Carlos greeted John with a false smile and a lukewarm handshake. His new office was bigger, but sparsely furnished, and his door now had his name on it. He also had a secretary, who came in to offer coffee but appeared to have little to do except keep her long nails varnished. The icy white walls and high ceiling gave the office an ambience as frosty as Carlos’ welcome. When they sat down, Carlos lit a cigarette and became serious.
“I just can’t believe it. You came with Professor Kemmerer to help modernise my country – government finances were out of control, banks weak and nobody paid taxes. Kemmerer changed all that,” said Carlos, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his desk. “But you’ve turned your back on all that good work. You’ve befriended those damn APRA communists” Carlos continued, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair, gesticulating.
John wasn’t surprised to hear what Carlos knew, or assumed, about him – the regime’s secret police were reputed to be fairly efficient and ubiquitous.
“Carlos, you know APRA isn’t communist – they’re just trying to get justice for poor people. For centuries, a minority has treated the rest of your countrymen like serfs. They’ve had enough. They want democracy, not the dictatorship you and your newspaper support.”
Was Carlos deaf? He mustn’t have been listening to me, thought John. There he goes again, repeating his mantra, “the communists are going to destroy Peru… Only a strong president can stop them… And those lazy Indian peasants need discipline.” I think he’s going to work himself into a trance if he continues repeating his beliefs. Yes, I’ve heard it before: what Peru needs is a Mussolini, it needs fascism.
As Carlos continued, John began to get impatient.
“We’re going to make history, John. We’re going to change my country forever. Your friends cannot stop us. We’ll crush them.”
Carlos must know I’m not swallowing a word he’s saying, thought John. He’s stubborn, I’ll grant him that. He’s sure to try a different approach now to try to win me over.
“John, don’t destroy our friendship. Leave those communists and join us. You know we can’t be defeated. Look what great things Mussolini is doing in Italy… and Hitler’s plans for Germany. Your democracy is weak, in America, Britain, France… but we’re strong. We’re the future,” said Carlos, as he hammered on his desk before continuing.
“It’s Yolanda Ramos, isn’t it? That woman has captured your mind, your soul. Otherwise an intelligent man like you wouldn’t have—” said Carlos, but John interrupted him.
“Carlos, leave Yolanda out of this.”
John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He hadn’t expected Carlos to stoop so low, just to try to win him over.
“John, you know our boys in black have simple but effective ways of dealing with troublemakers like her,” said Carlos, as he crushed his cigarette and stared at John.
John stood up, his blood boiling and his fists tightening. He knew he was losing control of himself.
“Carlos, if you even touch Yolanda, I’ll kill you.”
For brief seconds, that seemed to last an eternity, John stared into Carlos’ eyes. He wouldn’t yield, and neither would Carlos. And John stood there sweating, struggling to keep his hands on the desk and not turn them into fighting fists.
Then, a sudden flash: he was back in the speakeasy in Boston, drinking, too much; a loud mouth insulting his dead mother; and his temper rising like a fever. Then, a clenched fist, a decisive blow, as he’d been taught at his boxing club. The bloody face of a man rolling on the floor; someone shouting in his ear: Don’t do it, leave him alone.
And then, he was back in Carlos’ office, staring at that loud mouth. “Don’t do it, leave him alone,” echoed inside his head. But this time, John listened, and walked out of Carlos’ office.
As he left La Nación’s building, John recalled his onetime friendship with Carlos. That was now gone, forever. Carlos had threatened the woman he loved and John would fight to keep Yolanda safe from Carlos and his black-shirted, fascist thugs.
Chapter 23
When John got back to Hostal Zapata for dinner, Tony told him there was a gringa – a blonde, foreign lady – waiting for him. She’d been waiting for a while and got through half a bottle of rum.
It was Sandra, from the embassy. What was she doing here? Something was wrong – she looked harassed.
“Hi, Sandra – what a surprise. Have you had dinner?” said John. She shook her head.
“Hey, Tony, please serve dinner for both of us,” said John, sitting down with Sandra. “What’s up, Sandra?”
“John, I feel terrible about this. I’m supposed to be a secretary, but I’m not very good at keeping secrets. Well, at least something as important as this,” she said, taking another sip of rum. She looked around and lowered her voice, “Do you remember when I told you about those papers Mr Randall and Peter were discussing?” John nodded.
“Peter has now received a report from Mr Randall. He’s locked it in his drawer but, before he did, I had a quick look. It was headed ‘New World Order’,” she said.
“It said the USA would control the Americas… that American companies and banks – members of a foundation called the FFA, or something like that, would be guaranteed business in Latin American countries… and, this will shock you: the USA government will have a new agency, to be called the Central Intelligence Agency, or CIA – Intelligence? That means spying, doesn’t it? Anyway, it’s supposed to ensure each Latin American country has a ‘friendly government’. Friendly to whom? To the USA… or the FFA?” said Sandra
Amazing – controlling other countries’ governments: a new imperialism. John knew The Washington Post had to hear this. He’d got to see that report. Could Sandra help? No, she was terrified. The report was in Peter’s drawer, but Sandra had a key.
