HIGHEST AND MOST DISTINGUISHED CONSIDERATION
A Novel of the Foreign Service
By
Gene C. McCoy
CHAPTER 36
Quito, Ecuador - 1971
The big orange DC8 rolled to a stop in front of the Quito
International Airport, and it was immediately surrounded by a
platoon of paratroopers while it was refueled and serviced.
Inside the terminal, at the Braniff counter, travelers anxious to
leave before more trouble developed clambered for the clerks'
attention. While a local employee from the embassy took care of
Stuart's tickets and immigration formalities, Pete chatted with
well-wishers who had come to see him off. Teniente Rodriguez
stood by his side and kept a watchful eye on the crowd.
Stuart was watchful of the crowd as well, but his hope was
that Soledad would at the last minute change her mind, and like a
Hollywood movie script suddenly arrive at the airport ready to
leave with him. From the street side of the building he heard
the roar of motorcycles, and he looked out to see a black Government of Ecuador Mercedes pull up to the curb. Janet Chiriboga
climbed out, and flanked by guards on either side of her she
pushed her way through the milling crowd of people to where
Stuart waited.
"Hello, Janet," he said and embraced her.
"Hello, Pete. I found out from the embassy that you were
leaving, and I insisted that I be allowed to come see you off."
She was wearing large dark glasses, but he could tell from the
sound of her voice that she had been crying, and was at that
moment on the verge of tears.
"No word, yet?" he said, and then regretted having asked.
She shook her head without speaking, and from her handbag
she removed a tissue and dabbed at her eyes under the sun
glasses. "Where are you going, Pete?"
"First to Washington, and then California. I've got to find
a job. I've resigned from the Foreign Service."
"I didn't know that, Pete, but it's just as well that you
did before the same thing happened to you that has happened to
Jorge." She started to cry, and he took her in his arms. "Oh
Pete, you don't know what terrible misgivings I had about coming
back down here. We were settled and happy in Washington, and
Jorge could have stayed with the OAS for the rest of his life,
but he became so enthused when he came down to talk to the
President that I swept my fears aside. I wish now that I had
refused."
"Janet, don't think that way." He held her hands in his and
looked at her. "That's the past, and you can't change anything.
All you can do now is pray for his safe return and try and
understand."
"I know that, Pete, but I had such a strong feeling of
foreboding that I'm frightened."
Stuart thought about the gypsy woman up the Guardarama
mountains, and the way she had closed Jorge's hand without
telling him his "fortune." "Janet, don't worry. They'll find
Jorge and you'll soon be on your way out of here. It will all
seem like a bad dream to you," He tried to reassure her, but he
knew that he did not sound convincing. He was very worried about
Jorge's fate.
"I hope you're right, Pete, and if we ever do get back toWashington, I'll never come down here again. They don't deserve
people like you and Jorge. These rich feudal landowners and the
politicians don't care about anything but maintaining their own
privileged positions. They don't want change, and they don't
seem to realize that they're going to lose everything if they
don't give something to the poor people."
"Janet, don't be bitter. Bitterness can only eat you up.
No matter what happens, you've got to have faith that there's a
reason for all of this. That reason is not always clear to us,
but we have to think that way." While his words may have sounded
heroic, inside of him they had a hollow ring, and he wondered why
all of these things had happened to him. He thought about Ruth,
Tommy and Soledad. Why had
Soledad suddenly changed and become so distant? If she loved the
other man why couldn't she just tell him. Despite what he said
to Janet, Stuart felt bitter and cynical himself.
Over the loudspeaker they announced the departure of his
flight, first in Spanish and then in English. "Braniff announces
the departure of its flight ninety-two for Cali, Panama, Miami and
New York. All passengers on board, please." The attendant at
the gate slid the heavy glass door open and called the flight
again.
"Stay in touch with us, please, Pete," Janet said, and
grabbed Stuart and hugged him. "Take care of yourself."
"You take care of yourself, Janet, and don't worry." He
embraced her very hard. "I wish I could stay here with you. I
know how hard it is to be alone in a foreign country when there's
trouble, and your loved ones are in danger." He kissed her
lightly on the cheek. "My thoughts and prayers will be with you
though. Goodbye, Janet."
She turned and walked very quickly back to the car, and
Stuart once again looked over the sea of faces in the crowd for
Soledad. Then, he turned and with Merche on one side of him, and
Lieutenant Rodriguez on the other he walked across the ramp to
the plane while over the loudspeaker they made the last call for
his flight. He shook the policeman's hand, then followed Merche
up the stairs to the open door of the cabin.
As the plane climbed out of the high Andean valley, Stuart
looked out the window at the rugged green mountains. In the
distance he could see the pastures in the hacienda country, and
then, almost at eye-level, they were beside the majestic coneshaped, snow-capped volcano, Mount Cotopaxi. Jose Maria Del Prado's
hacienda was situated at the base of the mountain, and he could
see the lights of his ranch house. It was early evening, and the
peak of the mountain was flaming red in the sunset, while toward
the base there were purple, and finally black. He had many times
watched the sunset over Cotopaxi from the hacienda after a day of
bullfighting. Then they were in the clouds again, and he leaned
back and closed his eyes and thought about the day that he had
met Soledad on Jose Maria's ranch.
Merche got off the plane in Panama to return to Spain, and
he had another emotional and tearful goodbye. They had been
together for over ten years, and she had become a part of his
life, as Pete had become a part of hers.
CHAPTER 37
Quito, Ecuador - 1971
Jorge Chiriboga looked out the window of the small
šwhitewashed peasant's hut at Mount Cotopaxi on the opposite side
of the valley from where he was being held captive. On the floor
of the valley below he could see the rich green pastures of the
haciendas where the fighting bulls were raised. It takes a lot
of land, he thought, to maintain our cherished Spanish
traditions. They were traditions that he loved as much as any
other Latin. There was nothing as wonderful as spending a
weekend on an hacienda, fighting the small calves, barbecuing,
riding horseback and then dancing and drinking well into the
night; and nothing could restore one's energies like sleeping in
the clear mountain air under thick downfilled comforters.
Overhead he heard the sound of the afternoon jet to the
States, and as much as he loved Ecuador and all of its
traditions, he wished that he were on it with Janet and his son
Peter heading back to Washington. Other than the pastoral sounds
of barking dogs, chickens and sheep, it was the first sound he
had heard since the helicopter which had flown over earlier in
the afternoon.
It had been the middle of the night when they arrived and he
had no idea what things looked like beyond the narrow range of
vision he had from the window. He had wondered if his kidnappers
had left anything outside that would reveal their presence to the
army searching from the helicopter. It was obvious to him that
his captors were inexperienced in the business of terrorism and
kidnapping, but it was equally obvious that they were angry and
dedicated to their cause. No amount of talking by Jorge could
dissuade them from continuing this folly. They had heard enough
empty talk they said, and Agapito Romero had been so convincing
in his accusations against Jorge that they were certain that
Jorge was just another corrupt politician.
It was a small group that was holding him, six in so far as
he knew, five men, boys really, the oldest no more than twenty
five, and one girl. The girl, also in her early twenties, was
the sweetheart of Andres Guerrero, the student who had been
killed in the demonstration just a few weeks ago, and from the
things that she said, Jorge knew that she cared little whether
she lived or died. It was frightening to see people so outraged
that they were willing to die rather than continue to live in
sub-human conditions. Time is running out on us, he thought, and
somehow we must find a way to solve the problems faster than we
are now. The people of Latin America won't wait much longer for
the politicians to solve their problems. More and more they are
going to take things into their own hands with guns and violence.
In the distance he heard the unmistakable growl of six-by-six
army trucks, and on the switch back road below the hut he could
see a convoy zig-zagging up the mountain. Then there was the
familiar thump-thump-thump of a helicopter hovering somewhere overhead. The trucks stopped and he could see the paratroopers
rigged out in full combat gear jumping down from them. They kept
their heads low as they ran to take cover behind the rocks.
