HIGHEST AND MOST DISTINGUISHED CONSIDERATION

A Novel of the Foreign Service

By

Gene C. McCoy

CHAPTER 1

Quito, Ecuador - 1971

The ambassador took the outgoing cable from his secretary and read it while she stood beside him. When he had finished he looked up at her.

"That's fine, Mary," he said. "Now, will you ask Pete Stuart to come up."

"I'm not sure that Mr. Stuart is still here, Mr. Ambassador. It's almost seven o'clock," the secretary said.

"I'm sure he's still around, Mary. I asked him earlier this afternoon to wait here in the embassy for me."

Mary walked out of the ambassador's office to her own desk and picked up the telephone and dialed. It rang once.

"Econ, Pete Stuart here," the voice on the other end said.

"The ambassador's waiting to see you, Pete."

"Okay, I'll be right up, Mary."

She replaced the telephone and walked to the door of the ambassador's office. "Mr. Stuart's on his way up, sir."

The ambassador was standing at the window looking out over the parking lot. He acknowledged her remark without turning to face her. "Thank you, Mary."

The storm that had moved into the high Andean valley in the afternoon had settled into a slow steady drizzle. The demonstrators who had been protesting U.S. policy in Vietnam had retreated ahead of the rain, and the embassy parking lot was empty except for his own limousine, a smaller sedan belonging to the Duty Officer, and Pete Stuart's British Racing Green MG-TC.

An uncharacteristic wave of sadness passed over him and he wished that he were somewhere else. Maybe, he thought, I should hand in my request for retirement. I've spent the best part of my diplomatic career trying to understand the Latins and Latin America. Sometimes I think that I don't know anymore today than I did when I started out over thirty years ago.

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Ambassador?"

Turning away from the window the ambassador faced Stuart, and for a fleeting second he had a sensation of looking at an image of himself as a younger man.

Stuart's grey, three-button, Brooks Brothers suit, and regimental striped tie with a blue button down oxford cloth shirt were the uniform of every Foreign Service officer. Stuart's hair was longer than he would have worn his own, and at six feet he was a bit taller. Round light weight, horn-rimmed glasses gave Stuart the appearance of an academic, and if the ambassador had not known that he was an FSO, he might have taken him for a college professor or a journalist.

"Yes, Pete, come in and sit down." he said, walking back to sit down behind his desk. "I've just come from the Foreign Office and I think we're headed for some serious problems."

"What have the colonels done now?" Stuart asked, sitting down in the chair opposite the ambassador.

The ambassador picked up a package of cigarettes from his desk, took one out of the pack and inserted it in a carved cigarette holder. "As if they didn't have enough on their hands with runaway inflation, student demonstrations, political ferment in every corner and near bankruptcy, they've now decided to nationalize the Intercontinental Communications Company properties."

"ICC!" Stuart exclaimed and whistled. "They're going after big fish. It doesn't surprise me though. I've had a hunch for some time that they were going to pull off something to distract people's attention from the real issues, and ICC was a natural target. Did they say how they planned to pay for the properties?"

"I asked the Foreign Minister the same question and he gave me a vague run-around about working things out. Colonel Velasco may be a fine paratrooper, but he still has a few things to learn about economics and international affairs before he can call himself a diplomat."

Stuart raised himself out of the chair and walked to the same window where the ambassador had been standing. The rain had stopped and the sky was like mother-of-pearl. He turned and looked at the ambassador. "They could try putting the arm on the oil companies for an advance of royalties, but I don't think it will work." he said, and returned to his chair and slumped into it.

"Why do you think it wouldn't work, Pete?" the ambassador asked.

Stuart put his elbows on the arms of the chair and clasped his hands together in front of him. Making a church steeple of his forefingers, he rubbed them over his lips while he thought. "Well, in the first place the oil men are very suspicious of the colonels, and in the second, the government is already into the companies for a lot of money. The oil people are afraid that if the debt gets too big the government will lop them off to keep from paying it back."

"Um, that's very true. Just as soon as that pipeline coming out of the jungle is finished and the oil starts flowing, the oil companies will be sitting ducks."

Removing a gold cigarette lighter from the pocket of his vest he lit his cigarette, and inhaled deeply. Turning his chair he looked toward the window, then leaned back and closed his eyes. "Pete, I've been in Latin America for thirty years. I spent most of my career in the Service down here, and I can't remember when things have looked as bleak as they do now."

Stuart reflected for a moment on the ambassador's pessimistic attitude, and thought how unlike the ambassador it was to express less than enthusiastic optimism. Cynicism and bitterness, Stuart knew, were the handmaidens of diplomacy and it was the absence of both of these characteristics in the ambassador that Stuart admired. Nevertheless he had to agree with the ambassador, and he also knew that there is a very fine line between recognizing and accepting reality, and cynicism.

"I'm not exactly a novice down here myself and I'm afraid that I have to agree with you. The whole continent could go up in smoke one of these days," Stuart said. "This country is ripe for major violence," he continued, "and I've had all of the violence that I need in the Congo and Pakistan. I can tell you that I am really looking forward to my transfer to Madrid."

"That's right, you had that terrible business in the Congo back in '61," the ambassador reflected. "Maybe that's the reason that I feel so bad about asking what I'm going to request of you.

"Pete, this expropriation could not have come at a worse time, and it's not going to go down well in Washington. It's imperative that we get this thing settled with the least amount of damage to the relations between our two countries. I don't want anybody shooting from the hip without thinking through all of the implications. This country is on the verge of becoming a major oil producer, and if they use the money wisely it can go a long way toward solving a lot of their problems, and I want us to be a guiding force when they start making their plans for the future. In other words, I don't want to see us kicked out of here, and that's just exactly what could happen if we don't handle this takeover properly.

"You're probably wondering what I'm leading up to, so I'll come to the point. I need a seasoned officer to handle this mess, and by that I mean you. I want you to agree to stay on here for as long as I need you, and that will mean cancelling at least deferring or your transfer orders to Madrid."

Even though Stuart was anticipating what the ambassador had said, it still came as a blow to him. The Madrid assignment had been the most exciting thing that had happened in his life in years. Madrid had been his first post as a junior officer, and it was still his favorite place in the world. He had many fond recollections of Madrid. Lazy summer afternoons walking down the tree-lined Paseo de la Castellana to the Cafe Gijon to drink ice cold horchata, or driving in the MG with the top down to Aranjuez to eat asparagus and fresh strawberries. Then there were the, ferias of Pamplona and Sevilla, but all of that would have to go since Madrid needed somebody immediately to handle the base negotiations.

The ambassador picked up the cable from his desk and handed it to Stuart. "I have this cable to Washington drafted, Pete, but I won't send it unless you agree."

Stuart took the cable from the ambassador and started to read.


THE FOREIGN SERVICE OF 
THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
OUTGOING CABLE
CONFIDENTIAL
IMMEDIATE


ACTION:   SECSTATE

FROM:     AMEMBASSY QUITO

SUBJECT:  GOVERNMENT OF ECUADOR (GOE) NATIONALIZES          
INTERCONTINENTAL COMMUNICATIONS COMPANY(ICC)
FACILITIES.

FOR THE SECRETARY FROM THE AMBASSADOR


1.  COLONEL RAUL VELASCO, MINISTER OF FOREIGN AFFAIRS,
SUMMONED ME TO FOREIGN OFFICE LATE THIS AFTERNOON, AND IN
WIDE RANGING CONVERSATION REAFFIRMED THAT HIS GOVERNMENT IS
COMMITTED TO RETURN TO CIVILIAN RULE THROUGH DEMOCRATIC
ELECTORAL PROCESS, DEDICATED TO ELIMINATION OF CORRUPTION
AND CONFIDENT THAT FISCAL INTEGRITY CAN BE RESTORED.  IN
CONCLUDING THE CONVERSATION HE HANDED ME A BOMBSHELL BY
SAYING THAT THE PRESIDENT, GENERAL ANTONIO LOPEZ PERALTA,
HAD SIGNED A DECREE NATIONALIZING ALL ICC TELE-COMMUNICATIONS
FACILITIES IN ECUADOR.  THE DECREE HE SAID
WILL BE PUBLISHED IN NEWSPAPERS TOMORROW.  WITH TYPICAL
MILITARY EFFICIENCY HE WAS UNABLE TO PROVIDE COPY OF DECREE
BUT ASSURED ME THAT IT PROVIDED FOR FULL PAYMENT AT
CONCLUSION OF NEGOTIATIONS OVER SETTLEMENT PRICE.  SUCH
ASSURANCES ARE HIGHLY OPTIMISTIC SINCE CENTRAL BANK HOLDINGS
OF FOREIGN EXCHANGE ARE AT AN ALL TIME LOW.

2.  WITH ECUADOR ON THE VERGE OF BECOMING A MAJOR OIL PRODUCING 
NATION I CONSIDER EARLY SETTLEMENT WITH MINIMUM OF FRICTION OF 
UTMOST IMPORTANCE IN ORDER TO PREVENT ANY
FURTHER SWAY TOWARD ANTI-AMERICAN POSTURE.

3.  IN PREVIOUS MESSAGES I HAVE REPORTED ON STEPPED UP
RUSSIAN ACTIVITY AND THEIR EFFORTS TO INFLUENCE LOPEZ
PERALTA'S FLEDGLING GOVERNMENT.  IF ANY PROBLEMS SHOULD
ARISE IN REACHING AGREEMENT WITH ICC IT COULD ONLY RESULT IN
INCREASED ANTI-AMERICAN SENTIMENT AND ENHANCE SOVIET
POSITION.

4.  I HAVE ASSIGNED FSO PETER STUART WHO IS A KNOWLEDGEABLE
AND SEASONED OFFICER TO FOLLOW SITUATION.

5.  IN ORDER TO INSURE CONTINUITY DURING ENTIRE NEGOTIATION
AND SETTLEMENT PROCESS I REQUEST THAT STUART'S TRANSFER
ORDERS TO MADRID BE DEFERRED OR IF NECESSARY CANCELLED UNTIL
NEGOTIATIONS CONCLUDED.                                  
CHANDLER

Stuart removed a pen from his shirt pocket and initialed in the space prepared for his clearance of the cable and then handed it back to the ambassador. He was disappointed, but at the same time he recognized that the negotiations would present a formidable challenge to his diplomatic skills. While the military base negotiations in Spain would have also been challenging, he reflected, philosophically, that he had already done that in a previous assignment.

