HIGHEST AND MOST DISTINGUISHED CONSIDERATION

A Novel of the Foreign Service

By

Gene C. McCoy

CHAPTER 22

Quito, Ecuador - 1971

Stuart stopped at the Marine Guard's desk and signed the after hours log. "Is the ambassador on board?" he asked.

"Yes sir, I believe he's in his office," the Marine replied, and pressed the solenoid to open the door into the chancery.

Stuart took the elevator to the fifth floor, then walked through the empty corridor to the ambassador's office where he found him seated at his desk going through the morning cable traffic.

"Good morning, Mr. Ambassador, may I see you for a few minutes?"

Looking up from the stack of cables, the ambassador pulled off his reading glasses. "Good morning, Pete. Yes, come in and sit down," he said. "Close the door behind you."

The ambassador listened quietly while Stuart briefed him on his conversation with Melvin, and when he finished the ambassador said, "Well, we know what they've been up to now, don't we." He looked through the stack of cables on his desk and pulled one of them out and handed it to Stuart. "It also explains this."

Stuart took the cable and read it.




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



ACTION: AMEMBASSY, QUITO; LIMA; BOGOTA; LA PAZ

FROM:   SECSTATE, WASHDC

SUBJECT:  TEN YEAR REPORT ON ACCOMPLISHMENTS UNDER          
          ALLIANCE FOR PROGRESS LAND REFORM PROGRAMS


1.  DEPARTMENT HAS RECEIVED REQUEST FROM WHITE HOUSE FOR
REPORT ON ACCOMPLISHMENTS UNDER SEVERAL AID LOANS MADE FOR
PURPOSES OF LAND REFORM TO GOVERNMENTS AT ACTION EMBASSIES.

2.  ACTION ADDRESSEES REQUESTED TO CABLE FOLLOWING INFORMATION BY CLOSE OF BUSINESS MONDAY:

	A.  DISBURSEMENTS UNDER AID LOANS FOR LAND REFORM.
	B.  NUMBER OF ACRES DISTRIBUTED.
	C.  NUMBER OF FAMILIES BENEFITED FROM PROGRAMS.

FOR QUITO ONLY.  ECUADORIAN AMBASSADOR CALLED ON DEPARTMENT
TO REASSERT HIS GOVERNMENT'S COMMITMENT TO LAND REFORM AND
COMPLAINED THAT AID MISSION UNCOOPERATIVE IN IMPLEMENTING
LOAN THAT IS NOW THREE YEARS OLD AND AGAINST WHICH NO
DISBURSEMENTS HAVE BEEN MADE.  USAID REQUESTED TO CONTACT
APPROPRIATE GOE OFFICIALS AND REVIEW THEIR PLANS TO IMPLEMENT LAND REFORM PROGRAM.  EVERY EFFORT SHOUlD BE MADE TO MAKE DISBURSEMENT IF PROGRAM READY TO MOVE FORWARD. 
DEPARTMENT RECOGNIZES THAT DISBURSEMENTS ALONE ARE NO
INDICATION OF PROGRESS; NEVERTHELESS, THESE ARE STANDARDS BY
WHICH CONGRESS MEASURES ANNUAL REVIEW OF AID FUNDING REQUESTS.

STANFIELD

Stuart handed the cable back to the ambassador. "It looks like ICC not only got to Congress and the White House, but to the Ecuadorian Ambassador as well," he said.

"It certainly appears that way," the ambassador replied, and turned his chair to look out the window. "I don't want anything written about your conversation with Melvin, Pete, and the less said about it the better. They've given us all the cover we need, and we'll present this thing exactly as it looks. We're under pressure to get a land reform program moving, and that's what we'll do." The ambassador paused and was thoughtful for several minutes. "Actually, it's not a bad solution. If the government ever does get serious about land reform, they'll have the oil royalties that will soon be coming in to them, and they can use that money to make up this little, what shall we call it, diversion?" As if to reassure himself, he repeated. "It's not a bad solution, at all."

"In so far as talking to anyone about this, Mr. Ambassador, I'll have to tell Jorge Chiriboga what's going on. He's so honest that the thought would never occur to him to accept money for one thing and use it for another. And what about AID? We have to tell them something."

"With respect to Jorge, it's a matter of how you present it to him. You're a diplomat, Pete, and you know there's more than one way of looking at and presenting the truth. If they will make a commitment to land reform, we have the money to back them up. In so far as AID goes, we'll do just what the cable says. AID will review the government's plans for implementation, and if they look good we'll disburse the money. We may have to lean on AID a little bit, but in the end they'll go along. We'll just have to make it clear to them that in this case there are some overriding political considerations. I'm sure you can handle it, Pete."

"I'll give it a try, sir, but it may be one of the toughest assignments I've ever had."

"On another subject, you haven't seen Jim Kirk this morning have you?" the ambassador asked. "I'd like to get a status report on the political situation."

"No sir, I haven't, but he may be in his office," Stuart replied.

"Yes, I think I'll give him a ring." the ambassador said, and picked up the telephone to dial. "Good morning, Jim, this is Tony Chandler. I wonder if you might have the time to come by my office and give me a briefing on the situation as it looks this morning? Good, I'll be here with Pete Stuart waiting for you."

He replaced the receiver and turned to Stuart. "He's on his way down. By the way, Pete, I wouldn't mention anything to Jim about your conversation with Melvin. These political types don't always understand economic and financial matters."

There was a knock on the door and Stuart walked over to open it. "Good morning, Pete, we meet again," Kirk said as he entered. He shook hands with the ambassador, then sat down in one of the chairs in front of his desk.

"How do things look this morning, Jim?" the ambassador asked, and slipped a cigarette in the small carved holder.

"Not too bad, Mr. Ambassador. There were no incidents during the night, and that's a good sign, but the police still don't know where the body is. They have received word from the students though. They want to have a procession out to the airport to place the body on a plane to Guayaquil, and they've promised that there will be no violence if the government lets them alone. That promise, of course, is problematical. Who in the hell knows what might happen in an emotionally charged situation like a procession. One student goes off half-cocked and gets his head split open by a grenadero, and the whole thing could blow up. The government knows this and they're jumpy as hell.

"The one thing they can't get a fix on is where this whole thing began, who was really behind getting the students organized in the first place. Even though the boy who was killed had leftist ties, and was the head of the student's federation, they haven't been able to establish a definite connection between him and the communications workers."

"Jim, this may sound preposterous, but is it possible that ICC could be behind the student's demonstration?" Stuart asked.

"Nothing is too preposterous to consider, Pete, but what makes you think the ICC could be involved?" Kirk asked.

"Nothing really," Stuart replied. "It's sort of a brainstorming fishing expedition. This guy Melvin from ICC is a crafty character, and I wouldn't put anything past him. I just thought that he might have figured that by creating pressure to settle the severance pay issue he was at the same time advancing his own cause which is the settlement of his claim."

"It's a possibility," Kirk said, "but if it's true I doubt that we'll ever know it. Anyway Lopez Peralta was shooting from the hip when he announced the severance pay settlement, and he caught everybody off guard."

"You're right about that, and it squares with what Jorge Chiriboga has told me," Stuart said.

"A more likely theory," Kirk continued, "is that the government itself was behind it. As I said in the staff meeting last week, they've wanted to close that university for a long time, and they thought that they could create a crises that they could handle. The only thing is that it got out of hand when the student got killed."

"When do the students want to have the procession?" the ambassador asked.

"On Monday," Kirk answered, "and they want the government to provide the airplane."

The ambassador got out of his chair and walked to the window. "If on Monday morning the government could announce that the severance pay and ICC issues were solved it would take a lot of the heat off wouldn't it?" he said.

"Definitely," Kirk replied.

"That makes Pete's negotiations with the government and ICC pretty important then, doesn't it?" the ambassador said looking out the window.

"Yes, sir, I would say that it does," Kirk answered.

"Well maybe we can come up with something. Melvin's indicated to Pete that he's willing to compromise on the claim and take less than the six million they were asking for," the ambassador said and walked back to his chair.

"Even though they compromise, where's the money coming from?" Kirk asked.

"Pete's still dealing with Jorge Chiriboga on that," the ambassador replied.

"It wouldn't be from an AID loan would it Mr. Ambassador?" Kirk asked with a half smile.

"Jim, you know that the way the government handles its foreign exchange is an internal matter," the ambassador replied.

"Yes, sir, I do know that," Kirk replied.

The ambassador dropped into his chair. "Jim, Pete, thank you very much. I appreciate your keeping me informed." He turned to look out the window. "I wonder if this rain has stopped long enough to play some tennis."

CHAPTER 23

Quito, Ecuador - 1971

Returning to his own office Stuart slumped into his chair and mulled over his conversations with Melvin and the ambassador as well as the most recent cable from Washington. Either there was an amazing coincidence, or ICC had skillfully manipulated all of the forces in Washington to set things up so as to remove any hint of a misuse of public funds. Even the cable reporting the Ecuadorian Ambassador's call on the department to complain about the AID Mission had been sent as a circular telegram to several posts, and that along with all of the other information requested could be just a smoke screen. Was that by design or coincidence, he wondered?

