A disembodied voice asked, “Is it true the Grau was carrying vital drilling equipment?” A list had reached the network from the office of Abyla Independiente. The cargo was itemised. Neoprene gaskets. Bolted cement segments. Replacement blades for the disc-cutter.

Menendez nodded, his eyes rolling under the load of information passing overhead. A stubby finger plucked at the chain creepering his neck. More blades had been ordered from Seattle, he said.

Could the Governor give his assurance that the loss of the Grau would not result in a delay to the opening of the Straits Tunnel?

“Absolutely!”

What about funds? There were rumours the money had run out. Was it true the workmen had not been paid for a fortnight?

Wavery changed channel. “And finally . . . ” a man said in English. On screen appeared the fluorescent figure of Sir Lawrence Tredwell, demonstrating the stroke with which he had driven a golf ball two hundred and forty-eight yards towards Africa. Wavery switched back. Menendez had departed and a voice was urging Wavery not to go away because next on Abyla Channel was another instalment of everybody’s favourite programme. “Yes, it’s time once again for The Strong Tend to Leave . . . ”

There was an interval for advertisements. “Is your marriage a source of joy or a cause of pain? Talk to Dorita at the Catholic Marriage Guidance Service.” The address gave way to a pair of woman’s eyes, the rest of her face blacked out as if she might have been wearing a veil. The eyes belonged to Abyla Television’s “Whose Eyes?” competition. “Do you recognise this local personality?” pleaded the voice. “The first twenty correct answers will receive rollerball Parkers . . . ” Nor was that all. If, at the end of the month, the eyes remained unclaimed, then the prize would double!

The eyes remained on the screen, steady and appealing. By the time he sat down on the corner of his bed Wavery was no longer in Abyla. He was escaping a congested room at a party in Lima.

4

He hovered on the steps of the patio. In the corner he registered Queesal. The Commercial Attaché was listening to a tall woman, with shoulder-length black hair. Wavery thought, There’s George, wanting to be unlucky again.

Queesal had been drinking. He was speaking in an aggrieved, bellicose voice. “It’s not what you see. We’re just servants. Any Tom, Dick or Harry feels a right to come out here and be sick over us.”

She listened, but she behaved like a woman who is expecting someone else. Queesal must have noticed. She was reaching down for her glass, when, as if to keep her attention, he spluttered, “That drunken, womanising oaf in there, for instance, Clark flaming Gable.” He was intending a joke, but aggression roughened his voice. By the way in which she reacted, Wavery immediately knew that Queesal was abusing someone close to her.

Until that moment Wavery had seen her simply as another attractive woman of which the room behind him was full. Her beauty had not impinged on him. He had assumed such a woman could handle the Queesal brand of clumsy rudeness. He assumed she would be bound to have the armoury of most beautiful women, which for him diminished their attractiveness. What he saw was the vulnerability of a child who needed his help.