‘How much, Tug? I’m told you drive a hard bargain.’
‘Not that kind of credit. Moral credit.’
Elliot smiled. So did Hatry. Morality, their expressions implied, was negotiable.
‘Our man to be visibly and loudly at the forefront,’ Tug Kirby announced, counting off terms on his enormous fingers. ‘Our man to wrap himself in the flag, your man to cheer him on while he does it, Rule Britannia and bugger Brussels. The special relationship seen to be up and running – right, Ben? Visits to Washington, hand-shakes, high profile, lot of kind words for our man. And your man to come to London as soon as you’ve swung him. He’s overdue and it’s been noticed. The rôle of British Intelligence to be leaked to the respectable press. We’ll give you a text – right, Ben? The rest of Europe out of it and the Frogs in disgrace as usual.’
‘Leave that shit to me,’ Hatry said. ‘He doesn’t sell newspapers. I do.’
They parted like unreconciled lovers, worried they had said the wrong things, failed to say the right ones, not been understood. We’ll run it by Van as soon as we get back, said Elliot. See what his sense is. General Van is long term, said the Colonel. General Van is a true visionary. The General has his eyes on the Jerusalem. The General knows how to wait.
‘Give me a fucking drink,’ said Hatry.
They sat alone, three Englishmen in withdrawal with their whiskies.
‘Nice little meeting,’ said Cavendish.
‘Shits,’ said Kirby.
‘Buy the Silent Opposition,’ Hatry ordered. ‘Make sure it can speak and shoot. How real are the students?’
‘They’re iffy, Chief. Maoists, Trots, Peaceniks, a lot of ’em over age. They could jump either way.’
‘Who the fuck cares which way they jump? Buy the sods and turn them loose. Van wants a peg. He’s dreaming of it but doesn’t dare to ask. Why d’you think the bastard sent his flunkies and stayed home? Maybe the students can supply the peg. Where’s Luxmore’s report?’
Cavendish handed it to him and he read it for the third time before pushing it back at him.
‘Who’s the bitch who writes our doom and gloom shit?’ he asked.
Cavendish said a name.
‘Give it to her,’ Hatry said. ‘Tell her I want the students larger. Link them with the poor and the oppressed, drop the Communism. And give us more about the Silent Opposition looking to Britain as a democratic role model for Panama in the twenty-first century. I want crisis. “As terror walks the streets of Panama”, that shit. First editions, Sunday. Get onto Luxmore. Tell him it’s time to get his fucking students out of bed.’
Luxmore had never been on such a dangerous mission. He was exalted, he was terrified. But then abroad always terrified him. He was desperately, heroically alone. An impressive passport in the jacket he must not remove enjoined all foreigners to grant the Queen’s well-beloved messenger Mellors safe conduct across their borders. Piled on the First Class seat beside him were two bulky black leather briefcases sealed with wax, embossed with the royal crest and fitted with broad shoulder straps. The rules of his assumed office allowed him neither sleep nor drink. The briefcases must remain at all times within his sight and reach. No profane hand was permitted to defile the pouches of a Queen’s Messenger. He was to befriend nobody, though out of operational necessity he had exempted a matronly British Airways stewardess from this edict. Halfway across the South Atlantic, he had unexpectedly needed to relieve himself. Twice he had risen to stake his claim, only to see himself anticipated by an unladen passenger. Finally, in the extreme of need, he had prevailed on the stewardess to stand guard over a vacant lavatory for him while he struggled crablike down the aisle with his burdens banging wildly against dozing Arabs, lurching into drinks trolleys.
‘Must be ever such heavy secrets you’ve got in there,’ the airhostess commented gaily as she saw him safely into dock.
Luxmore was delighted to recognise a fellow Scot.
‘Where are you from then, my dear?’
‘Aberdeen.’
‘But how splendid! The silver city, my God!’
‘How about you?’