"That's all right, Mr. Stuart," she replied. "I'll call the
code room. She left his office and Stuart picked up the pages
and began to read.
THE FOREIGN SERVICE
OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
OUTGOING CABLE
CONFIDENTIAL
PRIORITY
ACTION: SECSTATE, WASHDC
FROM: AMEMBASSY, QUITO
REF: DEPTEL PRIORITY 67390
SUBJECT: CONGRESSIONAL INQUIRY RE STATUS ICC
CLAIM
1. IN SEPTEL EMBASSY HAS REPORTED ON POLITICAL EVENTS OF
PAST FORTY-EIGHT HOURS WHICH SITUATION CONTINUES TENSE.
ALTHOUGH UNDERLYING CAUSES POLITICAL UNREST BASICALLY
UNRELATED TO ICC-GOE NEGOTIATIONS THE FACT THAT PROBLEMS
SURFACED IN CONNECTION WITH STUDENT SUPPORT OF COMMUNICATIONS
WORKERS PLACES ISSUE THAT WOULD OTHERWISE NOT COMMAND
SIGNIFICANT PUBLIC ATTENTION INTO HARSH LIMELIGHT OF POPULAR
SENTIMENT. UNDOUBTEDLY PRESIDENT LOPEZ PERALTA ERRED IN
MAKING PUBLIC STATEMENT ON MATTER OF SEVERANCE PAY IN CLUMSY
ATTEMPT TO DEFLECT INCREASING DISENCHANTMENT WITH HIS
GOVERNMENT AND MOBILIZE SAGGING PUBLIC SUPPORT. ERROR
COMPOUNDED BY OVER REACTION OF TRIGGER HAPPY POLICE AND ARMY
BY BLOCKING STUDENT DEMONSTRATION AND CLOSING OF UNIVERSITY
BUT IS INDICATIVE OF PATHOLOGICAL DEVOTION MILITARY MIND HAS
TO LAW AND ORDER. PROBLEM NOW FACING GOVERNMENT IS WHETHER
OR NOT THEY CAN CONTAIN SITUATION WITHOUT FURTHER DAMAGING
THEIR IMAGE, AND THERE IS ALWAYS THE DANGER THAT THEY MIGHT
YIELD TO TEMPTATION TO DIRECT PEOPLE'S OUTRAGE OVER DEATH OF
STUDENT, RISING PRICES, AND BUREAUCRATIC BUNGLING AGAINST
ICC AND U.S.
2. AGAINST THIS BACKDROP IT IS IMPERATIVE THAT NEGOTIATIONS
BE CARRIED OUT IN ATMOSPHERE OF CALM AND DISPASSIONATE BARGAINING
WITH AS LITTLE PUBLICITY HERE AND IN U.S. AS
POSSIBLE. TO INVOKE HICKENLOOPER AMENDMENT COULD LEAD TO
HARDENING OF GOE POSITION AND COULD WELL PROVIDE THE
CATALYST THAT WOULD LEAD THEM INTO ANTI-AMERICAN COURSE. ON
THE OTHER HAND, THE SEVERAL AID LOANS THAT ARE PENDING
BEFORE DEPARTMENT CAN PROVIDE THE RESOURCES THAT GOVERNMENT
NEEDS TO ATTACK BASIC CAUSES OF UNREST.
3. EMBASSY OFFICER MET WITH ICC VICE PRESIDENT MELVIN AND
MINISTER OF FINANCE JORGE CHIRIBOGA AND BOTH SET FORTH THEIR
POSITIONS IN RELATIVELY CALM TERMS. ICC INDICATED WILLINGNESS
TO SETTLE FOR LESS THAN UNREASONABLE SIX MILLION CLAIM
IF CASH PAYMENT COULD BE ARRANGED, AND MINFIN CHIRIBOGA OFFERED
TO PURSUE THIS APPROACH. WHILE THIS IS AT LEAST AN
OPENING WHICH COULD LEAD TO SOLUTION THERE WILL REMAIN EVEN
AFTER AGREEMENT ON SETTLEMENT FIGURE THE PROBLEM OF RAISING
MONEY SINCE CENTRAL BANK HOLDINGS OF FOREIGN EXCHANGE ARE AT
AN ALL TIME LOW. IN PRIVATE CONVERSATION WITH EMBASSY
OFFICER MELVIN MADE CURIOUS REMARK THAT IMPLIED THAT ICC
MIGHT HAVE MEANS TO SOLVE THIS ISSUE BUT DECLINED TO
ELABORATE OR PROVIDE DETAILS. HE DID INDICATE THAT SUCH
SOLUTION WOULD HAVE ITS ORIGINS IN WASHINGTON AND EMBASSY
WOULD APPRECIATE ANY INFORMATION THAT DEPARTMENT MIGHT HAVE
IN THIS REGARD.
