MAMista. Len Deighton
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finance minister to Washington.’
‘Trying to get beer?’ said Lucas.
Angel did not smile.
Chori said, ‘Trying to buy armoured personnel carriers and helicopters to suppress the revolution. But the Yankees don’t want our lousy pesetas.’
‘It’s an ill wind,’ said Lucas.
‘You are English?’ asked Angel.
‘Australian,’ said Lucas. He looked at the two men – as different as chalk and cheese – and was still curious about the relationship between them. Lucas’ time in the army had made him a good judge of character. He decided that no relationship between these two would endure. They would clash and the result would be messy.
No one had invited Lucas to sit down but he sat down anyway. The chair he’d chosen faced the TV. Chori politely switched it on for him. For want of something else to do, they watched a few minutes of a film about pollution. The camera dwelt upon unusually clean factories, very sincere scientists and happy Latin American workers wearing upon their white coats the badge of an international chemical company. The programme was followed by commercials: an American soft drink, an American car rental company and an American airline. The news bulletin came immediately afterwards. The police searches at the airport got first priority. ‘Anti-Drugs Squad crack-down at airport’ said the commentary. There followed shots of the police questioning the agricultural workers, and their families, the people Lucas had noticed at the airport. The news item ended with pictures of police vans taking away people wanted for further questioning.
The next news item dealt with the previous night’s bomb explosion at the Ministry of Pensions. The flashing lights of police cars and ambulances made pretty pictures with a fashionable amount of lens flare. Then came a flick-zoom to the Ministry’s spokesman. He was a carefully coiffured man in the elaborate uniform of a police colonel. He said, ‘Six MAMista terrorists murdered two night-watchmen in order to place explosives in the central safe. Four passers-by were seriously injured by broken glass and were taken to the hospital of Santa Teresa de Avila.’
‘With what purpose were the bombs set off?’ asked the interviewer.
The police colonel looked directly into the lens and said, ‘To destroy the microfilm records. To interrupt and delay payments to government workers and pension payments to retirees.’
‘Do the police have any leads?’
‘The police laboratory believe they have identified the explosives and the probable source of them. The Union of Government Servants has asked their members to cooperate fully against this new campaign of murder. Even the PEKINista high command has protested. In a statement this afternoon, they say they are opposed to the bombing campaign of the MAMistas.’
‘Can we expect arrests?’
Chori switched off the TV. The police colonel wobbled and expired. ‘You can see what they are trying to do,’ Chori told the world at large. ‘Trying to lever the Pekinista guerrillas apart from us. If you went to the hospital you’d find a couple of people with scratches.’
Paz nodded, but the chances that his explosion had blown the windows out, and injured someone in the street below, were not to be dismissed.
Chori picked up Lucas’ can of beer, shook it to be sure it was empty, then raised an enquiring eyebrow.
‘Yes, if you can spare it,’ said Lucas. He was being stuffy and British. He felt he should make an effort to be cordial.
Chori said, ‘The airport shakedown was just a stunt to push the bomb into second place on the news.’
‘I was there,’ said Lucas. ‘The police seemed to be concentrating upon the Indian families.’
‘That’s the joke,’ said Chori, handing Lucas his beer. ‘You saw them, did you? They are the cocaleros. Those Indian farmers are the people who are growing that shit. They take their crops to the jungle laboratories that are owned by Benz and his government cronies. What a joke.’
‘Are they rich?’ Lucas asked.
‘The cocaleros? No. You saw them. Poor bastards scrape together a few pesetas to have a cheap plane trip here to buy shoes twice a year. But they are making more than they’d make from growing coffee.’
Lucas got up and walked back to the window, as if a view across the rooftops would help him understand what was going on here. At the intersection he saw curious curved marks on the road. They were familiar and yet he couldn’t place them. It was only when he noticed that the cop on traffic duty had a machine gun over his shoulder that he recognized the marks as the damage done when a tank turns a corner. Tanks. Despite so many outward appearances of normalcy, this was a damned dangerous town.
‘It’s hot,’ said Angel Paz.
‘It will be hotter in the south,’ Chori said.
So the young man was going south too. ‘And cold nights until the rains begin,’ Lucas added.
The foreigners looked at each other as they realized that both of them would be going to the MAMista permanent base. No newspaper people were ever allowed there and those who’d gone without permission had not returned to tell the story. Angel Paz said, ‘How long will you be there?’
‘I am not political,’ Lucas said. He wanted to get that straight before they shared any of their wretched secrets with him. ‘Strictly business. I am doing a health check. In and out: a week or ten days.’
Paz said, ‘Uncommitted. In this part of the world the uncommitted get caught in the cross-fire.’
‘You should get your hair cut before we leave,’ Lucas said. ‘Right, Chori?’
‘You’ll be running with lice otherwise,’ said Chori.
‘We’ll see,’ said Angel Paz, running a hand back through his wavy locks. His hair had taken a long time to grow this long, and it looked good this way.
Lucas was getting hungry and there was no sign that food would be coming. ‘Can I buy you a meal?’ he said.
Chori said, ‘There is a party at The Daily American. There will be plenty to eat and drink.’
‘What is it?’ asked Lucas.
Chori said, ‘A Yankee newspaper. In English. They invite liberals and left-wingers for hamburgers and wine. You know the kind of thing. There will be plenty of everything. If you are still hungry, the San Giorgio across the street does a decent plate of spaghetti.’
‘That will do,’ said Lucas.
Chori said, ‘You are both sleeping here tonight. Make sure you know the address. I’ll have to be back before curfew but your foreign passports will get you past the patrols. And for God’s sake don’t run away from them.’
The office of The Daily American had that comforting sign of over-capitalization that is the hallmark of all American enterprises from fast-food counters to orthodontists. It was on the fifth floor of one of the few buildings in Tepilo built to withstand earthquake tremors and incorporating such safety equipment as sprinklers. When he got out of the elevator Lucas was greeted by the distant sounds of recorded music and noisy chatter.
He went down a corridor to a large reception hall that had comfortable sofas and a glass-topped desk with an elaborate telephone system. It was this area, and the room where the morning conference was held, that was made available for the party. The doors to the offices with the desks, word processors and other equipment, were locked. A hi-fi played Latin American music: cumbia, salsa and the occasional samba.
The fluorescent lights had been replaced by paper lanterns and the rooms were decorated with palm fronds and artfully folded pieces of aluminium kitchen foil. The air-conditioning was fully on. The guests were noisy and jovial, and in that slightly hysterical state that free food and drink brings.
Upon the conference table were paper plates and plastic knives