Tango

by Alan Judd

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘One of the more advanced classes. It’s boring, what I’m doing, boring and repetitive, and when I started they said I’d be doing more advanced work within weeks. It’s been six months now.’

  She worked at an American-owned school of English which had flourished in the gap left by the closure of the British Council school. She was well qualified and felt she was wasted.

  ‘What did they say?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing much. They’re going to ask the executive vice-president.’

  ‘Isn’t he the one you don’t like – the Hitler man?’

  ‘Hueffer, Max Hueffer. I never said I didn’t like him. I said I thought he didn’t like me.’

  ‘Will he now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She pushed back a strand of hair that had escaped from the elastic binding her pony-tail.

  William returned to the subject when they were washing up. ‘Did you feel any better for having said it?’

  She brightened. ‘I did, actually, the more so for not having planned it. I just came out with it when old Riley asked how I was getting on. It quite shook him, I think. About time something did.’

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘I’m going to see Max tomorrow.’

  ‘Sounds as if they might want to keep you.’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t mind much either way. It’s up to them.’

  Later, as William sat down with a book, she put on a medley of local dance tunes. He could not read and listen, so took out his stamps instead.

  ‘Why don’t you get a home computer?’ she asked.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Something for you to do in the evenings.’

  ‘Is that what they’re for?’

  ‘It’s what people seem to do with them. It would make a change from reading and stamp-collecting.’

  ‘I suppose it would.’ So would dancing, he thought, listening to the tango. He used to do a lot but Sally was a stiff and awkward dancer, more so when with him. It was odd because her movements were normally graceful. Perhaps knowing that he danced well spoiled her confidence or perhaps she felt awkward because of his bulk although, like many men of his size, he had rhythm and poise on the dance floor. Anyway, they never danced now.

  ‘Oh, someone from the embassy was after you,’ she said.

  ‘Which embassy?’

  ‘Ours, of course. He was one of those two secretaries or whatever they are that everyone’s always on about. I never know which is which.’

  ‘Feather and Nightingale.’

  ‘Yes, one of them. He wanted you to go and see him. He was trying to get you after lunch and eventually rang me. Wouldn’t say why.’

  ‘I must have been out.’

  ‘Do you think they are?’ she asked after a pause.

  ‘Everyone says so.’

  ‘I didn’t think it was allowed in the diplomatic service.’

  ‘Used to be traditional.’

  ‘Really?’

  William smiled. ‘No, not really.’ Her occasional literal-mindedness had always attracted him. It made him feel protective.

  ‘I’m going to have a bath.’ She turned up the music so that it would carry.

  The British Embassy was an old white house built for bankers in more prosperous days. It stood out from similar houses in the street because it was festooned with cameras and anti-terrorist devices. In the entrance hall was a magnificent chandelier that was lit day and night.

  ‘The inspectors tried to make us turn it off when they were out last year,’ said Nightingale, the youngest and, because of his flamboyant bow-ties, best-known of the embassy staff. ‘They also tried to make us move into some awful modern building with glass all over the place but Nigel made one of his great Feather fusses and they took fright, poor things.’ He laughed. ‘Of course, the ambassador having been on the panel of inspectors in his last post helped a bit. We actually got an increase in allowances. Only one in the world this year. I wonder where the beast is?’

  ‘Who?’ They were climbing a wide curving staircase and William, who had the outer lane, was finding it hard to keep up.

  ‘Peter, the ambassador. Not that he’d be very keen to do it himself, but he’d probably like to squeeze hands.’

  ‘Do what?’

  Nightingale appeared not to hear. He touched his bow-tie which, that day, was blue with white spots and very floppy. They turned off along a corridor and into an office where a girl sat at a desk reading the horoscope in the Daily Mail.

  ‘Angie, dear, is Peter in?’

  The girl did not look up. ‘Don’t think so, no.’

  ‘Oh, drat, he’s such a nuisance. Do you think he’ll mind not being introduced to William?’