Carefully, with rifles and machine guns in hand, they ran from
one cover to another and inched their way up the steep slope
toward the house. From the rear of the house he heard the
thump-thump of the chopper close by.
The door burst open and the girl and two of the men rushed
into the hut. "Well Mr. Minister, your friends have found you.
It was our fault too. We should have hidden the car, but we
don't know all of the tricks of the trade yet. We'll learn
though. Next time we'll know what to do," the girl shouted, then
added. "If anybody gets out of this alive."
Jorge looked at the girl. She had a pretty face and he
wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her. "Listen, don't
be fools," he said. "Let me go down and talk to the
paratroopers," he argued. "Even though I'm no longer a part of
the government I still have some influence with the President,
and I can probably arrange it so you can go into exile or get off
with light sentences."
"Exile or prison sentences!" the girl shouted. "We remove
one corrupt politician and our reward is exile or prison. You
must be crazy!"
"You're wrong. I'm not a corrupt politician, and you can't
expect to accomplish anything by taking the law into your own
hands!" He glanced over her shoulder through the window, and he
saw the soldiers getting closer, but they were still out of the
range of the small arms which his captors carried.
Jorge tried again to get them to release him. "Be
reasonable," he pleaded. "Let me go down and save all of our
lives. It's a waste for any or all of us to be killed. Nothing
will be accomplished that way, but if we live, maybe we can bring
about some change."
"No, Mr. Minister," the girl said. "If they want you
they're going to have to come in and get you."
"Callate, Maria!," one of the men standing by the window
shouted. "Those soldiers are getting close! What are we going
to do?"
She walked to the window and raised the rifle to her
shoulder, sighted and squeezed the trigger. "This is what we are
going to do," she shouted, and squeezed again.
Jorge saw two of the troopers fall to the ground. Perhaps,
because the soldiers were inexperienced in handling a hostage
situation, or perhaps because Jorge was no longer a member of the
government he heard a burst of machine gun fire as the troopers
responded with a shoot-to-kill, self defense reaction. "It's too
late now," he said as the bullets ripped into his chest. "It's
too late for all of us." He fell to the floor, dead.
CHAPTER 38
Washington, D.C. - 1971
It was Christmas Eve and Stuart was wounded when he walked out of the State Department to hail a taxi at the Twenty-first
Street entrance to go to Washington National Airport to catch a
plane to Los Angeles. It was a wound so profound that he had not
yet accepted how deep it penetrated. It was not just a blow to
his ego, although his ego had been badly bruised. It went to his
very being, his core, his essence.
From the time that he was a boy he had known that he wanted
to be a Foreign Service officer, but it was more than wanting to
be an FSO. He wanted to practice diplomacy. He wanted to
transcend the cultural and linguistic chasm that separated the
United States from the rest of the hemisphere. The years of
studying Spanish, the history, and the culture of Spain and her
colonies in the Americas all seemed wasted. He no longer knew
why he had spent years living with and adapting to the Latins, or
why he had learned to understand their preoccupation with form as
opposed to the American's concern with substance. Once confident
and sure of himself, he now doubted his ability to use careully
and sometimes painfully garnered experience to resolve the issues
that kept the Americans and Latins separated. He had lost his
sense of direction, his sense of purpose.
It was beginning to snow as he boarded his plane, a "red eye
special" all night flight, to the West Coast, and once on board
he slept until at daybreak he was awakened as they started their
descent into LAX.
From Los Angeles Pete flew on to San Luis
Obispo where his mother still lived, and where he had ordered the
MG shipped when he left Quito. His father had died several years
earlier, but she still lived alone in the family home.
When just after noon on Christmas Day he walked out of the San Luis Airport
his mother was there to meet him, and after wishing him a Merry
Christmas, all she asked was "Are you sorry you quit your job?"
"A little bit," he replied, feeling like a helpless little
boy.
"Don't worry," she said. "You'll find another one."
They drove home to the house where he had grown up; to Marsh
Street where he had played hide and seek, kick-the-can and touch
football; to the street where whatever dreams he had of
conquering the world were spawned. He walked around the old
neighborhood visiting with friends, and he bought his gin in the
drugstore where he had worked as a soda jerk when he was still in
junior high school.
He didn't know it but he had crashed and burned in Quito,
but by the Grace of God, and, for reasons that transcended his
understanding, he hadn't died. After a few days of his mother's
home cooking, driving along the restless winter sea on the north
central coast in the MG, and a lot of walking on the beaches, he
found the courage, and strength to at least think about looking
for a job.
Even though he had resolved to do some writing he would
still have to work at something in order to keep body and soul
together, and his skills were, he believed in his state of
self-doubt, not easily transferred.
He made several trips back to Los Angeles to follow up on
possible job leads. He was overqualified (Too old?); he had an
interesting background, but it didn't quite fit their needs
(Irresponsible?). What he had left of any self-confidence ebbed
out of him like the tide, and he often felt like he might be
pulled out to sea with it. Finally, one day, he saw an ad in the
newspaper for an Agent for the State of Nevada Gaming Control
Board, the agency that regulates the gambling casinos in Nevada.
H e sent his resume, and followed up by flying to Las Vegas to
talk to the Agent-in-Charge. The agent liked Pete, and Pete liked
him, and he was hired. Returning to San Luis Obispo, he packed
his things in the MG, and drove across the desert to Las Vegas,
Nevada which was the last place in the world that he ever thought
he would end up.
The garish vulgarity and superficiality of Las Vegas was
offensive to his innermost being. The worst part was that people
assumed that he was a "Vegas kind of guy." The sort of person
who is always looking to turn a fast and easy buck; the "marathon
men" who spend hours, days in the casinos trying to get rich
quick and easy; the sharp, cynical pit bosses and craps dealers
who date the hookers, and cocktail waitresses, and are always
catering to egos and exploiting the poor saps who came to "Vegas"
for an ego trip or to satisfy their lust and greed. Las Vegas,
to Pete, was the absolute essence of everything negative, vulgar
and shallow about American culture, and an anathema to everything
he believed about himself. Nevertheless, he was glad to be off
the streets and working.
He found himself a studio apartment in a complex on the edge
of the desert where he had a view of the Sunrise Mountain; he
went into a "white knuckle" period of trying to control his
drinking by sheer will. He was truly scared to death that he
might go down the tubes, and many times he got on his knees and
prayed to God that He not let him go. He missed Soledad, and he
was unable to sleep at night. He would drink enough to fall
asleep, but he would awaken at two o'clock, unable to get back to
sleep.
What he wanted to do during those wee hours of the morning
was to blot out the reality and memories of the past with drink,
but he started working on a book about the Quito experience.
Rather than see himself as a failure he created the illusion that
he was a writer.
As an Agent for the Gaming Control Board, he was
commissioned as a Peace Officer, and he was required to carry a
badge which took the place of his diplomatic passport as a symbol
of his identity, and he did not like it. But, just as he was
grateful to be working rather than walking the streets, he was
grateful to have something to prove that he was somebody, and not
just a free floating drifter of which there are many in Las Vegas.
Even though the badge did not have the symbolism of the power
and prestige of the Department of State of the United States of
America, as the diplomatic passport did, it did represent considerable power. The Gaming Control Board is the stately
equivalent of the CIA and the FBI, and for a while it held his
interest.
It took him a few months to adjust to all of the
changes which had occurred in his life, and while he was far from
happy, joyous and free, he was managing, he rationalized, and his
drinking was more or less under control.
He tried dating, first with a Cuban refugee, then with an
American who was deeply committed to the women's movement that
was just taking shape in early 1972. All of this was new and
alien to him, and he began to doubt that he could ever forget
Soledad, and find happiness with another woman. Finally he quit
trying. Several letters that he sent to Soledad were returned
marked "Desconocido," unknown, and people to whom he wrote to
inquire about where she had gone replied that they didn't know.
