Mission to Argentina. David Monnery

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СКАЧАТЬ house. ‘Straight on through,’ he murmured. A corridor led through to a surprisingly large yard, across the far side of which were ranged a line of two-storey Portakabins.

      ‘So this is where M hangs out,’ she murmured to herself in Spanish.

      Inside it was all gleaming white paintwork and ferns from Marks & Spencer. A secretary who looked nothing like Miss Moneypenny gestured her into a seat. She obliged, wondering why it was the English ever bothered to speak at all. It was one of the things she had most missed, right from the beginning: the constant rattle of conversation, the noise of life. Michael had put it all down to climate – lots of sunshine led to a street-café culture, which encouraged the art of conversation. Drizzle, on the other hand, was a friend of silence.

      She preferred to think the English were just repressed.

      A door slammed somewhere, and she saw a young man walking away across the yard. He looked familiar – a fellow exile, she guessed. In one door and out another, just in case the Argies had the temerity to talk to each other. She felt anger rising in her throat.

      ‘Isabel Fuentes?’ a male voice asked from the doorway leading into the next office.

      ‘Sí?’ she said coldly.

      ‘This way, please.’

      She walked through and took another offered seat, across the desk from the Englishman. He was not much older than her – early thirties, she guessed – with fair hair just beginning to thin around the temples, tired blue eyes and a rather fine jawline. He looked like he had been working for days.

      The file in front of him had her name on it.

      He opened it, examined the photograph and then her. Her black hair, cropped militantly short in the picture, was now past her shoulder, but she imagined the frown on her face was pretty much the same. ‘It is me,’ she said helpfully.

      He actually smiled. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said.

      ‘I was not conscious of any choice in the matter.’

      He scratched his head. ‘It’s a grey area,’ he admitted, ‘but…’ He let the thought process die. ‘I would like to just check some of the details we have here…’ He looked up for acquiescence.

      She nodded.

      ‘You came to the UK in July 1975, and were granted political asylum in September of the same year…that was quick,’ he interrupted himself, glancing up at her again.

      ‘It didn’t seem so,’ she said, though she knew her father’s money had somehow smoothed the path for her. She had friends and acquaintances who were still, seven years later, living in fear of being sent back to the torturers.

      He grunted and moved on. ‘Since your arrival you have completed a further degree at the London School of Economics and had a succession of jobs, all of which you have left voluntarily.’ He glanced up at her, as if in wonderment at someone who could happily throw jobs away in such difficult times. ‘I presume you have a private source of income from your parents?’

      ‘Not any more.’ Her father had died four years ago, and her mother had cut all contact since marrying some high-ranking naval bureaucrat. ‘I live within my means,’ she said curtly.

      He shrugged. ‘Currently you have two part-time jobs, one with a travel agency specializing in Latin-American destinations, the other in an Italian restaurant in Islington.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Before you left Argentina you were an active member of the ERP – the Popular Revolutionary Army, correct? – from October 1973 until the time of your departure from Argentina. You admitted being involved in two kidnappings and one bank robbery.’

      ‘“Admitted” sounds like a confession of guilt. I did not feel guilty.’

      ‘Of course…’ he said patiently.

      ‘It is a grey area, perhaps,’ she said.

      He smiled again. ‘You are not on trial here,’ he said. ‘Now, am I correct in thinking that the ERP was a group with internationalist leanings, unlike those who regarded themselves as nationalist Peronistas?’

      ‘You have done your homework well,’ she said, wondering what all this could be leading to. ‘I suppose it would do no good to ask who I am talking to?’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘my name is Baldwin, Phillip Baldwin.’

      ‘And you work for?’

      ‘Oh, the Foreign Office, of course.’

      ‘And what is this all about? Is the Foreign Office worried that the exile community is going to undertake a campaign of sabotage against the war effort?’

      This time he did not smile. ‘How do you view your government’s invasion of the Falkland Islands, Ms Fuentes?’

      ‘As just one more attempt to divert the attention of my country’s people from their rulers’ cruelty and incompetence.’

      ‘Ah,’ he said, twiddling his pen and looking out of the window. ‘In that case, would you consider returning to your country to work for us?’

      She was momentarily stunned. ‘You mean as a…as a spy?’

      ‘Yes, I suppose you could call it that.’

      She half-laughed: the idea seemed so ludicrous.

      Balwin seemed to take slight offence. ‘Is it such a surprising request? You opposed that government once by force of arms. And it must have crossed your mind that defeat in this matter would probably finish the military as a political force for years.’

      That at least was probably true. As was the reverse: victory would keep the beasts in power for the rest of the century. She looked across the desk at the Englishman, still idly twirling his pen. He was just going through the motions, she realized. He did not expect any Argentinian exile to agree to such a proposal, but someone somewhere in the bureaucratic labyrinth had decreed that they all had to be asked. As far as he was concerned, she would soon be walking away across the yard and another of her compatriots would be sitting in the chair answering the same questions.

      ‘To spy on what?’ she asked.

      ‘That would depend,’ Baldwin said slowly, stirring slightly in his chair. ‘For the moment we are more interested in establishing a willingness in principle.’

      ‘Are you offering anything in return for my services?’ she asked.

      His eyes narrowed. ‘I think it would be hard to establish a real basis of mutual trust if remuneration was involved,’ he said piously.

      ‘Success would be its own reward,’ she suggested sweetly.

      ‘Something like that,’ he agreed, with the faintest of grins.

      ‘And if I wanted something other than money, like, for example, permanent residency visas for several friends?’

      ‘That could probably be arranged.’

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