"Thank you, Pete, I appreciate what you are doing very much," the ambassador said. He then picked up the telephone and spoke to his secretary. "You can pick up this cable and take it to the code room, Mary. Mr. Stuart has agreed to stay."

The secretary entered the office to pick up the cable, and when she had gone the ambassador got out of his chair and paced the office. "Pete, Jorge Chiriboga, the new Minister of Finance, is going to figure in these negotiations and your personal friendship with him could mean quite a bit as to the way that things go."

"It's ironic that I was tabbed for the Madrid assignment because I know Juan Jose Ramirez, and now I'm wanted here because of my friendship with Jorge," Stuart said.

"As an experienced diplomat, Pete, you know as well as I do that a lot of things get accomplished in spite of governments because of personal friendships."

"I do know that, sir, but I wouldn't want to exploit a friendship in order to fill the coffers of ICC. I've never been too sympathetic to the way that they do business around the world. They're just a little too heavy-handed to suit me."

"I know what you mean, Pete. The chairman of ICC has a lot of power and influence, and he knows how to use them," the ambassador said. "I've seen more than one career shipwrecked because people got crosswise with ICC."

"Are you trying to tell me something, sir?" Stuart asked with a smile on his face.

"No, Pete. On the contrary, I'm telling you that I have confidence in your ability and skill so that I know that I'm not sending a lamb to slaughter."

"Thank you, sir. I hope you're right, not only for the sake of U.S. interests, but for the sake of my career as well.

"I guess the first thing for me to do is to talk to Jorge to see If I can find out what's going on inside the government. Fortunately, I'm going to be seeing Jorge on Saturday anyway. My bullfight gang has a farewell party planned for me down on Jose Maria del Prado's hacienda. It's the last tienta of the season, and Jose Maria says he's got a few good calves for us to play with."

"That's good," the ambassador said. "You talk to Jorge, and by early next week I'm sure we'll be hearing from Washington, not only on your transfer, but on the substance of things as well. The ICC people are probably already hotfooting around Washington trying to put pressure on wherever they can."

The ambassador walked to where Stuart was sitting, and offered his hand. "Pete, I'm glad to have you working on this, and I think if anybody can work out a satisfactory solution, you can. You have a good time down on Jose Maria's ranch, and don't let those bulls get to you. I need you here in the embassy. Give my regards to Jose Maria and tell him that I want to play tennis with him next time he's in the city."

CHAPTER 2

New York, 1971

The ICC building was located in the financial district of lower Manhattan, and from his corner office on the forty-fifth floor, Ray Melvin had a view, from the west side, of the Hudson River and the twin towers of the World Trade Center. To the north, facing uptown, was the Empire State Building and the row of glass skyscrapers along Sixth Avenue.

The right to a corner office with a pleasing view was an indication of Melvin's standing in the company, but at the moment he was oblivious to his surroundings. He was deep in thought about what was happening to his part of the ICC empire in Quito, Ecuador. He reread the cable from his man in Quito for the twentieth time while he waited for his secretary to get his wife, Yvette, on the line.

The telephone buzzed; he reached over to press the intercom button. "Yes," he said.

"Your wife on line two," his secretary purred.

He punched the glowing white button under the number 2. "Yvette?"

"Yes, Ray, what's the matter?"

"Plenty, but it would take too long to tell you about it," he growled. "I just called to tell you that I won't be home tonight. I've got to go down to Washington in the morning, so I think I'll just stay in town at the company suite in the Plaza." He turned his chair so he could see out the window. The glass of the windows in the Empire State Building reflected the autumn sunset making it a pillar of fire. On the horizon the clouds over Connecticut were black and rain swollen. "Is it raining up there?"

"Yes, it just started, and I've got to get to the country club to pick up the children. When will you be back?" she said.

"I don't know," he replied. "I may have to go on down to South America. I'm waiting to s e e the Chairm an now. I'll call you from Washington."

"Is some thing the matter, Ray?"

"There's something the matter all right, but I told you it would take too long to explain it to you. That bunch of Cholo colonels in Ecuador grabbed our property, and I may go down there to see that they pay for it."

"It won't interfere with your getting the Paris assignment, will it?" Her voice reflected her anxiety about getting back to Paris.

"Don't worry, Yvette. I won't let anythig interfere with my getting that job in Paris. In fact, this may just be what the Chairman needs to be con­vinced that I'm the man he wants there."

"I don't mean to sound selfish, Ray, but you know how much I hate it up here in this wilderness, and how much I miss Paris," she said. "I know, Yvette," he said. "I want to get back to Paris as much as you do, so all the more reason to get down to Quito and get this thing settled."

"Be careful, Ray. There's so much violence down there. I just heard on the news this morning that an oil company executive was kidnapped in Buenos Aires."

"Don't worry about that. The Ecuadorians could never get anything that well organized. I doubt that they've gotten themselves organized to the point that they've found the men's room."

"Just the same be careful," she replied.

"I will, Yvette. I'll call you tomorrow."

Melvin turned back to his desk and punched the phone again for a connection to his private line, then dialed his number. "Pepe, this is Ray Melvin," he said softly. "I'll be in the Plaza suite tonight. Can you make the arrangements? Yes, the same one as last time, the young one. Fine, Pepe, the money will be in an envelope at the desk waiting for you."

He replaced the phone and checked his watch. He hoped the Chairman would not keep him late. When the old man went into a tirade he raved on for hours like Fidel Castro making a speech to the campesinos, and Melvin was in no mood to listen to him.

The telephone buzzed again and he punched the button. "Yes," he said.

"The Chairman is waiting to see you," his secretary said.

Melvin heaved his bulk out of the chair, walked out of his office, and crossed the reception area to the Chairman's suite.

ICC had been in business for over seventy years, and for more than half of those years it had been under the stewardship of the present Chairman, but there was nothing stodgy about their executive offices. The Chairman kept pace with the times or anticipated trends in business matters as well as office furnishings. His tastes ran toward cool, functional Scandinavian design. He liked oiled teak, and black leather Barcelona chairs, and his art collection was world-renowned. In his office he displayed two Turner harbor scenes, and a number of the strong lighted beach scenes by the Spanish impressionist, Sorolla.

Melvin knew and cared nothing about art. His interests were confined to business and women, and in his way of viewing the world the two were related. In business you made money, and money bought women.

He was not intimidated by the Chairman or anyone else who had more refined and genteel tastes than his own. He knew his place in the organization. The Chairman surrounded himself with ice-cold business men to run the ICC empire, and Melvin knew that he was regarded as one of the Chairman's best trouble shooters. He entered the Chairman's office without knock­ing.

"I take it you've seen the cable from Quito," the Chairman said without looking up from a stack of telex papers he was reviewing.

"I sure have," Melvin replied.

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I'm leaving for Washington in the morning, and if I have to, I'll go down to South America to handle the negotiations myself," Melvin said.

"I think you better plan on going down there. I want this thing settled fast. It's not the little bit of hardware that they're stealing from us. It's the precedent. If we let these clowns get by without paying up, it will just give every lefty strongman that comes down the pike the idea that we're fair game." He continued reading from the sheaf of papers, occasionally underlining a word or sentence, or making notes in the margin. "What do you plan to do in Washington?"

"I've got several things to look into. Ecuador receives a lot of foreign aid, and there's a law on the books called the Hickenlooper Amendment that we can use to our advantage."

"The Hickenlooper Amendment! What in the hell is that?" the Chairman asked looking up from his papers for the first time.

"It's a law that says that the State Department has to cut off foreign aid when these piddling little governments expropriate American-owned property and don't pay for it," Melvin replied with a tone of satisfaction in his voice.

"I don't give a damn about foreign aid," the Chairman snapped. "I want us to get paid."

Melvin folded his arms over his chest and nodded his head. "I know what you want, and that's exactly what I'm working toward. The problem is that Ecuador is broke. They don't have enough money in the Central Bank to pay their school teachers, and it's going to take a little finagling to get the cash in place to pay us. Let me handle things. I've never failed you yet, have I?" Melvin did not expect an answer to his question. He knew the Chairman was not given to compliments. If he said nothing about your work you could assume that he was satisfied. When he was not satisfied he found someone else to do the job.

"How long do you think it will take you to get this thing settled?" the Chairman asked and resumed his reading.

"I don't know. I also want to get a line on the cast of characters down there in the embassy and AID Mission as well as the government," Melvin replied. "You can be assured that I want to get it wound up as fast as possible. I don't like hanging around some dreary South American backwater, but I'll stay as long as it takes to get what we want."

"Okay, Ray. Keep me posted."

Melvin knew that his audience was terminated and he got out of his chair to leave. As he neared the door the Chairman stopped him.

"Say, by the way, I'm planning some changes in our European operations, especially Paris. When you get back I'll get some ideas from you. Good luck."

Melvin left the ICC Building and hailed a taxi.

"Plaza Hotel," he said as he climbed in the back seat. There was no doubt in his mind that if all went well in South America this could be his last trip down there, and his next trip would be back to Europe.

CHAPTER 3

Quito, Ecuador - 1971

Andres Guerrero swung down from the rattling second class bus as it merged into the snarl of traffic converged on the Plaza Santo Domingo. Working his way between the cars he walked very fast through the old colonial section of Quito. Although he disliked the Capital, it felt good to be off the bus. The seven- hour ride up from Guayaquil on the coast was boring and tiring, but he couldn't afford the extra forty dollars that it would have cost to come by plane. Someday, he hoped, he would be able to travel in an airplane, and maybe even own a car. In the meantime, he contented himself with what he had, youth, vitality, a quick mind and the Presidency of the Ecuadorian Student's Federation.

Reaching inside his jacket he shifted the snub-osed 38 pistol stuffed in his belt to a more comfortable position. The pressure of the hard steel against his body felt good and gave him a feeling of security and equality. Andres was learning that to hold power was to put one's life in jeopardy, and in the Capital there were a lot of people, both inside and out, of government who resented his power. As the head of the Ecuadorian Student's Federation he could put several thousand students on the streets in a matter of hours.

This power was resented even more because he was a mono, a monkey, as the people from the Capital referred to their countrymen from Guayaquil.

Andres did not like being called a monkey, and someday if he had his way, he would prove to them that he was no monkey. Monkeys don't put people against a wall and shoot them, and that's where a lot of these fat-cat oligarchs would end up if they didn't start listening to the voices of the millions of people who were screaming for a decent life. Instead of living like colonial nobility on their haciendas they would go to the wall or work, just the way his father had worked his life out as a huasipungero, a sharecropper, on borrowed land.

