“Oh, right … right … now I remember,” replied the ambassador, still speaking softly. “We even notified Itamaraty at the time.”
“It seems the expo was held in the winter, it was really cold out,” Max continued. “The visitors who’d come from Brazil left their coats in the cloakroom. With passports in the pockets, in a few cases. Eighteen disappeared all at once. And the news spread through the exiles’ secret channels.”
The pleasure Max was deriving from his boss’s dismay was almost palpable. But the only person who might have recognized this had his head between his hands, eyes fixed on the carpet.
“The following months, no small number of Brazilian passports disappeared from cloakrooms at assorted fairs organized by Itamaraty around the world,” Max went on, resorting to his reporter tone again. “In Paris, London, Rome, even Tokyo. When the operations didn’t go through the cloakroom attendants, it was the interpreters who got in on the action.”
“The interpreters?” stammered the ambassador, without raising his eyes from the floor.
“That’s right. The Brazilians’ interpreters. Our exporters rarely spoke a foreign language. The businesses that hired the interpreters were, in turn, infiltrated by exiles, or by Brazilians connected to them. First sign of carelessness by the visitor, first trip to the washroom and, zip, the passport would disappear from the pocket of the jacket left hanging on the back of a chair.”
The ambassador threw Max a wounded look. That zip was uncalled for.
Realizing that he’d gone too far, Max adopted a conciliatory tone. “As such, dozens of exiled families could move around the world. Some even managed to go back to Brazil. Thanks to these schemes.”
“Those poor people,” the ambassador said softly, to Max’s surprise, as he found himself confronting a voice imbued with sadness. “Deep down, they even …” The older man silenced himself in time, however. Max wondered in vain what his superior had been about to say.
Sustained by this trompe l’oeil, which had saved him from painful situations in the past, the ambassador slowly stood and looked Max up and down. Was he aware that he was truly seeing him for the first time? In any case, he took his young colleague by the arm with fatherly familiarity and led him over to the bookcase in front of them. It was completely bare except for a single volume on the middle shelf. Obeying a silent command from his boss, Max carefully removed the book.
“A first edition, son,” remarked the ambassador, his voice trembling. And, substituting a definite article for the indefinite, he underscored: “the first edition.” Then, on tiptoe and leaning over Max’s shoulder, he urged him, “Take a look at the first page.”
“Der Zauberberg,” Max read aloud. He didn’t speak German and thus felt unsure of his pronunciation as well as the meaning of the words.
“The Magic Mountain,” translated the ambassador in a single breath.
Touched by his boss’s emotion, Max noted that the book, published in Berlin, dated from 1924. And that just below the title, in small blue letters, almost faded by time, was a signature: Thomas Mann.
26
We knew almost nothing about the British secret service other than what could be seen on screen courtesy of James Bond and his cohorts — who were always smoking pipes and sighed more than they spoke, giving everyone the impression that the international arena was as dull as a cricket match. The CIA was the organization that stood out in the Brazilian military’s realities, as well as in the minds of their adversaries. Largely because, compared to the muzzled tiger of today, the institution in the ’60s and ’70s was a force to be reckoned with in terms of power and autonomy. It had the authority to act almost without accountability. Its tentacles extended through labyrinths around the globe, and were, of course, pervasive in the modest backyard south of its borders — whenever some alarm went off there.
Although the agency’s human and financial resources continued to favor the various fronts of the cold war, particularly in a Europe divided by the Berlin Wall and a Southeast Asia that threatened to turn into a full-blown Vietnam, it had to divert some of its energy to these inconvenient neighbors — who up until then hadn’t warranted more than a routine check. The CIA’s caution with Latin America was to some degree like that of a chess player moving his pawns with the king’s protection in mind at all times.
To keep a low profile, the agency had set up its South American operations base not in Rio de Janeiro or Buenos Aires as might be expected, much less in Santiago (where the political temperature was rising each month), but in peaceful and discreet Montevideo. And MI6, after considering Lima as an alternative for a few weeks, followed the Americans’ example.
