by Jack Treby
I stared after him, barely managing to contain my own anger. Who the devil did he think he was, talking to me like that? I wasn’t his lackey. Richards was a weaselly little bean-counter, putting on airs and graces. I didn’t have to take that kind of nonsense from him. If his career had amounted to anything, he wouldn’t be a chargé d’affaires in such an absurd backwater; he’d be a fully fledged ambassador somewhere important. Oh, I knew Richards type well enough: happy to fawn and ingratiate himself with presidents and foreign diplomats, but showing his true colours closer to home. My father would have taken a whip to him.
‘Mr Buxton?’ a voice piped up from the doorway.
I frowned. “Henry Buxton.” My latest nom de plume. I was still getting used to the name. It was the second new identity I had adopted in as many years. It did not have quite the same gravitas as my real name – Hilary Manningham-Butler – but at least I had been able to retain the initials. I had been sorely tempted to restore my title as well, when I had written out the passport using one of the blanks in the office in New York. In a previous life, I had been a baronet and Sir Henry Buxton would have had a nice ring to it. However, some thoughtful soul had pointed out that as the head of mission in Guatemala – Mr Richards – had not yet been knighted, it would not be the done thing to outrank him. I had reluctantly conceded the logic of that. Having met the man in question, however, I was tempted to go back and make one final adjustment to that passport.
‘Yes, what it is?’ I snapped, looking up at the figure in the doorway.
William Battersby, my secretary, did not flinch. He was a slender, quiet fellow in his mid twenties, efficient and anxious to please. ‘Didn’t go well, sir?’ he asked.
‘What do you think?’ I stood up and marched over to the sideboard. It wasn’t ten o’clock yet, but I needed a stiff drink.
William observed me quietly as I filled up the glass. He was carrying a bundle of papers with him. ‘We’re just about to open up.’
I grimaced. Another working day. That was another thing I was having to get used to: a nine to five job. It wasn’t right, a woman of my calibre. Not that William – or anybody else here – had the slightest idea about that. The Foreign Office did not allow women to occupy senior positions. Thankfully, the department was only open to the public between 10am and 1pm. ‘Any takers today?’ I asked, taking a swig of whisky and slumping back into my chair.
William nodded. ‘A couple of people waiting, sir. Smartly dressed, too.’ Most of the visa applications we received were from local businessmen. They were the only ones who would have the wherewithal to visit the United Kingdom. ‘I’ve got the files you wanted, sir. And you asked me to remind you about your four o’clock appointment.’
‘I haven’t forgotten.’ I downed the rest of the whisky and William handed the paperwork across. ‘Well, better open up then. Oh, and close the door behind you. I’m not to be disturbed.’ Better to keep the rabble at a distance while I read through these files. The secretary obediently pulled the door shut behind him. His desk was in the outer room, opposite Miss Bunting. It was there that most of the visa applications would be processed.
My own office was reserved for more serious work. The room was painfully small, with just one grated window, a filing cabinet and a corner safe. A large wooden fan rotated laboriously above my head but all it ever seemed to do was redistribute the dust. I glanced down at the files William had given me. The latest reports from Nicaragua and Honduras. Our office did not just provide visas for rich Guatemalans; we were passport control for most of Central America. And that was only the day job. These reports were of a more sensitive nature.
I scowled. Who was I trying to fool? Nothing that happened in this part of the world was of any interest to the mandarins back home. The Secret Intelligence Service needed a presence in Central America, for form’s sake, but the days of British influence in this part of the world were slowly drawing to a close. The highest item on the ministerial agenda was Guatemalan loan repayments. It was a dead end job in a backward country. And the worst of it was, they wouldn’t even have offered me this position if my predecessor hadn’t taken it upon himself to commit suicide. I was not exactly an experienced field operative. One posting with MI5 in Gibraltar and a couple of years in the back office hardly qualified me for a position of any real responsibility. And so I had ended up here, passport control officer in a banana republic, playing second fiddle to the likes of Mr David Richards.
I poured myself another whisky and opened the first folder.
