The Titans of the Pacific

by Robert Gammon

  As the four friends got back to their conversation, all but ignoring Sandra, she swaggered away saying something about going to fill up her glass, put out by neither Pedro nor John offering to get her another drink.

  As she left, John shook his head and said, “Sandra, are you going to be able to get home safely tonight?”

  A loud hiccup and an about turn, giving her back to him, were all he got in response.

  “I’d better get back to my godfather. He wants to introduce me to Sánchez-Cerro later,” said Carolina as she looked around and saw Samanez wasn’t in sight. She bid farewell to John and Yolanda and, before leaving, whispered something in Pedro’s ear that must have been like: I love you, and I’m going to see you soon. Pedro replied with an almost inaudible, “Yes, I love you too.”

  Although they’d only spent brief minutes together, Yolanda looked around to see where Mr Schultz was. She had to get back in case she was needed. She bid farewell to John and Pedro, with the formality such an important social event required. Before leaving she whispered in John’s ear.

  “Okay, I’ll see you at your hotel tomorrow,” said John as she left.

  John and Pedro looked at each other and took a long drink – unexpectedly bumping into the women they loved was emotionally draining.

  Then, another round of applause, louder than before, from the embassy entrance – Sánchez-Cerro had arrived.

  Everyone flocked towards the entrance. When he came into view, he was shorter than John had expected: smartly dressed in a standard dinner jacket, with his white shirt contrasting with his dark skin and wearing a big smile. John surmised he hadn’t come in military uniform to avoid the wrong message to the civilians present.

  Pedro suddenly said, “Shit, I should have warned Carolina.”

  “What do you mean? What about?” said John.

  “She’s going to get a shock when she shakes Sánchez-Cerro’s hand,” said Pedro.

  “Why?” asked John, with a puzzled frown.

  “You see, Sánchez-Cerro has got two fingers missing in his right hand.”

  “What? How did that happen?” asked John.

  “Well, Sánchez-Cerro has always been mixed up in trouble. Years ago he was involved in a failed military coup. They say President Billinghurst’s guards shot him four times, but he only dropped his gun when he was shot in the hand.”

  John grimaced and said, “What a guy. Just look at him now.”

  Yes, as Sánchez-Cerro smiled, John imagined him enjoying himself tonight – honoured by the best of Peruvian society. All these people despised him because of his humble origins. But now they needed him. Unlike in the past, they had nobody else to protect their interests.

  John had heard Sánchez-Cerro enjoyed flattery, but tonight he had serious business. The presidential elections were upon them. Would guests leave believing they could trust him? Would the Americans, British and other diplomats telegraph home commenting the excellent impression they had of presidential candidate Sánchez-Cerro? Would foreign businessmen report to their head offices they could safely continue investing in Peru?

  In coming months, Sánchez-Cerro would have to seduce Peruvian voters. However, it was most important to seduce the guests attending this American embassy reception. Many had grovelled to former President Leguía, only to abandon him and pretend they’d never liked him once he was deposed.

  John saw the American ambassador guiding Randall towards Sánchez-Cerro and Samanez. Surprisingly, the crowd made way for Randall. Then, with the ambassador acting as interpreter, Randall spent quite a while in lively conversation with Sánchez-Cerro and Samanez. Now they’re treating Randall as if he’s the damn president of the United States, thought John.

  Some guests treated Sánchez-Cerro with respect, others with fear, and many unashamedly crawled around him – yes, as they’d done with the previous president and they’d do with future presidents. All gauged the little great man of the moment: how could he serve their interests?

  Landowners, from big cotton and sugar estates, sipped champagne in a corner:

  “How long do you think he’ll last?”

  “Don’t forget we need him – he’s our only hope at the moment. If those APRA socialists, communists, or whatever they are, come to power that’ll be the end for us.”

  “But he’s only a lieutenant colonel, for God’s sake. Do you think the senior army officers will put up with him?”