On the surface everything appeared exactly as the ambassador had stated things. The embassy was under pressure to get a land reform program moving and that's just what it would appear they were doing if they made the disbursement. Even disbursing funds for purposes other than the stated intent was not too unusual. AID loan disbursements were frequently used to meet short run balance of payment problems; however, in this case Stuart had an uneasy feeling that he was being manipulated, and he did not like the idea of having to encourage Jorge to undertake something that was not quite "cricket." Nevertheless, the deal looked good. Even though ICC would be a benefactor, other more important issues would be served as well: the internal political crisis would be solved, the threat of a Hickenlooper suspension of AID would disappear, and the U.S. would still have a big say in the course that the country's future development took once the oil revenues began flowing in. After much thought he came to the conclusion that there was no alternative, and that on balance Melvin's proposal would protect what in the jargon of the trade falls under the rubric of "U.S. interests." Getting out of his chair, he pulled his raincoat off a hanger, and decided to present the deal to Jorge, and the sooner he did it the better.

From inside Jorge's house he could hear the excited squeals and laughter of a child at play, and when the door opened he looked down into the smiling face of his namesake, Jorge's son, Peter. "Pete!" the boy yelled, holding up his arms.

Stuart picked the child up and held him in his arms. "Hi, Pete. Is your daddy at home?" he asked.

"Yeah, we were just playing bullfight. He was the toro."

"Pete, what a pleasant surprise," Jorge said from the doorway leading to the family room where they had been playing. "Come on in"

Carrying the child with him Stuart followed Jorge through the living room into a typical American family room. Tastefully furnished with a combination of Danish teak, cushions covered with local fabrics and several paintings by Ecuadorian artists, including one by Soledad, the room was warm and inviting. Toys and newspapers were strewn about giving the room a pleasant lived in feeling. It was very unlike the typical home of a Latin American cabinet minister and reflected the taste of Jorge's American wife, Janet.

"I hope you'll excuse the disorder. Peter and I were just playing bullfight," Jorge said and picked up a few toys from the floor.

"I know, he just told me," Stuart replied. "How is he? Is he going to another El Cordoves?"

"He's getting pretty good," Jorge said. "He'll be giving you competition one of these days."

"Did you know that Pete was a bullfighter too, Peter?" Jorge asked his son.

"He is not. He works at the embassy," Peter argued.

"Yes, but he fights bulls in the tientas out on the ranches, and that's where you'll have to start too," Jorge said.

"I want to have a mano a mano with you, Pete," the boy said. "You know, where there are just two bullfighters."

Stuart put him down on the floor, and the boy picked up a bullfighter's cape and executed a Veronica pass. "How did you like that?" he asked.

"You're terrific, Peter," Stuart said. "You're no competition for me. You're already way beyond my class."

"Okay, you run along now, Peter," Jorge said. "I think Pete wants to discuss some business with me, right Pete?"

"That's right, Jorge, but I'll be seeing you again very soon, Peter, and we'll have that mano a mano," Stuart said and rubbed his hand through the boy's hair.

Peter picked up a small bullfighter's montera and put it on, then strutted out of room in the fashion of a torero who has just executed a series of fine passes before turning his back on the bull in a display of courage.

"Let's go into the study," Jorge said taking Pete by the arm. "The fire's going and it's warmer in there. I still haven't gotten used to these cold houses in Quito. One gets spoiled living in the States with all of the comforts we have up there."

"It's been so long since I lived in the States, that I've forgotten what it's like," Stuart replied.

"It's pretty nice, Pete. How about a drink?"

"That sound's like a splendid idea, Mr. Minister. The sun is almost past the yardarm, and I could use a little oil for the wheels of diplomacy."

Jorge looked at Pete and smiled. "Mr. Minister," he repeated with a tone of irony in his voice. "You know half of the time I don't realize that people are talking to me when they address me as Mr. Minister. What'll you have, whiskey, Bloody Mary, a Martini?"

"It's a bit early for martinis," Stuart replied. "Whiskey and water sounds good."

Jorge mixed the drinks, and they settled into the big chairs in front of the fire. "Have you had an opportunity to discuss the ICC settlement with anyone, Jorge?" Stuart asked.

"I spoke to the president last night, but only briefly. He was more concerned with this student business than he was with ICC, but he did say that he's in favor of a quick cash settlement. The problem is raising the money, Pete. We simply don't have the foreign exchange in the Central Bank.

"I thought abou t going to the oil companies for an advance on royalties, but I decided against it. We already have a lot of money advanced from them and they're worried themselves about nationalization. I don't want to do anything that will make them more uneasy."

"I had the same idea," Stuart said, "and I came to the same conclusion. Maybe we can help you." He paused and took a sip of the whiskey. "I've been going over this thing in my mind, and I've decided that the best way is to just give it to you straight. Give you the facts ."

"Facts, Pete?" Jorge said, puzzled. "I'm not sure I follow you."

"You will," Stuart said. "Let me tell you what I've learned. This morning I met with Melvin, and he told me about a twenty million dollar AID loan for land reform that's all signed and ready for disbursement. Furthermore, he tells me that this loan calls for an advance of five million dollars."

"Yes, I know about that loan, but there are some problems between the Ministry of Agriculture and AID over some organizational matters," Jorge said. "That's the reason for the delay in disbursing the money."

"I know that, Jorge," Stuart said. "Melvin told me about that too, he knows more about what's going on down here than I do. But let me go on.

"After I talked to Melvin I went into the embassy and we've got a cable that says the White House is asking for some general information about land reform loans all through the region, and that the Ecuadorian ambassador called on the Department saying that the Government of Ecuador is still committed to land reform."

"It seems like there's an awful lot of sudden interest in land reform," Jorge said. "But I don't see what this has to do with ICC's claim."

"What it looks like to me, is that ICC is generating the interest. What Melvin wants us to do is get these organizational questions settled so AID can make the disbursement, and then you can use the advance of funds to settle their claim." Stuart let this sink in to Jorge, and then continued.

"Here's the way this thing can go down. If the government will give us a note to the effect that they accept all of the recommendations that the AID Mission has made, and is ready to move forward on the land reform, we, that is AID, will disburse the advance to the Central Bank. You can then use that money to settle the ICC claim."

Jorge looked at him for a long time, and Stuart could see his skepticism mounting. "Isn't that taking money under false pretenses, Pete?"

"Not necessarily, Jorge," Stuart said. "We're giving you an advance of funds to carry out a land reform program under a duly signed agreement between our two governments, and we'll expect you to do that. But it's up to you and the Central Bank as to how you manage your foreign exchange. As Melvin said, money in the bank all looks alike, and if you decide that the ICC claim has a priority, I see nothing wrong about taking care of that priority first. Of course we don't want the note to be just a hollow statement with no commitment behind it. It has to represent the government's genuine intentions."

"I couldn't do it any other way, Pete.

"I know that, Jorge. That's the reason I feel confident in dealing with you. Melvin told me this morning that he would settle for five million, and that they would give you an agreement to handle your traffic through Bogota for a year with no additional charges. You'll need to get a land station built to tie into a satellite, and maybe AID can help on that score." Once again Stuart paused in order to give Jorge a chance to assimilate just exactly what was being proposed.

"Given the political situation down here, and the threat of Washington being forced into invoking the Hickenlooper Amendment, I think the deal looks pretty good. A Hickenlooper suspension would so damage relations between our two countries, and set back your own development, that I don't like to think about the possibility," Stuart said, and concluded his presentation.

Jorge sipped at his whiskey, and bit his lip in a pensive gesture. "It does sound like a good solution, almost too good," he said. "I'm not worried that we can't later get the money for the land reform program, and I'm sure that the problems between the AID Mission and the Ministry of Agriculture can be worked out, but there are some things that do trouble me.

"Pete, you can't sit in that Minister's chair without making enemies, and I've made a few. The banana growers down on the coast are sore at me because I slapped on an export tax to skim off the windfall profits they would have made from the devaluation a few months ago. The big ranch owners in the Sierra are skeptical, at best, about me, ironically, because they know that I am in favor of land reform. If it ever got out that I borrowed money in the name of the government for land reform, and then used that money to pay off a claim from a foreign company, my political future and effectiveness would be zero. I don't want that to happen, Pete, because I honestly feel that I can make a contribution to moving this country out of the dark ages."

"On our side there will be nothing written, Jorge, and there will be no publicity given to the disbursement," Stuart said. "The record will show that an advance of funds was made to get a land reform program moving, and it will be up to the government to do it."

"How do we work things, Pete?" Jorge asked.

