The Tailor of Panama (43 page)

And Fran was as excited as they were, though her excitement made her sceptical, whereas the men's excitement made them erect and pointed them towards a fiercer god, even if the god of the moment was bearded little Mr. Mellors, who perched like a nervous lonely diner at the far end of the table from her and kept calling the meeting “juntlemun” in a ripe Scottish brogue—as if, for tonight only, Fran had been upgraded to man's estate. He could not
believe,
juntlemun, he said, that he hadn't closed his eyes for twenty hours! Yet he swore he was game for twenty more.

“I cannot sufficiently emphasise, juntlemun, the immense national and dare I say geopolitical importance that is being accorded to this operation by the highest echelons of Her Majesty's
Government,” he kept assuring them, between discussions of such diverse matters as whether the rain forests of the Darién would provide an appropriate hideaway for a couple of thousand semiautomatic rifles, or should we be thinking of something a little more central for the home and office? And the men drinking it in. Swallowing it whole because it is monstrous but secret, therefore not monstrous at all. Shave off his stupid little Scottish beard, she advises them. Take him outside. Debag him. Make him say it all again on the bus to Paitilla. Then see if you agree with a word of it.

But they didn't take him outside, and they didn't debag him. They believed him. Admired him. Doted on him. Just look at Maltby, for instance!
Her
Maltby!—her louche, funny, pedantic, clever, married, unhappy ambass, not safe in taxis, not safe in corridors, a sceptic to end all sceptics, he would have her think, yet he had yelled
Christ, she's beautiful!
when she dived into his pool: Maltby, sitting like an obedient schoolboy at Mellors' right hand, smirking unctuous encouragement, bucking his long crooked head back and forth like those pub birds that drink water out of dirty plastic mugs and urging a sulky Nigel Stormont to agree with him.

“
You'd
go along with that, wouldn't you, Nigel?” Maltby cried. “Yes, he would. Done, Mellors.”

Or: “
We
give 'em the gold,
they
buy the guns through Gully. Far simpler than supplying them direct.
And
more deniable—agreed, Nigel?—yes, Gully?—done, Mellors.”

Or: “No, no, Mr. Mellors, thank you, no need for an extra body at all. Nigel and I are perfectly equal to a little skulduggery, aren't we, Nigel? And Gully here knows the ropes of old. What's a few hundred anti-personnel mines between friends, eh, Gully? Made in Birmingham. You can't beat 'em.”

And Gully simpering and hammering his moustache with his handkerchief and jotting greedily in his order book, while Mellors pushes what looks like a shopping list across the table at him, turning his eyes to heaven so that he doesn't see himself do it.

“With the minister's most
enthusiastic
approval,” he breathes, meaning: don't blame me.

“Our
only
problem here, Mellors, is keeping the circle of knowledge to an
absolute
minimum,” Maltby is saying keenly. “That means corralling everybody who's likely to find out by mistake, like young Simon here”—a leer at Simon Pitt, who sits in a state of shell shock at Gully's side—“and threatening them with penal servitude in the galleys for life if they blabber one indiscreet word. Right, Simon? Right? Right?”

“Right,” Simon agrees under torture.

A different Maltby, one Fran hasn't met before but always guessed at because he was so underused and underappreciated. A different Stormont too, who frowns into a void every time he speaks, and endorses whatever Maltby says.

And a different Andy? Or is he the same model as before, only I never knew till now?

Covertly, she allows her eyes to focus on him.

A changed man. Not larger or fatter or thinner. Just further away. So far away, in fact, that she hardly recognised him across the table. His departure had begun in the casino, she now realised, and gathered speed with the dramatic news of Mellors' imminent arrival.

“Who needs the little shit?” he had demanded of her furiously, as if he held her responsible for summoning the wretched man. “
BUCHAN
won't see him.
BUCHAN TWO
won't see him. She won't even see
me.
None o' them will see him. I've told him that already.”

“Then tell him again.”

“This is
my
fucking patch. Not his.
My
fucking operation. Fuck's it got to do with him?”