Andres was startled by a blast from the horn of a chauffeur-driven Mercedes as it roared past him, narrowly missing his lean frame. He caught a glimpse of a military officer staring vacantly out of the window of the back seat.

"Hijo de puta!" he cursed. Part of the new revolutionary government, he thought. Revolutionary, my ass! Governments come and go, but everything remains the same. It's just a matter of changing the occupants of the Presidential Palace and the back seats of the government-owned limousines.

He climbed the steps of a four-hundred year old colonial building, then stopped under the arcade that surrounded the plaza and pulled a paper from his pocket to check the address of his destination. After receiving directions from a wrinkled Indian woman who sold ears of hot roasted corn from a sidewalk kiosk, he continued on his way toward el Panecillo.

At number 48 on the Calle el Placer he turned into the courtyard of a dilapidated tenement and asked a small brown-faced Indian girl for the apartment of Don Luis Candelas. Without speaking the urchin pointed to a doorway at the back of the courtyard. He walked to the door and tapped.

"Quien?" a voice asked from behind the door.

"Andres Guerrero from Guayaquil," he replied, then waited while the woman unbolted the door.

"Hola, Andres," she said. "Pase."

"Gracias, Teresa. How goes it," he greeted her and entered.

"The same," she said, and shrugged her shoulders with a gesture of resignation. "But we're better off here than we were in that stinking swamp in Guayaquil. At least we have a bathroom, and I don't have to walk a mile for a bucket of water.

"Ai, Teresita," Andres said taking her in his arms to embrace her. "I hope that someday you will have a decent proper house with a fine bathroom where you can paint your beautiful face."

"Vaya, Andres!" she said with a wave of her hand. "You are a politico with that silvery tongue of yours. I'm fat and ugly, but I like to be told that I am beautiful."

"You are beautiful, Teresita, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Is Don Luis here?"

"Yes, he's in the back with a man from the ICC company. Go on back, he's waiting for you."

Andres tapped softly on the door and entered when the raspy voice of Don Luis called out. Luis Candelas was like a father to Andres, and Luis had been the one who guided him in his formative years. Luis was his father's closest friend, and when he died Luis had come to their aid when his mother had to move with her family from the cane plantation to the slums on the riverbank in Guayaquil.

Don Luis had devoted his life to the labor movement, and he had risen to the head of the longshoreman's union on the docks of Guayaquil before taking over as Secretary General of the Confederacion Nacional de Trbajadores, a loosely knit, poorly organized, confederation of all the labor unions in the country. The confederation made noble, but mostly ineffective, efforts to coordinate labor's dealings with the govern¬ment and management. They had a minimum of resources and political clout, and their main weapons were the strike and demonstrations. It was in this latter area that Andres could help by putting the students on the streets whenever they were needed, and for this reason Don Luis had summoned Andres to Quito.

"Hola, Andres," Luis said opening his big arms to embrace him. "How are you, my son, and how is that novia of yours?"

"I'm fine, Don Luis, and Maria's fine also. She wants so much to be married, but I can't do that until I have fulfilled some other promises I've made."

"Take it from an old man, my boy. Don't let anything interfere with getting a good woman in your life. I'd be worthless without my Teresita, and you need Maria, but you still have time." He took Andres by the arm and led him across the room. "Let me introduce you to my friend Rodrigo Sanchez. Rodrigo is the head of the communications workers' union in ICC."

Andres offered his hand and in keeping with Latin custom he stated his name, "Andres Guerrero, mucho gusto." "Sit down, please, Andres, Rodrigo," Luis said and pulled up a simple straight-backed unpainted chair. "Rodrigo has just been telling me about some of the problems they're having with ICC and the government. You know the government has taken over ICC?"

"Yes, and I think it's a good move. There's no reason why the gringos should be running our telephone and telegraph system."

"As far as the gringos are concerned, I agree with you," Luis said, "but I'm not so sure that our revolutionary colonels can do the job. Let Rodrigo tell you about it." Both Luis and Andres focused on the slender face of Rodrigo Sanchez. Andres thought how much people look like what they do. Luis was the picture of a burley longshoreman, and Rodrigo with his slight build and long delicate fingers was what Andres imagined a telegraph operator must look like. He was soft spoken, and Andres leaned forward to hear his carefully chosen words.

"Andres, I agree with you about the gringos, but there are other things to consider. I'm a family man and I have responsibilities that require my being paid regularly. All of the other employees are the same. In that respect the Americans have never missed a payroll, and as a matter of fact they have always treated us pretty well, but that's beside the point. What matters now is that once the government takes over we'll be just like the rest of the bureaucrats who haven`t been paid in over a month, and as government employees we will lose the right to strike. In short we will be powerless."

"What do you propose to do, give the company back to the Americans?" Andres joked.

"No that's impossible. The government has taken the company, and they won't give it back," Rodrigo continued. "What we want them to do is to make ICC give us severance pay. That will help us get through several months of lean times. Hopefully, when the oil pipeline is completed the government will have enough money to pay us regularly."

"Have you talked to the government about this?" Andres asked.

"We've tried, but they won't see us, and we're afraid that they will make a settlement with the Americans before we can make our case. The ICC makes a lot of money here, but once the colonels get their hands on it who knows where it will go."

"It'll probably go to buy more Mercedes-Benz cars for them to ride around in. One of them almost ran over me just now in the Plaza Santo Domingo. What do you want me to do?"

Rodrigo leaned forward and looked straight into Andres' eyes. His voice became more urgent and his own eyes flashed. "We've got to demonstrate to focus people's attention on our problem. Then the government w i l l h a v e t o s e e us and deal with us. They have so many other problems that they can't risk a situation that makes them appear to have sold out to an American company at the expense of poor people."

"Everything you say is true, Don Rodrigo and I understand perfectly what you are talking about," Andres said, "but don't you know that the government has imposed a prohibition against public gatherings and demonstrations?"

Rodrigo clenched his slender fingers into fists, and held them out in front of him. "We must do it anyway, Andres. We must organize it secretly and quickly and I beg you to help us. I beg you in the name of my children, in the name of all of the children and families who will suffer if we don't get that money."

Andres looked at Luis. "What do you say, Don Luis?"

Luis shook his head and was pensive. "It's risky. It's very risky, but I know from the past that if you don't take stands the government ignores problems. We have had prohibitions against public gatherings in the past, and they have done nothing when we went ahead anyway. I don't know how serious the government is this time. Lopez Peralta claims to represent the working classes, and this would test his sincerity." He looked Andres and Rodrigo square in their eyes one by one, and then looked down at his hands. He was silent for a long time, then he looked up knowing that whatever he said would influence Andres' decision. "I think we should go for it."

Andres Guerrero was a battler, and he had never in his life run from a scrap. Quite to the contrary, he looked for trouble if it meant bettering the lives of the people who made up his class. Little people who had nothing more than their voices to join together to shout in the streets about the outrage of their grinding poverty, and nothing more to lose than their lives. With the encouragement of Luis there was no way that he could deny Rodrigo's request.

"Very well, Don Rodrigo," he said. "You can count on me and my organization. We'll need a couple of days. The best time for a lightning strike is early in the morning. The police and army are never prepared for anything early in the morning." He paused to gather his thoughts. "Let's make it Wednesday morning in La Carolina. That's where all of the foreigners and oligarchs live. Everybody's got to be scared by the threat of violence, and those people scare the easiest. They have the most to lose."

Rodrigo stood up, his eyes glistening. He brushed the tears away with the back of his hand, then held it out to Andres. "Gracias, Andres," he said. "Dios te pagara," God will repay you.

CHAPTER 4

Quito, Ecuador - 1971

On Saturday morning Pete awakened early with a feeling that he recognized from other Saturdays when he was going to Jose Maria's hacienda. It was a combination of anticipation, excitement and fear. He rolled out of bed and slipped his feet into a pair of woolly slippers, and after getting himself a cup of coffee, returned to his bedroom and opened the drapes to look out over the long Andean valley below.

The lights of the city were still visible in the chilly dawn. In La Carolina blue mercury vapor lights of the type used on American freeways cast a ghostly pall over the big houses where the diplomats, politicians and wealthy families lived. To the south, the old colonial barrios shimmered like a pool of molten gold.

The first hint of the sunrise could be seen on the peak of Mount Pichincha, the snow capped volcano that guarded the north entrance to the valley. There was a moment, just before the sunlight of a new day spilled over the peaks of the Eastern Cordillera, when the entire valley had a soft amber glow and seemed like a painting of suspended animation.

Pete used this time of day to reflect on his life, and he found that when he slept in, he missed having had this time with himself. This morning his thoughts were about the cancellation of the Madrid assignment, the up-coming ICC negotiations, and the excitement of going to a tienta on Jose Maria's ranch.

He decided to push the negative and serious thoughts aside and concentrate on the promise of the day's festivities. He gulped the last of his coffee, threw his robe on the bed, and walked to the bathroom to shower and shave.

He dressed in a pair of faded Levis, and a blue cashmere turtle-necked sweater, then pulled on a pair of stiff leather botas camperos that he had years ago bought in Spain for his first tienta on another bull breeding ranch.

A tienta is the culmination of the round-up when the young calves of fighting bulls are branded and tested for their bravery. On most ranches it is a festive occasion, and the bull breeder invites friends and well known bullfighters to join in a weekend of bullfighting, horseback riding, drinking, dancing and eating.

The protocol of the branding and testing of the calves is strict and serious business, and nobody even presumes to enter the cortijo, the small bullring where the action takes place without an invitation from the ganadero, the bull breeder. Those who are not asked to participate sit in the stands to cheer and drink.

Stuart had met Jose Maria del Prado at a cocktail party when he first arrived in Ecuador, and after learning that Jose Maria was a bull breeder, Pete let him know that he was an aficionado and knowledgeable amateur bullfighter himself. There had been an immediate rapport between the two men, and Stuart became a regular at Jose Maria's tientas, where he was always included in the select group invited into the ruedo, or bullring.

Stuart had learned enough over the years so that he was able to perform real working tasks in the testing process. The bull calves are never caped since they learn too fast, and it is essential that they not know that a man is behind the cape when they are grown and go to their final destiny. After branding they are released in the ring where only a man on horseback carrying a long, dull pointed vara, or pole, is present.

The calf is judged for his bravery by how quickly and fiercly he charges the horse, and for how long he will continue the attack under the punishment of the vara being jabbed into his shoulders, which even though it does not break the skin, is painful.

