Melvin took the paper and again read with enthusiasm.
Stuart, Peter Tristan. dob 10/21/27, Indianapolis,
Indiana; Married Ruth Chapman; U.S. Army Air Corps
1945©49, First Lieutenant; B.S. Economics, George¬town
University, 1954; M.A. Latin American Studies, Mexico
City College, 1955; Journalist 1956©1958; Appointed
State Dept. FSO©6, 9/17/58; Madrid FS0©5, Third
Secretary and Vice Consul; Leopoldville, Second
Secretary, 10/60; FS0©4, 12/61; Mexico, Second
Secretary, 1/62; Mogadishu, 8/65; FS0©3, First
Secretary 11/67; Rawalpindi, 1/69, First Secretary;
Quito, First Secretary, 12/69.
"This doesn't tell me much about him, except that he's been
around a while and seen a lot of the world," Melvin said looking
up from the paper.
"I can fill you in a little bit more," Abernathy said. "When he
was in the Congo, Leopoldville, his son was killed by a bunch of
crazy mercenaries. That's probably the reason that they sent him
to Mexico after the Congo. Give him a chance to get his head
back together. He's highly regarded in the department, and
considered a real up-and-coming officer. For what it's worth, he's separated from his wife."
"That's all good information, John. When you're dealing with
people, the more you know about them the more advantage you have.
People are just like systems, and you've got to know where their
weak spots are. You do good work. Shall we have lunch so I can
get on my way to Panama." He tossed off the last of his martini.
"The only good thing about stopping in Panama is the nice little
black whores they've got over at the La Siesta Motel. Those
little black broads from those hot countries can really give you
a good lay."
CHAPTER 10
Quito, Ecuador - 1971
Not since a trip to Haiti, when he had faced one of Papa Doc
Duvalier's Tounton Macout, had Stuart experienced such an
uncomfortable sensation as he had while sitting opposite Ray
Melvin in the semi-darkness of the grey evening light filtering
into the room of the Hotel Quito. Melvin was silhouetted in
front of the floor-to-ceiling window, and with the back lighting
Stuart was unable to see his face and eyes.
Papa Doc's secret policeman in Haiti had pulled Stuart out of an
immigration line to question him about the reason for his visit,
and had conducted the entire interview behind dark glasses. That
was the first time that Stuart had realized how much a person
reveals himself through the use of his eyes, and how one can feel
comfortable or uncomfortable depending upon what the eyes tell
you. Now, with Melvin, he was uncomfortable, and he wondered if
perhaps Melvin were not aware of his advantage.
"I think you'll find that ICC's pretty reasonable, Stuart. We've
been doing business down here for a long time, and we know how
the system works. You make a
deal with one government, make a few payoffs to friends in the
right places, and you're in business. Then one day all of your
friends are gone, so you make new payoffs and new friends. The
more successful you are the more it costs, and every time the
government changes, the price goes up until one day they get
greedy and want the whole goddamned thing."
He paused and pulled a pigskin leather cigar case from his shirt
pocket. "Would you like a cigar, Stuart?"
"No thanks," he replied, "I gave up smoking a couple of years
ago."
"As far as we're concerned they can have it," Melvin continued,
and pushing himself out of the chair walked to a lamp, "but
they're going to pay for it." He snapped on the light, and
Stuart studied his face and eyes, but it brought no relief. They
were as cold and expressionless as two pieces of obsidian.
"How about a whiskey, Stuart. Will you join me?"
"Please," Stuart replied. "With a little water, and not too much
whiskey. I've got a long evening ahead of me."
"That's right," Melvin said with a cynical smile, "diplomacy is
conducted over drinks at cocktail parties and receptions, isn't
it. I hope the American Embassy can find time from its busy social swirl to look after some American interests."
Stuart rubbed his fingers over the crest of the Hotel Quito
etched in the glass. "I'm completely at your disposal Mr.
Melvin. I've been relieved of all other duties just to take care
of your interests, and that should tell you that the embassy is
as anxious as you are to get these negotiations concluded to
everybody's satisfaction.
"You know, of course, that about all we can do is to try to bring
about a meeting of the minds, or see that you get fair treatment
in a court of law."
Melvin took a swallow of his whiskey and stared off into space as
though studying some mental picture. "Oh there may be other
things you can do, Stuart," he replied in a tone that indicated
some hidden or special knowledge.
"Would you mind elaborating on that a little?" Stuart said. "Can
you give me an idea of just what you think I can do for you?"
"I don't know yet," Melvin dodged the questions, "but there may
be something you can do."
Each one of Melvin's words was
measured, as though he were listening to a metronome.
Stuart studied Melvin's face and wondered what he had in mind.
He sensed that Melvin was the type who would like to call in the
Marines or a gunboat, but at the same time he had a feeling that
Melvin had learned more subtle ways of accomplishing his ends.
"Mr. Melvin, we're dealing with a military government that is
trying to control a potentially violent situation. There has
already been one student killed, and they've closed the
University. You add this to Latin sensitivities about American
companies, and you've got a very explosive combination," Stuart
said.
"To hell with Latin sensitivities," Melvin snapped. "That's your
worry. You have to live with them. What interests me, Stuart,
is the bottom line, the cash in the bank. You State Department
people get yourselves so involved with your duty free booze
privileges, and ass kissing, that you can't stand up for American
interests."
Stuart was in no mood to argue with him, but he didn't like being
accused of acting out a stereotyped role.
"Mr. Melvin, I think we'll get a lot more accomplished if you'll
just accept the fact that I'm here to help you represent your
interests to the best of my ability. Let's put what you think of
the State Department to rest, and get on with the business."
"You know, Stuart, I think maybe that what I heard about you in
Washington is right. People say that you have what it takes to
go all the way to the top, to an ambassadorship. From what I've
seen so far, I think I'd like to see you as an ambassador,
especially after that terrible thing that happened to your kid
out in Africa."
Stuart's pulse quickened and he fought to hold down his anger.
"Let's leave my personal life out of things as well, Mr. Melvin.
I don't know who told you about that incident, but let me tell
you something. Just because I'm a civil servant it doesn't make
my private life public information."
"Okay, Stuart, I'm sorry I upset you," Melvin said and smiled.
He was pleased that he had penetrated Stuart's diplomatic facade."I just want you to know that ICC likes to have the right kind of
people in top positions. What the hell, it's in our interests to
have good people representing us abroad."