And that’s how Max, who’d already had several meetings with a CIA agent to go over the technical operations he’d be coordinating in training the Uruguayan police forces, ended up also having contact with MI6. By sheer chance — or so he thought.
In those days, Max was going through a curious stage of self-enchantment, delighted with his natural aptitude as he fulfilled his functions — functions of whose exact reach he was unaware, “for his own good,” according to the ambassador. Rather than distressing him, this precaution encouraged him, for it appealed to an adventurous side of his personality that had remained below the surface until then, like a hidden talent.
At the office, he routinely reviewed his ostensive work with the minister-counselor. But he no longer had anyone to supervise the other points of his confidential agenda, which grew each day and with each new set of circumstances — given that his boss was now concerned solely with details relating to his transfer to Brazil.
In his personal life, Max had entered a peaceful phase. He had left behind the fateful night of the ambassador’s last dinner, when the subject of Nilo Montenegro had struck like a lightning bolt. Reassured by the prospect of a natural childbirth, Marina seemed to have undergone a change in mood, as if impending motherhood had displaced the ghosts that once hounded her. Despite the local political instability that made everyday activities difficult, she continued her routine of reading and going to the movies. She’d made a few fast friendships at the embassy, people with whom she faced the drawbacks affecting the social life of the city’s inhabitants.
Liberated from his wife’s angst, our hero was feeling just fine. For the first time in years, he’d achieved a strange and fascinating sense of freedom, which would reinforce his aspirations toward loftier goals. And these aspirations did in fact materialize — in one of the country’s most urban settings. Because it was in the Café Sorocabana, a bar near the Uruguayan Foreign Office, that Max’s life would take an unexpected turn.
Just like Rick’s Café, immortalized in Casablanca, the Sorocabana owed its success to the diversity of its clientele and to the fact that it represented a kind of neutral territory. On any given day, one would find second-tier diplomats from various embassies, friendly young stenographers and archivists from the Uruguayan Foreign Office, correspondents from neighboring countries (and even a few from Europe, when passing through the city), local journalists from opposing factions, and a fair number of people known to support the Tupamaros — as well as police officials keeping an eye on them. Max would often stop in for coffee and to check the latest news after his official visits to the Foreign Office.
During his five months in Montevideo, Max had been to the Sorocabana plenty of times, first brought by embassy colleagues, then by Uruguayan acquaintances, and finally, as was the case that morning, of his own volition. He had even become friends with Fernández, the owner of the place, who had just obtained a temporary liquor license — a controversial achievement in the eyes of many, since the establishment had, until then, been a café in the strictest sense.
With Fernández now vested with new responsibilities, Max had begun to share secrets about assorted drinks. Days before, they’d had a long discussion about the challenges of making margaritas. Max was appalled by bartenders who resorted to using any old kind of lime — and even worse, an
y old kind of salt. The Sorocabana, according to those in the know, was the closest thing in the city to a traditional Madrid café, with customers who always sat at the same tables, some of them even bringing their portable typewriters or using the space as an office, as was the case with attorneys who made appointments with clients and spent hours poring over legal documents. The marble-topped wrought-iron tables were small and round. At the back of the main room, a door opened onto a barbershop and gentlemen entrusting their hair and beards to skilled hands were commonly seen across the way. These men would return to the café smelling of lavender and flaunting their brand-new haircuts. They’d then sit at a table to complete their grooming by having their shoes shined by young boys the waiters allowed in only when business was slow.
On the day of interest here, Max and Fernández were at the bar exploring in lowered voices the possibilities of importing cachaça to Uruguay — and including caipirinhas among the drinks offered. Max had just identified the distilled sugarcane liquor as one of his country’s best-kept secrets when the phone rang and Fernández went to answer it.