"If over the weekend you can get me a note from the Foreign Office, I'll try and get the money on Monday morning. You can settle the severance pay issue as well as the ICC claim, and get the students off your backs. What ever the government does about opening the university is up to the President, but I think it's better to have the students in the classrooms than out on the streets making trouble. Once the threat of a Hickenlooper suspension is removed we can start pressing the department to move on the other AID loans that are pending up in Washington, and hopefully we can get the country back to normal."

"Getting anything done over the weekend is going to be difficult," Jorge said. "Everybody's attention is focused on keeping the students from getting any more out of hand than they are, but I'll try. If I need to get hold of you will you be at home?"

Taking a piece of paper from his address book, he wrote down Soledad's telephone number. "Either at home or at this number," he replied. "You know Soledad Benalcazar, don't you?"

"Jose Maria del Prado's niece, the painter?" Jorge asked.

"Yes," Stuart said.

"Of course, everyone in Quito knows Soledad. She's a lovely and talented girl, but why do you ask?"

"That's her telephone number that I just gave you." Stuart looked at Jorge and suddenly felt a rush of affection and friendship. He had an urge to communicate the warm glowing sensation that still filled him to someone who knew and cared about him. "Would you believe that after all of these years, I'm in love."

"Pete, I think that's wonderful, and I can't think of anyone more suited to you than Soledad," Jorge said.

"Why do you say that, Jorge?" Pete asked.

"Oh, you're both a couple of loners, and you're kind of arty like her."

"So you think I'm arty do you," Stuart said with a mock defensive tone.

"Sure I do," Jorge said. "In fact, I was surprised when you went into the Foreign Service. I always thought you'd be a writer or a journalist. All of those stories that you used to write when we were at Georgetown made me think that writing was your calling, but when did all of this happen with Soledad?

"Just this past week. You know she was down at Jose Maria's ranch, and she saved my ass with that novillo that hit me. Then I met her the other night at the ambassadors's residence, and I took her home. The minute I walked into her studio I had a very warm pleasant feeling as though I had just walked into a place that I knew. At first I thought it was the fact that I was in a place where an artist did her work, but it was more than that. It's a feeling that radiates out of her, and gives me a link to infinity. I've seen her a few times since then, and I know that I love her. It happened very fast."

"You really are in love," Jorge said. "Say, I just happened to think of something. Do you remember when I visited you in Madrid years ago, and we went up to the Guardarama mountains on our way to Segovia?"

"Yes," Stuart replied, "and we ran into that band of gypsies camped up in the mountains. We sat around the campfire drinking wine and listened to the flamenco guitar with them. God, that sounds like five lifetimes ago."

"Doesn't it," Jorge said. "A lot of things have happened to both of us since then, but what I remember is that old gypsy woman reading our palms. She told you that in a past life you had been a Spanish Conquistador."

"What a memory you have, Jorge. That was over ten years ago." Stuart smiled as he recalled the incident, and he thought about their carefree life in those days.

"I remember it very well, Pete. Don't you remember how the old gypsy told you that you would be reunited with the woman you had loved in your previous life, and she went on to describe a high mountain valley in the shadow of a snow capped volcano? At the time, I told you that it sounded like she was describing Quito." Jorge was warming to the mysticism.

"Jorge, you're boggling my mind," Stuart exclaimed. "How in the hell can a couple of pragmatic men like you and me be talking about gypsies and fortune telling. Jesus, the Minister of Finance and an economic officer from the American Embassy who are conspiring to scam the U.S. Treasury in one second, and in the next we're trying to explain the miracle of love through reincarnation and gypsy fortune tellers." Stuart laughed. "If anyone were eavesdropping on us they would have us locked up. If not for criminal conspiracy then for being a couple of fruitcakes. Now there is something else that I do remember."

"What's that, Pete?" Jorge asked, and laughed along with Stuart.

"When that old hag looked in your hand she just closed it without telling your fortune."

Jorge placed his empty glass on the table and stood up. "You don't suppose she saw me in the position I'm in right now, do you?"

Stuart walked toward the door to leave. "By the way, Pete, do you remember what the name of the conquistador was who led the conquest on Quito?" Jorge asked him."

"No I don't, Jorge," he replied.

"His name was Benalcazar."

CHAPTER 24

Quito, Ecuador - 1971

The warm friendliness of the fireplace, the smell of the paella cooking and the sound of the rain beating on the high beamed ceiling roof, combined with the ethereal tranquility of the studio, produced feelings of security and well being that were a pleasant relief from the tensions of the past few days. As Pete mixed drinks, he listened to the words of a song coming from a record of a melancholy Andean guitar trio.

Yo fui bueno contigo.

Como una flor un dia en

el jardin en que solo

soñaba me arrancaste.

Di todo el perfume

de mi melancolia, y

sin hacerte ningun mal

me dejaste

"Is that the cook's drink?" Soledad asked, walking behind where he stood, and slipping her arms around him to kiss him on the neck.

"Yes," he replied. "I was just going to bring it out to you but I was listening to the words of that song. They're lovely. It's amazing how the Indians can express such complicated human emotions with their simple unaffected poetry and music.

He translated the words to see if they conveyed the same depth of feeling in English. "I was good with you. Like a flower, one day, you plucked me from the garden where alone I dreamed. I gave you all of the perfume of my melancholy, and without doing you any harm you left me."

"Many times I find the themes for my paintings in the songs and poetry of the Indians," she said, "That piece would make a good painting of a solitary woman sitting alone in a garden in a sunset. She closed her eyes as though imagining what the painting would look like. "I wouldn't show her face," she said, then turned and walked to the bookcase. She picked up an envelope and returned to where Pete was standing in front of the fire. "This is the letter that my mother wrote. Why don't you read it while I finish in the kitchen. I think you'll enjoy it."

He kissed her lightly and took the letter from her. "Thank you, darling, I would love to read it."

She left him alone, and he sat down on the sofa in front of the fire, and opened the envelope. Written in Spanish in an ornate European script, by a sure steady hand, the letter reflected the author's artistic concern for its appearance as well as for what was said. He began to read and made a mental translation to English as he went along.
15 December, 1938 Quito, Ecuador

My Darling Maria de la Soledad if you are a girl, or Jose Maria if you are a boy,

Today, I finished the portrait, and I can tell from your restless stirring that God's creation is nearly completed. I want to record my thoughts so as to share with you the wonderful experience of feeling you grow inside of me, and knowing that each day you were nearer to fulfilling your divine perfection.

During the period that I have had you with me I have come to realize that all creation is alike. Just as you were perfect when conceived, so too is an idea, and like you an idea must grow until it becomes manifest and incarnate in an expression of truth and beauty. I can no more restrain the growth of my ideas that I can your growth, and just as I will soon give you to light, so also must I give to light the ideas which are conceived within me.

Over the past nine months a mysterious change has taken place in me that I am unable to explain. The portrait is done in a style and technique that is completely new for me, and I had no more control over its development than I had over yours. They are brush strokes and colors that are uniquely mine, yet as I held the brush in my hand it was as though someone else moved it. Since starting this portrait have experienced sensations of unbounded joy that were unlike any that I have had in the past, and I have developed a communication in my inner reaches with a tiny voice that until now I had never heard. During the stillness of the hours I spent before the easel this voice guided me in the creation of the finest work I have ever done.

While friends and family were urging me to rest, this little voice told me what I had to do, and many the day, even though I was tired from standing so many hours, I continued my work. While creating you and painting this portrait I have learned that I hold the answer to every mystery of life, and that only by looking inside myself will I find the peace and completeness for which I have yearned.

I would like for you also to always look inside yourself for answers to problems that perplex you. Listen to advice and counsel, but then retreat to a quiet place where you can hear your own tiny inner voice, then rely upon it. It will never fail you. It will not only solve your problems, but it will guide you toward the fulfillment of your dreams.

Seek and give love. It is the most preci o u s t hing we hav e . It is as fragile as a flower, and even though it can blossom in the most hostile and barren soil, treat it always as though your own life depended upon its enduring. In the absence of an object for your tender feelings, direct them inward toward yourself, and fear not solitude. It is the birthplace of all creative thoughts.

From the twisting and turning of your little body I feel as though I were a volcano on the verge of erupting, and something tells me that by this time tomorrow I shall be holding you in my arms. To the extent that you will let me I shall try and rest now , but I know from the fierce probing of your tiny fists and feet that you are nearing your readiness for me to give you to the light. Goodnight my love.

The letter was signed, Maria de la Soledad Del Prado de Benalcazar.
 Looking up from the letter he gazed at her portrait, and sensed her presence in the room. Through her art, the recording of her thoughts, and Soledad she had transcended herself and achieved a small degree of immortality, he thought. He folded the letter and slipped it inside the envelope.

"Did you finish it?" Soledad asked returning from the kitchen.

"Yes," he replied. "It's beautiful. She was an extraordinary woman. The death of a person like your mother is an enormous loss to the world, but I was just thinking how with you, her art, and the record of her thoughts she perpetuated the unique qualities that were hers. It's almost as though everything were part of a grand design."

