For Max, this high-profile landing signaled something else, laden with dark omens. Carlos Câmara had really come to take command. Which was annoying in at least two ways: far from embodying the discreet role their mission would require — in Max’s view, at any rate — the triumphant arrival implied an obvious change in style from the tactful way the former ambassador had worked from behind the scenes. Moreover, and this seemed just as serious in Max’s eyes, it demonstrated personal insensitivity toward the future ambassador, who would be coming in from Europe three weeks later aboard a luxurious Cunard transatlantic ocean liner. An unfortunate way to arrive, if contrasted to the calamity of which the country had been a victim.
As prearranged during a secret visit Carlos Câmara had made to Montevideo, Max shook his new colleague’s hand on the runway as if they’d never met, even ignoring the friendly pat on his shoulder when they passed in the receiving line. The wives too had been a part of the welcome committee, trying their best to hold on to their hats — such were the gusts generated by the propellers still in motion.
This social encounter at the airport was followed by a number of more official gatherings at the embassy, in smaller and more focused formats. First, with the three attachés and their deputies. Then, with the political and economic sectors, moving on to the press corps and public relations personnel. Max, as the head and sole member of the technical cooperation unit, was included in one of the later meetings, along with the cultural affairs team, joined by the director of the Uruguay-Brazil Cultural Institute. (The administrative staff was last in line.)
Max soon noted that he was dealing with a man who thought highly of himself. Without taking much comfort in the realization, he supposed that some good might come of it and perhaps, with a little luck, the two would find themselves on more equal footing. The inherent seniority Carlos Câmara held over him could readily be compensated for by Max’s special talent, which he had been refining for years and had adapted to the particular Montevideo scenario.
Just as his former boss had done, by holding a farewell dinner long before his departure, Max decided that he too would take the bull by the horns. Two weeks after Carlos Câmara’s arrival, he invited him to lunch at one of the restaurants he’d frequented with the ambassador. Câmara accepted quite willingly and suggested a date. On the designated day, Carlos Câmara dismissed the Mercedes 280 and chauffeur to which he was entitled as the chargé d’affaires — a privilege he’d lose in another week with the ambassador’s arrival — and the two set out in Max’s car, after heading down to the embassy parking garage via a side door.
Along the way, however, something unexpected happened. At a certain intersection, as Max was about to turn right, his guest asked him to continue going straight. As Max hesitated, he heard an emphatic “Trust me,” which led him to proceed without further ado. From there on, his companion continued to direct him until they reached their destination — which was, in fact, the tree-filled patio of a restaurant. Except that it was a different restaurant. “Trust me,” his companion repeated politely when, once again, his host tried to address what he took to be a mistake. Giving up, Max resigned himself to his fate and parked the car.
The maître d’ awaited them at the entrance, respectful but not obsequious, his attitude actually rather relaxed. A stance that Carlos Câmara had learned to appreciate. “Genuinely friendly Frenchmen seek refuge abroad,” he commented in a low voice as they headed toward a reserved table near a window overlooking the garden. Despite having decided not to ask about the change of venue, Max was having a hard time suppressing his discomfort. He ended up remaining silent, sensing that he was perhaps being tested. As to what kind of test, though, he hadn’t the slightest idea.
They ordered cocktails, Carlos a Kir, Max, at the maître d’s suggestion, a glass of champagne. They then devoted themselves to the menu. Max consulted the wine list and, mindful of his guest’s choice of entrée, ordered a Bordeaux. “We’re going to stagger out of here,” the other man said with a laugh.
“Quite the opposite,” Max assured him.
They toasted, each weighing the likelihood of being right. Carlos Câmara because he hadn’t yet gotten his bearings or imagined being confronted quite so soon by his younger colleague. The drinks might thus serve as an excuse should he slip a little in conversation. Max, because he needed to come out of that meeting with a clear notion of just where they stood — starting with the restaurant they were now in. He needed the alcohol to inject a bit of boldness, albeit restrained, into his questions.
Carlos Câmara was in no rush to address the substantive issues. He knew that, as a matter of seniority, it was up to him to kick off the conversation that would inevitably ensue. He praised the restaurant as if it had been Max’s choice, acknowledged the quality and variety of the menu, asked whether Uruguay had four distinct seasons — which might lead him to choose a house rather than an apartment.
Max responded to each of these topics. He said he was familiar with this particular restaurant (emphasizing both this and particular), courtesy of the ambassador. With whom, by coincidence, he’d had lunch at this very table. He further mentioned, on the same subject, the existence of at least seven or eight other fine eateries in the city, two of them Italian, two Uruguayan. He confirmed that he’d heard the country did indeed have four seasons — although he hadn’t yet experienced them — which might justify the eventual choice of a house with a garden, but he also reminded his colleague that in the current political climate, apartments were less vulnerable to Tupamaro attacks.
Without taking the bait Max served up, Câmara moved on to ask about the attachés and other staff members they’d be working with. Although he had received a file from the ambassador on each, he was interested in Max’s opinion given his relatively young age and midlevel rank in the embassy. His views were likely to be more useful and open-minded than those of his former boss — which had perhaps been arbitrary given his temperament and calling.
