The Tailor of Panama (27 page)

Laughter in which Osnard joined, but not too heartily.

“I guess the best way to judge a love affair is how it ends,” he replied with sweet modesty. “Most of mine seem to have ended pretty well.”

“And the others?”

“Well, I mean, Christ, we've all woken up in the wrong bed a few times, haven't we?”

And since this was patently unlikely of any of the six faces round the table and of his bearded questioner particularly, Osnard won another cautious laugh.

“And you're family, did you know that?” said Personnel, bestowing a knobbly handshake on him by way of congratulation.

“Well, I suppose I am now,” said Osnard.

“No, no,
old
family. One aunt, one cousin. Or did you really not know?”

To the huge gratification of Personnel, he didn't. And when he heard who they were, a riotous belly laugh welled up inside him,
which he converted only at the last moment to an endearing smirk of amazement.

“My name's Luxmore,” said the bearded Scot, with a handshake strangely similar to Personnel's. “I run Iberia and South America and a couple of other places along the way. You may also hear me spoken of in connection with a certain little matter in the Falklands. I shall be looking out for you as soon as you have profited from your basic training, young Mr. Osnard.”

“Can't wait, sir,” said Osnard keenly.

Nor could he. The spies of the post–Cold War era, he had observed, were enjoying the best of times and the worst of times. The Service had money to burn, but where on earth was the fire? Stuck in the so-called Spanish Cellar, which could have doubled as the editorial offices of the Madrid telephone directory, cheek by jowl with chain-smoking, middle-aged debutantes in Alice bands, the young probationer jotted down an acerbic appraisal of his employers' standing in the Whitehall marketplace:

Ireland Preferred:
Regular earner, excellent long-term prospects, but slim pickings when divided between rival agencies.

Islam Militant:
Occasional flurries, basically underperforming. As a substitute for Red Terror, total flop.

Arms for Drugs, PLC:
A washout. Service doesn't know whether to play gamekeeper or poacher.

As to that vaunted commodity of the modern age industrial espionage, he reckoned when you had broken a few Taiwanese codes and suborned a few Korean typists, there was really little more you could do for British industry than commiserate. Or so he had convinced himself until Scottie Luxmore beckoned him to his side.

“
Panama,
young Mr. Osnard”—striding up and down his fitted blue carpet, snapping fingers, thrusting elbows, nothing still—“that's the
place for a young officer of your talents. It's the place for all of us, if the fools in Treasury could only see beyond their noses. We'd the same problem with the Falklands difficulty, I don't mind telling you. Deaf ears until the stroke of midnight.”

Luxmore's room is large and close to heaven. Through its tinted armoured-glass windows the Palace of Westminster stands brave across the Thames. Luxmore himself is small. A sharp beard and brisk stride fail to bring him up to size. He is an old man in a young man's world, and if he doesn't run he's likely to fall down. Or so thinks Osnard. Luxmore gives a quick suck of the Scottish front teeth as if he has a boiled sweet permanently on the go.

“But we're making headway. We've the Board of Trade and the Bank of England beating down the doors. The Foreign Office, though not given to hysteria, has expressed cautious concern. I remember they expressed much the same emotion when I had the pleasure of advising them of General Galtieri's intentions regarding the misnomered Malvinas.”

Osnard's heart sinks. “But, sir—” he objects in the carefully tuned voice of breathless neophyte that he has adopted.

“Yes, Andrew?”

“What's the
British interest
in Panama? Or am I being stupid?”

Luxmore is gratified by the boy's innocence. Moulding the young for service at the sharp end has ever been one of his keenest pleasures.

“There is none, Andrew. In Panama as a nation, zero British interest in any shape or form,” he replies with an arch smile. “A few stranded mariners, a few hundred millions of British investment, a dwindling bunch of assimilated ancient Britons, a couple of moribund consultative committees and our interest in the Republic of Panama is served.”

“Then what—”

With a wave Luxmore commands Osnard's silence. He is addressing his own reflection in the armoured glass.

“Phrase your question somewhat differently, however, young Mr. Osnard, and you would receive a vastly different answer. Oh yes.”