"Now you understand why I said that I thought that God had inspired her to paint the portrait," she said.

"Not to just paint the portrait, but also to write the letter," Pete said. "The two things together are a consummate expression of truth and beauty. She had found the duende, the spirit of truth and beauty. The letter and the portrait are her legacy to guide you in your search for the duende."

"And maybe yours too," she said.

"There you go again, trying to convince me that I'm some sort of artist," he said, and even though he denied it, he liked for her to say the things she said about seeing him as an artist or writer. "I told you the other day that I could see something in you that you can't see in yourself, and I mean it," she said. "I sensed it that night on the terrace of the ambassador's residence. Then when you told me of your dissatisfaction with your work, and your dream of writing, I knew that I was right. You may be a very effective diplomat, Pete, but in your soul you are an artist. If you would listen to the little voice my mother wrote about, I think you would hear it telling you just exactly what I am saying to you."

"Soledad, you may be very close to a truth that I haven't wanted to accept. You may be right."

"Not may be right, Pete. I am right. That is the truth," she replied.

"The paella is ready. Let's see if it meets the standards of a connoisseur of Spanish cuisine. It takes a lot of courage to make a paella for someone who has a Spanish cook living with him."

"From the way that it smells I can tell that it will probably be the best I have ever eaten," he said. "Can I help you with anything?"

"Yes," she replied. "I think we should celebrate by having a bottle of Spanish wine with the paella. Under the bar you'll find a bottle of Marques de Riscal claret. If you'll open the wine I'll serve the food."

"Marques de Riscal! My favorite wine," he said and took her in his arms. Looking into her eyes, he could see the flames from the fire reflected in them. "How did I get so lucky?"

"How did we get so lucky," she said.

Showing her fine sense of esthetics, Soledad took as much care in the presentation and serving of the food as she did in its preparation. Each grain of rice, yellowed by the saffron spice and coated with a film of olive oil, stood alone. Hidden beneath the heap of rice were tasty pieces of chicken and pork, and on the top were small green peas, tender pink shrimp and baby clams still in their shells. The whole was adorned with long strips of red pimento so that the dish had the appearance of a work of art.

Sitting on the floor, they ate at the coffee table in front of the fireplace, and when they had finished Pete leaned back against the sofa to enjoy the afterglow that comes from sharing good food, companionship and a bottle of wine.

The letter from Soledad's mother had left him with a haunting feeling and a desire to know more about Soledad. He realized that what he knew about her was very superficial. From the signature on the letter he knew that she was a Del Prado on her mother's side and a Benalcazar on her father's. They were both important landed families from the Sierra, and had long histories and traditions of political involvement, public service and business. General Augustin Del Prado, Jose Maria's father, and presumably Soledad's grandfather, had been president of the republic, he knew. Rafael Benalcazar, her paternal grandfather, was a famous poet, a painter, and intellectual and professor at the university.

"Can you tell me a little bit about what it was like growing up in two of the most important families in Ecuador, Soledad? It must have been fascinating," he said. "Besides, I'd just like to know more about you. What you were like as a child. I'll bet you were a bit of a tomboy." "Oh it was fascinating," she said, "and you're right I was a tomboy." She leaned back against the sofa, and put her head on Pete's shoulder. "I was my uncle Jose Maria's favorite niece. He has all sons, and he took a fancy to me. He taught me to ride horses and bullfight, and I spent all of the summers of my childhood down on his ranch. My aunt, my father's sister, Rosa Maria Benalcazar, was my official guardian. She never married, lived here in Quito as an old maid school teacher, and was one of the world's first feminists. The Benalcazars were intellectuals and artists while the Del Prados were soldiers, politicians, and in Jose Maria's case a rancher, bull breeder and bullfighter. He's my favorite, and I just love him. My mother must have loved him too, since as you saw in the letter, if I had been a boy I would have been named after him."

"He is a special kind of man, and I love him too," Stuart said. "He's like something out of another century. Where did you go to school?"

"I went to the American School here in Quito," she said. "My aunt Rosa Maria taught English there, and she loved Americans. For her it was very important that I learn to speak English. Then I studied fine arts at the university, and learned my craft from two of Ecuador's most famous painters, Osvaldo Guayasamin, and Anibal Villacis. It was Villacis who got me the scholarship to study at the art institute in Madrid last year." She raised her head and looked at Pete, then kissed him on the cheek. "Now you tell me something about your childhood. I'll bet you were a bookworm."

She was right about Stuart having been a bookworm, but she did not know, nor did he tell her, that through books he had escaped the reality of a home life that was filled with violence, fear, disappointments and incomprehensible demoralization. His father, an alcoholic jazz musician, had abandoned Pete, then six years old, his mother and sister in Indiana during the depths of the depression, and for several months they did not know where he was. He finally surfaced in California where he had gone to look for work, and where his own mother and father lived. Pete's father sent for Pete, his mother and sister to join him and after a torturous bus trip across the country, they were reunited as a family in San Luis Obispo on the central coast of California where in nearby Paso Robles his grandfather had a farm.

What he did tell Soledad was an idealized version of his childhood on the central coast; learning Spanish from the braceros who worked on the farm, eating his first tortillas and beans in the home of his boyhood pal, "Flaco" Valenzuela. He told her about graduating from high school while the United States was in the midst of World War II, and being drafted into the army where he was sent to flight school, and learned to fly fighter planes. He told her how after the army he had gone to college in Mexico and Georgetown University, and about writing his master thesis on the Mexican land reform while living in a student's pension in Mexico City with a lot of other ex GIs, and where he met Ruth, the sister of one of his fellow students; he told her how he and Ruth had married and struggled through his last year of school and the first years of working as a journalist on a small town newspaper until finally he was appointed to the Foreign Service and assigned to Madrid, Spain. He mentioned how being assigned to Spain was the fulfillment of a boyhood dream, and how he had cut his eyeteeth on Hemingway novels of Spain and the Spanish Civil War. He told her about running with the bulls in Pamplona, and being invited to the Feria de Sevilla where he and Ruth dressed up and rode horses in the paseo each morning. Then there were the nights that he spent in the Cafe Gijon with his expatriate pals who were artists, and writers or involved in the theater. He loved the cafe life in Madrid, he told her, where people had honed the art of conversation to perfection. She already knew about Tommy and the Congo, but he told her how after that incident he was transferred to Mexico City, then to Mogadishu, Somalia and finally Rawalpindi, Pakistan before coming back into the Latin American Bureau with his transfer to Ecuador.

"And then," he said, "about two weeks ago the best thing in my life happened to me."

"Oh," she said with a knowing smile, "what was that?"

"I met you; sensitive, imaginative and intelligent, Soledad Benalcazar y Del Prado, artist and gran chef du cuisine." He rubbed his stomach. "If I ate like that everyday I would be as fat as a pig."

"I can't imagine you ever being fat," she said patting his stomach. "You're as lean and trim as a bullfighter."

"I don't eat much either," he said. "Sitting around an office all day is not good for the figure."

"I didn't think you sat around an office all day. I thought you were always running around to meet people in the Hotel Quito, or were going to the Ministries of Finance or Foreign Affairs," she said.

"I have been lately, but that's just because of these ICC negotiations. Much of my work involves a lot of dull routine; reading and writing reports that get funneled into the system, and are eventually filed away someplace in Washington. It's not very satisfying to know that most of what you write never gets read, but is just stapled, stamped and punched by thousands of bureaucrats."

"What kind of things do you write?" she asked.

"In that respect they don't deserve to be read. They're dreary reports about gross national product, balance of payments, trade and commerce."

"If you were a writer what kind of things would you write about?" she asked.

"Now your pinning me down," he said. "The truth of matter is that I don't know. I can never think up a good plot. Maybe I don't want to write, I just want to be a writer."

"I don't believe that," she said. "You have too much love of language.

"I do love language," he said, "but how did you know that?"

"By the way you talk, and the things you say. I'd love to read something that you've written. Do you have anything completed?" she asked.

"I not only don't have anything completed, I don't have anything started. I have folders filled with notes, scraps of dialogue, impressions of places I've been in the world, but nothing organized."

"Like a sketch book," she said.

"I suppose," he replied.

"Why don't you start something?" She pressed him.

"This may be an excuse, but by the time I've worked all day, and gone to a cocktail party or reception, sometimes two in an evening, I'm too tired," he replied.

"It is an excuse," she said giving him no slack or quarter. "I work all day, and I still find time to paint."

"But you're committed to art," he said.

"That's what art is all about," she said. "Commitment, dedication and a willingness to work hard." After pausing she added, "and a lot of faith."

"None of which do I have," he said and knew that he sounded cynical.

"You're too hard on yourself," she touched his face and rubbed his cheek. "It would come once you got started."

"I think you're trying to lure me away from a very profitable way of earning a living. Even though it's not very satisfying, it pays well." He took both her hands in his own, and looked into her eyes. "Are you the muse of art? Are you trying to mesmerize me into believing that I could do something besides shuffle paper in a bureaucracy?"

