The Tailor of Panama (24 page)

“Like what?”

“ ‘Like treating my organisation with a high degree of circumspection and respect, such as clearing in advance via Harry Pendel all details however slight that bear upon my security or the security of those I am responsible for without exception.' Period.”

There was silence. There was Osnard's fixed, dark stare. And there was muddled Harry Pendel's scowl, while he struggled to
shield Mickie from the consequences of his miscalculated gift of love.

Osnard spoke first.

“Harry, ol' boy.”

“What is it, Andy?”

“You holding out on me by any chance?”

“I'm telling you what transpired, Mickie's words and mine.”

“This is the big one, Harry.”

“Thank you, I'm aware of that, Andy.”

“This is mega. This is what we were put on earth for, you and me. This is what London dreams of: a rampant middle-class radical freedom movement in place, up and running, ready to blaze away for democracy as soon as the balloon goes up.”

“I don't know where this is leading us, actually, Andy.”

“This is no time for you to be paddling your own Canal. Get my meaning?”

“I don't think I do, Andy.”

“Together we stand. Divided we're screwed. You deliver Mickie, I deliver London, simple as that.”

An idea came to Pendel. A lovely one.

“There was one more stipulation he made, Andy, which I should just mention.”

“What's that, then?”

“It was so ridiculous, frankly, I didn't see the point of passing it on to you. ‘Mickie,' I told him, ‘it's a total nonstarter. You've overplayed your hand. I don't think you'll be hearing from my friend again for rather a long while.' ”

“Go on.”

Pendel was laughing, but only inside himself. He had seen his way out, a doorway to freedom six feet wide. The fluence was rushing all over his body, tickling his shoulders, throbbing in his temples, and singing in his ears. He took a breath and made another long paragraph:

“ ‘It's regarding the method of payment of the cash that your mad millionaire proposes to pour into my Silent Opposition in order to bring it up to par and make it a worthy instrument of democracy for a small nation on the brink of self-determination and all that that entails.' ”

“So what is it?”

“The money to be paid up front, Andy. Cash or gold in toto,” Pendel replied with heavy apology. “No credit, cheques, or banks to be involved at any stage, owing to the security. For the exclusive use of his movement, which includes both students and fishermen, down the middle and kosher, receipts and all the trimmings,” he concluded, with triumphant acknowledgements to his Uncle Benny.

But Osnard was not responding as Pendel had anticipated. To the contrary, his podgy features seemed to brighten as he heard Pendel out.

“I can see a case for that,” he said perfectly reasonably, after giving this interesting proposal the prolonged consideration it deserved. “So should London. I'll run it by 'em, try it on for size, see what they come up with. Reasonable chaps, most of 'em. Keen. Flexible when necessary. Can't give cheques to fishermen. Makes no sense at all. Anything else I can help you with?”

“I'd have thought that was enough, thank you, Andy,” Pendel replied prissily, stifling his astonishment.

Marta stood at her stove making Greek coffee because she knew he liked it. Pendel lay on her bed studying a complex chart of lines and bubbles and capital letters followed by numerals.

“It's an order of battle,” she explained. “The way we used to do it when we were students. Code names, calls, lines of communication, and a special liaison group to talk to the labour unions.”

“Where does Mickie fit in?”

“Nowhere. Mickie's our friend. It would not be appropriate.”

The coffee rose and settled again. She filled two cups.

“And the Bear rang.”

“What did he want?”

“He says he's thinking of doing an article about you.”

“That's nice then.”

“He wants to know how much the new clubroom cost you.”

“Why ever should that concern him?”

“Because he's evil too.”

She took the order of battle from him, handed him his coffee, sat close to him on the bed.

“And Mickie wants another suit. Houndstooth alpaca, the same as you made for Rafi. I said not till he'd paid for the last one. Was that right?”

Pendel sipped his coffee. He felt afraid without knowing why.

“Give him what makes him happy,” he said, avoiding her eye. “He's earned it.”

