretches for hundreds of miles,’ Singer said. ‘In it patches of road have been demolished to make barriers. It’s to block the routes the guerrillas use. The army brings along its armoured bulldozers to renew them as fast as the guerrillas mend them.’

  ‘I would have thought the army and the Federalistas want to move as fast as possible,’ said Lucas.

  ‘They do,’ Singer said. He was eating his stew. So was Charrington. It was not an appetizing mixture but their previous disdain for the local food had changed to an undiscerning hunger. ‘The government patrols use armoured half-track personnel carriers. They are not affected by roadblocks of that sort.’

  ‘You are well informed,’ Lucas said.

  ‘I read the news-sheets that come from Houston,’ said Singer. ‘Jack here finds them boring but I like to know what’s going on.’

  Charrington resisted this attempt to bring him into the conversation. Both ate two helpings and wiped their tin plates with crusts of manioc bread.

  ‘How long do you think?’ Singer asked Lucas.

  ‘A day or two,’ said Lucas, who wanted to cheer them up.

  ‘They’ll never let us go,’ Charrington said.

  ‘Not after that great job you did on their reconnaissance car,’ said Singer half in fun.

  ‘And where can they leave us?’ asked Charrington. He’d been thinking of nothing else and his thoughts had not left him with favourable conclusions.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Lucas said. ‘I will be going back to Tepilo. You can go with me.’

  The Americans looked at him suspiciously. Lucas had explained that he was a delegate for a medical team but the Americans had not believed him. They still didn’t.

  ‘A bullet in the head,’ said Charrington. ‘That’s what they plan for us.’

  ‘I really don’t think so,’ Lucas said.

  ‘These guys are not your Royal Household Cavalry, Lucas. They are murderous criminals.’

  When night came all of the guerrillas did not go to their appointed sleeping-places. Many of them sat around fires drinking the watered-down wine that the villagers sold to them. When the wine was finished the men began to sing, knowing perhaps that such use of their lungs would continue the effect of the intoxication. The twins – Rómulo and Rafael – had sweet clear voices that always found the melody and led the others to it. At first the songs were old songs, martial and patriotic, of motherland and fertile soils. Then they became slower and more sentimental: confessions of passions and sadness, of lovers forsaken and sweethearts dead. They sang Spanish songs and Mexican songs and songs from Argentina, but always they were songs of other times and of other men.

  There was no light except that from the fire, and from the red ends of cigars that moved like fireflies. As the night grew darker the embers of the fire isolated the moist eyes and plaintive faces so that Lucas was reminded of men on a life raft, adrift upon a dark sea of jungle that stretched away to the mountainous oceans of the skyline.

  Inez arrived back at midnight. The two-stroke motor cycle had broken down at the beginning of her return journey. She’d abandoned it and hitchhiked a ride on a government truck miles down the Federal Highway. Eventually she’d found a town where she could buy another bike.

  She arrived after a long journey on jungle tracks in the darkness. The sentries challenged her at the outer post and radioed the post office which Ramón had taken over as his headquarters. After Ramón and Inez had conferred, Ramón sent for Lucas.

  Lucas was relieved to see Inez safe and sound, although her frantic journey had taken a toll on her. She was dressed in jeans and high boots and an army twill jacket. On her head she wore a soft hat. Her hair was tucked into it and its brim was pulled down to conceal her features.

  ‘You wanted me, Ramón?’ Lucas asked.

  ‘The prisoners are asleep?’

  ‘And the guards are awake,’ Lucas said.

  ‘It is as it should be,’ said Ramón, who was pragmatic enough to adapt to Lucas’ capricious manner. Ramón looked at the papers Inez had brought him. Some of them he slipped into a plastic file and closed it so that Lucas would not see them. Only then did he beckon Lucas to come around to his side of the desk. ‘Translate,’ he commanded, tapping a newspaper cutting.

  MAMISTA Grab CIA Bigshot Start of New Tactics?

  Washington, Tuesday.

  State department offices burned midnight oil after the news of the Mamista attack on a survey camp at Silver River in the southern province of Spanish Guiana two nights ago. The missing man is Gerald B. Singer, a senior official on the p
rivate staff of the Assistant Secretary of State for Latin American Affairs. It is now alleged here that Singer was reporting to the National Intelligence Officer for Latin America, a top CIA official under John Curl. Singer is said to have been assigned to the Silver River camp on a top-secret mission for the CIA, for which he worked for many years. A spokesman for the Ministry of Justice in Tepilo said that Singer’s wife was raped, tortured and finally murdered before his eyes in an attempt to make him divulge information about American commitments to a Benz government crackdown on the terrorists.

