Marina, who was seventh months pregnant, had received special attention from the ambassador’s wife, who had shown her great kindness and offered the residence for a baby shower on whatever date would be convenient for her — “and the baby.” At one point, while still managing to offer a friendly word or two to people coming to greet her, she had a side conversation with the mother-to-be. “Do you play bridge, my child?” she asked. “No? What a shame. Bridge comes in very handy in our world.” She let out another sigh, deeper and more prolonged, and offered some advice: “Take up the game, my dear, you’ll enjoy it.” The older woman had then smiled enigmatically and retreated into thought, before returning with, “Marriages all change sooner or later, but the cards never lie.” And then came the pearl of wisdom: “The king of spades was always there for me.”
Charmed, Marina figured out then and there what many would take months, even years, to confirm: the ambassador’s wife had a screw loose. But it was small enough to make her eccentric, at most, and often erratic. Overall, a significant improvement over her predecessor, Marina thought, especially since there would be no vengeful cliques on her watch.
In the car on the way back from the harbor, Carlos Câmara and Max had exchanged meaningful looks that conveyed their opinion of the new boss. They’d said nothing in the driver’s presence, however. But each had come to the same conclusion, and with good reason: so much the better. As such, the former ambassador’s prediction was accurate: they’d be free to do as they pleased. Under the ideal cover, moreover: an embassy with a socially prestigious head.
This last detail was attributable to the reputation that preceded the couple. The most prominent Uruguayan families had turned their backs on the previous representatives from Brazil, as chronic antipathy had developed into mutual hostility over the course of nearly six long years. But now they were ready to embrace the new arrivals with open arms. Especially because, for some, they happened to be old acquaintances.
The ambassador and his wife were both from southern Brazil. They held land on the Brazilian side of the border and even had distant cousins in Uruguay. For these reasons, and others instinctively discerned by a certain social class, the couple was received with due respect and warmth. As a result, they’d moved up to third place on the list of kidnapping targets — right after their colleagues from the United States and the United Kingdom, but ahead of the German and Spanish ambassadors, a list periodically reviewed and updated by the Tupamaros.
The months following the arrival of the Aurora would be characterized by the resurgence of violence in Uruguay, which would make life difficult and even dangerous for the city’s inhabitants. A diplomat from the Brazilian embassy was kidnapped (he would be released several months later, after seemingly endless negotiations that mobilized both countries and then eroded their relations). The North American Dan Matrone (“Call me Dan, Ambassador. Everyone calls me Dan”) had also been captured, but without having the Brazilian’s luck in the end. He was executed by the Tupamaros, who had then published detailed dossiers on him, describing the assorted torture techniques the CIA taught the local police.
As an epilogue to this time of turmoil, presented here in broad brushstrokes, it might be worth mentioning that in September of that same year, 1970, two months after the arrival of the new ambassador, Marina and Max became parents to Pedro Henrique, delivered at Montevideo’s leading maternity hospital — against the wishes of the Magalhães de Castro clan, who had done everything to try to coax the expectant mother back to Rio de Janeiro for the child’s birth. But Marina, who had formed a bond of trust and friendship with her Uruguayan gynecologist, hadn’t budged.
So it was that on September 7, 1970, “giving us further reason to celebrate on Independence Day,” in the heartfelt words of the ambassador during his official speech, Pedro Henrique came into the world. Judging from the wails he let out, he didn’t seem to like what he saw.
30
The covert operation undertaken by Carlos Câmara and Max would reach its climax in December 1971, a year after the facts described thus far, due to something the minister-counselor had let slip one night at an embassy garden party.
Although usually rather reserved, Câmara had been eager to share with his younger colleague what he had just learned. Truth be told, his trepidation was justified: thanks to an acquaintance at the CIA, Carlos Câmara had gained access to the transcript of a meeting that had taken place between Richard Nixon and Brazilian president Emílio Médici days earlier in Washington — during which the American had asked his Brazilian counterpart “to support the destabilization of Chile.”
On the occasion, the gist of what Nixon had said was, “There are a lot of things Brazil, as a South American country, can get away with that the United States can’t.” According to Carlos Câmara, one of these transcripts made explicit that, were we to agree, “financial means and discreet US assistance would be made available to Brazil.”
“Obviously we’re not in a position to oblige,” said Carlos Câmara, slapping Max’s thigh with enthusiasm as if to reinforce his point. “So we pretended not to hear. But it’s the green light we were waiting for. Coming from the highest possible level.”
Max couldn’t help but wonder about the challenge they would be facing. And, with characteristic nimbleness, he had soon anticipated the next moves. The Brazilian government, having sidestepped Nixon’s proposal, was free to act, not passing information to the US until the process was complete. With proof in hand, they would thus reap the benefits of the collaboration without running the risk of exposure in case of failure.
Max, at this stage, already suspected what these benefits might be. Rather than being given, Max inferred, Nixon’s go-ahead had been received. At the time, the White House request had simply been posed to the Brazilians. After the formal visit was over, however, it had been weighed and analyzed with glee and thinly veiled greed. Once the excitement died down, doors would open for a covert operation. Nothing that could give rise to rumors or speculations of any kind. Rather, a small surgical incision at most, involving a limited number of players. People who wouldn’t leave behind traces of any sort — or, if things went wrong, could “have their presence in Chile swiftly and categorically disavowed.”
