CHAPTER 21

APRIL





         Calle San Jose was on the northern side of Santiago, a narrow street off the Avenida Alambra. It ran between dark buildings with blank barred windows. Two hundred yards along on the right a wide arch with gates and a small hut for the porter or `portero', gave onto a small courtyard. There was no portero there as he passed through the gate. Arches surrounded the courtyard to form a piazza. Under the arches lighted windows in the dusk suggested occupation.
         He walked towards the nearest window on soft feet for there was stillness about the place which compelled quietness. The murmur of voices from the direction of the windows seemed to enhance the effect. He looked in and saw a classroom with steeply banked benches and a table and a blackboard on an easel. Naked light bulbs hung from the ceiling. He could see the elbow of someone writing at a table against the window wall. The elbow of a man.
         He walked on to the next window. Another classroom like the other but this had a group of people crowded round the lecturer's table to watch a demonstration.
         ‘Que desea?’ (Can I help you?)
         Allan swung round. The man had a uniform. Probably the portero returning to his post. He stammered out his prepared query.
         ‘Excusa. Senorita McKechnie por favor?’
         The porter beckoned, led him to the far corner of the courtyard and pointed through a door.
         ‘Muchas gracias.’
         The hallway had a flagstone floor and had a musty smell. It led to another smaller courtyard and on the far side was another lighted window. Inside a slim young woman was writing on the blackboard with her back towards him. There were about six other people in the room, taking notes as the young woman spoke and as she turned Allan discovered that he could read what she had written. He was watching a lesson on elementary English. She was slim with sandy hair and a sad smile.
         He retreated to the hallway and sat on a wooden bench, hands deep in his pockets, wondering what kind of reception he would get from Liz McKechnie. She would probably tell him to get lost.


*      *      *      *      *

         An hour later the door was opened and people were coming out. Happy high pitched voices talking rapidly in Spanish and laughter. He heard ‘Buenos Noches’ several times as he moved towards the door. She had her back to him, leaning over the table, standing, writing something in a ledger, gathering up her books.
         ‘Senorita McKechnie.’
         She swung round quickly, startled and apprehensive.
         ‘My name's Allan Fraser. I would be very grateful if you would spare me a few minutes to talk.’
         ‘What about?’ She had a husky voice and an accent that came from down-under. There were freckles across her brow and the bridge of her nose.
         ‘I would like to talk to you about Peter Elkon.’
         ‘No.’ She held up a hand as if she was a policeman holding up traffic. It was a sudden defensive gesture, warding off a painful blow. Then she turned to her books. Her head tilted down, concentrating on the books as though she willing him to disappear before she looked up again.
         ‘I know that it is a painful subject for you but it is important and I would like to explain why.’
         She had the books in her arms, clutched defensively up against the front of her tweed jacket. She looked at him with hurt in her eyes, blinking. Tears were not far away. He kept talking.
         ‘Perhaps I can buy you a coffee somewhere nearby so that I can explain why I am raking up these things again.’
         She didn't say anything. She put her books into a bag with long handles, walked past him to the door and then ... she turned and waited. A slight incline of her head invited him to lead the way.