He kept in touch with several of his Foreign Service friends
who called him periodically on the telephone from Washington, and
one morning, after he had been in Las Vegas for about six months,
he received a call from Tom Blakeman, his old boss from Madrid.
"Pete," he said. "How are you doing old buddy?"
"I'm doing fine, Tom," he lied. "How about you?"
"I'm going crazy working in Washington," Tom said. "This is
the biggest hardship post in the world. Listen, Pete, I just had
a call from a guy who wants someone to work down in Mexico City
for the foundation that discovered the dwarf wheat."
"CIMYT," Pete said.
"Right, CIMYT," Tom said. "Centro de something or other.
You know I don't speak Spanish."
"Centro de Investigaciones de Maiz y Trigo," Pete
translated. "They're out in Chapingo. I worked with them when I
was in the embassy in Mexico. We gave them a few million
dollars."
"Well, this guy who called me, his name was Jackson, wants
somebody to head up his economic and admin functions, and I
thought of you. Are you interested?"
"You bet," Pete said. He could feel the adrenalin pumping
into him. "What do I have to do?"
"Nothing," Tom replied. "I'll call him back and give him
your phone number. He'll call you if he's interested."
"I'd rather call him, Tom," Pete said, "because I really am
interested."
"Don't worry, Pete," Tom said. "I'll see that he calls you,
and I'll take care of you. You got screwed down in Quito, and
it's the least I can do for you. If he hasn't called you within
a couple of days, you call me back."
He hung up the phone feeling that for the first time in
months something was going right in his life. Two days later
Jackson did call Pete and asked him to come down to Mexico City
to talk to him. A week later Pete arranged for a few days off
from his job with the Board and flew to Mexico City.
He took a taxi from the airport and checked into the Maria
Isabel Hotel next door to the American Embassy, and just two blocks away from where he had lived as a student. He wanted a
drink, but he knew he had better not start drinking or he would
be in no shape for the interview, and he went to bed.
The next morning he was up early. He showered, shaved and
dressed in his best FSO outfit. He put on a grey three piece,
three button Brooks Brothers suit, with a blue oxford cloth,
button down collar shirt, and a nice conservative regimental
stripped tie. He looked as though he wanted this job as much as
he needed it. He drove out to Chapingo, on the outskirts of
Mexico City, in a rented car, and a flood of memories hit him.
The last time he had driven to Chapingo was in a chauffeur
driven embassy car during a visit to Mexico by LBJ. He had been
one of the embassy Control Officers for the party and had
escorted Ladybird, the Secretary of State, and several other
members of the delegation on an official visit to an American aid
financed project. CIMYT was a private international foundation
dedicated to agricultural research, and was supported by
contributions from the U.S. and other donors. He had been on top
of the world.
He reached the gate of the CIMYT compound, stopped, and told
the guard that he had an appointment with Mr. Jackson. He was
admitted and drove to the main administration building.
Jackson was an easy going Iowa wheat farmer turned wheat
breeder, the main effort to which CIMYT scientists dedicated
themselves. Pete was given a tour of the facility, and in the
privacy of Jackson's office they talked. "Pete, I'm very much
impressed with you, and your credentials," he said. "But there
is something I have to tell you. I'm not really free to hire
whom ever I want for this job. You see we sent out the word to
all of the donors that this position was open, and we got your
name as well as several others as recommended candidates. I like
you, and if I had my own way I would hire you, but that's not the
case. We're under a lot of pressure from the Mexican government
to "Mexicanize" the foundation, put more Mexicans in key jobs,
and that includes the job that I've talked to you about."
"Then you're just going through the motions in interviewing
me," Pete said, "Trying to please the donors by appearing to give their
candidates a shot at it, right?"
He looked at Pete with a pained expression. "If you ever
accused me of that, I would deny it, but I'm afraid you're right.
I'm really and truly very sorry to have to tell you this."
"I'm sorry too, Mr. Jackson, because I really wanted this
job. If it makes you feel any better I can say that I understand
your problem. I've lived and worked here in the embassy, and I
know the Mexican government. I just hope the man you're getting
is honest and competent. There's a lot of money involved in
running this operation, I know because I used to sign the checks
for the U.S. grants to you when I was in the embassy."
Jackson stood up and offered Pete his hand. "I know that,
Pete, and again I want to say that I'm sorry. I'm sure that
you'll find a good job. You've got an impressive resume. Thanksfor coming down here to see me."
That night he wandered aimlessly through the "Zona Rosa,"
the chic tourist section of Mexico City. Stopping in several
expensive looking art galleries he looked for paintings that
might be by Soledad, and asked the sales girls if they knew of
her. None of them had ever heard of Soledad Benalacazr.
He then stopped for a drink in Chip's Piano Bar, one of his
old haunts from the time that he was in the embassy in Mexico.
There was an attractive American tourist who smiled at him from
across the Piano. He smiled back, but finished his drink and
left to go on to the Centro Sur Este Restaurant where the finest
Yucatecan food in Mexico City is served. He was too lonely and
depressed, however, to enjoy the food, and after pushing most of
it around on his plate he returned to his hotel. He wished he
had talked to the woman in Chips
The next day he flew back to Los Angeles where he planned to
see Ruth before going back to Las Vegas.
CHAPTER 39
Los Angeles, California - 1972
Renting a car at LAX, Stuart drove south to Newport Beach
where Ruth lived in an upper income condominium. With money
inherited from her father, a successful California real estate
developer, and the modest contributions which Pete sent to her,
she lived without the need to work. Ruth had never had to work
in her life, but she had enjoyed all of what most people characterize as the finer things. With a good education, excellent
taste in clothes, art and home furnishing she was perfectly
suited to the life of a wife of a diplomat, so long as the
assignment was in Madrid, Paris or Rome. There was nothing, however, in her background to prepare her for the rigors of
living in politically unstable developing countries in Africa,
and she had hated the Congo assignment from the day that they
arrived in Leopoldville.
It had been over ten years since Pete had seen Ruth, and he
was stunned by her appearance. While still elegant and stylish
in her dress, she had aged more than he could have imagined. Her
face was drawn, and wrinkled. She was three years younger than
Pete, but in his mind's eye she looked five years older.
It was a strange sensation to walk into the apartment and
see all of the paintings, books and artifacts that he had not
seen, had forgotten about, over the past ten years. Many of the
art works were his before they married, and much of the stuff
they had acquired on their trips around Spain. Ruth was cold but
cordial. "Would you like a drink, Peter?" she asked.
"No thanks, Ruth," he replied. "I've been trying to cut
down on my drinking since I've come back to the States."
"Well, I'm going to have one," she said and walked to a tea
cart that she used as a bar. He wondered if she might be
drinking a little too much. She had never been a heavy drinker,
and she was always careful about her diet in order to maintain
her fashion model-like slender figure, but now she appeared almost
anorexic. She mixed herself a whiskey and water and sat down on
a white leather sofa.
"So, you've resigned from the Foreign Service. What are you
doing?" she asked.
He told her a little bit about his new job in Las Vegas, and
when he showed her his badge she waved her hand as if to dismiss
him. "You're playing sheriff," she said.
"I'm not playing anything, Ruth," he replied, hurt but
understanding where she was coming from. "I'm just trying to
survive and earn a living, but I didn't come here to tell you
about my work. I came here to tell you that I'd like a divorce."
"I don't want a divorce, Peter," she responded quickly as
though she had thought about it in advance and had her answer
prepared.
"Would you mind telling me why, Ruth?"
"I just don't want a divorce. I'm a Catholic, and you know
that we don't believe in divorce. Furthermore, I'm perfectly
happy with the arrangement that we have." She blinked her eyes
very rapidly.
"Well, I'm not happy with it, Ruth. It's sick to continue
this so-called marriage. For a long time I felt guilty about
asking for a divorce, but I'm through with feeling guilty."