The young cows, however, are worked by the professional and amateur bullfighters with capes after they have been tested for the quickness of their attack on the horse, and the willingness to take punishment from the vara.

Pete knew that since this was supposed to be his last tienta, Jose Maria would let him have all of the glory moments that he wished. Jose Maria had even hinted that he might have something special planned, and to Stuart this meant that he might have a larger novillo, a two or three year old bull, that they would work, and maybe even kill. He had never made a kill, and he had a hunch that Jose Maria would offer him the honor; Pete was worried about how he would respond.

After a good solid breakfast, he pulled on his old leather A-2 flight jacket from his Air Force days, and a wool visored cap, then walked out to where his MG-TC was parked. It was a clear crisp morning and he decided to put the top down for the trip to the hacienda. He stretched the tonneau cover over the left hand seat and climbed behind the wheel on the right.

The streets of the lovely and charming colonial city were empty and quiet, and there was no hint of the tension that lay beneath the surface. He was quickly out of the city pushing the MG through the twists and turns of the highway headed south toward Ambato and Hacienda San Augustin.

In the little village of Lasso he turned off the highway and headed across a dirt road through the pastures toward the base of Mount Cotopaxi, a perfectly cone-shaped, snow capped, volcano rising majestically skyward in the thin Andean air. Nestled in a hollow in the distance, he could see the clustered buildings of the ranch, with smoke rising from the chimney of the main house.

He pulled the MG up in front of the low white­washed house and climbed out. Jose Maria strode out to greet him. "Hola, Matador," he said offering his hand, and then gave him an abrazo. "Come on in and get warmed up, we've got a full day ahead of us."

Pete followed him into the house where some of the other guests were already gathered around the bar set in a room built around a pre-Incan stone wall covered with photographs of Jose Maria in various moments of triumph. From the wall over the hearth the head of his first seed bull stared down on them.

There was a warm convivial, festive mood, and after greeting and embracing his friends, Pete pulled off his jacket and warmed himself in front of the fire. "I'm not going to offer you a drink because you've got to have a clear head and a steady hand today," Jose Maria said. "We've got ten calves to brand and test, but the big event is that were going to have a three-year old novillo, to work. This is going to be your alternativa, your baptism of fire. He's yours to kill."

"You rat, Jose Maria!" Pete moaned. "Don't you know I'm a coward."

"Que va!" Jose Maria said with a wave of his arm. "You're ready to move on to bigger things. When you get back to Spain you'll be the best gringo bullfighter since Sydney Franklin."

"I've got news for all of you, " Pete said. "It looks like you're all going to have to put up with me a while longer. I think my orders to Madrid have been cancelled."

"Oh, Pete!" a cry went up in unison from the group.

"What's the matter, Pete, did they finally realize that they can't run that American Embassy without you?" Jorge Chiriboga said, and walked to where Stuart was standing. "Worse than that, Jorge. They're sicking me on to you. I'm going to be following the ICC business, and I want to talk to you about it when we get a moment."

Jose Maria walked to where Pete and Jorge were talking together, and put his arms around both of them. What's going on here? A conspiracy between the American Embassy and the Minister of Finance," he joked. "No business between you two big shots. We're all bullfighters today. Pete, I want you to meet my niece, Soledad Benalcazar. She's just come back from Madrid where she was studying painting."

Stuart turned to look into the most transparent green eyes he had ever seen, and he was stunned by the beauty of the young woman who glided down the steps into the bar. Long hair, the color of burnished copper, hung down to her shoulders and fell softly over the short, Spanish traje corto jacket that she wore over a ruffled bullfighter's shirt. Her grey, tight fitting, wool trouser's revealed a long slender body that would have been envied by most women and admired by all men. She offered her hand and spoke in English. "How do you do, I'm Soledad Benalcazar."

"Mucho gusto, señorita," Stuart replied in Spanish. "I'm very pleased to meet you."

"You two guys have got real competition today," Jose Maria said. "Soli is a fantastic bullfighter."

"Ay, Tio," she said, and slapped at his arm. "Stop it! I told you I'm not going to bullfight today. I'm going to let the other's have fun. I just want to be a spectator and watch you and Pete."

She turned to look into Pete's eyes. "My uncle tells me that you are very good," she said with a merry smile that revealed straight even white teeth."

"Well, we'll see," Pete muttered. "Playing around with yearlings is one thing and killing a three year-old novillo is something else. If I'm still able to hear at the end of the day you can give me your opinion."

When all of the guests had arrived, Jose Maria herded everybody out of the house through the big brick courtyard toward the corrals where the calves were enclosed, and the cortijo where the action would take place.

Pete took up a position with Jorge behind a burladero, the opening in the fence enclosing the bullring through which the bullfighters and vaqueros could slip in and out of the ring. "Well, old buddy, did you ever think twenty years ago, when we were studying together at Georgetown, that we'd someday be in Ecuador waiting to bullfight together?" Pete asked.

"I sure as hell didn't," he answered. "But I'm not really surprised by anything anymore. I wouldn't have thought one year ago that I would return from Washington, and my job with the Organization of American States, to be the Minister of Finance."

Jorge had been asked by The President, General Lopez Peralta, to return to Ecuador to take up the finance portfolio. He was the only civilian in the cabinet and it was generally regarded as a demonstration of Lopez Peralta's sincerity that he had asked a civilian professional to take up that critical and difficult job.

A group of Indian vaqueros wrestled to bring the first calf into the ring where it was branded, first with its number, and finally with the brand of the hacienda. When they had finished the branding they released it, and it charged the horse standing on the opposite side of the ring. The man on the horse jabbed the vara into the calf's shoulders and it retreated. Stopping a few feet away from the horse, it turned, and pawed the ground, bluffing, and then made another charge, only to again retreat from the punishment.

"Quitelo!" Jose Maria shouted. "Es malo!" The calf had not shown much bravery, and Jose Maria ordered the cowboys to take it out of the ring.

They followed the same routine five more times with new calves. They were all brave, and continued to charge the horse even under of the punishment from the vara. They then started with the cow calves, and after the vara part of the testing, Pete, Jorge and Jose Maria alternated passing them with capes. The crowd in the stands gave cheers of Ole! as each of them tried to outdo the other.

When they had finished with the last calf Jose Maria ordered the cowboys to get the novillo ready. Jose Maria walked to the burladero where Pete was standing. "Okay, Pete, now comes the good part," he said. "He'll come into the ring over there through that gate. I'll give him a couple of passes, and then he's yours. You're the matador. Buena suerte," good luck, he said and left to walk to the burladero on the opposite side of the ring.

"How do you feel?"

Pete turned to face Soledad who had slipped behind him into the burladero. "Scared to death," he said. "Have you changed your mind about fighting?"

"No," she said. "I'll be your peon, and if you need me I'll be here. I watched you with the calves and you know what you're doing, so don't worry. Just watch out for this wind that is coming up. If the wind catches the cape it can direct the bull right into you."

"I know," he replied. "I've seen it happen more than once, and to people who know a helluva lot more about bullfighting than I do. Maybe I can just slip away to my car and get the hell out of here," he said with a nervous laugh.

"I don`t think you're the kind of man who runs from a challenge," Soledad said.

Stuart turned and looked into her pale, green eyes. "You know all of the right things to say, don't you?"

He slipped o ut fro m behind the burladero into the ring, and with the big red an d ye llo w wo r k in g ca p e made a fe w mock passes. Then, grasping the top edge of the cape in his teeth, he held it while he folded it together over his arms, and stood waiting for the novillo to enter the ring.

A ranch hand swung open the gate and a two hundred kilo, black, young bull charged out. He stopped in the center of the ring and looked around him trying to decide where to attack. Jose Maria shouted at him. "Uh huh, Toro!" he shouted and swayed the cape from side to side.

The bull charged and Jose Maria passed him wide the first time. He then ran after him and passed him close with a veronica, turning him sharply to pull the muscles in the neck so his head would be lowered. He passed him two more times and finishe d off with a media veronica. He then folded the cape over his arms and backed quickly away. "Okay, Pete," he shouted, "he's all yours."

Stuart walked to the center of the ring. The bull was still watching Jose Maria, and Pete shouted, "Uh huh, Toro!" The bull turned, looked at him and charged. He passed him with a veronica. His feet were together, and he moved the cape slowly just ahead of the horns. From behind him he heard the crowd shout Ole! He passed him two more times with veronicas then swirled the cape over his head to execute a Gaonera pass. The cape was played out behind him exposing his body. He shouted, "Uh, huh!" and passed the bull, first on his right side, turned quickly, and passed him on his left. He finished off the faena with a rebolero, by swirling the cape full out around his body. He took two steps back, readied the cape for another series of veronicas, and shouted, "Uh huh, bonito."

The bull charged, and when he was about four feet in front of Stuart, a gust of wind caught the corner of the cape. The bull followed the movement and hit Stuart square in the middle of the stomach.

He went down, and, putting his arms over his head, he started to roll away from the bull, but he felt the horns slip under him, pick him up, and throw him like a rag doll. He was again on the ground, trying to roll away when he heard Soledad shout, "Uh huh, Toro."

She worked the bull away from Pete with a series of mariposa passes out to the center of the ring. Pete jumped up, grabbed the cape, and stood watching her as she performed a series of low, slow veronicas. She finished off with a media veronica and backed away, leaving the bull panting in the center of the ring.

"Are you all right?" she shouted.

Jose Maria ran to where they were standing. "You okay, Matador?"

"No broken bones, and no blood, so I guess I'm still in one piece," Pete said and brushed the sand off his face.

Soledad slipped back behind the burladero, and left Pete and Jose Maria standing alone. "He's ready for the muleta now," Jose Maria said. "Are you up for it."

"Como no!" Pete replied in Spanish. "Este pendejo ahora es mi enemigo." He was not only shaken, he was angry.

He walked to the burladero and threw the big working cape over the fence, and took the small red serge muleta and wooden ayudado from Soledad. He walked to the center of the ring, removed his cap and held it in his hand as he raised his arm in a salute to the crowd in the stands. He returned to the burladero and stood in front of Soledad. "Thanks for saving my life, Soledad. I hope I can kill this bull in such a way that you will not be embarrassed that I have dedicated it to you."

"Thank you, Pete, I'm sure you will," she replied and smiled. "Suerte, Matador!"

He turned, threw the cap over his shoulder and unfurled the cape. He was ready to meet his first moment of truth.