*      *      *      *      *

         The `Eldorado' was on the next street. It had two rows of tables with red table cloths and bent wood chairs on either side of a central passageway. They chose the seat furthest from the door and sat down. Allan had his back to the doorway.
         Liz McKechnie looked at the menu with eyes that did not see, and let out a long sigh. She put the menu down.
         ‘I don't know. Whatever you're having.’
         So he ordered two ham omelettes with green salad because it was almost the only thing he knew how to order in Spanish. She didn't want wine so he ordered two glasses of Canada Dry.
         ‘Well?’ She was looking at him defiantly.
         He said, ‘I work for MCI at Ocean Springs....’ He saw her eyes shut slowly in resignation and then open again. She pulled off her Paisley scarf and stowed it in the bag with her books. ‘...I was transferred here from Scotland a few months ago. I worked for MCI in Scotland too. When I got to Ocean Springs the guys there told me about Peter. They said he had committed suicide....’
         The girl shrank visibly and a tear formed in each eye but Allan pressed on.
         ‘....They also told me about you. They said that you didn't believe it was suicide. They said you'd created quite a fuss ....’
         He watched as a tear brimmed over and ran down her cheek.
         ‘ ... I wanted you to know that I don't believe it was suicide either....’
         She was digging in her bag, urgently, as though it was the most important thing in the world.
         ‘ .... No-one at MCI knows I am here and I would very much like it to stay that way .... They told me that you were Peter's girl friend.’
         She found a bit of kleenex and dabbed her cheek. Then she looked up at him and blinked. Her throat was working hard and her eyes were brimming again. She closed them and sighed.
         They sat like that for a while, not saying anything, until the waiter arrived with the omelettes. She made the effort towards normality and the waiter mixed the dressing for them as she directed - so much vinegar - so much oil - so much seasoning. When he had gone she blew her nose on another kleenex and blinked at Allan.
         ‘What difference can it make now?’
         He ate thoughtfully, and then put the fork down.
         ‘There is something going on at MCI which is not right.’
         ‘Are you CIA or MI5 or something?’
         ‘No, nothing like that. I'm just a person.’
         ‘Then why are you involved. Shouldn't you leave it to the authorities?’
         ‘The authorities aren't kosher either.’
         ‘But why you?’
         ‘If not me then who?’
         It was a good omelette and the salad was crisp.
         ‘Another Canada?’
         She shook her head.
         ‘Coffee?’
         She nodded.
         When the coffee came she poured cream thickly on to the surface.
         ‘That's what Peter said.’
         ‘What?’
         ‘Just what you said. `If not me then who?'’
         ‘Why did he say that?’
         ‘Because I wanted him to stop. I said it was dangerous. I said someone else should do it.’
         ‘Do what?’
         ‘What he was doing. He didn't tell me the whole thing. But he kept saying that they were doing something terrible at MCI and he had to stop it.’
         ‘He didn't say what?’
         She shook her head. ‘I said he should leave the company but he just kept saying that he had to wait. He said he had to wait until `the Labyrinth came' - does that make any sense to you?’
         ‘It does a bit. Did he say anything else?’
         ‘He said that the 'something thousand' was just a dress rehearsal. He said that the labyrinth was the real thing. That's all I know. He never explained it to me.’
         ‘Could that have been the `sixty-five thousand'?’
         ‘Yes. yes I think it was.’
         Allan sat back in his chair and took a long breath.
         ‘He didn't ever say what the `real thing' was?’
         She shook her head slowly. ‘I hope this is some help to you. I don't know why I'm telling you. I suppose it's because you said the same thing as he said.’
         Her elbows were on the table on either side of her coffee cup. She lowered her head into the palms of her hands. Tears dripped into her coffee.
         He wanted to say something which would comfort. ‘A friend of mine in Scotland was killed and that was called suicide too. I just want to do something about it.’
         She looked up. ‘How did he die?’
         Allan hesitated, but she wanted to know. She was looking at him very directly.
         ‘He is supposed to have laid his head on a railway line.’
         Liz said, ‘Peter is supposed to have jumped ... from the tenth floor of the Gracewell Building. That's in Ocean Springs. Do you know it?’



