Tango (11 page)

‘Isn’t it rather big and heavy?’

‘Nothing’s perfect.’

‘How did you carry it?’

‘It came out in the diplomatic bag to the embassy. I picked it up in a car at night.’

Box knelt on the bed and pored over his machine, adjusting, switching and connecting while consulting a set of tables. Red, green and white lights came on and off. Once there was a brief noise
which he swiftly stopped. It was a labour of love and his features were taut with concentration.

‘I can’t stay long,’ William said again. He badly wanted coffee. The man on the lawn dropped the hosepipe and walked slowly back towards the shed from which it came.

‘No need,’ Box said. ‘Here’s what you do. You can watch it while I do the signal.’ He unplugged the suitcase and showed William how to switch on to battery/receive.
‘The red light means you’re capable of receiving, the green one that they’re sending. There’ll be a signal any time now. You won’t hear anything, but you’ll know
it’s coming through because the white light flashes. Press those when you see it. Don’t bother with that lot – that’s for when you’re sending – and that there is
the auto-encode stuff. I’ll show you how to send a message later. Quite simple. You’ll love it once you can do it.’

Outside, the hose sprouted water and the man walked slowly back to it.

When the machine indicated that it was receiving William flicked the switches. There was a whirring noise and Box came over and pressed a button. A series of letters showed up on a small
screen.

‘It’s all right. Standard test format. For the operational signal you simply put in a different cypher cassette.’ He looked more closely. ‘Hang on. There’s more.
Perhaps a real message. Maybe congratulations.’ He frowned. ‘Share prices are up.’

‘Share prices?’

‘The company’s. They congratulate us.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose so.’ Box looked thoughtful. ‘I daresay you’re used to this sort of thing, being in business yourself, but I must say it leaves me a bit cold.’

Out on the lawn the water from the hose pipe stopped again and the man shuffled back to the shed. William tried to go but Box insisted they rehearse a formula for arranging meetings over the
telephone.

‘We’ve got to do two more things,’ he added as William was finally leaving. ‘Establish RCMPs – Regular Confidential Meeting Places – and find a hiding-place
for the mark five, somewhere we could both get to in an emergency. Leave that to me. We should both think about the RCMPs, though, especially you with your local knowledge. I’ll be in touch
tomorrow. Meanwhile, let’s consider what you’re going to say to the president when you see him.’

‘We don’t know when that will be.’

‘Can’t be helped. Be prepared.’ Box held out his hand. ‘Once more, well done and thank you.’ His colourless eyes stared unflinchingly into William’s.

The parrot at the embassy ignored William’s wave. Nightingale met him under the huge chandelier.

‘So sweet of you to drop in. I was just saying to Peter that we needed a nice surprise.’

William tapped his pocket. ‘I’ve got a message.’

‘A message? How exciting. Do tell.’

They went downstairs into a basement room with no windows. It had in it several machines like enormous typewriters. The floor was almost covered in a confusion of punched white tape. One of the
machines was making a loud clattering noise and producing typescript at the same time as emitting tape from one side. An untidy middle-aged man sprawled in an armchair reading
Penthouse.

‘Is London still open?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Yep.’

‘Could you ask them to stay open because we’ve got something else now?’

The man glanced at the two clocks on the wall, one set at local and one at London time. ‘They won’t like it.’

‘Well, it’s their job. It’s what they’re there for.’

‘Is it urgent?’

‘It might be.’

‘They won’t like it if it isn’t.’ The man resumed his reading of
Penthouse.

William and Nightingale went back upstairs to the corridor leading to the ambassador’s office. The same girl sat reading in the outer room. ‘Are they both still there?’ asked
Nightingale.

‘Think so. Door’s closed. I’ve been in the loo.’

They entered without knocking. The ambassador’s office overlooked the garden. William’s first reaction was that the carpet was smouldering but then he saw that the smoke came from
Feather’s cigar. Feather lay full-length on a low sofa. On the floor beside him was a saucer surrounded by ash and cigar butts. The ambassador was sitting at his desk, writing. Feather, who
had been speaking, broke off as they entered. His dark liquid eyes traversed the room, then returned to the ambassador.