Max also assumed that, as a trade-off for a mission everyone knew to be delicate, the task force would be given a long leash — and be exempt from having to account for their actions or expenses. They would operate as an autonomous, self-contained unit. As a result, the team could be made up only of personnel in whom the heads in Brasilia had utter confidence. Personnel with previous experience in such matters. And Max felt he fit the profile perfectly.
The preparations for the Nixon-Médici meeting had been followed with great interest by the CIA’s Montevideo station chief. It would therefore be closely scrutinized by the MI6 agents in that city. At the time, Raymond Thurston fired off no fewer than seven encrypted messages to London. The fourth is transcribed below, as it relates to Max — as well as Câmara (code-named “Batman”) and the former ambassador (“Zorro”):
The most substantive part of the conversation between Beckett and Batman, according to what Sam confided two nights ago, has to do with the private understandings that took place in Washington between Nixon and Médici.
Besides what we already know, I point out that, according to Beckett, the upper echelon of the Brazilian military would have been quite receptive to the ideas discussed by the two leaders. Except that Itamaraty, “without a moment’s hesitation,” tossed a bucket of cold water on the excitement “in light of the broader, more permanent goals of Brazilian foreign policy.” The minister of foreign affairs even threatened to resign from his job. Médici then assured both sides that the Chilean officials were perfectly capable of solving their own problems, an opinion ostensibly shared by Zorro. As soon as the minister turned his back, however, the latter was summoned “from higher up” to assume command of the operation Nixon proposed, which would be classified top secr
et. With the understanding that it would be spearheaded by Batman in Montevideo and implemented by Beckett in the field. Monitoring it on a daily basis, Zorro wouldn’t say anything of its eventual evolution to the president (other than once the process was over — and then only if it succeeded).
As Beckett foresaw in his initial conversation with me, the agreement stipulates that only fifteen officials be a part of the group operating in Chile. If Beckett’s assessment is right, the Holy Alliance so lovingly idealized by Z might be more alive — and more protected — than ever, since it now has virtually limitless resources at its disposal. Sam Beckett seems quite eager at the prospect of joining this select group of fifteen operatives who will act in Chile. Batman, who would have preferred to keep him under his thumb during this operation of potentially high visibility, was forced to rethink his position.
Moving on to the subject of greatest interest to us, let me reiterate, more emphatically, my previous appeals for access to any and all information on the nuclear topic before our hero stumbles upon it and doesn’t know what to say. Not knowing how to position himself — or what to look for. I also need to make him aware of our positions, which won’t be easy either, since up until now we’ve only talked about the issue in generic terms.
31
The months went by. And with them, the tensions between the two colleagues continued to escalate. Despite the close ties that joined Max and Carlos Câmara professionally, the heavy cloud of secrecy under which they were operating would take its toll. By mid-1973, there were unmistakable signs of the crisis looming between them. Max’s relocation to Santiago would come about as a result of the clash.
We could sense the impending military coups that were to break out first in Uruguay, and then, a few months later, in Chile, following what had happened in Brazil and Argentina. The separate and self-contained conflicts taking place in each of these countries would ultimately affect the so-called forward observation post from which our accomplices were operating.
The uneasiness between the two men went way back, and to some extent predated the relationship. Over time, they’d irreversibly progressed from the simple level of misunderstandings to the heightened plateau of confrontation. As early as Câmara’s triumphant arrival in Montevideo aboard the air force jet, Max had detected a bravado that bordered on poor taste. Not even the seemingly pleasant lunch that had followed at the French restaurant had quelled his reservations.
Câmara had no grand illusions about his subordinate either. He couldn’t fathom what the ambassador, a sensible and discerning man, imagined he’d found in Max. And he regretted having to deal with someone so aloof and independent, when their mission required sensitivity and tact. They basically saw the same flaws in each other, which proved the ambassador’s wisdom in recognizing the same qualities in both. So much so that, in selecting the duo, he’d been dealing with two sides of the same coin. When push comes to shove, they won’t let me down, he’d rightly thought. And he told himself, It doesn’t matter that they’ll come to hate each other. The more they dislike one another, the more diligent they’ll be.
Just as the coups were about to be staged, matters came to a head. Carlos Câmara accused his younger colleague of postponing action with the Chileans for explicit personal and political gains. Their work, he’d emphasized, was intended to be collaborative.
What little information I have about the subsequent quarrel is sketchy. Apparently Max responded by citing Sun Tzu (“A sovereign should not assemble his troops in a state of anger”). Carlos Câmara, who also knew the Chinese master’s work by heart, retaliated with another excerpt of the same maxim and then, for good measure, fired at Max two lines from Max Weber and one from Adorno, in a flurry of citations that had infuriated his adversary by catching him off guard.