  She glanced at William. ‘Shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘We can always say we tried.’

  The stairs narrowed and wound more tightly upwards and Wiliam was happy for Nightingale to go first. ‘Peter’s a bit of a stick-in-the-mud but he’s not bad really,’ Nightingale said. He had thin lips and an unrelenting smile. ‘Came up the commercial side. Not very bright but terribly pleased to have got a bit of status. Rather touching. Nice enough so long as you make him feel he’s been consulted, like all these commercial people.’ He hesitated, then turned to William with sudden enthusiasm. ‘Of course, you’re in business yourself, aren’t you? How very interesting that must be. It’s a jolly good thing to make ambassadors out of commercial officers; they know what’s important.’

  The stairs gave on to a narrow corridor in the roof. ‘Used to be the maids’ quarters,’ Nightingale continued. ‘They were used for lumber and old files for years, but we thought they were so much nicer than the chancery rooms that we nagged Peter into letting us move. We’re both much happier here, so much more private.’ They entered a sitting room with a sofa and armchairs and matching curtains over dormer windows. ‘The main problem was the admin. officer. He fought with native Celtic guile and an obstinacy all his own. In the end we won him over by letting him have the chancery rooms all to himself. Enormous increase in status. We’re all so very corruptible, aren’t we?’ He laughed. ‘Actually, Peter was the only loser because now he has to work within spitting distance of the said awful admin. officer. But then someone in life always loses. Nigel had to explain that to him. I expect you’re wondering what all this is leading up to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thought you were. Awfully restrained of you not to have asked before.’ Nightingale put his finger to his thin lips and pointed at the door at the far end of the room. ‘In there, in the office – the scriptorium, we call it – there’s a little man called Box who’s come all the way from London to see you. Nigel’s making him happy.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Oh, just being friendly, you know. Don’t want London to think we don’t like their little people.’

  ‘I mean, what does Box want to see me for?’

  Nightingale held up his hands in mock horror. ‘My dear, I can’t possibly tell you that. All frightfully hush-hush. We had a telegram, one of those eat-before-reading ones. You know what they’re like. Perhaps you don’t. Come on, I’ll wheel you in, then scuttle off with Nigel.’

  Two more armchairs and another sofa, this time larger and leather, were grouped round a fireplace at the far end of the room. The sofa had its back to the door. By the window two desks faced each other, one very tidy, the other strewn with papers, mugs, bottles and glasses. Feather was a big man in a stained and crumpled white suit. His tie hung loosely round his unbuttoned collar, his hair was long and he was unshaven, giving the effect of an ageing Baudelaire. He sat in one of the armchairs with a Turkish cigarette and a glass of brandy, addressing the sofa.

  ‘Nigel, what a sight for our visitors!’ Nightingale exclaimed delightedly. ‘I told you this morning this would probably be William’s formative experience of the inner workings of diplomatic life. You’ll leave a lasting impression.’

  Feather turned towards
William. ‘Brandy?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  A percolator bubbled by the fireplace. Nightingale hurried to it and sniffed. ‘Nigel, it’s not Brazilian.’

  Feather stared for a long time like a dying man trying to remember. ‘Is it not?’

  ‘No, it is not and I went to the market especially when I knew we’d have guests. I do wish you’d pay a little more attention sometimes.’

  Feather’s gaze traversed slowly back to the sofa. His eyes were the most melancholy that William had seen, dark holes in a handsome, dissolute face. It was impossible to tell whether he was contemplating the futility of all human endeavour or simply having trouble formulating a thought.

  ‘Don’t need us, do you?’ he said to the sofa. He got up and shuffled past William to the door. ‘Leave that now,’ he told Nightingale.

  ‘But it’s not ready yet.’

  ‘They can do it themselves.’

  Nightingale followed him crossly out of the room.