"I want you to be happy, Pete, and I know that your happiness lies in art. Anyway, how could I be the muse? She has me mesmerized."

"Yes, and she has you going around the world doing her work," he teased her.

"Why does the muse have to be feminine? Why couldn't my muse be a man?"

"It just doesn't work that way," he said. "The Greeks had it figured out. They knew that only a female endowed with mystical qualities could lure men away from practicality into the murky world of fantasy."

The fragile cocoon of their own fantasy world created by delicate threads of communication woven between the two of them was broken by the sound of a ringing telephone.

"Caramba!" she said. "Who can that be? I hope it's not someone who will take you away from me. Shall I just let it ring?"

"Probably not a bad idea," he replied as they both sat listening to the persistent ringing and hoping that each would be the last.

"I better answer it," she said and stood up. "I can't stand to let a phone ring." She walked to the telephone and picked it up.

"Hello." "Yes, he's here. Who's calling please?" She paused and listened to the voice on the other end, and blew Pete a kiss. "Jorge, this is Soledad. How are you? "Thank you, Jorge, I'm very happy, too. I'll let you talk to Pete now. You aren't going to take him away from me, are you?" She held her hand over the mouthpiece. "It's Jorge Chiriboga, he wants to talk to you, but he promised that he wouldn't take you away."

Getting up off the floor, Stuart walked to the telephone. "Hello, Jorge."

"Hello, Pete. I just thought I would let you know that everything is going well. I expect to have the note for you tomorrow. They're going to lift the curfew tomorrow, so can you meet me in the Plaza Santo Domingo on the corner of Calle Venezuela tomorrow night at eight o'clock?"

"I'll be there, Jorge," he replied and dropped the receiver into the cradle then returned to sit by Soledad on the floor.

"Why was I worried about your going out. The curfew is still on," she said.

"Yes, and here I am being held captive by the muse of art," Stuart said.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

"I love it," he said and kissed her on the cheek, "and I love you. All questions of morality are set aside. We're just complying with the orders of the government."

"The heck with morality. I love you, Pete."

"Shall we turn off the lights and go to bed?" he said.

"I thought you would never ask," she replied.

CHAPTER 25

Quito, Ecuador - 1971

Stuart parked his MG in the Plaza Santo Domingo, and following Jorge's instructions walked to the corner where the Calle Venezuela o pe ne d into the big cobbled square. As was usual for a Sunday night the plaza was filled with Otovalo and Carchi Indians, the Otovalos distinguishable by their heavy blue ponchos, and broadbrimmed felt hats like men wore in the 1920's. Working class couples strolled, arms around one another, and stopped to buy ears of hot roasted corn from an Indian woman who had set up a stall under the arcade of the old colonial building surrounding the square. Mixed with the smell of the roasting corn were those of fritadas, strips of lean pork frying in hot oil, that another woman offered from her sidewalk kiosk. After two nights of the curfew people were enjoying their usual Sunday night diversion of paseando, strolling, more than usual.

A small Datsun sedan stopped at the corner where Stuart waited, and a short beep of the horn caught his attention. He recognized Jorge and descended the big carved rock steps and slipped into the car beside him.

"Good evening, Pete."

"Hello, Jorge."

"I hope you'll forgive this small bit of cloak and dagger drama, but I thought it would be best if I didn't deliver the note to you in the embassy," Jorge said and drove around the plaza. "Under normal circumstances a messenger from the Foreign Office would have brought it to you, but that was impossible on a Sunday night, and I didn't think it would be a good idea to bring it to your house. Maybe I have a guilty conscience."

"There's no reason to feel guilty, Jorge," Pete replied, but was not quite sure that his voice carried the same conviction as his words.

"I hope you're right, Pete. I've put my reputation on the pass line."

Stuart laughed at his use of an American gambling term. "Yes, and I hope we don't crap out," he said.

"We?"

"Sure, we're in this together, and I think we're both over-dramatizing things," Stuart said. "I'm convinced that what we're doing is right, and the alternatives are not very bright."

"I agree with you about the alternatives not being bright," Jorge replied. "It was contemplation of the alternatives that convinced me that we had to do it this way." He pulled the car up and stopped under a street lamp on 24th of November Street beside the largest open air market in Quito.

The market day was over and the Indians were packing up their wares, pottery, simple handmade furniture and bolts of handwoven fabric, to head off toward the bus station to return to their villages. Many were drunk and they staggered under the huge burdens they carried on their backs.

"These poor devils," Pete said. "Every Sunday it's the same thing. Get up before sunrise, ride a bus for two or more hours, and sell enough to maybe pay the bus fare and buy a bottle of chicha to get drunk on. Then, back to the villages for another week of backbreaking work in the fields. Shit, what a life!"

Jorge nodded his head in agreement. "It's discouraging, isn't it," he said. "It's even worse when you consider that this has been going on for centuries. When I see the poverty and the conditions of the six million Indians that we have I wonder if we can ever change our society." He reached into the back seat and picked up a large white envelope and handed it to Stuart.

Pete took the envelope from him. "It is rather a nasty leftover of unresolved details from a drama staged by the King of Spain over four hundred years ago," he said and opened the envelope to remove the sheet of crisp bond paper. It carried the embossed Seal of the Republic and was headed with ornate printed script.

REPUBLIC OF ECUADOR

MINISTRY OF FOREIGN AFFAIRS

Note Verbal Number 1178/US

The Ministry of Foreign Affairs presents its compliments to the Embassy of the United States of America, and has the honor to refer to Alliance for Progress Loan Number 53-20-48 between the Governments of Ecuador and the United States of America for land reform.

As the Embassy knows, a series of working sessions have been held between representatives of the Ministry of Agriculture and officers of the United States AID Mission to Ecuador during which the officers of the AID Mission made many valuable suggestions on ways to improve the organization of the Land Reform Agency and the implementation plans of the Ministry of Agriculture. These recommendations will enable the Land Reform Agency to utilize more effectively the funds made available for this very worthwhile and highly desirable project to which the Government of Ecuador is firmly committed.

The Ministry of Foreign Affairs is pleased to inform the Embassy that the Government of Ecuador accepts in principle all of the recommendations made by the officers of the AID Mission, and is prepared to immediately undertake a land reform program so as to achieve the goals set forth in the Loan Agreement and the Charter of Punta del Este.

Under the terms of Article D of the Loan Agreement an initial disbursement of five million dollars (U.S. $ 5,000,000.00) is payable to the Central Bank of Ecuador upon satisfying all of the conditions precedent to disbursement. Since the acceptance of the recommendations of the officers of the AID Mission satisfies the last remaining condition precedent to disbursement, the Ministry would appreciate the Embassy taking the necessary steps to draw a check in the amount of U.S dollars five million, payable to the Central Bank of Ecuador.

The Ministry of Foreign Affairs avails itself of this opportunity to reiterate to the Embassy of the United States of America its assurances of its highest and most distinguished consideration.

Stuart slipped the note back in the envelope. "That's fine, Jorge. In fact, it goes beyond what was required."

Jorge remove a package of cigarettes from his pocket and of fered one to Pete.

"No thanks," Pete said. "I don't smoke anymore."

Taking one himself he lit it and inhaled deeply, then lowered the window to allow the smoke to escape. "Pete, that note is not written to just sound convincing. There were several phrases that I insisted be in it, so that it represents not only my intentions but also the intentions of the government. We are going to get a land reform program moving. You know, Pete, out of everything comes some good, and out of this I hope is a genuine commitment to change, to change for the better."

"Hearing you say that makes my job with the AID Mission tomorrow a lot easier. It's not hard to sell something when you believe in it, and I believe in you."

Jorge started the car and they drove back to the Plaza Santo Domingo. "Just let me off on the corner of Venezuela. That way you won't have to drive all the way around the plaza."

"Okay," Jorge said. "Pete, will you call me in the morning just as soon as you know anything. The timing is important. The government's going to allow the students to have a procession tomorrow to take the body of Andres Guerrero, that poor student who was killed, out to the airport. It would be very good if the President could announce that the ICC claim and severance pay issues are settled before they have it. If everything goes well we should be back to normal by Tuesday."

He pulled the car up to the curb and stopped. "All right, Jorge," Stuart replied and opened the door. He offered his hand. "I hope everything works out the way we expect it to. I'll call you in the morning." He got out of the car, slammed the door shut and climbed the steps up to the arcade.

"Mr. Stuart, what a pleasant surprise," a cultured, well modulated voice said to him as he neared the top of the steps.

Stuart looked up to see Agapito Romero, the publisher of Las Noticias, the leading daily newspaper in Quito.

An articulate and aristocratic old world gentleman, Don Agapito was regarded as the spokesman for the conservative landowners in the sierra. Dressed in a handsomely cut English suit and carrying a polished walking stick, he seemed out of place in the pedestrian surroundings of the Plaza Santo Domingo. He took Stuart's hand and shook it warmly. "Don Agapito," Stuart said. "What brings you to the Plaza Santo Domingo on a Sunday night?"