*      *      *      *      *

         Santiago is a city patterned like a grid. They walked together, he with her carrier bag, turning left then right repeatedly as they threaded diagonally through the lattice of narrow streets. Her flat was near the river - the Rio Mapocho - which ran as a torrent through the city between stone walls. She told him about Peter Elkon, his parents in Minnesota, his boyish enthusiasm, his love of Chile. They had both loved it, until Peter's death.
         She said it was so varied. It runs from arid desert in the North to the Polar glaciers in the South and it is never more than a few miles wide between the mountains and the ocean. But now she wanted to move on. She taught English for the British Council and she thought that they could fix her up in another country if she played it right by them. She was from Auckland and had come to Chile as part of her grand round the world trip. That had been three years before. But she had met Peter Elkon and somehow the world trip dream had been replaced by Peter and his world. She hated MCI.
         ‘Did he leave any papers, a diary or anything?’
         ‘His parents flew down from the States. They took his things back with them. I've only got his letters and a few other things. No papers.’
         They turned into Calle Rossanne. On the left were narrow terraced houses with old Spanish style frontages and on the left curved railing were overhung by big dark trees. From somewhere beyond the railings and the trees came the noise of rushing water, deep in a culvert perhaps.
         ‘What a nice place. You're very close to the city centre but it's very quiet and secluded.’
         ‘I used to like it. But not now.’ her voice was tired. ‘Not since I got burgled. They didn't take anything. They just broke things and threw my clothes about. I had to get new underwear. I felt unclean.’
         ‘When was that?’
         ‘Two days after Peter was died. I was in shock and that was the last straw.’
         Allan stopped.
         ‘I don't think I should come to the door of your flat. I'll stand here and watch you till you get in safely.’
         ‘What's the matter? Do you think the burglary had something to do with Peter's death.’
         ‘It's a possibility. I don't think it would be wise for me to be seen at the door of your flat.’
         She was alarmed and he was sorry about that but he saw no way of avoiding it.
         ‘Look Liz,’ he said, ‘If you want to get in touch with me ... you might remember something we haven't talked about tonight or .. or anything. If you want to get in touch ring this number ...’ He scribbled in his diary and tore out the page. ‘ ... and leave a message. It's a hotel in Copiapo where I go sometimes. The Hotel San Miguel. They'll keep a message for me. Don't try to contact me at Ocean Springs and don't ...’ He turned to face her and tried to put an imperative into his eyes. ‘... Don't use your own phone when you ring.’
         Her mouth was open and her face white.
         ‘This is not funny,’ she said. ‘Did you come here just to scare me?’
         ‘No. Honest Liz. If I had realised the situation I wouldn't have come at all.` I'm grateful for the information but I shouldn't have come. I realise that now. I didn't realise that you were already known to them.’
         ‘Whose them?’
         ‘I don't know but they kill people and it is best not to give them an inkling that you know anything about them. I probably won't see you again Liz. I wish you all the best and I hope you get to Mexico or wherever as you planned. I suggest you make it soon too. But if you do need help, send me a message to that number and I'll come.’
         ‘Are you going back to Ocean Springs now?’
         ‘No. I'm staying at the Hotel Madrid tonight. Then I might go up into the mountains for a couple of days walking. I fly back on Tuesday.’
         He stood in the shadows and watched as she walked down the street to the house where she lived. She stopped at the door and looked up at the house and then back at him before she went in. He heard the door bang shut.




