MAMista (6 page)

‘I told Steve you wouldn't find any kind of photocopy convincing.'

‘Well maybe …'

‘They have seepage, Mr President.'

‘Seepage? Are they sure?'

‘Yes.'

‘That's different, John.' He looked at the paper and his mind went back to his youth. A seismogram like this was then the height of his ambition. He'd wanted to be an explorer but his Dad had kept him in that lousy office. ‘Funny to think a piece of paper like this could change the world, John. Seepage! That's the piece of pork they used to put in the can of beans. That's what every oil man dreams of: seepage. So Steinbeck got lucky again.'

‘They've been renewing licences to prospect down there for ten years or more.' Discreetly Curl produced a map of South America. He wanted to refresh the President's memory about exactly where Spanish Guiana was situated. ‘But if it's really big, Royal Dutch Shell are sure to want a piece of it … and maybe Exxon too.'

‘The word is out?'

‘Not yet. But Steve is screaming for exploratory drilling. When he moves in a lightweight rig, it will raise some eyebrows.'

‘Without drilling there's no proof it's anything but a dry hole.'

‘And after the drilling it's too late,' said Curl.

‘Too late for what?'

John Curl shrugged.

‘Tell me how you see it, John.'

‘The Benz government has been a good and reliable friend to America. But the real truth is that he'll only stay in power as long as there is a literacy test for voters.' He waited for that to sink in.

‘A literacy test for voters,' said the President. ‘If only
we
had a literacy test for voters, John.'

John Curl was not to be deflected from his explanation by bad jokes. ‘Remove the literacy qualification and the Indian population would vote Benz into obscurity overnight. The sort of landslide that even a South American election can't fix. Even as it stands, he sits uneasy on the throne. The guerrilla units in the south are highly organized, well
disciplined and well equipped. There are districts of the capital – not half a mile from the Palace – where police and army can only go in armoured cars.'

It sounds not unlike Washington, DC, the President was about to say, but after seeing the earnest look on Curl's face said, ‘Conclusion?'

‘Conclusions are your prerogative, Mr President. But Admiral Benz has had a long uphill struggle to bring democratic government to a primitive country that is essentially feudal. Money from oil could give him the chance to build schools and roads and hospitals and make his country into a show-case.'

‘Is this a plea to do nothing?'

‘Steve says the Japanese would do a deal with him … or maybe buy his whole South American outfit. Japan needs energy sources.'

The President thought about that and didn't like the sound of it. ‘Should this go on the Security Council agenda, John?'

‘Leave it for a few days, Mr President. The fewer who are party to this the better.'

‘And if Steve starts talks with his Japanese buddies?'

‘If Steve talks to his mother we'll put him into Leavenworth. I told him that, Mr President.'

The President stabbed the TV control and produced fleeting glimpses of an old British war film, ‘The Odd Couple', a Honda commercial and then a blank screen again. ‘It would be best if Steinbeck held exclusive mineral rights.'

‘Yes,' said Curl.

‘Let the British in there and they will start building a refinery; they can't afford to ship crude across the water. We must keep it as crude, brought Stateside for refining. That way if the government there falls, we have a breathing space before anyone can raise the money and get a refinery built.'

Curl nodded.

‘I'm damned if I can remember who we have out there.'

‘Junk-bond Joey.'

‘Junk-bond Joey,' said the President. The two men looked at each other. They were remembering the flamboyant entrepreneur who had purchased his backwoods embassy for untold millions in campaign funds. This was the man who had almost gone to prison for insider trading, a man who had recently created a minor diplomatic crisis by offering a punch in the head to an Algerian diplomat at a Washington cocktail party.

‘Tepilo is not Washington,' said Curl reassuringly. ‘Tepilo is Latin America; very much Latin America.'

‘But does Joey know that?'

‘There's a lot to do,' said Curl. ‘We must tell Benz that he's got an oilfield, and make sure he knows what will happen if he steps out of line. Most importantly, we must appoint a tough someone we can trust, to sit in on the meetings between Steve's people and the Benz government. A tough someone! Benz won't be easy to deal with.'

‘A trap,' said the President. Curl raised an eyebrow. ‘An oil trap, until it starts producing, and then it's an oilfield.' He sipped his cognac and ginger. ‘We must be very careful … Article Fifteen, remember.'

Article Fifteen of the Charter of the Organization of American States declares that: ‘… no state, or group of states, has the right to intervene, directly or in-directly, for any reason whatever, in the internal or external affairs of any other state.' Past Presidents had sometimes ignored that dictum, but lately political opponents had used a literal interpretation of Article Fifteen to beat the incumbent over the head. ‘Whatever it is,' said Curl, ‘Benz has got one.'

