Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [109]
‘I thought I’d find you here.’
Gori turned to find Claudio Orb stepping carefully towards him.
‘Cold, isn’t it?’ the Ambassador smiled.
‘Yes,’ said Gori, taking a final drag of his Marlboro before flicking it over the side of the building. He caught Orb’s eye and shrugged. ‘This is the only place you are allowed to smoke these days.’
‘And a good place for a quiet word.’
‘If you want.’ Gori stared at his immaculate John Lobb shoes. What could the old fool want with him? To him, Orb was spineless, merely a straw in the wind. How could a man like this represent his country? For sure, he would have nothing interesting to say.
Orb stood by the parapet and gestured towards the city below. ‘I really won’t miss all this.’
‘Neither will I,’ Gori replied, ‘when the time comes.’
‘My time has already come.’
‘You’re going home?’
Orb nodded. ‘I’ve decided that it is finally time for me to retire. My wife wants to see more of our grandchildren.’
‘Is that a good enough reason?’ Gori sniffed.
‘Yes,’ Orb ignored the younger man’s bad humour, ‘I think it is. Anyway, I’ve had enough. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs is already lining up my replacement, so there is no need for me to delay my decision.’
Gori nodded and lit another cigarette. ‘I’m hoping to go back soon myself.’
‘Oh?’ said Orb casually. ‘Is your work here done?’
Gori smirked. ‘My work is never done. That’s just the way it is.’
Orb looked up, to the skies, and listened to the sound of an airliner somewhere above the clouds. ‘And what work would that be?’
‘You know what they say . . .’
‘No, Matias.’ Orb’s smile faded. ‘I don’t.’
Gori waved his cigarette in the air, as if he was writing on a blackboard. ‘Never apologise, never explain, Mr Ambassador. Never apologise, never explain.’
‘That wouldn’t work for a diplomat.’
‘I’m not a diplomat,’ the younger man said sharply.
‘What are you, Matias?’
‘I’m a . . .’ Gori’s face broke into a broad smile, ‘warrior.’
Orb looked at his colleague. ‘How many more women were you thinking of killing?’
Gori let his gaze fall on a line of red tail-lights stretching all the way towards the Edgware Road, the city’s most famous Arab neighbourhood. Gori spent a lot of time there. It reminded him of good times. He would head over there, to the Green Valley, his favourite Lebanese restaurant, for supper tonight.
‘Well?’ Orb asked quietly.
Gori turned and took a step closer to the old man, so that they were now only a couple of feet apart. Maybe the Ambassador wasn’t as stupid as he had thought. Not that it mattered. ‘Who told you?’ he asked finally. ‘Was it the policeman?’
‘No, I don’t think he knows quite what is going on here,’ Orb replied. ‘But he put me on the right track.’
‘Maybe he knows, maybe he doesn’t. Does it really matter?’ Gori dropped his second cigarette on to the asphalt, and stubbed it out vigorously with his shoe. ‘Are you going to tell him?’
‘I don’t think that would be very helpful.’
So why are we having this conversation? Gori wondered. ‘And, anyway, even if he did find out, there’s nothing he could do about it.’
‘That is not the point, Matias.’
‘Oh? And what is the point, then, Excellency?’
Orb threw his shoulders back and put on his most authoritative voice. ‘This has to stop,’ he said. ‘It has to stop now.’
‘It never stops,’ Gori pouted.
‘This isn’t Iraq, Matias, or back home, circa 1973. You can’t fight a dirty war here.’
Gori moved half a step backwards and took a good look at the old man in front of him. He estimated that he had the advantage of maybe three or four inches and at least as many kilos, not to mention more than thirty years. There was no guard rail, and no security cameras on the roof. A quick push and Orb would go straight over the edge. Easy, quick and clean. No one would ever know what had happened. He poked the cigarette butt with the toe of his