His Own Man (20 page)

“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:

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.

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.

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”):