Stuart had a sudden impulse to get up and walk out of the stuffy,
smoke-filled room, and he rose out of the chair and walked to the
window. In the distance he could see the lights of the village
of Tumbaco on the edge of the hacienda country. Lightning
flashed over the saw-toothed edges of the mountains as a new
storm moved in from the coast. The tranquility of the
countryside, and the view of nature restored his calm and he
turned to face Melvin.
"Just so you and I understand one another, Melvin, I'd like to
tell you that I'm not motivated by a need for power or money. I
do what I do because I believe in it. Furthermore, I've never
had the backing of a special interest in my life. What little
I've accomplished with my life has been through plain hard work
and faith. Now, for the last time, I hope. Let's get down to
the business."
"You sound almost too good to be true, Stuart. Sort of a Foreign
Service Eagle Scout, but I agree with you, let's get down to
business," Melvin said backing off. "I think you and I are going
to get along just fine. What do you have planned?"
Stuart did not return to the chair. He wanted to say his piece
and leave. "The Minister of Finance is a man named Jorge
Chiriboga. He's the one you'll have to negotiate with. I think
you'll find him a reasonable person and willing to meet you half
way. I hope to see him tonight, but I want to know what your
terms are."
Melvin walked back to the table and refilled his glass. "Very
simple," he said. "I want to be paid, and I mean paid in cash.
I don't want any government bonds payable over the next hundred
years."
"How much do you want to be paid?" Stuart asked.
"I put those properties at about six million dollars, and I want
to know where Chiriboga is going to get that kind of money."
"That's going to be the problem," Stuart said. "This
government's broke."
"I know, and they should have thought about that before they
moved against us. They also should have thought about the
Hickenlooper Amendment," Melvin said with a knowing threat.
"A Hickenlooper suspension of AID money would be
counterproductive. You might not get paid at all," Stuart said.
"Oh we'll get paid, Stuart. Be assured that I'm not walking away
from this thing without being paid. You don't get to be a vice-president of ICC by rolling over and playing dead when the going
gets rough. If you do there are ten guys waiting to take your
place who won't roll over."
Stuart walked away from the window and picked up his raincoat
from the bed. "I'll try and set up an appointment for you with
Jorge for tomorrow. Are you available all day?"
"Anytime, Stuart," Melvin said. "Anytime."
Stuart slipped on his raincoat, then walked to the door and
pulled it open. "I'll call you in the morning."
"Say, Stuart," Melvin said. "Where does a guy find a woman in this town?"
Stuart looked at him and smiled. "You know for a while I
wondered if you had any human emotions," he said. "There's a
place up on the hill called the Miraflores. Ask any taxi driver,
they all know it."
Stuart left the hotel and walked quickly through the light misty
rain that had started to fall as the storm he had seen on the
horizon settled over Quito. On seeing Stuart approaching, the
embassy driver removed his cap, and opened the rear door of the
sedan park e d in the space reserved for official and diplomatic
cars. An Otovalo Indian street merchant spotted Stuart, and left
the shelter of the hotel entrance to intercept him . Holding out
a bolt of bright orange fabric he offered it to Stuart.
"You want to buy a nice cashmere?" the Indian asked.
Stuart looked at the broad smiling face of the Indian who was
using his best salesman's charm. "No, pero son muy bonitos,"
Stuart replied in Spanish.
"Ah you espeak espanish. Mira, le doy buen precio," the Indian
said in Spanish, then, as though not convinced that Stuart spoke
Spanish, repeated his offer in English. "I give you good price.
This make nice lady's skirt."
"Y si no tengo mujer," Stuart joked.
"Hombre,con esta tela tendra," the Indian replied
Slipping in the back seat of the car Stuart gave his final
refusal as the driver closed the door and pushed the Indian
aside. Shrugging his shoulders the Indian returned to the huddle
of his companions squatting on their haunches under their blue
ponchos.
A la casa por favor,Eduardo," he said as the driver slid behind
the wheel and put on his visored cap. Stuart leaned back in the
seat and closed his eyes, and felt a sense of relief to be away
from Melvin. The muffled thump of the tires on the wet cobbled
streets and the soft rhythmic clicking of the windshield wipers
were soothing and hypnotic. Gradually the rage that Melvin had
sparked with his comment about Pete's lost child gave way to
guilt.
Oh, Ruth, he thought, why can't you forgive me? Why can't I
forgive myself? Why in the hell do I have to relive that
nightmare in my dreams, and why do people keep reminding me of
that noche triste?
Ten lonely years had passed, but in an instant the recollection
of that night in the Congo was as vivid as though it had just
happened, and the pain of holding the limp body of his dead child
pierced his soul like and arrow. Melvin's remark had gone
straight to the wound that would not heal. His hands perspired,
and he gripped them into fists driving his nails into the palms
hoping that the physical pain would stop the swirl of psychic
torture that he inflicted upon himself.
"God, stop it!" he moaned and shook his head.
"Sir?" the driver asked.
"Nothing, Eduardo, I was just thinking out loud."
Pulling the car up in front of Stuart's house the driver asked,
"Will you be going out tonight, sir?"
"Yes, but I'll take my own car. You can have a night off," he replied and opened the door. "I'll see you in the morning at the
usual time."
CHAPTER 11
Quito, Ecuador - 1971
A diplomatic reception is a social event that is planned and
executed with a precision that is as ritualistic as a meeting of
a Masonic Lodge. For embassy officers and their wives an
engraved invitation requesting the pleasure of their company is
in reality a summons to appear at the ambassador's residence
fifteen minutes before the announced hour so that they will be on
hand to assist in the final arrangements and attend to the
invited guests as they arrive. During these few minutes before
the drama commences, when there is only "family" present, last
minute instructions are given by the Administrative and General
Services Officers to the waiters, cooks and barmen. Substantive
officers get their final briefing from the ambassador, and wives
secretly compare their dresses and hairdos while checking to see
that candy and nut dishes are full, and ashtrays empty.
With the knowledge that the first few seconds after leaving the
receiving line are as lonely as birth itself, junior officers are
placed inconspicuously nearby this strategic area to take the
guests into the mainstream of the party where they are given a
drink and placed in a conversation cluster with one of the
senior officers or wives. Once this priming operation is
completed the affair picks up its own momentum as the alcohol
takes effect, and the guests then circulate from one group to
another paying their respects to the ranking members of the local
government and other diplomatic missions. Conversation is
normally light and gossipy, and controversial subjects are
avoided, but on this evening the political unrest that permeated
the city found its way into the party. People were uneasy, and
they drank a bit more and faster than
usual.