“How, sir?”

“What is our
geopolitical
interest in Panama? Ask yourself that, if you will.” He was away. “What is our
vital
interest? Where is the lifeblood of our great trading nation most at risk? Where, when we train our long lens upon the future well-being of these islands, do we recognise the darkest storm clouds gathering, young Mr. Osnard?” He was flying. “Where in the entire globe do we perceive the next Hong Kong living on borrowed time, the next disaster waiting to happen?” Across the river apparently, where his visionary gaze was fixed. “The barbarians are at the gate, young Mr. Osnard. Predators from every corner of the globe are descending upon little Panama. That great clock out there is ticking away the minutes to Armageddon. Does our Treasury heed it? No. They are hiding their ears in their hands yet again. Who will win the greatest Prize Possession of the new millennium? Will it be the Arabs? Are the Japanese sharpening their
katanas
? Of course they are! Will it be the Chinese, the Tigers, or a Pan-Latin consortium underpinned with billions of drug dollars? Will it be Europe without us? Those Germans again, those wily French? It won't be the British, Andrew. That's a racing certainty. No, no. Not our hemisphere. Not our canal. We have no
interest
in Panama. Panama is a
backwater,
young Mr. Osnard. Panama is two men and a dog and let's all go out and have a good lunch!”

“They're mad,” Osnard whispers.

“No, they're not. They're right. It's not our bailiwick. It's the Back Yard.”

Osnard's comprehension falters, then leaps to life. The Back Yard! How many times in his training course had he not heard it mentioned? The Back Yard! El Dorado of every British espiocrat! Power and influence in the American back yard! The special relationship revived! The longed-for return to the Golden Age when tweed-jacketed sons of Yale and Oxford sat side by side in the same
panelled rooms, pooling their imperialist fantasies! Luxmore has again forgotten Osnard's presence, and is speaking into his own soul:

“The Americans have done it again. Oh yes. A stunning demonstration of their political immaturity. Of their craven retreat from international responsibility. Of the pervasive power of misplaced liberal sensitivities in foreign affairs. We'd the same problem with the Falklands imbroglio, I may tell you confidentially. Oh yes.” A peculiar rictal grimace came over him as he clasped his hands behind his back and rose on the balls of his little feet. “Not only have the Americans signed a totally misbegotten treaty with the Panamanians—given away the shop, thank you very much Mr. Jimmy Carter!—they're also proposing to
honour
it. In consequence, they are proposing to leave themselves and, what is worse, their allies with a
vacuum.
It will be our job to fill it. To persuade
them
to fill it. To show them the error of their ways. To resume our rightful place at the top table. It's the oldest tale of them all, Andrew. We're the last of the Romans. We have the knowledge, but they have the power.” A cunning glance towards Osnard now, but one that took in the corners of the room as well, lest a barbarian had crept in unobserved. “Our task—your task—will be to provide the
grounds,
young Mr. Osnard, the
arguments,
the
evidence
needful to bring our American allies to their senses. Do you follow me?”

“Not entirely, sir.”

“That is because as of now you lack the grand vision. But you will acquire it. Believe me, you will acquire it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“To a grand vision, Andrew, there belong certain components. Well-grounded intelligence from the field is but one of them. Your born intelligencer is the man who knows what he is looking for before he finds it. Remember that, young Mr. Osnard.”

“I will, sir.”

“He intuits. He selects. He tastes. He says ‘yes'—or ‘no'—but he is not omnivorous. He is even—by his selection—fastidious. Do I make myself clear?”

“I'm afraid not, sir.”

“Good. Because when the time is ripe, all—no, not all, but a corner—will be revealed to you.”

“I can't wait.”

“You must. Patience is also a virtue of the born intelligencer. You must have the patience of the Red Indian. His sixth sense also. You must learn to see beyond the far horizon.”

To show him how, Luxmore once again directs his gaze upriver towards the stodgy fortresses of Whitehall and frowns. But his frown turns out to be directed at America.

