MAMista (20 page)

There was a long silence then Maestro said, ‘Are you thinking of asking Dr Marti to help us? Will you tell him that Guizot is dead?'

Paz got to his feet. When he became excited he could not speak except when he was moving about. ‘Dr Marti could negotiate with the Benz government,' he told Maestro as if speaking to a naughty child. ‘If comrade Ramón decides to ransom the American, Dr Marti could make it easier for us.'

Far from being angry at being answered by Paz, Maestro seemed not to know he was present. When Maestro spoke it was to Ramón alone. He did not speak in the querulous tones he used when complaining of Lucas; his voice now was deep and emotional. ‘Why do you go on believing that Marti will ever help us? In the past he and his followers have always betrayed us. Everyone knows it was Marti's people who gave our files to the police last August when we lost those urban comrades.'

‘The government listens to Dr Marti.'

‘What use is that, if Marti wants to betray us? You still think of Marti as a communist but he's not. None of his people are communists. The leadership has been infiltrated by middle-class liberals with two cars, bank loans and kids in college. They think it's chic to talk revolution but they will make sure that no violence comes to disturb their comfortable lives … that's why they will always betray us.'

‘Once it was …'

‘The premier party of Marx. Yes, in 1989, when the quarry workers went on strike and the soldiers were sent in … But now … Oh, Ramón, don't talk to Marti, he's a bad risk for you. And for all of us.'

‘Big Jorge also will be at the frente meeting,' said Ramón. ‘If both help …'

Maestro was desperate. ‘No. Neither can be trusted, Ramón. Big Jorge and his Indians … they talk only of revisionism. Forget them, Ramón. And the new theories. The USSR is financially and politically bankrupt. Moscow
is just a place to buy a McDonald's hamburger. This is our struggle. Ours alone.'

This proved too much for Inez. Her fiery temperament could not be permanently suppressed. ‘I swear you are crazy, Maestro,' she said, getting up to face him. ‘You are just another romantic. You say the struggle is ours alone, and you want to bury us in the jungle for another decade.' She thought Ramón would intercede but he said nothing. ‘You refuse to cooperate or coordinate our struggle with any other movement. You keep saying that our army is ready to fight. You keep it ready to fight by making sure it never does fight. You begrudge every bullet and grenade expended. Even issuing clothing causes you pain. You don't want to accept food or supplies or medicine lest we compromise your sacred Marxist principles. You are so proud that we grow our own food, and you try to make us self-contained and self-sufficient. It is madness. If we follow this path we will become exiles in a self-contained penal colony deep in the jungle just where the Benz government would most like us. We are playing into their hands, Maestro. You call yourself a realist but really you are a romantic. Wake up, Maestro. Wake up and see it.'

Ramón looked at her and nodded to say she had said enough. She sat down. The tension had not gone out of her: she wanted to cry.

Ramón was regretting his decision to let Paz stay and hear this acrimonious exchange. Conscious of his presence, Ramón's reply was measured. ‘At the frente we will see what they really have to offer.' Up to a point he agreed with Maestro. None of the other communist parties were prepared to support the MAMista, beyond statements of support and the occasional dollar or two. ‘I'll have to leave you. I must go there direct. I will need Inez with me. You will take the main party south with the English doctor and the prisoners. Choose a few experienced men to escort me. We will send a reconnaissance team to explore the area around the residencia before I go there.'

Maestro – who'd been congratulating himself upon not responding furiously to the woman's outburst – breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, the area around the residencia must be probed in case it was a trap. At least his commander did not intend to totally entrust his life to these men of whom he would not speak ill. ‘Yes, I will choose the men, Ramón. The whole area must be searched. Already I have a patrol watching the road for any unusual movements.'

‘It is better to be careful,' Ramón agreed. From the table where Inez had been working he picked up a batch of papers. He waved a handful of them. ‘Look at this, Maestro.'

‘Money to be paid,' said Maestro, who had helped Inez to prepare them.

Ramón nodded. ‘When you get down to the truth of it: a revolution runs on money.'

Maestro shrugged. ‘Of course. Just as a government does.'

‘Just as General Motors does,' said Ramón.

‘Let me come with you, Comrade General,' Paz urged desperately. He stood in front of Ramón, head bowed in a posture of supplication.