  Suspecting that this might be the start of a new reign of Mamista terror tactics, police guards were immediately put on the homes and offices of prominent Americans in Tepilo.

  A graduate of Princeton, Gerald Singer, the 33-year-old hostage, had been with the US Embassies in Mexico City and Montevideo before being assigned to Tepilo as a member of a special agricultural advice mission. Although the State Department announcement still gives Singer’s assignment as a familiarization trip to the survey team on the Corzo hydroelectric project, informed sources in Washington were last night admitting that he was a CIA troubleshooter who might have been advising the Spanish Guiana army and Federal Police in anti-insurgency methods. The area from Corzo to the Sierra Sombra is virtually controlled by three or four rival guerrilla armies.

  A senior official of the Ministry of Justice in Tepilo expected that the Mamista forces would open negotiations for the return of Singer within the next 48 hours. Although it is against official policy to bargain with the guerrillas it is believed that US pressure might result in Singer becoming an exception to this rule.

  Lucas read it aloud, translating it as he went. Inez took it down in shorthand. From time to time Lucas checked what she was writing, but she made no mistakes. After she’d taken it from her typewriter Ramón read it again with Maestro looking over his shoulder.

  Halfway through the translation the door opened and Angel Paz came in. Ramón signalled for him to sit down. How typical of Ramón to want his translation checked by someone else. Did such paranoia stem from his communist creed or from his peasant upbringing? Or was it only such vigilant men who survived to become political leaders in Latin America?

  ‘Which one is it?’ Ramón asked Lucas.

  ‘The black fellow,’ Lucas said.

  ‘The newspapers didn’t say he was black.’

  ‘American newspapers are like that.’

  ‘So they got the wrong wife?’ said Ramón.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lucas.

  Paz watched the exchange without interrupting. Maestro went to the stove and after spitting into it, said, ‘And the other one is not mentioned at all. Perhaps he is a mechanic.’

  ‘He is a scientist,’ Lucas said. Ramón looked up. Lucas added, ‘Palaeontology: fossils.’

  ‘Yes, I know what palaeontologists do,’ said Ramón.

  ‘What shall I tell them?’ Lucas asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ interrupted Maestro. ‘Tell them nothing.’

  Lucas didn’t look at Maestro; he continued to watch Ramón.

  Ramón said, ‘Do you think the story will get out?’

  ‘Of course it will,’ Paz said excitedly. ‘There are radios in many houses. There might be government announcements and rewards.’

  ‘Shit!’ said Maestro. ‘I forget the radios.’ He repeatedly smacked his fist into his open hand, muttering all kinds of obscenities.

  Ramón was used to Maestro’s short-lived rages. Ignoring him he said, ‘The news about his companion being in the CIA might surprise the thin one. He might tell us something.’

  It was not clear to whom Ramón’s remark was addressed. None of the men said anything. Inez said, ‘Will you ransom them, Ramón?’

  ‘I will have to think about that.’

  ‘We should separate them,’ said Maestro. ‘This Singer … He must speak fluent Spanish.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ramón said. ‘I suppose he must.’

  Lucas watched Ramón. Why did he have to be so devious about everything? He knew perfectly well that both Americans spoke Spanish fluently. He’d been there when they were telling the mechanics how to fix the Dodge. He couldn’t have forgotten: he’d even spoken with them in Spanish. ‘If that’s all,’ said Lucas, who wanted to get back to sleep.

  Ramón nodded assent, but Maestro caught Lucas by the arm as he turned to leave. ‘You are sleeping in the stables?’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Lucas.

  Maestro stole a glance at Ramón but his chief was not looking. Maestro said, ‘In the few days I’ve known you, Lucas, I’m already impressed by the way you always find the easiest jobs and the most comfortable quarters.’ Paz looked satisfied. He and Maestro seemed to have reached common accord in their hatred of Lucas.

  Lucas looked from Maestro to Paz and then spoke to Ramón. ‘The stalls were suitable to lock up the prisoners. Only one entrance, so you need only one guard. I sleep in the loft so I can hear what the prisoners say and I command a field of fire both inside and outside in the yard.’

  ‘And always such glib explanations,’ said Maestro.

  ‘Lucas asked my permission,’ Ramón said.

