a totally unreal face heavy with make-up, resembling no photo that I had ever seen. But how could he hope to, thirty years on? A big, big difference between forty-five and seventy-five.
When the bell jangled, I almost jumped out of my skin and then realized it had sounded from outside. Hugo said, ‘You will excuse me, señor. There is someone at the door.’
He shuffled off, leaving me there beside Bauer’s coffin. If there had been rings, they’d taken them off, and the powerful fingers were intertwined on his chest, the string between them. They’d dressed him in a neat blue suit, white collar, dark tie. It really was rather remarkable.
I became aware of the voices outside in the corridor, one unmistakably American. ‘You speak English? No?’
Then the same voice continuing in bad Spanish, ‘I must see the body of the man Bauer. I’ve come a long way and my time is limited.’
Hugo tried to protest. ‘Señor – it is late,’ but he was obviously brushed aside.
‘Where is the body? In here?’
For some reason, some sixth sense operating if you like, I moved back into the darkness of the corner. A moment later I was glad that I had.
He stepped into the room and paused, white hair gleaming in the lamplight, rain glistening on his military raincoat, shoulders firm, the figure still militarily erect, only the whiteness of the hair and the clipped moustache hinting at his seventy-five years.
I don’t think I’ve ever been so totally astonished, for I was looking at a legend in his own time, General Hamilton Canning, Congressional Medal of Honour, DSC, Silver Star, Médaille Militaire, the Philippines, D-Day, Korea, even Vietnam in the early days. A piece of walking history, one of the most respected of living Americans.
He had a harsh distinctive voice, not unpleasant, but it carried with it the authority of a man who’d been used to getting his own way for most of his life.
‘Which one?’
Hugo limped past him, lamp held high, and I crouched back in the corner. ‘Here, señor.’
Canning’s face seemed calm enough, but it was in the eyes that I saw the turbulence, a blazing intensity, but also a kind of hope as he stood at the end of the coffin and looked down at the waxen face. And then hope died, the light went out in the eyes – something. The shoulders sagged and for the first time he looked his age.
He turned wearily and nodded to Hugo. ‘I won’t trouble you any further.’
‘This was not the person you were seeking, señor?’
Canning shook his head. ‘No, my friend, I don’t think so. Good night to you.’
He seemed to take a deep breath, all the old vigour returning, and strode from the room. I came out of the shadows quickly.
‘Señor.’ Hugo started to speak.
I motioned him to silence and moved to the entrance.
As Canning opened the door, I saw the cab from the airstrip outside, the driver waiting in the rain.
The general said, ‘You can take me to the hotel now,’ and closed the door behind him.
Hugo tugged at my sleeve. ‘Señor, what passes here?’
‘Exactly what I was wondering, Hugo,’ I said softly, and I went along the passage quickly and let myself out.
The cab was parked outside the hotel. As I approached, a man in a leather flying jacket and peaked cap hurried down the steps and got in. The cab drove away through the rain. I watched it go for a moment, unable to see if Canning was inside.
Rafael wasn’t behind the desk, but as I paused, shaking the rain from my coat, a door on my left opened and he emerged.
He smiled. ‘Were you successful, señor?’
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Did I see the cab driving away just now?’
‘Ah, yes, that was the pilot of Mr Smith, an American gentleman who has just booked in. He was on his way to La Paz in his private aeroplane, but they had to put down here because of the weather.’
‘I see. Mr Smith, you say?’
‘That is correct, señor. I’ve just given him a drink in the bar. Could I perhaps get you something?’
‘Well, now,’ I said. ‘A large brandy might be a sensible idea, considering the state I’m in.’
I followed him, unbuttoning my trench-coat. It was a pleasant enough room, rough stone walls, a well-stocked bar at one side. Canning was seated in an armchair in front of a blazing log fire, a glass in one hand. He looked up sharply.
‘Company, señor,’ Rafael said cheerfully. ‘A fellow guest. Señor O’Hagan – Señor Smith. I’ll just get your brandy now,’ he added and moved away.
‘Not a night for even an old tomcat to be out,’ I said, throwing my coat over a chair. ‘As my old grannie used to say.’
He smiled up at me, the famous Canning charm well in evidence, and stuck out his hand. ‘English, Mr O’Hagan?’
‘By way of Ulster,’ I said. ‘But we won’t go into that, General.’
The smile stayed firmly in place, only the eyes changed, cold, hard, and the hand tightened on mine with a grip of surprising strength considering his age.
It was Rafael who broke the spell, arriving with my brandy on a tray. ‘Can I get you another one, señor?’ he asked.
Canning smiled, all charm again. ‘Later, my friend. Later.’
‘Señores.’
Rafael departed. Canning leaned back, watching me, then swallowed a little Scotch. He didn’t waste time trying to tell me how mistaken I was, but said simply, ‘We’ve met before, presumably?’
‘About fifteen minutes ago up the street at the mortuary,’ I said. ‘I was standing in the shadows, I should explain, so I had you at something of a disadvantage. Oh, I’ve seen you before at press conferences over the years, that sort of thing, but then one couldn’t really specialize in writing about politics and military affairs without knowing Hamilton Canning.’
‘O’Hagan,’ he said. ‘The one who writes for The Times?’
‘I’m afraid so, General.’
‘You’ve a good mind, son, but remind me to put you straight on China. You’ve been way out of line in that area lately.’
‘You’re the expert.’ I took out a cigarette. ‘What about Bauer, General?’
‘What about him?’ He leaned back, legs sprawled, all negligent ease.
I laughed. ‘All right, let’s try it another way. You ask me why a reasonably well-known correspondent for the London Times takes the trouble to haul himself all the way from Lima to a pesthole like this,