‘— and essentially the stability of the government rests upon the three solid props of the energetic young president’s personal appeal,’ Feather said slowly, while the
ambassador wrote to his dictation, ‘on the new economic measures with their emphasis on democratic worker-participation and on the increasing popularity of the new People’s Party
through which the president intends to submit himself for election in due course. The government neither needs nor seeks outside assistance beyond the normal framework of international aid. It is
in hock to no one.’

‘Is that last bit right?’ asked the ambassador tentatively. He gave William a worried smile.

‘It’s what London wants to hear. That’s what “right” is.’ Feather’s voice croaked lazily and he pulled on his cigar. ‘They don’t know
whether it’s right or not but they want to be able to say it is so that they can tell everybody there’s nothing to worry about.’

‘But what if it isn’t and it gets out that it isn’t?’

‘Then the situation’s changed and it either gets better by itself or it’s too late to do anything about it. Our job – your job – is simply to get on with the powers
that be.’

The ambassador put down his pen, his honest face creased. ‘You’re the brains here. I don’t dispute that. I’ve no experience of diplomacy. But is that really my
job?’

‘Of course it’s not really, no. Your job is to represent your country’s interests. But no one realises that any more. They think you’re here to get on with
people.’

‘I’d much rather get on with people.’

‘Naturally.’

The ambassador glanced apologetically at William and Nightingale. ‘London want an assessment.’

Nightingale nodded sympathetically. ‘I know, Peter. Frightful.’

Feather flicked ash in the area of the saucer. ‘They don’t want an assessment, they want reassurance.’

‘William’s brought a signal from that funny little man,’ said Nightingale.

The ambassador raised his eyebrows. ‘Thank you, William. Very kind.’

‘Very tedious,’ said Feather. ‘Show.’

Feather read Box’s message rapidly and handed it to Nightingale without a word. Nightingale read it and then dropped it on the desk in front of the ambassador, who read it slowly.

‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘This contradicts what we’re saying. It says the president is unhappy because he feels he has no power and may already be a virtual prisoner. And
there are all these colonels including this chap trained in Cuba who won’t let him out of his sight. It also says that there’s widespread repression and that economic changes are not
going to work and are being made only for political reasons. Bit strong, isn’t it?’ He smiled uncomfortably at William.

Feather stared at his smoke. ‘Doesn’t matter. It’ll reach London long after our assessment and it’ll be yet another example of the funnies being late and
wrong.’

‘What if it’s right?’ asked William. He was beginning to feel protective of Box.

‘If it’s right it’ll be right later, by which time we too shall have reported in similar vein. Things will be different then. Context is all.’

The ambassador shifted in his chair. ‘But what about this business of repression and the economy? Supposing the foreign press report the same? Then London will want to know why we
don’t.’

‘Quite,’ said William. He was also beginning to feel protective of the ambassador.

Feather waved his cigar at the immaculate garden. ‘Can you see any signs of repression and economic failure? There’ll be no problem so long as the funny report gets there
later.’

The ambassador shrugged. ‘Oh, well. We’ll send it later.’

‘By which time the president will no doubt have caught something interesting from his whore,’ said Nightingale. ‘Nothing would do more to ensure his popularity than
that.’

‘Any message back?’ William asked abruptly.

There was no message. ‘Thank you so much for coming,’ said Nightingale. ‘Lovely to see you.’

Ricardo was waiting at the office and they set out at once for the factory. William went without lunch, which made him feel virtuous. Ricardo had also acquired virtue in his
eyes by having suffered and by being – for the present at least – tirelessly anxious to please. Ricardo’s lips and one eye were swollen and he complained of pains in his back
which hurt when he turned. But his gratitude exceeded his complaints.

‘You are the saviour of my life. I have told my father. He will meet you.’

‘That’s very nice of him but it’s really not necessary. All I did was swing my duffel-coat.’

‘Now you are my friend. At first I did not like you.’