CHANDLER
Stuart put the cable on his desk satisfied that, although
brief, it managed to convey the urgency of the situation. With
the thousands of cables pouring into the department from posts
throughout the world it was necessary that you state your case in
as few words as possible with the expectation that someone on the
other end, a desk officer perhaps, because of his common experience in the Foreign Service, would have an insight into all that
went behind the terse abbreviated sentences and acronyms.
There was always a chance, however, that the cable would end
up in the hands of a Departmental Civil Service employee who had
never been beyond Foggy Bottom. It was these bureaucrats who
applied the laws and regulations with one-sided uniformity. For
them the conduct of foreign affairs was an eight-to-five job, and
each night they went to their suburban homes in Maryland or
Virginia and had cookouts with airline pilots, advertising
executives and businessmen, leaving the activities of the
Department of State at Twenty-First and C Streets.
In the Foreign Service one never left the job behind. Every
second of your life was involved with the representation of the
interests of the United States of America. Everywhere you went
you were never just Mister So-and-So; you were Mister So-and-So
of the American Embassy. Every action you took, and every word
you spoke was treated as representing the position of the
American Embassy and the Government of the United States of
America. If you got drunk, you were not just a drunkard. You
were implicated in a scandal whereby U.S. foreign policy was
conducted by drunkards. If you had a love affair you were not
just endangering your marriage; you were a threat to the security
of the United States. A Foreign Service officer worked twentyªfour hours a day, and his personal opinion on any subject was
secondary to the guidelines received from the department and
embassy.
He picked up the telephone and dialed the reception desk.
"Marine guard, Corporal Thomas speaking," a crisp boyish
voice answered.
"This is Pete Stuart,"
"Yes sir, Mr. Stuart."
"Is the duty driver down there? I'd like to have him take
me up to the residence."
"Yes sir, he's here. Would you like me to have him bring
the car around to the entrance? It's raining pretty hard."
"Would you please. I'll be right down."
Stuart replaced the receiver and inserted the cable along
with a yellow drafting pad into a thin black leather portfolio.
Pulling his raincoat off a hanger he put it on and walked out of
his office. Stopping at Janie's desk he looked down at a novel
she was reading. "I hope I'm not long," he said. "You don't
have anything planned for this evening, do you?"
"No sir," she replied looking up from the novel. "Some of
the girls are getting together for a buffet, but I told them I
didn't think I would make it after you called this afternoon."
"I appreciate that, Janie. "I'll let you have an afternoon
off with no charge to annual leave one of these days." He leaned
across the desk and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "You're a
sweetheart," he said.
The life of a Foreign Service secretary might appear
exciting and adventurous with all of the travel and stories about
high living, but in reality it involves a lot of lonely hours and
isolation. Excluded from most official entertaining, and except
in rare cases unable or unwilling to date local men, the women
keep company with one another. Their parties were at times sad,
almost pathetic, affairs as they dressed up in long dresses and
imitated their diplomatic bosses with elaborate buffets and
plenty of Chivas Regal and Piper Hiedsick Champagne to ease the
pain of their chaste and lonely lives. The stories of fast high-living Foreign Service girls were mostly figments of the imaginations of novelists.
The duty car pulled up to the gate of the residence, and a
guard walked from under the eaves of the gate house to check it.
A Ecuadorian soldier with an M-1 carbine slung muzzle-down over his shoulder
watched while the embassy guard opened the gates once he had
identified Stuart and the driver. Parked off to one side was a
small Toyota police car with two plain clothes men in it, and
inside the gate house, on embassy property, sat a U.S. Marine
Guard in front of a radio that kept him in contact with his
buddies on duty in the chancery. The old boy's taking no
chances, Stuart thought. He has no intention of becoming a
kidnap victim, and he's taking his own words of warning seriously.
