Mission to Argentina. David Monnery
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The fleet was sailing out of Portsmouth harbour, flags flying, men saluting, loved ones waving. She remembered what Michael had said the previous evening, that no matter how much he despised the patriotism and the flag-waving, no matter how clearly he could see through all the sanctimonious crap, he had been appalled to discover that there was still a small part of him that felt somehow connected, even proud, of all this.
She had understood exactly what he meant, because she knew that a small part of her wanted the English to fail in this war, wanted the beasts of the Junta to triumph in Argentina’s name. And more than anything else, or so she later came to believe, it was the need to silence that small voice which led her to call Baldwin the next morning.
The next few days seemed more than a little unreal. She called in sick to her two jobs, perhaps not really believing that her new career as a Mata Hari would amount to anything. The Englishmen who were supposedly preparing her for her new career certainly did not inspire much confidence.
For one thing, it rapidly became clear to Isabel that they knew next to nothing about her country, either in the general sense or in terms of the current situation. What information they did have seemed to come from either the Argentinian press or American signals intelligence. The latter source offered great wads of information, almost all of which was rendered useless by the lack of any accompanying indication of the enemy’s intentions. The newspapers, needless to say, offered only lies and conceits. It was obvious that British Intelligence had no one on the ground in Argentina.
Now, faced with the prospect of having someone, the Intelligence people seemed initially incapable of deciding what to do with her. Isabel could imagine them discussing the possibility of her seducing General Galtieri and learning all the Junta’s secrets. Still, she did not fool herself into believing that they thought any more highly of her than she did of them. She was, after all, an Argie, a woman and a communist – which had to be three strikes and out as far as the Foreign Office was concerned. If it was not for the fact that she was the intelligence services’ only proof that they were doing anything at all that was useful, she would probably have just been sent home in a taxi.
It was on Friday 9 April, the day the other Western European countries swung into line behind Britain’s call for sanctions, that some semblance of a coherent mission was offered to her. Baldwin escorted her through a maze of Whitehall corridors and courtyards to a spacious top-floor office overlooking St James’s Park, and into the presence of a cadaverous-looking Englishman with slicked-back black hair and a worried expression. His name was Colonel William Bartley, but he wore no uniform, unless the City gent’s pinstripe suit counted as one.
‘We have thought long and hard about where and how you could be most usefully deployed,’ he said, after the exchange of introductions and Baldwin’s departure. ‘And…’ He stopped suddenly, sighed, and leaned back in his chair. ‘I’ve read your file, of course,’ he continued, ‘and you wouldn’t expect me to sympathize with your politics…’
‘No,’ she said.
‘But of course, if these weren’t your politics then you would not be willing to betray your own country on our behalf, so I can hardly complain.’ Bartley grunted, probably in appreciation of his own logic. ‘But you’re obviously intelligent, and you can doubtless see our problem.’
She could. ‘You don’t want to tell me anything which I might turn over to my beloved government. Well, what could I say to convince you?’
‘Nothing. In any case we are not merely concerned at the possibility that you will pass on information willing. There is always the chance you will be captured. And of course…’ Bartley left the unspoken ‘tortured’ hanging in the air.
‘I understand. And you are right – there’s no way I would endure torture to save your secrets.’ As I once did for a lover, she thought. ‘So,’ she said, ‘it’s simply a matter of calculating risks, is it not? The risk of my being a double agent, or of getting caught, against the risk of not telling me enough to make using me worthwhile.’
‘Exactly,’ Bartley agreed.
She stared at him in silence.
‘You are from the south,’ he said, ‘which is useful from our point of view. How difficult would it be for you to set up shop, so to speak, somewhere like Rio Gallegos? Are there people who would recognize you? What sort of cover story could you come up with?’
‘I come from Ushuaia, which is a long way from Rio Gallegos. I might be recognized by someone – who knows? – but not by anyone who would question my presence in the area. I could say I was looking up an old college friend…’
‘Who is not there?’
‘I did not know she had moved, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps. Since you know the country and the people I will leave it to you, but I will give you one other suggestion: you are researching a travel book, perhaps in association with an American equivalent of that agency you work for, checking out hotels, local transport, things to see. It’s a good excuse for moving around.’
‘Perhaps.’ She admitted to herself that it sounded a good idea. ‘And what is my real motive for being there? The airbase, I suppose. You want to know which planes, what armaments, the pilots’ morale.’ She paused. ‘And you’d probably like to know each time they take off. Am I going to have to carry a radio set into Argentina?’
‘I doubt it,’ Bartley said, obviously taken by surprise. ‘How did you work all that out?’ he asked.
‘By reading the Observer. The British fleet was created to operate in the eastern Atlantic, within the defensive cover provided by shore-based aircraft, and the one thing that scares the Admirals is their vulnerability to air attack without such cover.’ She looked at him. ‘Is this the secret you were afraid I’d tell the Junta?’
Bartley at least had the good grace to blush. ‘We think the Super Etendards may be based at Rio Gallegos,’ he added, ‘and doubtless the Observer pointed out how concerned we are about the Exocets they carry.’
‘It did. But if advance warning is what you need, surely it has to be by radio?’
‘Perhaps. We have several weeks to worry about that, and if it becomes absolutely necessary then one can be brought across the border from Chile when the time comes. First, we need to get you bedded in.’
For the next few days she was given an in-depth briefing on military matters, at the end of which she could not only recognize a Super Etendard by its silhouette but also identify a wide range of military equipment which might conceivably be en route to the Malvinas from the Rio Gallegos airbase.
In the meantime her journey to Santiago – via New York and Los Angeles on three separate airlines – had been booked, her share of the rent on her flat paid six months in advance, and four fellow exiles had been given reason to wonder at the sudden beneficence of the Home Office in allowing them permanent residence status. Rowan and her other friends had been told that she had been given a three-month commission to update tourist information in Peru and Bolivia. They were all suitably jealous.
Michael was also angry. Why had she not consulted him? Did she think she could behave in a relationship as if she was a single person? Did she care about him at all?
The answer to the last was: not enough. She liked him, enjoyed talking with him, found sex with him occasionally pleasurable but mostly just harmless fun. It was not his fault, and she would have felt sorrier for him if she believed he really loved her, but as it was…The last night before her departure, as she watched her nipple harden in response to his brushing finger and kiss, the bizarre thought struck her that she was like a ship which had been struck below the waterline, and that her captain had ordered the sealing of all the internal bulkheads, the total compartmentalization of the vessel. The rooms were all still there but she could no longer move from one to another. There were no connections. In the torture chambers of the Naval Mechanical School she had lost the pattern of her being, which was probably just a fancy description of the soul.
Her plane