At Carlos Câmara’s initiative, there would be a temporary truce between the two diplomats for a few weeks — the kind that foretells storms on the horizon. Sensing his colleague’s frustration at the chasm growing between them, and perhaps foreseeing the underhanded moves his partner might one day use on him, he had taken advantage of his seniority to bend the rule about public meetings both had abided by.
Under the pretext of repaying Max’s invitation, which had taken place quite some time ago, he asked him to lunch. As they began their entrées, Câmara raised a topic he’d alluded to once before, speaking openly — even casually — of a project of particular interest to the Brazilian military. Lowering his voice, making it virtually inaudible, he confided that it was based on an idea that he himself had originated a few years earlier, “during my days in Germany with our boss.” The long-awaited nuclear topic had finally been broached.
At the first opportunity, Max had shared his thoughts on the matter with Ray Thurston. The two had spoken a few times about nuclear energy, but always vaguely. It was time to take the conversation to the next level. “I need ammunition,” Max told Ray at one point. “A few poker chips so that I can at least get into the game.”
In order to make the most of the revelations that conversation might afford, MI6 decided to yield to their agent’s suggestion and provide Max with classified information gathered in Bonn and other cities (Washington, of course, but also Paris and Moscow) regarding Brazil’s progress in the nuclear arena.
On learning that he would finally have access to this information, Max felt like a warrior entrusted with the flagship of the imperial fleet. When he next met with Carlos Câmara, he would be fully prepared. He also felt something more important, which transcended the fact itself: a shudder of pride at having been accepted as part of MI6’s inner circle. It hardly mattered that Her Majesty knew nothing about him — Raymond Thurston knew. And had someone told him that he had lost his way, irresponsibly getting involved in maneuvers that might result in a conflict of interest with his own country — unthinkable, given his diplomatic position — he would have replied that the people trying to interest Brazil in nuclear weapons, paving the way for an all-out arms race in the region, were the reckless ones. God is known to work in mysterious ways. If Max here exemplified the saying to its fullest, it wasn’t so much to align with those who opposed arming Latin America with nuclear weapons but to deal his rival what he hoped would be a fatal blow.
The fateful conversation with his superior took place a few days before Max carried out another of his missions in Santiago, availing himself, as usual, of the air force jet (whose pilots could cross the Andes with their eyes closed by now). He casually brought up the nuclear discussion with Carlos Câmara again. Only this time, he was the one holding the cards. The unprecedented move left his partner visibly bewildered. Recognizing the desired effect he’d had, Max couldn’t resist the temptation to go beyond what Raymond Thurston had advised: he’d crossed the line between what he could imply and what was better left unsaid, referring to details he couldn’t possibly have known at that stage of the negotiations between Brazil and Germany.
Could Max be in cahoots with the ambassador on this? Câmara had wondered in astonishment. His colleague had suddenly taken on an ominous dimension. He’d gone from being a subordinate to a rival.
Max, in turn, had seen in his superior’s eyes — and read in his body language — all that had emanated from the former ambassador years earlier, when, days before his departure for Brazil, he’d been confronted with the matter of the stolen Brazilian passports. Max had noted the alarm, smelled the fear. And been fortified by both.
Carlos Câmara was convinced then and there of Max’s direct ties to the CIA as well as their boss in Brasilia. And in both cases, Câmara realized he was excluded from the operation’s front line. He couldn’t grasp quite how this had happened. It was, as would later be confirmed, a classic case of pure paranoia. A common feeling in this sinister environment, resulting from the confined and oppressive atmosphere in which everyone lived and worked — a climate that sometimes emotionally destabilized players who put their faith in distrust and intimidation.
The wake-up call
had served a purpose, however: feeling threatened, Câmara decided to act. The seeds that would lead to Max’s transfer date from this period.
It just so happened that Carlos Câmara knew Eric Friedkin, the CIA agent in Montevideo, from his time at the War College in Rio de Janeiro. Câmara sought out Friedkin under some pretext or other. He spoke to his friend of his concerns about the unchecked and (from his perspective) dangerous way his subordinate was operating in Santiago.
“I never liked that guy,” Friedkin said wryly, before dropping his bomb: “In contrast to the Brits, we never trusted him completely, except for training exercises.”
Câmara almost fell off his chair. He swallowed and inquired meekly, “The British?”
And Friedkin, who resented the other man’s silence when he would sound him out on certain topics of particular interest to Washington, reveled in the cruelty. “You didn’t know? Max works for them. Even has a code name. It’s not exactly a big secret.”
Câmara asked for a glass of water, then stood, pulling out a handkerchief and pacing the room in search of air. Once he had digested the information, though, the two decided to join forces and burn Max. And to do it soon — before he returned from his brief stint in Santiago.
Friedkin ended the conversation with the following pragmatic assessment. “Like you, we know that he didn’t do too badly in Chile. But things have advanced there and we won’t be needing him anymore.” After a slight pause, he’d added, “The best way for us to get rid of the guy is to figure out how to transfer him to Santiago. Which is up to you.”
Still in a state of shock over Max’s British connection, Carlos Câmara took a minute to process what the CIA agent was proposing. “Santiago? Why Santiago?” he’d stammered in confusion.
His Own Man Page 16