"Oh, I live nearby here," he replied. "I like the old section of Quito and I still live in the family house. All of the fancy, modern houses out where you and the other foreigners, and alas," he gave a small sigh, "too many of my countrymen live, is not really Quito. One misses the flavor of the city if he gets too far away from these magnificent colonial surroundings." He gestured with his walking stick to the buildings that were indeed some of the finest examples of colonial Spanish architecture in all of the Americas.

"But I must say, Mr. Stuart, it seems more incongruous to find an officer from the American Embassy in the Plaza Santo Domingo on a Sunday night, and with a cabinet minister yet. It seems almost conspiratorial." Like any good journalist he was fishing for a story, Stuart thought.

"Hardly conspiratorial, Don Agapito," Stuart replied and thought quickly of something to say that would explain his and Jorge's presence together. "Unless it's a conspiracy to commit heartburn. Jorge and I are both fond of the almejas maninera that they serve in the Las Cuevas restaurant up the street. We frequently get together and come down here to talk over old times. Jorge and I went to college together."

"I would think that the Minister would be preoccupied with affairs of state when the country is in the grips of a political crisis." The old man was shrewd, and Stuart knew that he was observing him closely for any indication that he was lying.

"I suppose that he is preoccupied, Don Agapito, but oddly enough we didn't discuss political issues. We're both bullfight fans and we talked about the cards for the feria next month," Stuart said, and doubted that Romero believed him. "Anyway, I don't know what the Minister of Finance could do on a Sunday night that could improve the political situation."

"That's very true, Mr. Stuart. This present crisis is being handled by the police and the army. The Minister's work is more longterm and important to the future of the country. A group of rebellious students is nothing when compared to the economic difficulties that the country faces." He offered his hand to Pete. "Well Mr. Stuart, I'll let you go now. It has been so nice seeing you."

They shook hands and Stuart continued on to his car. He regretted having run into Romero, especially after Jorge had gone to such pains to conceal their meeting. As he opened the car he realized that he carried the envelope from the Foreign Office in his hand and he wondered if Romero had noticed it. I'm not a cloak and dagger man and I have no business being involved in clandestine activities, he thought. Leave that stuff up to Jim Kirk and his guys. He shrugged off the chance meeting and turned his thoughts to the next step, his meeting with AID in the morning.

CHAPTER 26

Quito, Ecuador - 1971

It was a clear fresh morning, and, after logging the note from the Foreign Office into the official records of the embassy, Stuart decided to walk to the USAID Mission which was located a few blocks away in the La Previsora building opposite El Ejido Park. There was enough of a chill in the air so that the wool suit with vest that he wore felt comfortable. He stepped along briskly and with him he carried a portfolio with a copy of the latest incoming cable which indicated White House interest in land reform, and reported on the Ecuadorian Ambassador's call on the department. He also had the note from the Foreign Office. Before leaving the embassy he made sure that both items had been assigned to the AID Mission for action.

While he waited for the light to change on the corner of Avenida 6 de Diciembre, the silver, aluminum, police watercannon passed by, headed in the direction of the airport. It was a menacing looking machine that was a hybrid of an armored car, like those used to transport money, and a military assault vehicle. The students had appropriately dubbed it Trucutu, the Spanish name of the comic strip character Ally Op, who solved all of his problems by hitting them with his club. A convoy of military trucks carrying combat equipped paratroopers followed the watercannon and were obviously intended to remind any would-be hot headed students of the fate that awaited them should they try to turn the procession into a violent demonstration.

A squad of horse-mounted riot police was on duty under the trees at the corner of El Ejido Park, and the policemen sat in the saddles impassively watching the passing traffic. The swords that they wielded when they rode into a crowd were sheathed in the scabbards hanging on the sides of the saddles.

In sharp contrast to the military and police presence, life for most people proceeded at its normal pace. Women stood gossiping with each other and cast a watchful eye on their children playing on the slides and swings in the park, and on Avenida Diez de Agosto the shoeshine stands were filled with men reading their morning newspapers while the bootblacks labored over their shoes. He entered the La Previsora building and took the elevator to the fourth floor where he got off to walk back to the offices of Marshal Cameron, the Director of the USAID Mission.

Not as glossy and modern as the embassy, the Mission was, nevertheless, a typical U.S. Government Office complete with flags of both the United States and Ecuador as a symbol of the spirit of cooperation that was supposed to exist, and photographic portraits of President Nixon and the Secretary of State.

Cameron's secretary, a lean aseptic middleaged woman, looked up from her typewriter. Removing a pair of clear plastic framed glasses, she let them hang on the beaded chain around her neck.

"Good morning, Mr. Stuart," she said. "Mr. Cameron is expecting you. Just let me tell him that you're here." With crisp, decisive movements she picked up the telephone and pushed the intercom button. "Mr. Stuart's here," she announced, then, replacing the receiver, told Stuart, "You can go right in, sir."

There was no doubt about her being the boss's secretary, and she knew it, Stuart thought, but she does protect Cameron's privacy with efficient zeal.

Cameron, a tall and lean, craggy Kansas wheat farmer, was seated behind his desk in shirt sleeves going through the stack of cables and airgrams that represented his morning mail. "Good morning, Pete," he said, and got out of his chair and walked around the desk to shake Stuart's hand. "To what do I owe the honor of a visit from a highranking embassy officer?"

"Not so highranking, Marsh, just one of the Indians," Stuart replied and sat down in the chair in front of Cameron's desk.

"I guess you fellows have been pretty busy over in the embassy with all of this student trouble coming on top of the ICC nationalization," Cameron said and returned to his own chair. "I see by the morning paper that the President's going on television today to make a speech. Is he going to be able to keep things together?"

"We hope so," Stuart replied. "If nothing gets out of hand in the procession this afternoon things might be all right. When I was walking over here just now, I noticed that they're rattling their sabers a little bit with a show of police and military hard¬ware."

"Yes," Cameron said. "I saw a convoy of paratroopers headed out toward the airport on my way to work this morning. I also hope the president gets thing s s quared away. It makes our work all the more difficult when we have these periods of political upheaval. You can't get anyone in the government to focus on economic development issues when the country's boiling with ferment. What can I do for you?" he asked.

Although Cameron was a slow talking Kansas farmer, he was also a cagy and experienced bureaucrat who had served in technical assistance missions all over the world; Stuart knew that he would have to be careful how he presented things to him so as not to arouse resentment by appearing to interfere in AID business. Even though AID was part of the State Department, they liked to think that they were an independent piece of the foreign policy establishment.

Stuart opened his portfolio and removed the papers from it. "I want to give you a note that we received from the Foreign Office over the weekend on the land reform loan," he said and handed the note to Cameron. "I'll let you read it and then we can talk about it "

Cameron took the n ote and read it while Stuart got out of his chair to look out the window at the park below. The squad of horse-mounted police had moved and taken up their watchful duty in front of the AID Mission. He wondered if they were just moving around in the park or if they had moved to protect the Mission from any possible trouble.

"My God, this is amazing!" Cameron exclaimed. "We've been arguing with them for two years, and they wouldn't concede an inch. Now, out of a clear blue sky, they come in and accept everything. Sometimes this place is really a never-never land. Christ, if they are sincere about this it means that we can finally get around to dealing with one of the real underlying causes of poverty in this country."

Stuart returned to his chair and sat down. "The note certainly sounds as though they're sincere," he said, then picked up the copy of the cable. "That brings me to the other issue that I wanted to talk to you about. You've probably already seen this incoming cable that tells about the Ecuadorian Ambassador calling on the department to reaffirm the government's interest in land reform. It's the same one that says the White House is also interested in the same subject, and asks several questions about disbursements?"

"Yes," Cameron said and looked through the stack of cables on his desk. "I've got it right here." He quickly read the cable again. "Seems like there's a lot of sudden interest in land reform up in Washington."

"It does look as though something is going on behind the scenes," Stuart said. "First the White House raises questions, then the Ecuadorian Ambassador calls on the department, and right behind comes this note." Stuart was confident that Cameron would never link the note to the ICC negotiations. There would be no reason for him to do so.

"It sure as hell does look as though something is going on," Cameron said. "I wonder what gave them the sudden change of heart?"

"That may take us a while to find out," Stuart said, "but in the meantime our ambassador is very pleased about it, and he asked me to come over here to discuss this cable with you."

"Why didn't the ambassador call me personally if he's so interested," Cameron said testily, showing some of the sensitivity that AID officers had about dealing with the embassy staff. AID officers frequently outranked their embassy colleagues, but they did not share the same diplomatic status, and Cameron, being the head of an autonomous agency felt that it was demeaning to deal with anyone less than the ambassador.