They danced around these topics until their appetizers were brought to the table. Onion soup for Carlos Câmara, pâté de campagne for Max. The wine, served and approved, inspired another toast, warmer this time.
“To our friendship,” proposed Carlos Câmara.
“May it last forever,” joked Max, injecting both humor and skepticism into his response.
If there was anything clearly unfeasible in those dark and volatile times, it was combining the words friendship and forever in the same toast, between two strangers operating in a country that wasn’t their own — charged, moreover, with a mission that might very well be defined as controversial. And that in the future, depending on the direction of the winds, could end up being classified as illegal, even criminal.
It was this realization, implied rather than expressed, that led Carlos Câmara to have a change of heart and allude to the secrecy that connected them.
“Everything is bound to go right,” he said in a hushed tone, with an eye on Max, as if he felt the need to lift his spirits. Holding his glass up to the light, he added, “Good wine. Nice color. An excellent choice.”
28
After Câmara’s toast, Max had allowed a long moment of silence to elapse. But he had ended up agreeing with his companion’s optimistic assessment, nodding his head in assent. Soon afterward, however, he sighed — so deeply that he felt compelled to explain.
“Yes, in theory things could go right,” he acknowledged. “But in practice, everything seems so …” He tried to hand off the responsibility of identifying his concerns but was dealing with a professional. And the ball was returned to him in the form of encouraging questions: “Vague? Unclear?”
Given Max’s silent agreement, the other decided to steer the course of the conversation. “Not really,” he said. And here a new Carlos Câmara took the stage. Assertive and calm at the same time. Mindful of the need to shed light on the scene but without revealing too much in the first act. “We’re relying on a scheme set up in collaboration with fri
ends from the War College, who know you, by the way, and send their best. A scheme endorsed by the SNI and, of course, by our boss. Simple and to the point. With no greater risk of involvement. Or rather, of eventual exposure of our involvement.”
For a moment, they talked further of the War College officials Carlos Câmara had mentioned. They focused on two in particular. Max remembered both. But what mattered to him now were the details. So much so that he leaned over the table to hear them.
Carlos Câmara didn’t hold back. “Our work here is going to be simple. A scaled-down version of what was done in Brazil with American assistance. Cautiously, and with a lot of money, we’re going to take part, albeit discreetly, in destabilizing the government. Buying space in newspapers, running paid ads in magazines, infiltrating radio and TV stations. We’re going to help the Uruguayan middle class defend itself. We’re going to have them blow the whistle.”
“But …”
“And we’re going to support Uruguay’s Colorado Party in every conceivable way, including overseeing the transfer of American funds to their electoral campaigns. And when the time is right, we’ll follow the CIA’s lead and help create circumstances so that the presidency itself …”
“The presidency itself,” repeated Max, who was following the script scene by scene.
“… can do whatever needs to be done.”
“A bloodless coup, then?” Max asked.
“Exactly. Undertaken by … the Colorados!” exclaimed Câmara, laughing. “Thanks to which power will subtly be transferred to the military.”
“And in Chile?” Max further probed, as though playing a game in which doors were opening one by one to reveal hidden treasures.
“That’s being considered. How to back the military in Chile and Argentina is still under review. The situations there are different.”
“Argentina,” whispered Max. “But why? Are there going to be changes there too?”
“No … at least not yet. But Peronism is growing stronger. And the changeover from Eva to Isabelita, which until recently was the butt of jokes even among Argentinean officials, is starting to be taken seriously. A fascinating country, Argentina …”
Here Carlos Câmara had assumed the stance Argentineans usually adopted when referring to Brazil, that of an English lord speaking of a sub-Saharan African country, which the first world needed to treat with care and understanding while keeping the natives at bay. But he soon got back to the main point of the conversation. “Two things are of utmost importance, however. First: not a word of this to the attachés here. We’re going to work with the ones there. And they’ve already gotten orders to keep quiet.”
“The ones in Santiago.”
Câmara nodded. After a brief pause, he added, “And the ones in Buenos Aires.” He then elaborated: “In both cases, we’re going to be limited to army and air force personnel. The navy attachés are out.”
“Why?” asked Max, now in a more convivial tone, intended to underscore the conspiracy between them. He was also genuinely curious.
“The one in Santiago is retiring,” answered Carlos Câmara, quite pleased with the leadership role he was gradually assuming in their partnership. His lips slowly formed a smile, then he broke into laughter. “And the one in Buenos Aires … has a lover! A tango dancer! The poor guy is in love! He sent the old ball and chain packing to São Paulo.”
“Excellent!” said Max. “Here’s to the navy!”
“They say his poor wife caused quite a scene at the airport,” continued Carlos Câmara, gladly joining in the toast. “To the delight of the embassy women, who all turned out, she walloped him over the head with her umbrella as she was leaving. The women applauded, and several actually cheered, ‘Well done, Cordélia!’ They’re horribly catty, our wives are. None of them wanted to miss the show.”
