it happened. It was only when I was half-way through the course, and up to my neck in water on the ladder of the diving tank, that I confessed that I could not swim. They were shocked and apprehensive on my behalf but as I said: ‘What is the point of wearing all this scuba gear if you can manage without it?’ The chief instructor gave a grim smile and nodded me down into the water. Those were the days when you didn’t have to wonder why health and safety allowed the war to be won!
Len Deighton, 2009
1 Parley
2 Nostrum
3 Air
4 Me
5 Pistol
6 Gib
7 Brief
8 Road
9 Gun
10 U
11 Aid
12 Frog
13 Read
14 Sim
15 Um
16 Bills
17 Lore
18 Fado
19 Die
20 Foe
21 Sin
22 Sex
23 Boat
24 Yarn
25 Yes
26 Ball
27 All
28 Tip
29 Pray
30 Entreaty
31 Aid
32 Old
33 Nods
34 Rude
35 Guard
36 Black
37 Reread
38 Gas
39 D.D.
40 A.I.T.C.
41 Film
42 Reason
43 Sex
44 UNO
45 Deep
46 Life
47 Forgo
48 Sings
49 Echo
50 File
51 Shoes
52 Set
53 Baix
54 Yo
55 Jam
56 Beep
57 Ail
58 Tack
Marrakech: Tuesday
Marrakech is just what the guide-books say it is. Marrakech is an ancient walled city surrounded with olive groves and palm trees. Behind it rise the mountains of the high Atlas and in the city the market place at Djemaa-el-Fna is alive with jugglers, dancers, magicians, story-tellers, snake-charmers and music. Marrakech is a fairy-tale city, but on this trip I didn’t get to see much more of it than a fly-blown hotel room and the immobile faces of three Portuguese politicians.
My hotel was in the old city; the Medina. The rooms were finished in brown and cream paint and the wall decorations were notices telling me not to do various things in French. From the next room came the sound of water dripping into the stained bath tub and the call of an indefatigable cricket, while through the broken fly-screens in the window came the musical sound of an Arab city selling its wares.
I removed my tie and put it over the back of my chair. My shirt hung suddenly cold against the small of my back and I felt a dribble of sweat run gently down the side of my nose, hesitate and drop on to ‘Sheet 128: Transfer of sterling assets of Government of Portugal held in United Kingdom, Mandates or Dependencies to successor Government’.
We sipped oversweet mint tea, munched almond, honeysticky cakes, and I took comfort in the idea of being back in London inside twenty-four hours. This may be a millionaire’s playground, but no self-respecting millionaire would be seen dead here in the summer. It was ten past four in the afternoon. The whole town was buzzing with flies and conversation; cafés, restaurants and brothels had standing room only; the pickpockets were working to rota.
‘Very well,’ I said, ‘availability of thirty per cent of your sterling assets as soon as the British Ambassador in Lisbon is satisfied that you have a working control within the capital.’ They agreed to that. They weren’t delirious with joy but they agreed to that. They were hard bargainers, these revolutionaries.
London: Thursday
The W.O.O.C.(P) owned a small piece of grimy real estate on the unwashed side of Charlotte Street. My office had an outlook like a Cruikshank illustration to David Copperfield, and subsidence provided an isosceles triangle under the door that made internal telephones unnecessary.
Dawlish was my chief. When I gave him the report on my negotiations in Marrakech he laid it on his desk like the foundation stone of the National Theatre and said, ‘Foreign Office are going to introduce a couple of new ideas for tackling the talks with the Portuguese revolutionary party.’
‘For us to tackle them,’ I corrected.
‘Top marks, my boy,’ said Dawlish, ‘you cottoned on to that aspect of their little scheme.’
‘I’m covered in the scar tissue of O’Brien’s good ideas.’
‘Well, this one is better than most,’ said Dawlish.
Dawlish was a tall, grey-haired civil servant with eyes like the far end of a long tunnel. Dawlish always tended to placate other departments when they asked us to do something difficult or stupid. I saw each job in terms of the people who would have to do the dirty work. That’s the way I saw this job, but Dawlish was my master.
On the small, antique writing-desk that Dawlish had brought with him when he took over the department – W.O.O.C.(P) – was a bundle of papers tied with the pink ribbon of officialdom. He riffled quickly through them. ‘This Portuguese revolutionary movement …’ Dawlish began; he paused.
‘Vós não vedes,’
‘Yes, V.N.V. – that’s “they do not see”, isn’t it?’
‘“Vós” is the same as “vous” in French,’ I said; ‘it’s “you do not see”.’
‘Quite so,’ said Dawlish, ‘well this V.N.V. want the F.O. to put up quite a lump sum of money in advance.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that’s the trouble with easy payment plans.’
Dawlish said, ‘Suppose we could do it for nothing.’ I didn’t answer. He went on, ‘Off the coast of Portugal there is a boat full of money. It’s money that the Nazis counterfeited