Tango

by Alan Judd

  ‘I must thank you,’ he concluded.

  ‘No need.’

  ‘You must permit me to thank you.’

  William realised that honour was at stake. ‘Of course. When you come in.’

  ‘Later.’

  ‘Yes, later.’

  William hardly had time to think about the previous night. He would have liked to wallow, recalling each of his sensations, feeling its texture, then placing it somewhere airtight so that it would not decay. But he had no time and the events were already assuming the unreality and distance of dreams. Even Sally’s reaction to his lateness now had something unreal about it, though at the time it had seemed merely muted.

  It was gone four by the time he had returned home. He had undressed in the dark but had woken her when groping for the bed. He gave an outline description of the evening, slightly exaggerating the pain of his hand because he felt she might find it more acceptable if he had suffered a little. In fact, all she had asked was whether he would often have to go out like that.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ he said without thinking. ‘Well, maybe once or twice. It depends on the president’s demands.’

  ‘What demands?’

  ‘On Theresa.’

  ‘She’s the prostitute?’

  ‘The dancer.’

  ‘The one who’s also a prostitute?’

  ‘Well, yes, but only with the president.’

  ‘Is that what she told you?’

  ‘Not in so many words, no.’

  In the morning Sally was cheerful and brisk. She was to have one of her more stimulating advanced classes that day as well as embarking on a new project with Max Hueffer, the American boss.

  ‘One thing about your fun and games last night,’ she said as she was doing her hair, ‘is that your friend Box should be pleased.’

  ‘He certainly should.’

  She put a grip in her hair and pushed it back behind one ear, removed the grip, replaced it, removed it again and substituted for it a larger one. William had watched her, wondering why he didn’t feel more guilty. It wasn’t because he hadn’t done anything – that wasn’t really the point – so much as that everything to do with Theresa seemed separate and unreal, as if it didn’t really count. And, in a way, the more exciting it was the less it seemed to have to do with real life. Exciting things, in William’s experience, were frothy, not real and not serious. What was real was his marriage to Sally for whom, as he watched her, he felt a familial, reasoning, domestic affection. He didn’t want to be unfaithful.

  He picked up the telephone to ring Box and put it down again. Lunch the day before seemed at least a month away. Hotel Britannia, Box had said, but William couldn’t remember the name he was using. He gazed through the window at the orange-seller. It has hard to believe that the man was really sent to spy on him. It seemed far too obvious. Also, the man’s presence pre-dated William’s meeting Box. Therefore, if he were being spied upon, he must have been under suspicion anyway. But it was harder still to believe that the man was really selling oranges. After all, his only customer in the past three weeks had been Box, another spy. Perhaps all over the world spies were keeping each other in business by spying on other spies and pretending not to. Perhaps spying made for greater universal happiness. William was happy to be doing his bit, Carlos seemed happy to want to confide, the orange-seller was presumably happy to be employed, while his employers – Manuel Herrera? the police? Carlos himself? – were presumably happy because William was being spied upon. Finally Box, the professional spy, was happy because he had identified an opposition spy and because his own spying plans were going ahead. So, too, presumably, would be Box’s employers and shareholders when they knew about it. Perhaps all was well so long as everyone went on spying; anguish and anger would come about only if someone blew the whistle, or defected, or simply stopped.

  He remembered the name – Welling. After he had asked for it he remembered that spies in books and films were wary of the telephone. No doubt he was making an elementary mistake for which Box would reprove him, but it was too late. However, after a pause the receptionist said that Senõr Welling was not available.

  ‘Did he say when he would be back?’

  ‘He is not out. He is here but he has asked not to be disturbed.’

  ‘Could you please disturb him nonetheless? It is important.’

  ‘He refuses.’

  The hotel was on the outskirts of the city along the coast towards the airport and the unexpected business meant that William was pushed for time that day. On the other hand, Box ought to know the news. Also, William was pleased to have found it out and wanted to tell him. He left a message for Ricardo and went. Once out of sight of the orange-seller, he took a taxi. It felt almost daring.

