Читать книгу The Ambassador to Brazil - Peter Hornbostel - Страница 10

CHAPTER 7

Harry Martoni, CIA station chief in Brazil, was not happy. He picked up the memorandum on his desk and read it through again. “Son of a bitch,” he said.

The memo was from the USAID legal advisor to the ambassador, and was classified “Secret.” “Mr. Ambassador:” it read:

It has come to the attention of USAID/Legal that three cases of electric cattle prods consigned to USAID/AgDiv are being held by Brazilian customs awaiting submission of required documentation by USAID. These devices are used on farms to herd cattle and pigs from their paddocks into trucks, and again from trucks into and through slaughterhouses, as well as for other agricultural purposes. However, similar instruments have also been furnished by the CIA to several African and South American countries and allegedly used for the torture of political prisoners.

There appear to be at least two irregularities regarding this procurement.

First, there is no record of how this procurement was funded. There is no PIOP on file, nor has Legal been able to uncover any other legal source or authorization for funding by USAID.

Second, and perhaps more importantly, there is no existing USAID or USAID-funded agricultural project or program in which these devices might be legitimately employed. Indeed, the chief of AgDiv asserts that it did not order these devices, and has no knowledge of who ordered them, nor of their intended use.

As you are aware, pursuant to the provisions of the Foreign Assistance Act, USAID funds may only be used for development purposes. Use for political purposes is expressly forbidden. Moreover, the Antideficiency Act prohibits any use of funds by the US government except pursuant to written authorization. As noted above, Legal has been unable to find any written authorization for this procurement or its funding. Unless such documentation exists within the embassy, the acquisition appears to be unlawful.

Legal recommends that the items in question be left in Brazilian customs pending a detailed investigation regarding the possible irregularity of this procurement, and the intended use of the items purchased.

The document was signed “Peter J. Thornton, legal advisor, USAID.” Across the bottom of the page was scrawled the word “concur,” followed by Carter’s signature and the acronym “AMB.” It had been forwarded to the Embassy Investigations Office. A friend of Harry’s there had sent a copy to him.

“Son of a bitch,” Harry said again. There were several things about the memo that bothered him. Of course, he regretted the loss of the prods. He had promised them to General Oscar Cavalcanti, Chief of DOPS, the federal intelligence service of the Brazilian government. It was going to be embarrassing to tell him that he couldn’t deliver. But what really bothered him was that somehow Thornton had found out about the prods, and what they were for. That phrase, “it has come to the attention of USAID Legal” was a dead giveaway. Obviously someone had told him, but who? Was the cover of his guy in the AgDiv blown? And why hadn’t Carter consulted him before he approved Thornton’s memo? He had worried for some time that Carter was talking with the Agency above his head, in Langley or perhaps in Rio, and without his knowledge. Maybe he knew more about what Harry was up to than he let on. He looked out the window at the never-ending rain. “Son of a bitch,” he said for a third time.

Most CIA operatives in Rio were located on the eighth floor of the embassy building on Avenida Presidente Wilson. Their cover was the “political section” of the embassy. But there were two “political sections”—one on the fifth floor staffed by foreign service types, the other on the eighth floor manned by the spooks. All you had to do was ask a guy’s room number, and you knew right away whether he worked for State or for the CIA.

Harry had turned down an office in the embassy building. His office was located on the sixth floor of a rather grubby office building on the Maua Square. Actually, all the buildings on the square were grubby. “Mow Square,” as the sailors called it, adjoined the port section of Rio de Janeiro. Virtually every building contained at least one pick-up bar. They ran from elegant to sleazy. So did the whores. This suited Harry just fine. If you wanted a drink, you rode the ancient elevator down six floors to the Devil’s Pleasure, on the ground floor. If you wanted sex, you picked up a piece, girl or boy, as you chose, and took her or him across the street to the Hotel Bleqaute. It took him a year before he figured out that “Bleqaute” meant “Blackout.” It was all one helluva lot better than sitting in the embassy building on Avenida Presidente Wilson.

But the biggest advantage for a spook was that the headquarters of the military police was right across the square, and the War Ministry was only about three blocks away. Here at his office on the Praça Maua, he and the Brazilians could work together in privacy. No one saw or cared who came and went. No one had any idea who he was or why he was there.

