The Tailor of Panama (38 page)

“I didn't know it was,” said Johnson, who of late had become increasingly puzzled to observe how raw intelligence out of Panama enhanced itself in transit across his master's desk.

But then Johnson wasn't cleared for everything—and least of all for Luxmore's sources of inspiration. When Luxmore was preparing his famous one-page summaries for submission to his mysterious Planners & Appliers, he first ordered up a heap of files from the Most Restricted archive, then locked the door on himself until the document was done—although the files, when Johnson ingeniously contrived to take a look at them, related to past events such as the Suez conflict of 1956 rather than to anything that was supposed to be happening now or in the future.

Luxmore was using Johnson as a sounding board. Some men, Johnson was learning, cannot think without an audience.

“It's the hardest thing for a service like ours to put its finger on, Johnny: the human groundswell before it has stirred, the
vox populi
before it has spoken. Look at Iran and the Ayatollah. Look at Egypt in the run-up to Suez. Look at the perestroika and the collapse of the evil empire. Look at Saddam, one of our best customers. Who saw them coming, Johnny? Who saw them forming like black clouds upon the horizon? Not us. Look at Galtieri and the conflagration in the Falklands, my God. Again and again, our vast intelligence hammer is able to crack every nut except the one that matters: the human enigma.” He was pacing at his old speed, matching his footsteps to his bombast. “But that's what we're cracking now. This time we can preempt. We have the bazaars wired. We know the mood of the mob, its subconscious agenda, its hidden flashpoints. We can forestall. We can outwit history. Ambush her—”

He grabbed his telephone so fast it scarcely had time to ring. But it was only his wife, asking whether he had yet again put the keys to her car in his pocket before he left for work. Luxmore tersely acknowledged his crime, rang off, tugged at the skirts of his jacket, and resumed his pacing.

They chose Geoff's place because Ben Hatry said use it, and after all Geoff Cavendish was Ben Hatry's creature, though both men felt it prudent to keep this quiet. And there was rightness in it being Geoff's place, because in a way the idea had been Geoff's from the beginning, in the sense that it was Geoff Cavendish who had produced the first game plan, and Ben Hatry had said fucking do it, which was how Ben Hatry chose to speak: as a great British media baron and employer of numberless terrified journalists, he had a natural loathing for his mother tongue.

It was Cavendish who had fired Hatry's imagination, if that was what Ben Hatry possessed; Cavendish who had struck the deal with Luxmore, encouraged him, bolstered his budget and his ego; Cavendish who on Hatry's nod had given the first little lunches and informal briefings in expensive restaurants handy for the House, lobbied the right members, though never in Hatry's name, unrolled
the map, showed them where the damn place was and where the Canal went, because half of them were hazy; Cavendish who had sounded discreet alarm bells in the City and the oil companies, cuddled up to the imbecile Conservative right, which was no work of art for him, wooed its Empire-dreamers, Euro-haters, niggerhaters, pan-xenophobes and lost, uneducated children.

It was Cavendish who had conjured visions of an eleventh-hour crusade before the election, a phoenix risen from the Tory ashes and turned war god, of a leader clad in the suit of shining armour that till now had always seemed too big for him, Cavendish who made the same pitch in different language to the Opposition—don't worry, boys and girls, you don't have to oppose anything or take a position, just keep your heads down and say this is no time to rock the Loyal British Boat even if it's sailing slap in the wrong direction, piloted by lunatics and leaking like a colander.

It was Cavendish yet again who got the Multis suitably worried, who stirred up murmurings about the devastating effect on British industry, commerce and the pound; Cavendish who made us
aware,
as he called it: which is to say turned rumour into received certainty by the ingenious use of arm's-length columnists operating outside the Hatry empire and therefore notionally untainted by its frightful reputation; Cavendish who planted follow-up articles in learned shoestring journals with promises to keep, such articles in turn being puffed out of all proportion by bigger journals, and so up the ladder or down it to the inside pages of the tabloids, to editorials in the degraded so-called qualities and late-night public debate on television, not only on the Hatry-owned channels but on rival channels too—since nothing is more predictable than the media's parroting of its own fictions and the terror of each competitor that it will be scooped by the others, whether or not the story is true, because quite frankly, dears, in the news game these days, we don't have the staff, time, interest, energy, literacy or minimal sense of responsibility to check our facts by any means except calling up whatever has been written by other hacks on the same subject and repeating it as gospel.