With years of experience behind him Stuart worked his way through the protocol list with a professional skill that allowed him to
chat with the Papal Nuncio, the British Ambassador and the
Minister of Foreign Affairs so that each felt that they were the
most important person present.
Mixed in with the official and diplomatic communities were the
cream of Ecuadorian society. Handsome, well-bred ranch owners
stood possessively near their carefully groomed women dressed in
the finest of Madrid and Paris fashions, and talked of raising
fighting bulls or the cards for the up-coming bullfight season.
The women exchanged gossip and anecdotes about European
experiences or talked of their plans for trips to Spain for the
Feria de Sevilla or the SanFermines in Pamplona. Stuart was
sharing his own story about running with the bulls in Pamplona
with a former Minister of Agriculture, and well known bull
breeder, when he spotted Jorge Chiriboga leaving the receiving
line with his American wife Janet.
Tall, self-assured and dressed in a fine Italian suit, Jorge
moved with confidence out of the receiving line into the party.
He projected an image of virility and vitality that reflected his
leadership qualities. Stuart waited until Jorge had made his
round of greetings, and when it looked as though the group with
whom he was speaking was about to move on, he joined them.
"Good evening, Mr. Minister," Stuart said with mock formality.
"How was your trip to Bogota?"
"Hola, Matador," Jorge replied with a warm smile and opened his
arms to give Pete an abrazo. "Don't ask me about my trip. It
was meetings, meetings, meetings. How do we Latins get anything
done when we talk so much?"
"You said it, Mr. Minister, and not me," Stuart replied with a
laugh.
"You couldn't say it, Mr. First Secretary. That would be
undiplomatique," Jorge replied with a smile.
When, as Stuart had expected, the other couple moved on, he
lowered his voice and spoke softly to Jorge. "How's chances of
having a couple of minutes alone with you."
"Sure, Pete, right now?"
"Uh, huh," Stuart said. "Why don't you walk down the hall over
there to the last door on the left. That's the ambassador's
study, and I think we can talk better in there."
"All right, fine." Jorge said.
"So that people won't think that the Minister of Finance is
involved in a conspiracy with the American Embassy, you go on
ahead," Stuart said. "I'll join you in a few minutes."
Jorge laughed and slapped Stuart on the arm. "You're right. If
they saw us leaving together the whole town would be filled with
rumors by tomorrow morning." he said and turned to walk away as
though continuing to circulate.
Stuart worked his way through the main reception area and left
through an open French door that gave access to a terrace across
the back of the residence. He walked the length of the terrace
and reentered the house through another door into the study to
find Jorge standing in front of the fireplace looking into the
flames.
Stuart pushed the door closed and Jorge turned to face him. "What's on your mind, Pete? You seem rather serious." He paused
and thought for a few seconds. "I can understand that though.
These are serious times, and this mess that we have on our hands
is a serious situation." Jorge studied Stuart's face. "You look
tired, Pete."
"I am tired, Jorge. I'm tired as hell. There's something
happening inside of me that I can't put my finger on. Problems
seem more difficult to solve, and I have a nagging feeling of
doubt. Can I fix you a whiskey?"
"A light one," Jorge replied and sat down in one of the big
leather chairs in front of the fireplace.
"What kind of doubt, Pete?"
"Doubt about what the Americans are doing down here. Doubt about
what I'm doing down here. I don't know, Jorge. It's a nebulous
thing that, as I said, I can't put my finger on. Maybe I'm just
ready for home leave."
"That could be it, Pete. You've been out a long time, and the
past few years have not been easy ones," Jorge said and took a
sip of his whiskey. "And they don't seem to be getting any
better."
"I know, Jorge, and that's what I want to talk to you about. You
know I'm working on the ICC negotiations, and I want to bring you
up to date."
"I'm glad you are working on the ICC case, Pete. I consider it a
real break for us. ICC can play pretty rough, and we may need a
friend in court before this thing is over."
"You don't have any idea how rough they can play, Jorge. I spent
the afternoon with a guy named Ray Melvin who's down here to
negotiate the settlement. He's a tough customer, and difficult
as hell to handle. There's something else I have to tell you,
Jorge. Do you know what the Hickenlooper Amendment is?"
"It's the legislation that requires you to cut off foreign aid
when American property is nationalized and not paid for, isn't
it?" Jorge replied.
"Right," Stuart replied, "and ICC is pressing for a Hickenlooper
suspension right now. We have a cable from the department
requesting information to respond to a Congressional inquiry as
to the status of the negotiations, and Melvin mentioned a
suspension this afternoon."
"That's blackmail, Pete. It's the same blackmail the Americans
used on the Peruvians when they took over International
Petroleum."
"I know it's blackmail, Jorge, and believe me when I tell you
that the embassy will do everything possible to try and prevent a
suspension."
"I believe you, Pete. I know that you are a good friend of
Ecuador. Christ, do you realize what would happen if you cut off
aid to us? In the first place we need the money, but with the
present political climate it could end up where we'd have to
break relations with you. I don't want to see that happen,
Pete."
"I don't want to see that happen either, Jorge, and that's why
we've got to find a way out of this box.
"Melvin said he placed the value of the properties at six million dollars, but I think he'll take something less. The problem is
that he wants it in cash."
"That's an outrage!" Jorge said and pushed himself out of the
chair. "Those properties were fully depreciated years ago, and
they've been taking ten million dollars a year out of the country
ever since they got the concession." He walked to the window and
looked out onto the floodlighted grounds. "That doesn't make any
difference though. Hell, even if they were asking for only a
million dollars we couldn't pay them. We're broke, Pete. Now
we've got this student problem, and we have to get the severance
pay for the workers before we can settle."
"Speaking of the students and the severance pay, what in the hell
happened there? The students pull a wildcat strike, and on the
same morning the government announces that they're going to
insist on severance pay, but not before someone got killed."
"In so far as the student getting killed goes, that was an
accident."
"Are you sure, Jorge?" Stuart asked.
"Yes I am, Pete," Jorge replied. "With respect to the timing of
the announcement, I can tell you what happened, but it's strictly
off the record."
