THE SPANISH WAITER: FOURTEEN

Misunderstandings and misinterpretations

DINNER TIME

The Governor was in an irritable mood.

He’d been obliged to spend far too long already in the company of the most boring cabinet minister he’d ever had the misfortune to dine with when all he’d wanted to do was get home to his wife and his cat.

His wife came first, of course, she had to: she made quite sure of that. But the cat came a very close second after Janice (the wife) had made her way to bed, leaving the cat purring on his lap contentedly, like it ought to be..

This was his normal. This was how he saw the real world away from the mysteries of The Firm and the intrigues that were constantly part of work. He enjoyed those too, of course, but they were a few steps away from being what he imagined real life to be like.

Janice up stairs in bed, reading an Agatha Christie or something like that, and Mr Tiddles on his lap in front of the fire while he enjoyed a large whiskey and watched nonsense on the television.

Janice and Mr. Tiddles and the nonsense were real life.

It had been Janice who had christened the cat as Mr Tiddles and he loved the name because it was daft enough to be normal. It had also been Janice who had bought the television, a complicated modern affair operated by a remote control that he just couldn’t understand, so was stuck with BBC 4 whether he wanted it or not.

But this particular night he wasn’t at home with Janice and the cat, he was dining with a few select ministers of the state, and Desmond McKinley was his punishment because Desmond McKinley knew everything to do with money and not much else. Consequently, conversation nor only verged on the boring, it was very boring. And Desmond McKinley saw his role at the dinner as one involved with conversation in order to keep the head of The Firm interested.

Desmond McKinley wasn’t a cat, and it chanced that the head of The Firm or its Governor, also known as Mr Smith though that had nothing to do with his name in the real world, had no interest whatsoever in the world of finance.

And Janice was at home and would be climbing the stairs, holding her book, then having a wee before cleaning her teeth, washing whatever it was she washed before climbing into bed, and being normal. And instead of his generous finger or two of whiskey he was obliged to be drinking port in a crowd of important men who were nowhere near as important as him. Not that he didn’t like port, but it wasn’t whiskey, and whiskey was normal.

It was when the world could hardly have got more boring and he hadn’t even reached the main course of the several he was due to plough his way through (he’d counted the cutlery) when a rescue in the shape of a waiter with a tray came up to him.

“Mr Smith?” he asked, “My SS Smith?”

The SS stood for Secret Service and was absolutely never used because it offered the real world a clue as to what Mr Smith, or the Governor, did for a living.

“Just plain Smith,” he told the insolent fellow quietly, “that’s who I am. Just plain Smith.”

“There’s a telephone call for you,” that insolent fellow said, and he handed him an elderly and ridiculously bulky hand set. “It’s international,” he added, although that piece of infoormation was totally irrelevant, for the time being.

The Governor took the handset, looked at it suspiciously (he always looked at such things with a great deal of suspicion because if he didn’t he believed he wouldn’t look quite right) and then asked it “Who is it?”

There was a pause, almost long enough for him to assume it was some kind of mischief that could threaten the security of the nation, before a voice with a pronounced foreign accent asked, “Mr Smith?”

“Here!” he replied, deciding that that one word was better and more likely to keep his identity unconfirmed than merely saying yes.

“This is the Spanish Embassy,” said the voice, and in an attempt to sound british it enquired, ”I hope I find you well, sir?”

“You do,” he snapped, ignoring thre niceties of polite conversation, “what can I do yo hslp you?”

“The ministry involved with the observation of international travel has located some interesting documents in the hold of a motor coach that was supposed to contain no such thing,” said the voice, “and my superior thought you might be interested in the documents as they allude to your office as well as including the passports of three British citizens. My superiors have decided they must be spies, because the are presently in the immediate neighbourhood of one of our more exciting research establishments.”

“Pardon?” almost exploded the Governor, “you think we are spying on you?”

“It would seem that way,” replied the voice from the Spansih Embassy. “And as it is highly unlikely that your agents, who are trained to deal with any possible unlikely situation, could be separated from their highly sensitive documents and have turned rogue, we must assume that your office is spying on us.”

“Nonsense!” barked Mr Smith, aware that the rest of the diners were showing a sudden interest in his phone call, not because it was fascinating but because it was plain bad manners, and actually deep down welcoming the interruption even though his fish course was going cold.

“This could mean war,” teased the voice, “think of it, Mr Smith, a bloody conflict over something as minor as solar powered flight!”

“Solar powered, you say? Environmentally delightful? I do believe our boffins are working on something along those lines too!”

“Ah, but ours works,” teased the Spanish Embassy, “it was been seen taking to the skies like a wonderful bird, and requiring no petrochemicals of any sort! And your spies have been filmed observing it!”

“Just a minute!” Rasped Mr Smith so that even those sitting at the far end of his rather long refectory table could quite clearly hear and shake their heads at each other because the man from the firm didn’t seem to have a single intention of observing common courtesies at a civilised function that involved several excellent courses.

“Pardon?” Mr Smith could almost see what he looked on as a sneaky Spanish smile on the lips of whoever it was on the other end of the telephone.

“I need to return to my office in order to sort this nonsense out,” explained the Governor in a hoarse whisper, “there’s been some mistake. I have no agents anywhere near Spain. Though one is vacationing in Portugal, for his sins.”

“A Mr Carter?” slid in the Spanish Embassy.

“Yes. Bonehead,” grunted the Governor, “Is that who you think is a spy?”

“And his two companions? Yes, they might be. And what about Mr Maybe? An English waiter in a Spanish hotel which happens to be almost on the doorstep of our experimental facility? Not such a good cover for one of your sleuths, is it?”

“Who? Mr Maybe? Never heard of him!” snapped Mr Smith as he fought his way into a large overcoat and climbed into his car, “I’ll have to check him out,” he added, “Maybe, you say? It does ring a distant bell, but I’ve no idea who he is….”

© Peter Rogerson 08.11.22

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