Sneak Preview

His rousing exhortation of the troops to Sink the Bismarck! now seemed embarrassingly absurd. It was more like shifting the furniture on the Titanic in a last-ditch effort to prevent the ill-starred liner from capsizing… Or, in a picture of futility, he himself as the band leader of the Titanic, striking up one last dance as the tilting ship was swallowed by the ocean.

A generous measure of Highland Malt provided him with much-needed sustenance, a reassuring glow of Dutch courage as he mentally moved the problem to number one in his top ten of Disasters Waiting to Happen. He then summoned his chauffeur and, fortified in spirit, set forth for the Presidential Palace. In the warm amber aftermath, Sir Hannibal experienced some measure of satisfaction that for once he knew something which Morris didn’t.

"So, Morris," he began testily. "Dashed bad news about these parrot people. Their mysterious disappearance and all that."

"Absolutely, sir. Like my wife says, something very fishy there. Not a good omen for the Summit, she says."

"What?" he spluttered, lurching between anger and stupefaction. "You know about this?"

"Oh, only for a week or so, sir. General’s thugs on the rampage again, I’ll be bound."

"For what conceivable reason?"

"My guess is they saw something they oughtn’t have."

"Such as?" Sir Hannibal demanded peevishly.

"Well, difficult to say. Perhaps the hunting that’s going on up there."

"Hunting? For what? Parrots? That’s poaching. It’s illegal!"

"No, sir, not for parrots. Poaching parrots, well that’s quite normal, an everyday occurrence, you might say. No, Indians. Getting in the way of the prospectors and the loggers, not to mention the secret war against the PLF."

Sir Hannibal clucked and snorted derisively, waiting for Morris to get out of the limousine and open his door for him, as demanded by protocol.

Cantankerous old fart, Morris muttered, as he lit up a cigarette and prepared to wait for his master. Would you credit it? Thirty years driving for ’im and ’as he ever once opened ’is own frigging door? Not on your nelly.

Sir Hannibal was banking on the element of surprise, hoping to prod the General into admitting knowledge of the looming Parrotgate scandal. He had thus, with only a minor breach of diplomatic protocol, arrived without prior announcement. After all, he reasoned, finding some difficulty in pronouncing the words in his own mind, a short sharp shock might be conducive to full and frank discussions at this stage so that proper remedial measures might be instituted to conceal the facts as expediently as possible.

"General Machado will be with you in a moment," the functionary announced in a crisp British accent. "He has asked me to convey his sincere apologies for his delay but he has various pressing security matters to attend to." The young man was evidently well schooled in diplomatic falsehoods. Would Sir Hannibal care for some refreshment while he waited? Sir Hannibal declined, and the functionary offered a slight bow and departed, his footsteps ringing out on the chequered flagstones.

While he was waiting, Sir Hannibal noticed several Americans in dark blue suits being led into one of the reception rooms. They looked like used-car salesmen and Sir Hannibal, his curiosity piqued, took advantage of the deserted gallery to stretch his legs, as it were and, inter alia, to snoop. As he strolled past the open doorway, the sinister and sleazy men in blue suits were introducing themselves to the General’s protégé and sidekick, a young lieutenant who was the talk of the cocktail-party circuit because of his ruggedly handsome features and his reputed conquest of wives and daughters in the expatriate community. He stood there in his tight uniform and shiny knee-length boots as the salesmen were passing out their calling cards. "Hi, I’m Bob," he overheard. "President of Interrogation Dynamics Incorporated of Chicago, Illinois… these are my top sales representatives, Jim… Ralph… Yeah, Colonel Ollie Rawson sends his best. Oh, and his wife personally asked me to remember her to you…"

On his third pass, the lights in the chamber had been dimmed and Sir Hannibal paused long enough to take in the first segment of the sales video that was being screened: "When security is at stake, accurate intelligence comes at a high premium. Interrogation Dynamics Incorporated can take care of all your confidential security needs, providing a full catalogue of humane Acute Physical Prompting equipment. Whether your needs are mechanical or electronic, our comprehensive new range of products, TruthProdsä , provides state-of-the-art hardware tailor-made for today’s challenges in intelligence gathering and confession persuasion. When lives are at stake, you need the information fast. That’s why our equipment has been specially designed and perfected to guarantee rapid returns without accidentally rendering subjects under interrogation non-viable…"

Hearing approaching footsteps ringing out in the distance, Sir Hannibal beat a hasty retreat to the reception area. His heart pounding, his hands shaking, he sucked in deep gasps of air in an effort to calm himself. He was forced to remind his irrational fear that he held diplomatic immunity and was therefore not vulnerable to those cruel trials of life which afflict the common man.

As soon as he was ushered into the hall, the General thrust a crumpled letter into his hands bearing the corporate logo and trademarked name of the Dodo Foundation. Sir Hannibal was rather astonished to find the US Ambassador already seated, acknowledging his arrival with a vague smile and a twitch of eyebrows. "Howya doin’, Sir Hannibal," he drawled with quiet irony. The Ambassador was not a career diplomat but a decrepit political appointee, a retired corporate chieftain who, in the rags to riches tradition so endearing to Hollywood and the American Dream, had turned an impoverished family soap factory into a multinational cosmetics empire. His munificence to the campaign of Reg Heston during the last election had been suitably rewarded so that he – accompanied by his ghastly purple-coiffured wife – could now strut about the region pretending to be an international statesman.

