MAMista (29 page)

‘Paz
judges
, Singer
scoffs
, but you
endure
the world about you.'

‘Is that what Ramón said?'

She reached forward and took his hand in hers. ‘Always questions,' she said. ‘Always questions.'

After supper Lucas checked the hands and feet of the whole unit. He'd instructed others how to do it but on this first night he inspected every man himself. Men who had been following the edge of the river had leeches on their legs and feet. Adroit use of a lighted cheroot remedied that. There was little else to concern him. The dark forest did not breed the swarms of flying insects they had endured for the first few miles. And the relatively mild daytime temperatures made much of the march no more arduous for most of them than a day's work in the camp would have been.

Each man carried a waterproof poncho that formed one half of a bivouac shelter. There were mutterings of protest when Paz said that they must all use them, but it was better to make sure that they all knew how to make cover.

Lucas and Inez shared such a shelter. Paz said that Singer would share his, with an armed sentry close by in case Singer gave trouble. When he'd finished his meal, Singer's wrist was wired to his ankle and the camp settled down to sleep.

‘Got a cigarette?' Singer asked.

Paz opened a tin that contained the dried tobacco leaves that made up one of many such communal supplies. He gave one to Singer.

‘Do these boys use grass?' Singer asked.

‘It is forbidden by all revolutionary movements.'

‘Well that's another thing I don't like about them,' Singer said. Using his free hand he rolled the leaf on his leg as he'd learned to do, and made a misshapen cheroot. When it was ready he put it in his mouth. Paz lit it for him with a twig from the fire.

Singer inhaled, coughed smoke, and spat. ‘Oh boy! This is really my chance to kick the habit.'

Paz was studying Singer with genuine interest when he asked, ‘Why does a guy like you go to work for big business, Singer? Why fight for the fascists in Washington?'

Singer smiled. ‘What are you talking about, kid? Look around. What have all these years of bombings and shootings done for the locals? Did you see the Indians in the compound when you came shooting your way in? They were well fed, confident and in far better shape than any of the kids we have with us here. Big business is maybe just what this lousy country needs.'

‘They don't need charity, Singer. This country is full of fish and fruit and all kinds of food. Under the ground there is gold, iron ore, aluminum, platinum … who knows what else? It belongs to them.'

‘You are a slogan writer's dream, amigo. Sure, maybe all those things are here, but digging them out is something else again. To dig them out in handfuls would cost a thousand times more than they would bring. You can't sell minerals to countries who can get the same thing cheaper elsewhere.'

‘The answer to world markets is world revolution,' said Paz. ‘The workers and peasants of Latin America are knocking at America's door – they're saying: you'd just better spare a dime, brother, or we'll burn your pad down.'

Singer jammed the cheroot in his mouth and with an agility that surprised Paz he rolled over and reached out to grab his collar in his big black fist. ‘You'd like to see America burning, would you, you little creep?' He shook Paz roughly. ‘What kind of animal are you? Do you call yourself an American? Do you?'

Only a month ago Paz would have had an immediate answer to that. A month ago he had not regarded himself as an American at all. He had denied his citizenship more than once and supported his denials with vituperative comments on Americans and all things American. Now he felt more foreign than he'd ever felt before. He needed a country, a place where he could shed this awful homesickness. So he did not answer Singer in the way he once would have done. He said, ‘I am an American.'

Singer let go of him with a rough push. ‘An American,' he said scornfully. ‘A starry-eyed romantic. An old-time liberal in a new pack; and the secret ingredient is violence.' He took the cheroot from his mouth and exhaled the smoke with a cough.

‘Is it romantic to put food into hungry mouths?' Paz asked.

‘It's romantic to pile it in the street and hope it won't be stolen by the greedy,' Singer said. He was calmer now as he realized the violent reaction he'd invited but not suffered.

‘Man must aspire to a better world,' said Paz.

‘Man is atavistic, cruel and greedy, buddy. Grab power by violent revolution and you'll have another gang come along and grab power from you. So commies have to fix for themselves a system no one can grab. That means secret cops and concentration camps, right?'