Four other cars reflected the glaring floodlights on the
wide circular driveway in front of the house, a black Government
of Ecuador Mercedes, a limousine with diplomatic tags, and two
smaller American sedans that belonged to embassy officers. A
dinner party of eight, ten with the ambassador and his wife, he
thought. He had participated in many such evenings. They would
have cocktails in the smaller family room rather than in the
large reception room in an attempt to create an ambience of
intimacy, and sooner or later the ambassador would direct the
conversation to opera, stamp collecting or the stock market, the
three subjects which occupied his leisure time. A white-jacketed houseboy admitted Stuart to the foyer.
"Good evening, Mr.
Stuart," he said.
"Good evening, Manuel. Would you please tell the ambassador
that I'd like to see him."
"You wait here or like to go to library?"
"I'll go to the library," he replied.
"Can I bring you drink?"
"Yes, I'll have a martini, on the rocks, please." He
removed his raincoat and threw it across one of the Chippendale
chairs and walked to the library. On the desk were a magnifying
glass, a large postage stamp catalog, and another thick book
which was open. Stuart half closed the book and read the title,
”The World of Opera•. It was opened to Puccini. He must be in a
sentimental mood, he mused. Opening his own portfolio, he
removed the pages of the cable.
"Good evening, Pete."
Stuart turned to face the ambassador. "Good evening, sir. I'm
sorry to disturb you, but I knew you would want to see this cable
before it went out."
"On the ICC business?"
"Yes, sir," he said, handing the cable to him."
"Sit down please, Pete," the ambassador said as he slumped
into a large leather chair.
Manuel slipped quietly into the room with Stuart's drink on
a small silver tray. "Gracias, Manuel," he said softly and took
the glass from the tray. He sipped at the drink while the
ambassador read.
"That's fine, Pete," he said removing a pair of half reading
glasses and slipping them into the breast pocket of his tuxedo.
"What do you suppose this fellow Melvin has in mind?"
"I have no idea, sir, but he left do doubt in my mind that
he had something cooking. You know how some of these private
sector guys are. They tell you just exactly what they want you
to know, and nothing more. I had the impression that he was
planting a seed, and was willing to wait to see if it sprouted."
"Um, I know what you mean," the ambassador said. He rubbed
his had over his chin. "I've dealt with a few ICC men myself,
and they're a tough bunch. I'd hate to have one of them sore at
me. There are quite a few shipwrecked careers of people who got
crosswise with ICC. Not just in the State Department, but all
through the government." He looked at the cable again, and was
pensive for a few minutes. Stuart wondered if he might suggest
changes. "Well, they're hotfooting it around Washington, and
whatever they're up to will come out in its own time. Do you
want me to sign off on this cable?"
"If you would please, sir." Stuart removed a ballpoint pen
from his pocket and handed it to the ambassador. He took it and
placed a large C over the name Chandler, then handed both the pen
and the cable back to Stuart.
He stood up. "Okay, Pete," he said. "Keep me informed. I
don't want either you or me to get caught in the middle between ICC and the Government. Would you like to come in and meet my
guests?"
"Thank you, sir, but I think I'll get back to the embassy
and get this cable up to the code room. I'm supposed to go to a
dinner party tonight down in Tumbaco, and if I'm going to make it
I'll have to get cracking."
"All right, Pete. Thank you very much. Goodnight."
CHAPTER 18
Quito, Ecuador - 1971
Stuart pushed the button beside the heavy fireproof door
that protected the embassy communications unit. From inside he
heard the bell ring and then footsteps. When they stopped behind
the door he knew that he was being examined through the peephole
like a caller in a strange apartment. Recognition assured, the
door swung open and he was admitted to the nerve center of the
embassy by the duty code clerk, a youthful collegiate looking
girl.
A row of cashier's cage bars separated him from the banks of
gray file cabinets and the half-open vault door which enclosed
the room where the message encrypting and transmission gear was
located. "I'm sorry to have to keep you tonight, but I couldn't
get this done this afternoon," he said.
"That's okay, Mr. Stuart. We're used to this," she replied.
"Anyway, you're not the only one burning the midnight oil. Mr.
Kirk has a message going out also."
The vault door to the encrypting room swung open and Jim
Kirk, the CIA Station Chief, walked out with a sheaf of yellow
telegraphic hardcopy paper in his hand. Kirk's special position
in the embassy was emphasized by his presence in that most
restricted sanctuary. All of the equipment and the employees who
were permitted in the code room were under his supervision and
belonged to his agency. This gave him a clear shot into Washington and assured his independence of judgement and reporting since
none of his messages required any approval or prior review by the
ambassador or any other officer in the embassy. He put the
hardcopy on a desk and walked to the window in the bars. "Hi,
Pete, how goes the battle?"
