by Len Deighton
Ramón nodded: it was an order. He pulled the exercise-books nearer and opened them to look inside. He could not read the English writing. ‘At first we had money,’ he said. ‘We raided banks and factory payrolls. Now the cash is better protected. They have alarms and video cameras and guards with machine guns. We lost too many men … good men.’
‘Banks,’ said Lucas sadly. ‘That is not a soldier’s work.’
At that moment Ramón was drawn to this strange foreigner. He was a soldier: he understood in a way that many of the others did not. ‘Exactly,’ Ramón said. ‘When the son of Sergeant Santos bravely died on such a task, the wife of Santos spat at me.’
15
THE WHITE HOUSE: ROOSEVELT ROOM.
‘You can’t go wrong preparing for the worst.’
The Roosevelt Room was the most elegant of all the White House conference rooms. To attend the 8 am senior staff meeting there, is a coveted mark of esteem. Those who sat on the Queen Anne settees and drank coffee out of styrofoam cups could watch with awe those whose rank permitted them to be jockeying for places around the big mahogany table where the same coffee was poured into White House chinaware by Filipino stewards.
Today everyone was at the table. This was not the 8 am meeting; it was 7 am and John Curl was preparing himself for what was to come by having a private gathering with some of his closest staff and associates.
Everyone was assembled when Curl entered. His perfect pinstripe suit, custom-made shirt and tranquil smile gave no clue that he’d come straight from a strenuous hour in the gym. ‘Good morning.’ It was easy to spot the ranks in such White House gatherings. The lowest were called by their family names, the higher ranks by their first names, and the top men had their hands shaken. There were murmured greetings and small-talk while Curl stood up and arranged papers from his case. Someone poured his black unsweetened coffee for him. Then when he was ready they all sat down.
Set before each man was a small plastic tray. Each tray held an individual pack of Kellogg’s K, half a grapefruit, a bran muffin, scrambled eggs and bacon strips. Wrapped inside each paper napkin was plastic cutlery. Alongside the napkins were individual packets of salt, pepper and butter. Flasks of coffee – regular and decaf – had been placed on a hotplate near the door. Cream, low-fat milk, sugar, whitener and no-calorie sweetener were there too. All was designed to minimize fuss; Curl hated having his concentration disturbed by waiters moving around.
These working breakfasts had developed into a familiar routine. For instance it had become standard practice that after the first fill of coffee no one, except perhaps top brass in a moment of extreme anxiety, went to get a refill. And when it was noticed that Curl never touched his eggs (although they were the cholesterol-free sort) or his bacon strips (which were actually made from soy), no one else ate them. Each day the whole cooked breakfast was dumped, but no one who cared about that waste had authority enough to change things.
There was a mood of happy expectation today. Some of the men had come on duty at 6 am in order to be completely familiar with the agenda, and in order to have their paperwork ready for any kinds of questions. They knew what Curl was about to be told. Curl knew too. He had been given an inkling by phone late last night.
Curl looked round the table. ‘Plans’, ‘Statistics’, ‘Operations’ and the CIA man: these were his boys. These were the men he felt most comfortable with, the ones for whom he fought his battles. They got no medals, and were underpaid, but as Curl saw it they were the nation’s finest. He knew of course that the men round the table did not entirely return his admiration and affection. For them Curl would always remain an outsider, always demanding the impossible; and all too often meeting their triumphs with admonitory cautions.
The Director-General’s strong-arm man, Alex Pepper, was seated next to Curl and concentrating on his coffee. He spoke very seldom at these meetings. He seldom even gave any sign that he was listening, but he went back to the CIA and told the D-G all about what happened.
‘So we made contact?’ Curl said to start the ball rolling.
Curl was looking at Steve Dawson, a lanky New Englander from CIA Plans, his grey face bleached and fine-lined like a piece of driftwood. ‘We have a deal,’ Dawson said cautiously. ‘It will cost two million in cash.’
‘That’s for drilling?’
‘No, it’s better than that.’ Dawson pushed some photos across the table so that Curl could look at them. ‘All of the areas within the double lines can be surveyed. We can do as much wild-catting and shots as we want.’
