by Peter Watson
He looked ahead again. He could get round the carcass of the front car if he drove off the road and into the mud. But perhaps that was what his ambushers wanted. Still, there was no time to reflect. He had been taught in Moscow to accelerate where the natural reaction was to brake and indeed he was already picking up speed. The near side of the car slid off the road and he felt his control start to go. Almost without thinking, his right hand grabbed the lever which engaged the four-wheel drive. At exactly that moment the machine guns started, a chilling cough from somewhere up behind his head. In theory the car was bullet proof. Bullets rattled against the car, and for a moment Luis panicked as he felt the wheels slither on the mud. If he stopped now they’d all be dead. But his training took over and the car surged forward. The rear slewed round as he cleared the overturned car and pulled back on to the highway. For a moment the whole of the car’s left side was exposed to the attackers. Another storm of bullets spattered against the car. Luis turned the wheel. Miraculously none of the tyres was hit and the response of the car was good. Luis picked up speed again. Guare, he saw from a sign, was fifteen kilometres away.
He reached for his radiophone and switched to the emergency frequency. The army would have a helicopter on the scene immediately. It had obviously been a serious error not to have one overhead all the time. Now, back to one hundred kmph, he allowed himself a look in the rear view mirror. It was frosted where it had been hit by machine gun bullets and on the left side it had actually been punched through by the force of the attack. Luis pressed the switch to lower the glass partition between him and the men in the back. Thankfully that still worked.
‘Everyone all right?’ he asked. ‘Or shall I call for an ambulance?’
There was a pause, then the President said: ‘No point. I’m unharmed. And poor Pino’s dead.’
David reached Ned in the hospital in Southampton late on Sunday night, and before Sarah. She had been in Northern Ireland, with her new husband.
By the time she arrived, Ned was asleep, heavily sedated.
‘He was very lucky,’ said the doctor who had first greeted David and showed him to the ward. ‘He was seen by two young scientists from the University of Reading who are studying the ecology of weirs. They were in a boat by the bank, below the weir, collecting routine water samples. Even so, they might not have seen him but for the fact that he made a mistake, or overlooked something. His trousers were firmly tucked into his boots, and held in place by a lot of stones which he meant to weight himself down with. But that trapped air in his trousers all the more securely and it was that which prevented him from sinking. We think your son jumped from one of the bridges but cracked his head on the weir as he went over—there’s a nasty bruise behind his ear. Very impressive, those young zoologists,’ continued the doctor. ‘One ran for help while the other got the water out of your son’s lungs. Between them they saved the boy’s life.’
David stared at his son. He looked so helpless lying in the hospital bed, his bandaged head pathetically small on the pillows. ‘Is he out of danger?’
‘Physically—oh yes. I’ve seen far worse. How he’ll be psychologically I can’t say. This can’t have been an accident, you know.’
‘I know,’ said David quietly. ‘The school told me he was depressed but I didn’t believe them. He seemed so—well, so cheerful when he was with me.’
‘Children in broken marriages often do that, to protect the parents,’ said the doctor. ‘I’m not a psychiatrist but as soon as I finish my general training paediatrics is going to be my speciality.’ Tactfully he left David at Ned’s bedside.
When Sarah arrived, she had her new husband with her. David kissed her cheek and shook his hand.
‘Would you prefer it if I waited outside?’ Greener said.
Sarah answered quickly: ‘Just for a few moments, Michael, please. Yes.’
‘That’s thoughtful of him,’ said David, after Greener had gone.
‘Not all politicians are ogres, you know.’ She stood for a moment by the bed. Her face softened and saddened. Under her eyes, the shadows deepened. David noticed a pulse beat at her temple. ‘Poor mite. What do you suppose went on inside his head, to make him do this?’
‘He’ll never tell us. But obviously the signs were there. You yourself said he was a “pain” in Switzerland. I blame myself. I saw one of his teachers at a rugby game: he told me Ned needed treatment. I moved too slowly. I didn’t move at all. Do you know, he even weighted himself down?… he put stones in his pockets before he jumped.’
She sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right. The signs were there. But lots of parents get divorced, David, and although their children don’t like it, they don’t try to kill themselves either. Why us? Why Ned?’
‘I do have the name of a psychiatrist who could treat him. I did get that far.’
‘Is that necessary?’
‘Well, we can’t deny what Ned’s done. He’s bright, he’s sensitive, he must have been very lonely, shuttling between you and me.’
‘I know that. I just don’t know whether I believe all that psychiatrists’ jargon. Who is this psychiatrist anyway? Who recommended him?’
David told her Bess had.
‘Tell me about her. Ned mentioned her once or twice. Isn’t it a bit difficult? You being divorced legally but not in the eyes of the Church. What are you going to do?’
‘I just don’t know. Bess is a modern American girl, as well as a Catholic—that’s why she’s so good at her job. But that also makes her position … sensitive.’
‘Can’t you get your marriage—our marriage—dissolved in some way?’
David turned towards her, pleased that she was so sympathetic. ‘I’ve thought about it, but how? There’s no doubt you and I were married.’ He looked at Ned, still sleeping. ‘It was consummated. That’s that.’
‘But is it? I thought there were ways, if you knew the right people. In her position, Bess must know the right people. She talks to the Pope himself, for Christ’s sake. David! This isn’t like you. Normally, you’d exhaust every possibility to get what you want. That’s how you found the Bernini, remember? And the Raphael. If you want her, and it sounds as if you do, you’ll find a way. What does she say?’
‘We’re avoiding each other at the moment. It’s too painful.’
‘Well, my advice is this. Make an appointment for Ned with this psychiatrist Bess has suggested. Then find someone in authority here, a cardinal say, and try to get our marriage dissolved. I’m sure you can do it. You need a kick up the pants. Now, shall we get Michael in here?’
‘Why don’t we go out to the corridor? In case we wake Ned.’
Greener was sitting on a bench, quietly going through a swatch of official papers. Down the corridor his ministerial bodyguard was alert.
Greener said. ‘If there’s any help—’
‘No,’ Sarah replied. ‘David thinks we should send Ned to a psychiatrist when he’s recovered physically, and I think I agree. We’ll stay for a few hours, Michael, so we’re both here when he wakes up. There’s no need for you to wait though, if you want to get back to London. You’ve a busy week ahead.’
Greener was relaxed and David could see what Sarah liked in him. He was on her side and was obviously very comforting.
‘There’s no hurry,’ Greener said, ‘but there is a canteen just down the corridor. I’ll bet you’re both as hungry as I am. The nurse told me Ned won’t wake up for a couple of hours at least. Why don’t we have a sandwich and a hot drink, then I’ll go back to town and leave you two here.’
It was a sound idea and the three of them were soon installed in the hospital canteen with toast and coffee between them. The bodyguard sat at the next table. David found he warmed to Greener by the minute.
‘Are you enjoying your promotion?’ asked David.
‘No one enjoys Northern Ireland,’ smiled Greener. ‘It’s dangerous and very hard work dealing with two sides as well-entrenched as the Ulster Protestants and the IRA. But some
one has to do it and I hope it will mean bigger things later on.’ He munched some toast. ‘Your Pope’s fund isn’t going to help, of course.’
‘Yes, I read what you said in the House about that. Weren’t you a bit ungrateful? The Catholics have been badly treated, over the years. It’s no bad thing to redress the imbalance a bit, surely?’
‘I admit I may have sounded churlish,’ said Greener. ‘But a fund like that, in the atmosphere of Northern Ireland, becomes just another stick for one side to beat the other with. It will end badly, David. I feel it in my water.’
‘And how do you feel about the Queen’s sale? I’ve already been warned by Paul Clegg that the PM doesn’t like it. What’s your view?’