‘You don't understand the concept of permanent revolution,' said Paz.

‘I was kind of hoping that it didn't have to be permanent. I was hoping that one day even you commie kooks would start to patch up the bullet holes, hospitalize the injured, bury the dead, fix the power generators and the plant you are so jubilant about destroying, and start work. Because, as sure as God made little green apples, when the shooting is over the living standard of the workers is going to depend upon what your guys can make or grow and sell to other men.'

‘Can you only think of men as components of a capitalist machine?' Paz said. ‘What about a man's rights to the land he lives on, the food that grows in the earth, the mineral wealth under it, the fish in the rivers?'

‘A commodity is only worth what another man will give for it,' Singer said. ‘You can't regiment consumers to take what you want to sell to them.'

‘Yes, we can,' Paz said.

‘Doesn't freedom mean a thing to you, Paz?'

‘What freedom are you talking about?' said Paz disdainfully. ‘You're a black.'

‘I'm not a black any more than you are a Latin. We're white men in disguise, Paz. Rich daddies and good schools make black men into white men. Didn't you know that?'

‘I hate you,' Paz said softly and sincerely. ‘You are contemptible.'

‘I hit the spot, did I?'

‘No more talking!' It was the voice of Lucas calling from afar. ‘The sentries must sleep.'

Paz decided that this was the time to settle the matter of
who was in command. He pulled his blanket back to crawl out of the little tent. ‘I wouldn't get into a hassle with him,' Singer said softly.

‘Why not?'

‘Because Inez will be on his side, I will be on his side and Sergeant Santos will be on his side. You might find yourself in a minority of one. The final result could be you shafted and ousted.'

Paz didn't move. Singer was right. Paz had noticed some danger signals coming his way from comrade Santos. Given an opportunity to humiliate Paz there was no doubt Santos would take it. It would be retaliation for some of the scoldings he'd suffered in front of his men. And if Santos turned nasty, the men would follow him. Better perhaps to let it go. Paz pulled the blanket round himself and let his head sink back. He heard Singer chuckle in triumph. Paz decided to shout a brief rejoinder but before he'd worked out a suitable one he dozed off to sleep.

Singer stayed awake, thinking about what he'd said. His hastily contrived words of caution were not so far from the truth. Lucas had the woman with him. If he was going to take over command from Paz it would not prove too difficult. Tonight he'd watched Lucas go round inspecting the hands and feet of the men in a gesture nothing less than Christlike. No matter that Lucas described it as a medical necessity, Singer saw it as a way of befriending every man. If there was a showdown such attention to detail would pay off. Lucas was a cunning old devil. Singer had seen men like him before. For the time being, Lucas was more likely to let Paz continue in command and let him take the flak for everything that went wrong. Lucas was a doctor and that gave him a trump card. He would always find some damned technical reason for doing things the way he wanted them done. It would always be ‘because the sentries must sleep'; not because Lucas wanted to settle back with that fancy woman.

Singer threw the end of the cheroot on to the dying fire. He saw the sentry pass. He was learning to recognize the sounds of the night. Trees toppled frequently; slowly ripping a way to the ground where they landed with a soft crash that shook the forest floor. But more often the sounds were those of wild animals going to the stream to drink. He wondered if there would be snakes. Singer had been bitten when a child and that episode had left him with a terrible fear of snakes. With an arm wired to his leg he felt especially vulnerable.

Singer turned over and closed his eyes. Sleep did not come easily to him. His wrist was wired tightly enough to draw blood. To escape the pressure of the wire he had to bend his knee. He had to bring his ankle close against his buttocks.

When finally Singer did go to sleep he saw Charrington's wife being blown to pieces. He saw the awful look in Charrington's face. He came awake with a start that sent a jab of pain through his sore wrist. Even with eyes tightly shut he kept seeing her and kept seeing her child slipping and sliding on his mother's blood. Gerald Singer was tormented with the idea that it had all been his fault.

WASHINGTON
,
DC
.
‘One of the last obscene words.'