‘You are looking tired, Mr Buxton,’ Jorge Navarro observed with some sympathy. He was a handsome, olive skinned man in his early thirties with a tasteful moustache and a comfortably symmetrical face. ‘Perhaps we should cut the lesson short?’
Rain was pelting the window of the small south-facing classroom. It always seemed to rain in Guatemala in the afternoons. The country had a more temperate climate than I had expected; but what it lacked in temperature it made up for in precipitation. The rain arrived in short, heavy bursts every afternoon, almost like clockwork. Perhaps my perception was a little skewed. I had made the mistake of arriving at the beginning of the rainy season.
‘No, no, we’d better continue.’ I smiled grimly at the tutor. I had never had much of an aptitude for languages and a year or so living in Gibraltar had given me barely more than a passing acquaintance with the language. Now that I was living in a Spanish speaking country, however, it was only right that I should make some effort to learn the lingo. ‘People will start to notice if I don’t get any better fairly soon. I just can’t get to grips with these pronouns,’ I muttered. ‘Damn things are the wrong way around.’
The lecturer nodded sympathetically. ‘It is never easy for a man of your age to start learning a language from scratch.’
‘I’m not that old,’ I said. Forty-two was barely middle aged. I might have developed a few grey hairs and my waistline had probably expanded an inch or two over the last couple of years, but I still had a firm jaw and a pleasingly masculine voice. ‘I’m not quite ready for the knackers yard just yet.’
We finished the lesson and I closed up the text book. Navarro was a good teacher but he was probably wasting his time with me. Our regular meetings had, however, served to provide me with a great deal of other information.
‘You saw Giles Markham, didn’t you?’ I asked, finally getting down to the important business. ‘A few days before he died?’
‘Yes. It was he who recruited me,’ Navarro said. The professor had been our mole at the University of San Carlos for some years now. The Guatemalan government had its fair share of spies, in every town and village, so it was only reasonable that we should have a few of our own. The lecturer scratched his moustache and leaned forward. As a professor of Spanish, no-one questioned his right to provide lessons for minor diplomats and functionaries such as myself; and he was young enough and sufficiently charismatic to mix well with the students too. As such, he was well placed to provide the office with advance warning of any potential unrest in the capital. Political change in Central America always begins with the universities and Navarro was a reliable barometer, not just for Guatemala but for the whole region.
Strictly speaking, the internal politics of these tin-pot little countries was of no concern to the SIS. Our remit was to gather information regarding potential threats to the United Kingdom and there were precious few of those on this side of the Atlantic. Even the possibility of communist subversion, which was forever being bandied about by those who had little notion of what it actually meant, was not really within our sphere of reference in this part of the world. But information is power, as some wise old soak once said, and any advance warning of a change in the status quo would always be of value. David Richards had his own lines of intelligence, but I was expected to dig a little deeper and not concern myself too much with protocol.
‘How did he seem to you?’ I asked, following up the reference to my late, lamented predecessor. Giles Mar
kham had used the same cover story I had to visit the lecturer each week. I had told Navarro about the break in at Markham’s old flat.
‘A little distracted, but then he always was. I had the impression he was thinking about his next appointment. He was always two steps ahead.’
‘But he didn’t seem unnecessarily worried?’
‘Not that I could tell. I was shocked when I heard he had shot himself.’ Navarro shuddered at the memory.
‘What did you make of him? Generally, I mean? You must have spent quite a bit of time with him.’
The lecturer considered. ‘He was a lively, outgoing man. Not the kind to brood or worry. Why, do you think his death may have had something to do with your break-in?’
‘I have no idea,’ I admitted. ‘But I am staying in the same apartment as him. And it’s clear the thief was looking for something in particular.’
Navarro shrugged. ‘I wish I could help you.’
‘Not to worry.’ I stretched my arms above my head and sat back in my chair. ‘How are things going here at the university? Has everything quietened down a bit?’ There had been some bother back in March when the government had banned a student rally and the youngsters had gone out onto the streets. It had caused a major diplomatic incident, after the police had arrested several dozen students from neighbouring El Salvador.