With the wooden ayudado under the fold in the muleta he took them both in his right hand, and with his left hand on his hip, he walked to within about four feet of where the bull stood. He arched his back and slowly moved the cape in front of the bull. "Uh huh," he said and stepped forward. The bull pawed the ground, and Pete moved the cape slowly back. The bull looked at him, and he moved the cape in front of the horns again. He stepped forward to cross into the bull's terrain. The bull followed the cape and stepped sideways, then charged. Moving the cape just ahead of the horns, he led the animal around his body with a derechazo pass, and then followed it with another, and another, before finishing with a pase de pecho. The crowd was roaring its approval with a series of Ole's, and Pete had that wonderful feeling of having lost sense of one's self that comes with deep and sustained concentration.

He shifted the cape to his left hand, and held the wooden ayudado in his right. He went through a series of left hand natural passes, and finished with Manoletinas, to leave the bull panting in the center of the ring.

Pete turned his back on him and walked to the fence and exchanged the wooden ayudado for the steel killing sword. He returned to the bull, passed him several times with naturales, and left him positioned for the kill.

With the muleta in his left hand, he held the sword in his right. Looking down the edge of the sword to the point between the bull's shoulders where it would go in, he aimed it as one would aim a rifle.

"Uh huh," he shouted and leaned into the sword as the bull charged.

He went in over the horns, keeping the bulls head in the cape. The sword penetrated to the hilt, and the bull stopped dead in its tracks, looked at him with disbelief, and fell over.

He returned to the burladero, and Soledad slipped out into the ring and kissed him. "You were fantastic," she screamed.

Breaking all of the rules of tienta protocol the crowd rushed down from the stands and surrounded him. "Ma-ta-dor, Ma-ta-dor, Ma-ta-dor," they chanted.

"Who's got a drink," he said and somebody passed him a leather bota, wineskin. He held it out at arms length and squeezed a stream of red wine into his mouth.

Jose Maria pushed his way through the crowd and stood in front of Pete. "That was a great faena, Matador, and I am proud to present these two ears."

Stuart accepted the ears, then gave Jose Maria a big abrazo, and holding the ears in his hands above his head trotted slowly around the ring to the cheers of the crowd and the ranch hands.

People began to walk back to the house and Pete followed along beside Soledad. "Now how do you feel, Matador?" she asked slipping her arm inside his.

"I feel just about the way that I did after I ran with the bulls in Pamplona," he replied. "I'm glad I did it, but I'm glad it's over."

"So, you've done that also," she said. "How in the world did you ever learn so much about bullfighting?"

"Well, I went to school in Mexico, and I got to know a bunch of novilleros, and I started practicing with them. There was a time, if you can believe this, that I even considered becoming a professional."

"I can believe it," she said. "What made you change your mind?"

"I decided that I had a very big defect of character. I realized that I was a coward," he replied.

"Well, it doesn't show."

"If you could see inside me you would see the knot in my gut," he laughed and slipped his arm around her. "I'm also very glad that you were here, not just to save my life, but just because you're you."

"Thank you," she said and pulled his arm close to her. "I'm glad you're here."

The party regrouped in the bar and soon spilled over into the living room where there was much drinking, dancing and eating. Pete wanted to concentrate on Soledad, but he was constantly interrupted by well wishers, and she was very much in demand by the rest of the party.

Moreover, he could not forget his responsibilities as a Foreign Service officer, and he had to find time to talk to Jorge. Leaving the bar he walked to the living room where Jorge was talking to Jose Maria.

"Well," Stuart said, "here's a conspiracy if I ever saw one. The revolutionary Minister of Finance talking with the landed aristocracy."

"Pete, come on in and give us the opinion from the American Embassy. We were just talking about the ICC matter," Jorge said. "I was trying to explain to Jose Maria the views of the President, and I suppose that's what you're interested in also."

"He was trying to explain insanity to me and he was finding that it's very hard to do," Jose Maria said. "Jorge, Lopez Peralta is a well-meaning idiot, and the only thing he has done right since taking over was to appoint you as his Minister of Finance. To prove my point about him being an idiot, I site this crazy ICC thing. Instead of listening to you he goes ahead and takes on one of the biggest multi-national companies in the world. "This was a diversionary tactic to avoid dealing with the real issues."

"And what are the real issues, Jose Maria?" Pete asked.

"The real issues are to get this country producing by stopping the harassment of landowners with threats of expropriation and all of this talk of land reform. "He should also fire half of the bureaucrats who sit around the ministries doing nothing but collecting their pay," Jose Maria said with an angry conviction.

"They haven't been collecting much pay lately," Pete said. "It's been over a month since the government met a payroll. How about it Mr. Minister, how are you going to pay for the ICC properties, and how are you going to meet the payroll?"

Jorge was clearly uneasy, and Pete regretted putting him on the spot, especially in front of Jose Maria.

"I can't really talk about all that I know, but I can tell you that we are working on all of these things. I'm going to be meeting with an IMF team, and we're holding talks with some New York banks to arrange short-term financing. What's the embassy opinion, Mr. First Secretary?"

"All we have done is report it," Pete said, "but I can say that the ambassador is taking a strong personal interest in things. As you know he cancelled my transfer to Madrid, and he's very worried about how things are going to go down in Washington. My guess is that we'll be getting some marching orders out of Washington early next week after ICC has had a chance to put some pressure on."

"I'm just a simple farmer, so I'll let you two statesmen figure out how to solve this mess. I'm going back to the bar," Jose Maria said and walked away to leave Pete and Jorge alone.

"Jorge, there's not much more that I can say at this time. I've really told you all that I know. If you'll keep me posted as to what's going on inside the government, I'll do the same with you, and maybe we can work this thing out," Pete said.

"It's a deal, Pete," Jorge replied. "Right now I've told you everything I know."

It was almost midnight before Pete left the hacienda to return to Quito. He had not had all of the time that he wanted to talk to Soledad, but she walked with him to his car as he was leaving.

"I'd like to see you again in Quito," he said as they stood beside the MG.

"I'd like that too," she replied and handed him a slip of paper. "I was hoping you would say that, and I wrote my name and address on this paper to give to you. I have a small studio down in the Huapulo section of town. Do you know where that is?"

"No, but I'll find it, I can assure you." He unzipped the tonneau cover, and before climbing in behind the wheel he turned and faced her. "I'd like to kiss you goodbye."

"Then do it," she said and slipped her arms around his neck.

CHAPTER 5

Washington, D.C. - 1971

Ray Melvin had a craftsman's penchant for detail, and he put together solutions to problems with the same care and precision that a cabinet maker uses to form a tongue and groove. Through some mysterious intuitive perception he was able to grasp all of the conflicting and complementary circumstances that made up a situation as though he had taken a picture in time.

Once this was fixed in his mind he studied and analyzed it with meticulous attention to soft spots and weaknesses that could be used to his advantage. He was not an easy person to work with, but results from past efforts were so overwhelmingly on his side that he was generally given whatever he asked for without questioning his motives. He was frequently unaware of his motives, and he relied on his instincts to guide him through tangles that for most people would be a quagmire of unrelated, insoluble facts.

All of the information was not in on his current problem, but he had enough to push the "Start" button on his internal computer. When he walked out of Washington National Airport to meet John Abernathy, ICC's Washington Representative, he had already reached a few preliminary conclusions, and he was ready to begin action.Melvin climbed into the back seat of Abernathy's limousine and opened his briefcase to remove a yellow drafting pad on which he had scratched notes while flying down to Washington on the shuttle plane from New York.

"The Hickenlooper Amendment is going to be the key to this thing, John."

"You mean the foreign aid cut-off?" Abernathy asked.

"That's right," Melvin replied. He was staring out the window at the Potomac River. "There's no better way to get people off their asses than to threaten to take away their dole."

"That might be a little rough to get, Ray," Abernathy replied. "Ecuador is just about to become an oil-producing country, and the State Department is not going to take any action which might endanger that oil supply." "That oil supply won't be endangered," Melvin said. "Who in the hell are they going to sell it to if they don't sell it to us?"

"The Russians, the Chinese, Europe. There are a lot of people looking to buy oil, Ray," Abernathy replied. He was appalled by Melvin's seeming lack of sophistication.

"Listen, John, that oil is in our backyard, and we're the natural ones for them to sell it to. Anyway, who's side are you on, ours or theirs?"

"It's not a question of taking sides, Ray. I'm simply pointing out to you what some of the problems may be," Abernathy replied.

The light on Abernathy's mobile telephone flashed and he reached for the handset.

"Yes?"

It was his secretary. "Mr. Abernathy, this is Marge Porter. I have a call for Mr. Melvin from the Chairman."

"It's for you. From the Chairman," he said and passed the handset to Melvin.

"Hello," he said.

"One moment, Mr. Melvin, I'll put the Chairman on."

"Ray?" the Chairman asked.

"Yes, sir."

"I'm in a meeting with our Controller, and he tells me that we may have a little cash flow problem coming up in the next couple of weeks, and I'd like you to keep that in mind when you're dealing with the Ecuadorians. I put the value of those properties at about five million, and I'd like to have that money in two weeks."

"All right, sir. I will keep that in mind," Melvin replied. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes, I've got a very interesting project lined up for that money in Europe, and I think you might just be the man to look after it."

"Very good, sir, I'll keep that in mind, also."

"Do that, Ray. If I don't hear from you I'll assume that ever ything is going all right." The phone clicked and Melvin replaced t he han dse t.< P > "B ack to what y ou were saying about problems, John," Melvin said. "I think we can state the problem very clearly. The Chairman wants five million dollars in two weeks, and the Ecuadorians don`t have it. What we need now is a solution to that problem, and I think the answer is going to come through the Hickenlooper Amendment."

"All right, Ray. Where do we start?" Abernathy was reconciled to the fact that Melvin did not want to hear about or discuss obstacles to getting a Hickenlooper suspension of foreign aid, and although he didn't understand how cutting off the aid program would get the five million, he knew Melvin well enough to know that he should not question him.

Melvin did not reply to Abernathy's question, but seemed preoccupied with a traffic accident which had occurred at the corner of 14th and K Streets, and the early-morning, rush-hour traffic, for which Washington is notorious, was worse than normal.

"Whenever I see an accident I always wonder what happened, Melvin said. "I think I would have made a good investigator of airplane crashes. I like to find out why systems don't work, and an accident is the best example in the world of a system that broke down. Somebody didn't do what they were supposed to do, or did what they weren't supposed to do. I guess that's why I've been giving so much thought to how the foreign aid system works."