Where else in all the world, thought John Curl, could you book a squash court for six o'clock in the morning? And have the club professional there to coach you? The same wonderful town where breakfast all day was the local speciality, and hotel doormen could readily tell you which way to face for Mecca.

Despite his morning sessions in the squash court, and evening work-outs in the White House gym, John Curl had never been a health freak that the gossip writers liked to pillory. He wasn't recognizably the man the cartoonists depicted with bulging muscles that sometimes became six-shooters or missiles or fighter planes, according to which aspect of the administration their newspaper was currently attacking. Yet Washington hostesses provided Evian water at his place setting, and had grown used to seeing him carefully scraping their beautiful beurre blanc sauce off the swordfish steak, and declining the crème brûlée in favour of an apple.

It disappointed Curl that he couldn't steer the President off dairy foods and steaks, and that he had made no headway in his efforts to replace those big whisky sours the President liked with the beet juice that Curl enjoyed each day at cocktail hour. Curl's interest in the chief executive's welfare
did not end with dietary concerns. The chief was a man of painstaking scruples, great caution and almost unprecedented honesty but – Curl sometimes asked himself – were they the qualities most needed in the Oval Office?

So Curl used discretion when talking to the President about some of the more Byzantine tasks of the security forces. One day perhaps he'd be thrown to the dogs. Such things had happened before. Curl accepted that as a hazard of his job. He'd already decided that if necessary he would nobly sacrifice both appointment and reputation for the President.

Curl preferred the facilities at his athletic club. It was more exclusive. The members and staff here were considerate and respectful. His visits to the White House gym were too often interrupted by people who wanted to bend his ear about their work. The club was quiet in the mornings. The coach was fresh and gave him a really tough working-over. The club towels were better too. He was thinking about this as he buried his face in the soft white hand-towel that had been laid out for him in the locker-room.

The coach departed up the circular staircase to the staff facilities. He called over his shoulder, ‘You're getting too fast for me, Mr Curl. I'm going to need a little coaching myself the way you're coming on.'

‘Tomorrow I'll get my revenge,' Curl said. He loved to win.

Curl wrapped the towel round his neck. He liked to cool down before stepping under the shower. He looked around. There was one other member in the changing-room. ‘Just one at a time on that scale, buddy!' Curl called to him.

The man turned to see him. ‘Is that any way to talk to a member of the committee?' He was not surprised to see Curl. It was very early: too early for middle management. Only the top brass got out of bed while it was still dark. Steve Steinbeck often saw John Curl here at this time.

Curl leaned over him to better see the magnifier on the scale. ‘You're winning the battle, Stevie.'

When Steve Steinbeck had been a lieutenant-commander flying F-4s on Alpha strikes into Nam, he'd weighed one hundred and seventy pounds. But that had been a long long time ago. ‘Twelve pounds down,' he said proudly.

‘Since?'

‘Memorial Day.'

‘You need a few games of squash,' Curl said. ‘That bicycling you do will never raise your pulse-rate enough.'

‘Well, I still make private arrangements for raising my pulse-rate, John.'

‘I'm serious, Steve. Squash sets me up.'

‘I don't come here to torture myself,' Steinbeck said. ‘It's bad enough having the massage.'

Curl grinned. He didn't have to weigh himself. His weight had hardly varied since his undergraduate days at Yale. He opened his locker, peeled off his T-shirt and threw it down for the laundry. ‘That new coach really gives you a run for your money,' Curl said. ‘I can't get near him: he humiliates me.'

‘I'm glad to hear it,' Steinbeck said. ‘Everyone will be pleased to hear it. Let me know next time you give him a game, and I'll sell tickets.'

Curl said, ‘If you're serious about your weight problem, Steve, there's a guy no more than a block from your office. He'll give you a series of treatments: injections, massage, the whole schmear. When I moved into the Executive Wing I made my entire staff go to him for a check-up – every last one of them!'

‘You're a meddlesome mother, John.'

‘Everything paid for,' Curl reminded him.

‘Well, I didn't imagine even you would have the nerve to dock it out of their pay checks.'