‘Back to normal, I think,’ Navarro confirmed. ‘The president may not like the new regime in El Salvador but he knows it is not in his interest to upset them.’
‘He’s barely settling into the role himself.’ General Jorge Ubico had come to power in Guatemala at the beginning of February.
‘He has a lot of good will on his side. And a popular mandate.’
‘So everybody says.’ I chuckled. ‘But it’s not difficult to win an election when nobody’s standing against you.’
‘He is very popular with the people,’ Navarro said. ‘They want a strong man in charge, in these difficult times. Someone who can get a grip on the nation’s finances and cut down on corruption.’
‘He’s certainly made a lot of noise about that.’ Rumour had it that when the new government had moved in they had found precisely twenty seven dollars in the national kitty. ‘It’ll be interesting to see if he carries it through. Sounds almost as if you approve of him.’
Navarro smiled slyly. ‘Let us say I am reserving judgement. Mr Markham had Ubico down as president, you know, before anyone else had even considered him.’
‘Yes. He was quite a bright fellow, by all accounts. I do seem to be living in his shadow rather.’
‘I am sure you will make your own mark here.’ Navarro smiled again. ‘Once you have mastered the language.’
Thursday night was my regular bath night and, after a particularly frustrating day, I always looked forward to a good long soak. Maurice had run the bath for me but had left me to my own devices thereafter. After a hard day, it was pleasant to be able to divest myself of the tight cotton bandages I always wore beneath my shirt. I have never had a particularly full figure but what little I did have needed to be flattened down whenever I was away from the flat.
My valet would help me to wind the bandages into place each morning, seeing far more of me than was strictly decent, but he had never displayed any interest in the physical aspects of my deception. As far as Maurice was concerned, I was a shop window dummy, not a woman pretending to be a man. The peculiarities of my lifestyle were a matter of complete indifference to him and he dealt with the few intractable biological differences with a stoic detachment. He was a true professional and, although I would never have admitted it to his face, I was lucky to have him.
I had barely stripped off and plunged into the steaming hot water when there was a knock at the door of the apartment. I scowled. Who could possibly be calling at this hour? It was almost eight o’clock. I rose up from the bathtub and grabbed a towel, shuffling over to the bathroom door and flicking the lock into place. Whoever it was, Maurice would know to get rid of them. There was no question of anyone catching sight of me here in my native state.
He opened the front door and greeted the visitor. A woman’s voice echoed across the entrance hall. It was Emily Bunting, one of my secretaries. What on earth was she doing here? I placed an ear to the bathroom door and tried to hear what the girl was saying. In years gone by, I would get terribly anxious whenever I found myself in a situation like this – and, lord, the number of times it had happened – but now, so long as there was a solid lock on the bathroom door, I was happy to let events play themselves out. No one was expecting to find a naked woman in Henry Buxton’s bathroom and no one but Maurice had any business looking.
‘I’m awfully sorry to be calling at this late hour,’ Miss Bunting burbled away. She had a light chirrup of a voice and a mercifully faint Midlands accent. ‘I couldn’t talk to Mr Buxton at the office. It’s rather a private matter. You say he’s in the bath?’
‘I’m afraid so, Mademoiselle,’ Maurice responded gravely.
‘Oh, well, never mind.’ She had already moved through into the living room, doubtless without any encouragement from my valet. She was rather a head strong girl, that one. I had had cause to reprimand her before for her over-familiarity. Not with me, of course, but with some of the young men at the legation. Frederick Reeves, the Second Secretary, had his eye on the girl and I didn’t want her being led astray.
‘I really came to return this,’ she said. ‘I should never have held onto it for so long.’ I couldn’t see what the “this” was, unfortunately, and I didn’t dare unlock the door to find out. ‘But after what happened to you last night, I thought I ought to bring it back. Actually, I’d forgotten all about it until this morning; but I didn’t want to mention it in the office, in front of William. Especially not when Mr Richards was about. I thought I had better bring it around here after work.’