"You should feel guilty, Peter. You are guilty. If you
hadn't taken us down to that stinking hole in Africa I'd still
have my child. You never think of anyone but yourself. You have
and always will think first, last and always about Peter Tristan
Stuart. You got involved in that damned arms deal, and took us
down there knowing that it was dangerous, but it made no
difference to you."
"A long time ago, Ruth, I read something in the ”I Ching•, or
the Talmud, or I don't know maybe it was a Chinese fortune
cookie, but it said, 'We don't see things as they are. We see
things as we are.' I had no way of knowing what would happen in
the Congo, and you seem to forget that Tommy was my child as well
as yours. You also very conveniently seem to forget that I
wanted to resign from the Foreign Service and stay in Spain to
write. You wouldn't hear of it though."
"Yes, you wanted to live in Spain on my money."
"Ruth, I didn't come here to argue with you about a past
that is gone forever. I told you that I want a divorce, and if
you won't get it here, then I'll get it in Nevada."
"If you do try and divorce me, Peter, it's going to cost you
money," she snapped.
"How much, Ruth?" he asked.
"As much as I can get," she replied. "How much do you
have?"
"About seventy thousand dollars, plus the money that I'll
get from my Foreign Service Pension Fund," he replied.
"I'll take it all," she said.
"I think there is something called community property," he
said. "Maybe we should continue this conversation through our
lawyers."
She realized that Stuart was not bluffing. "Yes, I can see
that I will need a lawyer to deal with you. I'll need a very
good lawyer."
Stuart got up from the chair. "I don't think you'll need an
especially good lawyer, Ruth. There's not much fight left in
me," he said, and walked toward the door, then turned to face her
where she was still sitting on the sofa. "For what it's worth to
you, Ruth, I'm very sorry for all of the suffering that I've
caused you."
"It's not worth anything, Peter. Goodbye."
CHAPTER 40
Las Vegas, Nevada - 1972
Once back in Las Vegas Pete threw himself totally into
writing the novel about Quito. He thought if he could keep
writing he could avoid ending up on skid row. If he could just
continue to carry that image of himself as an artist and writer
he would make it through one day at a time, but inside he was
shattered. He despised Las Vegas; he was lonely; he missed
Soledad so much that the pain was almost unbearable, and he
missed his work in the Foreign Service. He was hanging on to
whatever semblance of sanity he had left by his fingernails.
He was back from Mexico about a month when his sister called
him one night to tell him that their mother had died. She had
been ill for sometime, and was, Pete knew from his Christmas
visit, tired of fighting the battle. He grieved her loss, but he
knew that she was ready to g o o n to something better. He flew
out to California for her funeral, and he and his sister arranged
for the sale of the house in San Luis Obispo. He had never felt so alone, helpless and rootless as when he returned to Las Vegas
from that sad journey to California.
He was served with a notification that Ruth had filed for a divorce in
California, and he did not fight it. It came as a relief, and
despite her desire to have all of the money, the court was fair
and awarded her only half of his savings.
If it had not been for his writing, he knew, he would have
crawled into a bottle and never come out, but something kept him
going. Some force greater than he was kept him pounding away on
the type writer from three until seven every morning when he would
get ready to go to work at the Gaming Control Board. It was as
though the words came from beyond the edge of the page, and
somehow, he believed, if he wrote enough of them, the ones that
would explain his desperate predicament would start coming up.
He maintained this pace for over a year and finally, he had
a first draft of the novel completed, edited and typed in final,
and he gave it to his friend Vince Gianini to read.
Vince was a retired naval officer and he suggested that Pete
send the manuscript to Marty Chavez, a friend of his in New York
who, Vince said, had contacts in publishing. As an example
of a case where truth is more dramatic and stranger than fiction,
Vince's friend was also connected with a large family owned
shipping company that operated in Latin America. About a month
after sending the package to Chavez, Pete received a telephone
call from New York.
"I like your book," Chavez said, "but I'm actually calling
you about something else. I wonder if you would be interested in
coming up to New York to talk to us about doing some work down in
South America."
"I sure would be interested," Pete replied. "What did you
have in mind?"
"Why don't you catch a plane and come on back here where we
can talk face-to-face," he said. "Do you have the money for your
ticket?"
"Sure," Pete replied. "When would you like me to come?"
"As soon as you can," Chavez replied. "Today is Wednesday.
Can you make it next Monday?"
"I'll be there," Pete replied.
When Pete hung up the phone he once again had the feeling
that, at last, something good was happening in his life, and he
was ready for it.
He again arranged for time off from the Board and flew to
New York over the weekend, and on Monday morning he met with
Marty Chavez, Vice President of Finance of the Provident Line, a
family owned shipping company, who straight away offered Pete a
consulting job to assess some of their Latin American operations.
"I read your book," Marty said, "and I knew that you were
the man for the job. I need somebody who understands the Latins,
and knows something about business. I could see from your
manuscript that you meet both requirements."
Pete was flabbergasted! Who had ever heard of a draft novel-serving as a resume for a consulting job!
Over cocktails and luncheon Marty explained that the company
was owned by a wealthy New York family with long standing ties to
the shipping industry, but with very little experience in Latin
America.
The company, he continued, had recently acquired what used
to be the old Gratz Line that had been a part of the W.R Gratz
Company, a landmark institution in Latin America. In the days
when Gratz operated the Line the Agents were a part of the
Company, so that transactions between the Line and the Agents
were in the nature of intracompany dealings. In the process of
dissolving their South American holdings Gratz had spun off the
agency operations to independent business men, and had sold the
shipping line to the family as a separate entity. Accordingly,
the relationship between the Line and the Agents had been
radically altered. It was no longer an intracompany
relationship, but one of arms length dealings between the old,
well established Latin American oligarchy and a family of, what
Marty described as, "upstart newcomers to the South American
scene."
All of the accounting and internal control procedures were
left over from the intracompany days of the W.R. Gratz
relationship, so the Line was at the mercy of the Agents, and
"anyone," Marty said, "who has done business in South America
knows that the Latin's notion of business ethics is considerably
different from the traditional North American concept. Banking,
commerce and industry in Latin America are generally in the hands
of the old landed aristocratic families, and their attitude is
one of me first, viva yo, caveat emptor."
Pete was in total agreement, and it was obvious to him that
while the owners might be "upstarts on the Latin American scene,"
Chavez was not.
Pete would be headquartered in Panama, Chavez continued, and
he could take as much time as he needed to come up with new
operating procedures, but first he should get familiar with the
company's operations in New York and San Francisco. "Does the
job interest you?" Marty asked, and ordered coffee for both of
them.
"It's going to be a tough one," Pete replied, "but I would
like to give it a shot."
After a month of familiarization in New York and San
Francisco Pete arrived in Panama on Thanksgiving day of 1974 to
begin his study. When he realized how big the job would be he
got Marty's okay to hire Isaac Ruben, an associate and friend
from his days in the embassy in Mexico, as his right hand man,
and on New Year's day Isaac and Pete travelled together to Lima,
Peru to conduct a study of the Agent's operations at Puerto
Callao. They made an in-depth review of all activities, and this
study was enough to convince them that their job was going to be
a rough one. The agent was ripping off the shipping line for
thousands of dollars, and if this was an example of the way all agents operated throughout South America, they were going to have
to get control of things fast or the line would go broke.
For the next year Pete and Isaac set up a relentless travel
schedule, and they were practically commuters between all of the
major ports in South America, Panama and New York. What little
free time Pete had he used to search for Soledad. He searched
the phone books, and tramped through hundreds of art galleries
all over South America, but never with any success.
After many hours of tough bargaining, hard nosed snooping
and hundreds of hours of writing and negotiating new agreements
with the agents, they finished the job and flew from Buenos Aires
back to Panama to write their final report before going up to New
York to present their findings to the owners.