After they’d finished dinner, John accompanied Sandra to get a taxi home.
John needed a plan. It was only possible to get into Peter’s drawer when he wasn’t there; in fact, when the embassy was closed. Sandra could get keys to Peter’s office and to the building door, but it was always guarded by a marine, day and night.
But wait a moment, his friend Joe, the marine, was sometimes on night duty. No, he was devoted to his job – he’d never let anyone in.
John scratched his head and, suddenly, said to himself: I’ve got it. Last time I went out for a drink with Joe, he told me he’d given up going to brothels. Why? He’d caught some weird venereal disease. One nasty effect is he has difficulty urinating. This is a problem when he’s on duty, especially at night when he’s on his own: he has to go to the toilet about once every hour, and he’s stuck there for five to ten minutes. He has to leave his post and worries his superior, the naval attaché to the embassy, will find out.
That was it – John had that window of five to ten minutes to get into the embassy unnoticed when Joe was on night duty. He bit his lip – it was very risky.
Let’s see, thought John, Joe told me he’s on night duty from Monday to Wednesday this month. So, it’s got to be tomorrow – it’s Wednesday. I don’t want to wait until next week because I’m going up to Trujillo.
The embassy was a large, stand-alone building on a main street in central Lima. There were always police cars discreetly parked in a side street nearby. It was the American marines’ job to guard the entrance gate to the embassy. But, if there was any trouble, the police could be at the gate in seconds. The embassy was protected by a tall gate and railings with spikes at the top – impossible to climb over. Once past the gate, there was a small garden patio you had to cross to get to the main building.
Poor Sandra, she’s a star, thought John – she was so scared but she’d got him the keys. Now it was dark, where could he wait, near the embassy entrance gate without being seen? Good, Joe was on duty. Wait until the poor guy went to the toilet. He was taking a while – John wondered if
he was cured from his urinary disease. But, where was Joe? The light was on in the toilet. Now, John had to go in now.
John rushed towards the embassy entrance gate. He looked at his watch – one or two minutes since Joe went to the toilet. He put the key in the main street gate’s lock – damn it, it wouldn’t turn. Three minutes. Finally, the gate opened – a sigh of relief. He looked around – nobody in sight. The policemen in their cars hadn’t moved. Four minutes. He dashed to the building’s main door. Five minutes. It was dark. He couldn’t find the keyhole. Six minutes. The toilet flushed. Shit, Joe would come out any moment now. He found the keyhole, the key turned, he opened the door and squeezed in. Just as Joe came back to his post, John closed the door as softly as possible.
As the door clicked closed, he puffed out strongly. Now, he had to get to Peter’s office. In the dark, he felt his way to the door and unlocked it. He needed his flashlight to find the drawer, pointing the light downwards so Joe wouldn’t see it if he came into the building on his rounds.
He found the drawer and opened it with the small key Sandra had given him. It was full of papers. He took them out, trying to keep them in the same order: memoranda; State Department communiqués; telegrams – there was even one addressed to Peter from Secretary of State Henry Stimson himself. And then, there it was: the report called New World Order.
The report was very long. John started flicking through it to get as much information as he could without reading the whole text, which would take hours. He had to be quick – he wasn’t sure when Joe went off duty. His replacement wouldn’t move until morning and John would be trapped.
He skipped through parts of the report he already knew. There was background information about the FFA and Randall as its president. The long list of major corporations and banks, members of the FFA, which he’d spied on Randall’s lap during their flight up to Trujillo.
He stopped at the pages describing “FFA funding for Republican candidate for the vice presidency of the United States…” Randall’s name appeared throughout the report but, in this section, he was mentioned as nothing less than Republican Party candidate for vice president of the USA. So that’s what Randall was after. But there was more. There was a reference to the need for a well-known, popular politician leading as presidential candidate to ensure a Republican victory.
The next paragraph referred to the elected president being replaced by his vice president. What? That would mean Randall would succeed him as president, without being directly elected. Damn it, John needed a copy of this report, but there was no way to make one, so he started making detailed notes.
What would happen once Randall became president? The report said he’d name a new vice president: J. Edgar Hoover – America’s chief policeman? Hoover was the head of the FBI, the USA’s Federal Bureau of Investigation, as the national police agency was called.
John knew Hoover’s reputation, not only for successfully fighting organised crime, but also, it was rumoured, for gathering compromising information about many citizens, including politicians and businessmen. The excuse was to protect the USA from international communism infiltrating American institutions. But Hoover could well use that information to blackmail people in the highest positions. Why on earth would Randall want Hoover as vice president? A very dangerous move, thought John. The answer came in the next section of the report.
John could hardly believe it: Hoover would use his position and information as FBI head ‘… to ensure full cooperation of all political factions, supporters and opposition, with the Administration’s aims.’ What did this mean? Damn it, Hoover would control the democratic system through blackmail. Yes, it was spelt out clearly, “… in order that President Randall be re-elected repeatedly.”
It was absolutely amazing. But Hoover’s job wouldn’t stop there – he’d create a ‘Central Intelligence Agency’ or CIA for short, which would ‘…have offices in each country within the sphere of influence of the USA, to ensure national governments throughout the Americas were aligned with the policies and interests of the USA.’ Randall and his cronies planned to control foreign governments. John scribbled feverishly in his notebook.