  The hotel was late Victorian Scottish gothic, a huge turreted pile that faced across the coast road to the sea. There was no other building in the city – possibly in the continent – like it. It was grey and massive, and years of non-repair and sea air had still not made it look more than comfortably ravaged. It had a reputation for spacious rooms, excellent service, inadequate heating and appalling food. It was said to have been bankrupt for years but had somehow survived. William had never known anyone except Box stay there, business visitors now going to the American Hilton near the airport. As he entered under a vast portico he had the impression that a mere count of guests was not something this hotel would bother about. The place seemed sufficient to itself.

  The entrance hall was like a cathedral. He was directed to room 42 and had to pay a uniformed bell-boy not to show him the way. The hall was draped in faded tartans that matched the carpets. There was a polished marble floor and inside the capacious, jangling lift there was more polished wood and brass. The wide corridor was festooned with stags’ heads and antlers which alternated with paintings of Scottish glens in the rain.

  All the rooms had massive doors. William’s first knock was too feeble. He knocked again, then again, and was already irritated when a voice behind him whispered, ‘This way.’ Turning, he saw Box’s head protruding from the open door across the corridor.

  ‘Sorry,’ William said. ‘I thought it was room 42.’

  Box raised his finger to his lips and beckoned. William followed him in. The room was large and high with casement windows opening on to a small balcony. Beyond was the coast road and the sea. Still with his finger to his lips, Box walked over to the casement. He wore firmly pressed twill trousers and a blue guernsey, his shoes were brown with highly polished toe-caps, his moustache gleamed as if recently polished. When he had forced the window open he stepped out on to the balcony and stood with his hands clasped above his head, breathing deeply. William remained in the room, which was filled with cold air and the sounds of sea and traffic.

  Box turned so that his back was to the sea. ‘Better you stay in and not be seen,’ he said. ‘We can talk like this. The background noise will drown our speech. Have a seat.’ He waited until William was seated. ‘I should explain, in case we’re interrupted, that I am not Welling in this room. I am Kronstadt, a German entrepreneur who hopes to buy into your company. We are meeting secretly to discuss it.’ His smile switched on and off. ‘Always better to hide a big secret with a little one.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘People look no further.’

  ‘No, why Kronstadt?’

  ‘Double blind. You’ll have to learn about this sort of thing. I booked in as Welling during the day and again in the evening as Kronstadt, when the night staff were on. That means anyone trying to keep tabs on me who gets as far as Welling thinks he’s done it and pays no attention to Kronstadt. The trouble is, it also means that Welling can appear only during the day and Kronstadt only at night.’

  ‘Why aren’t you Welling now?’

  ‘Well spotted. I am testing the EE(C) and I set it up in Welling’s room since it’s rather a lot to lug around. We’ll pop across later and see how it’s getting on. Emergency Equipment brackets Communication
s brackets off. You’ll soon learn. Now, did you have any luck?’

  ‘Some.’ Box’s feet-astride, addressing-the-troops posture made William uneasy. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

  ‘No chairs out here.’

  ‘You could have one of these.’

  Box frowned. ‘I suppose that would be all right. Yes, I’ll get it. Don’t show yourself.’ He came into the room and took a curved armchair which he placed sideways to William on the balcony. He came back and took a glass from the bedside table. ‘Looks better if you have a glass in hand.’

  ‘No chance of a coffee, is there?’

  ‘Not really. It would mean them bringing it up and they might see you. Looks odd if the chap who calls for Welling ends up with Kronstadt.’

  ‘Do you suspect the hotel staff, then?’

  ‘Always, on principle. You’ll find water in the bathroom if you’re really thirsty. Hotels are nearly always in league with the police.’

