‘Hello, ladies,’ I say, and a kaleidoscope of fanciful scenarios tumbles into my mind. I’m in the grip of that perverse longing for closeness devoid of intimacy, and my devil is suggesting a bold approach. ‘If I’d known you were both here I’d have cancelled my plans for the evening.’ There’s an exchange of smiles, and the blonde speaks first.
‘We don’t talk to strangers,’ she says in a tone of counterfeit coyness that suggests just the opposite. ‘But we might change our minds if you introduce yourself.’ She has a Southern accent which I inexplicably associate with sexual voracity. ‘I’m Summer,’ she says, looking me squarely in the eye as we shake hands. I resist the temptation of allowing my gaze to fall towards her chest, but it’s not easy.
‘Don’t tell me,’ I reply, looking towards her friend. ‘You’re Pudding.’ But the joke misses its mark, evoking looks of confusion.
‘Summer,’ I point to them in turn, ‘and Pudding. It’s a special dessert we make in England. The secret is to make sure the fruit is really ripe. You have to squeeze it without bruising it. I miss it terribly. I have a permanent craving for ripe fruits of every kind.’
‘Do you ever give in to your cravings?’ Summer asks.
This is a green light if ever there was. They accept my suggestion to move from the bar to a table, around which we settle into soft armchairs. I order a bottle of champagne. We chat for half an hour. Summer takes the lead, and the Tigress is sultry and largely silent. They can’t get over my accent, they tell me, so I make the most of that. They’re matching my innuendos as fast as I can produce them. The guests fade away, and when the pianist plays a final version of ‘Georgia on my Mind’, we’re the only ones clapping.
‘It’s getting late, ladies,’ I say, because it’s decision time. ‘What does a man do in this town when it gets this late?’
‘Depends what you enjoy doing most,’ says Summer with a lascivious smile.
‘Well, there is one thing I’m into,’ I say, ‘but it’s not really what you’d call conventional.’
‘Try us,’ says Summer, dipping a finger into her champagne.
‘Think I should trust you with such a private thing?’ I ask.
‘We won’t tell,’ says Summer, and puts her finger in her mouth.
The moment is definitely ripe to let them know.
‘Pond life.’
‘Pond life?’ They giggle uncertainly.
‘Ponds,’ I say. ‘Absolutely fascinating. The whole of life is represented in even the smallest pond. As small as this very table. Every kind of life is in it. Things that swim, run, crawl, fly, burrow and slither. I don’t just mean toads and frogs and newts. Everybody loves them, right?
‘Right,’ says Summer, exchanging glances with her equally perplexed friend.
‘Think of all the lesser creatures that people never bother to mention: water beetles, water scorpions, water fleas, damselflies, skaters, dragonfly nymphs, nematodes, flukes and tapeworms. They’re all there.’
‘I’m with you, kind of,’ says Summer, but I can tell she’s wondering where I’m going with this. Understandably.
‘But it’s right at the bottom of the pond where things get interesting,’ I say. ‘That’s where all the debris sinks to, where you find all the life that has no place in ordinary pond society. There’s a whole world down there with its own rules. That’s where you get the mud dwellers and the scavengers, the parasites and the leeches.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ I say. ‘Some of the creatures that live in the mud are actually beautiful, so beautiful you can’t really imagine what they’re doing down there.’
I’m watching their faces quite closely now. Summer is confused, but trying hard not to let it show. The Tigress is ahead of her and close to glowering at me.
‘There’s a family of parasitic worms, I think they’re called planarians, which produce slime that allows them to move over any surface. There’s little hydras which hunt by waving their tentacles around to entrap their prey. Then there’s the medusa. Surely you’ve heard of them. They belong to the Coelenterata phylum. They’re free-swimming. Free agents, you might say. Difficult to identify if you’re not trained to spot them of course, but unmistakable if you know their distinguishing features.’
The girls exchange glances again, and their body language is betraying their restlessness. Neither of them is smiling any more. There’s actually a frown on the face of the black woman.
‘There’s little crustacea. They’re very active. Nocturnal too. They swim on their backs and capture their prey with their legs. Imagine that. I mean, what creature would fall for that?’
‘We need to go,’ says the black woman, quietly but abruptly.
‘I do believe you’re right,’ says Summer, or whatever her name really is. The smile hasn’t entirely left her face, but it’s a different kind of smile now. Her lips are held tighter against her teeth than before, in the manner of someone swallowing a bitter medicine. The two of them reach for their handbags.
‘Wait,’ I say. ‘I haven’t told you about the best creature of all. It’s a beetle which beats the surface of the water with its little feelers to attract its prey. They say it’s a sexual signal, but who knows what sex with a beetle is really like. Anyway, there’s another beetle that knows this trick, so you know what it does? It swims up and goes through all the motions of being attracted to the other one, and it gets really close, and just as the other one is getting ready for its snack – gotcha! It swallows it whole. Doesn’t even chew.’
I don’t get up as they stand. They leave without looking back.
I feel bad that I’ve deceived them. It isn’t pond beetles that trick their prey at all, but a tropical species of land beetle, which flashes fake signals to fireflies. Somehow I don’t think this detail will get as far as the reports they have to make. But I do wonder if Seethrough will reconsider when he’s about to make another joke about ponds.
I finish the champagne and walk back to the lobby. I give a twenty-dollar bill to the concierge and thank him for his vigilance, because it’s he who’s told me about the two good-looking women asking after me by name earlier in the evening.
Then I’m alone in my room. My mind spins in a black whirlwind of thoughts. Soon I will meet Gemayel and confront him with the news that one of his own staff will attempt to be the instrument of his murder. I’m sickened at the deceitfulness of the people I’m mixing with. I wonder if I will be sent to the Sudan. And I wonder about a friend I haven’t seen for ten years.
But it’s something Grace said that worries me the most. All they need is an excuse, she says, and there’ll be war in Afghanistan.
I loathe the duplicity of some of my own countrymen, but I am even more afraid of the power of America, and of what will happen if the giant is unexpectedly provoked.
9
In the few days that I’ve been in America Seethrough has been busy, as usual. He’s liaised with the Italian intelligence service, SISMI, and managed to borrow a team of watchers to help arrange a meeting with Gemayel. The Italians have been kind enough to let us know that on Fridays Gemayel has the habit of walking from his apartment on Via Hongaria and strolling along the shady gravel paths that criss-cross the gardens of the Villa Borghese. He is accompanied by two armed Arab or Italian bodyguards, who trail discreetly behind him in expensively tailored casual jackets and Ray-Bans. So on the chosen afternoon, instead of calling up Gemayel and requesting a meeting like a normal person, I’m sitting in the back of an Italian telecom van watching him from half a mile away through a high-powered miniature telescope.
My partner for the day is a former Italian special forces soldier from Naples called Gaetano, who tells me a funny story about surrendering to a troop of British paras on a joint escape and evasion exercise in Germany. When he’s caught, which is not supposed to happen on E amp; E training, he produces a fine bottle of Montepulciano and a large Parmesan from his Bergen, and settles down with his captors to a picnic, after which they generously decide to let him go. Mysteriously, he is the only member of the Italian team to successfully complete the exercise, and receives a commendation from his proud commanding officer.