*      *      *      *      *

         He stretched out a hand and was shocked when it banged against a hard smooth surface not far from his face. He groped across its surface seeking an edge, a way out. The was a bell ringing loudly close to his head. He was climbing with difficulty out of a deep black well towards consciousness. And then he remembered where he was. The hotel bedroom was the other way round. He rolled over away from the wall, reached for the bedside light and then for the telephone.
         ‘You bastard!’ said a husky female voice. ‘If you were trying to scare me you did a bloody good job of it.’
         His watch was on the table by the phone. It was 2.05 am.
         ‘I'm sorry I ...’ It was moment before he recognised the voice. ‘Oh! Is that Liz McKechnie?’
         ‘It bloody well is. And I'm scared.’
         ‘Where are you Liz? Where are you calling from.’
         ‘I'm calling from the reception desk of your bloody hotel!’
         He sat upright. ‘... but ...’
         She was shouting and close to tears. ‘I got a taxi here because you got me into this and you can bloody well get me out of it!’
         He pulled on trousers and pullover over his pyjamas and slipped bare feet into his shoes. She was standing by the enquiry desk in a rain coat and with the Paisley scarf over her hair. Her head was bowed and she had her hands behind her holding on to the edge of the desk. Long sandy coloured ringlets poked out from under the scarf and dangled down her back.
         ‘Liz!’ He took her arm and led her over to the darkened lounge but the glass doors were locked. The porter at the desk said something in Spanish and waved his arms about. The gesture said 'you can't do that!' So he led her towards the lift. Again the porter was sending urgent tick-tack signals. Allan dug into a pocket and found some notes. He threw them on to the desk and the porter picket them up smiling, and waved them towards the lift.
         ‘Was that money you gave the porter?’
         ‘Yes.’
         They were in Allan's room and she was sitting on the bed.
         ‘Why? What did he think ... you mean he thought ...?’
         ‘Yes, I guess that is what he thought.’
         She shut her eyes and said in a flat voice, ‘I've blotted your escutcheon.’ She seemed to be amused - or was it just the last straw?
         ‘My escutcheon can look after itself. What's the matter Liz? What's happened?’
         ‘I've been burgled again.’
         ‘What! When?’
         ‘Tonight. I woke up and decided to make myself a cup of hot chocolate and my sitting room window was wide open and my books and things scattered all over the floor.’
         ‘What did you do?’
         ‘I panicked. I called a taxi and headed here.’
         ‘Was anything missing? What did they disturb?’
         ‘I'm not sure. I don't think anything was taken. I didn't look. I just ran.’
         ‘Did you close the window?’
         ‘Yes. No. I don't know.’
         He was thinking rapidly. Funny how his mind speeded up when the adrenalin was flowing.
         ‘Listen Liz. This is very important. We're going back to your flat together ...’
         She was alarmed, shaking her head but he pressed on.
         ‘ ... to make sure everything is closed up again and to check on what has been taken. But you must remember when we get there not to talk about Peter. We must have some other reason why I sought you out and we should talk about that.’
         Puzzlement mixed with the fear in her face.
         ‘You said you came from Auckland Liz. Well I have relatives in Auckland. My uncle emigrated to New Zealand sixty years ago. He's dead now but he had sons and one of them sends a calendar every year to my uncle in Glasgow. I've got his address somewhere.’
         He began to ransack his hold-all and eventually found an small green address book. She shook her head not so much as in a denial, rather to shake away these events and make them not happen.
         ‘Here it is. 125 Wattanna Avenue, Auckland. Can you remember that? Do you know where Wattanna Avenue is? Good. Think yourself into the story. You have met my cousin, maybe you dated him for a while.’ He was squatting before her, holding on to her elbows, trying to make her pay attention. ‘Listen Liz. He's got red hair, or reddish, a bit like yours. I've never met him but I've seen photographs. A big guy. His name is Lachlan MacQuarrie. Got that? Lachlan McQuarrie.’
         She said ‘Lachlan McQuarrie,’ and nodded without lifting her head.
         He dressed properly and they got another taxi round to her flat. It was small but attractive with lots of dark carved wood and tiny rooms but the sitting room was a shambles. The window catch had been forced and Liz, in her panic, had left it wide open. Allan searched around and found a coal hammer and some rusty nails and drove the nails in to fix it shut.
         ‘That's it. If you get a proper catch tomorrow I'll fix it for you but that'll do it for tonight.’
         ‘I can't stay here now!’ Her voice carried portents of hysteria.
         ‘You must have friends in Santiago.’
         She shook her head. He paced about hands deep in his pockets while she made hot chocolate for them both.
         ‘It'll be light in an hour.’
         ‘I can't stay here!’ She stamped her foot and spilled the milk as she poured it. He did the pouring for her. They sat on the sofa together and drank the chocolate. He got hungry and made bacon and egg for himself. She had toast. He began talking about Lachlan McQuarrie. The need to pretend seemed to calm her and she went along with the subterfuge, acting the part of Lachlan's ex-girl friend quite well. The shapes of the trees across the road were becoming visible. The sky was signaling a pink dawn. There was some noise of traffic. A church bell rang.