"Jorge, at this point everything we do and say to one another is
off the record. The only way we can work things out is in an
environment of mutual trust and confidentiality. I am sure you
know that, and I just want to let you know that I know it,"
Stuart said.
"I do know that, Pete," Jorge said and returned to his chair.
"Before I left for Bogota I told the President that we should
keep the severance pay and negotiations with ICC as two separate
issues. There were other people in the government who didn't
agree with me. That was the reason that the President delayed in
meeting with the representatives of the union. We were still
having a debate within the government.
"In any case, when I left, the other factions got to the
President and convinced him that their point of view was best,
and he couldn't resist the pressure." Jorge was silent for some
time and then continued.
"Pete, I can assure you that Lopez Peralta is serious about
wanting to improve conditions in this country, otherwise I
wouldn't be here. A lot of the colonels want to bring about
change too, but let's face it, they're soldiers, not politicians.
They have a lot to learn about running a government, and about
politics as well. This incident convinced me that I have a lot
to learn about politics, but most of us are trying, and trying
very hard. Unfortunately we make mistakes. We all know that the
people want change, and that they want it faster than we can come
up with solutions."
Stuart got out of the chair and walked to the fireplace. Taking
a log from a copper bucket he dropped it on the glowing coals.
Then with a bellows he pumped until small fingers of flame
reached up toward the dry log.
"I know, Jorge," Stuart said. "I think maybe that's the reason
that I get discouraged. It seems that the minute we get
something accomplished there are ten new things to deal with, and everyone of them has the same urgent priority to the pressure
group who is making the demand. The peasants want land, and the
landowners want to hang on to what they've got. The urban
population wants decent housing, schools, medical care, but
instead of providing these things the governments take on
American companies. The resources go to pay for things that are
already in place rather than create new things to improve the
quality of life."
"Maybe we're buying our independence, Pete. I'm sure that you
must have thought of that," Jorge said and held out his glass to
Stuart.
"How about a refill? This is getting to be like one of our all
night sessions that we had twenty©five years ago back at
Georgetown," Jorge said.
Stuart took the glass and refilled both of their drinks. "I've
thought of the independence angle, Jorge, and I just hope there
is something left for you to enjoy by the time you get it. Can
you see Melvin sometime tomorrow so that we can get these
negotiations started?"
"He should be seeing Colonel Dominguez, the Minister of
Communications," Jorge said.
Stuart thought for a moment about Melvin's argumentative,
antagonistic manner and shook his head. "Jorge, if we expect to
get anything accomplished we can't bring Melvin together with one
of the colonels. The guy is so offensive, that I can assure you
that if that happens we will end up breaking relations."
Jorge smiled at Stuart. "What makes you think he won't offend
me?"
"He probably will, but I think you can handle it better than some
Macho military officer. You've got that old Georgetown Jesuit
logic, and I think you understand Americans a lot better than
Colonel Dominguez or anyone else in the cabinet."
"I appreciate your confidence, Pete, but despite that Jesuit
logic, I'm still a Latino. Even I have trouble separating form
from substance." He removed a small leather appointment book
from inside his coat. "Is three o'clock okay?" he asked and
placed his glass on the table separating them.
"In your office?" Stuart asked.
"Yes, I can keep my Jebbie cool better if I'm on my own turf."
He stood up and offered his hand to Stuart. "Just as soon as
this thing is settled, I w a n t you to come over to the house for
dinner with Janet and me. You haven't seen your little namesake
for a long time."
"How is that Godchild of mine? Does he like living in Quito?"
Stuart said.
"He loves it, and he's becoming a real bullfight aficionado.
He's always strutting around the house giving passes to imaginary
bulls, and the dog almost thinks he's a bull."
Stuart smiled and shook Jorge's hand. "I would like to come
over, Jorge. You set the date and let me know. Now I guess we
better get back before those rumors start flying. You go ahead,
and I'll see you tomorrow."
Stuart sat for several minutes looking into the flames of the
fire, and had a sudden longing to be away from Quito, Melvin and world of diplomacy where one was required to walk a tightrope
between belligerent and antagonistic forces, and always with the
pressure of reaching an immediate conclusion. There was never
enough time to think things through so as to know what your own
feelings were. Everyone worked feverishly to satisfy U.S.
interests, and he wished that he had a clear definition of just
exactly what U.S. interests were or ought to be. Too often it
seemed to him that U.S. interests were to maintain the status
quo, the balance of power, with nothing more than a vague hope
that some miracle would occur to prevent the continent from
becoming an armed camp where terrorism and violence were met with
more violence and police state repression.
Finishing his drink he placed the glass on the table and walked
back out to the terrace. The rain had stopped, and through a
break in the clouds moonlight reflected off the snow-capped peak
of Mount Pichincha.
At the balustrade, just be yond the light from the row of French
doors leading out of the reception area, stood a lone figure of a
woman looking over the garden and the dark silent Andean
mountains. As he approached her he saw that it was Soledad
Benalcazar. "It's a magnificent view from up here, isn't it."
"Pete! How nice to find you. I looked all over the room for
you, and I was disappointed when I didn't see you. I just
slipped out here to admire the view of Mount Pichincha. It's
like a lonely sentinel standing up there guarding us all."
"That's a very poetic thought," he said and kissed her lightly on
the cheek. "I didn't see your name on the guest list or I would
have been looking for you."
"I don't usually travel in diplomatic circles, and as a matter of
fact, this is really the first diplomatic reception that I've
ever attended. This may sound unkind, but I don't think I would
want to attend them regularly."
Stuart laughed. "That's not unkind. They are rather stuffy, and
I think I would be very happy if I never went to another one
myself. So how is it that you're here, and why didn't I know you
were coming?"
"Well, I don't know why you didn't know that I was coming. That
would be a question of how much Mrs. Chandler confides in you,"
she teased him. "Actually the ambassador's wife has been looking
at my paintings for some time. I ran into her at a gallery this
afternoon and she asked me to come tonight."
She looked at him carefully and tried to make out his features in
the half light. It was an interesting face, and she liked the
angles of his jaw and his fine patrician nose. It was a pleasant
face without being handsome. "You look so much more different
all dressed up in a suit and vest than you did down on the ranch.
You look very handsome."
"Thank you, Soledad," he said. "You look very pretty yourself,
but aren't you cold with just that light stole over your
beautiful bare shoulders?"
"It is a little chilly, but don't forget that I'm a Quiteña. I'm
used to this kind of weather."
