The Constant Gardener

With his wrestler's back still turned to Donohue, Curtiss had adopted what for him was a ruminative pose. He was wearing what he always wore in Africa: white shirt with double cuffs and gold ThreeBees links, navy blue trousers, lacquered shoes with cockscombs at the sides and a gold watch thin as a penny round his great hairy wrist. But it was the black crocodile belt that held Donohue's attention. With other fat men of his acquaintance, the belt ran low at the front and the gut hung over it. But with Curtiss the belt stayed dead level like a perfect line drawn across the center of an egg, giving him the appearance of an enormous Humpty-Dumpty. His mane of dyed black hair was swept back Slav-style from his wide forehead and duck's-arsed at the nape. He was smoking a cigar and frowning each time he drew on it. When the cigar bored him, he would leave it smoldering on whatever priceless piece of furniture came to hand. When he wanted it, he would accuse the staff of stealing it.

"You know what the bastard's up to now, I suppose," he demanded.

"Moi?"

"Quayle."

"I don't think I do. Should I?"

"Don't they tell you? Or don't they care?"

"Perhaps they don't know, Kenny. All I've been told is, he's taking up his wife's cause — whatever that was — that he's out of touch with his employers, and he's flying solo. We know his wife owned a place in Italy and there's a theory that's where he may have gone to earth."

"What about fucking Germany?" Curtiss interrupted.

"What about fucking Germany?" Donohue asked, mimicking a style of speech he detested.

"He was in Germany. Last week. Poking around a bunch of long-haired liberal do-gooders who've got their knives into KVH. If it hadn't been for me being soft, he'd be off the voters' list by now. But your boys back in London don't know that, do they? They're not bothered. They've got better things to do with their time. I'm talking to you, Donohue!"

Curtiss had swung round to face him. His huge upper body had dropped into a crouch, his crimson jaws were struck forward. He had one hand thrust into a pocket of his tent-like trousers. With the other he clutched the cigar, lighted end leading, affecting to hammer it like a red-hot tent peg into Donohue's head.

"I'm afraid you're ahead of me, Kenny," Donohue replied equably. "Is my Office tracking Quayle? you ask. I haven't an earthly. Are precious national secrets at risk? I doubt it. Is our valued source Sir Kenneth Curtiss in need of protection? We never promised to protect you commercially, Kenny. I don't think there's an institution in the world that would do that, if I may say so, financial or other. And survive."

"Fuck you!" Curtiss had flattened both vast hands on the great refectory table and was steering himself along it like a gorilla as he headed in Donohue's direction. But Donohue smiled his fanged smile and sat his ground. "I can bury your fucking Service singlehanded if I want, d'you know that?" Curtiss screamed.

"My dear chap, I never doubted it."

"I buy lunch for the boys who pay you your money. I give them binges on my fucking boat. Girls. Caviar. Bubbly. They get offices from me election time. Cars, cash, secretaries with good tits. I do business with companies that make ten times what your shop spends in a year. If I told them what I know, you'd be history. So fuck you, Donohue."

"You too, Curtiss, you too," Donohue murmured wearily, like a man who has heard it all before, which he had.

All the same, inside his operational skull he was wondering very hard what on earth these histrionics were leading up to. Curtiss had thrown tantrums before, God knows. Donohue could no longer count the times he had sat here waiting for a storm to blow over or — if the insults became too vile to ignore — staged a tactical retreat from the room until Kenny decided it was time to call him back and apologize, sometimes with the assistance of a crocodile tear or two. But tonight Donohue had the feeling of sitting in a booby-trapped house. He remembered the clinging look Doug Crick gave him at the gate, the extra deference in his "Oh good evening, Mr. Donohue, sir, I'll tell the chief immediately." He was listening with increasing unease to the deathly stillness each time Curtiss's manic outbursts echoed to nothing.

In the picture window two slow-marching Israelis in shorts passed by, leading rebellious guard dogs. Huge yellow fever trees dotted the lawn. Colobus monkeys skipped between them, driving the dogs crazy. The grass was lush and perfect, watered by the lake.

"Your mob's paying him!" Curtiss accused Donohue suddenly, striking out a hand and dropping his voice for effect. "Quayle's your man! Right? Acting on your orders so that you can screw me. Right?"

Donohue offered a knowing smile. "Dead right, Kenny," he said placatingly. "Completely wrongheaded and cuckoo but otherwise bang on the nail."