On the day before he was to leave for New York, in one of
those occurrences in life that are beyond explanation, Pete
received a phone call from Clay McCord, the Director of the USAID
Mission in Panama who asked if Pete might be interested in taking
on a consulting job to the Government of Panama.
Clay McCord was an old hand in the Latin American Bureau of
the State Department, and Pete had known him for years. The next
day, he and Clay met for lunch and Clay described the job to
Pete.
In an attempt to pacify a restless and landless peasantry,
the Government of Panama was carrying out a land reform program,
and as a part of this reform they had initiated a cooperative
movement with the hopes of strengthening the economic
infrastructure of the agricultural sector. A National Federation
of Agricultural Coops had been organized to make quantity
purchase of agricultural inputs, seeds, fertilizer, pesticides,
which in turn were sold to the smaller farmer coops at
subsidized prices. The subsidy was to be provided by a ten
million dollar grant from USAID, and one of the conditions of the
grant was that the Federation had to accept the services of an
expatriate financial advisor. Less euphemistically put, the
advisor was to be a watchdog over the grant funds that were to be
given to the federation of coops as seed capital. Pete was to be
that advisor.
The job appealed to his idealism, and it would give him some
hands on experience in the area of land reform, a subject that had
been of interest to him ever since his college days. The
following day Pete met with Jose Castro, the newly appointed head
of the Federation, and the man who would be his Panamanian
counterpart. They hit it off straight away since Jose did not
speak much English, and he was pleased that his "watchdog" from
the USAID Mission would speak Spanish and had some experience in
Latin America.
The truth of the matter was that Jose did not have much to
say about who AID selected as the Financial Advisor. As a
condition to receiving the ten million dollar grant he had to
accept who ever AID proposed, but it would make their relative
positions just that much easier if they could get along, and understand one another. They both knew that Pete's job was
really one of a "spy" in the midst of an organization that would
soon be dealing with hugh amounts of money and making big
purchases of agricultural inputs.
Jose had been appointed to his job by Panama's strongman,
General Omar Torrijos, because of Jose's reputation for integrity
and honesty earned at a major international bank. Pete
recognized the sensitivity of his position, but because of Jose's
background in banking he felt comfortable, and he accepted the job.
Pete jacked his daily fee up to twice what he was charging
the shipping company, wrangled full diplomatic privileges and
immunity, and signed a contract that afternoon. That evening he
was invited to a reception at the American Ambassador's
residence.
CHAPTER 41
Panama - 1975
It had been four years since Pete had walked into a
šreception, and he had the sensation that while he had been out in
the real world, writing a novel, moving from Quito to Las Vegas
to Panama and travelling all over South America, these people had
been held in a state of suspended animation. They stood around
in clusters holding their drinks in their hands, and smiled at
one another in exactly the same way that they had been doing in
the last reception that he had attended in Quito.
He thought back to that night in Quito, and recalled that he
had met Soledad on the terrace just after he had finished talking
to Jorge Chiriboga. He shook his head, as though trying to shake
those memories from his mind, but automatically, with out
thinking, he looked over the room full of strange faces for
Soledad, then, with years of experience behind him, he worked his
way through the protocol list with his old professional skill.
Like any reception there was a mixture of the official and
diplomatic communities and the cream of Panamanian society.
Handsome, well bred business men, bankers and ranch owners stood
possessively near their carefully groomed women dressed in the
finest of Madrid and Paris fashions, and talked of raising
cattle, the government's new land reform program, or the negotiations for the transfer of the canal back to Panama.
The ambassador's residence in Panama is located high up on a hill
that overlooks Panama City and the approaches to the Canal. It
was a warm, balmy tropical evening and much of the party had
moved out of the main reception area to the terrace across the
front of the house. Pete eased his way through the conversation clusters, stopping here and there to chat, and then walked
out to the terrace.
At the balustrade, just beyond the light from the row of
French doors, stood the lone figure of a woman looking over the
garden and the lights of the city below. In the distance he
could see the canal and the ships waiting to make the transit.
He knew immediately that the woman was Soledad.
He closed his eyes and uttered a small prayer of gratitude, then walked to where she stood. "It's a lovely view from up
here, isn't it?" he said.
She turned and faced him. "Pete! Oh, my God, it's you! It's really you." She closed her eyes, and held her hands in front of her as though praying." Then she threw her arms around him. "Oh my darling, my darling!" she
clung to him, and rubbed her hands over his face, then nearly
smothered him with kisses. "Ay mi niño torero, tanto te quiero,
te quiero tanto."
"Dulce amor mio," Pete said. "I have looked all over South
America for you, and here I find you, just exactly the same way
that I found you in Quito. On the terrace of the American
Ambassador's residence!"
"You will never believe this, my darling," she said, "but
this is the first time I have ever been here, and it is the first
diplomatic function that I have been to since the one where I met
you in Quito. When I walked into the room tonight I even looked
for you."
"It's the first diplomatic function that I've been to since
that time, and it's the first time I've ever been here, and when
I walked into the room I looked for you," he said, and took her
in his arms. He kissed her on the mouth, both cheeks, and then
on her neck.
"We've got to get out of here," he said. "You're not with
anyone are you?"
"No," she said and smiled at him. "No, I'm not with anyone
but you."
"Can we go? I have a company car outside."
"We can do what ever you want, my love. Just let me find
the ambassador's wife," she said and laughed as she remembered
their first meeting. "She's going to buy one of my paintings,
and just today she called me to invite me here tonight."
He took her by the arm, "Let's go and find Mrs. Jordan, and
if I can I'll try and influence her," he said just exactly what
he had said to her in Quito.
"Do you know her?" Soledad asked.
"Yes," he replied. I've known her for years. We met a long
time ago in Mexico,"
Re-entering the house they found that ambassador and Mrs.
Jordan had moved into the living room and were chatting with the
last of the invited guests, and Pete and Soledad's departure was
practically a word for word repeat of their departure from the
residence in Quito.
"Soledad," Mrs. Jordan said. "I was afraid that I had
missed you. I'm so glad that you came tonight, and that you and
Pete found one another. You're two of my favorite people, and I
think you make a very handsome couple." It was a standard
diplomatic euphemism to say how glad one was that two people who
arrived at a party separately and left together, had "found one
another," and Stuart was certain that Mrs. Jordan had no idea how
right, in this case, she was.
Soledad smiled and her cheeks flushed. Her green eyes were
brilliant. "I want to thank you for having me, Mrs. Jordan. Mr.Stuart has very kindly offered me a ride home."
"Don't call him Mr. Stuart, that sounds so formal," Mrs.
Jordan said. "Pete is better." She looked at him. "Pete, it's
been so nice to see you again, and to see you smiling." Turning
back to Soledad, she continued. "Call him Pete, and make him
smile. He's always so serious."
"I will, Mrs. Jordan," Soledad said, and looked up at him.
"He has such a nice smile."
"Would the two of you rather that I go away so you can feel
more free to express yourselves," he said.
"Not at all. Pete," Mrs. Jordan replied. "What makes you
think women can't say nice things about a man in his presence.
You've lived alone too long. You come along with us. I want to
show Soledad where I'm going to hang her painting. Have you seen
her work, Pete?"
"Yes I have, and I like it very much," he replied looking at
Soledad, then followed her and Mrs. Jordan to the foyer.
"She's one of the most exciting painters I've ever s ee n, a nd
I'm going to hang her painting right here in the entry, in a
privileged place."
"Mrs. Jordan, you don't know how happy it makes me to know
that you're going to buy the painting." Soledad looked at Pete
and winked. "I'd like very much for you come here in Panama to
my studio sometime."
"I'd love that, Soledad, and I will come soon." She kissed
them both on their cheeks and pushed them toward the door. "Now
I'll let the two of you go."
CHAPTER 42
Panama - 1975
They walked with their arms around one another to the car,
and when they were alone, inside the car, Pete reached over and
drew her close to him. He closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply of
her scent. "Oh mi vida, you have no idea how I've missed you. I
thought many times I would die. Many times I wanted to die," he
said kissing her ear, "But now I'm so glad that I didn't," he
said.