"Up hill, Jim, up hill all the way, one day at a time,"
Stuart replied, and handed the pages of his cable to the girl who
logged the message in, then carried them back to the encrypting
room. "I see that I'm not the only loyal and dedicated civil
servant who works beyond the whistle."
"I guess you haven't heard the news," Kirk said.
"News? What news?" Stuart asked, a puzzled expression on
his face. "I just left the residence and the ambassador didn't
have anything new?"
"I just now finished calling him," Kirk replied. "The
governments's slapped on a curfew at ten o'clock. It's already
on the radio, but I got a call from one of my contacts in the
National Police about a half an hour ago."
"A curfew! What in the hell has happened now?" Stuart asked.
"All day long we've known that something was brewing, but
it's been impossible to get any hard leads on what it was.
There's been a lot of movement of students up from Guayaquil.
Not the leaders, most the those guys have been detained by the
police, but the second and third strin ers. Most of them ar e
f r i e n ds of the kid who was killed, and the government can't find
out whether all of this movement has any real political overtones. Even though the army and police have tried to watch everyone
pretty closely, it's too big a job for them to keep tabs on a
bunch of rebellious students who are migrating between Guayaquil
and Quito. About an hour ago the most incredible thing happened."
"What was that?" Stuart asked.
"The kid's body was stolen”•," Kirk replied.
"Stolen! You must be putting me on," Stuart said with a
tone of disbelief.
"I'm not putting you on," Kirk said. "They stole the body
right from under the noses of the police. As you know they had
it out in a house in El Batan, and they were letting mourners in
under what they thought was tight security. A group gathered in
front of the house and began shouting and demonstrating. The two
guards who were on duty inside the house went outside to help
those on duty out there, and while they were breaking things up
two students carried the body out of the house between them.
"How in the hell could they do that?" Stuart asked.
"They draped it in black women's mourning clothes, and
carried it out as though it were a woman who had fainted. Now,
the police don't know where the body is or what's going to happen
next, so they've slapped on a curfew to try and keep things from
getting out of control during the night. It's like waiting for
the other shoe to fall."
"Jesus, that is incredible," Stuart said. "I've been
through some pretty wild things including the last days of the
Ayub regime in Pakistan and the blowup in the Congo, but I've
never seen a situation like this. Anywhere else in the world
they kidnap live people, but here they steal a dead body. What
do they think they can accomplish with this?"
"I don't know," Kirk replied, "unless it's to just make
trouble. The whole thing smacks of a grizzly student's prank
rather than the actions of organized terrorists. Like so many
things that happen in this country, it has a comic opera quality
about it. The only problem is that it's not a comic opera.
There are real people involved, and despite the absurdity of the
situation, there is a real threat of danger. If they throw
troops and police out on the streets tonight with half-assed
instruction and itchy trigger fingers, the chances of someone
else getting killed are damned good."
"Geez, I'm supposed go to a dinner party tonight down in
Tumbaco," Stuart said touching his hand to his head. "I'd better
call Raul Villagomez and cancel out."
"I think that would be wise idea," Kirk said. "Just as soon
as the code clerk gets your message out, I'm going to take her
home and then get off the streets myself."
Stuart left the code room and returned to his office to find
his secretary still reading her novel. "Janie, you'd better get
on your way home. The government's just put on a curfew at ten
o'clock, and we'd all better be off the streets by that time."
"Curfew," she said, a trace of fear in her voice.
"Yes, it has to do with that student that was killed. Do
you have a car?"
"No, I don't own one," she replied, and shoved an open file
safe drawer closed, then spun the combination lock.
"Okay, you go on and get the duty driver to take you home.
I'll take one of the embassy cars and drive it myself just as
soon as I've made a phone call."
Taking a small address book from his billfold, he looked up
the telephone number of Raul Villagomez and dialed it. When a
servant answered, he asked for Raul, and while he waited for him
to come to the phone he could hear the laughter and music of the
party in the background.
"Hello," a voice said.
"Raul, this is Pete Stuart. I don't know whether you've
heard about it or not, but the government's imposed a curfew at
ten o'clock.
"No, Pete, I hadn't heard about it. What happened?" he
asked.
"The body of that boy who was killed was taken out of the
house where the police had it, and they don't know who took it.
