Luxmore’s gaze turned to the City’s skyline for comfort.
‘Andrew?’
‘Sir?’
‘I mentioned to you that a grand vision has certain components.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘One of them is scale. Don’t send me dross. No grape-shot. Not “Here, Scottie, take this bag of bones and see what your analysts make of it.” Do you follow me?’
‘Not quite, sir.’
‘The analysts here are idiots. They don’t make connections. They don’t see shapes forming in the sky. A man reaps as he sows. Do you understand me? A great intelligencer catches history in the act. We can’t expect some little nine-till-five fellow on the third floor who’s worried about his mortgage to catch history in the act. Can we? It takes a man of vision to catch history in the act. Does it not?’
‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
‘Don’t let me down, Andrew.’
‘I’ll try not to, sir.’
But if Luxmore had chanced to turn round at that moment he would have found to his surprise that Osnard’s demeanour lacked the meekness of his tone. A smile of triumph lit his guileless young face and sparks of greed his eyes. Packing, selling the car, swearing allegiance to each of half-a-dozen girlfriends and performing other chores associated with his departure, Andrew Osnard took a step not normally expected of a young Englishman setting out to serve his Queen in foreign climes. Through a distant relative in the West Indies he opened a numbered account on Grand Cayman, having first established that the compliant bank had a branch in Panama City.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Osnard paid off the dapped-out Pontiac and stepped into the night. The prickly quiet and low lighting reminded him of training school. He was sweating. In this bloody climate he usually was. Underpants nipping at his crutch. Shirt like a wet dishcloth. Hate it. Cars without lights crackled stealthily past him over the wet drive. High cropped hedges provided for extra discretion. It had rained and stopped again. Bag in hand, he crossed a tarmac courtyard. A naked six-foot plastic Venus, lit from somewhere inside her vulva, shed a sickly glow. He stubbed his foot against a plant-tub, swore, this time in Spanish, and came upon a row of garages with plastic ribbons dangling over their doorways and a low-powered candle bulb lighting each number. Reaching number eight, he shoved aside the ribbons, groped his way to a red pinlight on the far wall and pressed it: the fabled pushbutton. A genderless Voice from the Beyond thanked him for his visit.
‘My name’s Colombo. I booked.’
‘You prefer a special room, Serior Colombo?’
‘Prefer the one I booked. Three hours. How much?’
‘You want to change to a special, Señor Colombo? Wild West? Arabian Nights? Tahiti? Fifty dollars more?’
‘No,’
‘One hundred and five dollars, please. Enjoy your stay.’
‘Give me a receipt for three hundred,’ Osnard said.
A buzzer sounded and an illuminated letterbox opened at his elbow. He posted one hundred and twenty dollars into its red mouth, which snapped shut. Delay while the notes were passed through a detector, the excess duly noted, the bogus receipt prepared.
‘Come back and see us again, Señor Colombo.’
A shaft of white light half blinded him, a crimson welcome rug appeared at his feet, an electronic Tudor door clicked open. A fug of disinfectant fumes slapped him like a blast from an oven. An absent band struck up ‘O Sole Mio’. Sweat pouring off him, he glared round for the air-conditioners at the same moment as he heard them crank themselves into action. Pink mirrors on the walls and ceiling. A convocation of Osnards glowering at each other. Mirrored bedhead, crimson flock counterpane shimmering under nauseous lighting. Freebie spongebag containing comb, toothbrush, three French letters, two bars of US-made milk chocolate. Television screen showing two matrons and a forty-five-year-old Latin man with hair on his arse cavorting naked in somebody’s drawing room. Osnard looked for a switch to turn them off but the flex ran straight into the wall.
Jesus. Typical.
He sat on the bed, opened his shabby briefcase, set out his wares on the bedspread. One sheaf o’ fresh carbon wrapped as locally-produced typing paper. Six reels o’ sub-miniature film concealed in can o’ fly spray. Why do Head Office concealment devices look as if they’ve been bought in Russian government-surplus stores? One sub-miniature tape recorder, undisguised. One bottle Scotch, head joes and their case officers for the use of. Seven thousand bucks in twenties and fifties. Pity to see it go but think of it as seed money.