22

David Podmore, First Secretary (Aid) at the British High Commission, was longing for a smoke. What was the point of having your own office if you could not have the odd fag? His unlit cigarette dangled from his lips, placed there in the hope that someone would put their head round the door, spot it, and say in the priggish tone of the converted: “By the way, no smoking, old boy.”

But nobody had, and his act of petty rebellion went unnoticed.

His telephone rang.

“Podmore,” said Podmore.

There was a pause at the other end of the line.

“Podsman?”

How long had he been in Kuwisha? Three years . . . and the bugger still could not get his bloody name right.

“Dave Podmore here,” he said, pretending he had not recognised the gravel voice of the president’s press secretary. He lingered over his surname, stressing the last syllable.

“Ah, Podsman, my brother!”

The genial greeting immediately alerted the British diplomat, who halfway through his tour realised that tone and substance were seldom related when President Nduka’s press secretary was doing business.

In a couple of sentences Punabantu passed on the unwelcome news. Podmore’s face fell.

“Really? You’re not, are you?”

He nevertheless tried to match Punabantu’s jovial note.

“Letting him out! You’re getting soft, you lot!”

Puna laughed.

“Goodbye, Podsman.”

“Podmore,” said Podmore, but Punabantu had rung off.

“Damn and blast.”

He had to move fast.

The arrest of a British hack was an irritation; but the release of a British hack could prove far more problematic for the High Commission. Both events could do much damage, and neither was desirable.

Only that week, there had been good news: a UK company had been awarded the main contract for the Kireba project, and the last thing needed was anything that encouraged outside interest in a country that was renowned for corruption and a tender process that was less than transparent.

“Bugger!” said Podmore.

Fortunately, he had enjoyed a spell in the notorious Foreign Office news department in London, where British diplomats were sent to learn the art of dissembling. While there, one principle had been drummed into him.

In any crisis ask yourself, or better, ask somebody senior enough to carry the can if all went pear-shaped, the question: what are the interests of HMG? And the next step was to get your retaliation in first.

Podmore moved quickly. It was time to lay a few false trails.

He picked up the phone and dialled an agency bureau chief.

“You heard that Pearson has been released? Jolly good news . . . not that we expect any thanks . . . just doing our job . . . half the commission been working on his case. By the way, a word to the wise,” said Podmore. “Stay clean on the forex front. We’re told there’s a crackdown. If you get caught, not a thing we can do to help. Not a sausage. Even though the ngwee is over-valued. Got to manage somehow. All we can do is to arrange consular access, that’s all . . . anything to do with Pearson’s arrest? What? . . . Absolutely not. No idea . . . though I had heard . . . on the record? . . . no comment. Off the record . . . well, you know how the system works, as well as I do. Suggest you ask Pearson.”

Podmore put the phone down.

That should do the trick.