‘That was very thoughtful, Mademoiselle. I will inform Monsieur Buxton for you.’
‘Thank you. How are you settling in here, by the way?’
‘Very well, Mademoiselle.’
‘It must be very different from home. Will you be joining Mr Buxton this weekend?’ I was heading north for a couple of days to visit a coffee plantation, of all things. It was more of a social event than anything official. The Second Secretary had invited me along. He was the only member of the inner sanctum who had shown me any civility since my arrival.
‘I will be accompanying him,’ Maurice confirmed.
‘Freddie – Mr Reeves – has asked me to come too,’ Miss Bunting declared, happily. ‘So we’ll all be there together! It will be nice to get out of the city.’
‘Indeed, Mademoiselle.’
I cursed silently. Freddie had not told me he had invited the girl along; and she had kept the fact very quiet too. The man did have an eye for a pretty face, though, so I was not altogether surprised.
There was a brief silence. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to get on,’ she said. And with that, she headed back to the door. ‘Good night, Monsieur Sauveterre.’
‘Goodnight, Mademoiselle.’
I waited until I heard the front door close and then unlocked the bathroom. I poked my head out tentatively. ‘Has she gone?’
Maurice was standing over by the bureau. ‘Yes, Monsieur.’
‘What on earth did she want?’
‘To return a key, Monsieur. The Mademoiselle said she had forgotten all about it.’
‘Yes, I heard that bit. A key to the flat.’ I shook my head, pulling the door fully open. She had taken her time, bringing that back. I had been living here for two months now. ‘I can’t believe Freddie invited her to the plantation.’ I growled. ‘I wanted to get away from the office this weekend, not take it with me. And lord knows what William will think.’ My other secretary had developed a bit of a crush on his female counterpart. The thought of her going off for the weekend with another man would seriously dampen his spirits. Not that I cared about that, but I knew his work would suffer as a result. The mo
od in the office on Monday morning would be as black as ice.
Maurice’s mind was on more practical matters. ‘Do you wish to dress, Monsieur, or will you return to your bath?’
I glanced back into the bathroom. ‘Shame to waste it,’ I said. ‘How long’s dinner?’
‘Forty-five minutes.’
‘Back to the bath then.’ I moved across the living room to the drinks table. ‘Just pour myself a stiff one, before I get back in.’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’ Maurice moved past the sofa towards the kitchen.
I grabbed the whisky bottle and poured out a small dram. I confess, I barely heard the key turning in the lock as I filled the glass, but I heard the main door swing open and a voice call out. I swung round in alarm. I was only wearing a towel.
‘Only me again!’ Miss Bunting declared, moving into the small entrance hall. ‘I came all this way to return the key and then I forget to give it to you!’ She rounded the corner and stopped dead in her tracks. ‘Oh, hello, Mr Buxton. I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t realise –’ She had taken in my towel without batting an eyelid but then she froze and I looked down in horror. The towel had slipped, exposing my left breast. I reached down hurriedly to pull it up but, in so doing, the other half fell away and I found myself standing on the far side of the living room, all but naked. Miss Bunting’s eyes were out on stalks. ‘Mr Buxton!’ she exclaimed.
‘You’d better come in,’ I whispered hoarsely.
Chapter Two
A gentle plume of sulphurous cloud rose languidly from the crown of the volcano. The steep slopes dominated the northern edge of the valley, the tree line giving way to the traditional rocky cone, though the volcano itself was dormant. The Finca Weiman plantation was situated in the north central highlands, a few hours trek from Guatemala City. It was a modest enterprise; several dozen acres of forest on the south side of the mountain. The hacienda formed the centrepiece of the estate, a two storey wooden affair in red and white with a tiled roof and an exterior terrace on both floors. Hanging baskets on the upper balcony provided a nice floral garnish and a frothing Italianate fountain on the front lawn completed the display. The sharply angled garden was something of a struggle to traverse but the picturesque setting mitigated somewhat against the effort involved.