Ramón laughed loudly. ‘A firebrand like you? You'd give them all a heart attack.' He laughed again at the thought of it.

There was a knock at the door. It was a sentry, the one they called ‘René the bullfighter'. ‘The American has tried to commit suicide,' said René.

‘How was that possible?' Ramón asked.

‘Which one?' said Maestro, speaking at the same time. Inez made the sign of the cross.

René looked from one to the other of them and said, ‘The white one; the one named Charrington. He smashed his spectacles and swallowed the broken glass. He made no noise. I was the sentry on duty. It is my fault.'

‘It is no one's fault,' Ramón said. ‘What is happening over there?'

‘The English doctor is with them. We took the black
American away and locked him up.' He paused. ‘I think it is too late.'

The news dealt Ramón a blow. It was an omen; a bad omen. ‘You did well. Get back to your post, comrade. There is nothing any of us can do. He is in the hands of Fate.'

Inez looked up sharply and he met her eyes. They both knew how close he'd come to saying ‘God'.

 

They had taken Charrington to the best bedroom of a house across the yard from the stables. The room might have come undisturbed from the last century. Charrington – filthy and unshaven – lay full-length on a massive carved oak double bed. Under him a handstitched bedcover was soiled with his blood and phlegm. Above him hung a faded portrait of a family, wide-eyed and ill at ease in their best Sunday clothes. The only light came from two candles that flickered in the draught. They were placed on each side of the bedhead so that Charrington looked like a dead saint on a catafalque.

Lucas put down his syringe and watched his patient. A sky packed with stars showed through the broken window and, defiling the eastern horizon, a mauve smear of cloud. It was the darkness before dawn: that time of the morning when human resources sink to their lowest. It was that time when restless sleepers awoke, a time when soldiers attacked, babies cried and the mortally ill succumbed.

As the shot of morphine took effect Charrington's writhing body went slack and his head twisted and fell back. His face was shiny with sweat. It seemed to tighten but this was an effect of the fluttering light. He was still conscious but he seemed unaware of Lucas or of anything else. Charrington was alone now and resigned to death.

Lucas looked at the first-aid bag that was open on the floor. He wanted to close it but it would be a gesture of resignation that he did not yet want to make. My God, it was a terrible way to die. He took a bottle of Cologne, wetted a handkerchief with it and bent over to dab it upon
Charrington's forehead. There was no response beyond a nervous twitch.

He heard footsteps on the stairs and then Inez appeared in the narrow doorway. She had an oil lamp that spilled light upon the floor and lapped over Charrington's still form.

Without a word, without even turning to see her, Lucas stretched out his hand. She gave him the lamp and he placed it to provide a circle of light that left Charrington's face in the rim of darkness. They watched him. He was so very calm now. The convulsive movements grew slighter and then they ceased. His whole body seemed to relax.

Lucas was aware of the close proximity of the woman. He could feel the warmth of her body and hear her breathing. She was taking deep gulps of air that might have been due to her exertions or emotion.

Moving the lamp a little, Lucas looked more closely at Charrington's face. His eyes were open but there was no life in them. Lucas knew the woman was looking at him expecting him to do something, but everything he could think of had been done. He picked up the syringe, wrapped it in a cloth and put it in his bag. Then he nipped out the candles and bent down to blow fiercely across the lamp's glass chimney, extinguishing its flame. Charrington disappeared into the darkness.

‘He's gone?' she whispered.

‘He's gone.'

She crossed herself. The abrupt way in which death had come alarmed her. It was almost as if she had brought it into the room. She turned away to hide her face and brushed the back of her hand across her eyes.

‘You're tired, Inez.' He wanted to provide her with an opportunity to weep but she was determined not to do so. She went across to the window and looked down to the plaza where the fire still burned.

‘Do you hate us all, Lucas?' she asked without turning to him.

‘War is like this.' He went to where she was standing. She turned to him as he took the handkerchief, wet with Cologne, and dabbed it on her forehead.

She said, ‘You will soon forget all this when you go home.'

‘I won't forget, Inez.'

‘Give me a cigarette.'

He put one in her mouth and lit it for her. Then he lit one for himself. Lucas had given up smoking years ago but now he had started again. In the jungle he did it to keep the flies and insects at bay, but there were moments like this when he realized that he was still a victim to tobacco.

