‘They want me to sound out the Americans,’ he said mechanically.
‘Who do?’ Maltby asked quickly.
‘London,’ said Stormont in the same toneless voice.
‘To what end?’
‘To find out how much they know. About Silent Oppositions. Students. Secret meetings with the Japanese. I’m to test the water and give nothing away. Fly kites, trail coats. All the fatuous things that people tell you to do when they’re sitting on their arses in London. Neither State nor me CIA has seen Osnard’s material, apparently. I’m to find out whether they have independent awareness.’
‘Meaning: whether they know?’
‘If you prefer,’ said Stormont.
Maltby was indignant. ‘Oh I do detest the Yanks. They expect everyone to go to the devil at the same hectic pace as themselves. It takes hundreds of years to do it properly. Look at us.’
‘Suppose the Yanks know none of it. Suppose it’s virgin. Or they are.’
‘Suppose there’s nothing to know. That’s far more likely.’
‘Some of it may be true,’ said Stormont with a kind of stubborn gallantry.
‘On the principle that a broken clock tells the truth once every twelve hours, yes, I grant you, some of it may be true,’ said Maltby with contempt.
‘And suppose the Yanks believe it. Whether it’s true or not,’ Stormont went on doggedly. ‘Fall for it, if you like. London did.’
‘Which London? Not our London, that’s for sure. And of course the Yanks won’t believe it. Not the real ones. Their systems are vastly superior to ours. They’ll prove it’s tosh, they’ll thank us, say they’ve taken note and shred it.’
Stormont refused to be put off. ‘People don’t trust their own systems. Intelligence is like exams. You always think the chap sitting next to you knows more than you do.’
‘Nigel,’ said Maltby firmly, with all the authority of his appointment, ‘allow me to remind you that we are not evaluators. Life has given us a rare opportunity to find fulfilment in our work and be of service to those whom we regard. A golden future stretches ahead of us. The crime in such cases is to waver.’
Still staring ahead of him but without the consolation of the clouds, Stormont sees his future until now. Paddy’s cough eating her to nothing. The decaying British health service all they can afford. Premature retirement to Sussex on a pittance. The going-going-gone of every dream he has ever cherished. And the England that he used to love six feet under ground.
CHAPTER TWENTY
They lay in the room for finishing hands, on the floor, on a pile of rugs which the Cuna Indian women kept for the influx of cousins, aunts and uncles from San Blas. Above them hung ranks of tailored suits awaiting button-holes. The only light came through the skylight, and it was pink from the city’s glow. The only sound came from the traffic in the Vía España, and Marta’s mewing in his ear. They were dressed. Her smashed face was buried in his neck. She was trembling. So was Pendel. They were one cold scared body together. They were children in an empty house.
‘They said you were cheating on your taxes,’ she said. ‘I told them you paid your taxes. “I keep the books,” I said. “I know.”‘ She broke off in case he wanted to say something but he had nothing to say. ‘They said you were cheating on your employer’s insurance for the staff. I said, “I do the insurance. The insurance is in order.” They said I shouldn’t ask questions, they had a file on me and I needn’t think that, because I had been beaten once, I was immune.’ She moved her head against him. ‘I hadn’t asked any questions. They said they would write in the file that I had Castro and Che Guevara on my bedroom wall. They said I was going around with radical students again. I said I wasn’t, which is true. They said you were a spy. They said Mickie was another. They said his drunkenness was just a trick to hide his spying. They’re mad.’
She had finished, but it took Pendel time to understand this, so there was a delay before he rolled onto her and with both hands pressed her cheek against his own, making their faces into a single face.