“Do you mind not swearing at me? He's your boss, Andy. He posted you here. I didn't. Regional heads have a right to drop in on their flock. Even in your service, I presume.”

“Bullshit,” he retorted, and the next thing she knew she was calmly packing up her possessions and Andy was telling her to make sure there were no nasty little hairs in the bath.

“What are you so afraid of him finding?” she demanded, ice cold. “He's not your lover, is he? You're not sworn to chastity, are you? Are you? So you had a woman here. What's wrong with that? It doesn't have to have been me.”

“No. It doesn't.”

“Andy!”

He made a brief and graceless show of penitence.

“Don't like being spied on, that's all,” he said sulkily.

But when she broke out in relieved laughter at this good joke, he grabbed her car key from the sideboard, forced it into her palm and marched her with her luggage to the lift. All day long they had succeeded in avoiding each other until now, when they were obliged to sit across a table in this gloomy white jail, with Andy glowering and Fran tight-lipped, keeping her smiles for the stranger—who to her secret indignation was flattering Andy and deferring to him in the most nauseating way imaginable:

“But do these proposals make
sense
to you, now, Andrew?” Mellors insists, with a suck of his teeth. “Speak up, now, young Mr. Osnard. It's
your
achievement, good heavens! You're the
man at the controls
here, the
star
—saving His Excellency's presence. Is it not better for the man in the field—at the front line, my God—to be unfettered by wearisome administration, Andrew, tell us frankly now? Nobody round this table wishes to impair your
exemplary
performance.”

To which sentiment Maltby then lends his enthusiastic support, seconded some moments later and with less enthusiasm by Stormont—the point at issue being the two-key system for controlling the Silent Opposition's finances, a task which, it is generally agreed, is best entrusted to senior officers.

So why is Andy down in the mouth at having such a heavy load lifted from his shoulders? Why isn't he grateful that Maltby and Stormont are falling over themselves to take the job off his hands?

“Up to you people,” he mumbles churlishly, with a sideways glower at Maltby. And goes back into deep sulk.

And when the question arises of how Abraxas and Domingo and the other Silent Opponents can be persuaded to deal directly with Stormont on matters of finance and logistics, Andy comes close to losing his temper altogether.

“Why don't you take over the whole bloody network while you're about it?” he flares, flushing crimson. “Run it from chancery in office hours, five days a week, be done with it. Help yourselves.”

“Andrew, Andrew, come—no hard words here, please!” cries Mellors, tutting like an old Scottish hen. “We are a team, Andrew, are we not? All that is being offered here is a helping hand—the counsel of wise heads—a steadying influence upon a brilliantly managed operation. Is it not, Ambassador?” Suck of the teeth, sad frown of troubled father, the placatory tone raised to entreaty. “These opposition fellows, they'll be driving a hard bargain, Andrew. Binding assurances will have to be given from the hip. Snap decisions of immense consequence will abound. Deep waters, Andrew, for a fellow of your tender years. Better to leave such matters in the capable hands of men of the world.”

Andy sulks. Stormont stares into his void. But dear, kind Maltby feels constrained to add a few comforting words of his own.

“My dear chap, you can't possibly hang on to the whole game—can he, Nigel? It's share and share alike in my embassy— isn't it, Nigel? Nobody's taking your spies away from you. You'll still have your network to look after—brief, debrief,
pay
and so forth. All we want is your opposition. What could be fairer than that?”

But still, to Fran's embarrassment, Andy refuses to accept the hand that is so courteously outstretched to him. His glittery little eyes switch to Maltby, then Stormont, then go back to Maltby. He mutters something nobody catches, which is probably as well. He pulls a bitter grin and nods to himself like a man cruelly cheated.

A last symbolic ceremony remains. Mellors stands, ducks beneath the table and reappears with two black leather shoulder bags of the sort Queen's Messengers cart about, one to each shoulder.

“Andrew, kindly open up the strong room for us,” he commands.