They stood there, in that museum-like room, with the poor dead Charrington for a long time. She was lit pink from the dying light of the fire outside in the plaza. They said nothing. There was nothing that they had to say.

The thought flashed through his mind that she had been assigned to this role: to monitor him and influence him in the way the guerrillas wanted. He set the thought aside but did not forget it. In any case, his conscience told him, he should be digging a grave for Charrington and saying a prayer. But for the moment nothing was more important than being with her, and forgetting the smell of death and disease and the jungle so close.

When his cigarette was finished he stubbed it into a glass ashtray. ‘Someone will have to dig a grave,' he said.

‘I will stay with him. He must not be left alone. It is our way.'

She stood there long after Lucas had departed. Outside she heard the sentry's boots on the cobbles. He was on his way to awake the cooks. She saw him as he went to the almost-dead fire, and kicked the embers over until every last flicker of flame was gone. After that the room was dark, but still she stood there.

ROSARIO
.
‘It might all solve itself.'

By the time that Rosario was fully awake, the MAMista were no more than a distant hum from many miles down the valley. Little sign of their sojourn remained except the warm ashes of the fire and dozens of MAMista posters which had been fixed neatly over the government ones. Each poster was the same. A caustic reference to the government's literacy test, which deprived most of the village of the right to vote, the posters showed a crudely drawn machine gun with a single admonition –
Vota!

Rosario's postmaster carefully swept his office before testing the stand-by radio and trying, unsuccessfully, to make contact with the provincial capital. Two Indians, assigned to remove the posters, were working slowly. Henri, the shopkeeper, was burning the money that the guerrillas had paid to him. It was paper money, and such banknotes had usually come from one of the guerrillas' bank hold-ups. Sometimes the numbers were known. It was better that it was burned.

The day was hot and humid with low clouds that did not move. The guerrillas were thankful for it; the government planes could not fly low over the mountains in such weather as this. So, without bothering to camouflage their vehicles, nor to hide their tracks, with no sudden alarms to
make them drive off under the jungle canopy, the convoy made good progress south.

Ralph Lucas was lolling back in his seat and looking at the breathtaking scenery. He had come to terms with the hardships and come to terms with the guerrillas too.

Across from him Gerald Singer was driving one of the big GMC trucks. He'd offered to do so, and even the ever-suspicious Maestro could see no harm in it. Between Singer and Lucas, Angel Paz was standing at the machine gun mounted on the roof of the cab. His head and shoulders were in the rushing air and he could toy with the gun and keep up a constant criticism of Singer's driving.

He bent down to call, ‘Keep closer to the truck ahead. Didn't you hear what I told you?'

As Paz resumed his standing position Singer turned his head and carefully mouthed an obscenity. Lucas grinned. Paz seemed to do everything he could to provoke antagonism. Lucas had seen such men in the army: newly commissioned subalterns and keen young corporals determined to be the new broom that swept clean. They didn't see – as Angel Paz didn't see – that their constant goading disturbed both higher and lower ranks. Such soldiers were always disposed of; some were posted off to rot in headquarters, others to get their heads blown off in battle. What would happen to Angel Paz, he wondered.

The truck rattled over a rough piece of verge so that Lucas was bounced in his seat. ‘Keep to the centre of the road, you stupid bastard!' It was Angel Paz again, head bent and eyes glaring. Singer didn't turn his head. Controlling such a big vehicle on the narrow muddy roads demanded all his care and attention, and yet there was still a part of his mind free to remember.

Singer glanced at his watch. If he'd still been working at CIA Langley he would be carrying the box now. From the Director's Suite, at this time, two agents would lug the sealed steel box. Inside it there would be a black leather document
case marked with the CIA crest in gold surmounted by the lettering: ‘The President of the United States – Daily Brief'.

The agents would place the steel box between them on the front seat of a bullet-proof car and drive across the Potomac to the White House and give the box to John Curl's assistant. The contents would be read aloud to the President as he readied himself for the appointments of the day.

‘Don't doze off, old chap,' Lucas said softly. ‘Dangerous on this sort of road. If you want me to drive …'

‘I wasn't dozing, I was thinking,' Singer said. He reached into his shirt pocket and got a knotted handkerchief. From it he prised a half a cigarette. He had rationed himself to two halves of his final American cigarettes each day. He put it in his mouth. Speaking with it held in his lips, he said, ‘Give me a light, Lucas, my old Red buddy.'