And it was Cavendish, this hulking, tweedy outdoor English
chap
with the voice of an upper-class cricket commentator on a sunny summer's afternoon, who had so convincingly propagated, always through well-dined intermediaries, Ben Hatry's treasured If Not Now When? doctrine, which lay at the root of his transatlantic arm twisting and wire pulling and intriguing, the thrust of which theory being that the United States cannot conceivably remain the world's one and only superpower for more than another decade at most, after which it was curtains, so if there was any heavy surgery that needed doing anywhere in the world, said the doctrine, however brutal and self-serving it might look from the outside or for that matter from the inside, then for our survival and our kids' survival and the survival of the Hatry empire and its ever-growing stranglehold on the hearts and minds of the third and fourth worlds:
do it
now
while we have the clout, for fuck's sake! Stop pussyfooting around! Take what you want, smash what you don't! But whatever you do or don't do, stop mollycoddling and conceding and apologising and wimping out
.

And if that put Ben Hatry in bed with the American Loony Right, as well as their blood brothers on this side of the pond, and made him the darling of the arms industry to boot—well, fuck it, he would say in his sweet mother tongue, he wasn't a politico, he hated the bastards, he was a realist, he didn't give a tinker's who he was allied to as long as they talked sense and didn't tiptoe around the international corridors saying to every Jap, nigger and dago: “Pardon me for being a white middle-class liberal American, sir, and excuse us for being so big and strong and powerful and rich, but we believe in the dignity and equality of all God's people, and would you be so kind as to allow me to get down on my hands and knees and kiss your arse?”

Which was the image Ben Hatry painted tirelessly for the benefit of his lieutenants but always on the understanding that we keep it quiet among us boys and girls in the sacred interest of
objective reporting of the news, which is what we are put on earth to do, or your fucking feet won't touch.

“Count me out,” Ben Hatry had told Cavendish the day before, in his toneless voice.

Sometimes he spoke without moving his lips at all. Sometimes he grew sick of his own machinations, sick of the whole human mediocrity.

“You two bastards handle them on your own,” he added viciously.

“As you wish, Chief. Pity, but there we are,” said Cavendish.

But Ben Hatry had come, as Cavendish knew he would, by cab because he didn't trust his chauffeur, and even arrived ten minutes early to read a summary of the shit that Cavendish had been sending to Van's people over the last few months—shit being his preferred term for prose—ending with a one-page red-hot report from those wankers across the river—unsigned, unsourced, unheaded—which Cavendish said was the clincher, the pure wine, the missing diamond, Chief, Van's people were going ballistic, hence today's get-together.

“Who's the bastard who wrote this?” Hatry enquired, ever anxious to give credit where it was due.

“Luxmore, Chief.”

“He the arsehole who screwed up the Falklands operation for us single-handed?”

“The same.”

“Didn't go through Rewrite Department, that's for sure.”

Nevertheless Ben Hatry read the report twice, a thing unknown in him.

“Is it true?” he asked Cavendish.

“True
enough,
Chief,” said Cavendish, with the judicious moderation that characterised his judgments. “True in
parts
. Not sure about its shelf life. Van's boys may have to be a bit quick on the draw.”

Hatry tossed the report back at him.

“Well, at least they'll know the fucking way this time,” he said with a mirthless nod for Tug Kirby, the third murderer, as
Cavendish wittily dubbed him, who had just stormed into the room without wiping his great feet and was glowering round him, looking for an enemy.

“Those Yanks arrived yet?” he roared.

“Any minute now, Tug,” Cavendish assured him soothingly. “Buggers'll be late for their own funerals,” said Kirby.