The objective was clear in the next section of the report: ‘… friendly foreign governments give commercial preference to FFA members…’ Randall was enticing all those major American corporations and banks to become FFA members, surely financing Randall’s political campaigns, and benefit from lucrative business throughout Latin America.
Incredible: the delicious Latin American cake, sliced and eaten by greedy American businessmen and bankers.
John looked at his watch and gulped, he was running out of time, so he flicked through the report as quickly as possible without missing key information. Let’s see: the world divided into ‘spheres of influence, where the risk of international war is replaced by cooperation between world powers… each of which have their own reserved world region… with a non-aggression pact between world powers to ensure peace and the benefits of prosperity that business brings…’
The Americas, all the American continent, excluding Canada, were within ‘the USA’s sphere of influence’. The USA would have another sphere of influence which was the ‘Middle East’ – with references to securing oil reserves and creating a Jewish homeland in Palestine, to secure support from Jewish business interests. Great Britain was to continue with its existing empire: Canada, Australasia, India and ‘partially Africa’ were mentioned.
What next? Europe. Germany would ‘be allowed to incorporate most of Europe, including Russia, within its sphere of influence’. Incredible – Randall anticipated a deal with Adolf Hitler for a Nazi takeover of Europe.
John gasped: so Randall envisaged Germany defeating Communist Russia – the USSR – and eliminating the threat of international communism to business. The vague reference to ‘most of Europe’ excluded Britain but also Italy. Next, the report mentioned a sphere of influence for Italy, with their fascist dictator Mussolini explicitly mentioned, that would cover ‘the Mediterranean and north Africa’. John needed to get all this down in his notebook.
What about Asia? Here, Japan was described as the ‘preferred partner’ and its proposed role to include ‘controlling the east of Communist Russia’. Japan already occupied Korea. The great prize for the Japanese would be China.
John looked at his watch again. Christ, it was getting late. The longer he stayed, the greater the chance he’d be caught – if Joe ended his shift, no way would John evade the marine replacing him. He finished his notes and carefully put the papers back into Peter’s drawer. Damn it, he’d dropped the drawer’s key – where the hell was it? Feeling around, he found it, thank God.
He sighed. The adrenaline flow gave him a mixture of anxiety and excitement – especially after what he’d read. He had to steady his nerves. He remembered Peter had a whiskey bottle on his sideboard. He fumbled but found it. He took a swig and put it back. He smiled – I needed that.
Now, let’s get out of here, he thought, heading for the door. There wouldn’t be anyone in the corridor at that time of night, but he checked anyway. After locking Peter’s office he approached the main door of the building. Peering out, he could see the marine on duty. What a relief – it was still Joe. After about ten minutes he heard Joe groan. Peeping out again, John saw him bending slightly and then rushing to the toilet. Good. John would have his five minutes or so to get away, whilst poor Joe struggled in the toilet.
John unlocked the main door quietly. He heard Joe performing in the toilet and groaning. Poor guy, it must be painful for him, he thought.
He looked out towards the street. The police would be asleep in their cars. But, shit, Joe had just flushed the toilet. John dashed to the main gate, unlocked it, stepped out into the street and closed the gate, just as Joe returned to his post. Holding his breath, John stopped and waited in the shadows.
“Who’s there?” shouted Joe, c
atching a shadow moving outside the gate. “Stop or I’ll shoot,” said Joe, repeating it in his broken Spanish. John felt his heart beating fast, but kept his nerve.
“Hey, Joe, is that you? It’s me – John,” he said, coming out of the shadows in view of Joe, whose rifle was only inches away from John’s face.
“John? What the hell are you doing here, at this time of night? Christ, I was about to shoot you, man,” said Joe with a sigh.
“You know, a few late drinks with the guys, as usual,” said John.
A police car rushed out of the side street and screeched to a stop in front of the gate, nearly running over John.
“What’s happening here?” shouted a fat police officer emerging from his car, quickly joined by two more policemen, poking their guns into John’s ribs.
“No problema. No problema. Amigo,” said Joe. The police officer waved to his men to remove their guns from John’s trembling thorax. Papers, demanded the officer. John showed him a copy of his passport, explaining the original was in the embassy. They only left when Joe reassured them again that there was “No problema.”
“Thanks, Joe. I owe you one, buddy. I’d better be going home now. It doesn’t seem safe to be on the streets at night anymore, does it?” said John, his heart beat more regular now.
Even with his adrenaline flow back to normal, John couldn’t catch a minute’s sleep. He read and re-read his notes, expanding them with further information he’d remembered reading but hadn’t had time to note down in Peter’s office.
Incredible, absolutely incredible stuff, John reflected. What an amazing story for The Washington Post – the world must read this. But who is going to believe me? What am I going to say? That I broke into the American embassy in Lima and found the report by accident? No. Not by accident. I was tipped off by an embassy secretary called Sandra. Poor Sandra, I couldn’t do that to her. We’d both end up in jail.
The Titans of the Pacific Page 26