That's really all I know, Raul, but what I called to tell you is
that I won't be able to make it down to your place tonight. Will
you please accept my apologies and give my regrets to your wife?"
"Of course, Pete. I'm sorry we won't be seeing you. I hope
this is not the beginning of more trouble,"
"I hope so too, Raul. Perhaps you'd better tell the rest of
your guests to stay over down there. I don't think it would be a
good idea to provoke some nervous paratrooper into another
shooting incident."
"I think you're right, Pete. Thanks for calling. I'll try
to see you next week. Let's have lunch one day."
"Fine, I'll call you, Raul. Goodnight."
Holding the button on the phone down for a few seconds, he
waited and then dialed the Deputy Chief of Mission, Mat Clausen's, number. The phone rang once and Clausen answered. "Mat,
this is Pete Stuart. I assume that since you're sitting on top
of the phone that you know about the curfew."
"Yes, Pete. I've already put the emergency phone procedures
into effect." The embassy had a chain letter-like telephone
network to relay important information to the staff. "Where are
you?"
"I'm in the embassy, but I'm on my way out right now," he
said. "I'll talk to you tomorrow." He cradled the receiver and lifted himself out of his chair. Before turning off the lights,
he instinctively checked the desk tops of his own and Jane's
office for any classified material, and once again pulled on the
safe drawer to make certain that it was locked. Satisfied that
everything was put away and secure he turned off the lights and
walked down the corridor past a Marine Guard who was making his
rounds of the embassy.
"Goodnight, Mr. Stuart," the Marine said.
"Goodnight, Tim."
It had been a long day and he was tired.
He was pleased, though, that he would not have to drive to
Tumbaco to the dinner party. Out of everything comes some good,
he mused.
CHAPTER 19
Quito, Ecuador - 1971
Stuart eased the car between the heavy iron gates at the
embassy main entrance and acknowledged a military salute from the
guard with a wave of his hand. Then, in that moment in infinity,
he made a spontaneous decision that had no explanation. He was
totally unaware of the unconscious thought process that guided
him to turn left and drive up the hill toward the Hotel Quito
rather than make a right turn to follow his usual route home.
Huge raindrops splattered against the windshield, and the wipers
were unable to stay ahead of them, so he drove slowly through the
empty streets. As he approached the traffic circle in front of
the hotel he came upon the flashing blue lights of a police van
parked in the middle of the street, and he slowed, then stopped
beside a paratrooper who signaled to him with a flashlight. Walking to the front of the car, the trooper cast the beam onto
the license plate, then returned to side window.
"Diplomatico?" he asked, having noticed the CD plates.
"Si," Stuart replied. "De la Embajada Americana."
"Do you have your identification?"
Stuart pulled the red leather carnet issued by the foreign
office from his pocket and handed it to the trooper. From inside
the van he could hear the crackle of the police radio.
Shining the light on the carnet, the trooper studied the
photo, then turned the light on Stuart's face before handing the
card back to him.
"Muy bien," he said. "A toque de queda has been imposed at
ten o'clock, and everyone must be off the streets by that time,
even diplomats, so you'd better hurry home." He spoke with a
mushy coastal accent.
"I'm only going up the street," Stuart replied. "I'll be
off the streets by ten."
Stepping back from the car he waved the light motioning for
Stuart to continue. Putting the car in gear, he drove forward
past the van, and around the traffic circle, then continued on to
the narrow cobbled street that led down the hill to Soledad's
studio.
After ringing the bell he waited, and in a few seconds
Soledad called, "Yes, who is it?" from the door of the house.
"It's me, Pete," he shouted.
"Pete, what in the world? Just a minute, let me get my
umbrella."
As he stood there, the rain streaming down his face, he felt
foolish and realized that he should have called her from the
embassy, but his decision to come had been almost a reflex as
spontaneous as one of self-protection.
The sound of her quick footsteps carried over the wall and
then there was a metallic grate as she slid the night security
bolt open before swinging the gate to let him pass. She held the
umbrella out for him and he followed her through the patio toward
the light of the open door.
She collapsed the umbrella, placed it in a corner, then
turned to face him. "Pete, what are you doing back here? I
thought you were going to a dinner party."
"The government's imposed a curfew. I was afraid there
might be trouble during the night, and I didn't want you to be
alone if something does happen," he said and pulled off his
raincoat.
"A curfew, why?" she asked.
"Somebody snatched the body of that boy who was killed, and
they don't know who did it, what the impli¬cations are, or what
might happen next," he said.
