‘How about Canal Watcher?’ Osnard suggested. ‘Britain’s trade routes in the post-Colónial era. True, manner o’ speaking. Just a question o’ how you do your watching.’
Stormont could find no fault with this proposal. Every major Embassy in Panama had its Canal expert, except the Brits. But did Osnard know his stuff?
‘So what’s the bottom line as regards the US bases?’ Stormont demanded, by way of testing Osnard’s aptitude for his new post.
‘Don’t get you.’
‘Will the US military stay or go?’
‘Toss up. Lot o’ Pans want the bases to stay as security for foreign investors. Short-termists. See it as a transition.’
‘And the others?’
‘Not one more day. Had ’em here as a colonial power since 1904, disgrace to the region, get the buggers out. US marines hit Mexico and Nicaragua from here in the ‘twenties, put down Panamanian strikes in ’25. US military’s been here since the start o’ the Canal. No one’s comfortable with that except the bankers. Present time, US are using Panama as a base to hit the drug barons in the Andes and Central America and train Latin American soldiery in civic action against enemies yet to be defined. US bases employ four thousand Pans, give work to another eleven thousand. US troop strength officially seven thousand, but there’s a lot hidden, lot o’ hollow mountains full o’ toys and funk holes. US military presence supposedly accounts for four point five per cent of the Gross National Product but that’s horseshit when you reckon Panama’s invisible earnings,’
‘And the treaties?’ said Stormont, secretly impressed.
‘1904 treaty gave the Canal Zone to the Yanks in perpetuity, the ’77 Torrijos-Carter treaty said the Canal and all its works had to be handed back to the Pans at the turn o’ the century, free o’ charge. Right-wing North America still thinks it was a sell-out. Protocol allows for continued US military presence if both sides want it. Question o’ who pays who how much for what when hasn’t been addressed. Do I pass?’
He did. Osnard the official Canal Watcher duly settled into his flat, did his welcome parties, pressed the flesh and within weeks had become a pleasing minor feature of the diplomatic landscape. Within a few more he was an asset. If he played golf with the Ambassador he also played tennis with Simon Pitt, attended jolly beach parties with the junior staff and flung himself upon the diplomatic community’s periodic frenzied efforts to raise conscience money for the underprivileged of Panama, of whom there was mercifully held to be an inexhaustible supply. An Embassy pantomime was in rehearsal. Osnard was unanimously voted Dame.
‘Do you mind telling me something?’ Stormont asked him when they knew each other better. ‘What’s the Planning & Application Committee when it’s at home?’
Osnard was vague. Stormont thought deliberately so.
‘Not sure, actually. It’s Treasury-led. Mixed bag o’ people from across the board. Co-opted members from all walks o’ life. Breath o’ fresh air to blow out the cob-webs. Quangos plus God’s anointed.’
‘Any walks in particular?’
‘Parliament. Press. Here and there. My boss sees it big but doesn’t talk about it much. Chaired by a chap called Cavendish.’
‘Cavendish?’
‘First name Geoff.’
‘Geoffrey Cavendish?’
‘Freelancer o’ some sort. Wheels and deals behind the scenes. Office in Saudi Arabia, houses in Paris and the West End, place in Scotland. Member o’ Boodles.’
Stormont stared at Osnard in frank disbelief. Cavendish the influence-pedlar, he was thinking. Cavendish the defence lobbyist. Cavendish the self-styled statesman’s friend. Ten per cent Cavendish, from the days when Stormont was doing a stint in the Foreign Office in London. Boom-boom Cavendish, arms broker. Geoff the Oil. Anybody finding himself in contact with the above-named will immediately report to Personnel Department before proceeding.
‘Who else?’ Stormont asked.
‘Chap called Tug. T’other name unknown.’
‘Not Kirby?’
‘Just Tug,’ said Osnard with an indifference that Stormont rather liked. ‘Overheard it on the blower. My boss having lunch with Tug before the meeting. My boss paid. Seemed to be the form.’
Stormont bit his lip and asked no more. He already knew more than he wished and probably more than he ought. He turned instead to the delicate question of Osnard’s future product, which they discussed in private conclave over lunch in a new Swiss restaurant that served kirsch with the coffee. Osnard found the place, Osnard insisted on paying the bill out of what he called his reptile fund, Osnard proposed they eat cordon bleu and gnocchi and wash it down with Chilean red before the kirsch.