"I don't know, Marsh. He was talking to Jim Kirk when I left so I suppose he's busy this morning with political matters. There's a lot going on today, and since I'm the liaison officer between AID and the embassy, I guess he figured this was stuff that you and I could handle." He hoped he had smoothed Cameron's ruffled feathers.

"I'm sorry, Pete," Cameron said. "I didn't mean to sound defensive. It's just that if the ambassador has some special concern about our business, I'd like to hear it from him. I have nothing against you, Pete, and you know we get along fine. Go ahead and tell me what the ambassador has in mind."

"I don't think the ambassador has any special concern about anything, Marsh. He just wanted me to talk to you about the first item for the White House response cable, the amount of the disbursements," Stuart said.

"That's easy to answer," Cameron said. "There aren't any."

"I know," Stuart replied. "That's what he doesn't like. He'd like to make a disbursement today so we could show something on the reply. With this note there's really no reason why we can't move forward, is there?"

"Christ, Pete, that note just says that they accept our recommendations. It doesn't solve the organizational problems or put the organization in place. That will take time to work out."

"Oh, I realize that, Marsh, and so does the ambassador, but in this case there are some overriding political considerations. We have three other loans up in Washington pending approval, and we're making an argument against invoking the Hickenlooper Amendment over this ICC matter. If we go in with a cable that shows no disbursements on a loan that is over three years old, Washington will just come back and tell us to use the money that we've got, and to stop worrying about getting new money in the pipeline. Washington is not interested in hearing about organizational problems. They've got too many of their own. What they want us to do is move money.

"That's a good point, Pete," Cameron said. "Since I haven't focused on this Hickenlooper Amendment problem, I hadn't thought of it that way. I'm not familiar with the exact mechanics of making a disbursement. Let me call my Controller up here and we can talk to him." He picked up the phone and spoke to his secretary. "Will you ask Poindexter to come up here, please."

He replaced the receiver and faced Stuart. "I don't know all of the details about how these things work, but I believe if all of the conditions precedent to disbursement have been met we could get a check issued today. Let's see what Dex has to say."

Stuart marveled at how simple it was to get five million dollars once you had all of the right papers. The foreign aid program was like an enormous puzzle, but once you knew the secret it was quite easy to manipulate. The telephone buzzed and Cameron turned to answer it. "Yes," he said. "Send him in." It was the guardian of privacy announcing Poindexter's arrival.

The door opened and a wiry little man with a shock of carrot red hair entered the office. Stuart knew Poindexter from Somalia where they had served together. "Marsh, Pete, Good morning," he said.

Stuart rose from his chair and shook hands with Poindexter. "Good morning, Dex. It's good to see you. How's the dart throwing? Did you know that Dex was the champion dart thrower in the American Club in Mogadishu, Marsh?"

"No," Cameron replied. "He's a good controller and he throws a few darts at me once in a while, but I didn't know he was famous. Sit down, Dex, please."

Poindexter took the chair beside Stuart's and pulled a curvedstem briar pipe from his pocket and filled it.

"Dex, if we wanted to make a disbursement on the land reform loan would it be possible to get a check today?" Cameron asked.

"All of the CP's on that loan are not cleared, Marsh," Poindexter replied.

"CP"s?" Cameron asked.

"Conditions Precedent to disbursement," Poindexter said. "Oh. Well they are now. The government has accepted all of our recommendations and is ready to move forward on it," Cameron said.

"That being the case, sure," Poindexter replied. "We don't actually cut the check. The U.S. Disbursing Officer in the embassy does it. We send the schedule of request over to him, and if he processes it right away, we could have the check immediately."

"If you have any trouble with the USDO, let me know," Stuart said. "I'll see that he gets to it."

Cameron handed Poindexter the note. "Here Dex, take this note and make a copy of it. We can accept it as having cleared the last CP, and as the host government's request for disbursement."

"How do you want the check delivered?" Poindexter asked.

Cameron looked at Stuart. "Pete?"

"In the usual way, I guess," Stuart replied casually. "Just take it down to the Central Bank this morning as soon as it's issued. There's one other thing, Marsh. The ambassador doesn't want any publicity on this. He feels that with the present political crisis it wouldn't be good for us to get ourselves in the limelight any more than we have to. Let's just let the government handle it any way they want. When they're ready to give publicity to the land reform program, they'll do it"

"You know that we're supposed to publicize these things, Pete, so the people will be aware of how much we're doing for them," Cameron said.

"I know, Marsh, but in this case it might be best to keep a low profile," Stuart said. "There's going to be a lot of controversy over land reform, and we don't need the big landowners taking pot shots at us. We're hoping we can weather this present crisis without public attention being focused on us. There's no point in antagonizing another group by taking on the landowners."

"Okay, Pete, what ever you say," Cameron backed down. "We'll play it low key. What else can I do for you?"

"I think that's everything I came over here to see you about, Marsh," Stuart replied and stood up. "I'll get back over to the embassy and tell the ambassador that you're taking care of everything. Put me down for clearance on the outgoing cable with the White House response. I'd like to see it before it goes out. You might buck it to the ambassador, too."

Stuart walked down the hall with Poindexter and they made idle gossip, but his mind was really on Jorge and Melvin. Is it possible, he wondered to himself, that this thing is really solved? Everything is falling together like clockwork. When they reached the elevator he said goodbye, and shook Poindexter's hand.

"I'll get that schedule over to the USDO right away, Pete. The check should be delivered to the Central Bank this morning," he said as the doors on the elevator opened.

"Okay, Dex. Thanks a lot," Stuart replied, and waved as the elevator doors closed.

Quito, Ecuador - 1971

Stuart returned to the embassy, and stopped in front of his secretary's desk. "Would you get Jorge Chiriboga on the phone, please, and when I've finished talking to him, get Mr. Ray Melvin in the Hotel Quito on the line," he said, then entered his office. On his desk Jane had placed the morning mail, and he quickly looked through it. There were no action cables, and he felt a sense of relief. The phone buzzed and he picked it up. "Yes," he said.

"The Minister's office is on line two," Jane said.

He pushed the button for line two. "Hello."

"Un momemtito, Señor Stuart," Jorge's secretary said. "I'll put the Minister on."

"Pete, good morning."

"Good morning, Jorge. Everything went fine. The package should be delivered to the Central Bank this morning."

"Thank you, Pete. I'll pass the word to the President right away.

"Jorge, when can you get together with Melvin to wind things up?" Stuart asked.

"Tomorrow morning is fine with me," he said.

"All right, I'll get word to him. Goodbye."

He replaced the phone, and as he waited for Jane to get Melvin on the line he pulled a folder from his desk. It was marked "Peter Stuart Personal," and he placed it on top of the stack of morning mail. The phone buzzed again, and he picked it up.

"Mr. Melvin on line one."

"Melvin?"

"Yeah, Stuart. Good news?"

"Well, it's what you want to hear. The money is being delivered to the Central Bank this morning. I assume that you have some sort of legal documents or that your lawyers can draft up something," Stuart said.

"You bet," Melvin said. "We have an escrow agreement all drawn up. Once the money is in our account in New York, and the agreement is signed, I'll turn the keys over to them."

"Fine," Stuart replied. "I just spoke to Jorge Chiriboga, and he can see you tomorrow morning to wrap things up. At this point I think I can drop out of the picture. From here on it's up to you, your lawyers and the government."

"That's fine, Stuart, but you're sure the money is in place?"

"It will be very shortly," Stuart replied.

"You do good work," Melvin said. "The things I heard about you were right. You do have what it takes to make it to the top. Don't forget what I told you about having a friend in ICC."

"No, I won't, Mr. Melvin. Have a good trip home."

Every time he spoke to Melvin, even on the telephone, he had the feeling that he ought to check to see if he still had his wallet and watch. He made one more call to report to the ambassador, then returned to the "personal" folder on his desk.

He opened it to a sheet where he had recorded all of his investments, bank accounts and savings. He noted the amounts of each of them on a yellow drafting pad then summed them up. He had seventy-five thousand dollars, and he mentally calculated that there was another twenty thousand in his foreign Service retirement fund. He thought about his little town of Calpe, in Spain, and the idea of writing a book. He closed his eyes and he could see the Peñon de Ifach, and hear the pucka-ta-pucka of the fishing boats putting out to sea. Why don't I do it? he asked himself. Then he closed the folder and busied himself with the morning mail until five minutes to twelve.

Taking a cup of coffee with him he walked to the USIS press room where the television set glowed with the Seal of the Republic over a shot of the Presidential Palace. He sat down in one of the chairs along the wall, and in a few moments the ambassador entered, and sat down in the chair next to Stuart.

"Damas y caballeros," an off camera voice said, "El Presidente de la Republica, General Antonio Lopez Peralta. With no dissolve the cameras cut to the office of the President where the General was seated behind an ornate Louis XIV desk. He was in his full dress uniform resplendent with campaign ribbons covering the full side of his left breast.