"My God," she said. "We go from bad to worse. Let me have
your raincoat, and then come down by the fire. You're soaked."
He shook the raincoat, before handing it to her, then
followed her to stand in front of the fireplace.
"You look like you could use a drink. How about another
martini?" she said.
"You're not kidding, I could use a drink, maybe two," he
said. "I'm sorry to barge in on you like this, Soledad, but I
didn't even think about what I was doing. I was already in the
car leaving the embassy when I decided to come here. If I had
thought about it I would have called you before I left my
office."
"That's all right, I'm glad you came. I don't like being
alone when we're having political disturbances, although nothing
ever happens except to change the name of the man who occupies
the presidential palace."
"Well something ”could• happen," he said. "Especially with
the government being so insecure. They seem to be overreacting
to everything."
"I know," she said. "It's been a long time since we've had
a curfew." She walked to where he was standing and handed the
drink to him. "I wish we could settle down to being a little
more mature in our political life. Living in this constant
turmoil is not good."
He took a swallow of the martini and looked at her. She
must have just gotten out of the bath, he thought. Her hair hung
loose over her shoulders and it was still a little damp. She was
dressed in her nightgown and a white terry cloth bathrobe, and he
could smell the scent of pine bath oil on her body.
"The whole continent is that way," he said. "I've seen
enough trouble in my lifetime to know that the situation down
here is explosive as hell. I went through the riots in Pakistan
when Ayub was overthrown, and before that I was in the Congo when
things blew. Every few years it seems like I get a post that
blows sky high."
"I don't know how you stand it," she said. "It's bad enough
going through things here, but at least I'm in my own country. I
don't think I could take a civil war or a revolution in a far
away place like Pakistan or Africa."
"I'm beginning to think I can't take it any longer," Stuart
said. "Or at least I don't want to take it any longer. I think
living under the continual threat of being kidnapped, or going
through all kinds of civil unrest must have an effect on your
unconscious."
"Of course it does," she said. "I feel like I'm shattered
inside with just this news. I can't imagine what it must be like
to experience violence. Have you ever had anything happen to you
personally?"
"I've had several confrontations with mobs and violence, but
one that was really terrible."
"Oh, what happened?" she asked, then holding up her hand she
shook her head. "No, don't tell me. I don't think I want to
hear about violence tonight."
He placed his glass on the table and took both her hands in
his. "Soledad, I think I have to tell you at least part of it. I feel myself becoming very close to you, and there are some
things that I want you to know about me. The first is that I
have a wife, even though my actions may have led you to believe
that I'm a bachelor."
"I thought maybe you did," she said.
"What made you think so?" he asked
"I don't know, Pete. These are things that one perceives
through intuition."
"And you didn't say anything to me about it?"
"No. Why should I? It was really none of my business, and
I thought if you wanted me to know, you would tell me."
"You're marvelous, darling. Very few people will concede
that one's past is private, especially in relations between men
and women." He paused and looked into her eyes. "Can I tell you
what happened? I'll leave out the details of the violence. The
incident in itself is horrifying."
"Yes, but let's sit down." She pulled him toward the sofa.
"I'm looking forward to this with about the same enthusiasm that
I would an invitation to spend an evening with the Spanish
Inquisition."
"I understand that, Soledad, but I want to tell you so that
we can place it in the past where it belongs. I don't want
anything to mar our future." He picked up the glass from the
table, took a swallow, then leaned back on the sofa and looked
into the fire. He was silent for several minutes, then he took
Soledad's hand in his own and looked at her.
"This happened in the Congo just after Katanga seceded, and
the Simbas went on a rampage. Throughout the country they were
murdering priests, raping nuns, killing civilians. It was total
anarchy. Things happened so fast and communications were so poor
that we couldn't keep up with all the stories of atrocities that
were being committed.
Then, one of the worst tragedies in modern African history
occurred. They started bringing in white mercenaries. Some of
them came to the Congo to fight for their ideals, for what they
believed, right or wrong, but the majority of them were degenerates recruited in every part of the world who saw the situation
there as an opportunity to satisfy their own warped perversions.
Homosexuals, drunkards, rapists, drug addicts, ex-Nazis, you name
it. They were all there.
"As things deteriorated, we realized in the embassy that we
were going to have to get the dependents out of the country, and
we cabled for an Air Force plane to come in for the evacuation.