Greener looked at him. ‘Yes—and the only reason the Prime Minister hasn’t made more of a fuss is that we are behind in the opinion polls. To take on the Queen and the Opposition is too much, even for him. But if he can’t get at Her Majesty, David, he’s quite capable of hurting you instead.’
‘Oh? What do you mean?’
‘The Argyll sale, for instance. Young Argyll wants a seat in the Commons. The PM’s promised him the next safe one—provided he transfers the sale from you to Steele’s.’
Greener was right. David heard officially the next day that the Argyll family were withdrawing their commission to Hamilton’s and transferring it to Steele’s. He was very angry. Apart from the time and expense he and his staff had put in, which included identifying the lost Salvator Rosa, these kinds of houses coming on to the market were the chief source of Hamilton’s profits in normal years. To lose one in this way was very damaging.
In the middle of all the fuss, however, and the sensational aftermath of the attempt on President Castro’s life, David still found time to make two personal phone calls. One was to Anthony Wilde, the psychiatrist Bess had recommended, to fix an appointment. Ned had been very weak and frightened when he had woken up, full of anxiety and remorse. Sarah had stayed overnight at the hospital, and then had taken him home with her for a few days.
David’s second call was to Jasper Hale. The apostolic delegate was delighted to hear from him and, in reply to David’s request, invited him over that evening. It took a couple of whisky and sodas before David could bring the conversation round to where he wanted it, but eventually he said: ‘Monsignor Hale—Jasper—I would like your help.’
Immediately Hale fell silent, ready to listen.
David explained his relationship with Bess and how the Pope’s change of mind had placed him in a dilemma. He told Hale not just the facts but found that, with this man, he could also discuss his feelings. Hale, who began by simply listening, later started to scribble a few notes on a pad in front of him. ‘So there it is,’ David concluded. ‘Unless we can find some loophole in canon law, we’ve had it. I’m told you are, or were, a canon lawyer. I wondered if you could help.’
For a moment Hale said nothing. Then, ‘How much canon law do you know, David?’
‘Very little. None.’
Hale tapped the pencil on his pad. ‘Essentially there are two types of case where a marriage may be ended. I use the word “ended” advisedly. There is no divorce in the Catholic Church—and there are no “loopholes”, as you put it, in cannon law. Either a marriage may be annulled, because it was invalid to start with, or it may be dissolved by the Holy Father himself for certain—very rare—reasons. There seems no reason to doubt that your marriage was perfectly valid. I take it the priest was a real priest, there were two witnesses, both you and Sarah freely entered into marriage, and understood what it all meant?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you have a child?’
‘A boy.’
‘Hmmm. So annulment is out.’ He scribbled some more on his pad. ‘Give me Sarah’s full name, and your own. And the dates and places of birth.’
David told him.
Hale finished scribbling. ‘I’ll be frank. It doesn’t look good. As you yourself say, you were properly married, happily married, and you consummated your marriage. Neither of you is, or has ever been, insane. I’m afraid that unless one or two very unusual circumstances apply, there is absolutely no way that, in the eyes of the Church, your marriage to Sarah can be dissolved.’
‘What special circumstances are you talking about?’
‘There’s no point in me telling you because they might get your hopes up and in fact they’re so rare as to be almost non-existent. But leave this with me for a while. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’
As he showed David out, Hale said, ‘I expect Elizabeth is as upset as you are, eh? And now she has the Castro business on top of everything. Terrible. Send her my love when you speak to her—but don’t hold out any hope that I can help. I’ll do my best but I can’t promise.’
On the way home David bought an evening paper. Hale was right, the Castro business had become an additional burden on Bess. The arrest of the eight would-be assassins, charged with the murder of Castro’s secretary and the attempted murder of the President himself, had been reported about a week before. Now David read that the eight had also been charged with killing two brothers, who kept a beach bar near where the raid had taken place. The two men had obviously disturbed their clandestine arrival. Inevitably, Castro was using the occasion to make anti-US propaganda, especially since it turned out that the eight had sailed in from Florida. But most people had expected that anyway.