Just as Abernathy was expecting some insight into Melvin's reasoning, the driver pulled the limousine up in front of the building where he kept his offices, and they resumed their conversation over coffee and hot rolls in Abernathy's office.

"The only way to get the State Department to move is to put a little Congressional heat on them, so let's take a look at your list of campaign contributions and pick out the guy who can best put that heat on," Melvin said.

Abernathy got up from the sofa and walked to a wall safe. After working the combination he opened it and removed a small black ledger. He walked back to the sofa and handed the book to Melvin.

"Every payment of every kind that I have made to a government official is recorded in that book," Abernathy said.

"Good, let's see what you do with all of the money we send down here," Melvin said, and opened the book. He went through it page by page, noting that Abernathy had recorded lunches, dinners, campaign contributions, flowers and other gifts to an impressive list of statesmen and dignitaries.

"Here we go," Melvin said." Homer Goodbody of The House Appropriations Committee. "There's no one to whom the State Department will pay more attention than good old Goodbody from the Appropriations Committee.

"The Foreign Affairs Committee may give them fits over policy, but the Appropriations people get'em where it hurts. They control their booze allowances and their foreign aid slushfund.

"Homer is also a good friend of the Chairman. He's been up to the lodge a couple of times, and I know the Chairman has made his private plane available to him on several occasions, including a trip to Spain where I took care of him when I was in the Paris Bureau." Melvin closed the book and poured another cup of coffee from the silver pot on the table.

"Homer has good taste and a flare for living," Melvin continued in a nostalgic tone. "I remember going with him to buy some beautiful handmade Spanish shotguns that cost about two thousand bucks a copy. We hauled'em back here in the plane for him, but the best part for him was that he paid for them with counterpart funds. You know that foreign aid funny money that Congressmen just go in and check out like a library book. The only difference is that they don't have to return it."

Even though Abernathy was in the business of using money to wield power in a city where money and power were the basic commodities, staples of life, he felt a tingling in his spine as he witnessed the way that Melvin used it.

"But we won't have to mention those little recollections about Spain, nor the fifty thousand dollar campaign contribution that we made," Melvin said with a tone of irony. "Homer's a statesman, and I think he'll respond to a nice statesmanlike approach. We express our concern about how we may be forced to seek a Hickenlooper suspension of aid to Ecuador if we can't get a settlement. He'll know how to handle the State Department."

"Do you want to see Goodbody, or do you want me to handle him?" Abernathy asked.

"I'll see him," Melvin answered. "There are some things about which we can reminisce. We had a couple of nice broads in Spain that we took down to Mayorca for the weekend. They were a couple of sweethearts, and I'm sure he'd like to be reminded of them."

Melvin heaved himself up from the sofa and walked to Abernathy's desk. Opening a cigar humidor he removed one and smelled it. "Havana cigars! Where in the hell do you get Havanas here in Washington D.C., John?"

"Friends," Abernathy replied.

Melvin bit the end off the cigar and threw the pieces of tobacco in an ashtray on Abernathy's desk. "Ah, yes, friends," Melvin said. "They're nice to have, aren't they? Speaking of friends, you must have some friends in the State Department."

"Sure," Abernathy said. "A lot of them."

"I mean friends who will really tell us what's going on, and not give us some diplomatic gobbledygook that has at least ten different meanings."

"I know what you mean, Ray. I have friends who will level with me."

"Good. While I'm seeing Homer, why don't you get hold of your friends and find out what's going on in Ecuador. Also, find out what the status of the AID program is. Try and find out what loans are available to the government. Loans that are all signed and set for disbursement."

"I think that will be easy enough to find out," Abernathy said. "That should be public information."

Melvin lit the cigar. "Damn good cigar, John. Sure it's public information. It's just a matter of knowing what to ask for. Ask your secretary to call up on the Hill to Congressman Goodbody's office and get me an appointment for this afternoon."

CHAPTER 6

Quito, Ecuador - 1971

Andres Guerrero awakened on Wednesday morning with an overwhelming feeling of loneliness. He missed the tropical warmth of Guayaquil, and the friendly greetings that he received from his neighbors in his barrio as he walked out each morning to go to his classes. He missed the jokes with the waitress in the cafe where he had his morning coffee, and a myriad of other little details that made up his daily life. Most of all, though, he missed his novia, Maria, and this morning he wanted and needed her more than he had ever wanted and needed anybody in his life.

Andres did not like to need people, and he was uncomfortable with the feeling. He felt weak, vulnerable and out of control, and today he needed to feel strong and in control.

There had been much opposition to the demonstration that was about to take place, but, supported by Don Luis and Rodrigo Sanchez, he had argued so persuasively and with such fervor that in the end many people had rallied to the cause. To show weakness now would, he believed, betray the people whom he had convinced that a show of strength and solidarity was necessary.

Through word-of-mouth in a geometrically expanding network he had mobilized over two thousand workers, students and peasants to meet in La Carolina to march on the Presidential Palace. It was the largest demonstration that he had ever organized and he needed all of his strength and wits about him to carry it off. By tomorrow night, if all went well, he would be home in Guayaquil with Maria and his friends.

Throwing back the heavy blue wool Otovalo Indian poncho he had used as a blanket, he rolled his feet on to the cold floor of Don Luis's living room where he had spent the last several nights.

"Buenos dias, Andres," Luis said from the chair on the opposite side of the room where he was sitting in the darkness smoking a cigarette.

"Buenos dias, DonLuis," Andres replied.

"You slept, well, my son?"

"Mas o menos bien," Andres answered. "I had many dreams last night."

"You have many things on your mind. I'm surprised you were able to sleep at all," Luis said. "I have not slept the entire night. I have been thinking about today. I have been thinking that I should go with you."

"Don Luis, we have gone over that many times. You cannot risk going. You are, your work is, too important for you to be in a street demonstration. If something happens, I go to jail for a few days, but I'm just a student. I'll be released. You are the head of the Confederacion, and that is entirely different. If they arrest you, it would be a big loss and they won't let you out of jail in a couple of days. They will keep you there."

"Ay, Andres, I hear what you say, but it is hard for me to accept," Luis said shaking his head.

"But you must accept it, and I must get going," Andres said, and stood up. He walked to the bathroom, urinated, threw water on his face, and returned to the living room.

Don Luis embraced him. "Vaya con Dios, mi hijo," he said.

Andres left the house and walked quickly through the cold, dark streets to the Plaza Santo Domingo where he caught a bus to the corner of Avenida 6 de diciembre, and La Calle de Las Palmas, in the heart of Quito's most exclusive residential area. In a matter of minutes he and a handful of key organizers had the procession mobilized. Andres marched at the head with Rodrigo Sanchez, and just as he had predicted it struck fear into the hearts of the residents who, standing in their bathrobes, looked out through the barred windows of their houses at the threadbare teeming mob.

The people in the streets were the ones whom the residents of La Carolina preferred not to think about; they were the landless, the unemployed, the disenfranchised who were kept out of sight in the barrios suburbios of Guayaquil, or on the hilltops surrounding Quito. To see them screaming in the streets reminded them of how fragile was their privileged existence of cocktail and black tie dinner parties, and weekends of bullfighting on their haciendas. It was as though gasoline were spilling into the streets, and all that was needed to turn it into a raging inferno was one match.

As the word had been passed to organize the demonstration everyone had been cautioned to avoid violence. This was an illegal act in defiance of orders from a military government prohibiting political gatherings and demonstrations. The instructions were that if the police or army showed up, everyone was to run, and not provoke confrontations.

"Do you think we will make it to the Presidential Palace?" Rodrigo asked.

"I doubt it," Andres replied, "but it doesn't make any difference whether we make it or not. By tonight everyone in the country will know about your struggle, and the President will have to see you. The signs we are carrying and this bullhorn will get your message to the right places."

Switching on the portable bullhorn Andres held it up to his mouth, and his words boomed out into the still morning silence.

"The students, workers and peasants of Ecuador support the communications workers in their struggle for severance pay from the exploitative foreign capitalists. We ask all Ecuadorians to join in the struggle against the imperialists. We support the President in his actions to take back what is rightfully ours, but we urge him not to settle with the capitalists before they meet their obligations to the workers."

Behind him the crowd cheered and began to chant. "Viva el paro! Viva el paro! Viva el paro!" Long live the strike!

The column of shouting workers turned out of the quiet treelined streets of La Carolina onto the wide stretches of Las Palmas Boulevard and came face-to-face with the menacing police water cannon which had been dubbed Trucutru, Alley Op, the comic strip character who resolved all disagreements by hitting his opponents over the head with a club. Behind the water cannon, was a squadron of blue-helmeted, horse-mounted, riot police with sabers drawn, ready to ride in swinging.

The turret on the top of the water cannon turned, and the nozzle, aimed toward the head of the column, fired a jet of water that knocked Andres off his feet, and sent him tumbling over the rough asphalt street. Clinging to the bullhorn he turned it on and shouted. "Run, everybody! Run!"

Another blast of high-velocity water sent the bullhorn clattering over the street and washed Andres up against the curb into the gutter leaving him dazed, and unable to get up and run. From somewhere he heard the thump of a tear gas grenade being launched. A few seconds later the grenade canister struck his head, crushed his skull, and Andres Guerrero lay dead.

When the last of the mob had disappeared, and the smoke from the tear gas had drifted away, the police lieutenant who had handled the cannon opened the door of the vehicle and jumped down to the street.

He walked toward where Andres' lifeless body lay, and the sergeant in charge of the horse-mounted squadron rode up and walked the horse beside the lieutenant. "It was an accident, Lieutenant," the sergeant said. "We didn't mean to hit anybody."

"Que importa," what difference does it make. "These rabble-rousing cabrones deserve to end up in the fucking gutter. Call an ambulance and let's get him off the streets."

Kneeling down beside the body, the lieutenant reached inside Andres' shabby coat and removed his wallet, then felt around until he found the pistol. He opened the wallet and removed Andres' identity card. "Andres Guerrero," he read aloud. "From Guayaquil. A mono," he said. "A Goddamned mono troublemaker."

CHAPTER 7

Quito, Ecuador-1971

Stuart woke with the terrible feeling that his chest had been ripped open with a dull stone knife, and his heart torn out of him like the victim in an Aztec sacrificial rite. He had dreamed of Ruth, and that noche triste of so many years ago. By day, work, and the routine of daily living, kept him from consciously dwelling on the nightmarish reality of that incident in the Congo. By night though, when his body ached with fatigue and weariness, his unconscious had a free reign to replay the drama. It was as though some part of him was trying to make sense of, explain and rationalize the evil violence that had no rational explanation.