"I know, Pete, I thought many times that I would die, but I
had to go on," she said, then paused and looked at him for
several minutes. "I have a baby now."
"A baby! Where?"
"Here in Panama," she replied softly and reached over to
stroke his face, then kissed him on the mouth. "She's three
years old now."
"Then you were pregnant when I left Quito, " he said.
"Yes," she said. "I was pregnant when I met you. I was
pregnant the first time we made love, but I didn't know it,
Pete."
"And that's the reason you wouldn't come with me?"
"Yes."
"Oh, Soledad, do you think it would have made any difference
to me?"
"I didn't know, Pete. I was so confused and everything was
happening so fast." She rubbed his face again. "Does it make
any difference to you?"
"Nothing makes any difference, my darling. The only thing
that matters to me is that I have found you." He kissed her and
stroked her face. "Nothing else matters." He started the car
and drove toward the gate. "Where do you want to go? I live
nearby, but it's just a furnished apartment. It's a dump
really."
"Let's go to my place. You can see Merche."
"Merche?" he asked, puzzled.
"Yes, my little girl's name is Maria de las Mercedes, and I
call her Merche. I had to have something to remind me of that
beautiful but short time we had together in Quito."
"My Merche will be glad to know that you named your baby
after her. She loved you, almost as much as I love you," he
said. "Tell me how to get to your house."
"Go down past the Hotel Panama, and turn right toward the
old part of town. I have a small house there," she replied.
It was still early and the streets were crowded with people
out walking in the balmy tropical evening air. The scenes in
Panama are different from any other Latin country. In keeping
with its maritime history, one sees traces of every
race and culture in the world. The genes of lusty English freebooters,
Spanish conquistadores,, blacks and Chinese, brought to Panama by
the Americans when the canal was dug, are all intermixed with
those of the Asian and Arab traders who instinctively follow
money. The faces and bodies of the people in Panama are
multicolored products of a cultural crossroads.
He turned off Avenida Balboa on to a narrow cobbled street
that wound down the side of a steep slope into the old colonial
section of Panama City.
"This is it," she said. "That iron gate on the left."
He pulled the car up in front of a high whitewashed wall on
which someone had painted in big red letters the words El CANAL
ES NUESTRO, the canal is ours. "Not much has changed in Latin
America. They're still painting slogans on the walls, and I love
it," he said.
Inside the house the familiar smell of turpentine and
linseed oil filled his nostrils as they walked toward the same
long table cluttered with paints, brushes and an assortment of
bottles. On an easel standing in front of the high studio window
was a partially completed canvas, and he stood in front of it for
several minutes studying the brush strokes and textures. It was
one of her pre-Colombian Indian themes done in the same terra
cotta colors. He felt like he had just come home.
The portrait of her mother was hanging on the wall, and
another new portrait was beside it. It was a self-portrait of
Soledad, and he knew that she had painted it during her
pregnancy. He wondered if she had also written a letter to
Merche.
"We have a lot of talking and catching up to do, but just
let me tell you quickly what's urgent and important," he said.
"First and most important is that I love, love, love you. Second
I am a single man, unattached, free, white and twent-yone. I
don't have much money, but I have a new job starting next week,
and tomorrow I have to go to New York for a few days, but I'll be
back by the end of the week. It looks to me like you live here,
so I trust you'll still be here when I get back?"
She smiled at him and inhaled deeply as though catching her
breath. "Yes, yes, yes, I'll be here waiting for you. If you
want to you can move in here with Merche and me when you come
home. In fact, you can stay tonight if you want to."
"If I want to," he teased her. "There is nothing that I
want more than to stay the night, and live with you when I get
back. In fact, if you'll have me, I want to marry you."
Tears welled in her eyes, and she put her arms around him.
"Yes, Pete, I want to marry you. I want to be with you always."
He drew her close to him and ran his fingers through her
hair, and stroked her arms and breasts. "Shall we go to bed now?
I have to leave early in the morning," he said.
"Yes, but let's slip in on Merche, so you can see her."
Quietly they walked down a hall to a doorway, and Soledad
carefully opened the door to a small bedroom. In the bed sound
asleep, and hugging a teddy bear, was a miniature of Soledad with
long copperish hair, and a clear olive complexion. "Does she
have green eyes?" he whispered.
Soledad looked first at the child, and then at Pete. She
smiled at both of them and nodded her head.
CHAPTER 43
Panama - 1976
When Pete returned from New York he gave up his small
furnished apartment and moved in with Soledad and Merche. In a
small room off her painting studio he set up his typewriter and
continued his, by now well established, routine of writing in the
mornings before going to work at the Federation of Agricultural
Cooperatives. From the window in his work room he had a view
toward the sea and the approaches to the Canal, and each morning
he was treated to the unusual spectacle of the sun rising over
the Pacific Ocean. Panama, because of it's unique orientation,
is the only place in the Western Hemisphere, that he knew of,
where this phenomenon occurs.
Eventually, Pete learned that Soledad had left Quito for
Bogota where she had her baby, Merche. When the civil situation
in Colombia deteriorated, she left Bogota and moved to Panama
where she had cousins who were in political exile from Ecuador.
Panama, she said, had been the traditional exile location for
both the Del Prado and Benalcazar families for many years because
of its easy access to Ecuador.
In June of 1976 Pete and Soledad were married at a small
Union Church chapel in the Canal Zone. It was a simple ceremony
and the only thing that Soledad asked for was the inclusion in her vows of a brief quotation from the Bible. After making sure
that Pete would have no objections she included a vow from the
Book of Ruth that says, "Whither thou goest, I go. Your people
shall be my people, your God shall be my God."
The political climate in Panama in those days was as intense
and emotionally charged as anything Pete had ever experienced.
Panama's strongman, General Omar Torri¬jos, had successfully
carried out a campaign of propaganda to rally support from the
rest of Latin America for his efforts to regain sovereignty over
the Canal Zone, and the governments of Panama and the United
States were deep into negotiations toward revisions to the 1903
treaty under which the U.S. controlled the Zone.
Ambassador Elsworth Bunker headed up the U.S. team and
periodically the two negotiating groups met on Contadora Island,
just off the coast of Panama, to conduct their bargaining
sessions. Bunker, a seasoned diplomat, was a thorough and tough
negotiator, and the progress toward a revised treaty that would
yield more control and eventual sovereignty over the Zone to the
Panamanians was slow and tedious, and did not proceed at a pace
satisfactory to the Panamanians, especially General Torrijos.
Economic difficulties, totally unrelated to the issue of
sovereignty over the Canal, had created a general malaise amongst
the people. Were it not for the wave of popularity that Torrijos
enjoyed because of his success in bringing the Americans to the
bargaining table, he would have had considerable difficulty
maintaining his command of the Guardia Nacional, Panama's
national police force, upon which Torrijos based his power to
exercise control of the country.
Bunker's careful, meticulous style of negotiating was
interpreted by the Panamanians as foot dragging, and the
government controlled press kept up a barrage of anti-American
propaganda to not only keep the pressure on the negotiations, but
also to divert people's attention from the other economic issues
that plagued the country, and keep their attention focused on the
only popular issue Torrijos had going for him. Namely, the
Canal.
The city was awash with rumors of terrorist threats against
Americans, both in the Zone and the Republic. Cocktail parties
buzzed with stories of the formation of a terrorist organization
to carry out acts of violence and destruction against the canal
locks and other facilities, especially Madden Dam, just above
Gatun where the water to feed the locks is harnessed.
Torrijos made speeches in which he accused the American CIA
of infiltrating the country and this only exacerbated the natural
tendency of the Panamanians to view Americans with fear, envy and
suspicion.