  William began his report tardily but as he talked, his enthusiasm took over. Box’s pleasure was expressed by interjections of ‘Splendid’, ‘Well done’, ‘Excellent – very straight bat’. At the end he got up from his wicker chair and stood looking out across the sea, his hands on the balcony. When he turned back to William his pale face was near to shining with pleasure.

  ‘Well done,’ he repeated, stressing each word. ‘A wonderful night’s work. No professional could have done more. You not only achieve access to the president, you find reason for seeing him again and in clandestine circumstances. What’s more, you get an insight into his state of mind and attitudes and discover that he’s not happy and he’s not his own man. Just what we need for the next stage. I congratulate you. London will be delighted.’

  William was pleased. ‘It was a bit of luck, really.’

  ‘And you clonk a Russian into the bargain!’ Box barked his laugh. ‘We’ll reimburse you for the hammer.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘No, it’s important.’ Box pulled up his guernsey and took a notepad and biro from his shirt pocket. ‘And the petrol, of course. Don’t worry – I encode such notes as shopping lists. Your name doesn’t appear. Make of car?’

  ‘Datsun.’

  ‘Engine size?’

  ‘Eleven hundred.’

  ‘How many miles?’

  ‘To where?’

  ‘That you travelled. Sounds quite a long way out to this whore’s house.’

  ‘Not that far,’ said William, his mood changing.

  ‘Now don’t be modest.’ Box wagged his pen and made another of his disconcerting smiles. It wasn’t that they were inauthentic or forced so much as that they didn’t suit him. His natural solemnity of expression, tight-lipped but not ill-natured, had no room for them. It was as if he had made an effort for each occasion. ‘You get so much a mile, you know. Not as generous since privatisation – the old civil service rates were wonderful – but it more than compensates. How many do you think?’

  ‘I don’t want to claim.’

  Box frowned again. ‘Nothing worrying you, is there? Mustn’t let the stress get to you. Say if it is.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll put down fifty.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thirty, then.’

  ‘I don’t want to claim for taking her home.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t want to take money for that.’

  Box closed his notebook. ‘It is rare nowdays to find someone willing to give his services and take nothing for them. I congratulate you.’

  ‘No need – it’s not really – really no need.’

  ‘Service to one’s country is its own reward.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Despite my personal – some say idiosyncratic – unease about privatisation, I still regard service to the company as service to one’s country. It is that that gives meaning to our work.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘That and the pursuit of truth. So far from patriotism not being enough, it is – alas – too much for many, beyond their reach. Most are merely selfish.’

  Box stood for a few moments more in thoughtful silence before stepping briskly into the room. ‘Now – London. We must tell them.’

  He explained that he would draft a signal which William could deliver to the embassy on his way back. Box did not want to go to the embassy too often whereas it would look natural for William to go because, as a resident British businessman, he could be consulting the commercial section.

  ‘I’ve never heard that they had one.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean they haven’t. Anyway, you can pretend you’re going to find out. Ask for one of those ornithological gentlemen and give the signal to them. They’ll send it under secret cypher. I’m rather surprised not to have heard from London already. I told them you’d been recruited. You’d think they’d be pleased.’

  He added that he would have to go back into Welling’s room to draft the signal. William was to wait.

  ‘I’m very busy today,’ William said. ‘I haven’t got long.’

  ‘Won’t take long. Second thoughts.’ Box looked thoughtful again. ‘Strictly against the rules, of course, because I’m supposed to await authorisation from London but – well, since you are keen and already one of us, as it were, you can come and have a look at the EE(C) kit. Might be useful if anything happens to me and you have to operate it.’

  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘No. Provided you can get to the embassy, they can always pass messages. So it’s only if anything happens to me and you can’t get to the embassy.’

  Box opened the door and peered along the corridor. He signalled to William and they crossed to room 42. It looked across woods to the airport. On the lawn at the back of the hotel a man held a hosepipe with nothing coming out.