“
Dangerous diffidence
is what I call it, young Mr. Osnard. The world's one superpower restrained by puritan principle, God help us. Have they not heard of Suez? There are a few ghosts there that must be rising from their graves! There is no greater criminal in politics, young Mr. Osnard, than he who shrinks from using honourable power. America must wield her sword or perish and drag us down with her. Are we to look on while our priceless Western inheritance is handed to heathens on a plate? The lifeblood of our trade, our mercantile power, ebbing through our fingers while the Jap economy zeroes out of the sun at us and the Tigers of Southeast Asia tear us limb from limb? Is that who we are? Is that the spirit of the modern generation, young Mr. Osnard? Maybe it is. Maybe we are wasting our time. Enlighten me, please. I do not jest, Andrew.”

“It's not
my
spirit, I know that, sir,” Osnard says devoutly.

“Good boy. Nor mine, nor mine.” Luxmore pauses, measures Osnard with his eyes, wondering how much more it is safe to tell him.

“Andrew.”

“Sir.”

“We are not alone, thank God.”

“Good, sir.”

“You say good. How much do you know?”

“Only what you're telling me. And what I've felt for a long time.”

“They told you nothing of this on your training course?” Nothing of what? Osnard wonders.

“Nothing, sir.”

“A certain highly secret body known as the Planning & Application Committee was never mentioned?”

“No, sir.”

“Chaired by one Geoff Cavendish, a man remarkable for his far-reaching mind, skilled in the arts of influence and peaceful persuasion?”

“No, sir.”

“A man who knows his American as no other?”

“No, sir.”

“No talk of a new realism sweeping through the secret corridors? Of broadening the base of covert policymaking? Rallying good men and women from all walks of life to the secret flag?”

“No.”

“Of ensuring that those who have made this nation great shall have a hand in the saving of her, whether they be ministers of the Crown, captains of industry, press barons, bankers, shipowners, or men and women of the world?”

“No.”

“That together we shall
plan
and, having planned,
apply
our plans? That henceforth, through the careful importation of experienced outside minds, scruple shall be set aside in those cases where action may arrest the rot? Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Then I must hold my tongue, young Mr. Osnard. And so must you. Henceforth it shall not be enough for this Service to know the size and strength of the rope that will hang us. With God's help we too shall wield the sword with which to cut it. Forget what I just said.”

“I will, sir.”

Church evidently over, Luxmore returns with renewed righteousness to the topic he has temporarily abandoned.

“Does it faintly concern our gallant Foreign Office or the high-minded liberals of Capitol Hill that the Panamanians are not fit to run a coffee stall, let alone the world's greatest gateway to trade?
That they are corrupt and pleasure-seeking, venal to the point of immobility?” He swings round, as if to refute an objection from the back of the hall. “Who will they sell themselves to, Andrew? Who will buy them? For what? And with what effect upon our vital interests? Catastrophic is not a word I use carelessly, Andrew.”

“Why not call it criminal?” Osnard suggests helpfully.

Luxmore shakes his head. The man is not yet born who can correct Scottie Luxmore's adjectives with impunity. Osnard's self-appointed mentor and guide has one more card to play, and Osnard must watch him do it, since little that Luxmore ever does is real unless it is observed by others. Picking up a green telephone which links him with other immortals on Whitehall's Mount Olympus, he contrives a facial expression that is at once playful and significant.

“Tug!” he cries delightedly—and for a moment Osnard mistakes the word for an instruction rather than the nickname it turns out to be. “Tell me, Tug, am I correct in my belief that the Planners & Appliers are having themselves a little get-together next Thursday at a certain person's house? . . . I am. Well, well. My spies are not always so accurate, hem hem. Tug, will you do me the honour of lunching you that day, the better to prepare you for the ordeal, ha ha? And if friend Geoff were able to join us, may I take it you would not be averse? My shout, now, Tug, I insist. Listen, where would be congenial to us? I am wondering. Somewhere a wee bit apart from the mainstream, I was thinking. Let us avoid the more obvious watering holes. I have in mind a small Italian restaurant just off the Embankment there—do you have a pencil handy, Tug?”