The night before the plane was scheduled to arrive was a nightmare in Leopoldville. The mercenaries were drunk, and riding
around town in jeeps shooting their guns, and taking what ever
caught their fancy. We just prayed that we would get through the
night with no incidents, but as it turned out, we didn't.
"My wife, Ruth, and I lived in an old colonial house in the
diplomatic enclave, and we thought we would be safe until the
next day. We had Ruth's and our son Tommy's bags packed and when I put him to bed that night he was so excited about the prospect
of taking a trip on an Air Force plane that you would have
thought it was Christmas Eve.
"We ate a light snack, and went to bed early ourselves, but
I never really slept. All during the night I could hear gunfire
as t he mer ce na ries continued their spree. Finally in the early
morning I dozed off, and about three in the morning I was aroused
by voices in the living room . I got out of bed, and walked down
the hall where I stood in the doorway watching three men,
silhouetted against the light from the outside security floodlights that came through French door where they had entered. They
were fumbling around, obviously drunk, and they spoke a language
that I didn't understand. The only words I recognized were
diplomatiker and whiskey. I figured that they were just looking
for whiskey, and that when they found the bar and got a bottle,
they would leave. I just stood quietly in the darkness, watching
them, and hoping and praying that nothing happened.
"Tommy's room was on the opposite side of the house.
Apparently he heard the voices, was frightened, and got out of
bed to come to us.
"'Mommy, daddy,' he said, and my heart started pounding. "I
shouted to him. 'Tommy get back in your bed!'
"Asi de from being drunk, these men were savages, and they
converted emotion into immediate action. One of them unslung a
sub-machine gun and sprayed the room with one long burst. Then
they ran from the house. The shots had missed me, but I was
almost certain that they had hit Tommy.
"I turned on the lights and there he was, lying on the
floor, the blood already seeping through his sleepers. I thought
I was going to faint, but I ran to him. It was no use.
He was dead.
"From the doorway I heard Ruth calling and I yelled at her.
'Ruth, don't come in here!'
"'Pete,' she screamed. 'What happened?' She rushed into
the living room, and when she saw Tommy she
moaned and sobbed. I have never seen such grief or shock in a human being,
and I never want to see it again. I didn't know what to do, but
I went to her and took her in my arms. Suddenly she stopped
screaming and sat down in a chair in a total catatonic stupor."
"Oh, Pete, how horrible," Soledad said and reached over to
embrace him. "What a horrible, horrible nightmare. I don't know
how you survived."
"I don't know how I survived myself, Soledad. I can't
describe the emotions that I went through. I felt like my chest
had been ripped open with a knife and my insides just pulled out
of me. Every once in a while I still have a nightmare and wake
up with that same feeling. I had it the other morning when I
heard the gunfire here in Quito."
"It must be terrible," she said. "I wish there was something I could do to wash your memory."
Stuart stood up and picked up his glass. "I'm going to have another drink."
"I'll get it for you," she said and took the glass from him.
"There's still a bit more to the story, Soledad, so I might
as well tell it all to you right now."
"All right, Pete. Sometimes talking about things makes them
seem less important." She put her hand on his face and rubbed
the stubble of his beard. "Talking can even make things go away
completely."
"You don't know how much I wish that would happen," he
replied.
Returning to the sofa, she sat down and curled her legs
under her. "I'm ready," she said.
"Before going down to the Congo I was in Madrid, and one of
the last assignments I had was to work on a very secret arms
sale. Through a very complicated network of front men, cut outs
and covers we sold a lot of arms to Moises Tshombe, who later
with the backing of some big Belgian mine owners, was to lead the
Katanga secession. The irony is that the guns used to kill Tommy
were the same guns that I sold."
"Oh, Pete, that's terrible, but you shouldn't feel guilty.
You had no way of knowing what was going to happen."
"Selling guns to irresponsible people is in itself and
irresponsible act, and I can't forget that," he said. "Ruth has
never let me forget it either."
"Where is Ruth now?"
"In California. She's an angry and bitter person, and she
blames me for everything."
"That's unfair of her," Soledad said. "It's very convenient
to have you to blame, but you very conveniently go along with her
by feeling guilty."
"How does one rid himself of guilt, Soledad? I don't mean
intellectually rid yourself of guilt. How do you cleanse your
soul, your insides? How do you stop the dreams?"
"Faith, Pete," she replied and reached for his hand. "Faith
and admitting that you made a mistake. We all make mistakes.