  “Umm… I don’t know. He’s a moody and arrogant little man, that’s for sure. I think he’s above his station. I don’t trust him.”

  “But we can’t pick our presidents like we used to. What about that rabble demonstrating in the streets? They’ll be voting this time. Those ignorant people will vote for anyone who promises them a full stomach.”

  “Huh… one day, one of those Indians will come down from the Andes and become president. I think it’s a disgrace. Where will it all end?”

  The foreigners also had Sánchez-Cerro under the microscope. The American embassy’s military attaché whispered in Peter Bush’s ear:

  “Can we trust this one? He looks just as bad as some of the ones we’ve had to get rid of in Central America.”

  “Relax, George, there’s nothing you can do. No way will Washington allow your marines to come down from Panama. Besides, taking a look at the rest of them, this guy is the best we’ve got in Peru at the moment,” replied Peter.

  “At the moment…?”

  “Well, you know, things change quickly in these places. Let’s see what this one does. Who knows, we might find another guy to replace him later on,” said Peter. The military attaché shook his head – he’d seen cases like this before.

  More superficial were the contemptuous reactions of socialite ladies.

  “Isn’t he short and ugly?”

  “He looks like a little Indian.”

  “He’s not even a general, only a lieutenant colonel.”

  “But he’s brave, that’s for sure.”

  “Would you marry him?” teased one.

  “How dare you even suggest it…” replied her friend.

  “He’d be a good match for my little Indian maid,” joked another.

  “What if he becomes president again and this time steals and gets rich like the rest of them? Wouldn’t you be interested then?”

  “No, my father says he won’t last long.”

  Amongst the upper echelons of Peruvian society, some didn’t take Sánchez-Cerro seriously enough, at their peril.

  The usual panderers continued circulating around the two guests of honour: incumbent president Samanez and, above all, presidential candidate Sánchez-Cerro.

  John was called by Peter Bush to introduce him to some bankers, interested in the findings of the Kemmerer mission. Pedro was left alone, wondering how he could continue to see his beloved Carolina, and still stay alive.

  Chapter 15

  The following morning, John woke up with a jolt when the alarm clock rang. Randall expected him at the embassy by 9:00am. It was already 8:00am. He struggled to his feet; his head still spinning – too many cocktails last night at the embassy reception.

  He washed his face. His mouth was dry and tasted sickly. Had he been sick again last night? Probably – he just couldn’t remember. He got dressed and staggered downstairs, bumping into Tony:

  “No Tony, please don’t to talk to me – my head’s splitting with a headache. Help… bring me a strong coffee.” He looked at his watch – already 8:30am.

  As soon as the coffee arrived, John swallowed it, “Thanks Tony, you’re my saviour.” John adjusted his tie and rushed out.

  Tony ran after him, “John, you’ve forgotten your hat…”

  He walked fast – he couldn’t be late. Striding down the street, John looked up at an imposing building: The Palace of Justice – the main law courts.

&nbs
p; “What justice? For who? For Serafín Ramos and Juanito or for Mr Schultz and Mr Piérola?” he chuckled.

  Finally, he arrived at the embassy and looked at his watch: 9:00am. Good, he wasn’t late.

  “Good morning, Sandra. Have you seen Mr Randall?” said John.

  “Yes, he’s with Peter Bush, in the ambassador’s office – they’ve been in there for over an hour,” said Sandra, yawning and pale – John wasn’t the only one who’d had too much to drink last night. Peter had asked Sandra to arrive early as he didn’t trust the ambassador’s secretary to be there in time to serve breakfast for Mr Randall.

  John sat down outside the ambassador’s office – which Randall had taken over – and waited: 9:30… 10:00… Randall’s meeting with Peter showed no sign of ending.

  Finally, the door was flung open and they came out. Without even greeting him, Randall summoned John in.