‘Is Benz right for us?' the President asked.

‘Who else is there?' asked Curl. The President stared right through him as he drew upon his prodigious memory. He
could quote long passages from documents that Curl had watched him skim through, seemingly without much interest. Curl waited.

‘There is Doctor Guizot,' said the President.

‘At present under house arrest,' said Curl without hesitation.

The President didn't respond to that item of information. Curl bit his lip. He knew that his over-prompt reply had been noted as evidence that Curl – like the CIA and the Pentagon too – were prejudiced against Doctor Guizot's liberal policies. The President's next remark confirmed this: ‘We always back the Admiral Benzes don't we?'

‘Mr President?'

‘America always puts its resources behind these anachronistic strong-arm men. And we are always dismayed when they are toppled, and we get spattered with the crap. Korea, Vietnam … Marcos, Noriega. Why do our “experts” in State fall in love with these bastards?'

‘Because there are sometimes no alternatives,' said Curl calmly. ‘Could we support communist revolution, however pure its motives?' It was a rhetorical question.

‘Sometimes, John, I wonder how it happened that in 1945 the State Department didn't offer military aid to the Nazis.'

‘I've heard people say communism might have collapsed more quickly if we had.'

The President did not hear him. ‘Doctor Guizot. Not that bastard Benz. Not after that slavery business and the human rights investigation.'

Curl wanted to point out that the slavery allegations referred to
peóns
allowed a strip of land on the big haciendas in return for labour. But the President had paused only to clear his throat and, in his present state of mind, such remarks would not help.

The President continued: ‘Yes, the liberal press would make Benz into some kind of Hitler. Better Guizot. Guizot
has a chance of reconciling the liberal middle-class element with the Indians, peasants and workers.'

‘Guizot is committed to removing the literacy qualification for voters.'

‘And that makes him sound like a dangerous radical, eh John?'

Curl didn't smile. ‘A split vote could mean a victory for the Marxists.' When no response came he added, ‘Karl Marx didn't die in Eastern Europe; he sailed to South America and is alive and well and flourishing there.'

‘Just like all those Nazi war criminals, eh John?' He scratched his head. ‘I recall there are other – rival – guerrilla outfits down there.'

‘Several,' said Curl, who'd spent the previous couple of hours reading up on the subject. ‘But none that we could cosy up to.'

‘Are you quite sure? What about the Indians?'

‘The Indian farmers have a Marxist leader who calls himself Big Jorge. But Big Jorge rules in the coca-growing regions and lets the drug barons go unmolested in exchange for a piece of the action.'

‘Ummm. I see what you mean,' said the President.

‘The revenues from oil will bring prosperity enough to establish someone in political power for at least a decade. Whatever creed the government preaches, the oil money will make their politics seem worth copying elsewhere in Latin America. Give it to the Marxists and we will be perpetuating the myth of Marxist economics. We will live to regret it.'

The President's face didn't change but there was a rough edge to his voice: ‘Sit in my chair and you worry less about the teachings of Karl Marx. My supporters are inclined to think crime here at home is the number one issue on the ticket, John. Crime and drug abuse. Stop the drugs and we reduce violent crime. That's the way the voters see it.'

‘It's too simplistic.'

‘I don't care what you call it,' said the President with a
harshness one seldom heard from him. ‘I don't even care if it's right. Opinion poll after opinion poll shows that drug abuse has become the number one public concern, and we've got an election coming up.' He scowled and sipped his drink. ‘Did you see those figures Drug Enforcement came up with? … How many of my own White House staff are sniffing their goddamned heads off?'

Gently Curl corrected him. ‘It was just an assessment based upon national figures, Mr President. Your staff do not reflect that wide spectrum. And those figures would have included anyone who took one experimental puff of marijuana at any time in the past five years.' Curl had learned never to use any of the more colourful names for addictive substances when talking to the President.

‘Well, let's not get side-tracked,' said the President, who sometimes needed that sort of reassurance. Self-consciously he sipped his cognac and ginger. Curl could smell it. ‘The Benz government is too closely identified with the drug barons. I don't want him in power for ten more years.'

‘But that's just it, Mr President. The drug dimension hasn't been overlooked, believe me. Oil moneys could wean Benz away from the drug revenues. It would give him legitimate revenue. And the oil would give us a lever. He'd have to lean on his drug growers, or we could turn off the oil-money tap.'

