It didn’t really matter how true the last part was, Serrano thought. The point was that Britain had been prepared to send advisers to Colombia to help in the fight against drug trafficking. Might they not be equally willing to send one man to help in the fight against the subversivos?
This man Wilkinson could take part as an observer in the sweep which was planned for the following week. And when they captured or killed this El Espíritu then the Englishman would be on the spot to identify the miserable little shit.
And he would also, Serrano realized with satisfaction, be a neutral witness to the old boy’s death. No one would believe an Army report that El Espíritu had been killed, but an Englishman…His testimony could lay this particular ‘ghost’ once and for all, and prevent a host of other claimants to the name springing up in the dead man’s place.
Yes, Serrano thought. He liked it. He liked it a lot.
Would the British agree? They still had a reliable enough government from all reports, though maybe not quite so reliable as in the woman Thatcher’s time. In any event the SAS was unlikely to be a haven for communist sympathizers.
But Serrano had to admit that Guatemala’s reputation in the world had suffered in recent years. All those little creeps from Amnesty International and Americas Watch, living their safe little lives in the rich man’s world and bleating on about human rights abuses everywhere else.
How could he sugar the pill? What could Guatemala offer the British?
Another Belize treaty? The last president to sign one had almost been tried on treason charges, and the idea of sticking his neck out that far was not particularly appealing. It would be better, he decided, to go through the Americans. They had a keener appreciation of what was really at stake in Central America, and they could hardly refuse to help when their own beloved peace negotiations were on the line. ‘We are so close to a breakthrough,’ Serrano murmured out loud in rehearsal, ‘and this one terrorist could undermine everything we have all worked for.’
It sounded convincing enough for the US State Department. The Americans could then bribe or threaten the British, whichever they deemed more appropriate. Serrano picked up the phone to call the Foreign Ministry, trying in vain to remember the name of the current Foreign Minister.
The request for diplomatic assistance was delivered to the State Department by Guatemala’s Washington ambassador early the following afternoon. After receiving his visitor, Sam Udovich, Acting Head of the Central America desk, stared out at the falling snow and slowly consumed a strawberry cheese croissant before reaching for the internal phone.
‘Clemens,’ a voice answered.
‘Brent, hi. The Guatemalan Ambassador’s just been darkening my office door.’
‘And what do the death squads want today?’
Udovich told him.
Clemens listened in silence, and then laughed. ‘They want some Brit soldier to look over a line-up of corpses and pick out the guilty man?’ he asked incredulously.
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Udovich agreed. ‘It is in our interests that they get this guy.’
‘That’s what Ollie North said.’
‘He was right,’ Udovich said drily.
Clemens sighed audibly.
‘Look,’ Udovich went on patiently, ‘I’d take it as a personal favour if you could get the Brits to get with the programme on this one.’ And if you can, went the first unspoken message, then I owe you one. And if you can’t or won’t, went the second, then don’t come to me for a favour anytime soon.
‘I’ll ask them,’ Clemens said.
‘Just so long as you don’t leave them in any doubt about how important we think this is.’
‘How important you think this is.’
Udovich snorted. ‘It’s not going to cost the Brits any money, for Christ’s sake. And that’s all they seem to care about these days.’
‘I’ll ask them,’ Clemens repeated. ‘If that’s all…’
‘One more thing. I think their intelligence boys should run a check on this guy Wilkinson, just in case. The Guatemalans want someone they can rely on – you understand me?’
‘Yeah,’ Clemens said. ‘I get the message.’
‘And they want him vetted?’ the Prime Minister asked rhetorically. He shook his head, looking saddened by the impertinence of the American request.
‘Just informally,’ Martin Clarke said assuagingly. He was the junior minister at the Foreign Office responsible for formulating a reply to Washington’s request.
The Prime Minister shook his head again, and then squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, as if the shaking had given him a headache. He blinked and looked round the table. ‘Any comments?’ he asked.
For a moment no one seemed to have any.
‘What’s the current state of play in Guatemala?’ asked the young man with the flashy tie who was representing MI5.
‘Business as usual,’ Clarke answered drily.
‘Not quite,’ the silver-haired man from MI6 disagreed. ‘The Government claims to have won the war against the guerrillas, but the fact that they’re willing to negotiate a settlement suggests a rather different story.’
‘The negotiations are just a sop to the Americans,’ Clarke insisted.
‘That’s not what our people think,’ said the MI6 man. ‘They reckon the number of guerrillas in the mountains is at least holding steady, and may even be growing.’
‘Does it matter?’ asked Bill Warren, the Junior Defence Minister. ‘We’re only being asked for one adviser for a couple of weeks. I’m more interested in what sort of favour we can expect in return.’
‘Such as?’ the Prime Minister asked. ‘I don’t think we’ll get any better guarantees on Belize. No, I think we’d be better off treating this as nothing more than a favour to Washington.’ He paused for a moment and looked up, as if seeking divine guidance. ‘But the further we can distance the Government from the whole business, the better I’ll like it,’ he added. ‘If this SAS soldier gets caught up in some ghastly atrocity then all the human rights people will be screaming blue murder at me. I think this should be a strictly military affair – a matter of shared courtesy between armed forces. With a high security rating. “Need to know” only.’
He turned to the two junior ministers. ‘Bill, you liaise with Five in making sure Sergeant Wilkinson has a clean bill of health. Martin, you get in touch with the SAS CO and tell him what’s required. And let the Americans know we’ll be happy to oblige them.’
The PM took the bridge of his nose in the familiar pincer grip and blinked twice. ‘Now let’s get on to something important.’
Lieutenant-Colonel Barney Davies, the Commanding Officer of 22 SAS, had just re-entered his office, having returned for the Daily Mirror he had left behind, when the phone rang. He stared at it in exasperation for several seconds, and then reluctantly picked it up. ‘Davies,’ he said, more mildly than he felt. He had an important evening ahead, and hoped to God this call was not going to foul it up.
‘Good evening, Lieutenant-Colonel,’ a familiar voice said. ‘My name’s Martin Clarke. Foreign Office. I don’t believe we’ve met.’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Davies said warily. He’d seen the bastard on TV enough times. In fact the Junior Minister had been on Question