  William stared at the back of the sofa. There was a movement and then a very short man stood and faced him as if from behind a parapet. The man was the contrary of Feather in every particular: small and dapper with thining dark hair pressed ruthlessly down upon his skull, gold-rimmed glasses and a disciplined moustache. He wore a dark three-piece suit with a thin gold watch-chain across the waistcoat, a tight triangle of white handkerchief showing above the breast pocket and a half-inch of white cuff beneath the sleeves. His face had a London pallor.

  He held out his hand. ‘Arthur Box.’ They had to negotiate the sofa before contact could be made. Box looked around the room. ‘Is there anywhere we can go?’

  ‘Go?’

  ‘To talk.’

  ‘Can’t we talk here?’

  ‘Walls.’

  ‘Walls?’

  ‘Have ears.’

  Box went to the window. It was set high in the eaves and he had to go up on his toes in order to peer out. He turned and put his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, standing very upright, then nodded at something behind William. ‘That’ll do.’

  Behind the door was an old white sink, probably Victorian. Box strode over and tried to turn the tap. He had to use both hands and another handkerchief taken from his trouser pocket. After a couple of splutters, water gushed out.

  ‘Better than nothing,’ he said. He indicated to William to stand at the other side of the sink, then continued in a low voice. ‘Apologies for the irregularity, but we need your help. You no doubt know where I’m from?’

  ‘London?’

  ‘What I represent, I should say.’

  William thought. He had sometimes imagined being asked to work for the Secret Service but not like this. The suggestion should have been made on a yacht or a ski slope or, since he had never been on either, in an expensive bar, preferably by someone who looked like Theresa. ‘The Secret Service?’

  Box shook his head. ‘Nearly but not exactly, at least not any more. There’s been a recent change. We’re now Special Information Services plc; we’ve been privatised. A very successful flotation. Surprisingly. Her Majesty’s Government is still the major shareholder, of course, as well as our major customer. They buy most of our information. That’s why I’m here.’

  For William, spies began with Bulldog Drummond and ended with Bond. After that they were all victims. Nevertheless, it was a call to be answered. He would rather have been on Her Majesty’s Secret Service but if Special Information Services plc was the nearest to it that Her Majesty would permit, so be it. He waited for Box to explain. They stared at each other across the gurgling tap.

  ‘Why are you here?’ William asked eventually.

  ‘Cobalt.’ There were raised voices in the next room and a door slammed. Box took no notice. ‘You’ve read about cobalt?’

  ‘Not recently.’

  ‘You are in business?’

  ‘Yes, but books and paper, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Nothing to do with cobalt?’

  ‘No.’

  Box leaned across the sink. He lowered his voice further and rapidly explained that problems in Zaire had led to a world shortage of cobalt, that this was one of the very few countries with sufficient unexploited reserves to make up the shortage, that there were worrying signs that the Russians were moving in to corner the market and starve the West of a mineral essential for rocketry, certain kinds of jet engine and, as everyone knew, artificial hips. Indeed, the Russians seemed to be doing more than that: they had negotiated a fishing agreement highly favourable to themselves, had influenced the way this country voted in the UN, were secretly training elements of the armed forces and were believed to have the new president at least half-way into their pocket. Whether he was being pocketed willingly or under pressure or through mere foolishness no one knew – but being pocketed he was. Cubans were in evidence, East Germans were about, the Russian Embassy was being enlarged into a fortress, there were food shortages in rural areas caused by the diversion of grain to the Soviet Union – in short, all the symptoms of a further expansion of Russian imperialism, a generally fatal disease. It was not only bad for the country, it was bad for the free world as a whole and for Britain in particular.

  ‘That’s why I needed to talk to you,’ he concluded. ‘It’s a very big contract, this one, a bonus job. If we can stop this place going down the drain, we’ll keep the Firm going for the next few years while we build up the private sector commercial intelligence side.’