‘For how long?’ Curl asked.
‘For the agreed six-month period,’ Dawson said defensively.
‘But no more photos?’
‘Well, we reckoned on that, didn’t we?’ Dawson said.
Curl looked at the low-level obliques. These were the sort of photos that men on the ground needed. Satellite pictures taken from outer space could never give the same sort of intimacy. Oh well. ‘And what are we giving the MAMista?’
‘Nothing that wasn’t on the appreciation. MAMista can inspect the trucks and come into the compounds anytime they want. But the highways will be ours to protect any way we want. No helicopters to be used in the southern provinces.’
‘Wait a minute, Steve. How can we be certain that Benz will buy that one?’ He slid the photos across the table.
‘We know Benz of old.’ Dawson smiled and his New England accent became more pronounced. ‘He’s stayed alive by being ultra careful with his toy army. He doesn’t want any kind of discontent, and a long-drawn-out jungle campaign will give him a very unhappy box of soldiers. Benz isn’t going to stir up that hornet’s nest down south until he’s got something approaching brigade-lift capability, and a lot more armoured personnel carriers.’ Dawson put the photos away in a folder. He was a neat and methodical man. ‘Benz needn’t be told that one yet. We can worry about his reaction when the time comes. Benz won’t be in a hurry: he’ll play for time.’
‘And if there is an emergency?’
‘We’ll have the oil company’s choppers. That is to say we’ll have choppers in the paint job of the oil company.’
Curl looked at him. Dawson had a reputation for being brilliant and cautious too. That reassured Curl. ‘It sounds good. Do I see a supplementary in that jaundiced Dawson eye?’
‘We should remain on guard. When the crude begins to flow, someone might change their mind,’ said Dawson.
Curl watched Alex Pepper pouring cream on his cornflakes and then scattering sugar on them. Curl thought it was the sort of self-indulgence not becoming to a senior man.
‘Statistics’ was represented by a young mathematician who had brought a big pile of papers with him. He saw this as his cue. ‘By the time we’ve got crude in the pipeline, the MAMista will be getting used to their boots, clothing and bedding, and to their food, vitamins and antibiotics. They’ll be getting dependent upon all those things but we won’t be depending on the oil. I don’t see that they will be in a good bargaining position.’
‘Don’t let’s be too sanguine about the oil position,’ Curl said. ‘The official position is that the Mid-East is likely to be an area of contention for the foreseeable future. An energy source as close as Spanish Guiana would be valuable.’
With ‘Statistics’ chastened Dawson made amends. He said, ‘There is no lack of motivation. For every dollar the MAMista make out of the crude, the Benz government is going to be getting something like two point seven dollars. So the projection is on the side of law and order.’
Curl liked Dawson’s summary. He would use those very words to the President. ‘We’re buying time,’ he said, to summarize the consensus. But as he looked round the table he caught the eye of Jimmy Schramm. He was a young maverick they’d enticed away from the personal staff of the Assistant Secretary of State for Latin American Affairs. ‘Let’s hear it, Jimmy,’ Curl said.
Schramm stood up. He was not tall, a white-faced young man with a beard trimmed to a point,
like Shakespeare. ‘Do you know something, sir. I’d put down fifty dollars that says this guy Ramón thinks he’s buying time too.’
‘Easy now, Jimmy,’ Dawson said.
‘No. Go ahead. Let’s hear it,’ Curl said. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to put young Schramm into the Crisis Management Center where he had access to material from the State Department, the Pentagon and the National Security Agency’s worldwide eavesdropping as well as CIA data.
Schramm smiled fleetingly. Anyone who thought this might be a sign of nerves didn’t know him. ‘There are a lot of different ways of appraising the material coming in. I could show you an analysis that says Ramón’s MAMista group is not the gung-ho strike-force we once thought it was.’ He looked at Pepper, aware that he might be treading on CIA toes.
Alex Pepper was still eating his cornflakes. When he realized that Schramm was looking at him, he said, ‘Go on, Jimmy. Go on.’
