by Alan Judd
The grave was just as when Box had left it. William removed the coffin lid, carefully avoiding the one he had fallen through. The equipment looked formidable at first and he had to use the torch. He remembered more than he had thought of Box’s instructions; also – evidently not trusting him – Box had added labels to some of the switches. Written in Box’s meticulous hand, they brought his voice to William’s ear: ‘Start – switch to Start when you wish to start;’ ‘Off – do not switch to Off until you have finished.’ William switched on, the green light glowed and the machine hummed. He lay full-length in the coffin, the controls before him. It was necessary to wait thirty seconds before slotting in the cartridge; one cartridge per message.
He didn’t mind about coffins now, he minded only about Manuel Herrera. For thirty seconds he pondered the novelty of this vengeful urge. He had never been vengeful; his disposition was to ignore, to forget, to walk away, but with Manuel it had always been different. Manuel had awoken in him a different capacity. It had started when they met, before there was anything to be revenged: something visceral, irreconcilable, the sense – which he had not recognised – of an absolute emnity. It was intoxicating.
After thirty seconds the other light came on and he began typing his message on the small keyboard. He had worked out what he would say during his walk: FOLLOWING PRESIDENT'S REQUEST FOR HELP, BOX AND PRESIDENT ORGANISED COUP WHICH FAILED BECAUSE HERRERA ESCAPED. BOX AND OTHERS KILLED. PRESIDENT STILL THERE BUT POWERLESS, RULED BY HERRERA. FIGHTING GOING ON AT AIRPORT. EMBASSY UNHELPFUL. AMERICANS KNOW ABOUT PRESIDENT'S REQUEST AND COUP BECAUSE MY WIFE'S LOVER IS CIA MAN HUEFFER. PLEASE SEND INSTRUCTIONS RE BOX'S EFFECTS AND MESSAGES FOR WIDOW. AM STILL AT LARGE BUT MAY NOT BE FOR MUCH LONGER. WOODING.
Box had said that replies could usually be expected at twelve-hourly intervals except in cases of urgency, but even then it would take an hour or two. William switched the machine to Receive.
The clicking of the incoming message woke him and he watched the letters come up on the screen. The message read: PARA ONE. THIS PROJECT HAS BEEN SOLD TO CIA. FUTURE DEVELOPMENT IN THEIR HANDS. WE ARE SENDING DETAILS TO EMBASSY. PARA TWO. BAD LUCK CASUALTIES. WE WILL CONTACT WIDOW AND REVERT RE EFFECTS. DO YOU HAVE BODY? PARA THREE. PLEASE SEND EXPENSE CLAIM WITHIN 24 HOURS. EXPENSE CLAIMS RE DEAD OPERATIONS NOT ACCEPTABLE AFTER THAT PERIOD. PLEASE ALSO SEND DATE OF BIRTH, MAIDEN NAME OF WIFE AND FULL UK ADDRESS. THANKS FOR HELP. CONTACT US IF EVER IN LONDON. MESSAGE ENDS.
William tapped in the one word, ‘nobody’, and shut down.
The mist still lingered in the streets but it was more a haze now and the sun was beginning to break through. There were a few early cars, coughing and misfiring, and the usual battered buses. Street-traders trundled their trolleys over the cobbles, shouting to each other. Wheezing old pick-up trucks rumbled in from the country filled with produce and peasants. Whatever had happened to the government, life seemed to go on. William saw no police cars but there were military vehicles. Surprisingly, people stopped to watch them pass and some waved. It was odd that they should be so popular. Vehicles and troops looked both familiar and different; the soldiers wore the usual olive-greens, but there was something else about them. William did not stare because he did not want to attract attention.
His office had been dealt with more kindly than the flat. Files and papers had been removed but the furniture had not been overturned. It was too early for the two girls – he would have to see them later and explain. He would also have to say something to London. He switched on the telex machine and found a message waiting. It was brief: the Board had met and in view of the recent industrial and political troubles had decided to cut the company’s losses and close down the operation. He was to return to London pending reassignment.
