‘But we’re making headway. We’ve the Board of Trade and the Bank of England beating down the doors. The Foreign Office, though not given to hysteria, has expressed cautious concern. I remember they expressed much the same emotion when I had the pleasure of advising them of General Galtieri’s intentions regarding the misnomered Malvinas.’
Osnard’s heart sinks.
‘But sir-‘ he objects in the carefully tuned voice of breathless neophyte that he has adopted.
‘Yes, Andrew?’
‘What’s the British interest in Panama? Or am I being stupid?’
Luxmore is gratified by the boy’s innocence. Moulding the young for service at the sharp end has ever been one of his keenest pleasures.
‘There is none, Andrew. In Panama as a nation, zero British interest in any shape or form,’ he replies with an arch smile. ‘A few stranded mariners, a few hundred millions of British investment, a dwindling bunch of assimilated ancient Britons, a couple of moribund consultative committees and our interest in the Republic of Panama is served.’
‘Then what-‘
With a wave Luxmore commands Osnard’s silence. He is addressing his own reflection in the armoured glass.
‘Phrase your question somewhat differently, however, young Mr Osnard, and you would receive a vastly differ-ent answer. Oh yes.’
‘How, sir?’
‘What is our geopolitical interest in Panama? Ask yourself that, if you will.’ He was away. ‘What is our vital interest? Where is the lifeblood of our great trading nation most at risk? Where, when we train our long lens upon the future wellbeing of these islands, do we recognise the darkest storm clouds gathering, young Mr Osnard?’ He was flying. ‘Where in the entire globe do we perceive the next Hong Kong living on borrowed time, the next disaster waiting to happen?’ Across the river apparently, where his visionary gaze was fixed. ‘The barbarians are at the gate, young Mr Osnard. Predators from every corner of the globe are descending upon little Panama. That great clock out there is ticking away the minutes to Armageddon. Does our Treasury heed it? No. They are hiding their ears in their hands yet again. Who will win the greatest Prize Possession of the new millennium? Will it be the Arabs? Are the Japanese sharpening their katanas! Of course they are! Will it be the Chinese, the Tigers, or a Pan-Latin consortium under-pinned with billions of drug dollars? Will it be Europe without us? Those Germans again, those wily French? It won’t be the British, Andrew. That’s a racing certainty. No, no. Not our hemisphere. Not our canal. We have no interest in Panama. Panama is a backwater, young Mr Osnard. Panama is two men and a dog and let’s all go out and have a good lunch!’
‘They’re mad,’ Osnard whispers.
‘No, they’re not. They’re right. It’s not our bailiwick. It’s the Back Yard.’
Osnard’s comprehension falters, then leaps to life. The Back Yard! How many times in his training course had he not heard it mentioned? The Back Yard! El Dorado of every British espiocrat! Power and influence in the Yankee back yard! The special relationship revived! The longed-for return to the Golden Age when tweed-jacketed sons of Yale and Oxford sat side by side in the same panelled rooms, pooling their imperialist fantasies! Luxmore has again forgotten Osnard’s presence, and is speaking into his own soul:
‘The Yankees have done it again. Oh yes. A stunning demonstration of their political immaturity. Of their craven retreat from international responsibility. Of the pervasive power of misplaced liberal sensitivities in foreign affairs. We’d the same problem with the Falklands imbroglio, I may tell you confidentially. Oh yes.’ A peculiar rictal grimace came over him as he clasped his hands behind his back and rose on the balls of his little feet. ‘Not only have the Yankees signed a totally misbegotten treaty with the Panamanians – given away the shop, thank you very much Mr Jimmy Carter! – they’re also proposing to honour it. In consequence, they are proposing to leave themselves and, what is worse, their allies with a vacuum. It will be our job to fill it. To persuade them to fill it. To show them the error of their ways. To resume our rightful place at the top table. It’s the oldest tale of them all, Andrew. We’re the last of the Romans. We have the knowledge, but they have the power.’ A cunning glance towards Osnard now, but one that took in the corners of the room as well, lest a barbarian had crept in unobserved. ‘Our task – your task – will be to provide the grounds, young Mr Osnard, the arguments, the evidence needful to bring our Yankee allies to their senses. Do you follow me?’