MAMista. Len Deighton
with in Spanish Guiana, tolerated only because it was printed in English for a small number of foreigners who would tut-tut and do nothing.
Having given O’Brien time enough, Lucas followed him down the corridor, opened the door and went out on to the dark landing. He could see the illuminated red buttons of the elevator and he sniffed tobacco smoke. There was too much smoke for it to be from one man waiting there. Lucas looked round. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a movement. As he turned he saw a figure rushing at him with hands upraised to strike. Had the man known Lucas he would not have raised both arms while approaching him with hostile intentions.
Lucas kicked. He hit the exact spot he wanted on his assailant’s knee, aiming his blow to knock the man in the direction of the staircase. Now Lucas brought his hand down sharply. The pain that burned the attacker’s leg was equalled by that of the sudden blow that Lucas delivered to his kidneys. Bent over and off-balance, the man toppled and went crashing down a long flight of concrete steps emitting a shrill scream of agony. More shouting came as he hit four men who were standing at the bottom step. They all fell down.
From the dark staircase above Lucas, voices shouted, ‘Federalista! Stay where you are! Federalista!’ and men came rushing down and swept him back into the newspaper offices. Lucas ran with them, pushing back through the crowded room as if he was one of the policemen. The music stopped in a discordant sequence of notes and all the lights went on to flood the room in the glare of blue office lighting. A woman screamed and everyone was talking and shouting at once.
A police captain with gold leaves on his hat climbed up on to one of the chairs that the musicians had vacated. He shouted for silence and then he made a short announcement in Spanish. Then a bearded interpreter got up and repeated the same announcement in English. While all this was going on, Lucas edged his way further into the room to get as many innocent people as he could between himself and the man he had injured. Soon they would start trying to find out who had kicked one of their officers down the staircase.
Lucas stood on tiptoe and saw Inez across the room looking for him. She made a face of resignation. He nodded. The police captain – through the interpreter – said that everyone would be taken to Police Headquarters and questioned. Those who wished it would be permitted to make a phone call from there. No calls could be made from this office. The reactions were mixed. Local residents had seen it all before and stood sullen and resigned. A young woman began to sob in that dedicated way that goes on for a long time. The man with her began to argue with a policeman in German-accented Spanish.
The interpreter got on the chair again and said, ‘American nationals who have their passports with them will be permitted to leave the building after being searched. They must deposit their passports with the police clerk standing at the door. He will issue an official receipt.’
Lucas saw Inez. She no longer had her handbag. He supposed she had dumped it somewhere lest it incriminate her in some way. She saw him looking her way but gave no sign of recognition.
Chori was at the buffet table. He’d found a bottle of whisky and was pouring himself a big measure of it.
5
EMBASSY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, TEPILO.
‘No one’s perfect, kid.’
From the top floor of the American embassy building on the Plaza de la Constitución you might have seen the fifteen-storey building of shining bronze glass that housed the police headquarters. But one could not see the skyline of Tepilo from the top floor of the embassy because the window glass was frosted ever since rooftop spies had been seen with telescopes peering into it.
The top floor was the CIA floor. Even the ambassador asked permission before going there, although all concerned insisted that this was a mere formality.
Michael Sean O’Brien was a well-proportioned man of thirty-four. His unruly hair, once red, had become almost brown, but together with his pale complexion it marked him as of Celtic blood. So did his boundless conviviality and short-lived bouts of anger. His career through the Office of Naval Intelligence, the US War Academy and then as a State Department analyst had brought him to be CIA station head in Tepilo. ‘Next time, I make sure I get a post much farther east,’ he said wearily. Still holding an unopened can of Sprite, he used his finger to flick through the latest batch of messages to have come off the fax machine. It had been a trying morning as he sorted out the flood of questions that poured in from all quarters following the previous night’s raid on The Daily American. ‘Much farther east,’ he said.
His assistant didn’t respond except to smile. Even the smile was not too committal. When O’Brien was angry it was better to remain silent.
‘This place is too close to the Washington time zone,’ said O’Brien. ‘John Curl and his merry men snap at your heels all day long. In Moscow our guys can work all day knowing that Washington is asleep.’ He sighed, knowing that Latin American experts like him were unlikely to get very far from the Washington time zone. It was one of the many penalties of that specialization. Sometimes he regretted that he hadn’t worked harder at German verbs.
‘Can I get you a fresh cup of coffee?’ said his assistant, who that morning had taken quite a lot of the wrath that O’Brien would have liked to expend upon his superiors.
‘No,’ said O’Brien. He sat down behind his desk, snapped open his can of Sprite. He drank it, savouring it with the relish that Europeans reserve for vintage wine. Then he chuckled. ‘But you’ve got to hand it to these bastards. They’ve got the State Department jumping through hoops of fire for them, Pablo.’
‘Yes,’ said his assistant. His name was not Pablo, it was Paul: Paul Cohen. He was a scholarly graduate of Harvard whose difficulties with the Spanish language had made him a butt of O’Brien’s jokes. Calling him Pablo was one of them.
‘You saw the transcript of that phone call Benz took from his man in Washington. The White House said these boys here have got to straighten up and fly right, if they want aid. That was yesterday morning, right?’
The assistant treated no direct question as rhetorical. ‘Ten thirty-four local time,’ he said.
‘So Benz phones Cisneros at the Ministry. Cisneros kicks ass and the Anti-Drugs Squad raid the Daily American offices and the airport. Notice that, Pablo: not just the Daily American offices. And to both places they take with them all five of those Drug Enforcement guys the Department of Justice sent here to teach the locals how to do it. And what do they find, Pablo? They find eight Americans carrying coke.’
‘Two carrying,’ said his pedantic assistant. ‘The other six only had traces of it on their clothing.’
‘Tell the judge,’ said O’Brien, who didn’t like his stories to be dismantled. ‘The fact is that Uncle Sam reels back with egg on his face, while Benz and his boys are laughing fit to be tied.’ He finished his drink and then bent the can flat and tossed it into the bin. ‘The whole raid was a fiasco. I was there at The Daily American. I could see it was just a show. The cops told me some yarn about their guys being beaten up and tossed down the stairs. But we’ve heard that story a hundred times before.’
‘Yes, we have,’ his assistant said. ‘They didn’t try to detain you?’
‘Cisneros sent someone to get me out of there before the cops went in.’
His assistant looked at him sympathetically and nodded.
‘They didn’t even detain that Cassidy woman,’ O’Brien said bitterly. ‘I saw her getting a cab in the street outside. I told her, “I thought they were only releasing people depositing a US passport.” She said, “That’s what I did.” I said, “You’re not American.” She smiled and got in the cab and said, “That’s why I didn’t need it.” A cool nerve she’s got, Pablo. That was who that phoney US passport belonged to.’ He picked up the forged passport that had come from the police that morning for verification of authenticity. He flicked it open. Only the cover was genuine, the inside pages were forged. ‘She didn’t even bother to put her own photo into it. The woman doesn’t look