Stuart could not remember when he had met someone as appealing as
Soledad, and not just for her physical beauty. He was attracted to her by her openness, and
lack of pretense. "There were so many things that I wanted to
talk to you about down on the ranch, but it was such a madhouse."
"And you were the hero of the day," she said.
"Thanks to you," he replied. "Listen, this party is about over.
Do you have a car? Can I give you a ride home?"
"No, I don't have a car and I'd love for you to give me a ride.
I don't like being on the streets alone when we're having
political problems. I just want to say goodnight to Mrs.
Chandler to thank her for inviting me tonight. I hope she's
going to buy one of my paintings, and it's quite thrilling to
think that I might have some of my work hanging in the residence
of the American Ambassador."
Stuart took her by the arm. He was touched by her simple
enthusiasm. "Let's go and find Mrs. Chandler, and if I can I'll
try and influence her, but I have a feeling that your work stands
on its own, and it doesn't need any outside influence. Anyway,
Mrs. Chandler is very sure about what she likes, and doesn't
like. If she asked you to this reception, you can be sure that
she's going to buy a painting."
Reentering the house they found that Ambassador and Mrs. Chandler
had moved into the living room and were chatting with the staff
after having said good¬night to the last of the invited guests.
"Soledad," Mrs. Chandler said. "I was afraid that I had missed
you. I'm so glad that you came tonight, and that you and Pete
found one another. You're two of my favorite people, and I think
you make a very handsome couple."
Soledad smiled and her cheeks flushed, making her green eyes more
brilliant than usual. "I want to thank you for having me, Mrs.
Chandler. Mr. Stuart has very kindly offered me a ride home."
"Don't call him Mr. Stuart, that sounds so formal," Mrs. Chandler
said. "Pete is better." She looked at Stuart. "Pete, it's so
nice to see you smiling." Turning back to Soledad, she
continued. "Call him Pete, and make him smile. He's always so
serious."
"I will, Mrs. Chandler," Soledad said, and looked up at Stuart.
"He has such a nice smile."
"Would the two of you rather that I go away so you can feel more
free to express yourselves," Stuart joked.
"Not at all. Pete," Mrs. Chandler replied. "What makes you think
women can't say nice things about a man in his presence. You've
lived alone too long in that big house up on the hill. You come
along with us. I want to show Soledad where I'm going to hang
her painting. Have you seen her work, Pete?"
"No I haven't, but I would like to see it very much," he replied
following Soledad and Mrs. Chandler to the foyer.
"She's one of the most exciting painters I've ever seen, and I'm
going to hang her painting right here in the entry, in a
privileged place."
"Mrs. Chandler, you don't know how happy it makes me to know that
you're going to buy the painting. I just told Pete that it's
very thrilling to know that my work is appreciated by someone
with such fine tastes as yours. I'd like very much for you come
to my studio sometime."
I'd love that, Soledad, and I will come soon." She kissed both
Stuart and Soledad on their cheeks and pushed them toward the
door. "Right now I'll let the two of you go."
"I was going to see the ambassador for a minute, Mrs. Chandler,"
Stuart said.
"Nonsense, Pete. You can see him in the morning. You Foreign
Service Officers work twenty-four hours a day and all night too.
You take Soledad home and forget about international affairs for
a while. Think about your own affairs or love affairs," Mrs.
Chandler protested. "Besides, I want to see the ambassador right
now, so I've got to get the rest of the family on their way home.
Goodnight to both of you."
CHAPTER 12
Quito, Ecuador - 1971
Stuart's British Racing Green MG-TC glistened under the lights of
the circular driveway in front of the residence, and was a sharp
contrast to the black embassy sedans and a silver Mercedes
belonging to Carson McCandless, the Counselor for Political
Affairs.
"I love your little car," Soledad said. "It looks like a toy
under a Christmas tree." She automatically headed for the right
side, and Stuart took her by the arm to direct her to the left
door.
"This is a British car, and you drive it from the wrong side," he
said and reached down to open the door for her.
"I adore it, where did you get it?" she asked as she gathered her
long skirt in her hands to slip into the cockpit-like seat.
"I've had this car for over twenty years," he replied, squeezing
his six-foot frame behind the wheel. "I bought it from a fellow
pilot when I was in the Air Force."
"So you're a pilot also. What kind of planes did you fly?" she
asked.
"F-80s and 86s," he said and cranked up the MG.
"Are those fighter planes?"
"Uh huh, in the most famous fighter outfit in the Air Force.
Eddie Rickenbacher's 'Hat-in-the-Ring' squadron. The old 94th
Fighter Squadron." He pulled the car out of the driveway and
headed toward the big iron gate where a Marine Guard was on duty.
"You've done a lot of exciting things," she said.
"You're sort of a Puer Aeternus.
"A what?" he said.
"A Puer Aeternus, an eternal boy," she said. "It's a Jungian
term. You know, the psychologist."
"Yea, I know. Carl Gustave Jung. I love to read his stuff, but
I've never heard of Puer Aeternus before. Hey listen, tell me
how to get to your house."
"Go down past the Hotel Quito, and turn right toward Huapulo,"
she replied.
As they passed the Hotel Quito he thought briefly of Melvin, and
then put him out of his mind. Following Soledad's instructions
he turned off avenida 12 de octubre on to a narrow cobbled street
that wound down the side of a steep slope into the old colonial
Huapulo section of Quito.
"This is it," she said. "That iron gate on the left."
He pulled the car up in front of a high white¬washed wall on which
someone had painted in big red letters the words VIVA EL PARO,
long live the strike. "This place is so peaceful and secluded,
but I see that you're not immune to political sloganeering," he
said.
"I don't think there is any place in Quito, Latin America for
that matter, where you can get away from that. Latins can't
resist painting on walls. That compulsion in not always bad,
though. Did you know that the famous Mexican murals by Diego
Rivera were really just a sublimation of the urge to paint on
walls."
"No, I didn't know that," he said. "I'm learning a lot from you
tonight." He climbed out of the car and walked around to her
door and helped her out.
Taking a key from her purse she opened the big wrought iron gate.
"Would you like to come in for a drink?"
"I've got one helluva day ahead of me tomorrow, but I don't think
U.S. foreign policy is going to stand or fall on the time that it
takes to have one drink. I'd love to come in, and besides, I
want to see some of your paintings," he replied, and followed her
into a small patio where soft amber light illuminated the potted
plants and flowers set against the front of the tiny red-tile-
roofed house. He was immediately reminded of the houses in the
Barrio de Santa Cruz in Sevilla.