Schramm said, ‘We know how little they are eating … the CIA put auditors into the Tepilo food distribution companies they are stealing from. It’s still too early to tell for sure but we are building up a picture of their ration strengths. They might have found other sources of food but I think that’s unlikely. Another indication: look at the type of operation they have mounted lately, and the recorded use of explosives. Any way you look at it, that graph sags gently down all the way.’
‘Put your cards on the table,’ Curl said.
‘I’m still bidding,’ Schramm said. ‘I can’t be sure I’m right, it’s a guess. But let’s say four thousand men … five thousand tops. Half of them Southerners, the other half from the northern towns. The CIA’s man – Singer – who is down there talking to these MAMista clowns is suddenly asking for drugs and medical supplies. My experts say the proportions of drugs and equipment fit the profile for an expected epidemic.’
‘Hold the phone,’ Curl said. ‘How do we know what kind of time-span they are projecting? Maybe they are talking about a whole lot of future medical care for just a small number of sick guerrillas.’
‘I don’t think so, sir,’ Schramm said. ‘That’s where the high proportion of hardware to drugs is so revealing.’
Colonel Macleish spoke for the first time. ‘This might be the time to go in.’
‘Go in?’ Curl said.
Macleish said, ‘Before we throw two million at the MAMista we might want to look at the cost of getting rid of them.’
‘Don’t keep me in suspense,’ Curl said with good humour.
‘When Jimmy showed me his notes, I did some sums. If we got command of two major highways and found an excuse to defoliate between them grid-section by grid-section, we could drive a major part of the MAMista army into a killing-ground of our own choosing.’
‘Oil slick?’ said Curl.
‘The oil slick technique. Yes, sir,’ said Macleish. It was outdated jargon but Curl got the idea all right.
‘I’d see that as a last resort,’ Curl said.
‘Yes, as a last resort,’ said Macleish, backing off from what he now saw was dangerous ground.
Alex Pepper could read Curl’s mind; he guessed what was coming. To ease the way for it he said, ‘This is all on the back of an envelope, John.’
‘I understand that, believe me,’ Curl said gently. ‘I appreciate the way you all share these educated guesses with me. That’s why we don’t have shorthand writers present, and why we don’t minute these meetings.’ Curl came to a stop.
There was something unusual about today. Dawson said, ‘Can I get you another cup of coffee, Mr Curl?’
‘Thank you.’ Curl nodded an affirmative. That in itself was almost unprecedented. After he had gone through the ritual of drinking some, Curl said, ‘We have had to assume three things in this situation. First we have had to assume there really is oil down there. Second: we have had to assume that this guy Ramón would get to hear about it. Third: we have had to assume that Ramón would talk to a field man if we put one in place down there. All the way along the line we have been a little pessimistic because you are less likely to feel the President’s boot in your ear that way.’ They smiled as they always did when Curl made little jokes about being scolded by the President.
Curl got to his feet, picked up his coffee and walked round the table. There was a convincing informality to his movements: as if he was really thinking on his feet and baring his soul to them. This was Curl the charmer, Curl the performer. Dignified and yet self-mocking; invincible, and yet in need of their help. The secret of such a performance was of course to love the audience. But it was also necessary to love this endearing John Curl he created at such moments. He stopped in front of the portrait of Theodore Roosevelt and the medallion that was his Nobel Peace Prize. He sipped his coffee reflectively before speaking to them again. They twisted in their chairs to see him. Now he really had all their attention as he intended that he should.
‘How many of you guys have got kids at school?’ Curl said without waiting for anyone to tell him. ‘Ever worry about them? What I mean is, how many of you would even give Jane Fonda your vote if you could be sure she’d rid you of the hard drug menace?’ He laughed. ‘Okay: don’t tell me.’ There were nervous smiles. ‘The fact is, gentlemen, that John Q. Public doesn’t give a damn whether Ramón and his MAMistas stay in Spanish Guiana just as long as the coca crop stays there with him.’
His audience had learned to be quick. They didn’t need diagrams or pie charts for this one.
Colonel Macleish said, ‘Shall I see what photo coverage we have of the coca-growing areas?’