11

Everyone was delighted with the way young Andy was working out. Even Ambassador Maltby, though not deemed capable of delight as others understood it, was heard to remark that a young man who played off eight and kept his mouth shut between strokes couldn't be all bad. Nigel Stormont had put aside his misgivings within days. Osnard staked no challenge to his position as head of chancery, showed due deference to the sensitivities of his colleagues, and shone, but not too brightly, on the cocktail and dinner round.

“Have you any suggestions about how I'm to explain you in this town?” Stormont asked him, none too kindly, at their first encounter. “Not to mention here in the embassy,” he added.

“How about Canal Watcher?” Osnard suggested. “Britain's trade routes in the post-Colonial era. True, manner o' speaking. Just a question o' how you do your watching.”

Stormont could find no fault with this proposal. Every major embassy in Panama had its Canal expert except the Brits. But did Osnard know his stuff?

“So what's the bottom line as regards the U.S. bases?” Stormont demanded, by way of testing Osnard's aptitude for his new post.

“Don't get you.”

“Will the U.S. military stay or go?”

“Toss-up. Lot o' Pans want the bases to stay as security for foreign investors. Short-termists. See it as a transition.”

“And the others?”

“Not one more day. Had 'em here as a colonial power since 1904, disgrace to the region, get the buggers out. U.S. Marines hit Mexico and Nicaragua from here in the twenties, put down Panamanian strikes in '25. U.S. military's been here since the start o' the Canal. No one's comfortable with that except the bankers. Present time, U.S. are using Panama as a base to hit the drug barons in the Andes and Central America and train Latin American soldiery in civic action against enemies yet to be defined. U.S. bases employ four thousand Pans, give work to another eleven thousand. U.S. troop strength officially seven thousand, but there's a lot hidden, lot o' hollow mountains full o' toys and funk holes. U.S. military presence supposedly accounts for 4.5 percent of the gross national product but that's horseshit when you reckon Panama's invisible earnings.”

“And the treaties?” said Stormont, secretly impressed.

“1904 treaty gave the Canal Zone to the Yanks in perpetuity, the '77 Torrijos-Carter treaty said the Canal and all its works had to be handed back to the Pans at the turn o' the century, free o' charge. Right-wing America still thinks it was a sellout. Protocol allows for continued U.S. military presence if both sides want it. Question o' who pays who how much for what when hasn't been addressed. Do I pass?”

He did. Osnard the official Canal Watcher duly settled into his flat, did his welcome parties, pressed the flesh and within weeks had become a pleasing minor feature of the diplomatic landscape. Within a few more he was an asset. If he played golf with the ambassador, he also played tennis with Simon Pitt, attended jolly beach parties with the junior staff and flung himself upon the diplomatic community's periodic frenzied efforts to raise conscience money for the underprivileged of Panama, of whom there was mercifully held to be an inexhaustible supply. An embassy pantomime was in rehearsal. Osnard was unanimously voted Dame.

“Do you mind telling me something?” Stormont asked him when they knew each other better. “What's the Planning & Application Committee when it's at home?”

Osnard was vague. Stormont thought deliberately so.

“Not sure, actually. It's Treasury led. Mixed bag o' people from across the board. Co-opted members from all walks o' life. Breath o' fresh air to blow out the cobwebs. Quangos plus God's anointed.”

“Any walks in particular?”

“Parliament. Press. Here and there. My boss sees it big but doesn't talk about it much. Chaired by a chap called Cavendish.”

“Cavendish?”

“First name Geoff.”

“
Geoffrey
Cavendish?”

“Freelancer o' some sort. Wheels and deals behind the scenes. Office in Saudi Arabia, houses in Paris and the West End, place in Scotland. Member o' Boodles.”

Stormont stared at Osnard in frank disbelief. Cavendish the influence pedlar, he was thinking. Cavendish the defence lobbyist. Cavendish the self-styled statesman's friend. Ten Percent Cavendish, from the days when Stormont was doing a stint in the Foreign Office in London. Boom-boom Cavendish, arms broker. Geoff the Oil. Anybody finding himself in contact with the above-named will immediately report to Personnel Department before proceeding.

“Who else?” Stormont asked.

“Chap called Tug. T'other name unknown.”