A particular advantage of Geoff's place was its ideal position in the heart of Mayfair, handy for the side entrance to Claridge's, in a gated and guarded cul-de-sac with a lot of heavy hitters and diplomats and lobbyists living there, and the Italian Embassy one end. Yet there was a pleasing anonymity about it too. You could be a cleaner, caterer, courier, butler, bodyguard, catamite or grand master of the universal galaxy. No one cared. And Geoff was a door opener. He knew how to get to the power people, bring them together. With Geoff you could lean back and let it happen, which was what they were doing now: three Brits and their two American guests and everyone deniable as they tucked into a meal they agreed was not taking place, a help-yourself with no servants to witness it, consisting of salmon
tiède
flown down from the Cavendish estates in Scotland, quails' eggs, fruit and cheese, and all topped by a super bread-and-butter pudding made by Geoff's old nanny.

And to drink, iced tea and its stablemates, because in today's Born Again Washington, said Geoff Cavendish, alcohol at lunch was regarded as the Mark of the Beast.

And a round table so that nobody was dominant. Plenty of leg space. Soft chairs. The phones unplugged. Cavendish was great on people's comfort level. Girls galore if you wanted them. Ask Tug.

“Flight bearable, Elliot?” asked Cavendish.

“Oh, I'm in travel heaven, Geoff. I just
love
those bumpy little jets. Northolt was neat. I
love
Northolt. The chopper ride to Battersea,
epic. Beautiful
power station.”

With Elliot you never knew whether he was being sarcastic or was he like this all the time? He was thirty-one years old, a southerner from Alabama. He was a lawyer and a journalist, and floppy-droll except when he was on the attack. He had his own column in the
Washington Times
where he disputed ostentatiously with names that till recently had been bigger than his own. He was lank and cadaverous and dangerous and bespectacled. His face was all jaw and bone.

“Stopping over tonight or going home, Elliot?” Tug Kirby growled, implying that the second of these options was his preferred one.

“Tug, sadly we have to head right on back as soon as this party is over,” Elliot said.

“Not paying your respects to the embassy?” said Tug with an oafish grin.

This was a joke. Tug didn't make a lot of them. The State Department were the last people on God's earth who should know of Elliot's visit or the Colonel's.

Seated at Elliot's side, the Colonel was chewing his salmon with the regulation number of bites.

“We don't have any
friends
over there, Tug,” he explained ingenuously. “Just fairies.”

In Westminster Tug Kirby was known as the Minister with the Very Long Portfolio. Partly his sexual adventures had earned him this title, mostly it was his unrivalled collection of consultancies and directorships. There was not a defence company in the whole of the country or the Middle East, said the wits, that didn't own Tug Kirby, or Tug Kirby didn't own. Like his guests he was powerful and vaguely menacing. He had large fat shoulders and thick black eyebrows that looked stuck on. He had the mean, stupid eyes of a bull. Even while he was eating, his big curled fists stayed on the alert.

“Hey, Dirk—how's Van?” Hatry called gaily across the table.

Ben Hatry had switched on his legendary charm. No one could resist it. His smile was just so much fun after so long in the clouds.
The Colonel brightened immediately. Cavendish too was delighted to find his chief suddenly in good spirits.

“Sir,” the Colonel barked, as if he were addressing a courtmartial, “General Van sends his compliments, wishes to express his thanks to you, Ben, and your helpers for the invaluable practical support and encouragement you have given him over the past months and right up to this present moment in time.”

Shoulders back, chin in.
Sir
.

“Well, you tell him we're all disappointed as fuck he's not running for President,” said Hatry, with the same radiant smile. “It's a damn shame the only good man in America hasn't got the balls to stand.”

The Colonel remained unaffected by Hatry's playful provocations. He was accustomed to them from previous meetings.

“General Van has youth on his side, sir. General sees things long. General's of a very strategic disposition.” He was nodding to himself between hushed, worried sentences while his eyes remained wide and vulnerable. “General reads a lot. He's deep. Knows how to wait. Other men would have fired off their ammunition by now. Not the General. No,
sir
. When the time comes to swing the President, the General will be right there swinging him. Only man in America knows how, my opinion. Yes,
sir
.”