‘Yes, Colonel, please do. Spanish Guiana’s production of coca paste has doubled in the last three years and our eastern cities are getting just about all of it. Maybe they’ll never admit it but Drug Enforcement can’t crack this one without our help.’ Curl went back to his seat and when he spoke his voice was low and confidential. ‘Now let’s look at another aspect of the same problem. I don’t have to tell you guys the kind of military hardware contracts it would take to keep a few factories working right through the mid-term elections. Well, okay. The President of the USA – my President, your President – is visiting California next month. I don’t like the political climate there. It’s part of my job to do everything I can to prevent some screwball from trying to get into the history books by taking a shot at him. You might feel it’s a part of your job too.’ With a nice sense of timing Curl leaned across to put his cup and saucer on the table with a careless clatter.
‘So what is your thinking in regard to the MAMista?’ prompted Alex Pepper.
‘I’ll be frank,’ Curl said. ‘I’ve got a real problem with seeing Ramón as someone who needs vitamin pills by the bottleful. So let me put to you a different picture. I prefer to think that maybe any day now Ramón is going to come roaring out of that jungle like Attila the Hun on speed. With that in prospect, I might be able to persuade Admiral Benz that the best thing he can do with those oil revenues is to buy himself a whole lot of military hardware. Then, with the help of you gentlemen, and with the right sort of pictures and pie charts, maybe someone can persuade the gentlemen in Congress to let me sell that military hardware to Benz.’
Jimmy Schramm was the first to respond. ‘As I said, there is no sure way of telling how many men the MAMista have down there. We have no reliable data on the armament available to them. They could be going to a whole lot of trouble to give us the impression that they are in no state to fight.’
‘You can’t go wrong preparing for the worst,’ said Curl.
16
THE MAMISTA BASE CAMP. ‘Surely it hurts a little?’
It was called ‘the winter camp’ even now, when no one still talked about establishing bases to the north each summer. The winter camp had become Ramón’s main base, and like it or not he was here year-round.
The grey cloud hanging over the camp was formless like smoke. There had been no glimmer of sun for three days. The air was warm and exceptionally humid. Even the Indians found it uncom
fortable but they did not show their discomfort in the way the others did.
For the last few days Angel Paz had accompanied the ‘victualling platoon’ that took food to the outer ring of sentries. He knew that Ramón was watching him, and trying to decide what role he should be granted in the MAMista army. Inez Cassidy was sorting out the muddle of paperwork that had been neglected by both Ramón and Maestro. Sometimes, when Ramón was occupied, Angel Paz had to submit his reports to Inez. He bitterly resented this necessity but his hints to Ramón had been ignored.
Angel Paz detested Inez Cassidy. He resented her manner and deplored the influence she had within this guerrilla army. If that was all he felt it would have been easy for him. He would have remained totally indifferent to her, and to everything she did. But Paz, and his emotions, were far more complicated than that. Angel Paz wanted Inez. He thought about her night and day. He wanted her respect and admiration. He wanted to possess her, to defile her, to make her his. Furthermore he wanted her to want him in a frenzied and distracted way that would strip her to the soul. He wanted to deprive her of all those mysterious qualities that attracted him so much.
Wasn’t Angel Paz young? Wasn’t he well educated and handsome? Couldn’t he speak an excellent Spanish that the Englishman could never hope to equal? The answer was ‘yes’ to all of these questions, and to more. It angered and frustrated Angel Paz that the woman gave him no more than passing acknowledgement. And Ramón held her in such high esteem! She was admitted to his secret meetings and was a party to all his plans.
Had such thoughts not been troubling Paz’s mind when Inez Cassidy came to find him, things might have turned out differently. She went to the hut he shared with Singer to bring the orders from Ramón. Angel Paz was to be in charge of the patrol that would take Singer up to the airstrip at Libertad.
The decision pleased him. It would, he hoped, mark the time at which Ramón stopped treating him as a child and gave him his rightful position of authority in the revolutionary army. This was an opportunity for talking to her more seriously. This was the time to be moving towards a better relationship.
