MAMista

by Len Deighton

  Tapping the map with his finger he called across to them in accented English, asking if they knew which days the silver market took place.

  Lucas said it was every day. The stranger took his map to lay it out on their table. He asked them to show him in which direction the cathedral was. They told him. All the time they were expecting him to give them a message but he went on his way happily.

  They had almost wearied of their game when the lottery seller passed their table. ‘Lucky day! Lucky day! Lucky number, mister. What’s your lucky number, eh?’

  He came to show them the tickets. ‘Buy half. Buy a quarter ticket,’ the boy urged. ‘Million pesetas prize money.’

  It was while he was showing them the tickets that he whispered that they should not return to Chori’s apartment. They were to be at the airport by two-thirty that afternoon. They must ask for Thorburn at the República desk. Their personal baggage would be taken there for them.

  ‘Two tickets,’ Lucas said.

  The boy gave them the tickets and, not knowing that the police had returned their cash, he also put on the table enough pesetas to pay for a taxi. ‘Lucky day!’ he shouted again and went down to where the VW Beetle was parked and got into it. The engine was running and it departed immediately. ‘See that?’ said Paz.

  ‘I did indeed. He must have had a successful morning.’

  There was plenty of time. They paid for the beer and ice-cream. Then at Lucas’ instigation they went off to find one of the many shops that sold ‘exploration equipment’.

  In the shop Lucas bought a nylon survival bag that zipped completely closed, a dozen pairs of good-quality woollen socks, a large nylon sheet and an oilskin zipper bag with a shoulder-strap.

  Angel Paz looked at boots. There was a good selection. He tried on a bright green rubber pair, double-tongued with straps at the instep and at the top. ‘You left it a bit late,’ Lucas said. ‘It’s no fun breaking in a new pair of boots.’ Paz nodded. What alternative did he have?

  ‘What about these?’ said Paz, holding up a foot in its green jungle boot and speaking to the world in general.

  ‘Rubber soles,’ said Lucas. ‘And no ventilation. You’ll get trench foot.’

  ‘But will leather boots last in the jungle?’

  ‘They’ll last longer than your feet in rubber ones.’

  Paz took the older man’s advice and tried on leather boots until he found a good fit.

  ‘Buy baggy shirts and pants,’ Lucas advised. ‘It’s not a fashion show.’

  Paz bought some and an ‘Everest frame’, a combat jacket and a large nylon sheet into which everything could be wrapped before being tied to the frame with a nylon cord. ‘What kind of hand-guns have you got?’ he asked.

  The shopkeeper, a fat old man with a big white mustachio, was pleased to find such good customers at this time of year. He hooked his thumbs into his wide leather belt. Bulging out of a gleaming white T-shirt, with a red scarf tight around his throat, he had a piratical look. ‘You’re not going down into the military zone, are you?’ The military zones, numbered one to eighteen, were misnamed regions dominated by the various guerrilla forces.

  ‘Would that be dangerous?’ Lucas asked.

  ‘One day soon we’ll find out,’ he promised. ‘They are all drug-happy down there. Indians. That’s how the commies keep them controlled.’

  ‘What hand-guns have you got?’ Paz asked.

  The shopkeeper waved a hand to indicate three locked and barred cases of guns new and second-hand. ‘You’ll need a permit,’ he added. ‘And that will cost you five hundred pesetas at Police Headquarters. You’ll have to promise to export it: they mark your passport.’ When Paz did not respond to this idea, the shopkeeper said, ‘The guerrillas have got all the guns down there. American guns, Russian guns, Czechoslovak guns: mortars, heavy machine guns and SAMs too. You get to hear what’s going on in this business.’

  When he saw that Paz did not intend to apply for a gun permit, he hinted that he could get a permit for him after the purchase. It was a way of selling his guns for double their normal price. On the counter he placed a .38 Enfield revolver and a .45 Colt and said these were ‘non-permit guns’.

  ‘I prefer the Colt,’ said Paz, picking it up and cocking it and inspecting it closely.

  ‘Why not the Enfield?’ Ralph Lucas asked him. ‘That was the standard British army sidearm. It will keep going in the mud and the filth.’

