by Alan Judd
Next there had been an urgent message from Special Information Services sent via the embassy and unfortunately indecipherable because it used the code known only to the departed coffin. London reluctantly agreed to send it again in an accessible though restricted format, but the cipher operator succumbed to professional stress and had to be flown home to be dried out. At the same time Feather went missing on a diplomatic bag run to Rio, where he was thought to have submerged himself in one of his periodic debaucheries; Nightingale was apparently too distraught to attend the office. The ambassador had fled home on leave, and the plane bringing the replacement cipher operator from Rio had diverted to La Paz, where a national holiday had just started. London’s message had eventually been delivered to William by Max Hueffer.
‘I guess your guys prefer to trust our guys than their guys in your embassy,’ he had said. ‘I can see why. It would be embarrassing for your headquarters if it got out.’
The signal said that the body in the coffin was not Box’s but that of an unknown man with a beard and one eye. This had become apparent only when Mrs Box had viewed the remains. Legal complications arising from the importation and possession of an unknown corpse meant that there could be no question of a rapid re-export. The police had got to hear about it, customs had impounded the EE(C) and the company had had to engage and brief in full one of the City’s top law firms. There was also serious concern as to whether or not the equipment had been compromised before despatch. Security Section (abbreviated to SS) was prepared to concede that the unknown corpse might pose no threat but was most anxious that William should identify it and discover the circumstances of death and substitution. Tests were being carried out to establish date and cause of death. Had the coffin been handled and filled by security-vetted personnel, as requested? William was to locate and despatch the correct body with all speed. He was not to worry about expenses.
All that had been over a week ago. He had done what he could, he told Theresa, but even if he’d been more mobile he’d have been unlikely to have any more success. None of the corpses known to the city authorities was Box’s. The most likely explanation was that he had been buried instead of the bearded one-eyed man and was now inhabiting the cemetery that had sheltered the last days of his life, though the local custom of displaying corpses before burial made it very odd that the differences would have gone unnoticed. Nevertheless – all William’s enquiries were channelled through the presidential office – the authorities were anxious to exhume every body buried since the coup and arrange them for inspection. William thought not; he also thought he should not tell London that the offer had been made. He remembered Box telling him about a dead African lady who had been despatched to London under similar circumstances. Box would have revelled in this one, he thought, and the more he thought it the more he felt that one day Box would do so indeed.
Then there had been the rumour from the hospital about the foreigner with gunshot wounds who had discharged himself, or at least disappeared, before the hospital records had caught up with the influx of casualties at the time of the coup. There had been many with gunshot wounds, and patients who could, nearly always left with something like alacrity since the hospital was widely known as a place where people came out with more diseases than they took in with them. The foreigner had been operated on and treated afterwards, but no one could remember precisely what for or by whom; he had simply disappeared and dropped out of mind, one problem fewer.
This was when William had become convinced. He did not dare say so, partly out of superstition and partly because he did not want to provoke a torrent of unanswerable questions from London. He was finding that all bureaucracies were alike, that his own firm and Special Information Services plc had more in common with each other than either would like to believe. But for him it was the very lack of detail that made it all but certain; that was Box’s style. It was one of the two best bits of news he could have had, and in the privacy of his room he had done a little jig for joy, which had brought on an immediate headache.
And now there was something else. Max had handed over a plain envelope at the end of his visit with Sally that morning. He had winked and grinned and said: ‘One of your eat-before-reading messages. More problems for the folks back home.’
William took it from his pocket for the fourth time. He would read it aloud before Theresa’s quiet face. Security Section would presumably be horrified, though if she couldn’t take it in, would it constitute an infringement? He didn’t mind. He took her hand and held the paper up before them both: ‘Further complications. Widow’s grant, first instalment of widow’s pension, deceased’s terminal bonus and death-in-service lump sum all paid to Mrs B, but payments hazarded now by lack of proof of death. Legal position on re-claiming under examination. Payments possibly further invalidated by following plain speech unclassified telegram received yesterday from unknown source in La Paz: GONE TO GROUND STOP INJURIES IMPROVING STOP NO NEWS SUCCESS OR FAILURE PLANS DUE TO INCAPACITATION COMA FLIGHT AND PRESENT PRIMITIVE CIRCS STOP POSSIBLY DEAD PARTNER HAD EXPENSES CLAIM WHICH SHOULD BE PAID WIDOW UNLESS HE LIVES STOP TELL OWN WIFE BACK BEFORE XMAS STOP WILL SURFACE AGAIN THIS MEANS AFTER LOCAL HOLS STOP PLEASE REPLY SCHMIDT POST OFFICE STOP REGARDS ALL END. Could this be the deceased? Grateful your urgent views in view of possible court action by Mrs B. Missing eye of bearded corpse found. Any luck your end? Suggest you consider advertising. Please report soonest.’
William put the message carefully on the table. ‘Serious bureaucratic complications,’ he said to Theresa, grinning broadly. ‘Months of work for desk officers, huge legal fees, adverse publicity, Mrs Box indignant and the cause of it all due for a triumphant return. All very serious. I think I’ll read it again.’
Afterwards he told her how that afternoon Carlos had asked if he would accept a decoration and stay on as British Consul. Carlos was fed up with the embassy people and wanted them withdrawn; a consulate should be sufficient provided the consul was William. The Foreign Office might not like it but it was either that or no rights to cobalt or any other minerals that Britain was to be allowed to share with the Americans. Carlos wanted an answer soon. William wasn’t sure. Being consul quite appealed, especially if he could combine it with oversight of his old job and with representing Special Information Services. But he didn’t want to do any of them unless Theresa stayed with him as his wife. Not yet, of course, but one day, when she was ready.
‘If you feel you can,’ he said.
He stared at the section of the window she was staring at, not expecting an answer. Then, for the first time, he felt a pressure from her hand. It was almost nothing, so slight that he wondered if he had imagined it. He looked again at her face. Her eyes were still vacant but she was moving her head, very slightly, to the music from the nurse’s radio. William clasped her hand more firmly. One day, he thought, if Box could return from the dead, one day Theresa and he would tango again. He took both her hands in his, watching the tiny movements of her head. Perhaps it would all turn out to have been worth it after all, and perhaps he would send in his expenses claim.