MAMista. Len Deighton

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      Lucas guessed that he was a communist of the old style. The party liked men like this: battered Goliaths, diligent, humourless men who would provide bed and board to mysterious foreigners because some local party secretary – the girl no doubt – said it was for the cause.

      While rummaging in the refrigerator, the elder man said his name was Chori and, still without turning, introduced the younger man as Angel Paz. Angel of Peace: it sounded an unlikely name to Lucas, but some parents liked weird names. So Lucas nodded to Angel Paz and gladly accepted the cold beer that Chori poured.

      There was an awkward silence. The arrival of Lucas had interrupted them. Lucas could see that some sort of relationship existed between these two incongruous individuals. They were not homosexuals, he decided: perhaps it was a political secret. Communists needed secret conspiracy as fish need water.

      ‘Here we have no middle-class intelligentsia,’ said Chori, as if taking up a conversation that had been interrupted. ‘Or at least, very few.’ He waved his hands impatiently. ‘We are a workers’ movement. It is the workers who bring the revolution to the Indians and farmers in the south.’ He looked at Lucas as if inviting him to join the conversation.

      Angel said, ‘Historically that is bad. Marx said there must be a middle-class intelligentsia to theorize and support the instinctive revolutionary movement that the workers initiate.’

      ‘Huh!’ said Chori.

      Angel Paz did not continue with his lecture. He decided that it was too earnest, and too intellectual, for comrades such as Chori. But he thought none the less of him for that. Nothing could upset Angel Paz today. He couldn’t remember ever being so happy. Today Tepilo was his home. This smelly broken-down little town was the place he’d been looking for all his life. Here were simple people who needed help if they were ever to throw off the shackles of the fascists who ruled them.

      The successful planting of the bomb, and more specially the impression he’d made on Chori with his technical abilities, gave Angel Paz a glow of contentment. What did it matter that Chori seemed to have no interest in political theory? When they got to the south, where the MAMista army leaders were by now planning an assault upon the northern towns, Angel Paz would have a chance to make known his strategic views. Thanks to his uncle Arturo – and his sleazy drug-dealing in Los Angeles – Paz had arrived here at exactly the right moment. So Arturo thought Karl Marx was dead. Well, Karl Marx and Lenin too would rise from the grave and smite all such capitalist racketeers with a terrible fury.

      Lucas – who was not in the mood for any sort of intense political discussion – took off his Madras jacket. It was limp with the wet heat. He hung it over a chair. Then he stood at the open window and concentrated upon his beer. The sun was sinking but the heat had not dropped much. These tiny apartments, without air-conditioning or even electric fans, trapped the humid air and held it even after the evening breeze was cooling the streets.

      ‘This is good American beer,’ said Chori, seemingly relieved to escape from Angel’s earnest political discussion. ‘There will be no more, if the rumours about devaluing the peseta turn out true.’

      Angel said, ‘Benz has sent his finance minister to Washington.’

      ‘Trying to get beer?’ said Lucas.

      Angel did not smile.

      Chori said, ‘Trying to buy armoured personnel carriers and helicopters to suppress the revolution. But the Yankees don’t want our lousy pesetas.’

      ‘It’s an ill wind,’ said Lucas.

      ‘You are English?’ asked Angel.

      ‘Australian,’ said Lucas. He looked at the two men – as different as chalk and cheese – and was still curious about the relationship between them. Lucas’ time in the army had made him a good judge of character. He decided that no relationship between these two would endure. They would clash and the result would be messy.

      No one had invited Lucas to sit down but he sat down anyway. The chair he’d chosen faced the TV. Chori politely switched it on for him. For want of something else to do, they watched a few minutes of a film about pollution. The camera dwelt upon unusually clean factories, very sincere scientists and happy Latin American workers wearing upon their white coats the badge of an international chemical company. The programme was followed by commercials: an American soft drink, an American car rental company and an American airline. The news bulletin came immediately afterwards. The police searches at the airport got first priority. ‘Anti-Drugs Squad crack-down at airport’ said the commentary. There followed shots of the police questioning the agricultural workers, and their families, the people Lucas had noticed at the airport. The news item ended with pictures of police vans taking away people wanted for further questioning.

      The next news item dealt with the previous night’s bomb explosion at the Ministry of Pensions. The flashing lights of police cars and ambulances made pretty pictures with a fashionable amount of lens flare. Then came a flick-zoom to the Ministry’s spokesman. He was a carefully coiffured man in the elaborate uniform of a police colonel. He said, ‘Six MAMista terrorists murdered two night-watchmen in order to place explosives in the central safe. Four passers-by were seriously injured by broken glass and were taken to the hospital of Santa Teresa de Avila.’

      ‘With what purpose were the bombs set off?’ asked the interviewer.

      The police colonel looked directly into the lens and said, ‘To destroy the microfilm records. To interrupt and delay payments to government workers and pension payments to retirees.’

      ‘Do the police have any leads?’

      ‘The police laboratory believe they have identified the explosives and the probable source of them. The Union of Government Servants has asked their members to cooperate fully against this new campaign of murder. Even the PEKINista high command has protested. In a statement this afternoon, they say they are opposed to the bombing campaign of the MAMistas.’

      ‘Can we expect arrests?’

      Chori switched off the TV. The police colonel wobbled and expired. ‘You can see what they are trying to do,’ Chori told the world at large. ‘Trying to lever the Pekinista guerrillas apart from us. If you went to the hospital you’d find a couple of people with scratches.’

      Paz nodded, but the chances that his explosion had blown the windows out, and injured someone in the street below, were not to be dismissed.

      Chori picked up Lucas’ can of beer, shook it to be sure it was empty, then raised an enquiring eyebrow.

      ‘Yes, if you can spare it,’ said Lucas. He was being stuffy and British. He felt he should make an effort to be cordial.

      Chori said, ‘The airport shakedown was just a stunt to push the bomb into second place on the news.’

      ‘I was there,’ said Lucas. ‘The police seemed to be concentrating upon the Indian families.’

      ‘That’s the joke,’ said Chori, handing Lucas his beer. ‘You saw them, did you? They are the cocaleros. Those Indian farmers are the people who are growing that shit. They take their crops to the jungle laboratories that are owned by Benz and his government cronies. What a joke.’

      ‘Are they rich?’ Lucas asked.

      ‘The cocaleros? No. You saw them. Poor bastards scrape together СКАЧАТЬ