Tango (36 page)

The people with Carlos were both civilian and military. He was resplendent in braid and tassels and carried a swagger-stick with which he frequently gesticulated. It was hard to tell whether he
was shouting or laughing. For a moment he was eclipsed by his entourage, then by Nightingale and the lumbering, dishevelled Feather. He wielded the stick and they parted suddenly. He strolled
across the lawn towards William, arms outstretched.

‘William, William! Comrade-in-arms!’ He embraced William. He beamed and his eyes shone. ‘I am cruising round the city, showing myself to the people – look, my beautiful
new car.’ He pointed his stick at the gold Mercedes. ‘A present from the president of the United States. “From one great president to another,” he said.’ He laughed.
‘And then a small cloud comes upon me when I am cruising. What has happened to my friend, Wooding, I ask, the friend of my childhood? Then I think I will call on the British Embassy and see
if they know and, look, you are here!’ He embraced William again. ‘These embassy people, they cannot understand I want to see you, not them. What do I want with them? What did they do
when I needed help? I have new friends now, I have a CIA escort as well as my own. Come, we will walk arm in arm towards them and show them who is my favourite British representative.’ His
expression became momentarily sorrowful. ‘I’m sorry not to have Arthur Box on the other arm.’

‘So am I.’

‘I don’t think these embassy people liked Arthur. When I mentioned him they started to apologise. I don’t like these people. Now that I am properly president, I don’t
think I shall have them here. I shall ask for them to be withdrawn. We don’t need so many, anyway. A consulate will do. But there is still another cloud on my mind: Herrera.’

‘He’s still at large?’

‘They are looking for him. All the CIA agents in the city and soon all the people will be asked to look for him. Also, I regret Theresa. She is dead to me and to every man now. It is a
pity.’

When they reached the gold Mercedes, Carlos held up William’s arm like a boxer’s. William was his friend and comrade-in-arms, he announced. They had fought together along with
another British comrade who had died gallantly. William and his colleague had been symbols of British support and they would be appropriately honoured. The new government would restore honour and
the economy. There would be no more security police and plenty of money for everyone, especially the poor. The fishing agreements with the Soviet Union would be revoked, cobalt production put on a
proper footing, international aid directed to wherever it was most needed.

William’s arm ached. It was difficult to know where to look. Carlos spoke as if to a large public meeting. The three journalists present took photographs and notes. The rest of the
audience was either Carlos’s own guard, embassy people or sober-suited civilians who were presumably the CIA bodyguard. Nightingale and Feather were at the front, Nightingale looked
uncomfortable, Feather crumpled and gloomy.

The tall man at the back of the group nodded and smiled. William recognised him as Max Hueffer only after he had smiled back, a reflex action. Carlos finished and there was dutiful applause
which he took with grinning satisfaction.

Max walked over to William. ‘Hi.’

‘Hello.’

They shook hands. Max’s grip was as firm as his gaze, his features remorselessly pleasant. ‘I’ve been thinking we should have a talk. Couldn’t find you anywhere.
I’ve been worrying about you. So has Sally.’

‘I’ve been busy.’

They walked down the lawn. The ambassador, seeing them coming, moved further into the rhododendrons.

‘Hope you don’t mind us cashing in like this on the good work done by you and Arthur Box,’ said Max. ‘It was now or never so far as intervention was concerned, and your
people back in London seemed to have gone cool on the project. I guess they didn’t want to invest much in terms of aid and the future, so we worked out a deal. It’s a real tragedy our
intervention force didn’t take the airport twenty-four hours or so earlier. Might have saved Arthur Box.’

‘Do you know where his body is?’

‘In the city morgue, I guess. All the fatalities are there, including the ones we inflicted. It’s just a pity Herrera isn’t with them.’

‘Any idea where he is?’

‘Not yet. Could be taking refuge in the Russian Embassy. But they’re all going to be hoofed out pretty soon, though they don’t know it yet. Herrera may run but he can’t
hide. We’ll find him.’

Max offered cigarettes. William didn’t smoke but accepted. They both assumed a matter-of-fact businesslike attitude. At least, he assumed Max was assuming it. Perhaps this was what Max was
really like. Perhaps that was what Sally liked about him.