He knew that this last was sometimes a euphemism for the sack. He replied: REVOLUTION IN PROGRESS. ARREST IMMINENT. WILL REVERT WHEN POSSIBLE. That should give them something to think about. They would enjoy telling each other that nothing had ever gone right there and if he never returned it would take them months to sort everything out. He left a note for the girls, telling them to come back the next day and meanwhile to help themselves to the petty cash.
The smell as well as the thought of food drew him towards the covered market. He salivated at the image of sizzling steaks, mushrooms, tomatoes, sausages and offal thrown together by the loud, happy, fat men. He was not put off by having last breakfasted there with Theresa; it was a reason for going, something she would have urged. Still he did not let himself think directly about her.
The market was as crowded as if it were already lunchtime. The clock as always said ten-past four, the smoke from the fires curled around it, everyone ate, drank and talked simultaneously. The nearby streets were so busy with people hurrying into the market that he checked his watch to make sure that it wasn’t somehow already lunchtime. He sat down at the bar where he had first met Theresa and Ines.
The sweating padrón asked him what he wanted.
‘Everything.’
‘And coffee, señor?’
‘And coffee.’
‘And whisky?’
It was unforgivably early. The stool felt even smaller than he remembered. He ought to say ‘No’ to something.
‘Is free, señor. To celebrate our new government.’
‘Ah, yes. The new government.’
The padróns grin seemed as wide as his arms. ‘Everyone comes here to talk today, no one is serious for work. It is carnival. We are pleased the Americans come to save our president. New he is safe and we can have good government: no more Cubans, no more Russian officers. You will have whisky?’
William remembered the military vehicles, their familiarity and their strangeness. It took him some time to reply. ‘Yes, I will have whisky.’
‘You American?’
‘No, Inglés.’
‘Do not worry, is similar.’
When his food came he ate and drank hugely. The talk around him was of how the president had been saved from a coup mounted by the spy Herrera and the treacherous generals. They had arrested the president and his beautiful mistress in the tango club but the president had escaped and, relying on local troops of the army, had held out against the security police. Then, faced with the threat of Russian and Cuban intervention, he had called for American help and the American marines and soldiers had landed at the airport, and now America was going to help the economy and there would be more money for everyone. But some people had been killed; there had been fighting, especially at the airport. The spy Herrera was being sought but had gone into hiding. One thing was certain: if the people found him he would be killed. It had been discovered that he was homosexual. That was only to be expected. He would be lynched and castrated. Anyone who attempted to overthrow the president deserved at least that.
William listened and said nothing. He hoped Manuel was still alive.
There was talk of a broadcast and a small black and white television was rigged up on the clock tower. The picture was fuzzy and the sound irregular. William stood at the back of the crowd but he could see quite clearly that it was Carlos on the screen. He was in uniform and looked vigorous and cheerful. He described how he had sent a message to heads of government of the international community asking for help in his and the army’s fight against the rebels who had tried to overthrow him, how the American president had responded, how he himself had fought the rebels with a sword taken from the body of a loyal assistant, how a beautiful woman had suffered in order that he and the country might be free.
There was cheering when the broadcast finished, then the television fell from the clock tower to more cheering and laughter. A band began playing outside one of the tobacconists’ kiosks, each player with a cigar between grinning lips. A few girls began dancing. Some men joined in, others clapped. The bodies swayed like ripples on water, suggestive of deeper motions. The man beside William nudged him and grinned.
Nightingale stood at the foot of the embassy stairs, barring the w
ay.
‘There just is not time,’ he said. ‘We’re all terribly busy. This kind of intervention in a host country’s affairs is highly irregular, to say the least. We’re asking London for instructions.’
‘You’ve had no message for Box or for me?’
Nightingale tossed his head. ‘I didn’t say that, I never said that. I said I hadn’t read anything. There is a message, I believe, but there has not been time to decode it. Ralph’s much too busy with our traffic to worry about yours.’
The embassy guard was listening with apparent indifference. He gave no impression of having recognised William from the night of the telephone call.
‘I need to know what it says,’ said William.