  The revelation only fanned Maestro’s fury. He did not turn his eyes away from Lucas. ‘You speak English and you are here to provide us with medical supplies. That makes you valuable to my commander but it does not make you his equal.’

  ‘I thought the faith decreed: From each according to ability,’ said Lucas cheerfully. ‘To each according to need.’

  ‘Don’t answer me back, you insolent bastard. If I had my way I would put you up against the wall and …’

  ‘Rape me?’ said Lucas.

  Maestro saw that Ramón was now watching the exchange. Getting a grip upon his temper, he said, ‘Get back to the prisoners. If anything happens to them I will hold you responsible.’

  ‘Then give me a gun,’ Lucas said. He didn’t want a gun. In fact he’d returned the one he’d been given to wear with the khakis as soon as that unsavoury business was over. But asking for a gun was a way of baiting Maestro. It was also a practical way of declaring that a man could not reasonably be held responsible for things that were not within his control.

  ‘The prisoners might grab it from you,’ said Maestro. Of all the replies he’d offered, he had settled upon this one as the most convenient and all-embracing. Maestro detested Lucas even to the extent of combining with the upstart Paz to fight him. He didn’t like his insubordinate familiarity or the way that Ramón sometimes extended to him the courtesy of ‘Colonel Lucas’. He did not believe that Lucas’ true role was that of an observer from some foreign charity. He was a spy. And Lucas was a physician, a contemptible symbol of middle-class aspirations. And if a University lecturer in chemistry was similarly so, then this too was an element of Maestro’s distress.

  ‘Thank you, Lucas,’ said Ramón, dismissing him and ending the wrangle. ‘Tomorrow I want to talk to you about your aid programme. Meanwhile you will say nothing of this matter.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Lucas. He got up, nodded to them and departed. Ramón did not ask Paz to leave. If the young man did become a writer – and he was exactly that type of parasite – then he should hear what was about to be said.

  When Lucas had gone, Ramón turned again to the more immediate problem. Eyes closed he asked Inez to read the translation aloud to him. Maestro sat and watched his commander like a dutiful watch-dog.

  ‘How many more days to go before there is this big meeting of the frente?’

  Inez glanced down at the papers in front of her and read it out: ‘Committee of the group of the second of May: meeting at the residencia two Thursdays from now.’

  This was the meeting at which all the active communist and socialist leaders of Spanish Guiana would meet together to plan the coordinated action of a ‘leftist front’. They would plan to work together against the Benz fascists. In fact the meetings presented little threat to the Benz government, and all concerned knew that. ‘Is it so
soon?’ said Ramón.

  There was a long silence then Maestro said, ‘Are you thinking of asking Dr Marti to help us? Will you tell him that Guizot is dead?’

  Paz got to his feet. When he became excited he could not speak except when he was moving about. ‘Dr Marti could negotiate with the Benz government,’ he told Maestro as if speaking to a naughty child. ‘If comrade Ramón decides to ransom the American, Dr Marti could make it easier for us.’

  Far from being angry at being answered by Paz, Maestro seemed not to know he was present. When Maestro spoke it was to Ramón alone. He did not speak in the querulous tones he used when complaining of Lucas; his voice now was deep and emotional. ‘Why do you go on believing that Marti will ever help us? In the past he and his followers have always betrayed us. Everyone knows it was Marti’s people who gave our files to the police last August when we lost those urban comrades.’

  ‘The government listens to Dr Marti.’

  ‘What use is that, if Marti wants to betray us? You still think of Marti as a communist but he’s not. None of his people are communists. The leadership has been infiltrated by middle-class liberals with two cars, bank loans and kids in college. They think it’s chic to talk revolution but they will make sure that no violence comes to disturb their comfortable lives … that’s why they will always betray us.’

  ‘Once it was …’

  ‘The premier party of Marx. Yes, in 1989, when the quarry workers went on strike and the soldiers were sent in … But now … Oh, Ramón, don’t talk to Marti, he’s a bad risk for you. And for all of us.’

  ‘Big Jorge also will be at the frente meeting,’ said Ramón. ‘If both help …’

  Maestro was desperate. ‘No. Neither can be trusted, Ramón. Big Jorge and his Indians … they talk only of revisionism. Forget them, Ramón. And the new theories. The USSR is financially and politically bankrupt. Moscow is just a place to buy a McDonald’s hamburger. This is our struggle. Ours alone.’