From the Avenida de los Martires, Avenue of the Martyrs, so
named after the Panamanian students who were killed in the 1962
flare up of violence, that separates the U.S. controlled Canal
Zone from the Republic, one looks, on the U.S. side, at well manicured lawns, flowering gardens and all of the other trappings of a colonial enclave; military bases; commissary and PX
facilities; golf courses, swimming pools and tennis courts as
well as the Canal Locks and support facilities. On the opposite,
Panamanian, side of the Avenue, is a row of squalid shacks,
and honkytonk bars. Ragged children play in the streets and on
the corners drug dealers and prostitutes wait for the GIs who
come into the Republic from the military bases in the Zone on
weekend passes.
This chiaroscuro contrast is humiliating to the Panamanians,
and humiliation triggers strong emotional responses. Pete, as an
American, became a frequent target for these emotions of fear,
mistrust and suspicion by his Panamanian colleagues in the office
of the Federation of Agricultural Cooperatives. When Torrijos
accused the CIA of infiltrating the country, the Panamanians in
the office jumped to the conclusion that he was one of the
infiltrators. The fact that he had knocked around Latin America
for several years, using what they interpreted as a "diplomatic
cover," coupled with his fluent Spanish gave them all the
evidence they needed to reinforce their judgement. Somehow they
learned that he had been PNG'd, declared persona non grata, and
kicked out of Ecuador, and if they needed any further evidence to
confirm that he was a CIA agent, that little piece of
intelligence provided it.
His job became almost impossible. People stopped talking
when he walked into an office. Rather than consult with him on
financial issues, about which he was supposed to be an expert,
every attempt was made to conceal information from him. Meetings
were held without his presence. Procurement actions were initiated without his knowledge. The AID Mission asked him
questions that he couldn't answer because of his isolation from
the mainstream of activity.
Nevertheless, he hung in, and carefully studied the
operations and the Federation's financial statements to the best
of his ability, and very soon he did feel like a spy since the
picture of what was going on inside the Federation was not
pretty.
The currency of Panama is the American Dollar, and in an
effort to make Panama a "Latin American Switzerland" the
Panamanian Government had created an environment that attracted
over sixty international banks to set up and do business out of
Panama. These banks served as safe havens for a lot of "hot
capital" that flowed out of South America, from drug dealers,
greedy politicians and others who felt more comfortable having
their cash stashed in a nearby, Spanish speaking country, than
they did putting it across the sea in Europe.
The banks were subject to pressure from the Panamanian
Government, and could be induced to make loans to "selected"
enterprises that Torrijos and the Panamanian government
"recommended." The Federation was one of these "selected"
enterprises.
With a Government of Panama guaranty the Federation hadÜ received a ten million dollar line of credit from a large
international bank, and with this line of credit, along with the
ten million received from AID, they were purchasing large
quantities of fertilizer that was subsequently "sold" to small
farmer coops.
Pete realized through his analysis of the financial
statements that the small coops were not paying for the
šfertilizer, and that the Federation's accounts receivable from
member coops were mushrooming. He was further able to determine
that the financial statements were being falsified in that the
maturity dates of the notes given to the international bank were
not accurately shown on the supporting schedules. The effect of
the falsification was to make the Federation appear more solvent
than it actually was. The reason for this falsification, he
learned, was that the Federation was, on its own, but with
Government support, seeking new sources of capital from other
banks against which they were discounting notes received from the
member coops. The proceeds from this discount operation were
being used to meet the maturity of the notes on the first loan.
Thus, the entire operation was being done with mirrors. It
was a huge bubble, and the only money changing hands was from the
banks and AID to the Federation, and from the Federation to
fertilizer suppliers in the United States and Europe. Moreover
the fertilizer procurement was all done on the basis of
negotiated contracts without competitive bidding. There was no
telling, Pete knew, what kind of kickbacks were being made, and
he began to feel very uncomfortable. He expressed his concern to
his contacts in the embassy and AID Mission. It was too
complicated for them to understand, and it was not what they
wanted to hear. They were under pressure from Washington to move
money, quiet anti-American sentiment, and demonstrate increased
agricultural production. He soon found out that being an advisor
to a foreign government was not as easy as he had thought it
would be.
He was enough of a professional though to realize that he
had to document his findings. Even though they were not well
received, he drafted very carefully worded reports which he
delivered in person to Mike Collins, his control officer, in the
embassy.
One evening before his regularly scheduled visit to the
embassy, he was sipping a cocktail and watchin g a television
interview on the U.S. channel which comes out of the Zone. The
interviewer was discussing the canal negotiations with a
prominent U.S Senator who was violently opposed to the
negotiations. "There's nothing to talk about," the Senator said.
"We bought, paid for and built the canal! It's ours, and it makes my
blood boil to hear that tinhorn dictator Torrijos threaten us
with violence and terrorism!"
Pete was in the embassy the next morning talking to Mike
Collins about the situation in the Federation when Mike's phone
rang. A mob was on its way to the embassy, and a platoon of combat equipped ”Guardia Nacional troops had been dispatched as
protection. Everyone should stay away fr om the windows and get
ready for a seige.
Mike took a pair of binoculars from his desk and looked
through them at the tree lined Balboa Avenue running along the
bay front outside the embassy. He handed the binoculars to Pete
and he looked through them. The mob was about a block away, and
he could hear the shouts of their angry voices. Many of them
carried placards on which the words BASES NO - YANQUIS NO - EL CANAL
ES NUESTRO had been smeared in bold red letters.
By the time the mob reached the embassy several small pickup
trucks loaded with rocks and bricks had pulled up on the
surrounding streets. There was a rush to get something to throw,
and shortly the first rock crashed through the window. The heavy
tropical air was filled with the sounds of shattering glass and
screams as the mob released its anger. A Molotov cocktail was
thrown but failed to reach the building, and burned harmlessly on
the front lawn. Several cars were tipped over and burned before
the U.S. trained Guardia Nacional troops arrived and dispersed
the mob with teargas and shots fired into the air.
When the smoke cleared away Pete accompanied Mike on a tour
of the embassy to inspect the damage. Shards of broken glass
were everywhere, and the offices looked as though a tornado had
struck. The floors and corridors were strewn with papers blown
from desk tops as the sea breezes swept through the gaping holes
left in the windows. In less than twenty minutes they had
reduced the embassy to a shambles, and all of it was sparked by
one intemperate remark by a U.S. Senator speaking several
thousand miles away.
In addition to the generalized political violence, street
crime and robberies were common place events in Panama, and their
house was burglarized twice. The first occasion was unusual in
that nothing was taken, but papers had been gone through and left
strewn about Pete's work room, and he suspected that it could
have been the police or other Panamanian agents searching for
evidence of his alleged CIA connection. The second time, the
thief entered through a kitchen window, came into the bedroom
where he and Soledad were sleeping, removed his wallet and took
all of the money in it. He did not know for sure if the second
intrusion was an actual robbery or was carried out to frighten
and intimidate him.
Soledad was clearly uneasy with her new association with
Americans, but she never complained. Pete suggested several
times that if she wished to leave he would arrange to terminate
the contract. She left the decision up to Pete, and they stayed
on for the full contract term.
One morning as they were nearing the last week, he had just
completed his stint at the typewriter before going into the
Federation to work. It was a beautiful Fall morning in late
October, and by Panamanian standards it was cool. He was listening to the news on the Voice of America as he sipped coffee and watched the sun rising over the Pacific. He was paying little
attention to the broadcast until the announcer mentioned an
investigation of a foreign aid scandal in Ecuador.
"In other news this morning," the announcer said,
"Congressman Harold Kraemer, Chairman of the House Appropriations
Committee, said this morning that his committee will conduct a
full hearing on a report by the General Accounting Office that
foreign aid funds made available to the small South American
country of Ecuador for purposes of carrying out a land reform
program, were actually used to settle a claim by the U.S. owned
communications giant, Intercontinental Communications Company.