They don't all lead to such tragic consequences, but everyone has
something in their past to regret. You and Ruth are not divorced?"
"No," he replied. "She's never asked for a divorce, and I
suppose that I've stayed married to her out of the same feelings
of guilt. To divorce her seems like it would be just one more
burden for me to haul around."
"How long ago did this happen?" Soledad asked.
"Ten years ago."
"Ten years are a lot out of a lifetime. If she can't
forgive you, you have to make peace with yourself and God, and
get on with the business of living."
"You never cease to amaze me, Soledad. You have such
wonderful insight into the workings of the human heart."
"You're rather sensitive yourself, Pete. Let's finish this
drink, and then I'll get you a blanket. I hope you won't mind sleeping on the sofa, it's fairly comfortable."
"As an uninvited guest, I should be thankful that you didn't
throw me out into the streets and leave me to the mercy of the
paratroopers," he replied.
"Nonsense, I would never do that, and especially not to
you." She touched her glass to his. "Cheers."
"Cheers," he replied, and did feel a bit more cheerful with
the catharsis that comes with talking and sharing a painful
experience.
"What are you working on now," she asked, "or can you talk
about it?"
"Oh, a little bit of behind the scenes diplomacy on this ICC
business," he said. "Would you mind if I call the Marine Guard
at the embassy and leave your number? Someone may try to get
hold of me for any number of reasons. I don't need to tell them
whose number it is."
"Of course you can give my number, and you can tell them
where you are if you want. I'm not worried about my reputation
in the American Embassy. Maybe I should be. They might refuse
me a visa sometime for having been so immoral as to allow a man
to spend a night in my house."
"If you have any trouble you just let me know, and I'll tell
the Consular Section that it was all above board."
"You mean above the sheets," she said and smiled.
He laughed. "Right, above the sheets. Where's the phone?"
"Right there on the book case."
Getting up from the sofa, he walked to the phone and dialed.
"American Embassy, Marine Guard."
"This is Pete Stuart. I won't be at home tonight, and if
you should need to get hold of me I'll be at 76-414."
"Okay, Mr. Stuart. I've got it noted down in the log.
Several people have called in tonight saying that they wouldn't
be at home. I guess the parties will last a little longer than
usual."
Stuart laughed again. "I guess they will." He hung up and
when he turned around Soledad was standing at the end of the sofa
with a heavy blue Otovalo poncho in her arms. "All I have for a
blanket is this poncho, but I think you'll be warm enough with
it. I'm going to let you go to bed now. You look like your
tired. Goodnight, Pete."
He walked to where she was standing and kissed her.
"Goodnight, Soledad. I'll see you in the morning."
After turning off the light, he pulled his clothes off and
stretched out on the sofa under the rough wool poncho. The wind
driven rain beat a fierce tattoo against the windows and high
open beamed ceiling of the roof. From somewhere out on the
streets came the undulating shriek from the siren of an emergency
vehicle, and he wondered what might have happened. In the middle
of the night all things take on an exaggerated significance, and
he thought about what would happen if everything really did blow
and this turned into a civil war. His thoughts then returned to that night in the Congo, but he pushed them aside and into the
past where he wanted them to stay. Just before dropping off into
an uneasy sleep he focused on the portrait of Soledad's mother,
and he thought how much more beautiful she was by firelight.
Perhaps she had intended it that way. All women know that their
faces are more haunting and mystical by fire and candlelight.
Low grey clouds hung outside the studio when he awakened,
and he experienced that feeling of disorientation that one has
when waking in strange surroundings. There were a few brief
seconds when he was unable to establish his whereabouts in the
half light of the dawn, and the room was totally unfamiliar. The
fire had burned out, and he pulled the poncho closer to him to
ward off the early morning chill. From the bedroom he heard
Soledad mutter something in her sleep, and then the memory of the
previous night fixed him in his surroundings. He wondered for a
few moments if he should leave, but decided against it. The
curfew would remain in force until six o'clock, and that was
still an hour away. After having spent the night, it seemed
foolish to risk an incident by rushing things by one hour.
"Pete," he heard Soledad mumble from the bedroom, and he
threw back the poncho, and walked to the side of her bed. She
was still sleeping. He slipped in the bed beside her, and drew
her close to him. "Me aceptas?" he whispered.
"Um," she sighed, still half asleep. "I was just dreaming
about you."
"What were you dreaming?"
"You were making love to me," she said and pressed her long
body against him.
"Like this?"
"Uh huh." 