  There were sounds of sobbing in the next room. Another contrast with Feather, William noticed, was Box’s eyes: they had neither depth nor expression and, being an uncertain mixture of grey and white, seemed not quite to achieve a proper colour.

  ‘That’s if you wouldn’t mind helping out Queen and country and whatever,’ added Box. His neat white hands gripped the edge of the sink.

  ‘Not at all.’ William was embarrassed. ‘Very happy.’

  ‘Some people don’t these days, you see. Don’t seem to care any more.’

  ‘I can imagine that.’

  ‘Could be something in it for you, too, of course. Not that that’s important, I know.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But the Firm would see you all right.’

  There was renewed altercation in the next room, cut short again by the slamming of a door. After a soft knock, Nightingale’s thin face appeared. He looked upset and his bow-tie flopped more on one side than the other.

  ‘Feather’s impossible. I’m at my wits’ end. I hope we haven’t disturbed you.’ His eyes sought the running water. ‘Oh, it is you. I said it couldn’t be. How embarrassing. Would you mind awfully if I asked you to turn it off? Don’t want to be more of a bore than I am’ – he smiled – ‘but it’s coming through the ceiling below. They think we do it deliberately. They get frightfully upset.’

  Box put both hands to the tap. ‘We’ll go into the garden.’

  There were two buckets catching water in the corridor below and a green plastic bowl on the desk of the girl who had been reading. Nightingale left them in order to placate her. As they descended the stairs they heard his plaintive tones and her irritated protests eclipsed by harsh croaking admonitions from Feather. Everyone was saying that they were going to tell Peter.

  The garden was large and well kept. An almost English lawn sloped down to burgeoning banks of shrubbery. Box clasped his hands behind his back and sniffed the air.

  ‘I think a stroll, don’t you?’ he said loudly. They paced the perimeter of the lawn as far as the first corner. Box turned to face the embassy. ‘This should be okay. No one’s watching. You stay where you are while I check.’ He ducked into the bushes.

  A green parrot flew across the lawn and perched in a tree. William had heard about this bird. It lived at the embassy and was famous for its imitations of staff being rude about each other and their guests. It stared at him and slowly raised one claw. William raised his hand.

  �
��Someone coming?’ Box’s voice was urgent.

  ‘It’s all right, I was waving at the parrot.’

  When Box spoke again his tone was gentler. ‘Just pretend you’re enjoying the garden. I’ll stay in here so that we’re not seen together. We can talk like this, but try not to move your lips too much. If anyone does see you, they’ll think you’re talking to yourself.’

  William turned to the bushes. ‘But we walked down here together. Anyone might have seen us.’

  ‘Memories are short. Out of sight, out of mind. Find that very often in this business.’

  William turned away. ‘What is it you want me to do?’

  ‘Try to look normal. Stay as you are.’

  ‘I mean, help. You said you wanted help?’

  ‘Wait. I’m thinking.’

  The sky was blue with fluffy white clouds and there was now a nip in the breeze. William buttoned his jacket by the centre button, which reminded him again of his stomach, then of Theresa. The parrot cocked its head on one side.

  ‘You had lunch with the president?’ asked Box.

  ‘I met him while I was having lunch.’

  ‘You were with two women.’

  ‘Well, not really, but in a sense, yes.’

  ‘You bought them lunch.’

  ‘Only after they’d gone.’ William turned to the bushes again. ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Better not face me when you’re talking.’

  William turned away. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The whole town knows if the president talks to anyone in public. That’s what I mean about not being seen together. In this business you have to be careful in small towns.’ There was some rustling as Box moved. ‘The president knows you from university?’

  ‘From school. I didn’t go to university.’

  ‘Never mind. Makes no difference after a year or two. Could you get to know him again, talk to him, find out what he’s thinking?’

  ‘This is the first time we’ve met since.’

  ‘And then introduce me if he’s amenable.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘So that I could influence him.’

  William tried to imagine Box influencing Carlos. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know how he would take it.’