Lucas was not amused but gave no sign of this. ‘Certainly, comrade,' Lucas said.

Singer puffed gratefully. At moments like this, the stink of the jungle in his nostrils, and belching beans and hot peppers, he wished he'd used his law degree and joined his uncle. He would only have had to wait for the partnership that had been promised to him. Yet that flourishing law practice had played an important part in bringing him to his present situation. His uncle had persuaded him to acquire fluent Spanish as part of a cherished plan to open an office in Spanish Harlem and grow rich catering to the seemingly inexhaustible legal needs of New York City's large Puerto Rican community. Who was to guess that by the time Singer was graduating, it would be fluent Spanish that the CIA recruiters were urgently seeking?

By this time of morning back in Washington the Daily Brief would be in the hands of John Curl. One morning soon Gerald Singer's name would play a part in it. The way that Curl read it, the sort of sleep the President had enjoyed, some poll result, or a negative editorial in that morning's
Washington Post
that recurred to the chief for a moment;
any of these things could decide Singer's career or his fate.

Perhaps the long period of Singer's dangerous and unquestioning loyalty would be taken into account, but Singer did not ask for that. No one who'd seen the things he'd seen, or done the things he'd done, could believe that this was a job for a man who wanted long-service medals or a gold watch. Any aspirations to be the CIA's first black Director-General had vanished long ago.

 

The President of the United States of America was in his undershirt, leaning forward, face close to the mirror. He had nicked his chin. Blood oozed from it and nothing he did seemed to stanch the flow for more than a moment or two. Tiny fragments of tissue, and enough styptic pencil to make him dance, had spread the blood into a messy patch, but in the centre of it another pinhead of blood appeared and – while the President watched it – grew.

‘I wasn't listening, John. What were you saying about Spanish Guiana? Do you want to switch off that damned TV?' He didn't turn away from the mirror.

The early morning newscast had ended and a morning talk show had begun. A woman with hair seemingly formed from spun pink nylon gave a prolonged toothy smile to the bearded author of a book about fat thighs. Curl switched them off and returned to business. ‘The IMF says no loan unless Benz devalues the peseta.'

‘I got that. Benz can stagger along without an IMF loan for the time being. What was it about Dr Guizot?'

‘He's dead,' Curl said.

The President peeled the scrap of tissue from his face. He waited but a red line became visible on his chin and he quickly got another piece on to the cut before the blood swelled up. He held it in place while he turned to face Curl. Only someone who knew him well would have recognized the slight narrowing of the eyes as the tacit challenge Curl knew it to be.

‘Truly, Mr President,' Curl said. ‘Dead. From one of our senior men.'

‘Corpus delicti, John. Corpus delicti.'

Curl didn't correct the President's legal Latin. That would have deprived his chief of one of his favourite clichés, and clichés played a vital role in communication between the two men.

After the President had returned to the mirror Curl said, ‘In Tepilo one of our most reliable people was shown a video made by the Benz military cops. The guerrillas were decimated; they dragged Guizot's body away with them.'

The President said nothing.

Curl shuffled the prompt cards he held in his hand. One of them was a different colour from the rest. He kept returning it to the bottom of the stack. It had arrived during the night in the form of a long report from Mike O'Brien in Tepilo. Curl had spent over an hour with it, trying to decide how much of it should be part of this briefing for the President.

The President said, ‘The way to political oblivion is paved with the bodies of reliable men, John.' He drew back from the mirror in order to meet the reflection of John Curl's eyes.

Curl said, ‘Everyone on the seventh floor had come around to your view on Guizot. We were all set to go. We'd found one of his classmates from Harvard as a way to make contact. The CIA were all set to bid for a political monthly that's read all through the Guianas. But we're certain Guizot is dead, Mr President. He was shot during the escape …'

‘So what about the photo of him in the jeep?'

‘Faked.'

‘So?'

‘Our photo lab is putting together another fake. This one will show him dead.'

The President decided that the blood had stopped. He dabbed a little talc on it. ‘Ver-ree dangerous, John. Ver-ree dangerous.'

‘I'll clear it with you first, Mr President.'

‘Better than that, John. Just forget faked photos, huh?'