‘Do we have any contact with the Marxist guerrillas?'

‘Yes, sir. More than one. We are siphoning a little medical aid to them through a British Foundation. We want a report on their true strength. Medical aid – shots and pills and so on – will provide us with a reliable headcount. We also plan to start some friendly talks with their leader. It would be as well to have someone down there negotiating, if only as a counter-weight to Benz. Or a counter-weight to Doctor Guizot,' Curl added hurriedly.

‘Yes, we don't want it to be a one-horse race. I hope you've chosen your “someone” carefully, John.' The President picked up the heavy report from the floor and
opened it. He never needed bookmarks; he could always remember the number of the page at which he stopped reading.

At this cue Curl stood up. ‘I'll say goodnight, Mr President.' He put the prompt cards into his pocket. There were many more things to say but this was not a good time to get the President's assent to anything at all. Curl was disturbed by the way the meeting had gone. It had almost come to an argument. Until tonight he'd not realized how deeply disturbed the President was by the polls that showed his steadily decreasing popularity. In that state of mind, the chief might make a very bad error of judgement. It was Curl's job to make sure the right things were done, even at times like this when the chief was unable to think straight. When happy times were here again, Curl would get his rightful share of praise. The old man was very fair about giving credit where credit was due. Sometimes he'd even admit to being wrong. That was one of the reasons why they all liked him so much.

‘Nothing else, was there, John?'

‘Nothing that can't wait, Mr President.' As Curl walked to the door there came a sound like a pistol shot. It was the President cracking the binding as he squashed the opened report flat to read it. He treated books roughly, as if taking revenge upon them.

LINCOLN'S INN
,
LONDON
.
‘I knew you'd be crossing the water.'

Ralph Lucas was forty-five years old and every year of his active life had left a mark on him. His hair was grey, his eyes slightly misaligned. This gave his face a rakish look, as does the tilted hat of a boulevardier. He was short, with a straight spine, keen blue eyes and that sort of square-ended moustache – also grey – that had enabled generations of British officers to be distinguished as such in mufti.

Most of his native Australian vowels had been replaced by the hard classless articulation of men whose shouted orders have to be understood. His attitude to the world was derisive, like that of a conjuror welcoming to the stage some innocent from the audience.

Ralph grew up in Brisbane, Queensland. He was a bright child who, together with his sister Serena, responded well to the coaching their ambitious mother provided. In 1945 his father had come home from the war a young staff sergeant. Confident and energetic, he'd found a job in the construction business. He'd done well from the post-war boom. But Ralph Lucas' family did not grow up in one of the new houses that his father had built. They bought an old house with a view across the bay to Mud Island. From his bedroom, on a clear day; young Ralph could see South
Passage out there between the islands, where sometimes he went sailing with his cousins. When Ralph scored high marks in his exams his mother went back to school-teaching and so provided enough money for Ralph to study and eventually become a physician. But if his parents thought they'd see their son married and settled, with a general practice in some prosperous suburb, they were to be disappointed. His years as a student had left him restless and frustrated. His admiration for his father was deeply rooted. As soon as his training ended, Ralph joined the Australian army in time to go to the Vietnam war with an infantry regiment.

His mother felt betrayed. She'd given her husband to the army for five long years and then lost her son to it too. She was bitter about what that jungle war did to him. Her husband had remained comparatively untouched by whatever he experienced in the European campaign, but Vietnam was different. Her son suffered. She said a cheerful young man went to war and an old one returned on that first leave. She never said that to her son of course. Ralph's mother believed in positive thinking.

Ralph's time in Vietnam was something he seldom spoke about. His parents knew only that he ended up as a front-line doctor with a special unit that fought through the tunnels. It was a dirty remorseless war but he was never injured. Neither did he ever suffer the psychological horrors that came to so many of the men who spent twelve or fifteen hours a day trying to patch and pull together the shattered bodies of young men. Major Ralph Lucas got a commendation and a US medal. A few weeks before his service was up, he was made a colonel. But anyone who expected this decorated warrior and physician to be a conventional supporter of the establishment was in for a shock.

It was in the bars and officers' clubs of Saigon that Lucas suffered the wounds from which he never recovered. He began to think that the vicious war that so appalled him
was no more than a slugging match to occupy the innocents, while crooks of every rank and colour wallowed in a multi-billion-dollar trough of profits and corruption. Asked to comment afterwards he liked to describe himself as ‘a political eunuch'. But within Lucas there remained a terrible anger and a cynical bitterness that could border on despair.