Witnesses from both ICC and the Department of State will be
called, the Congressman said, to give a full accounting of the
events which took place in Ecuador almost five years ago."
Getting up from behind his typewriter, Pete walked to the
kitchen where their Siamese cat Cho Cho San was waiting for her
breakfast. From her perch on the counter separating the kitchen
and living room Cho observed all comings and goings with
inscrutable oriental poise. When he opened the refrigerator to
remove the orange juice the cat jumped down from her perch to rub
ingratiatingly against Pete's legs. He filled her saucer with
milk then, poured two glasses of orange juice which he placed on
a tray with two cups of coffee. Taking the tray to his and
Soledad's bedroom he entered.
"Good morning, my darling. It's your friendly wake up
service," he said and placed the tray on a table beside the bed.
"Good morning, sweetheart," Soledad said, and rolled over to
look at Pete. "I was just having the nicest dream. We were in
Spain together, and you were making love to me on the beach in
Calpe."
Picking up the orange juice he handed it to her and sat down
on the edge of the bed. "Explain that dream to a psychoanalyst,"
he said and leaned over to kiss her.
"It means I'm a sex fiend, and an exhibitionist," she
replied and sat up in the bed.
"When I'm a rich and famous writer, I'll take you to Calpe,
and fulfill your dreams," he said, taking the empty glass from
her, and then passed her the coffee.
"That gives me something to look forward to," she said. "I
think I'd like to make love in the Mediterranean Sea. Don't you
think that would be nice?"
"In a plane, on a train, in the Med or on a bed, it's all
nice with you," he said.
"Well jingles this morning. You're writing must have gone
well," she rubbed his face with her hand.
"It did," he said, "but there was some unpleasant news on
the radio."
"Bad news, Pete?" she asked?
"Yes, about Ecuador."
"What happened, did they have another coup?"
"Worse than that," he said, and got up and walked to the window to open the drapes. The bedroom filled with sunlight, and
in the patio outside the bedroom they had a view of a profusion
of tropical flowers. "The House Appropriations Committee is
conducting an investigation of all of that business down in
Quito."
"But that was years ago, Pete," she said.
"I know it," he replied, and returned to sit on the bed.
"It seems the GAO got into the act and they just issued a
report on it, and now Congress is conducting an investigation."
"Who or what is the GAO?" she asked.
"It's the investigative arm of Congress."
"What's such bad news about it?" she asked.
"I just have a hunch that if they get far enough into
things, they'll call me as a witness."
"There's nothing they could do to you is there?"
"I don't think so," he said. "It's just that the thought of
dragging all of that stuff out for public display depresses me.
I'm very happy, Soledad, and I don't want anything to interfere
with that happiness. This job is almost finished, and I'm
looking forward to going to California where I'm going to show
you the most beautiful stretch of coastline in the world. The
North Central Coast of California is a painter's paradise, and we
can live there happily ever after."
She took his hand in hers. "Nothing will interfere with
your happiness, my love. I won't let it interfere, because my
happiness depends upon your happiness, and if you don't know it
by this time, I'm very selfish. If you have to go to Washington,
I'll go with you to keep you cheered up."
"The world could do with more of your kind of selfishness",
he said and kissed her fingertips. "I've come to realize that
happiness is a very fragile thing. It's as light as a feather,
but who can pick it up. It's a matrix of a million little
details that are all dependent upon one another, and when
anything comes along that will interfere with one little aspect
of that matrix, you avoid it like the plague or a case of
smallpox."
"Don't worry, Pete, nothing is going to disturb your little
world," She said.
"My little world," he repeated. "That's true my world is
very small. It's you, little Merche, my typewriter, and these
hours that we spend together in the morning." The cat walked
into the room and jumped up on the bed. "And Cho Cho San," he
said and rubbed the cat's ears to start her purring. "Quite a
contrast to the dashing FSO who charged around the world settling
affairs of State."
"Do you miss dashing around the world, Pete?" she asked him.
"Sometimes, but I don't think I would want to go back to
that life. Right now, I'm looking forward to going back to my
hometown, and just living one day at a time with you and Merche.
Soledad, when I went home from Ecuador, I was a bitter and
disillusioned man. I had no job, and no friends. I'd lost most of my savings, and I'd lost you. I had to begin my life all
over. The worst part of it was that I couldn't understand why
everything happened, and it was terrible. The most powerful need
a man can have is the need to understand, and one of my favorite
quotations from the Bible is Proverbs 4:7 'Wisdom is the principle thing; therefore get Wisdom; and with all thy getting, get
understanding.' For damn near a year I went back over things,
and my mind went around in circles never coming to any
šconclusions. Then, when the divorce was final things began to
fall in place. I realized that I had never in my life been
committed to anything, and commitment is what it's all about. It
makes no difference whether you're committed to a cause, making
money, improving the world, writing or painting, so long as
you're committed."
"I hate to say it, Pete, but I told you that one day in
Quito," Soledad said.
"I know it, darling, but it makes no difference how many
times people tell you something. We have to find it out for
ourselves. Ever since the beginning of time men have been
telling the same things to each other. The Buddha told us to,
'let every man work out his own solution.' Emerson said 'do your
own thing so I'll know you. The trick is finding out what your
thing is, what you want to commit yourself to, and you can only
do that by listening to some inner voice that's telling you what
you have to do."
"Somewhere, I think I've read that before," she said and
smiled at him. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him.
"You know something, Mr. Pete Stuart. I think we're about the
luckiest people in the world. We've got each other, and very
soon we'll both be doing exactly what we want to do, and I've got
some other news for you that I hope will make you happy. I'm
going to have a baby."
"He looked into her eyes. They were a brilliant green in
the morning sunlight. He took her in his arms and embraced her.
"That's marvelous, my love. I'm so happy." He held her at arms
length, and looked at her. "I should have known,"
"How could you have known," she asked and poked him in the
ribs.
"By the way you look, by your smile, your complexion. Will
you do me a favor, Soledad, will you do another self-portrait. I
know you have one from your pregnancy with Merche, but this one
will be different."
Pushing him off the bed she swung her
own feet out to get up. "Come with me," she said and walked out
to her studio. Opening a closet door, she removed a large canvas
and carried it to an easel, then stepped back and looked at Pete.
"Surprise!" she said.
He studied the partially completed painting for several
minutes without speaking. It was going to be exactly what he had
in mind. "It's beautiful, my love. So beautiful that I feel
like crying. I've never had my needs anticipated so completely."
"I'm glad you like it, Pete. I'm putting a lot of love into it, she said.
He took her in his arms and kissed her. "I want to go back
to bed with you right now, but I've got to get ready for work.
My final report is almost finished, and it's due in the embassy
tomorrow."
"Yes," she said, "and I have to get back to packing if we're
going to California next week. The packers are coming this
morning to talk to me."
The next day Mike Collins called Pete from the embassy to
tell him that they had received a cable in the embassy asking
them to advise Pete that he had been subpoenaed to appear before
the House Appropriations Committee in Washington, D.C., and the
next week Pete, Soledad and Merche left Panama for San Luis
Obispo, California by way of Washington, D.C.
CHAPTER 44
Washington, D.C. - 1976
The taxi stopped in front of the canopied entrance to the
old State Department Building on Twenty-first Street, and Stuart
pressed two bills into the palm of the driver before getting out.
"Keep the change," he told him.
"Thank you, sir, and have a nice day," the driver said.
Have a nice day was an expression that had slipped into the
American vocabulary since Pete had first left the United States
and he guessed that he liked it. It was an expression of concern
and consideration for your fellow man that, even though said
without a great deal of conviction, made him feel good. A lot of
things had happened in America since he left the first time, and
he had watched much of what was happening from abroad. John
Kennedy had been assassinated. The Vietnam war had ground to a
halt. The oil crisis and Watergate had come and gone, and
everyone had matured. Everyday he felt a bit more comfortable
being back in his own country. 