Inside the house the smell of turpentine and linseed oil filled
his nostrils as they walked toward a long table cluttered with
paints, brushes and an assortment of bottles. On an easel
standing in front of the high studio window was a partially
completed canvas, and he stood in front of it for several minutes
studying the brush strokes and textures. It was a pre-Colombian
Indian theme done in the same terra cotta colors that the ancient
potters used in their amphoras and figurines.
"This is wonderful, and I like it very much," he said, and turned
to look at her.
"Thank you," she replied from the fireplace where she pushed a
flaming porous log lighter under the stack of wood. "It's my
latest experiment with a new style that I've developed."
Leaving the fireplace she walked to his side. "It seems both the theme
and technique that I've been searching for, and I'm surprised
that it took me so long to hit upon it. But everything is that way isn't it. After we go through so many loops to find our way,
and we do find what we were looking for, we say to ourselves,
this is so simple, so obvious. Why didn't I think of this
before."
She studied the painting as a mother would her child, somewhat
awed by the miracle of her own creation. "I've always been
fascinated by pre-Colombian art and with the beauty of the glaze
that the potters got in their work, and it took me a long time to
realize that all of my restless experimenting was really just a
search to find how to reproduce that color and texture."
She turned to face Stuart. "So much for art. I did offer you a
drink. What would you like?" she said.
Stuart looked into her eyes. "Soledad, I don't think I've ever
met a person more fascinating than you. The truth is I don't
really care whether I have a drink. Just listening to you talk
about your work, and feeling your enthusiasm is like having a
double martini."
"Oh my," she said. "I don't think I've ever been told that
before, but I haven't known many American men. Latin men are
generally afraid of me."
"Afraid of you?" Stuart asked.
"Oh yes," she answered. "Any woman who shows the least degree of
independence in our society is a threat to their machismo, so
it's rather nice to be told that you're intoxicating rather than
castrating."
Stuart smiled broadly. "You really are something. I will have
that drink. I'll have a very light whiskey."
"I hope I haven't scared you," she said
"Not at all," he replied. "Or maybe it's a case of fools rush
in."
"Now you make me feel terrible. Maybe I shouldn't be so direct."
"Please don't change. I think you're wonderful just the way you
are."
She blushed, and once again Stuart noticed how much more green
her eyes looked when her cheeks were flushed.
"If you'll excuse
me, I'll go and get some ice." Taking her long skirt in her hand
she lifted it and walked across the room toward the kitchen.
When she had gone he walked around the room examining the other
paintings and artifacts that were displayed. He liked the
sensation of being in a place where an artist worked. He could
feel the creativity in the atmosphere in the same way that one
feels the presence of God in a church. More than just peace, it
was a feeling of intimacy with some cosmic force.
He stopped in front of a large portrait hanging on the wall
opposite the fireplace and studied it carefully. It was of a
woman, and, done in an impressionist mood, was reminiscent of
Modigliani with it's elongated face, bold brush strokes and a
Mediterranean complexion. The olive skin and black hair were the
opposite of Soledad's, but a familiar resemblance could be seen
in the green eyes and the fine aristocratic features. A subtle
smile and radiant expression completed the theme that was stated
by the gentle rise in the stomach, and hinted of the special
knowledge that is known only to a woman who carries the thread of
human existence within her.
Soledad walked to his side and handed a glass to him.
"This is a
magnificent portrait," he said. "I'll bet it's your mother."
"Yes, it is," she said, surprised that he had recognized her
mother. "It's my most treasured possession." She took a sip of
her own drink. "It's my link to my past. My mother died in
childbirth with me."
"And your father?" Stuart asked and regretted having been so
blunt. "I'm sorry, I'm beginning to sound like a v is a of f i cer."< DD>
"That's all right," she said and walked to the sofa in front of
the fireplace. She sat down and curled her legs under her. "I
didn't know my father either, but I think I'm a lot like him. He
was an idealist, and he went off to fight in the Spanish Civil
War where he was killed. I visited his grave when I was in
Spain."
She looked past Stuart at the portrait. "As a child I used to
sit in front of that painting for hours wishing that I could make
her come to life. I like to think that God inspired her to paint
it so that I would know her through her last creative act."
Stuart walked to the sofa and sat down beside her. "Her last
creative act was to dar a luz a ti," he said using the Spanish
term for childbirth, to give to light. "And that bit of creation
goes on creating."
"That's a lovely thought, Pete. I'd never thought of it that
way."
He reached out and took her hand in his own. "It's very nice
being here with you, Soledad. I can feel the presence of truth
and beauty. I feel like I'm in a safe haven from the violence
and greed that surrounds us."
"You're very sensitive, Pete, because that's exactly what I try
to make this place, my safe haven, and I make an effort to avoid
thinking about violence, greed and other negative things over
which I have no power. My role in life is to paint, to try and
create beauty, and that's what I do."
"Aren't you slightly out of touch with reality?" he asked.
"I don't think so," she replied. "Reality has a way of being
very subjective."
"And elusive, just like the truth," he said.
"That sounds rather cynical, Pete."
"I guess it does, Soledad, but it seems that cynicism is the
handmaiden of diplomacy. No matter how idealistic you are when
you start out, sooner or later it catches up with you. It seems
you can't have one without the other."
She looked into his eyes for a long time, and wondered what would
make this boy-man so cynical. "I could never be a diplomat then.
I could never put my life into something that was eroding my
faith. That's soul-destroying."
He finished his drink and placed the glass on the table. "I
know it, Soledad, and I don't like it, but soul-destroying or
not, it's my business, and I have a lot of work to do tomorrow."
He pushed himself up from the sofa and stood in front of her
holding both of her hands in his own. "I would like to see you
again very soon."
"I would like to see you also, Pete, and don't forget what Mrs.
Chandler said. Smile! I have a feeling that there's something going on inside of you, and what ever it is, everything will work
out all right."
He leaned down and kissed her, a little longer and a little
harder than the first time he had kissed her so quickly that
night on Jose Maria's ranch. She pulled herself up from the sofa
by slipping her arms around his neck, and looked into his eyes
and smiled at him, then touched his lips with her finger tips.
"Where's that smile?" she said.
