MAMista

‘What would they do?’ asked Lucas.

‘Did my fellows tear your jacket like that?’ Cisneros asked as if seeing Lucas for the first time. ‘I’ll have someone repair it for you … What would they do …’ He placed the cheroot in a brass ashtray that was close at hand next to the photo of his wife. ‘Admiral Benz pushed through the Crop Substitution Bill last winter. Many hundreds of hectares that were growing coca have planted coffee. Loud screams from the coffee farmers because they think their coffee bean prices will tumble.’ He paused. The bitterness in his voice was evident. It was hard to swallow criticism from the coffeegrowers after being their champion for so long. Whatever his motives he was sincere about this part of it. ‘Your guerrillas immediately promised support to the coffee farmers and started a bombing campaign here in the city.’

He paused as if inviting Lucas to speak but Lucas said nothing. Cisneros said, ‘Certain of my liberal middle-class friends say I should not take Yankee money, but the Crop Substitution Bill would falter without Yankee money; maybe collapse. What would the guerrillas do if they took power, you ask? The communists can’t exist without rural support: they need the farmers. The farmers want the money the coca brings them. Your communist friends certainly won’t take Yankee money, and the Americans wouldn’t give it to them. So the communists can do nothing other than build an economy based upon the drug traffic.’

A dozen questions came into Lucas’ mind but he knew better than to ask them. Cisneros was a very tough man and none of this smooth talk could hide it. Lucas wondered what was behind this special treatment and wondered if by some magic the Webley–Hockley had got word of his arrest and told the British ambassador to intercede. He did not entertain this idea for long. The Webley–Hockley could not possibly have heard of his arrest. If they had, there was no way that the collection of superannuated half-wits that comprised the board would have taken any action. And lastly this was not a part of the world where the British ambassador wielded much influence. ‘You make a powerful case, Minister,’ said Lucas deferentially.

‘Then tell me about this fellow, Paz. Is he American?’ He pushed a button on his desk.

‘I don’t know, Minister.’

‘He’s rich. It is not difficult to spot these rich college revolutionaries.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Lucas, hoping that he wasn’t giving away a secret Angel Paz cherished.

‘Bring Paz in now,’ Cisneros told the box on his desk. ‘Let me take a look at him.’

6

TEPILO POLICE HEADQUARTERS.

‘And difficult to get out of the carpet.’

Despite his US passport, Angel Paz had not been permitted to go free from the party at The Daily American. Angel Paz had pushed one of the policemen. He had refused to answer any questions. He had argued, shouted and told the police exactly what he thought of them. This had not worked out to his advantage. He’d been punched to the ground, kicked, strip-searched and ‘processed’. Hair cut, fingerprints taken, he’d been thrown under an icy-cold shower and then photographed for the criminal files.

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