The patron to Max’s left, who’d kept his back to him until then, seemingly involved in another conversation, turned and whispered somewhat in jest, “If you want to keep it secret, the Sorocabana isn’t the best place to talk about it.” He’d made the remark in English, taking advantage of Fernández’s being out of earshot. And because he knew he would be perfectly understood. He wasn’t disappointed.
“Secret is my middle name,” replied Max in a flawless accent but in the tone of one who doesn’t give a second thought to what he says. Indeed, no sooner had the words left his mouth than he’d moved to a table that had just been cleared, leaving the Brit nursing his gin and tonic at the bar.
Max proceeded to jot down on a pad what he’d just heard from the Uruguayan Foreign Office concerning a Brazilian proposal, which ran serious risk of being defeated at the UN. He was intent on quickly ridding himself of the task at hand, so as to keep his mind open to what the Sorocabana might yet hold in the way of surprises. Because he’d be willing to bet a month’s wages that the Brit would be back for more. Having completed his notes, which he reread before tucking the pad back into his pocket, Max waved down Fernández and ordered another cup of coffee.
Just as he’d predicted, and now confirmed out of the corner of his eye, the fellow from the bar was making his way over to his table.
“Raymond Thurston, from the British embassy,” he said.
Max stood and shook the proffered hand. After introducing himself, he invited the other man to join him.
“So, Brazil,” the Englishman said congenially as he settled into a chair. He seemed genuinely captivated.
“Yes, Brazil,” Max echoed, without uttering a single extra syllable.
There seemed to be an almost sensual charge to their exchange, Max realized to his delight. As if he, Max, had taken on the appearance of an attractive woman whose options included allowing herself to be seduced by a stranger. In keeping with the rituals of the tribe they belonged to, the duo took the next step and swapped business cards. After which they struck up a casual conversation.
Max was usually quite cool when confronting new situations. But this one, besides being different, was extremely delicate — as much for its potential reach as for its ill-defined boundaries. From the tone of their verbal exchange, more than its content, he dismissed the notion that the other man might be coming on to him. Yet he found himself reaching a paradoxical, perhaps even disturbing realization: that there were indeed ulterior motives behind their encounter, which was proceeding as a seduction of another sort.
During his months in Montevideo, he had, as a matter of duty, paid courtesy calls to all the diplomats at his professional level. He remembered then that he’d faced serious difficulties trying to schedule time with the counselor from the British embassy. The man, moreover, once he’d finally seen him, had shared nothing useful or original about Uruguay, the neighboring countries, or any subject relating, even indirectly, to Great Britain’s foreign policy.
Max calculated that in the present situation the best defense was an offense. And so he described the frustrating interview to his table companion, who found the story highly amusing. Encouraged by him, Max embellished his version. He said that the other man’s compatriot hadn’t shown the slightest interest in Brazil — the only real player in the region, he’d hastened to add. Overdoing it a bit, he recounted that the Englishman’s colleague had spoken largely of a countryside manor where he bred racehorses and had lost all interest in Max on learning that he didn’t play polo.
“Ronald Barns is nothing but a pompous ass,” Raymond Thurston remarked when Max finished his story.
Although secondary in the broader context of their meeting, two noteworthy events had transpired perfectly in sync. The first was Max’s doing. Having decided to take the offensive, he had broken basic protocol, not to mention general rules of etiquette, by criticizing one of the superiors of a man he’d only just met. The second was the work of the Englishman, who hadn’t hesitated to bad-mouth his own colleague, whose name, unmentioned until then, he’d stated loud and clear, and then proceeded to mock. More than a show of solidarity, which might have been intended to make amends, his behavior conveyed a wish to form if not an alliance then at least an initial complicity with Max. Might this tenuous link not lead to others over time?
Not bad for a first meeting, they both thought while speaking of other things. The Brit had decided to have a second gin and tonic, and asked if his companion might not consider replacing his cold coffee with something less harmful to his health. Max had given in to the suggestion and asked Fernández for a martini. They’d then toasted their respective countries.