  “I’ve been busy with Foundation business on this trip, but tomorrow we’re going to Trujillo. We’re going to close the Chicama deal,” said Randall.

  John had visited Hacienda Chicama and befriended people there, as Randall had instructed. He then proceeded to check information in his files with what John knew.

  John gulped at the thought of Randall finding out that, not only had he visited Trujillo and Hacienda Chicama, but had also met, and interviewed for The Washington Post, that man demonised by Randall: APRA leader Victor-Raul Haya. John would have loved to have been a fly on the wall and seen Randall’s reaction as he read his report in The Post.

  Sitting across the desk, John discerned some of Randall’s notes, “FFA funding for Republican candidate for the vice presidency of the United States.”

  “One thing at a time,” said Randall, “first, we concentrate on the Chicama deal but, once that’s resolved, we’ll talk about those government officials and how much it’s going to cost to get them into my pocket,” he said, briefly looking up at John from his papers. Randall’s penetrating look was an unspoken order: Don’t fail me, boy.

  “Yes, sir,” said John. But what the hell was he going to tell Randall? That he hadn’t any news for him or, more directly, he wasn’t going to help him corrupt government officials.

  John recalled what his father said before leaving Boston, “In poor countries they’ll buy a whole government to cooperate with their business interests… We love Latin America, its culture, its people, but for them it’s only money… only money.” His father was damn right.

  John felt like a pawn in a chess game. Pawns are often sacrificed to protect more valuable pieces – that would surely be Randall’s intention with John – but pawns can also produce checkmate. How would the game end?

  When John came out of the ambassador’s office, Sandra grabbed his jacket sleeve and pulled him into her office, locking the door behind them.

  “John, you’ll never believe what I’ve seen. I need to tell someone. You’re the only one I can trust,” said Sandra, out of breath.

  “What is it?” said John.

  “I was serving coffee to Mr Randall and… I couldn’t help it… I read some notes on the meeting table – something like, ‘New World Order… Distribution of world markets… American continent for the USA… Europe for Germany… Asia for Japan… British Empire: no change…’ I mean… I remember my history and geography from school but… what the heck is all this about?” said Sandra.

  “Are you sure, Sandra?” said John.

  She nodded, “My eyesight ain’t as good as it used to be but, yeah, that’s what I read.”

  “Listen, Sandra, under no circumstances tell anyone,” said John – she could be in real danger, he thought, chewing his lip.

  John reflected how Randall’s strict, unloved childhood had made him selfish, greedy, a bully – traits honed towards becoming the wealthiest man in America. Was he a horrible man? Not really. He just believed in the survival of the strongest – this had made his nation great. If your competitor went out of business because you delivered a better and cheaper product, wasn’t this good for society?

  James Randall’s father had taught him that if anyone got in the way of your business, you just got rid of them by the most expedient means – quite a simple recipe for business success. You were either with him or against him, in which case you were to be brushed aside. It was only business.

  But Sandra’s revelation was something else. Were there no limits to Randall’s ambitions?

  When John got to his Kemmerer mission office there was a telephone message for him: Carlos Medelius had called.

  Carlos called again a few minutes later, “John, my friend, how are you?”

  “Very well, Carlos. How are things at La Nación?” John guessed what Carlos wanted.

  “That’s why I was calling. John, I need some news to publish about the American embassy reception last night. Please, John, you are my friend.”

  As he trotted out the names of people he’d seen at the reception, malicious thoughts crossed John’s mind: how about telling Carlos about overhearing Randall suggesting Haya be eliminated; or Walter’s anecdote about a vice president wanting to assassinate Sánchez-Cerro; or even Kurt Schultz comparing Sánchez-Cerro to Hitler? No, he couldn’t so, instead, he had to put up with Carlos’ disappointed groaning at not getting from John a scoop, or at least juicy gossip.

  The following day, the American ambassador arranged for the best American pilot available, Elmer Faucett, to fly Randall and John to Trujillo.