Curl smiled. Despite the banter he admired Steinbeck. This fellow – who seemed so easygoing – had been discharged from the Navy with severe injuries, then had clawed his way up to get a petroleum conglomerate in his tight grip.
He wasn't a chairman nor a president of any one of the companies in the conglomerate but it was common knowledge that the deals Steve made in a ‘smoke-filled room' today would be some board's decision tomorrow. Curl opened the door of the shower-room. Having stepped inside, he turned and came back as if suddenly getting an idea. ‘In fact, Steve, I wanted a private word.'

Steinbeck nodded and took a box of cigars from his locker. He offered them to Curl who declined. Then Steinbeck selected one and put the box back. ‘They stay fresh in the locker,' Steinbeck said. ‘I guess it's the steamy air.'

Curl felt like pointing out the big No Smoking signs on the walls of the locker-room, but this was not the time to remind him. ‘I suppose so,' said Curl. He went to the door that led to the squash courts and looked moodily through its glass panel.

Steinbeck searched through the collection of match covers in his locker – all bore the names of fancy clubs and restaurants – but all were empty. ‘Got a match?'

‘Yes.' Curl knew he was being needled but he opened his locker and found some matches. In spite of being a non-smoker he always had matches with him. It said a lot about the sort of man he was.

Steinbeck carefully lighted the cigar. His hairy chest, and his belly, made him look comical standing there in his undershirt and striped shorts. Men such as Steinbeck did not care what sort of image they projected. Curl knew many such men. He had never completely understood them. Maybe it had been the accident that changed Steve. The plane had toppled off the flight-deck when the steam catapult failed. The ship had sailed right over the wreckage. Steve had been skewered by a piece of the elevator. They had never found his back-seater, who had been Steve's closest buddy. When his cigar was fully alight Steinbeck looked up expectantly.

Curl slashed the air with his racket. He said, ‘I just wanted to say thank you for putting that stuff on your
computer without identification. We could have had it done by some other laboratory but I wanted it done by someone in the business. Someone not involved in all the internal politics we've got in the West Wing right now. You know.'

‘I don't know,' said Steinbeck.

‘Then you are very lucky,' Curl said. ‘Thanks anyway.'

‘And that's it?'

‘Apart from the report from Houston when it arrives.'

‘John, a man doesn't make sure the showers are not in use, and then walk across to the door and check that both courts are empty, before he says thank you.'

‘In my job you get like that,' said Curl. He took a couple of swipes with the racket.

‘I don't think so, John.' Steinbeck knew what was coming. Curl had deliberately arranged this ‘chance' meeting. Steinbeck felt like an actor playing a part in some preordained drama that he did not like. Yet he knew there was no escape. Questions would be put to him. He'd be consulted as though he were making decisions that would decide the outcome. But the truth was that Curl was going to tell him what the White House wanted; only a fool would defy Curl's needs.

Curl said, ‘You've seen the first reports and the fossils and the seismograms and that junk …' Nervously Curl balanced a small black rubber squash ball on the racket, making it circle so it didn't go over the edge. ‘You have looked at it all?'

‘Sure I have.' Steinbeck looked at the ball and at Curl's face. There was nothing to be read there.

‘It was good?' Curl asked.

‘Where did it come from? Who are these people: Pan-Guiana Geological Surveys? I never heard of them.'

‘It's a small independent.'

‘Run by the CIA?'

‘I'm not sure who runs it.'

‘I should have guessed,' Steinbeck said. It was all going
just as he'd known it would. The hum of the air-conditioning reminded him of the carrier, as did these grey metal lockers. The overhead blue fluorescent lighting was hard and pitiless. These conditions conspired to make him remember things he would rather forget. It was too much like the ready-room aboard the carrier the day of the ill-fated ‘cold shot'. His back-seater had borrowed a pack of gum. Steve had had a premonition that day too.

‘But it was good stuff?' Curl persisted.

‘It was fantastic,' Steinbeck said, but the tone of his voice didn't match the extravagance of his words.

‘Do you want to quantify it in terms of money?'