Now, however, the Miami Tribune had published the results of its investigation into the affair.
The paper had good contacts among the Cuban exiles in Florida and its report centred around the activities of a construction company, Matahambre, which had been subcontracted to build twenty-seven houses under the Pope’s St Patrick’s Fund. The project had gone ahead smoothly and on schedule, approved all along the line. It now emerged, however, that there had been slight modifications: walls were thinner than they should have been, the yards and even the hot water tanks were smaller than the official specifications. The result was that the company had been able to skim off ten per cent of costs. A chunk of which had gone to the quantity surveyor whose job it was to ensure that exactly this sort of thing didn’t happen.
Further enquiries by the paper showed that it was the Matahambre directors who had paid for the boat used by Castro’s would-be assassins.
The most damning evidence, however, was the cash found on the captives themselves. The numbers on the banknotes tallied exactly with the numbers on the notes issued to a Matahambre director from two banks in Orlando ten days before the night-time invasion. As the Tribune itself was the first to point out, the money could have passed through a dozen hands between being withdrawn from the bank and reaching Cuba in the captives’ pockets. But no one believed that it had. The reading public, and that included politicians around the world, knew what the Tribune knew: the link was there, direct and real, whatever a clever lawyer might make of it.
To begin with, Bess managed to keep the lid on things so far as the Holy Father was concerned. Obviously, His Holiness knew nothing of the invasion plans, she told every reporter who followed up the Tribune’s lead. The local funds were in the care of the cardinal whom Thomas had appointed, who had his own advisory committee made up of local church dignitaries. In the Vatican, Cardinal Rich was the man who had overall responsibility for the fund, and he too knew nothing about the affair. Bess took the line that what had happened was a regrettable but straigthforward criminal scam. There were political overtones, it was true, but there was no evidence that even the local cardinal knew anything about the ‘adventure’. His recall to Rome was simply a sign that His Holiness was eager to hear for himself what had happened.
Bess also announced the Pope’s view, that if it was proved to the Holy Father’s satisfaction that the Church’s funds had been misappropriated, then although the cuplrits would be sought, and prosecuted, still His Holiness’s main concern was with the poor. So the financial shortfall, if there was any, would be made good from the emergenc
y contingency fund in the Vatican.
It was an adroit move. It said in effect: the Holy Father was strong enough to take knocks without being deflected from his main aims.
And it might have worked had not Castro himself decided to go to New York to address the United Nations.
The main assembly hall was packed for the occasion, and he did not disappoint them. He strode to the lectern in his familiar fatigues, as if he’d just been fighting a bush fire. It was some time since anyone had seen him—he hardly travelled these days. His beard was greyer but every bit as bushy as they remembered. All his virility was still there.
He stood, while the applause lasted, neither smiling nor acknowledging the meeting. After it died away, he waited like a good actor for the silence to take command. He had everyone’s attention.
Slowly, deliberately, he raised his right arm. His hand held a bulky sheaf of white paper. The United States ambassador to the UN turned to his deputy and whispered, ‘If that’s what I think it is, the shit’s about to hit the fan.’
‘This,’ boomed Castro, his Spanish lilt big and buccaneering, ‘is a contract.’ He paused, slamming the document down in front of him on the lectern. ‘A contract between Cuba and the United States of America.’
‘No!’ breathed the American ambassador. ‘Please God, no.’
‘This contract,’ continued Castro, ‘is agreement between our two countries. Despite our differences, Cuba has always allowed the United States to maintain its naval military base at Guantanamo Bay. We had no choice. Under an old—a very old—agreement, provided it paid two million dollars a year, the USA could keep its marines on Cuban soil. But for the past six months Americans and Cubans have been negotiating a new agreement.’ He tapped the contract. ‘To last for ten years. Under this agreement America keeps its base and in return Cuba will receive—’ and in an entirely unnecessary flourish he pulled his spectacles from his pocket and opened the contract as if to read. ‘Two point four billion dollars.’