‘Arthur Box was an operator of genius, in my opinion,’ Max continued. ‘We didn’t even know he was here and we thought we knew pretty well every sparrow in this city.
Except what to do about it. We could see what was happening but we couldn’t figure out how to stop it. On the other hand, your Arthur knew nothing about the place but he just came in and went
straight for it, straight to the jugular. And the weird thing is, your people in London don’t seem to rate him at all: prehistoric and freakish, they reckon. I wonder how serious they ever
really were about this project.’

‘I don’t know. They’re not really my people, you see. I’ve never met them.’

‘That’s what Sally told me but I couldn’t believe it at first. I mean, you’ve done so well, so professional – getting past Herrera to the president, getting him a
girlfriend, getting Arthur alongside him, getting him to cooperate. We had fifty-plus operatives here and we couldn’t get anywhere near him.’

William had to remind himself that this man was his wife’s lover; it didn’t seem to make the difference it should. ‘Is it true that Herrera comes from an old city
family?’

‘One of the oldest. But it’s no use looking for him with them. They died out. We did some research. He’s got some cousins somewhere up the coast but all his immediate family
are in the cemetery and he doesn’t exactly look set to prolong the line.’

The cigarette was good only for the first few puffs, like all that William had ever tried. He watched the rest of it burn in his fingers.

‘I – guess I should say something about me and Sally,’ Max continued.

‘There’s no need.’

‘I feel under obligation to say something.’

‘You needn’t.’

‘She’s a very fine lady.’ Max’s tone was unctuous. ‘I just wanted to say, no hard feelings.’

‘No.’ William wished he would stop.

‘We both wanted you to know how very much we appreciate your attitude.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

Max’s features burgeoned with sincerity. ‘We both want to humbly thank you.’

‘Don’t.’

Max transferred his cigarette and held out his hand. ‘William, thank you.’

Not to have shaken would have been misinterpreted, so William transferred his own cigarette. ‘No need ever to mention it again.’

Max held on to his hand. ‘William, I count myself a big man, but I reckon you’re bigger.’

The parrot was in the trees again. William raised his other hand. The parrot waved back. Max looked round.

‘Just saying goodbye to the parrot,’ said William.

The street markets were busy that day, the traders boisterous even by their own standards. Colour photographs of Carlos adorned most of the barrows. William stopped at the
first one which had guns. A flintlock, a shot-gun and two rifles were strung up, while on the table revolvers and pistols were scattered amongst gardening tools, old shoes and elaborate
riding-crops with silver handles. A couple of biscuit tins contained assorted ammunition. The stall-holder was a short moustachioed man who looked like the orange-seller, except that he smiled.

William said he wanted a hand-gun. The man nodded. ‘
Sí, señor
, a little or big one?’

‘Nothing too large. Just – well – comfortable.’

He held two or three. The man commented favourably upon each but even more favourably on a fourth which he found beneath the shoes.

‘It is more expensive,’ he said. ‘But better. You want a holster?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘For the shoulder?’

‘Er – yes.’

He was offered a smooth black leather holster but the fourth pistol wouldn’t fit. A smaller silver revolver, yet more expensive, was found.

‘Revolvers are simpler, easier, more reliable,’ said the man, divining William’s inexperience. ‘And it fits the holster with clips – let me show – there
– or there.’ He clipped the holster and revolver to William’s belt, then to the left breast pocket of his shirt. It was heavy and made the shirt sag, but it fitted snugly beneath
the jacket.

‘And some bullets, please,’ said William.

They sorted through the biscuit tins for some that would fit. The revolver held only four. ‘That should be enough,’ said William.

‘Is for animals,
señor
?’

‘No.’

‘For business?’

William thought. ‘Business involving my wife.’

The man was immediately sympathetic. ‘You take more.’

William ended up with a dozen more bullets which he had to put in his pockets. He had never held a gun before and tried to spin the chamber as he had seen in films. ‘It seems a bit stiff.
Doesn’t seem to move.’