“Someone might as well have fun!” exclaimed Max, prolonging the moment of mirth and levity. Both enjoyed a good laugh. Carlos Câmara seemed happy to have broken the ice between them. It was the first time he’d felt at ease with his young colleague. And Max — why not, after all?—had let down his guard and joined in. Thanks to a woman, and not just any woman — but a tango dancer! And to the beating taken by an admiral, no less! What a riot.
“Second point, equally important!” declared Câmara, turning his attention to the matters at hand. “Not a word about this between us at the embassy or at the ambassador’s residence. I’m bringing in someone from the SNI to do a sweep. The Americans have definitely bugged both places.”
“I can’t believe it,” murmured Max, bewildered.
“The Brits too, for all we know. I didn’t bring this up with our boss on my last visit to avoid offending him. Especially because, at that point, it was too late. I just don’t understand how he could’ve screwed up like this. And did he ever! I confirmed with the attachés and the security folks at my first meeting with them. No one had thought about it. They were all as surprised as you are now.”
“But then —” Max began, before being immediately interrupted.
“Yes, they know everything.” Having produced the intended effect, he reassured Max. “Which doesn’t matter at all. We’re not competing against them. We’ll simply be playing along with them. To help with a task that’s basically theirs.”
This final remark reflected the wounded pride of the diplomat promoted to warrior — against his wishes. The traditional ally was gradually leaving the front line; there were gaps to be filled.
To console him, Max made a remark that had the benefit of stroking his partner’s ego. “That explains the last-minute change. Of restaurant.”
His guest smiled. “Right,” he admitted. “I appreciated your choice of cuisine. I merely changed the venue.” Then, after a brief pause, “For now, use the phone just for routine conversation. At this point, they already know everything about you. As for me, I’m an old acquaintance. A friend, actually, to some.”
Max hesitated. Should he mention Ray? he wondered. After all, he hadn’t even mentioned Ray to the ambassador.… No, better keep Raymond Thurston to himself, he decided. And he looked around, fascinated. He felt flattered that someone might want to follow him. This represented a clear shift in status.
Carlos Câmara, in the meantime, guessing the nature of his fantasies, downplayed the relative importance of what he’d said. “This is all just for appearances’ sake, of course. Most likely the gringos aren’t even interested in us at this level. But should they be paying attention, the message will have been delivered. My decision to arrive in that flashy manner was deliberate.”
After finishing his onion soup, which he declared delicious, he continued. “But you and I are going to play it safe. Given our hidden agenda. From now on, our conversations will only take place in saunas or swimming pools. Since there are so few restaurants, they end up being dangerous too.”
“In the winter, we’ll remain silent,” Max replied. “Because there are few pools, and even fewer saunas.”
Carlos Câmara chuckled. “I was kidding!” he said. “What’s essential is this: we have to be extremely discreet and keep our eyes wide open.” The stakes would go up drastically. As would the bets. And the smoke was growing thicker around the gaming table.
That same night, Ray Thurston sent the following message to MI6:
Sam Beckett has a new boss and seems overwhelmed for the time being. From what little he told me today, I was left with two contradictory impressions, which might be attributable to the conflict he’s going through right now. He expressed admiration for the man, but his mood suggested that he’d rather see him dead and buried, preferably quite far from here. I think these ambivalent feelings will be resolved over time but only in part. And we may find room to operate in this gap. I do, however, need more objective data about what we’ve learned thus far in Bonn with respect to the nuclear negotiations between the two countries. Not that I’m in a hurry to bring up the subject, but so as not to waste the opportunity should it unexpectedly ar
ise.
29
Max didn’t entertain any illusions in reviewing the tenor of that lunch, although he’d appreciated the cordial atmosphere in which it had taken place. He sensed that a fatal rivalry would one day come between him and Carlos Câmara — for they were too similar to withstand such a secretive coexistence. They would, of course, do everything to carry out the mission entrusted to them. But one of the two would not survive the experience. It just remained to be seen which.
A few days after their lunch at the French restaurant, an important social event would bring the two men together again. This was when the Cunard ocean liner Aurora finally reached the Uruguayan coastline and then docked a few hours later at Montevideo harbor — with the stately pace reserved for the last transatlantic vessels of its kind.
The event, much anticipated by the city’s Brazilian community as well as by local society, warranted the undivided attention of the embassy — whose members showed up in full force for the arrival ceremony. While the imposing ship was still some distance from the pier, the ambassador and his wife waved from the first-class deck to their colleagues clustered below, some of whom fluttered white handkerchiefs in response.
The new boss, who sported a finely styled mustache, was the consummate grand seigneur, a nobleman of the old guard, as his predecessor had informed Max previously. Tall and stout, he came well packaged in a navy blue suit, light-colored shirt, and pastel tie, details welcomed as novelties — given how accustomed all had become to the somber hues of the former boss. He immediately acted gallantly toward the ladies, especially the older ones, who were quite taken with him, not realizing that although his flattering words were directed at them, his eyes were aimed at the younger women, who stirred in him feelings of another kind and intensity.
His Own Man Page 15