Now everyone is standing. Fran stands too. Shepherd advances on the strong room, unlocks the grille with a long brass key, and pulls it back, exposing a solid steel door with a black dial at its centre. On Mellors' nod, Andy steps forward and, with an expression of such pent-up venom that she is heartily glad she never saw it until now, swivels the dial this way and that until the lock yields. Even then, it takes an encouraging word from Maltby before Andy draws back the door and, with a mocking bow, invites his ambassador and head of chancery to enter ahead of him. Still standing at the table, Fran makes out, beside an oversized red telephone attached to a kind of reconstructed vacuum cleaner, a steel safe with two keyholes. Her father the judge has one like it in his dressing room.

“One each now,” she hears Mellors pipe skittishly.

For a moment Fran is in her old school chapel, kneeling in the front pew and watching a huddle of handsome young priests as they chastely turn their backs to her and busy themselves with exciting things in preparation for her first Communion. Gradually her field of view clears, and she sees Andy, under Mellors' parental eye, presenting Maltby and Stormont with one long-stemmed silver-plated key apiece. There is English amusement, which Andy does not share, while each man tries the other's keyhole before Maltby lets out a jolly “
Gotcha
” and the safe door clunks open.

But Fran by now is no longer looking at the safe. Her gaze is all upon Andy as he stares and stares at the gold bars that Mellors is taking one by one from his black shoulder bags and handing to Shepherd to be stacked crisscross like spillikins. And it is Andy's sagging face that for the last time holds her in its spell, because it tells her everything she ever did or didn't want to know about him. She knows he's been caught, and she has a shrewd notion of what
he's been caught at, though she has no idea at all whether those who have caught him know what they have done. She knows he is a liar, with or without the licence of his profession. She knows the source of the fifty thousand dollars he put on red. It is standing before her with its door open. She entirely understands why he is so angry that he has been forced to give away the keys. And after that, Fran can't watch anymore, partly because her eyes have misted over in humiliation and self-disgust and partly because the ungainly frame of Maltby is bearing down on her with a pirate's grin, asking whether she would regard it as an offence against Creation if he took her to the Pavo Real for a boiled egg.

“Phoebe has decided to leave me,” he explains with pride. “We're getting a divorce immediately. Nigel's plucking up his courage to break it to her. She'll never believe it if it comes from me.”

Fran took a moment to reply, because her first instinct was to shudder and say no thank you very much. It was only when she kept thinking that she realised a number of things she might have realised earlier. Namely that for months she had been touched by Maltby's devotion to her and grateful for the presence in her life of a man who longed for her so hopelessly. And that Maltby's sheepish adoration of her had become a source of priceless support as she wrestled with the knowledge that she was sharing her life with an amoralist whose lack of shame or scruple had at first attracted and now repelled her; whose interest in her had never been more than expedient and carnal; and whose net effect on her had been to instil a craving for the shambling devotion of her ambassador.

And having thus rationally thought her way to this conclusion, Fran decided that it had been a long time since she had been so grateful for an invitation.

Marta sat hunched on the finishing hands' workbench, looking down at the wad of money he had pressed on her and thinking: His friend Mickie is dead, he believes he killed him, and perhaps he did, the police are spying on him but he wants me to sit on a
beach in Miami and eat the buffet lunch at the Grand Bay and buy clothes and wait until he comes. And be happy and believe in him and get a tan and have my face mended. And get a boy as well if I can, because he would like me to have a handsome boy, a proxy Harry Pendel, doing his loving for him while he stays faithful to Louisa. That's who he is, and you may call it complicated or you may call it very simple. Harry has a dream for everyone. Harry dreams all our lives for us, and gets them wrong every time. Because number one, I don't want to leave Panama. I want to stay here and lie to the police for him and sit at his bedside the way he sat at mine and find out what's gone wrong for him and cure it. I want to tell him to get up and hobble round the room, because for as long as you stay lying down all you can think of is getting another beating. But when you stand up you start to be a
mensch
again, which is his word for dignity. And number two I can't leave Panama because the police have taken my passport by way of encouragement to spy on him.

Seven thousand dollars.