He drew her close to him and kissed her again. Her mouth was
yielding and her tongue flicked over his lips, before she lay her
head on his chest in a quiet but passionate embrace.
"I will try and smile," he said, "because you're very easy to
smile at. Goodnight, Soledad."
CHAPTER 13
Quito, Ecuador - 1971
Inside the Ministry of Justice and Public Safety Andres
Guerrero's mother sat quietly between Don Luis Candelas, and
Andres' sweetheart, Maria Calderon. The mother's round Indian
face was impassive, and she focused her gaze on her wrinkled
hands folded together in her lap. Behind the desk in front of
them a shoe shine boy labored over the boots of the police
captain sitting behind the desk. The captain ignored them and
alternated his attention between the gloss on his high knee-length boots
and the open file spread across his thighs.
When the bootblack finished his chore he folded the cloth with
which he had rubbed the boots to a high shine and placed it in
his box, then signaled the captain by tapping on the bottom of
the toe. The captain closed the file, stood up and dipped inside
his pocket to remove a silver coin which he tossed to the boy.
Sitting down again, he opened a drawer and swung both of his legs
on top of it, then leaned back in the swivel chair to inspect his
boots before returning his attention to the file.
"My orders are that the body of Andres Guerrero is not to be released," he said without looking up from the file.
Andres' mother looked up from her hands at Don Luis, and with her
eyes urged him to speak. "But why, Captain?" he said. "Surely,
you would not deny the boy a Christian burial."
"I'm not denying anything," the captain replied. "You can have a
funeral, and all of the arrangements will be taken care of by the
government. We'll provide a house, and the body will be under
the guard of the police at all times. Not more than four persons
at a time may enter the house to pay their respects, and on
Saturday you can bury him."
"Captain," Luis pleaded, "Andres was from Guayaquil, a mono, if
you will, and his mother and sweetheart have come all of the way
from the coast to return the boy's body to his home. Andres
would not want to be buried in the Sierra. Can't you arrange for
them to take him home?"
"I have my orders and they are exactly as I told them to you,"
the captain said. Wetting the end of his finger with his tongue,
he rubbed at a spot on the toe of his boot.
"It is because you don't want us to know what happened to
Andres," Maria said.
"Señorita, according to the officer-in-charge of breaking up that
illegal demonstration, Andres Guerrero was killed by his own
weapon which he pulled with every intention of using it against
the police."
"That's not true," the mother said softly. "Andres would use
words, but he would never pull a gun on a man."
"I'm sorry to disagree with you, Señora, but your son had a
history of violence and trouble making. He has been arrested in
the past and charged with illegal possession of a firearm."
"Andres carried a gun because there were people in the Sierra who
wanted to kill him," Maria blurted. "More than once he told me
that he feared for his life when he came up here." She paused
and her voice choked as she held back tears. "Now you have done
it. You have killed him and you don't want to admit it! How
long do you think you can go on killing people who protest
against your brutality?"
"Maria, calmate!" Luis snapped. "Captain, pay no attention to
the girl. She's very upset. Where is this house that the
government is providing?"
The captain rose from his chair. "In El Batan," the captain
said. "One of my officers will accompany you, but I want to
caution you, Señor Candelas, and the Señorita as well. You
should not be saying things like that. You can only bring
trouble on yourselves by making such statements."
Luis pushed his chair back and stood up. Then walked behind the
two women and took them both by their arms. "I know that,
Captain, and please don't misunderstand us. We are just poor
people who want to take care of ourselves, and care for our own
dead. We don't want to make trouble. If you will call the
officer who is to accompany us, we will go to make the arrangements."
"Garcia!" the captain shouted to an orderly who was sitting by
the door cleaning a carbine. "Take these people out to the house
in El Batan!"
The captain sat down in his chair and swung his feet back up on
the drawer. "These are troubled times, Señor Candelas, and you
should be thankful that the government is doing as much as they
are for you. We're keeping a close eye on the students, and I
can assure that no good can come of any further action on their
part. If you have any influence with them, it would be wise to
pass that word on to them."
"Thank you, Captain, "I will do that. I thank you very much for
all of your attention."
HAPTER 14
Quito,Ecuador - 1971
Six blocks away from the Ministry of Justice and Public Safety,
the Ministry of Finance is situated in a crumbling old colonial
building on the Avenida diez de agosto. The wooden steps of the
ancient creaky stairway had hollows worn in them from decades of
use, and they were bleached and cracked from the daily scrubbing
they received from the Indian charwomen. Deep pock marks scored
the walls that had once been white, but which over the years had
acquired a film of grimy grey.
Stuart had no idea what purpose the building had served in
colonial days, but it was obviously not designed as an office
building. It was a honeycomb of small rooms which still bore
traces of eighteenth century rococo in the elaborate capitals of
the columns supporting the high ceilings. Undoubtedly these
rooms had once been filled with the music and laughter of
aristocratic dinner parties, but now they were cluttered with a
hodge podge of unmatching desks, chairs and file cabinets of
mixed vintage. Everything overflowed with heaps of dusty papers
bound into large bundles with hemp cord, and clerks in yellowish
white shirts rushed sheafs of papers in and out of private
offices identified with highly polished brass plaques as
belonging to the Jefe or Sub-Jefe of one department or another.
The reception area of Jorge's office was the antithesis of what
one would expect of a cabinet officer. Furnished with the same
mixture of neo nada it was filled with callers who were favor
seekers, confused businessmen, or provincial officials looking
for special treatment.
Jorge's attractive young secretary recognized Stuart and
immediately left her desk and entered Jorge's office to announce
that Stuart and Melvin had arrived. When she returned she held
her thumb and forefinger out in front of her in that typically
Latin gesture that means that the waiting time will be brief.
"Un momemtito, Señor Stuart," she said. "The Minister is
speaking on the telephone with the President."
After a few minutes Jorge stepped out of the door to his office,
and the hangers-on rose from their chairs and moved toward him.
He walked straight to Stuart and shook his hand while giving a clasp to his shoulder. When Stuart had introduced him to
Melvin, Jorge escorted them toward his office, but stopped to
greet an elderly Indian who held his hat in his hands in front of
him as Jorge spoke with him.
Stuart and Melvin waited until
Jorge concluded his conversation and had taken the old man's
gnarled hand in his own and given the same thumb and forefinger
gesture to him and the others who were waiting to see him.
They preceded him into his office and Jorge closed the door
behind him.
