Read Online MAMista by Len Deighton - Free Book Online Page A

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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Well,’ said the peer, uncertain how to continue. He made a movement of his hand to encourage the investments manto say something. When investments decided to drink coffee, the peer’s objections shifted: ‘I’d like to know who this anonymous donor is.’
    â€˜You saw the letter from the bank,’ said the chairman.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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 lookedat 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?’
    â€˜You are talking about adaptation,’