His time in Vietnam was not without benefit to him and to others. While treating combat casualties he improvised his ‘Lucas bag'. A plastic ration container, ingeniously glued together, became a bag with which transfusions could be made without exposing blood to the open air, and thus to bacterial infection. It was cheap, unbreakable and expendable. Lucas was amazed that no one had thought of it before.

After Vietnam he spent his discharge leave with his family. By that time his mother was dead, and his father was sick and being nursed by his sister Serena. Lucas felt bad about deserting them but he needed the wider horizons that a job in England would provide. Once there he fell in love with a pretty Scottish nurse and got married. He got a job in the Webley–Hockley research laboratory in London. The Director of Research engaged him. He thought a Vietnam veteran would know about tropical medicine. But that medical experience had been almost entirely of trauma and of attendant traumatic neuroses. ‘Men, not test-tubes,' as he said in one outburst. He was hopeless at laboratory work and his unhappiness showed in eruptions of bad temper. Under other circumstances his marriage might have held together, but the cramped apartment, and small salary, became too much for him when the baby came. It was a miserable time. His wife took their tiny daughter to live with her mother in Edinburgh. Two days after she left, Lucas got the phone call from his sister. Dad had died.

Lucas would have gone back to Australia except for the occasional visits to see his daughter, and the friendship he struck up with an elderly laboratory assistant named Fred Dunstable. Fred was a natural engineer, a widower who
spent his spare time repairing broken household machines brought to him by his neighbours. It was in Fred's garage workshop that the two men perfected the design of the Lucas bag, and designed the aseptic assembly process that was needed for bulk manufacture.

Armed with a prototype Lucas bag, and that fluent Aussie charm to which even the most sceptical Pom is vulnerable, Lucas persuaded the board of the Webley–Hockley Medical Foundation to provide enough cash to manufacture a trial run of one thousand bags. They sent them to hospital casualty departments. The device came at a time when traumatic wounds and emergency outdoor transfusions were on the rise. Plane crashes, earthquakes and wars brought the Lucas bag into use throughout the world. The Foundation got their investment back and more. The tiny royalty he split with his partner soon provided Fred with a comfortable retirement and Lucas with enough money to bring his sister over from Australia, and send his daughter to a good private school.

His daughter had done a lot to encourage the wonderful reconciliation. With his ex-wife, Lucas found happiness he'd never before known. He did all those things they'd talked about so long ago. They bought an old house and a new car and went to Kashmir on a second honeymoon. It was in the Vale of Kashmir that she died. A motor accident brought seven wonderful months to a ghastly end. He'd never stopped reproaching himself; not only for the accident but also for all those wasted years.

It was during that first terrible time of grieving that Ralph Lucas was invited to advise the Webley–Hockley Foundation. During almost eighty years of charitable work it had fed the tropical starving, housed the tropical homeless and financed a body of tropical research. The research achievements were outshone by other bodies, such as the Wellcome, but the Webley–Hockley had done more than any other European charity for ‘preventive medicine in tropical regions'.

Ralph's invention and the nominal contribution it made to the Foundation's funds did not make him eligible for full membership of the Board. He was described as its ‘medical adviser' but he'd been told to speak at parity with the august board. It was a privilege of which he availed himself to the utmost. ‘Find just one,' he said in response to a careless remark by a board member. ‘Find just one completely healthy native in the whole of Spanish Guiana and then come back and argue.'

Through the window he could see the afternoon sunlight on the trees of Lincoln's Inn. London provided the gentlest of climates; it was difficult to recall Vietnam and the sort of tropical jungle of which they spoke. His words had been chosen to annoy. Now he felt the ripple of irritation from everyone round the polished table. It never ceased to amaze Lucas that such eminent men became children at these meetings.

A socialist peer – iconoclast, guru and TV panel game celebrity – rose to the bait. He tapped his coffee spoon against his cup before heaping two large spoons of Barbados sugar into it. ‘That's just balls, Lucas old boy, if you don't mind me saying so.' He was a plump fleshy fellow with a plummy voice too deep and considered to be natural. ‘Balls!' He prided himself that his kind of plain speaking was the hallmark of a great mind. He fixed the chairman with his eyes to demand support.

‘Yes,' said the chairman, although it came out as not much more than a clearing of the throat.

They all looked at Lucas, who took his time in drinking a little coffee. ‘Filthy coffee,' he said reasonably. ‘Remarkable china but filthy coffee. Could a complaint about the coffee go into the minutes?' He turned to his opponent. ‘But I do mind, my dear fellow. I mind very much.' He fixed his opponent with a hard stare and a blank expression.

