* * *
The British embassy in Lagos stood out as the typical colonial building of the Africas, resplendent and austere, an indubitable legacy from the golden years of the Empire. Its tall, thin windows shone with the brightness of the noon sun when Ethan walked through the front gate saluting the guard on duty only perfunctorily. He ran straight up the stairs to the second floor, simply ignoring any and all who tried to be of assistance. The door of the Director of Cultural Affairs office lay ajar. Ethan knocked briskly nevertheless and entered without waiting for an answer.
Once inside, he saw a man in his late fifties, short and miniscule. The man wore a thick mustache, had an almost completely bald scalp and a pair of old-fashioned ebony-rimmed glasses. The label on his desk read `Isidor Bloom - Director of Cultural Affairs’. He looked up from his seemingly casual reading material and immediately popped a smile. Even though they had only occassionally met at a couple of embassy dinners, he offered his hand in a lively, warm way and said:
“How do you do? Jolly good I hope, old friend. Please, do have a seat. Now, what was it that you wanted to speak to me about? I believe on the phone you said it was an urgent personal matter that somehow involved my desk. Would you care to elaborate? I can only be of real help if I know what we’re dealing with here, dear fellow. In the strictest of confidence, of course.”
Ethan shook the hand but still felt somehow a little out of depth, his inherent distrust of spies kicking in despite the man’s cordial manner. Unaccustomed to protocol and etiquette, Ethan dived straight into the matter and said bluntly:
“Mr. Bloom, I need a cover.”
Isidor Bloom blinked once or twice with an unwavering, somewhat unnatural smile, and seemingly quite baffled, replied:
“I beg your pardon, what kind of cover are you talking about Mr. Whittmore?”
Before Ethan had time to elaborate, Mr. Bloom had furrowed his brow, waving a `no-no’ finger at Ethan. He got up from his chair and leisurely closed the door of his office. Ethan could only frown with genuine puzzlement while Mr. Bloom sat down again comfortably, lit his smoking pipe and had a puff. He then asked Ethan while looking him directly in the eye, his gaze strangely unnerving:
“Do you ask for a cunt when walking into a brothel, Mr. Whittmore? In such delicate matters, a little more room for maneuver is usually required. You’d ask for a girl or a woman, perhaps even some company. Not for a cunt, which what brothels have on offer. Are you following me, son?”
Ethan looked ever more perplexed, especially by the sudden change of mood in the middle-aged man. He understood he had been too blunt, but while trying to think what to say next and especially how to apologise, the public servant leaned closer to Ethan before continuing:
“Listen, old chap; everybody knows what we’re doing here and everyone, including us, knows we’re just doing pottery and traditional art exhibitions. On Thursdays there’s a bagpipe night, though. Savvy?”
Ethan nodded numbly despite not actually understanding all too well what the man was trying to get at. Mr. Bloom saw the confusion written on Ethan’s face and after sighing slightly, continued:
“Right. Well then, let’s make things easier for you, and expediate the process. Is there someone I can call on your behalf? Someone who can help me, help you?”
At that, Ethan replied automatically, as if he had been waiting for that question for some time:
“Yes, sir. That would be Ian Ruthers, a personal friend.”
As suddenly as before, Mr. Bloom’s attitude switched back to his jovial, well-mannered and quite expedient self. Wearing an almost disconcertingly wide grin on his face, he picked up the phone on his desk, dialed a single number, and said:
“Hello? Jenny? Put me through to Bristol. Yes, yes, definitely.”
A small wait ensued, which was reason enough for Ethan to start sweating even though the temperature inside the room was quite pleasant. Mr. Bloom kept smiling and nodding in a reassuring fashion, which only accentuated the weird stressful feeling of anxiety that had overcome Ethan. Mr. Bloom was then heard talking over the phone:
“Hello? Leonard? Yes, it’s me Isidor. Long time no see, but it’s business again I’m afraid. Is Ruthers one of yours? I see. Is he hot right now? No? Ah, splendid. Could you tell him to give me a call please? Yes, my office. Well, right about now would be indeed a perfect time. I’d like to get on with this before lunch. Yes, well she’s fine, working on her garden and all that. How’s Marie? Loved her cherry pie last Christmas, marvellous stuff really. Would love to, old chap. Have your man call me, alright then? Goodbye Leonard, don’t forget to give my regards. Goodbye.”
Once he hang up the phone, Mr. Bloom surprised Ethan once again with his choice of words:
“Fucking cunt can sod off. Now, let’s clear up a few things: This friend of yours, Ruthers, can sod off as well. If he’s going to push something for me down my pipe, that’s fine and all. I don’t give fuckall about the why or how. Do you understand that? I’m going home to Cheltenham before Christmas, and this desk can rot on my piss. And just so that you know, the cock around here tastes awful so brush often and have a care with that mouth of yours.”
Mr. Bloom put out his pipe, placed it in his shirt pocket, picked up his hat and strolled out of his office, careful to smoothly close the door behind him.
Ethan stood frozen in his chair, unable to fathom what exactly had transpired. The only certainty was that Mr. Bloom had probably been for too long in the service. Ethan’s thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing. Ethan picked up the receiver reluctantly:
“Hello? Ian? It’s Ethan Whittmore. Well, what can I say? Didn’t expect to hear me on this end, did you? What am I doing here? Well, first of all… Yes, I know I’m terrible. No, it wasn’t… I know I shouldn’t be even talking to you like this but I need some help, Ian. No! I’m not married. Can you be serious for a minute? How you’re working for Six I’ll never understand. Well, now that I saw the guy in the Nigerian desk perhaps I do understand. Listen. Just listen. I need some cover. It’s Andy, my brother. I need to go into Biafra. No joke. There will be no widow to comfort, so stop being a cunt and help me over here. Right, then. A piece of paper? I’m on it.”