Fighting back to the surface once again, he knocked his head – he’d hit pebbles. It must be shallow. And, yes, the next wave left him crawling over pebbles on his belly in a short depth of water and he was soon lying on a beach. He spluttered and coughed up sea water. But he just didn’t have enough strength to look up, and his arms and legs were too tired to even move. Pinned to the pebbles, he must have passed out.
Chapter 27
John aroused to waves splashing over him – he was freezing. How long had he been lying there? Had anyone seen him? He lifted his head and struggled to get his arms to raise his body. But he just couldn’t – his arms failed him.
Turning his head, out at sea, he saw El Frontón in the distance and smiled: he’d made it. Thank God almighty.
Along the beach, a man was swimming in the sea, with his clothes in a neat pile on the pebbles.
He tried again, groaning, and this time, yes, his arms trembled with the effort but lifted his body. His willpower won the battle against his arms, forcing them to place his buttocks on the pebbles. He gasped, pulled his knees to his chest and rested his head. The next wave was refreshing, even invigorating.
After a rest, he agonised on to his feet and got his leaden legs to move. What now? Shit, surely the guards at El Frontón would’ve raised the alarm by now. Last seen on the beach, they’d assume the lunatic had tried to swim to the mainland. In case he hadn’t drowned, the authorities would comb the nearest mainland beach – yes, right where he was now. Move; get away, quick.
There was nobody on the pebble beach, only the swimmer’s pile of clothes. Slowly, he walked towards the pile, checked the swimmer wasn’t looking, took off his rags, made a pile of them and substituted them for the new clothes; his new clothes.
Good, the swimmer would see a pile on the beach and think they were his clothes. Naked, John rushed towards the promenade. The beach was a couple of metres below the promenade, so he rested in the shade and got dressed.
Once on the promenade, nicely clothed, he looked up as a seagull gave him a welcoming screech, the salty sea breeze filled his lungs, everyone on the street seemed to smile at him; he was alive. Yes, thank God, alive and back from the dead, far from those wretches on the beach at El Frontón.
As he tramped along the street, he wondered, where to? Surveying his surroundings, he recognised the famous fortress of Real Felipe – the last stronghold of Spanish colonialist forces in South America a century earlier. Wait a moment – wasn’t he near the house of Buffalo’s aunt, where they’d had lunch on first arriving in Peru? Yes, perhaps he might find it.
Half an hour later, yes, he was there. But what would he say to Buffalo’s aunt? He knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked harder. A female voice within:
“Who is it?”
“Madam, my name is John – I’m a friend of Buffalo, I mean: your nephew Manuel, and Yolanda.”
The door opened a couple of inches: she didn’t remember his name, but smiled when she recognised his face.
“Ah, yes, you’re the gringo who’s with Yoly. Come in, come in,” said Aunt Eugenia, with a surprised look. John looked up and down the street and made a furtive entrance. A sigh of relief – he was safe, for the time being.
Better not explain anything to poor Aunt Eugenia – she’d never understand.
“Do you have a telephone?” She nodded.
“Great – just a quick call to Lima.”
“Of course, young man.”
The telephone rang and rang at Hostal Zapata. Come on, answer the damn phone. At last.
“Hostal Zapata. Good afternoon,” he heard the friendly voice of Tony Guzmán.
“Tony… Tony, it’s me, John… but don’t say my name. I don’t have time to explain… please get Pedro to the phone.” John could feel the joy in Tony’s voice as he discreetly asked him to wait. A minute later, John heard a hushed voice,
“John, where are you? We’ve been worried to death about you. We heard they’d taken you to El Frontón, but nothing more… What, you’ve escaped? Jesus Christ, man, how did you do that? Okay, okay, you’ll tell me later. But where are you now?… in Callao?… Yes, yes, I think I remember where the house of Buffalo’s aunt is. Right, I’ll be there as soon as possible.”
Pedro and Tony hugged each other. Pedro raised a finger to his lips: not a word to anyone Tony, John’s still in danger.
“Thank you so much, Aunt Eugenia. Which is the nearest church?” said John after putting down the receiver.
“The cathedral of Callao.”
“Okay, madam, a guy called Pedro will come looking for me: please send him to the cathedral when he arrives,” said John, about to leave. But, bless her, she wouldn’t allow him to go without having a meal. He just couldn’t refuse – he was famished.
After eating and a big hug to Aunt Eugenia, John opened the door to the street, pulling the hat down over his face: nobody was in sight. Yes, he should stay indoors hiding – the police would be on the streets of Callao looking for him. But he’d made a promise: God had saved him from drowning and delivered him safely ashore. No, there was no way he was going to break his promise: he was heading straight to church to pray and give thanks, like never before in his life.