“Not Kirby?”

“Just Tug,” said Osnard with an indifference that Stormont rather liked. “Overheard it on the blower. My boss having lunch with Tug before the meeting. My boss paid. Seemed to be the form.”

Stormont bit his lip and asked no more. He already knew more than he wished and probably more than he ought. He turned instead to the delicate question of Osnard's future product, which they discussed in private conclave over lunch in a new Swiss restaurant
that served kirsch with the coffee. Osnard found the place, Osnard insisted on paying the bill out of what he called his reptile fund, Osnard proposed they eat cordon bleu and gnocchi and wash it down with Chilean red before the kirsch.

At what point would the embassy get a sight of Osnard's product? Stormont asked. Before it went to London? After? Never?

“My boss says no local sharing unless he gives the nod,” Osnard replied, with his mouth full. “Scared stiff o' Washington. Handling the distribution personally.”

“Are you comfortable with that?”

Osnard took a pull of red and shook his head. “Fight it, my advice. Form an internal embassy working party. You, Ambass, Fran, me. Gully's Defence, so he's not family. Pitt's on probation. Put together an indoctrination list, everyone signs off on it, meet out of hours.”

“Will your boss wear it, whoever he is?”

“You push, I'll pull. Name o' Luxmore, supposed to be a secret except everybody knows. Tell Ambass to beat the table. ‘Canal's a time bomb. Instant local response essential.' That crap. He'll cave.”

“Ambass doesn't beat tables,” Stormont said.

But Maltby must have beaten something, because after a stream of obstructive telegrams from their respective services, usually to be hand-decoded at dead of night, Osnard and Stormont were grudgingly permitted to make common cause. An embassy working party was set up with the harmless-sounding title of the Isthmus Study Group. A trio of morose technicians flew down from Washington and after three days of listening to walls pronounced them deaf. And at seven o'clock one turbulent Friday evening, the four conspirators duly assembled round the embassy rain-forestteak conference table and under the low light of a Ministry of Works lamp acknowledged by signature that they were privy to special material
BUCHAN
, provided by source
BUCHAN
under an operation code-named
BUCHAN
. The solemnity of the moment was offset by a burst of humour from Maltby, afterwards ascribed to the temporary absence of his wife in England:

“From now on,
BUCHAN
's likely to be an ongoing thing, sir,” Osnard declared airily as he collected the signed forms like a croupier raking in the chips. “His stuff's coming in at quite a rate. Meeting once a week may not be enough.”

“A
what
thing, Andrew?” Maltby enquired, setting his pen down with a click.

“Ongoing.”

“Ongoing?”

“What I said, Ambass. Ongoing.”

“Yes. Quite so. Thank you. Well, from now on, if you please, Andrew, the
thing—
to use your parlance—is
ongone.
BUCHAN
may prevail. He may endure. He may persist, or at a pinch continue or resume. But he will never, as long as I am ambassador,
ongo,
if you don't mind. It would be too distressing.”

After which, wonder of wonders, Maltby invited the whole team for bacon and eggs and swimming back at the residence, where, having raised a droll toast to “the Buchaneers,” he marched his guests into the garden to admire his toads, whose names he belted out above the din of passing traffic: “Come on, Hercules, hop, hop! . . . Don't
gawp
at her like that, Galileo, haven't you seen a pretty gal before?” And when they swam, deliciously, in the half darkness, Maltby astonished everyone yet again by letting out a great glad cry of “
Christ,
she's beautiful!” in celebration of Fran. And finally, to round the night off, he insisted on playing dance music, and had his houseboys roll back the rugs, though Stormont couldn't help remarking that Fran danced with every man but Osnard, who ostentatiously preferred the ambassador's books, which he patrolled with his hands behind his back in the manner of a plump English princeling inspecting a guard of honour.

“You don't think Andy's a bit left-handed, do you?” he asked Paddy over a nightcap. “You never hear of him going out with girls. And he treats Fran as if she had the plague.”

He thought she was going to cough again, but she was laughing.

“
Darling
,” Paddy murmured, lifting her eyes to heaven. “
Andy Osnard
?”