  The flight would take some hours and be the first time John spent more than a few minutes with Randall, who wasn’t used to wasting time with underlings. What sort of conversation, if any, might he strike up and could he elicit any interesting information? He decided to start with small talk.

  “Mr Randall, did you know Elmer Faucett is the pilot who flew Sánchez-Cerro from Arequipa to Lima when he staged the coup that brought down Leguía?” said John.

  “Elmer Who? This pilot?” replied Randall, pointing at the pilot’s cabin. John nodded. Well, at least he’d managed to catch Randall’s attention for a moment. Then, Randall returned to studying the documents in his file.

  Let’s try politics, thought John, to see if Randall really had political ambitions, “Do you think President Hoover will get re-elected or will that Democrat, Roosevelt, get in?” asked John. Randall ignored him.

  Okay, let’s have another go, thought John, “They say Hoover won’t seek re-election. Maybe you would be a good presidential candidate for the Republicans, Mr Randall,” said John. Randall looked up from his papers, frowning. Surely this boy knew nothing about his political ambitions.

  Then, flattered by the suggestion, Randall smiled. Yes, John had actually got the man to smile, but there was no further conversation. Time was money and Randall preferred to invest the flight time studying documents instead of talking to John.

  As he sat, engrossed in reading his papers, Randall was unaware that John, sitting across from him and, with his good eyesight, could spy his papers: New members of the FFA… Standard Oil, US Steel, Bethlehem Steel, US Rubber, General Motors, Ford Motors, American Metal, US Sugar, Coca Cola, Frederick Snare, National City Bank, JP Morgan, Seligman & Co, Bank of America, Chase Bank… The largest American corporations and banks were now members of the FFA. This tied in with those American company executives John had seen buzzing around Randall at the embassy reception.

  John enjoyed the aerial view. Once they left Lima, the clouds evaporated and he had a much better view than from the ship during his previous trip to Trujillo. Could Randall also be interested – the best view of the land, and the business, he coveted?

  Amazingly, John held Randall’s attention for the rest of the flight.

  “You know, Mr Randall, although the land below seems just a desert, the rivers we’re crossing bring down a lot of water from the Andes. That’s what’s converted the desert into these wide green
valleys, where sugar, cotton and other crops grow so abundantly,” said John.

  On approaching Trujillo, John asked Elmer to fly on further north before coming back to land in Trujillo.

  “If you look below us right now, Mr Randall, we’ve got a great view of the broadest valley – the Chicama River valley,” said John.

  “Okay gentlemen, now we’re approaching Hacienda Chicama. I’ll fly a bit lower so you can check it out,” said Elmer.

  Flying over the sea of green – starting to turn light brown as the sugar cane ripened – croppers looked up and waved.

  “Look, Mr Randall, that’s the sugar mill… over there the rum distillery… in the distance you can see the main buildings… and there’s the hacienda train – the estate is so vast they need it to transport the sugar cane,” said John, imagining the train being driven by Yolanda’s father.

  Randall stared when Elmer pointed out other enormous haciendas in the Chicama Valley, like Chiclín, Cartavio or Casa Grande and, further inland, Laredo. John detected a sparkle in Randall’s eyes – the eagle eyeing additional prey to feed on when it built up further appetite.

  When they landed, Mr Schultz and his chauffeur took them to their hotel in Trujillo.

  Before he went to bed, John made notes of what he’d spied in Randall’s papers and what Sandra had told him. He must find out more about Randall’s scheming.

  Once in Trujillo, John wanted to see Yolanda as much as possible, but must keep their affair secret from Randall – his rule was inexorable: either with him or against him. Randall would deem John’s affair with Yolanda as nothing less than treason: his negotiation manoeuvres to buy Hacienda Chicama would be revealed to the seller. And if Randall knew how passionately Yolanda defended the rights of Hacienda Chicama’s workers, all hell would break loose.