  ‘You stick with what you know about,’ Paz told him. ‘Those .38 Enfields wouldn’t shoot a hole in a paper bag.’ When the shopkeeper realized that he was unlikely to sell either gun he went off to find an amazing museum piece: a 9mm Luger of unknown age. It came complete with leather belt and shoulder-strap. It was in beautiful condition and looked in every way the ‘collector’s piece’ that the shopkeeper claimed it to be. Angel Paz couldn’t resist it. An impressive-looking weapon, the Luger was exactly the right accessory for a revolutionary. ‘I’ll take it,’ he told the shopkeeper who – having seen the look in Paz’s eyes – was already adding up the bill.

  When they paid he gave them each an ‘Explorer’s Companion – as advertised in Playboy Magazine’. Each contained, according to the label, fishing line and hooks, a folding can-opener, dye for ocean rescue or for marking snow, instructions for a dew catchment and a coloured guide to edible fruits of the world.

  As he counted out their change the old man said, ‘When the rainy season is over the guerrillas will move north and start taking over the towns. By this time next year, Tepilo will be under siege. You go blundering into their jump-off positions and you won’t get out alive.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lucas, taking his change.

  ‘A hunting party was lost down there last month. Ten experienced men with Indian guides. Fully equipped expedition: radios and everything. Never heard of again. Ask yourself what happened to them.’

  ‘Maybe they ran out of money,’ Lucas said.

  Next door was a drug-store where Lucas spent another four hundred dollars. He had brought a few things with him, but seeing a chance to buy more he took it. He bought needle forceps, a nylon suture kit, surgical needles, scalpels, drips, antihistamines, hydrocortisone, penicillin tablets, some powdered antibiotics and three tins of vitamin B. Artfully Lucas waited until he had his money in his hand before asking the pharmacist for the morphine and pethidine. They were legally sold only to holders of a written prescription signed by a government-authorized doctor. But Lucas had his timing right and got his morphia.

  They packed up their shopping and with bag and frame over their shoulders they went out into the street again.

  ‘Are you a doctor?’ Paz asked.

  ‘It’s little more than first-aid stuff. A gift for the people down there.’

  ‘They badly need qualified doctors down south.’

  ‘Don’t start telling everyone I’m a doctor,’ Lucas said.

  ‘Play it any way you want. Did you believe that stuff the old man was saying about the hunting party?’

  Lucas packed his medical supplies into his shoulder-bag. ‘Don’t be nervous of the jungle. It’s just a matter of taking care.’

  Paz was angry at the implication of fear. Without a word he hefted his equipment on to his shoulder and went out to the street to hail a passing cab. Paz was frightened of the jungle and was annoyed to think that it showed so much.

  Under the República International sign at the airport they found a clerk staring into space and picking his teeth reflectively. Asked for Thorburn, he said he would be eating: ‘He’s always eating.’

  They found Thorburn in the shed that served as an airport restaurant. He was a tall thin Englishman with a spotty face. ‘So you are for the sunny southland?’ He gave a big smile. It revealed a front tooth with the ostentatious gold inlay that local dentists fitted. ‘Both of you English?’ He had a strong flat London accent.

  ‘Australian,’ said Lucas. Paz didn’t reply. They both put their packs on the floor.

 
Thorburn was drinking beer and picking at a bread roll that had come from a plastic basket on the table. Judging by the crumbs in front of him he’d already eaten several of them. To make room for Lucas and Paz, he shoved his maps, pilot’s log, sun-glasses and flying helmet along the table using his elbow. They sat down and picked up the dog-eared menus. Thorburn spent a moment or two craning his neck to examine the equipment the two men had bought. He fingered it and made appreciative little grunts.

  He gave no sign that he’d heard Lucas’ correction. He said, ‘I haven’t been back to London for twenty years. Nothing there for someone not afraid of hard work, got dirty fingernails, the wrong accent and can’t stand those trade union buggers.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Lucas. Paz looked at him and then at Thorburn.

  ‘Skyscrapers in Piccadilly a fellow was telling me down in B.A. last month. Drug-stores, sex shops and hamburgers everywhere you look. Like Times Square, this fellow said.’

  ‘He was not far wrong,’ admitted Lucas.

