The Tailor of Panama by John le Carré

‘How many?’

‘One at present. No doubt if they’re successful they’ll ask for more. Perhaps we shall see the return of those heady days when the principal function of the Diplomatic Service was to provide cover for their activities.’

‘Have the Americans been told?’

‘No, and they’re not to be. Osnard is to remain un-declared to anyone except ourselves.’

Stormont was digesting this when Francesca broke the silence. Fran was practical. Too practical sometimes.

‘Will he work here in the Embassy? Physically, I mean.’

Maltby had a different voice for Francesca, as well as a different face. It hovered between instruction and caress.

‘Indeed, yes, Fran. Physically and otherwise.’

‘Will he have staff?’

‘We are asked to make provision for one assistant, Fran.’

‘Male or female?’

‘To be determined. Not, one assumes, by the person selected, but these days one can’t be sure.’ Snigger.

‘What’s his rank?’ Simon Pitt this time.

‘Do the Friends have ranks, Simon? How amusing. I always see their condition as a rank of its own. Don’t you? There’s all of us. And after us, there’s all of them. Presumably they see it differently. He’s an Etonian. Odd, the things the Office tells one and the things it doesn’t. Still we mustn’t pre-judge him.’

Maltby had been educated at Harrow.

‘Does he speak Spanish?’ Francesca was back.

‘Fluently, we are told, Fran. But I never see languages as a guarantee of anything, do you? A man who can make a fool of himself in three languages strikes me as a three-times-bigger fool than a man who is confined to one.’

‘When does he arrive?’ Stormont again.

‘Friday the thirteenth, appropriately. That is to say, the thirteenth is the date on which I am told he will arrive.’

‘That’s eight days from now,’ Stormont protested.

The Ambassador craned his long neck towards a calendar portraying the Queen in a feathered hat. ‘Is it? Well, well. I suppose it is.’

‘Is he married?’ asked Simon Pitt.

‘Not that one is aware of, Simon.’

‘Meaning no?’ – Stormont again.

‘Meaning that I have not been informed that he is, and since he has asked for bachelor accommodation I assume that, whatever he has, he will come without it.’

Flinging out his arms to either side of him, Maltby folded them carefully in half until his hands came to rest behind his head. His gestures, though bizarre, were seldom without meaning. This one denoted that the meeting was about to close for golf.

‘It’s a full-term appointment, by the way, Nigel, not a temporary thing. Unless he gets thrown out, of course,’ he added, brightening slightly. ‘Fran. Dear. The Office is becoming testy about that draft memorandum we discussed. Could you possibly burn some midnight oil or is it all spoken for?’

And the wolfish smile again, as sad as old age.

‘Ambassador.’

‘Why, Nigel. How nice.’

It was quarter of an hour later. Maltby was putting papers into his safe. Stormont had caught him alone. Maltby was not pleased.

‘What’s Osnard supposed to be covering? They must have told you. You can’t have given him a blank cheque.’

Maltby closed his safe, set the combination, cranked himself to his full height and glanced at his watch.

‘Oh, I think I pretty much did. What’s the point of not? They’ll take what they want anyway. It isn’t the Foreign Office’s fault. Osnard’s sponsored by some grand inter-ministerial body. One can’t possibly resist.’

‘Called what?’

‘Planning & Application. It never occurred to me we were capable of either function.’

‘Who heads them?’

‘Nobody. I asked the same question. Personnel gave me the same answer. I should take him and be grateful. So should you.’

Nigel Stormont sat in his room, sifting incoming correspondence. In his day he had earned himself a name for coolness under pressure. When scandal broke over him in Madrid, his deportment was grudgingly held to be exemplary. It also saved his skin, for when Stormont submitted his obligatory letter of resignation, the Head of Personnel was all for accepting it until Higher Authority stayed his hand.

‘Well, well. The cat with nine lives,’ Personnel had murmured, from the depths of his great dark palace in the former India Office, not so much shaking Stormont’s hand as noting its particulars for future treatment. ‘So it’s not the dole for you after all. It’s Panama. Poor you. Enjoy Maltby. I’m sure you will. And we’ll talk about you in a year or two, won’t we? Something to look forward to.’

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