John arrived at the cathedral late for Sunday evening Mass. It had already started and he sat inconspicuously at the back. Now, wait for Pedro and pray.
On his knees, hands clasped, the smiling face of Father Joseph came to him as he prayed. John was in a desperate situation, yet, he had so much for which to be thankful. Since coming to this new world, far from his Boston home, he’d met Yolanda, made new and loyal friends, helped his father to another job… but also known a new country – deeply troubled but fascinating – and began to find his way in life. The Washington Post could be his way to fight Randall and his greedy cronies, the Sánchez-Cerro regime – and the Flores and Medelius of this world – and, certainly, to denounce the devil’s deeds. Yes, old Father Joseph would be proud of him.
And he also prayed for poor Henry on El Frontón – John hadn’t been able to say goodbye, but could he somehow help his cell mate? Still, to do so, John had to survive.
However, in his prayers, he also had to ask for divine guidance: any mistake now could be fatal. He’d probably have to find a way to escape abroad – he didn’t imagine he could stay safe in Peru any longer.
John stood, sat and knelt together with the rest of the congregation during Mass. But as the sermon was about to begin, a stern-looking man uniformed in a black shirt and black trousers handed a piece of paper to the priest. John was shocked when he recognised the man in black: Carlos Medelius.
The priest read Carlos’ paper to himself in silence, scowled at him and shook his head slowly, pressing his lips. Then, he looked up at his congregation, waiting patiently for him to start his sermon, sighed and began:
“Let us pray… for our dear brother Luis Miguel Sánchez-Cerro, president of the Republic, and for his mission,” the priest paused and shook his head again, before forcing himself to continue reading aloud, “…like that of our Lord Jesus Christ, of delivering us from evil – in our times: the evils of communism, atheism and lack of patriotism – and delivering our beloved nation from freedom to tyranny… sorry, sorry brothers, I meant: from tyranny to freedom…”
Carlos sprang to his feet, but decided to sit down again quietly when the whole congregation stared at him. The priest blushed and was clearly sweating. John smiled and made a mental note: from freedom to tyranny. He, too, had a mission, and The Washington Post would be his tool to fulfil it.
And so, Don Augusto Leguía, the Titan of the Pacific, was dead, but was replaced by another ambitious tyrant who wanted to inherit the title.
John was suddenly jolted from his thoughts when a hand landed softly on his shoulder – Pedro had arrived, time to leave.
Chapter 28
John was abo
ut to leave Callao’s cathedral through the main door when Pedro grabbed him by the arm and pointed at a group of black-shirts smoking outside. John nodded and followed Pedro to a side entrance.
On a side street, they waited under the shade of a large tree, with their hats pulled down over their faces.
After a while, a car slowly turned into the side street. Pedro stamped out his cigarette and waved.
A moment later, Carolina de Piérola alighted, gave John a big hug and they all got into the car and drove off, just as the congregation was coming out. John gave a sigh of relief as he saw Carlos and his fellow black-shirts chortling as they left the cathedral.
It was a long drive from Callao to the seaside resort of Chorrillos, south of Lima, where Carolina lived – they had a lot to talk about; a lot to decide.
“John, we must get you out of Peru – you’re in danger. You can stay at my house in Chorrillos but, sooner or later, the police will find you,” said Carolina.
“Yeah, I’ll prepare a coded telegram to Yolanda, which you could send for me, Carolina; not Pedro – the police are sure to spy on everyone at Hostal Zapata,” said John.
“What will you tell Yolanda, John?” asked Pedro.
“I’ll ask her to come to Lima. If I have to leave Peru, I want to see her before I go,” said John with a sigh, as Carolina stroked his arm.
John was thinking fast, “I don’t want to get any of you into trouble. But you, Carolina, and Yolanda, can do some important things for me. I need you to send some letters and telegrams and check out when there are ships going to the USA – the Grace Line should have one ship taking passengers a couple of times a month,” said John.
Carolina had to herself the Piérola family’s seaside residence in Chorrillos – her family, from distant Arequipa, never used it. She had one maid, called Vilma, who cooked and cleaned – Carolina reassured John she was trustworthy.
Chorrillos was well connected to Lima by tram and well-to-do families, and many foreigners, spent long, lazy summer days enjoying the sea breeze atop the cliff or down on the beach. The otherwise barren cliff sides were green in places where water trickled out of the rocks. It was at the southern end of the tram line from Lima, linking the capital to the seaside resorts nestled on the scar that ran for miles high above the sea. A nice retreat from the bustle of the growing capital, with spacious one or two storied houses, with gardens, on wide, quiet, tree-lined streets leading to pleasant squares with churches, fountains, restaurants and shops.