"That goes on all day every day. It's no wonder that we Latins
are underdeveloped. We have no sense of organization," he said
and signaled to Stuart and Melvin to be seated in the leather
chairs in front of his desk. "Can you imagine a cabinet officer
in the United States permitting such confusion in his office?"
He sat down in his own chair behind the desk. "There's nothing
can be done about it though. Everyone of those people out there
has a legitimate reason for wanting to see me, and I have to see
them."
Jorge spoke faultless English without a trace of an accent. "The
incredible thing, though, is that the President's office is the
same way. If I had known what I was letting myself in for when I
agreed to come back from Washington, I think I might have had
second thoughts."
Melvin did not miss the reference to Washington, and he picked up
on it immediately. "Who were you with in Washington?" he asked,
and like most Americans was terse and to the point.
"I was with the OAS, The Organization of American States, on the
staff of the Secretary General."
"Who is also an Ecuadorian," Melvin said with a tone that implied
some sinister nepotism.
Jorge ignored the innuendo. "Yes," he said. "He's a former
President of the Republic, and a fine gentleman, but you're not
here to discuss the Secretary General of the OAS nor my
background, Mr. Melvin. Unlike some of my fellow Latins who like
to inquire about the well being of your wife, your dog and your
cat, I like to get right down to business, so let me tell you the
position of my government.
.
"I was just speaking with the President and he told me to give
you his personal assurances that he and the government want very
much to reach a quick agreement with your company for the
property which we have nationalized. He also asked that I tell
you that our actions were not directed against ICC, but are a
part of a national plan to bring all basic infrastructure under
government control. It's the President's belief that if we are
to have any say, control, over the destiny of our country we must
have control over certain basic elements of our economy. I don't
mean to say that we don't welcome foreign capital. We do want
foreign investors, but only on a partnership basis and as good
corporate citizens in those sectors where we are unable to help
ourselves, as is the case with the oil companies which are
developing the discoveries in the oriente province."
Melvin removed the leather cigar case from his coat pocket and
offered cigars to Jorge and Stuart. Both declined. Taking one
for himself he lit it, and exhaled a large puff of blue smoke. "Mr. Chiriboga, I frankly am not too interested in your
President's plans for the future of the country, especially since
my company will not have a place in that future. If you're as
interested in reaching a settlement as you and your President say
you are, we can do it right now. We've presented the claim to
you, and all you have to do is pay it. As I told Stuart, we want
six million dollars."
Stuart looked at Jorge's face. There was no evidence of concern
over Melvin's antagonistic abruptness. "Isn't six million
dollars a little steep for assets that have a book value well
below that, Mr. Melvin?" Jorge asked.
"Chiriboga, we came into this country years ago, and took the
risk of setting up a telecommunications network without knowing
whether it would pay off or not. It so happened it did pay off,
and we want to be compensated for having taken that risk. We
made a going concern out of something that could just as easily
have failed."
"Failed, Mr. Melvin?" Jorge said. "An exclusive franchise on all
telecommunications for the whole country? I don't see where
there was much risk in that. Furthermore, that was a long time
ago. You haven't spent a nickel in modernization in years, and
most of the hardware is in need of replacement.
Melvin leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his
chest. "Look, I don't want to discuss investment theory or
economics with you. I've told you what our claim is, and you say
you want to settle. Okay, so settle."
Melvin had the same
bullying tone of voice that he had used with Stuart in the hotel.
Jorge was not intimidated, and he showed no sign of emotion when
he replied with a small laugh.
"You make it sound so easy, Mr.
Melvin. Unfortunately, I am a public servant and the guardian of
public trust. I could never endorse or be a part of such a
misuse of public money."
Jorge stood up from his chair and walked around the desk to stand
beside Melvin. "Let's talk about a few specifics. Our Attorney
General has given the opinion that under the Constitution your
company is obliged to pay severance pay to the workers."
"Wait a minute, Chiriboga!" Melvin interrupted. "That may be
your Attorney General's opinio n, but it 's not mine. We didn't
fire those workers. When you took the company away from us, you
hired them, and if there's any severance pay due to them, it's
your obligation and not ours. I know as well as you do that this
is a matter of your own internal politics, and nothing more than
at attempt by the colonels to buy support from labor for their
regime. It won't work, Mr. Chiriboga. It won't even start to
fly."
Jorge walked back to his chair and sat down. "I don't think we
have much to talk about, Mr. Melvin. I can't accept your six
million dollar claim, and you don't accept responsibility for the
severance pay. Perhaps we should conclude this meeting and
resume at some other time when you are in a true mood to negotiate."
"Now wait a minute, Chiriboga. Don't get your machismo worked
up," Melvin said. "Let's talk some more."
He's just like a bull, Stuart thought. He bluffs and paws the ground, but when you cross his territory he follows the cape.
Melvin now got up from his chair and paced the floor. "What if I
said that we would go along with the severance pay if you came up
with cash to settle the rest of the claim. When I say cash, I
mean good hard foreign exchange, U.S. Dollars, deposited in a New
York Bank." Melvin stopped in front of the desk and faced Jorge.
"Just like a divorce. A nice clean cash settlement and the
marriage between the Government of Ecuador and ICC is
terminated."
Stuart was surprised by Melvin's abrupt shift in his willingness
to negotiate over the matter of the severance pay, but then he
reasoned that Melvin had a global figure in mind. It made no
difference to Melvin what you called the components of the
settlement price so long as it met with his total figure.
Jorge showed no evidence of being in an inferior negotiating
stance and pursued the opening. "Just suppose, Mr. Melvin, that
we could come up with a cash offer. What is the minimum that
your company will accept? What is the bottom line?"
Melvin drew on his cigar and looked up at the ceiling. "You guys
really are camel traders, you know that. Seven hundred years of
Arab occupation of Spain left you all with a camel trader, rug
merchant mentality, but I've got a little bit of rug merchant in
me too. After an offer has been made, the next step is a counter
offer. Make me a last price offer, and I'll see if I can live
with it."
Melvin slumped into the chair again and leaned forward to look
Jorge square in the eyes. "There's one thing more that I want to
mention, Chiriboga. The equipment here doesn't tie you into New
York. You have to go through Bogota to get to the States and
Europe, and ICC is still in Bogota. That means that after we
work out a settlement for the properties, we have to work out a
deal for handling your traffic through Colombia."