         ‘You must look to see what, if anything, has been stolen.’
         She shook her head again.
         ‘I feel unclean and nothing is safe.’
         In the end he got her to look and they established that some money had been taken from a drawer, a radio and a small silver bell. She had no jewellery. The thieves had just gone for small easily carried valuables. The bookcase and private paper were untouched.
         Allan examined the phone carefully. Judging from the rest of the room Liz had not dusted the place for a day or two but the telephone was spotless and the table top where it sat had no dust either.
         ‘Well not much damage really. I'd say you had got off fairly lightly.’
         ‘I still can't stay here!’
         ‘I could take you back to my hotel and we could book you a room. But that can only be for the weekend. I'll be away on Tuesday and then what?’
         ‘That's better than nothing,’ she said. ‘It'll give me a chance to think of something.’
         So that is what they did. She came back with him to his hotel and they slept fitfully, she on the bed and he in an armchair until well into the morning. After coffee she signed in and he paid for an extra room. They had lunch at a terrace cafe overlooking the river. Then she gave him a conducted tour of the city.
         The most imposing street, a wide tree-lined avenue leading to the presidential palace was called the 'Avenida de Bernardo O'Higgins' which he thought was hilarious. She explained that O'Higgins had been a national hero but the juxtaposition of ornate and exotic Spanish with the prosaic and homely Irish name still seemed incongruous.
         He stopped at a shop window with gourds and bombilla and she told him what they were. He bought a couple of the yerba matte tea sets for Rosa and Jean. He would have liked to buy sombreros for his other friends but he couldn't think how to parcel them for the post, so he settled for postcards, mountains for Hamish and Ian and a fat cowboy on a mule for Jack.
         Liz was returning to normal. She made things easy for him and not just because she spoke Spanish fluently. She walked easily at his side and enjoyed the same things.
         ‘What is all this racket?’ he asked. He took her arm and guided her to a table outside a cafe. ‘The same thing is going on at Copiapo. Loud speakers in every tree.’
         ‘That's the election. You're listening to party politicals.’ She put her bag on the seat beside her and shook her hair free.
         ‘Oh! When does it happen?’
         ‘In about six months.’
         ‘Jesus! You mean they have to put up with this for six months?’
         She nodded smiling. ‘It's been going for six months already. They take their politics seriously here. But I don't know why they bother. Everyone knows that if they don't like the result the army would step in.’
         ‘Oh? I thought Chile had gone all democratic again.’
         She shrugged her shoulders and pouted. With her right hand she made like a wobbling plate, palm down.
         ‘Maybe. They're getting all modernised. That's a joke really. The people need housing and the children need schools and the old folk need better pensions, but the government is lashing out and buying American computers to run the elections.’
         And that is when it hit him. It seemed so obvious he wondered why he hadn't seen it before. Halpern had told him that the company were installing computers to run elections in many countries. Hamish was right. It wasn't money they were after. It was power.
         ‘What's the matter Allan?’
         ‘Oh Nothing. I just remembered something. Something back home.’
         Liz ordered lemon tea and chocolate cakes for them. ‘Have you been abroad before Allan?’
         ‘Sure! I once went to Carlisle for the afternoon.’
         She didn't know where Carlisle was so the joke fell flat. She had a nice smile with small even teeth. He bought a map of the mountains nearby. Ski-tows were marked in red which was appropriate. These were the places to be avoided. By six o'clock Liz was back on a level keel.
         ‘I'm sorry. I just panicked.’
         ‘It's understandable. I could kick myself for frightening you the way I did.’
         ‘I've ruined your trip. You were going to go walking in the mountains you said.’
         ‘I can do that any time. In any case there's still time. I got a guide book and it says there is a military railway which goes up behind the city into the high valleys.’
         ‘Yes. They say its lovely. I've never been.’
         ‘Would you like to come with me?’
         She pressed her lips together making a big chin, trying to suppress a smile. Allan thought it was a pity to suppress it. She shook her head, blushing slightly.
         ‘I'm not making a pass at you. It's a straight forward suggestion. No ulterior motive. Honest,’ he said and then after a pause. ‘Sorry. I don't believe me either.’
         After a moment he said, ‘But now that we have established some kind of alibi for meeting - hey - I'll bet cousin Lachlan never suspected he would be used like that - well anyway - it would seem strange if we did not meet up from time to time now that we ... know each other ... a bit. We could even call one another directly on the phone if we do not talk about Peter.’
         She was putting her handbag into her carry-all, putting her scarf.
         ‘I'd better be going,’ she said. ‘Thanks for your help about the window.’
         ‘Liz. Can I see you again?’
         She straightened up and looked at him.
         ‘Yes. Ok. But I'm going to leave the country soon. This has put the lid on it for me.’
         He watched her walk gracefully down the steps of the terraced cafe where they had eaten and raise an arm to catch a taxi. She looked back before she climbed into the cab and gave a brief wave and then she was gone.