Deirdre described her arrangement for the delivery of a wheel-barrow and three shovels to a clinic damaged by flooding. She glanced over at Wavery. She would leave it to Wavery to explain the matter of the veterinary equipment in Cajamarca, which, having remained unpacked for six months, they now learned was missing crucial elements.

“Anything else?” said the Ambassador.

Deirdre doubled as the Cultural Attaché. “At least the Eastern Strike doesn’t affect the British Council visit.” A feminist science-fiction writer was arriving for a week.

“You’ve done a programme?”

“She’s staying with me.”

“I suppose that’s a good idea? What do we want to achieve?”

“The Council rather hope you might host a small reception,” Deirdre said stubbornly. “We have so much competition from the Goethe Institute and the Alliance Française.

Deirdre’s remark provoked an Ambassadorial riposte. “We don’t want to get into competition. We want what’s most appropriate for Anglo-Peruvian relations. You know my position on that, Deirdre. Three words. English. Language. Teaching . . . ” From his manner, it was unlikely he regarded the Council’s science-fiction writer as fulfilling his criteria.

Wavery gazed out of the window and down into Plaza Washington as Deirdre became an excuse for the Ambassador to remind all those assembled of the banner, and the words Caring but Cautious, beneath which he expected them to march.

Wavery looked ahead to Lisbon. He promised himself he would conduct his prayer meetings differently. But he could not think clearly of Lisbon. He could think only of Catharine. He watched a police car speed through a red light. He imagined her entering the Hotel Bolivar. He followed her in quick steps into the foyer, up the stairs, into the grill room.

“Señora Riding? Please. This is for you.”

“ . . . and in providing such teaching, let’s go for doctors and scientists in preference to someone who can talk about the sororities of English literature. It’s the technocratic spectrum which is directing life in our country, not raccoons from outer space. It’s all about priorities. Which reminds me. Gifty? What’s the programme for direct dialling?”

“October is promised,” said the Ambassador’s Trinidadian secretary.

The Ambassador nodded. “Good. It took me all of two hours to get through to Personnel Department yesterday.”

“And you said to remind you about the saucepans.”

“Ah, yes. Thank you,” said the Ambassador. His face assumed an expression more ominous than normal. “Quite right. The saucepans. Where is it, Gifty?”

Gifty identified the relevant paper on his desk.

To the threat posed by Maoist guerrillas, the Foreign Office had added a sinister anxiety of their own. “I’ve had a message from London warning us of a link established between the metal in the saucepans issued by Overseas Estates Department, and memory loss. OED promise to disconnect the supply, but as yet no funds are available to replace all existing kitchenware. Meanwhile, we are advised not to stew fruit.”

He gave a deathly little smile. He flicked the page with the back of his goose-stroker’s hand. Drily he said, “I suspect this warning has come too late for many of my chers collègues.”