Moving on to talk of politics, they loosened up a bit. Without going overboard, but giving outlet to his Latin heritage, Max began to gesticulate as he made his more incisive points. At those moments, the Englishman reacted the only way he felt comfortable: nodding in agreement. The two men thus followed the directions of their invisible choreographers. Since they belonged to different schools, body language wasn’t the high point of this first encounter. But there were other indications of good chemistry between them. These ran like electrical impulses between their words, interspersed with opportune pauses, greeted with relief by both men. During those breaks, both would concentrate on their drinks. Or look around in search of some novelty. Max filled his passive role with discretion, while the Englishman performed that of seducer almost as a matter of courtesy.
That same night, Ray would send the following encoded message to headquarters:
I made contact. Ronnie B. did an excellent job. He left our friend indignant with the treatment received during his courtesy call, which instantly broke the ice between us. He’s taller in person than photos seem to indicate. (And not as nice as the recordings suggest.) On the other hand, he’s quite refined. I detected two additional traits: an adventurous spirit and a complete disregard for money. I also sensed frustration in the air, which may be worth keeping in mind.
He speaks and writes fluently in four languages. He’s read Pound and Eliot (whose first quartet, “Burnt Norton,” he translated for a Brazilian literary magazine). He avoided making any personal remarks about his boss, other than that the man owns a signed first edition of Thomas Mann that he always carries with him when he travels. He acts as if he were waiting for something. If I had to refer to a painting to describe him, I’d say it’s of a hunting dog, paw raised and tongue hanging out, sniffing the surrounding air.
Our cousins were pleased with this first conversation. According to plan, they’re going to concentrate on the technical cooperation operations, which have already begun. They’ve started a file on him. Code name Sam Beckett — as homage to that strange remark recorded last week, when he told Esmeralda he considers himself “the Samuel Beckett of Brazilian diplomacy.”
We have an agent on our hands, no doubt, but as one with literary pr
etensions, he may be unpredictable. We’ve arranged to have lunch Wednesday. I propose adopting our cousins’ code name for him, Sam Beckett.
27
Less than a week after the departure of the ambassador and his wife — an event that had filled the small VIP lounge at the Montevideo airport — Uruguay was hit by heavy rains that spared the capital but caused serious flooding and numerous deaths inland.
Prompted by a similar disaster that had befallen the country some years before, one of the attachés had suggested that the embassy provide immediate relief to the victims through the air force. The Brazilian government swiftly arranged for the arrival of a Hercules plane carrying tents, blankets, and food, along with doctors, nurses, and medical supplies. The operation was soon replicated by missions from other neighboring countries, as well as Mexico, Spain, and the United States.
Even so, the headlines and photos in local papers ended up focusing on Brazil, whose plane had been the first to land in Montevideo. It had been piloted by an air force general who had the brilliant idea of opening the small cockpit window, while the aircraft was still taxiing on the runway, to wave the colors of our flag along with those of the Uruguayan nation, a gesture applauded by those present and widely publicized on television that night.
The embassy coordinated with local authorities to implement the most expeditious ways of distributing the aid, which would be transported to the interior on smaller planes or helicopters and, in some cases, on trucks and other military vehicles. Amid all the commotion, however, the Brazilian diplomats were almost caught off guard, since they’d been informed of the unexpected occurrence only on arriving at the airport: the new chargé d’affaires, Minister Carlos Câmara, as well as his wife and young daughter, had come in on the same plane. By moving up his arrival a few days and relinquishing the inherent privileges of first-class travel on a commercial carrier in favor of a flight that everyone knew to be extremely uncomfortable, the diplomat exemplified, in the words of headlines across the next morning’s papers, “the empathy a neighboring country was showing in light of the tragedy suffered by the heroic Uruguayan people.”
His Own Man Page 14