‘Why the hurry? I should have thought it was somewhat overtaken by events.’ Nightingale smiled.
William was learning that making one resolution in one area of life led to a more general stiffening of resolve. The fact that his resolution was still secret added to its potency. ‘I’ll stay here until I know.’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘I can.’
‘I’ll have you thrown out.’
‘Go on, then.’ William looked complacently about him. He wasn’t going to fight but it would take several good men to carry him. The guard was barely up to moving himself. ‘No use calling the police; they’re terribly busy, too.’ He sensed victory. The important thing now was to make surrender easy for the about-to-be-defeated. ‘See what you can do. I’ll go for a walk in the garden.’
The grass was still wet with dew but the sun was warmer than for some time. Summer was on its way. The man tending the rhododendrons turned out to be the ambassador.
‘Quite a to-do,’ he said. ‘All this business.’
‘Sorry if it’s upset you,’ said William.
‘Upset me?’
‘Well, upset Feather.’
‘Feather’s been drunk for days. I’ve never known him so bad. I’m wondering whether I should tell London.’
‘You don’t mind, then?’
‘Mind what?’
‘About our coup attempt and the Americans taking over.’
The ambassador shook his head. ‘Well, that’s all out of our hands, isn’t it? Thank goodness. Yes. So long as London don’t blame us. I wish my leave had started a week earlier. Do you think the flights will be all right?’
‘Probably.’
‘Pity about your friend Box. He seemed a decent sort of chap.’
‘Yes.’
Nightingale hurried over the lawn. ‘Sorry to keep you, William. Ralph’s frantic. He couldn’t do the whole thing properly but he gave me the gist. Nothing to worry about, Peter.’ He smiled at the ambassador and turned to William. ‘Apparently your lot in London – Box’s lot, I should say, the Funnies plc – have done a deal with the Americans and sold them what they call the “development rights” to this project, recognising the CIA’s position as market leaders in South America. They were already in discussion with the Americans when the Americans received information from their own sources here about the imminent coup attempt. Somehow the Americans got hold of a written request for help from the president; it was then decided to sell out lock, stock and barrel to the CIA in return for part-share in the cobalt concessions that are in the president’s gift and a similar trade-off with something in Africa. So there you are, you see. The president doesn’t need you any more. All’s well that ends well.’ He grinned.
‘Except for those who were killed,’ said William.
‘Yes, bad luck for them.’
There was a commotion near the embassy. Several limousines drew up, headed by a vast gold Mercedes. A number of people were milling about. Even at that distance, William recognised the uniformed figure of Carlos.
‘Good lord, it’s the president,’ said Nightingale.
The ambassador’s mouth opened. ‘He hasn’t come to see us, has he?’
‘Perhaps he’s come to ask for help.’ Nightingale ran across the lawn.
‘Oh dear,’ said the ambassador. His frowns seemed to run right round his face. ‘I suppose I ought to go and see him.’
‘No need,’ said William. ‘He won’t know you’re here.’
The ambassador looked grateful. ‘I suppose he won’t. He probably doesn’t want to talk to me anyway. He never has. I could wait here by the rhododendrons and you could call me if I’m needed.’
The people with Carlos were both civilian and military. He was resplendent in braid and tassels and carried a swagger-stick with which he frequently gesticulated. It was hard to tell whether he was shouting or laughing. For a moment he was eclipsed by his entourage, then by Nightingale and the lumbering, dishevelled Feather. He wielded the stick and they parted suddenly. He strolled across the lawn towards William, arms outstretched.
‘William, William! Comrade-in-arms!’ He embraced William. He beamed and his eyes shone. ‘I am cruising round the city, showing myself to the people – look, my beautiful new car.’ He pointed his stick at the gold Mercedes. ‘A present from the president of the United States. “From one great president to another,” he said.’ He laughed. ‘And then a small cloud comes upon me when I am cruising. What has happened to my friend, Wooding, I ask, the friend of my childhood? Then I think I will call on the British Embassy and see if they know and, look, you are here!’ He embraced William again. ‘These embassy people, they cannot understand I want to see you, not them. What do I want with them? What did they do when I needed help? I have new friends now, I have a CIA escort as well as my own. Come, we will walk arm in arm towards them and show them who is my favourite British representative.’ His expression became momentarily sorrowful. ‘I’m sorry not to have Arthur Box on the other arm.’