Steinbeck smiled. ‘How much is it worth, you mean?'

‘That's what I mean.'

‘Not a nickel, John.'

Curl didn't respond. The reply convinced him that Steinbeck was committed to a decision of some sort. That ‘not a nickel' was the beginning of the bargaining. Had he been going to say no, Steinbeck would have started off with warm congratulations, and then would have let him down lightly.

‘Not a nickel,' said Steinbeck again. He snapped the band on his shorts and said, ‘You know, maybe I will have that guy's number from you.'

‘My secretary will dig out all the details. He's a nice guy; you'll like him. And with those injections you just won't
want
to eat more than the diet.'

‘You see, John, I have to consider things like siting, communications, government aid, tax holidays … And I have to know the quality of the crude.'

Curl let the black ball drop to the floor. He tapped it downward a couple of times before whacking it hard so that it bounced back as high as the ceiling. As it came down again he caught it. ‘Are we talking nine figures, Steve?'

‘A hundred million is a lot of scratch. Let's be realistic: I know what part of the world we are talking about. The
boys who run my explorations department can write a street address for any seismogram and some pieces of rock. We've got to talk about political stability.'

‘I want you in there, Stevie, and so does the President. The way we figure it … well, nature doesn't like vacuums. Someone will end up exploiting that field. I want it to be you; a guy we know and can talk to.'

‘That's nice.'

‘I mean it, Steve. I mean it sincerely. In fact I told the President that it was your company that made the find. I said the seismogram came from you. That way I was able to put it to the President that this should be all yours.'

‘You said it was my boys; but really it was your boys,' Steinbeck said with mock innocence as though it was difficult for him to understand. It was as near to a protest as he dared go.

Curl fidgeted. ‘It's a small exploration company …'

‘Yes, you explained all that.'

‘Spanish Guiana. The government wanted a survey of the central provinces for an electric scheme.'

‘Oh boy!' Steinbeck said. ‘And is the company that gets the contract for the electric scheme also going to be headed up by a guy that you and the President have taken a shine to?'

Curl didn't like such joshing. ‘We make strategic decisions; you fellows make commercial ones. We needed a chance to get photos and look around. Anyway, there is no electric scheme – there's just oil.'

‘Yes, well I can see that having the local Reds sitting on a big oilfield would make bad vibes for some of the guys on the Hill.'

Curl smiled coldly. ‘It would make your stockholders a little nervous too, Steve. A flow of cheap crude from some maverick competitor in Spanish Guiana, who wouldn't play ball with your price-rigging, could upset a few of your long-term projections. Don't deny it.'

‘You let me worry about the stockholders,' Steinbeck said grimly. Any last trace of the ready-room was gone; Steve Steinbeck was strapped in tight with all systems tested and ready. ‘If Uncle Sam says go, I'll go. But the board will need some reassurance.'

‘Long-term loans, you mean?'

‘Long-term loans, insurance … a chance to cross-collateralize with domestic fields. Without that kind of help it's not worth the time and money trying to get at it.'

With studied mildness Curl said, ‘That doesn't sound like you, Stevie.'

‘At one time it wasn't. But last year we lost eight men: engineers and survey workers. Remember? Those men were tortured and killed, John. I saw the families. Worst job I ever had in twenty years in the business. Latin America has got to be real tempting before I put my weight behind plans for new drilling there.'

‘I don't remember.'

‘Well maybe that's the saddest part of it. Our people get killed and forgotten so soon.'

‘Yes, it's sad,' Curl said, and after leaving a moment for reflection added, ‘but you'd go right ahead with some wild-catting?'

Steinbeck looked at him doubtfully. He wished he didn't so often have to deal with people who'd become overnight experts on the oil business. ‘I wouldn't think we'd wildcat. This game's become too expensive to let guys follow their hunches all over Hell's half-acre. I'd be prepared to send a couple of mobile rigs to get more core samples and cuttings in the spots where the seismic results were positive.' He tapped some ash into an old coffee can that he kept in his locker for that purpose. ‘When I have some kind of assessment about the density of the crude we can sit and talk.'