‘Right, Mr President. But we can't sit on the news about the oil for much longer. Our scenario is that the Marxist groups will make a bid for power – a full-scale revolution to take over and enjoy the oil bonanza.'

‘So that's your scenario?'

‘Benz needs military aid, Mr President. We have our own people to consider. Union Carbide, Kaiser Aluminum, tyre companies and sugar companies and lots more. Some big; some small, but they'd all go down if Benz went under. All good friends, Mr President; all good Americans. And if the MAMista get their greedy hands on that oil …'

‘We don't even know there is any oil yet.'

‘Houston says we should assume there is oil. They have a lot of stuff in their computer and it's all looking good. Next week communist leaders from all over Spanish Guiana are assembling for a meeting. Our guess is that they are finalizing plans for a concerted assault on the capital and dividing the oil revenues according to the military contribution.'

‘Now you are going too far, John.'

‘It's only our guess, Mr President.' John Curl's guesses were always ‘our' guesses – the guesses of some remote and secret think-tank – until they proved correct.

‘I've repaired my education since last week, John. You are talking about the May 2nd committee. They meet every year, with Dr Guizot presiding.'

‘A “front” they call it.'

‘These oil companies guard their secrets closely. If one of these Marxist outfits got word that there was oil in Silver Valley they wouldn't be going along to a meeting to tell their buddies. They'd be working out how to get their hands on it: planning a drive along the Silver River for instance. I'd say they would try to avoid that meeting … front … or whatever they call it.'

‘That's another way of looking at it, Mr President.'

‘We've got to stop that damned cocaine, John.' He paused and thought carefully about what he was about to say; Curl sometimes took things a little too literally. ‘I don't like these damned Marxists. And any aid I give to the Benz government will bring the opposition out in a rash.'

‘But if the Benz government says it needs the guns and stuff to control the coca traffic you'll be in hot water for not supplying them,' said Curl.

‘The oil is a wild card, John and …' He lowered his voice as he realized how disloyal he was being to old friends. ‘I hope the hell it turns out to be dry.'

Curl stole a glance at his wrist-watch as he calculated how long he had before the President would take the elevator down to the State Floor for his regular 9 am meeting with his chief of staff. Curl brought a buff-coloured card to the top of the pack. It was easily distinguished from the others which were white. This one was headed:
acción confluencia
. Curl flicked the card with his fingernail, making a sharp sound. The President turned to look at him quizzically. ‘It might all solve itself,' Curl said.

The President touched the tiny piece of dried tissue on his chin. He couldn't go downstairs with that on his face. One of the staff photographers would snap him, then there would be the business of making sure the picture was withheld. But if he removed the tissue he might start bleeding again. ‘Let's have it,' the President said.

‘The meeting of the Spanish Guiana communist leaders next week; Benz and his security people have a tip-off about the location. If they handle it right, it might solve their problems – and our problems – overnight.'

‘What are they going to try now, for God's sake? After that business with human rights people last month I would have thought they'd be treading softly.'

‘The front will bring every Red, every anarchist and troublemaker under one roof. It's a great opportunity for
anyone who is prepared to be as ruthless as the commies are.'

The President looked at him. Then said, ‘Make sure none of our people are there, John. I mean it. Don't come along next week and tell me that a company of Special Forces just happened to be on vacation down there at the same time.'

Curl had hoped the President would see this as a wonderful opportunity to solve the whole problem. He had expected him to ask for the usual assurances that there would be no Americans involved, but now he could see that the President really meant it. No Americans. Literally no Americans. Curl said, ‘This is strictly their own bag, Mr President. Spanish Guiana; internal security. The CIA station head only came upon this item because he's on good personal terms with the Minister of Justice in Tepilo. They play tennis.'

The President said, ‘Well just make sure they stick to tennis.'

Curl folded the card, creased it with his thumbnail and put it into his pocket. He continued with the next item, which was a part of the same touchy business. ‘You asked me about that newspaper story – the kidnapped CIA man.'

The President used the wetted end of a towel to get the dried blood from his chin without reopening the cut. ‘Ummmm.'

Curl raised his voice. ‘The story originated in one of those damned private newsletters here in town. It was picked up by some out-of-town newspapers, including one in Caracas. Benz censored it. I'd say that story will now just die a natural death.'