  Box pointed at a large black suitcase on the bed. It was closed and made the bed sag. A wire ran from it to a power point on the wall and there was a low hum. ‘Charging the batteries,’ he explained. ‘We’re on standby for testing. In fact’ – he looked at his watch – ‘London should be open now. We don’t have to send a signal. We can test by receiving: if it receives it can send.’

  He opened the case to reveal dials, switches, wires and boxes. The lid, which was similarly furnished, folded flat on to the bed. Box used both hands to move it. ‘This is the control panel,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll show you how to operate it. Looks complicated but it’s easy and very robust. Bit dated now, of course, but you can always trust it, that’s what I say. Since privatisation they’ve got all these new-fangled pocket-handkerchief-sized squirters linked up to satellites, but I’m still attached to the old mark five.’ He patted it.

  ‘Isn’t it rather big and heavy?’

  ‘Nothing’s perfect.’

  ‘How did you carry it?’

  ‘It came out in the diplomatic bag to the embassy. I picked it up in a car at night.’

  Box knelt on the bed and pored over his machine, adjusting, switching and connecting while consulting a set of tables. Red, green and white lights came on and off. Once there was a brief noise which he swiftly stopped. It was a labour of love and his features were taut with concentration.

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ William said again. He badly wanted coffee. The man on the lawn dropped the hosepipe and walked slowly back towards the shed from which it came.

  ‘No need,’ Box said. ‘Here’s what you do. You can watch it while I do the signal.’ He unplugged the suitcase and showed William how to switch on to battery/receive. ‘The red light means you’re capable of receiving, the green one that they’re sending. There’ll be a signal any time now. You won’t hear anything, but you’ll know it’s coming through because the white light flashes. Press those when you see it. Don’t bother with that lot – that’s for when you’re sending – and that there is the auto-encode stuff. I’ll show you how to send a message later. Quite simple. You’ll love it once you can do it.’

  Outside, the hose sprouted water and the
man walked slowly back to it.

  When the machine indicated that it was receiving William flicked the switches. There was a whirring noise and Box came over and pressed a button. A series of letters showed up on a small screen.

  ‘It’s all right. Standard test format. For the operational signal you simply put in a different cypher cassette.’ He looked more closely. ‘Hang on. There’s more. Perhaps a real message. Maybe congratulations.’ He frowned. ‘Share prices are up.’

  ‘Share prices?’

  ‘The company’s. They congratulate us.’

  ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Box looked thoughtful. ‘I daresay you’re used to this sort of thing, being in business yourself, but I must say it leaves me a bit cold.’

  Out on the lawn the water from the hose pipe stopped again and the man shuffled back to the shed. William tried to go but Box insisted they rehearse a formula for arranging meetings over the telephone.

  ‘We’ve got to do two more things,’ he added as William was finally leaving. ‘Establish RCMPs – Regular Confidential Meeting Places – and find a hiding-place for the mark five, somewhere we could both get to in an emergency. Leave that to me. We should both think about the RCMPs, though, especially you with your local knowledge. I’ll be in touch tomorrow. Meanwhile, let’s consider what you’re going to say to the president when you see him.’

  ‘We don’t know when that will be.’

  ‘Can’t be helped. Be prepared.’ Box held out his hand. ‘Once more, well done and thank you.’ His colourless eyes stared unflinchingly into William’s.

  The parrot at the embassy ignored William’s wave. Nightingale met him under the huge chandelier.

  ‘So sweet of you to drop in. I was just saying to Peter that we needed a nice surprise.’

  William tapped his pocket. ‘I’ve got a message.’

  ‘A message? How exciting. Do tell.’

  They went downstairs into a basement room with no windows. It had in it several machines like enormous typewriters. The floor was almost covered in a confusion of punched white tape. One of the machines was making a loud clattering noise and producing typescript at the same time as emitting tape from one side. An untidy middle-aged man sprawled in an armchair reading Penthouse.