‘So am I.’
‘I don’t think these embassy people liked Arthur. When I mentioned him they started to apologise. I don’t like these people. Now that I am properly president, I don’t think I shall have them here. I shall ask for them to be withdrawn. We don’t need so many, anyway. A consulate will do. But there is still another cloud on my mind: Herrera.’
‘He’s still at large?’
‘They are looking for him. All the CIA agents in the city and soon all the people will be asked to look for him. Also, I regret Theresa. She is dead to me and to every man now. It is a pity.’
When they reached the gold Mercedes, Carlos held up William’s arm like a boxer’s. William was his friend and comrade-in-arms, he announced. They had fought together along with another British comrade who had died gallantly. William and his colleague had been symbols of British support and they would be appropriately honoured. The new government would restore honour and the economy. There would be no more security police and plenty of money for everyone, especially the poor. The fishing agreements with the Soviet Union would be revoked, cobalt production put on a proper footing, international aid directed to wherever it was most needed.
William’s arm ached. It was difficult to know where to look. Carlos spoke as if to a large public meeting. The three journalists present took photographs and notes. The rest of the audience was either Carlos’s own guard, embassy people or sober-suited civilians who were presumably the CIA bodyguard. Nightingale and Feather were at the front, Nightingale looked uncomfortable, Feather crumpled and gloomy.
The tall man at the back of the group nodded and smiled. William recognised him as Max Hueffer only after he had smiled back, a reflex action. Carlos finished and there was dutiful applause which he took with grinning satisfaction.
Max walked over to William. ‘Hi.’
‘Hello.’
They shook hands. Max’s grip was as firm as his gaze, his features remorselessly pleasant. ‘I’ve been thinking we should have a talk. Couldn’t find you anywhere. I’ve been worrying about you. So has Sally.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
They walked down the lawn. The ambassador, seeing them coming, moved further into the rhododendrons.
‘Hope you don’t min
d us cashing in like this on the good work done by you and Arthur Box,’ said Max. ‘It was now or never so far as intervention was concerned, and your people back in London seemed to have gone cool on the project. I guess they didn’t want to invest much in terms of aid and the future, so we worked out a deal. It’s a real tragedy our intervention force didn’t take the airport twenty-four hours or so earlier. Might have saved Arthur Box.’
‘Do you know where his body is?’
‘In the city morgue, I guess. All the fatalities are there, including the ones we inflicted. It’s just a pity Herrera isn’t with them.’
‘Any idea where he is?’
‘Not yet. Could be taking refuge in the Russian Embassy. But they’re all going to be hoofed out pretty soon, though they don’t know it yet. Herrera may run but he can’t hide. We’ll find him.’
Max offered cigarettes. William didn’t smoke but accepted. They both assumed a matter-of-fact businesslike attitude. At least, he assumed Max was assuming it. Perhaps this was what Max was really like. Perhaps that was what Sally liked about him.
‘Arthur Box was an operator of genius, in my opinion,’ Max continued. ‘We didn’t even know he was here and we thought we knew pretty well every sparrow in this city. Except what to do about it. We could see what was happening but we couldn’t figure out how to stop it. On the other hand, your Arthur knew nothing about the place but he just came in and went straight for it, straight to the jugular. And the weird thing is, your people in London don’t seem to rate him at all: prehistoric and freakish, they reckon. I wonder how serious they ever really were about this project.’
‘I don’t know. They’re not really my people, you see. I’ve never met them.’
‘That’s what Sally told me but I couldn’t believe it at first. I mean, you’ve done so well, so professional – getting past Herrera to the president, getting him a girlfriend, getting Arthur alongside him, getting him to cooperate. We had fifty-plus operatives here and we couldn’t get anywhere near him.’