opened a drawer in his desk, took out a large envelope and handed it across to me. ‘You’d better read them.’
‘Now?’
‘Now.’
I took out two sheets of paper marked Highly Confidential from the envelope. As I had expected, the typing was immaculate. But for handing over notes they were short. Some details of where certain files were kept, how the Ambassador liked layout, and some routine returns and checks that had to be made. A little on Security and the number (like safe combination) to open the box for Security keys attached to the safe in the Ambassador’s office, 3652531.
I screwed my eyes up memorising it. 365 . . . that was easy. The number of days in the year. 25 was my age. Only 31 was the difficult one to which I could attach no mnemonic. But I have a good visual memory, and when I looked away, I could actually see the numbers 3652531 and where they stood on the page.
I put the two pages back in the envelope and handed it back to Mr. Fitzgerald.
‘That was quick. Sure you got it all?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we’d better get rid of this.’ He picked up his internal telephone and asked Mr. Ashford to come up with the Confidential Waste Bag. Mr. Fitzgerald smiled across the desk at me. ‘This is a small, very relaxed and very friendly Embassy, but we obey the rules implicitly.’ He took up the envelope and its contents and tore them into tiny fragments, and when Mr. Ashford came in with the Confidential Waste Bag he put them all in and told him to ‘deal with it in the usual way’.
‘That disposes of that, then.’ He leaned back in his chair, tilted it slightly, brown arms folded across his chest, a young man smiling and relaxed. I actually began to relax myself, even to feel at home in this austere, very functional office—no pot plants, no calendars, no lithographs. Just a bookcase full of books, with a small photograph on top which was too far away for me to see the subject.
‘A word, though, on Embassy social life. Don’t look so wary, I’m not going to give you a lecture. But now and again . . .’ he paused and smiled.
‘Once in a blue moon?’ I suggested, smiling back.
‘Twice, maybe three times in that.’ His smile broadened. ‘You’ll have to attend small official functions. Don’t worry, one of us will be with you. They won’t be anything very high-powered—a tea party, or reception. You will, of course, talk with the ladies.’ He paused. ‘One thing, however, you must arrive on the dot.’ Perhaps he was remembering my few minutes’ lateness this morning. ‘The Charaguayans never arrive for an appointment on time . . . except with the British. And naturally now they expect us to keep up the tradition. Punctuality here is called the hora inglesa . The English hour.’
‘I know,’ I said.
‘Where from?’
‘Oh, I just know,’ I murmured, colouring a deep pink, remembering Don Ramon in the park, and feeling disproportionately guilty.
‘Probably from the Foreign Office,’ he said.
And though I didn’t nod or say yes, I felt demeaned and diminished by allowing him to assume that was so.
‘You’ll also probably know that the Diplomatic Bag for London leaves on Mondays—today, in fact. It returns with our official mail on Friday. A British Airways aircraft makes a scheduled stop on those days. Either Bill Green, the Second Secretary, or Alex Ashford, the Third Secretary, takes the Bag to the airport.’
‘These letters, do you want them to catch it?’
‘I do. They shouldn’t take long. But there’s also a short report on tape.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’m due at a trade meeting in twenty minutes’ time. The report is on the dictating machine in the Ambassador’s security cabinet. You can’t mistake his key in the box.’ He smiled faintly. ‘It’s coloured gold instead of silver. I’ll be back at six-fifty-five, just before the Bag goes.’ Mr. Fitzgerald got up. ‘Address the envelope, Head of the Latin American Department, Foreign
‘Now?’
‘Now.’
I took out two sheets of paper marked Highly Confidential from the envelope. As I had expected, the typing was immaculate. But for handing over notes they were short. Some details of where certain files were kept, how the Ambassador liked layout, and some routine returns and checks that had to be made. A little on Security and the number (like safe combination) to open the box for Security keys attached to the safe in the Ambassador’s office, 3652531.
I screwed my eyes up memorising it. 365 . . . that was easy. The number of days in the year. 25 was my age. Only 31 was the difficult one to which I could attach no mnemonic. But I have a good visual memory, and when I looked away, I could actually see the numbers 3652531 and where they stood on the page.
I put the two pages back in the envelope and handed it back to Mr. Fitzgerald.
‘That was quick. Sure you got it all?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we’d better get rid of this.’ He picked up his internal telephone and asked Mr. Ashford to come up with the Confidential Waste Bag. Mr. Fitzgerald smiled across the desk at me. ‘This is a small, very relaxed and very friendly Embassy, but we obey the rules implicitly.’ He took up the envelope and its contents and tore them into tiny fragments, and when Mr. Ashford came in with the Confidential Waste Bag he put them all in and told him to ‘deal with it in the usual way’.
‘That disposes of that, then.’ He leaned back in his chair, tilted it slightly, brown arms folded across his chest, a young man smiling and relaxed. I actually began to relax myself, even to feel at home in this austere, very functional office—no pot plants, no calendars, no lithographs. Just a bookcase full of books, with a small photograph on top which was too far away for me to see the subject.
‘A word, though, on Embassy social life. Don’t look so wary, I’m not going to give you a lecture. But now and again . . .’ he paused and smiled.
‘Once in a blue moon?’ I suggested, smiling back.
‘Twice, maybe three times in that.’ His smile broadened. ‘You’ll have to attend small official functions. Don’t worry, one of us will be with you. They won’t be anything very high-powered—a tea party, or reception. You will, of course, talk with the ladies.’ He paused. ‘One thing, however, you must arrive on the dot.’ Perhaps he was remembering my few minutes’ lateness this morning. ‘The Charaguayans never arrive for an appointment on time . . . except with the British. And naturally now they expect us to keep up the tradition. Punctuality here is called the hora inglesa . The English hour.’
‘I know,’ I said.
‘Where from?’
‘Oh, I just know,’ I murmured, colouring a deep pink, remembering Don Ramon in the park, and feeling disproportionately guilty.
‘Probably from the Foreign Office,’ he said.
And though I didn’t nod or say yes, I felt demeaned and diminished by allowing him to assume that was so.
‘You’ll also probably know that the Diplomatic Bag for London leaves on Mondays—today, in fact. It returns with our official mail on Friday. A British Airways aircraft makes a scheduled stop on those days. Either Bill Green, the Second Secretary, or Alex Ashford, the Third Secretary, takes the Bag to the airport.’
‘These letters, do you want them to catch it?’
‘I do. They shouldn’t take long. But there’s also a short report on tape.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’m due at a trade meeting in twenty minutes’ time. The report is on the dictating machine in the Ambassador’s security cabinet. You can’t mistake his key in the box.’ He smiled faintly. ‘It’s coloured gold instead of silver. I’ll be back at six-fifty-five, just before the Bag goes.’ Mr. Fitzgerald got up. ‘Address the envelope, Head of the Latin American Department, Foreign
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