The “why” was, of course, the coming coup, or the “Revolution to Restore Democracy,” as it was called by the striped-pants set. Harry had never been able to figure why a military coup to throw out an elected civilian government should be called the “Revolution to Restore Democracy.” But no matter what it was called, he had no doubt that Goulart’s commie government had to go. And it was his job to make sure that happened.

Harry had spent the last two years cultivating the Brazilian military, providing them with small and large “gifts,” running from surplus watering cans to scotch whiskey to Thompson machine guns. And it had paid off. He was on a first-name basis with most of the generals and the colonels, certainly the important ones. They had drunk together, overeaten together, gone whoring together. Not bad work for a spy. And so they had let him in on what was happening, not because they didn’t know who he was, but because they did. They knew where the butter on their bread came from.

Looking out the window he could see General Oscar Cavalcanti in jeans and a rain jacket maneuvering his way around the puddles in the Praça Maua. A few minutes later he was in Harry’s office.

“What shitty weather,” the general said, taking off his jacket and shaking the water onto the rug. “And this is supposed to be summer.”

“Want to go downstairs for a drink? It’ll warm you up.”

The general shook his head no.

“I’ve got a little Johnnie Walker right here. How about a snort, just to warm up with?”

“Sure,” said the general. “No harm in that.”

Harry poured him a double of Red Label. The general gulped it down. “That’s the real stuff,” he said appreciatively. “Nothing fake in that.”

“Not for you,” said Harry.

The general smiled. “That’s what I like about your outfit,” he said. “You may be spies, but you never try to fool your friends. But your embassy…. ” His voice trailed away. Then he brightened again, “We’ve picked up a few of the kids who’ve been making some noise for Goulart. I’m sure they know what’s going on, but I can’t lay a hand on them. Their parents are all those upper-class elite types who live along the beach out in Ipanema or Leblon. If some of their kids get hurt, and if the revolution fails, we could have a real problem on our hands…. You’ve got those electric prods for me, don’t you?”

Harry had seen it coming, but there was nothing much he could do. “I’m sorry, Oscar. The shipment’s been held up. Seems the manufacturer ran short. This is pork-slaughtering time in Nebraska, and they sold out of prods. We couldn’t find any anywhere. The manufacturer is working overtime to fill our order. It may be a couple of weeks. I’m sorry.”

Cavalcanti scowled. “Bullshit, Harry. I just got through saying you guys don’t try to fool us, and here you are handing me a line of pure bullshit. You teach us how to use them, then you can’t get ’em for us because it’s pig-slaughtering time in Nebraska? Don’t fuck with me, Harry. You know I can close down your whole fucking operation here in two minutes if I want to. You tell me what happened, and tell it to me straight.”

Harry looked at the General, who suddenly seemed to resemble an enraged pit bull. “OK,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t get them for you. The ambassador found out. He’s ordered them held in customs until he can find out why they were shipped, and to whom. There’s nothing I can do.”

The General exploded. “Well, fuck him. Customs is part of the Brazilian government, not the US. That goddamn striped-pants fairy can’t order them held in our customs. I’m going to order them released.” He reached for Harry’s phone. “Right now,” he said.

“I wouldn’t do that, Oscar. I agree he’s a pain in the ass, but he is the ambassador of the United States of America. You don’t want to piss him off with C-Day coming up. They do listen to him in Washington. And incidentally, he’s not a fairy. He’s got a wife. And one of our guys spotted him talking with a chickie at a bar in Copa a week ago. We haven’t got hard proof yet. But we’re working on it.”

Cavalcanti sat down again. “Shit,” he said. Harry decided to say nothing.

“Is he against the revolution?”

“He can’t be against the coup officially. It’s the ‘policy’ of the United States to support it, to make it happen. We’ve given a few million dollars to a few governors who are supporting your side. But if it were up to him, we’d be standing aside just waiting to see what happens. He seems to believe all that crap about supporting ‘democratically elected governments,’ and about the rule of international law.” Harry fiddled with the mustache on his upper lip. “Oh, I like the sound of that stuff as well as the next guy, but it’s not realistic. And it won’t protect my country from the commies.”