‘Well,' said the peer, uncertain how to continue. He made a movement of his hand to encourage the investments man
to say something. When investments decided to drink coffee, the peer's objections shifted: ‘I'd like to know who this anonymous donor is.'

‘You saw the letter from the bank,' said the chairman.

‘I mean
exactly
who it is. Not the name of some bank acting for a client.' He looked around, but when it seemed that no one had understood, added, ‘Suppose it was some communist organization. The Pentagon or the CIA. Or some big business conglomerate with South American interests.' It was a list of what most horrified the socialist peer.

‘My God,' said the chairman softly. Lucas looked at him, not sure whether he was being flippant or devout.

The peer nodded and drank his coffee. He shuddered at the taste of the sugar. He hated the taste of sugar in coffee; especially when he knew it was Barbados sugar.

The secretary looked up from the rough projections of the accountant and said, ‘Communists, fascists, Uncle Tom Cobbleigh: does it matter? I don't have to tell you that the fluctuations of both currency and markets have played havoc with our investments. We shall be lucky to end the year with our capital intact.'

‘Umm,' said the peer and wrote on his notepad.

The lawyer, a bird-like old man with heavily starched collar and regimental tie, felt the reputation of the legal profession was in jeopardy. ‘The donor is anonymous but I would have thought it enough that the letter comes from the most reputable firm of solicitors in England.'

‘Really,' said Lucas. ‘I thought that yours was the most reputable.'

The lawyer gave him a prim smile to show that he refused to be provoked. ‘What we need to know is how badly the money is needed in Spanish Guiana. That means a reliable on-the-spot report.' He had suggested this at the very beginning.

The industrialist polished his glasses and fretted. He had to go home to Birmingham. He put on his glasses and looked
at the skeleton clock on the mantelpiece. Three-forty, and they were only halfway through the agenda. His role was to advise the board on technical matters and production, but he couldn't remember the last time that such a question arose. It wasn't as if the people on the board were paid a fee. Even the fares were not reimbursed. Sometimes he was ready to believe that paying substantial fees and expenses might provide people who were more competent than these illustrious time-wasters.

The peer pushed his coffee away and, remembering Lucas' remark said, ‘Not one healthy native? None of us would last twenty-four hours in the jungle, Colonel, and you know it. Are we healthy?'

‘You are talking about adaptation,' said Lucas.

‘I agree with Colonel Lucas,' said the lawyer. ‘During my time in Malaya I saw young soldiers from industrial cities like Leeds adapt to hellish conditions.'

The research trustee groaned. There were too many people with war experiences on this damned board. If the lawyer started talking about the way he'd won his Military Cross in ‘the Malayan emergency' they would never get away. He coughed. ‘Can we get back to the question again …?'

The peer would not tolerate such interruptions. ‘The real question is: one …' he raised a finger. ‘… Is this board indifferent to the political implications that might later arise …'

Lucas did not wait for two. ‘Surely the question is entirely medical …'

The lawyer held up his gold pencil in a cautionary gesture. It irritated him that Lucas should come here in tweed sports jacket, and canary-coloured sweater, when everyone else wore dark suits. ‘It is not entirely medical. We could lay this board open to charges of financing a highly organized and disciplined army that has the declared aim of overthrowing by force the legal government of Spanish Guiana.'

There was a shocked silence as they digested this. Then
the investments man stopped doodling on his notepad to wave a hand. His voice was toneless and bored. ‘If, on the other hand, we refuse to send medical supplies to these starving people in the south, we could be described as suppressing that popular movement by means of disease.'

‘I'm going to ask you to withdraw that,' said the peer, losing his studied calm. ‘I won't allow that to go on the minutes of this meeting.'

Without looking up from his doodling the investment man calmly said, ‘Well, I don't withdraw it and you can go to hell and take the minutes with you.'

‘If the army in the south have money enough for guns and bombs, they have money enough for medical supplies,' said the man from Birmingham.

‘Ten divisions complete with tanks and aircraft,' said the secretary.

‘Who told you that?' asked Lucas.

‘It was a documentary on BBC Television,' said the secretary.

‘What about all the money they are getting from growing drugs?' said the man from Birmingham.

‘I saw the same TV programme,' said the lawyer. ‘Are you sure that was Spanish Guiana? I thought that was Peru.'

‘You can't believe all that BBC propaganda,' said the investments man. ‘That TV programme was a repeat. If my memory serves me, it was originally shown back in the Eighties before the Wall came down.'