This morning he not only experienced the psychic pain of his dreams, but he also had the physical discomfort of his weekend encounter with the horns. The bruise on his belly where the blunted horn had smacked him had turned to an angry red, and fingers of broken blood vessels reached around him to his back. Thank God, he thought, that Jose Maria had cut the points on those horns, or I might not be here right now. His thoughts then turned to Soledad and how skillfully she had slipped into the ring to save him. His reverie and the early morning quiet were shattered by the snap of small arms fire, and then the dull, unmistakable, thud of a grenade launcher. As a cloud of blue smoke rose over the tree tops of La Carolina, instinct and experience told him that there was trouble, and he quick ly showe red and dressed for work.

"Good morning, Merche," h e sa id t o hi s wir y l ittl e Basque maid as he sat down at the breakfast table. "It seems we have trouble again. Did you hear the gunfire?"

"Yes, I heard it," she replied shaking her head from side to side. Merche was no stranger to violence. The loss of her entire family and fiance in the Spanish Civil War had left her alone in life, and when she came with Stuart and his wife, Ruth, in Madrid fifteen years ago, she became a member of the family. She had been with them in the Congo, and since that time she had become more of a companion to Stuart than she was a servant.

"Merche, sometimes I think we're, or at least, I am doing something wrong. I wonder why I keep ending up in the same circumstances."

"Ay, Señor Stuart, don't think that way," she replied. "It's just life. Shrug it off and go about your business. How would you like a nice cocido Madridleño for dinner tonight?"

" I think maybe you would like a nice cocido, Merche. I know you very well. When you suggest something special for dinner it's because that's what you want."

"Ay, the abuse that I take from you. If I had an ounce of sense, I would go back to Spain today. I try to do something nice for you and you accuse me of being selfish," she said with a smile on her face. "But you're right. I am hungry for cocido."

"I knew it!" Stuart continued their game. "You're a manipulative old woman, but I too am hungry for a good cocido," he said. "Now, vaya! I must go to work."

The thin mountain air was filled with the smell of freshly cut grass when Staurt walked out of the house toward the black embassy sedan parked at the curb, and he stopped for a few moments in the garden and inhaled deeply. The big rambling colonial house was much larger than he needed for himself, but it was a government-owned residence assigned to him in accordance with his rank in the embassy, and his representation requirements. The place would easily accommodate two hundred people for a cocktail party, but he preferred smaller dinner parties to fulfill the many social obligations that went with his job, so the house was rarely used to its full advantage. After chatting with the gardener, and indicating some plants that he wanted moved, he walked to the car where the driver stood beside the open door.

"Good morning, Eduardo," Stuart said and climbed into the back seat.

"Buenos dias, Señor Stuart," the driver replied and closed the door.

"I guess we've got some trouble this morning, Eduardo. Do you know what happened?" Stuart asked as the driver slipped in the front seat behind the wheel.

"Yes, Mr. Stuart, and it's very bad. A man was killed," the driver replied.

Stuart felt a tightening in his stomach. "What happened?"

"There was a demonstration by the communications workers against the American company, and the police shot a man who pulled a gun on them," the driver said, repeating the rumor that had spread through the city. "That's not all, Mr. Stuart, " the driver continued. "The army has closed the University, and paratroopers have occupied the campus."

Eduardo slowed the car at the bottom of the hill as they approac hed the scene of the incident. The silver water cannon was still parked beside the body of Andres Guerrero, and the horse-mounted riot police kept the crowds of the curious moving. One of the policemen had dismounted, and was directing the traffic that gathered as the word spread through the small capital and prompted people to satisfy their morbid curiosity.

As they passed the body Stuart wanted to look straight ahead, but he forced himself to observe the scene with clinical objectivity. The lieutenant and sergeant were engaged in animated conversation oblivious to the handsome young face lying dead at their feet. He put the victim at about twenty-five years old, and from his shabby clothes he speculated that he was from the working class, or maybe a student.

"Drive past the University before we go to the embassy. I want to see what things look like over there," Stuart said, and Eduardo turned the car into the line of traffic entering Avenida de las Americas.

Tanks had taken up positions in front of the main entrance, and combat-equipped paratroopers dressed in camouflage fatigues and red berets had been deployed across the lawn to block entry to the grounds.

"Okay, Eduardo, We've seen enough. Let's go to the embassy."

He picked up the newspaper and glanced at the lead story. It concerned the ICC expropriation, and had an announcement that the president had issued a decree ordering ICC to pay severance pay to the workers before the government would settle with them. He folded the newspaper and put it aside as the car turned into the embassy parking lot, and passed the police who had been stationed at the gate in anticipation of violence.

CHAPTER 8

Quito, Ecuador - 1971

Stuart walked through the metal detector, passed the Marine Guard, and took the elevator to the fourth floor of the embassy. Sitting down behind his desk he picked up the red-bordered action copy of an incoming cable from the stack of morning mail and cable traffic. 

THE FOREIGN SERVICE OF
THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
INCOMING CABLE
CONFIDENTIAL
PRIORITY

ACTION: AMEMBASSY, QUITO
FROM: SECSTATE, WASH DC

SUBJECT: CONGRESSIONAL INQUIRY INTO STATUS ICC  CLAIMS.
 

1. DEPARTMENT HAS RECEIVED CONGRESSIONAL INQUIRY
REQUESTING STATUS ICC NEGOTIATIONS OVER
OUTSTANDING CLAIMS FOR RECENTLY NATIONALIZED
TELECOMMUNICATIONS FACILITIES.


2. ICC EXECUTIVE YESTERDAY CALLED ON DEPARTMENT
AND INQUIRED RE SEVERAL AID LOANS WHICH ARE
PENDING BEFORE DEVELOPMENT LOAN COMMITTEE, AND THE
OVERALL STATUS OF AID PROGRAM TO ECUADOR.  
WHILE HIS REMARKS WERE GUARDED HE ALLUDED TO
HICKENLOOPER AMENDMENT WHICH AS EMBASSY KNOWS
REQUIRES SUSPENSION OF AID ACTIVITY UNLESS
RESTITUTION FOR EXPROPRIATED PROPERTY IMMEDIATELY
FORTHCOMING.


3. IT IS CERTAIN THAT CONGRESSIONAL INTEREST
STEMS FROM ICC INITIATIVE AND EMBASSY REQUESTED TO
GIVE COMPLETE STATUS REPORT ASAP.  EMBASSY
REQUESTED ALSO TO ADDRESS THE ISSUE OF THE IMPACT
THAT SUSPENSION OF DEVELOPMENT LENDING WOULD HAVE
ON 1) INTERNAL AFFAIRS OF GOE, AND 2) U.S./ HOST
GOVERNMENT RELATIONS.


4. FYI DEPARTMENT IS RESPONDING IN SEPTEL TO
EMBASSY REQUEST TO CANCEL STUART'S TRANSFER
ORDERS.  END FYI
                                  STANFIELD

The squeeze is on, he thought. The ICC claim hasn't even been presented and they have already started putting Congressional pressure on the department. Throughout the sleek polished marble corridors of the State Department and Congressional office buildings ICC was setting up its strategy of intimidation. He contrasted his recollection of Andres Guerrero lying dead in the streets of Quito with a mental image of ICC executives meeting with Congressman and departmental officers over luncheon cocktails in some fashionable Georgetown restaurant.

The men in Washington would not yet, and maybe never would know, about Andres. They would talk in terms of sections of the Foreign Assistance Act, levels of assistance, evaluations of the property and the impact that a suspension of aid would have on U.S. interests.

All of these things, Stuart realized, were important, but at that moment he was more caught up with thoughts of the dead body he had seen. Who was that boy? Did he have a girl friend or a wife? Who were his parents?

"They just called from the ambassador's office, Mr. Stuart. There's a Country Team meeting in the conference room in ten minutes."

Stuart looked up from the cable at his secretary as she placed a cup of coffee on his desk. "I thought you might want this before going up," she said.

"Thank you, Janie. I do need a cup of coffee," he said. "I can't seem to get my ass in gear this morning."

"Is something wrong, Mr Stuart?" she asked.

"No. I think maybe it's just one of those days, and I may have had one more whisky than I needed last night." He stood up, and with the cable and cup of coffee in his hand, he walked to the conference room located between the offices of the ambassador and the DCM, the Deputy Chief of Mission.

Access to this room was controlled by a Marine Security Guard, and it was regularly swept by State Department Security officers for listening devices. There were no windows against which sound waves could vibrate and be picked up by eavesdropping equipment. This area, the code room and the ambassador's office were considered the most secure areas in the chancery, and the only places where one could speak with near certainty that his words would not be heard by an alien ear.

The walls of the room were bare, and the only adornments were an American Flag and a blue ambassadorial standard behind the chair at the head of the long teak conference table.

Seating arrangements at this table, although unwritten, were rigidly fixed, and one's proximity to the ambassador bore a striking resemblance to his position on the protocol list. In the first chair to the right of the ambassador was the DCM. Next to him was the Counselor for Political Affairs, followed by the USIS Public Affairs Officer. On the ambassador's left, was first the Counselor for Economic Affairs, and second the Director of the AID Mission. Further down the table were the Military and Agricultural Attaches and other senior officers. At the opposite end of the table from the ambassador, as if to emphasize his independence from the State Department hierarchy, sat the CIA Station Chief. Junior officers occupied chairs along the walls behind the officers at the table. As a senior officer in the Economic Section, Stuart sat midway down the table on the left hand side.

The ambassador entered, and the staff rose from their chairs and waited until he had taken his place at the head of the table.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," he said. "I'm sorry to have interrupted your day. I know you're all busy, but I thought it best that we get together and discuss the events of this morning. I realize that it's far too soon to make any substantive judgments, but I believe we can benefit from an exchange of ideas and information."

The ambassador was a slender man, fastidious in his speech and actions. From his coat pocket he removed a package of cigarettes and a gold lighter which he placed on the table in front of him along with a small carved cigarette holder. "Before we get down to discussing the issues, I want to urge all of you to exercise extreme caution during this period. Unfortunately, terrorism, kidnapping and other acts of violence against diplomats and their families have become commonplace events, and we all need to be alert to these possibilities.