  ‘What are you two eating?’ Thorburn asked. A silent Indian waitress behind the counter was looking at them and waiting for them to select something from the menus.

  ‘Omelette,’ said Paz. ‘And bean soup.’

  ‘Don’t have one of those plastic bloody omelettes,’ Thorburn advised. ‘And as for that bean soup muck, you’ll get more than enough of that where you’re going. And it will make you fart. Beans don’t go with flying. Unless you are stony-broke, take my advice and have a steak like me.’ As if to reassure himself that his steak was coming, he toyed with his knife and fork.

  ‘Okay,’ said Paz. He was nervous. Lucas wondered if Paz was frightened of flying.

  Thorburn brought the ketchup bottle down with a sharp bang. ‘Hey, Juanita!’ It was immediately apparent that Thorburn called every local female Juanita. ‘Biftec. Two more of them.’ He made a shape with his hands: ‘Grande and poco hecho remember?’

  The woman nodded solemnly, trying to commit to memory his appalling Spanish and the accent in which he delivered it. Her skill at mimicry amused the cook.

  Thorburn explained: ‘A big undercooked beefsteak. My name is Bob Thorburn. They know me here.’ He finished his beer and yelled for another. ‘I’ll tell you something: the word – the only word – you need to know in this country is “dinero” – pesetas! Got it?’ He held up his right hand and, with thumb uppermost, touched his fingertips. ‘You’ll see. The steak she’ll bring me is twice the size of the regular ones. Why? Because she knows that there will be a bit of servicio under my plate. Get me?’

  ‘You’re flying us south?’ said Paz. ‘How long is the flight?’

  ‘I don’t work for República: I just use them as agents here. Yes, I’ll fly anyone and anything anywhere. Anyone who’s got the money.’ He sucked his teeth. ‘You sound American but you’ve got the colouring the locals have.’ He waited for Paz to respond but when he said nothing Thorburn said, ‘Yes, anyone who’s got the money.’

  ‘No sense in being too choosy,’ Lucas said.

  ‘Not with two hungry babies to feed.’ He paused long enough to see the looks on their faces and then added: ‘Two nine-cylinder Pratt and Whitneys … No, I can’t be too sodding choosy or the bloody skeds will get every last passenger.’ He nodded towards his plane. ‘Double six, zero one: that’s me.’ The number was painted on a plane standing outside the hangar. It was a twin-engined Beech, an ancient type that the US navy called the ‘Bug-crusher’. It was painted green with black wing-tips and tail fin. The only bright note was the name ‘Speedy Gonzales’ painstakingly lettered on the nose in dull red. It might have been Thorburn’s idea of a livery but Lucas couldn’t help reflecting that such a paint-job would make it easy to conceal on a jungle airstrip.

  Thorburn leaned close to the window as a well-maintained Costa Rican Lockheed Electra came rolling past. The noise of its turbo-prop engines rattled the windows. Thorburn signalled rudely with two upraised fingers. The pilot saw him, slid back his window, and leaned out to return the insult with considerable emphasis, using arm and elbow. ‘San José first stop,’ said Thorburn. ‘Big deal! Switch on the auto-pilot, read Nevil Shute all the way there. I’ll keep my Beech, thanks.’ He said it with heavy irony but he couldn’t erase the envy from his voice.

  ‘You own that old wreck then,’ Lucas said cheerfully.

  ‘Now wait a moment chum …’ He stopped. Realizing that he was being ribbed he smiled. ‘I’m telling you a lot of people would rather fly on those engines that I service myself, than on some of those skeds with engines serviced by ham-fisted dago peasants.’

  Paz took from his pocket a battered case and put on circular-lensed, steel-rim glasses. He opened one of Thorburn’s maps and studied it carefully. ‘Where are we flying to?’

  ‘Speaks good English, don’t he?’ Thorburn said. ‘You learned it at school, I suppose.’ Suddenly growing impatient for his steak, he shouted to hurry things along. Then he tore off another piece of bread and carefully poured a little tomato ketchup on it before stuffing it into his mouth. ‘Didn’t your people tell you?’ he said guardedly.

  ‘Yes but I forgot.’