The man shrugged. ‘Is not important. You can oil. Anyway, is necessary only for one movement at a time when you fire.’

William walked away feeling self-conscious and awkward rather than lethal. He kept his jacket buttoned though it was now very warm. People were already sitting and drinking maté in the
shade of the plane trees. Perhaps they drank it throughout the summer, too. He was free to try it now.

The cemetery flower-seller was busy. Inside, flowers had appeared on many of the graves and were even placed in small holders by the doors of the lockers high in the walls. Tall aluminium
step-ladders were provided and people waited patiently to use them, laughing and talking. The white walls were clean in the sun, the atmosphere festive – not, William thought, a suitable day
for a killing. There were plenty of bodies there already, of course, but a fresh one might seem indecent. Also, there were children around, so there had to be no stray bullets. It seemed that once
you decided on something there were immediately other things to be taken into account.

There was a small door in the wall by the main gate where Theresa had told him they kept books relating grave numbers to family names. The books were large, strong ones like those he had seen in
war cemeteries in Europe. There were two families named Herrera but one, because of the dates of recent interments, he could discount. The other, by its number, could not be far from
Theresa’s banker. The footsteps in the mist that morning had seemed so clear, so elusive and so threatening that he was unreasonably confident of finding what he sought.

Walking past 1066, William wondered whether he should buy it for Theresa. Carlos had said she was dead to him and all men now. As with Box, he couldn’t really bring himself to believe in
her death, but had to accept it. She had said she wanted to be buried there. Box would more appropriately be buried in England, perhaps with military honours.

The Herrera grave was high in the wall. Manuel would have needed a ladder to get into it and, having got in, he couldn’t have moved the ladder away. Nor were there signs on the ground of a
ladder having been there. All this was clear, but William nevertheless stood and stared for some time at the small high door, unwilling to accept the failure of his theory.

He turned away and stared instead at the city of obelisks, turrets and sepulchres before walking slowly back towards 1066. Some children were playing around the mini-cathedral in which he and
Box had talked. They laughed and shouted. Two ran into the cathedral but came out subdued, they spoke to the others and all walked away.

William approached. His inclination was to hesitate outside and try to see in, but that was stupid. It would take too long for his eyes to adjust. Nor did he feel he could draw his gun. That was
unnecessarily dramatic and, anyway, might seriously frighten innocent people. He approached from the side, then ducked through the door and stepped into the gloom.

Manuel was seated at the end of one of the stone seats, leaning against the wall. He was wearing the robes of a priest. William remained crouched in the doorway. The revolver weighed heavily
upon his heart. He did not attempt to draw it. He had imagined doing so many times but now it seemed unthinkable, an almost ludicrous breach of manners. But it was what he was there for.

Manuel smiled in the gloom. ‘Why have you come here?’

‘To find you.’

‘Why here?’

‘I guessed. You came in this morning, didn’t you, in the mist?’

‘Yes.’ Manuel’s tone, like his smile, was perceptive and disconcerting. ‘Why did you want to find me?’

‘I came to kill you.’

Manuel looked politely surprised, as if he had received a proposition from an unexpected quarter. ‘Why is that?’

‘In revenge for Arthur Box and Theresa and all the others.’

‘That seems a little harsh, if you don’t mind my saying so. I’m not responsible for everything.’

‘Nevertheless.’ William’s hatred had evaporated. He kept going only because he had started.

‘Are you really going to shoot me?’

There were voices outside and a breath of breeze. An insect hummed.

‘That’s what I came for.’

‘I never thought of you as a man of action,
Señor
Wooding. After all, things don’t always turn out as you plan them, as we both know now.’ He laughed.
‘So, you are going to shoot me, an unarmed man, in cold blood. Well, you may as well do so.’

Even thinking of Theresa and Box didn’t help now. They wouldn’t have done this. He knew he wouldn’t. Some people could justify it, and there were no doubt others who would say
it was his duty, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t quite right enough. A pity because it was the only big thing he had ever set out to do.

‘Are you going to do it here?’ asked Manuel. ‘Or outside? Standing or sitting? Am I allowed to pray first?’