The general was lost in thought. Finally, he looked up at Harry. “The United States wouldn’t like it if the ambassador disappeared, would it?”

Harry was puzzled. “Of course not,” he said.

“And if it appeared that he had been kidnapped by a cell of young Communist supporters of Jango, and Jango did nothing about it, that would be a pretty good reason for a military coup against Goulart, wouldn’t it?”

Harry looked at the general in disbelief. “And where in the hell would the army find a bunch of leftist kids to kidnap the Ameri-

can ambassador?”

Cavalcanti smiled. “For a spook, you’re not that quick, are you? Of course, they’re not leftist kids, Harry, they are soldiers making believe they are leftist kids, soldiers who would love to be promoted to sergeant, earn a medal, and maybe draw thirty days TDI on a nice beach somewhere in the Northeast. Of course, if any of them even breathe a word about what really happened, we shoot him.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

The general nodded.

“And what happens to Carter?”

“Oh, we hold him in a basement somewhere in Santa Teresa or maybe Tijuca for a few days, and then our soldiers ‘rescue’ him from the ‘commie kids’ once the coup is over and he can’t do any harm.” Cavalcanti gazed at Harry through half-closed eyes. “Of course, we’d need a little information from your team. Like what time he goes to and from work, what’s his normal route, what car he drives, who’s his driver, whatever you can find out about his girlfriend, if he has one—like where she lives—that kind of stuff. We’ll take care of the rest.”

Harry drew in a large breath. The Agency help the Brazilian Army kidnap the United States ambassador? As far as he knew, it had never done that before. “I don’t think we can do that, Oscar,” he said.

The general got up from his chair. “I don’t think you can’t do it, Harry,” he said, “if you want your guys to go on operating here.” He picked up his jacket and walked out of the door.

It was a good Brazilian lunch: rice, garlicky black beans, fried potatoes, farofa, a well-done fillet steak that weighed at least half a kilo, four glasses of chopp, a cafezinho, and a good Bahian cigar. Pity, Cavalcanti thought, to go back to work. A nap would be much nicer. But this work was actually going to be a pleasure. The cattle prods would have been more satisfying, but this project wasn’t bad either. He picked up the phone and waited. Four minutes later he had a dial tone. He dialed hastily lest the line drop before he got through.

Colonel Augusto Bastos de Melo, chief of staff for the Third Division of the Second Army stationed in Rio, answered the phone himself. “Alo,” he shouted into the phone, “Quem fala?”

“It’s me,” Cavalcanti replied. “Oscar.”

“Oscar, what Oscar?”

“Oscar Cavalcanti,” he shouted back. If Augusto could destroy his eardrums, he could destroy Augusto’s.

“Oh, why didn’t you say so?”

“I did.”

“What?” Colonel de Melo shouted.

Oscar decided to leave the introductory conversation there. “Listen Augusto, I need your help.”

“What?”

“I need your help. I need ten or twelve young recruits maybe seventeen or eighteen years old for about two weeks, and I want them before you guys chop their hair off. Long-haired students would be best. You know, kids.”

There was silence on the line.

“Shit,” Cavalcanti said out loud. “The goddamn line’s dropped!”

“No, it hasn’t dropped,” de Melo said. “Have you gone queer on me or something?”

Cavalcanti laughed. “No, Augusto,” he said. “I’ve not gone queer. I need about a dozen recruits to play college students in a little project we are setting up.”

“Oh,” de Melo said. “Well, that’s all right, I guess. Sure, I can get them for you. When do you need them?”

“Tomorrow,” Cavalcanti said. “Or Friday. We are going to have to train them. And Augusto, could you send half a dozen pistols along with them? Any big model will do. We want them to be seen.”

“Sure,” Colonel de Melo said.

“And one more thing. Would you have a couple of old cars you can lend us? Not military vehicles, some old sedans.”

“That’s harder,” de Melo said. “I don’t have any of those. I suppose we could steal you some,” he said doubtfully. “A couple of old taxis maybe.”

“No,” Oscar said. “Never mind. I’ll find some.”