"You all know the instructions. Vary your routes to and from the embassy so that no one can calculate in advance where you might be at any given time. This is especially true for those of you who use official cars. Those big black sedans are easy to spot. If you can, come to work in pairs. Be very careful who you let into your homes. If you or your servants don't know someone, don't admit them no matter what pretext they offer. I don't wish to sound an alarmist, but I want you all to be aware of the danger. Now then, shall we get down to the matters at hand. Does anybody know exactly what happened?"

Stuart looked up and down the table. No one seemed to have gathered any hard information, but he was not surprised. These student demonstrations came up fast, and frequently caught the government by surprise. Jim Kirk, the CIA Station Chief, surely knew something, but Pete knew that he would be laconic and cautious about reporting what he knew except in private briefings with the ambassador.

"I drove past the scene of the incident on my way to work this morning, sir," Stuart said, "and I can tell you that there was a body of a boy about twenty-five lying in the street. According to my driver he was shot by the police after pulling a gun, but I couldn't see any blood stains. Also according to my driver, the demonstration was directed against ICC. Just what the issues are I can't say. The papers this morning are carrying a story that the president signed a decree ordering ICC to pay the workers severance pay, and I'll be checking that out later today.

"In so far as the University is concerned, the paratroopers have occupied the campus, and I would say that it's closed. The tanks that they've got up there would tend to discourage anybody from trying to enter.

"So there's linkage to the ICC matter," the ambassador said. "That being the case, this thing could take on nasty anti-American overtones, and I want to repeat what I said at the beginning of this meeting about everyone exercising extreme caution.

"By the way, Pete, I`d like to see you for a few minutes after the meeting to go over the ICC case. I see we've got a Congressional inquiry in the morning cable traffic, and I'd like to discuss our reply with you before you draft it."

The ambassador slipped a cigarette in the small carved holder and lit it. "How about the Political Section. Do you have any background? Was this thing expected?" he asked looking at his Political Counselor, Carson McCandless.

Stuart did not expect anything of depth or substance from McCandless. He spoke no Spanish, had few contacts in the government, and received most of his information from other diplomats whom he saw regularly at the round of national day cocktail parties he attended. He was a polished gentleman, and a superb protocol officer, but an ineffective political observer. He seemed aware of his shortcomings, and was obviously ill-at-ease as the ambassador focused his attention on him. He shifted in his chair and with both hands pulled at the points of his vest, then touched his tie as though looking in a mirror.

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Ambassador, we're rather surprised," McCandless said. "All of our contacts have indicated that things were going quite well. Last week I was talking to Geof Milne at the British Embassy, and we agreed that things looked pretty good, and that the colonels were finally getting a grasp on some of the problems left by their predecessor."

Stuart drew a circle on the pad in front of him. Zero, he thought. He studied the ambassador's face and it was clear that he was not pleased with McCandless's superficial assessment. He turned the cigarette holder around in his long slender fingers.

"Well, as I said earlier, it's probably too soon to make any substantive judgments," the ambassador said, then looked down the table at Jim Kirk. Having given his own staff an opportunity to report, he now sought whatever information the CIA Station Chief would be willing to provide. "What do your people say, Jim?"

Kirk held a pencil in his hand and was doodling on a pad. He spoke without stopping his scratching.

"Well, sir, our information hasn't been quite as optimistic as Carson's. Everything we've been able to pick up indicated that trouble was brewing, but it's been a difficult thing to nail down. Very few hard facts, just undercurrents. There`s been a general unrest with labor, a lot of student meetings, and movement of student leaders between the capital and the coast. That boy who was killed this morning was from Guayaquil, and has a history of communist activity."

"I see," the ambassador said. "Obviously you weren't speaking with our colleagues in the British Embassy." A ripple o f nervous laughter broke the tension of the embarrassment of Kirk 's co nfli c ting information . McCandless blushed and pulled at his vest, but he managed to laugh along with the rest. A faint hint of a smile flickered across the ambassador's face, but otherwise he retained his frosty reserve.

"I suppose that since this trouble has surfaced in connection with the ICC matter we should expect some expressions of anti-American sentiment," the ambassador said.

Kirk stopped his doodling and looked up from his pad. "I think that's correct, Mr. Ambassador, and the government might even go along with the commies in order to divert public attention from the real issues."

Kirk paused, and the ambassador pressed him with another question. "What in your view, Jim, are the real issues?"

"As I see things, the colonels simply haven't delivered on all of the promises they made when they took over. They've done nothing about land reform. Basic government functions are as hopelessly muddled now as they were under the 'Old Man.' The same second-line bureaucrats are running the ministries, and they're just as corrupt and self-serving as they have always been. Just talk to someone who has tried to get an import license through the Ministry of Finance. Without a little graft to oil the machine the wheels won't turn, and an application can sit in any number of 'IN' boxes forever.

"What's worse, is that the same thing is true for an export permit. The government's flat broke, and a businessman can't get a license to export so they can earn a bit of foreign exchange.

"Inflation is rampant, and it's hitting the poor working stiff, and not just the oligarchs who purchase imported items."

Kirk paused and the room remained silent. He's in an unusually expansive mood this morning, and he's telling it like it is, Pete thought, and not the way we would like things to be.

"To return to the situation at the University," Kirk continued, "I think it's dangerous. If the government gives in to the temptation to let the students and workers direct their frustration against us things could easily get out of hand. My guess right now is that they will try to hold the lid on things. This is obvious from the way they responded this morning, and I'm not too sure that the government wasn't behind the demonstration in the first place, or at least knew about it in advance. They've wanted to close the University for a long time, and they may have let this thing go down in order to have a pretext to do it. They got those tanks and paratroopers over there very fast, which to me means that they had the occupation planned.

"I don't think they intended to kill the student, and let's face it, sir, despite what Pete's driver says, we don't know yet what really happened to that boy."

"I assume you'll be trying to find out what really happened, Jim," the ambassador said.

"Oh yes, Mr Ambassador, but it may be difficult to get to the truth. It depends on how the government wants to play this thing. If what they wanted was to close the University, they're going to make a bad guy out of that student, and they'll say anything. In any case I can't see them admitting that they made an error. They have too many problems on their hands to admit to killing someone by mistake."

"You're right about that, Jim," the ambassador said. "The government is not strong enough to afford the luxury of admitting to mistakes."

The door behind the ambassador opened and his secretary entered, carrying an incoming telegram in her hand. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr. Ambassador," she said, "but this immediate action cable just came in, and I thought you might want to see it right away."

The ambassador slipped on a pair of half-framed reading glasses, and when he finished reading the cable, handed it back to his secretary. "Give the cable to Pete, would you please."

After reading the message himself, Stuart looked at the ambassador. "It's what I expected, sir.

"I'm sorry about the cancellation of your orders, Pete, but there may be something I can do about that," the ambassador said, then continued addressing his remarks to the entire staff.

"You all know that Pete was scheduled to go on transfer to Madrid. When this ICC thing broke last week, I asked Pete to stay on here and sent a cable to the department asking for a deferral until the negotiations have been completed. That cable we just received grants the deferral, but unfortunately for Pete, it cancels the Madrid assignment. The department claims that they need someone in Madrid right away. It seems that we have more problems than we have people. In any event Pete will be in charge of the ICC negotiations, and I'd like all of you to keep him informed of anything that might be of value to him. "The cable also says that we've got a Mr. Ray Melvin arriving tomorrow afternoon to represent ICC in the negotiations. Pete will be taking care of him.

"Had you finished your remarks, Jim?" the ambassador asked.

"Yes, sir," Kirk replied.

The ambassador pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. "Thank you all, very much," he said. "Pete, may I see you for a few moments."

The ambassador's secretary placed fine bone cups filled with hot steaming coffee on the table in the ambassador's office. Glazed over the discreet ivory colored china was the official Seal of the United States of America. The ambassador sipped from his cup then returned it to the table.

"Pete, I want to reply in as strong a way as possible how disastrous a Hickenlooper suspension of aid would be to our relations with Ecuador. It would not just set our relations back a hundred years, it would endanger the internal security of the country and threaten our access to those oil supplies that will be coming on-stream in the next few months.

"The Chinese have been making overtures to Lopez Peralta with promises of assistance on a rice multipli­cation project down on the coast. The Russian Embassy has over a hundred people in it now, and we both know they're not all diplomats. If we play those old 'Big Stick, Gunboat Diplomacy' tapes again we're just likely to find ourselves being kicked out of the country with the Russians and the Chinese picking up all of the marbles.

"I'm very much aware of that, sir," Stuart replied, "and I think I can draft something that will get that message to Washington. I can't do anything though until I've talked to this man Melvin, and get back to Jorge. Jorge is out of town today, but he'll be back tomorrow."

"I know that," the ambassador said. "Let's assume that you see Melvin tomorrow afternoon, and that Jorge comes to the reception I'm having at the residence tomorrow night. You and Jorge get off in a corner, and have a good long talk. If you can, take him back to my study where you can have all of the time and privacy that you need.

"What started out to be a simple expropriation is getting out of control, and we've got to keep a lid on this thing so that it doesn't turn into a full blown crisis."

"I hear what you're saying, sir, and I think Jorge and I can work together to keep it from getting any worse than it is now.

"Jorge is a smart, hard-working guy, and probably the best Minister of Finance that this country has ever had. He didn't come back from his job in Washington with the Organization of American States to see this country go down the tubes."

Stuart sipped his coffee and was pensive for a moment. "Jorge is one of a new breed of Latin American civil servants. He's well educated, dedicated to progress, proud and very nationalistic, and as you know that doesn't mean that he's anti-American. Jorge likes and understands Americans. He's got an American wife, he went to school at Georgetown, and Harvard, and he worked for ten years in Washington with the OAS.

"I know all of those things, Pete," the ambassador said. "I was very surprised and pleased when he did decide to come back and take the thankless job of Minister of Finance in a country that is broke."

"He came back," Stuart said, "Because he honestly believes that Lopez Peralta is serious about bringing change. He's not just a politician who's interested in getting his Swiss bank account built up before things blow. He's an idealist who is willing to work twenty-four hours a day to see his ideal made real."

"I know that, too," the ambassador said. "He's a damned good man, and we need more people like Jorge down here. And speaking of good men, Pete, I meant what I said in the staff meeting about trying to do something to reinstate your transfer to Madrid. There's no reason why an officer should suffer a career setback when he's accommodating the Service for the good of the country. I'll write a few personal letters and see what I can do to get things back on track."

GO TO CHAPTER 9

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Gene McCoy © August, 1998

ginofso@gte.net

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