Free In Flames by Richard Hilary Weber Page A

señor?”
    “Is Señor Townsley here?”
    A man at a nearby table waved and stood up from his chair, right hand extended, napkin tucked in his soft collar. Despite a wet heat, he wore a tie and a blue-and-white-striped cotton seersucker suit. “Dan? I’m Reg…” His face was formless, the expression calm despite all he was rumored to know, his lips parted in a kindly smile that his official position demanded…U.S. cultural attaché, a representative of life’s finer things. Fifteen years of service should form a face, gentleness ebbing with experience, but Reg Townsley was also aware of his responsibilities as station chief. He never dropped his gentle smile. “Have a seat, Dan.”
    “Thanks. Heat’s a killer.”
    “Ignore it, I do. Try more tennis. Stretch yourself, you’ll live longer.” Although in his midforties, Townsley was already an old man, his true age—the years in his eyes—counted by his time in San Iñigo. While his thinning hair retained a soft mousy color like a boy’s, his face had a permanent flush, and I guessed high blood pressure, that and maybe too fond of drink. To a stranger’s eye his reddened skin texture might give a false impression of good health, a sporty type, but every minute in San Iñigo made Reg Townsley older and wearier. The new U.S. ambassador, a man of sixty, was a youthful novice compared to any diplomat with even a few years on the island. “The ambassador is pleased to hear about you, Dan, he loves your background. He’s big on art, has a great collection back in Houston. You see, it’s like this now…” He leaned closer to me, voice dropping into confidentiality. “The ambassador wants to create a better impression here, show more of a cultural interest in San Iñigo, not just commercial. Things aren’t going so well, it’s wartime, even if you’d never know it down here. Last week I spent four days out on the cliffs over the north coast, at the most forward operating firebase we have. And what the whole experience confirmed, at least for me, is that any real will among these people to fight insurgents is driven by us. No U.S. money, no U.S. firepower, and it’s no counterinsurgency anywhere on the island. The extremists win. The liaison officer in the para group at the firebase said it outright—we leave San Iñigo, and he leaves the paras. No one feels any incentive to fight on their own. We’re the whole show. They’re pretty much a raggedy-ass bunch, corrupt, and only out to save their own skins. As well as hustle a buck from us, of course, wherever and whenever they can. The ambassador wants to open up on all fronts now, and this includes the arts. Right across the board we’re making social investments, we’re here for the long haul, and we’re going proactive, grabbing a revived momentum. Like I say, trouble often starts in the arts. So we’re funding a new gallery downtown, killing two birds, covering all the bases, that sort of thing, kind of like a listening post…”
    He waited for my response. I could guess at what he meant, but I had no idea of details. Neither had Elaine when I asked her.
    “We need a gallery director with creds. Yours are excellent. Architect, Princeton…Elaine spotted it, and she’s right. You look worried, Dan. Relax, the gallery is fully air-conditioned, and I’ve hired an assistant, he’s already started, a good kid, College of the Caribbean grad. Diego.”
    “I’ve got a contract with Xy Corp.”
    “No problem, hang on to it. We want you to keep your hand in, always looking busy, overworked. This job is evening and weekends, closed Monday to Wednesday. Diego does all the drudge stuff. We’ll match Xy, dollar for dollar. You won’t be an employee, you’re a contractor, an entrepreneur, your own man. Legally, it’s all your gallery. The Cristoforo. Just sign the papers and we’re off. You’re completely indemnified, full faith and credit of Uncle Sam. So tell me, what’s to lose?”
    “What do I