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and Commonwealth Office.’ He rolled down his shirt sleeves, snapped in some cuff links, straightened his tie. ‘Covering letter. Dear Sir John, Here enclosed is the report on the situation that I promised you.’ He smiled. ‘Have them ready. And I’ll sign when I return, hora inglesa.’
    'Hora inglesa ,’ I replied.
    I left Mr. Fitzgerald shouldering his way into his lightweight jacket and at the same time feeling in his trouser pocket for his keys. He looked very young to have all this responsibility, I thought with a curious pang that defied recognition. I left Chancery and went back to my own office. I started on Mr. Fitzgerald’s letters.
    At five, Mr. Green put his head round the door and said, ‘ Adios .’ At five-thirty Ashford Aid dropped in to offer me a lift in the Land Rover, and when he heard I’d still be working he said he’d see me again at seven because it was his turn to take the Diplomatic Bag to the aircraft. I heard him clatter down the stairs and call ‘ Buenas noches ’ to the guard. Suddenly all was stillness in the Embassy, except for the honking of the evening taxis outside.
    I worked swiftly on those letters of James Fitzgerald’s, but I typed them immaculately. Then I got the audio-tape pedal and headphones out of Eve’s cabinet, and arranged them beside the typewriter. I rolled in the two quarto-size sheets with the carbon in between. I had still a good hour to do the short report.
    Darkness had descended with its unnerving equatorial suddenness. I switched on my desk lamp, then I pushed open the connecting door. The light is automatically switched on in the Ambassador’s office, and the blinds lowered. I walked over to the Security key box. It was locked. Trust Mr. Fitzgerald for that, even though I was in the next room! I took hold of the knurled knob. Confidently I turned it to 365, the number of days in the year. Then 25, my age. And that one with no personal connection had certainly been 31.
    The whole number was now dialled—3652531.
    I pulled at the lid. Nothing happened.
    I had probably not had the pointer exactly on the numbers. I started again, more slowly, more exactly, 3_6—5—2—5—3—1 .'
    Still the heavy metal lid stayed closed.
    A shiver of panic went through me. Was it the right number? I closed my eyes. There, I could actually see it on the page, 3652531.
    Then I hesitated. I’d been quite sure of the first two groups of numbers. But the last two digits. Had it been 13? Could it have been 11 or 33?
    I tried all three—wildly now, my heart hammering, my fingers clumsy. Then any combination of numbers I could think of. Then every number.
    Nothing moved it. I rushed round the room, wondering inanely if I’d see the right number somewhere. Then I ran downstairs, in the vague hope of finding the confidential waste and piecing together the bits if they hadn’t been already burned and if only I knew where the waste was kept. I spoke to the guard in my best Spanish, but my technical vocabulary was not up to my problem. He shook his head in regretful non-comprehension. I tried English. ‘Waste?’ I repeated at him. My voice rising hysterically. ‘Waste? Waste?’
    Suddenly his sad face cleared, lit up into a bright comprehending smile. ‘Waste not, want not,’ he intoned slowly, nodding in delight.
    I rushed up the stairs again. Everywhere was locked —Chancery, the Second Secretary’s room. The Third Secretary’s, Mr. Ashford’s. Only my room was open and the connecting door into the Ambassador’s office.
    I sat down at my desk with my head in my hands, concentrating my whole mind on those handing over notes of Eve’s. The altitude, my tiredness, the new surroundings had all combined to put me off balance. It was me. I must have got the number wrong.
    And yet I have a good visual memory and I was sure I could actually see that number in my mind’s eye. Perhaps Eve had made a mistake. After all, she might have been in pain when she wrote the notes.