"Ecuatorianos," he said without looking at the camera, but reading, instead, from a paper that he held in his slightly trembling hands. "in the past seventy-two hours, forces that would destroy our society have been active throughout the Republic. Their actions, if left unchecked, could only lead to chaos and anarchy. On Friday night, anti-social factions defiled the sanctity of the dead by seizing the body of the victim of the senseless violence that occurred last Wednesday morning. In order to put a stop to this irresponsible and illegal activity I instructed the Ministers of Defense and Interior to impose a curfew to be enforced with the full weight of the public forces. By Sunday night these anti-social elements had retreated from their insane position, and I was able to lift the curfew.

"This morning I urge every citizen to go about his legitimate enterprize without thoughts of violence, and free from the fear that the threads which hold this country together will be severed. We cannot afford the luxury of wanton barbarianism. We must channel the energies of the people into constructive labor so that each citizen can share in the riches of this nation.

"During the time that those who would destroy our society were active, responsible officials of your government have negotiated an honorable settlement with those foreign exploiters who have for so many years skimmed the wealth of our nation, and the lawful demands of our workers will me satisfied. I have ordered the public forces out of the University so that the youth of the nation may return to the pursuit of knowledge.

"I ask each individual to demonstrate his patriotism by responsible behavior so that we may return to a climate conducive to the creation of a better life for each of us. Gracias."

"He's certainly no orator, is he," the ambassador said.

"He does leave a bit to be desired," Stuart replied. "It sounded like a parade ground speech to the troops. Not up to the standards of the rhetoric of the "Old Man. " Stuart's reference was to the aged civilian President whom Lopez Peralta had deposed in a bloodless coup.

"No, the Old Man would have talked for two hours, and brought in motherhood, God and tradition," the ambassador replied. "You did a good job on this, Pete. Both you and Jorge deserve a lot of credit. It was a good example of quiet diplomacy at work."

"Thank you, sir," Pete replied, but not really satisfied with his accomplishment. He had a vague, undefined feeling of uneasiness about the operation even though everything seemed to have gone perfectly. "I hope everything stays together."

"You don't sound too pleased about what you did, Pete," the ambassador said. "Is something troubling you?"

"No, sir, " Pete replied. "Everything went just fine. Better than I expected. I think it may be a little bit of the day after Christmas syndrome."

"I think you need a few days off. You've worked your tail off on this job. Is there anything you especially want to do? Go down to the coast or up to Panama?"

When the ambassador mentioned Panama something clicked in Stuart's mind and he said, "Yes, sir. There is something that I'd like to do up in Panama, and I'd love to have a week off."

"You've got it, Pete," the ambassador said. "Hang around Quito the rest of today and tomorrow, and if things go the way we expect them to go you can catch the Wednesday flight up to Panama. I'll see you later." The ambassador started to walk away then stopped and turned back to Stuart. "Just leave word with my secretary how I can get hold of you if I need to."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Ambassador," he said and left to return to his office to place a call to Soledad.

Even though it was clearly established between them that they were in love, Stuart felt awkward, almost a boyish self-consciousness, about asking her to go away with him. He fiddled around in the office and finally placed a call to her. After the usual niceties of how are you, I'm fine, it's good to have th job finished, he screwed up his courage and came to the point.

"Listen, Soledad, what I really called about is to find out if there's any chance that you could get away for a few days," he said.

"I think I could," she replied. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well, I know a place up in the Caribbean, just off the coast of Panama, where a guy that I know has fulfilled a dream."

"Oh, what do you mean?" she asked.

"It's a little island called Pidertupo in the San Blas Archipelago where Joe and Annie Martin, some American friends of mine, have set themselves up and done what most of us would like to do," he replied.

"Do you mean go off and sit under a palm tree and paint?" She laughed.

"Well, Joe doesn't paint, but he has a hell of a lot of fun. He and his wife got fed up with the rat race in New York a few years ago and went down there and leased an island from the Kuna Indians. You know, the Indians who make the Molas that you see all over Panama."

"Yes, I know about the Kuna Indians," she said. "Tell me more, I'm excited."

"Joe and Annie, as I said, leased this island. They've built some cottages where they can accommodate a few guests and a main house where everybody meets in the evenings for drinks and dinner. They live the way most people would like to live. Annie's a superb cook, and she does all of the cooking, and Joe's got a couple of boats that we can use to sail, skin dive, spear fish or water ski. Am I tempting you?"

"You're not just tempting me, I'm ready to leave right now," she said with excitement.

"Well we can't leave right now, but we could leave first thing Wednesday morning. We have to fly up to Panama and from there, you have to take a light plane down to the Caribbean where there's a little airstrip carved out of the jungle. Joe would pick us up there and take us out to the island on his boat."

"It sounds better with every word," she said. "Let's go!"

"I'll get on the telephone and make the arrangements, and then get back to you, or tell you tonight," he said.

"By the way, I don't think I've told you that I love you for several hours," she said.

"Thanks, I needed to hear that," Pete replied, "and by the way, I love you."

Turning in his chair he looked out the window and laughed to himself over being so timid about asking her to go with him. God, he thought, I haven't felt this way in years. Love does funny things to men, or at least it does to me.

He was already beginning to formulate a mental plan to divorce Ruth, and he wondered just exactly how he would deal with her. He did not understand why she had not, herself, sought the divorce, and he was getting a glimmering of how guilt had crippled his own emotional life. Why, he asked himself, with more honesty than he had ever had in the past, would two people want to continue a marriage that had been as tormented and filled with bitterness as his and Ruth's had been? In many cases family tragedy brings people together, but in their case it had driven a wedge between them, and the wounds were too deep to ever heal. Somewhere, deep inside him, he felt a new resolve to end the marriage and get on with the business of living, living, he hoped, with Soledad.

CHAPTER 28

Quito, Ecuador - 1971

Soledad replaced the receiver and felt a tingle of excitement in her body as she thought of going off to a Caribbean island alone with Pete. Walking to the kitchen she put the tea kettle on to boil water for coffee, and in her mind consulted her biological calendar. She realized that she was very close to having her menstrual period. What terrible luck, she thought. Here I am on the verge of running away to a desert island with the man I love, and I'll be right in the middle of my period. Being a woman is not easy.

Taking a cup she made coffee for herself, then returned to her easel, but found herself unable to concentrate on her painting. Her thoughts took leaps of fantasy into the future, and she had a childlike wish to know que sera. She wanted, as she did many times when reading a novel, to look at the last page to see how it ended. She felt very much alive, charged with energy, and was gripped by a sudden urge to have Pete with her, in her, at that very moment. So intense was her reverie that she was startled when again the telephone rang. She had a brief, fleeting fear that something had gone wrong with Pete's plans. She walked to the phone and picked it up. "Hello," she said.

"Hello, Soledad, this is Carlos," a deep latin voice replied.

"Hello, Carlos." Her voice was flat and without emotion.

"I was wondering if I might come by to see you. I would like to talk to you."

"No," she replied. "I'm very busy."

"Will you have lunch with me then?"

"I said I was busy, Carlos."

"Then I'm coming to see you," he insisted.

"I don't want you coming here, Carlos, and if you do come, I won't let you in the house," she argued.

"Soledad, you're not being fair to me."

"Carlos, please try and understand that when I told you that we were through, I meant it. You're married and you have your own family. I don't want to interfere in your life anymore than I have. I told you that the guilt from being involved with a married man was more than I could bear," she pleaded with him.

"I don't understand how you can make love to a man and then tell him that you're through with him," he argued again.

"I should not have made love with you, Carlos, I know, but I did, and I regret having done it." She closed her eyes, and wished that he would just hang up, leave her alone.

"Soledad, is there someone else?"

"Carlos, you're missing the point. I just told you that I couldn't live with the guilt that I felt about carrying on a love affair with you."

"Why did it take you over a year to find it out?"

"Sooner or later our conscience catches up with all of us, Carlos." She was weary from the discussion and she prayed that he would hang up.

"I think there is someone else," he continued.

She was on the verge of hanging up on him, but decided that maybe the best way to handle a Latin man was to tell him that there was someone else. "At the time that I told you that we were through there wasn't anyone, Carlos. I want you to understand that, but there is now. I am very much involved with another man."

Her tactic worked and she breathed a sigh of relief when he conceded. "All right, he said. "I think I understand now. I won't bother you any more."

She realized that she had injured his macho pride, and she wanted to soften the blow, ease the pain. "Carlos, we had some sweet moments, and I'll treasure the memories of them always, but please forget about me, and be happy with your wife and family."

"All right, Soledad. Goodbye," he said.

"Goodbye, Carlos." She cradled the phone, walked to the sofa and dropped on it. The arguing and mind-to-mind confrontation had depleted her. She leaned back on the sofa and closed her eyes. Gradually the tension left her body as once again she began to feel the electricity and excitement of her coming trip with Pete. She finished her coffee and returned to the easel to await Pete's arrival.

GO TO CHAPTER 29

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Gene McCoy © August, 1998

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