  Thorburn smiled. ‘Fifteen hundred feet of uneven grass … a long way south. Libertad your mob call it but on the map the nearest town is San Luís. It’s a tight fit. Getting out I can’t take more than half a ton, even then …’

  ‘You own the plane?’ Lucas asked.

  Thorburn’s steak arrived. It was almost buried under a vast pile of french fried potatoes. Thorburn shook some ketchup over his steak. Having done that, he sliced off a piece of it and held it up for them to inspect. ‘Blue,’ he said. ‘Blue inside: that’s the way I like it.’ He had hoped to shock them but neither of them showed any surprise. He put it into his mouth and chewed it. After he’d swallowed he said, ‘Surplus. Canadian Air Force. The previous owner bought her in Saskatoon in 1964: three thousand five hundred US dollars.’

  ‘Plus servicio?’ enquired Lucas.

  ‘No, no, no.’ He looked up from his steak and narrowed his eyes at finding himself the butt of a joke. He finally decided that Lucas was not being offensive and then gave a grudging smile. ‘She’s been good to me. I do every service myself.’ He forked more steak into his mouth and, while chewing on it, offered them a chance to inspect the palm of his calloused hand. ‘Every service myself.’

  ‘Well, take good care of the old lady,’ said Lucas.

  ‘Don’t worry, squire. That old girl’s not insured. I couldn’t afford it after the rates went up last year. So lose her and I lose my bread ticket. I’ll take good care of her all right.’

  The other two steaks arrived as Thorburn was finishing off his french fries. When he’d eaten them all, he wiped up the gravy and ketchup with a piece of bread. He pushed away his empty plate. Then he watched the others eating, and searched in his pockets until he found a piece of metal. ‘See this broken scraper ring? I’ll tell you about it. I heard her running rough on Monday. Tell a lie: make that Tuesday. It was when I was bringing fresh lobsters from the Gulf …’

  ‘So everyone got here?’ It was Inez Cassidy. For a moment Lucas didn’t recognize her. Her hair was tinted a lighter shade of brown and cropped short. She wore tailored linen trousers and a bush shirt.

  Thorburn did little to acknowledge her arrival. Having grunted he continued his story: ‘Lobsters and geological samples. Rocks in other words and damned heavy. I thought it was just a mag drop then I saw that the port engine temperature needle was two hundred and sixty. I thought to myself …’

  Lucas moved the maps, log and sun-glasses to make a space for her. ‘Can I get you coffee, Inez?’

  ‘It would be wiser to start. The regime tolerates me but it’s better not to provoke them by hanging around here.’

  Thorburn wanted to continue with his story. ‘Are you listening?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Lucas without looking away from Inez.

  ‘Another coffee!’ Thorburn bellowed, and then continu
ed implacably: ‘My old Mum used to say that if God had intended us to fly, we would have been born with airline tickets.’ He laughed and glanced round. He was puzzled by the way Lucas was looking at the woman but he didn’t attach any significance to it. Passengers were passengers; troublesome freight.

  ‘With airline tickets,’ Lucas said.

  ‘Yes,’ Thorburn said. ‘Not wings; airline tickets. I still laugh at that one.’ He chuckled to prove it.

  Paz suddenly put his knife and fork down. Now that he’d started eating the steak it became clear that he should have kept to the omelette. He felt queasy and the sight of the french fries made him feel worse.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Inez,’ Lucas said.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Inez said. ‘I don’t want coffee.’ There was unease about today, thought Lucas. Paz had been jumpy right from the start and now the girl seemed to have been touched with the contagion.

  ‘Any time you say,’ said Thorburn, but he made no attempt to leave. He pulled his coffee towards him and heaped sugar into it. ‘No flight plan. I’ll just pick up the latest weather. I can call the tower from the office.’

  ‘Office?’ Inez said.

  ‘The cockpit,’ Thorburn said. ‘We call it the office.’ He reached over and helped himself to a handful of the french fries that Paz had abandoned.

  ‘We had a message that our baggage would be brought here,’ Lucas said. ‘Have you seen it?’

  Inez looked at him. Lucas was obviously on his best behaviour but she could see beyond that. She detected in him a certain sort of ruthlessness that she had seen in both the guerrillas and the men who hunted them. ‘Were you a soldier?’