‘Oh – well, that’s an improvement.’

‘Then – I told my father – at first I thought you were all right, you know – not bad, not hot, not cold, just English – but now I can see you are a man.’

They shook hands for the third time that day. Ricardo was driving his Toyota sports saloon with his usual skilful nonchalance. They were outside the city and heading inland towards the factory.
Through the haze caused by the power station and the metal-processing plant William could see the shanties where Theresa lived. The rickety shacks crowded precariously on the hillside, each wooden
and corrugated structure supported by the one below. They were festooned with washing. Even through the haze William could see that the hills swarmed with people. He cleaned his glasses, but the
haze remained.

He forced himself to stop thinking of Theresa. ‘Your father is in the army, isn’t he?’ he asked.

‘Yes, he is already a colonel. But he does not know those people who were there last night. The Russians, the security police and the junta are separate from the rest of the army. They are
always with the president and they are very political. They are not popular with the rest of the army. Especially, the Russians and Cubans are not popular.’

‘What about the president?’

‘No, the president is very popular. He is a patriot. But not the people with him.’

‘Why not?’

‘They are political.’

‘Isn’t the president?’

‘No, I told you. He is a patriot.’

It was too subtle a distinction for William’s knowledge of the country. ‘Are there people in the army who are against the government?’

Ricardo nodded. ‘Many, my father says, but they are frightened. People are disappearing.’

‘Who is doing it?’

‘No one knows. Probably the security police.’

There were farms in the hills and on the road an occasional straggle of huts marked a village. There were few trees but a great deal of long grass studded with boulders. Ricardo sped past ponies
and carts and small flocks of sheep or goats. William wished he would slow down but knew it was no use asking. He felt listless now. The countryside, the smell of cigarette ash in the car, the
prospect of difficulty at the factory and Ricardo’s friendly but persistent conversation all combined to increase his tiredness. It was like being in the sway of a great wave. He let himself
go, trusting that waves passed.

Ricardo lit another cigarette, flicking the car’s lighter in and out between his two fingers. ‘Also, I can help you in your work.’

‘But you do anyway.’ The mutual pretence had become so habitual that William barely noticed it.

‘No, your real work.’

‘My real work?’

Ricardo smiled. ‘Of course, you have to be secret. I realise that. I mean your spying.’

William felt now as if the wave had dumped him on cold wet sand. ‘My spying?’

‘William, we are friends. You are an English spy. I know it, everyone knows it. But now I am prepared to help you.’

Box’s briefings had not extended to this sort of thing. A straightforward accusation he could deny but offers of assistance were another matter; offers from Ricardo another again.

‘I can tell you what is going on and maybe help you kill people,’ continued Ricardo.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Ricardo took no notice. ‘The people like the president but they do not like the government. They are frightened of it. We – you and me – should kill the Russians and Cubans and
colonels and save the president.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I will not tell anybody.’

‘No, you mustn’t.’

‘I promised my father: I will tell nobody, I said.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He was very pleased. He told my mother and my sisters and they all congratulated me.’

They overtook a battered lorry on a blind corner. Ricardo’s pleasure in himself was so complete and unquestioning that he took no notice of silence in others.

‘What exactly do people say about me?’ William asked.

‘Not very much, not yet, because they know you have not done anything. But we will change that.’

‘Why do they think I am a spy?’

Ricardo frowned. ‘You are, aren’t you?’

William gave up. ‘Well, of a sort, I suppose. Not a very important one.’

Ricardo put his hand on William’s shoulder. ‘William, so modest, so English. Everyone knows because of your company. It has been here so many years, it makes no money. Everyone knows
it is really British Intelligence that keeps it going and that everyone who comes from London to run it is a British spy.’

‘Why is it necessary to put the orange-seller on the pavement opposite to spy on me, if everyone knows already?’

Ricardo shrugged. ‘I don’t know that he is a spy. Maybe he is in love with one of the girls in the shop. Anyway, he cannot be important. They wouldn’t ask
un campesino
– a peasant – like him to spy on you alone. That is why they asked me.’