"Ees trick, no?" General Machado demanded, tapping furiously at van Boek’s crumpled, cringing missive. "To think that I, Generalissimo Julio Machado would sully hees hands with such a crime?" He nudged Sir Hannibal and whispered, "They were seen? Sometimes, Sir Hannibal, these boys are like my own sons, how you say? A cheep off the old block. They have balls, these boys!"

"Evidently," Sir Hannibal replied mordantly, his growing irritation causing him to step beyond the bounds of diplomatic propriety. "Is this why they were even implicated in the rape and murder of the San Juan monks last year?"

"Ees a foul lie!" the General blustered. "They are men! Not women, not animals! This outrage of which you speak, that was the work of the PLF dogs. They wish to heap blame and humiliation upon us."

"Be that as it may, General, but are we correct in assuming that the responsibility for this latest escapade lies somewhat closer to home?"

The General cast a guilt-ridden gaze at the two men, appealing for understanding. "Ees so difficult to control these boys. Ever since the American training they are so wild!"

"Do you have any conception of how this incident may affect the Summit?" Sir Hannibal asked bluntly. "If news of this gets out there’ll be hell to pay. The entire Summit might have to be abandoned."

"The man’s right, Huli," the Ambassador drawled. "Guess you’re gonna have to toe the line on this one."

Huli? Sir Hannibal thought incredulously. Good God. The vulgarity of Americans never ceases to amaze one.

"We got to keep a lid on it else the whole thing’s gonna blow. You get my meaning?"

"I will do all in my power," the General stammered, his predicament demanding an unfamiliar servility which stuck in his throat. "Ambassador… Sir Hannibal… it is an understanding between us, between men of honour…"

"What news of the witness, General?" Sir Hannibal probed, knowing that he was unlikely to receive a straight answer.

"Yeah, Huli, you boys got anything on that runaway kid yet?"

"Ees disappear, like that!" the General replied unconvincingly, snapping his fingers. "In how you say? The thin air."

The Ambassador caught Sir Hannibal’s eye. "Well, I wonder who’s gonna get to him first," he said.

There was a tense pause, the three men sizing each other up with surreptitious glances, eyes swivelling from one to the other to avoid contact.

"Well, guess I better make a move," the Ambassador declared at last, glancing at his watch. "Back to the cocktail circuit, eh Hanni?"

"Quite," Sir Hannibal replied with distaste.

"Oh yeah, Huli. One more thing. Slipped my mind. State asked me to bring it up when we had a moment… Don’t you think this torture and mutilation business is getting a little out of hand? I mean, the way State sees it you’ve managed to escape censure by the international community for a good number of years. And we backed you in the interests of democracy and free-market trade. OK, so Amnesty International worked you over a bit, but who gives a shit, right? But I have to level with you, Huli, the United States Government is now gonna take a tougher line. What can I say? We got no choice. We wanna see a progressive reduction in human rights abuse."

"But ees all lies!" the General bellowed. "I have not tortured a soul since I was a cadet in the Academy’s interrogation class! Do you think a Head of State would soil his hands with such affairs?"

"Maybe that cabinet display at your villa gives the wrong impression Huli," the Ambassador declared with a guffaw, slapping him on the shoulder, "what with all those handguns, thumbscrews, electric prods…"

"Ees only mementoes of my career, nothing more!"

"You gotta rein in your boys, Huli. I mean, give yourself a break here. Congress is gonna turn off the aid spigot unless they see some results. You bring down the torture figures by 10, 15 per cent a year, you got it made. Gee, we’re not asking for miracles. Everyone knows we got a covert war scenario down here."

"I try," the General replied sullenly.

"Sure you will," drawled the Ambassador reassuringly. "But our view is you could also use the benefit of some professional image consultants. Especially now when we gotta keep this Summit thing on track. We got a corporation that comes highly recommended in the US of A. It’s a world leader in image repair and enhancement. Why not hear them out?"

So two days later, General Machado reluctantly found himself in session with two senior executives of Worldwide Image Consultants Incorporated, which, by a strange quirk of fate, also boasted the Dodo Foundation among its prestigious inventory of clients.

"Try this for size, General," announced one of the men, sketching out the rehabilitation project on a yellow legal pad. "General Julio M. Machado, Distinguished Elder Statesman. I see a kaleidoscope of images here. Your celebrated military career, your decoration for gallantry, your appointment as chief of the armed forces. Then your decade-long tenure as President, your meetings with leading heads of state, your unique role in guiding both the country and the region through troubled times towards peace and prosperity…"

The General puffed himself up in pride. "Ees good!" he marvelled and added with sudden urgency: "You should say also that Generalissimo Machado is a simple man with simple desires. A plate of fresh bread, a cucumber, a glass of wine… And yes, that he is a man of the Church!"

"All in good time, General. From your distinguished military career we switch to The Family Man: playing with your grandchildren on the lawn, a baby boy on your lap symbolising the future hope of the nation… We’ll follow this with The Man of the People: Your visit to the shanties, where you’ll be portrayed as the concerned elder statesman, solemn yet visionary, with spontaneous applause and gazes of adoration and respect from the inhabitants."

The General rubbed his stubbly chin thoughtfully. "Spontaneous? Ees difficult."

"Hey, no problem! We can bring in hired extras."