The main square came alive in the evening, when the sons and daughters of Lima’s better heeled met and, evading chaperones, paired off. An ice cream vendor circled around offering his wares to strollers. A priest stopped for a chat, trying to commit estranged members of his flock to come to church next Sunday. Later, a man shouted the last tram of the day was leaving for Lima.
Carolina’s house was near the cliff, overlooking the exclusive Regatas rowing club and the more popular beach of Agua Dulce. Above and behind the house was the arid peak of Virgen del Morro – nobody could look down into Carolina’s back garden. At the front, the one-storied house was protected from the street by railings, from floor to ceiling, unlocked for visitors to enter into a small covered patio leading to the main door. Secure and discreet, an ideal refuge for John in such perilous times.
John soon got down to writing. There were telegrams, for Carolina to send to Yolanda and to the USA. There were reports, written and rewritten, with discarded versions filling the waste paper basket. When he was finally satisfied, his produce was also taken by Carolina to post. Good, his plan was taking shape. Still, he needed to pray – nothing could fail.
At last, days later, Carolina returned from Lima with Yolanda, who’d travelled from Trujillo as soon as she’d received the telegram. Carolina left them alone and went to see what Vilma was preparing for dinner.
After a while, Carolina came back into the lounge to find Yolanda crying: probably at the thought of John leaving Peru, or hearing about his horrific time on El Frontón, or for him being endangered, or maybe all of this jumbled together. Carolina sighed and Yolanda dried her tears and pulled herself together – still unused to showing her emotions.
“Be brave, my love. Everything will work out well. You’ll see,” said John as he kissed Yolanda’s cheek.
“Okay, then,” said John to both Yolanda and Carolina, “we’re agreed. I’m sure our plan is going to work. I know I can trust you ladies with my life.” Carolina came forward and hugged them both.
And, so, the following day, Yolanda walked into the USA embassy, introduced herself and asked to see Mr Peter Bush.
“What about?” asked a snooty secretary.
“About an American citizen: Mr John Fitzgerald,” said Yolanda.
Barely a minute later, Peter was shaking her hand and inviting her into his office. When they sat down, Peter asked:
“How can I help you, Miss Ramos?”
“I’m Mr John Fitzgerald’s lawyer,” said Yolanda, with Peter nodding and inviting her to continue, but stifling a smile – he knew the nature of the relationship between John and Yolanda. But she was not to be put off.
“I understand you studied law at Harvard, Mr Bush,” said Yolanda. Peter assented. “So did I,” said Yolanda, enjoying Peter’s frown.
“Miss Ramos, where is John Fitzgerald?”
“Surely you don’t expect me to tell you that, do you? Why do you want to know, Mr Bush?”
“Because he is wanted by both the Peruvian and the American police, as it happens,” said Peter, trying to take command of the meeting.
“If there are any charges against Mr Fitzgerald, we can deal with them when the time comes. In the meantime, as an American citizen, he has the right to protection by the United States government…” said Yolanda – as Peter’s frown became more intense – “and specifically to be given refuge in this embassy. That is what we request.”
Peter struggled to find an alternative response but, eventually, had to give in, “Very well, Miss Ramos, tell Mr Fitzgerald he’s welcome at the embassy and we’ll afford him any assistance we may legally be obliged to provide.”
After polite farewells, as soon as Yolanda had left his office, Peter was on the telephone. His first call was to the police. His second call was to a friend in common with John, “Hi Carlos, I have news for you…”
Yolanda walked straight to catch the tram from Lima to Chorrillos. But, as soon as she left the embassy, she was followed by one man and, then, by another.
Before Yolanda reached the tram terminal, Pedro tripped and barged into a man and shouted at him, “Hey, are you looking for a fight, you idiot? Don’t run away – I’ve asked you a question,” as Pedro grabbed the startled man by the arm.
As Pedro pretended to threaten the man – who was desperately trying to look over his shoulder – Yolanda disappeared into the crowd. Pedro smiled and let the man go. The plainclothes policeman cursed as Pedro walked away.
Days later, in his town hall office in Boston, Massachusetts, Mayor James Crowley received a strange envelope – he turned it over: no sender’s details. He tore it open and stared at the two pieces of paper. As he read them, his jaw almost dropped on to his desk and he hardly noticed when his cigar fell out of his hand.
Then, a telephone call:
“Good morning, Mayor Crowley, I trust you’ve received my envelope.”
“Yes, but… who’s this? Who the hell are you?” said Crowley.
“It doesn’t matter who I am. Now, listen, Crowley: The Washington Post is going to publish a report about you. I know you like your name in the press. So, you have two press reports in that envelope and you get to choose which one of the two goes to press. Understood?”
Mayor Crowley slammed the telephone down, called his secretary and demanded she find out who’d delivered the envelope.
Then, Crowley scowle
d as he read again the headlines of the two alternative draft Washington Post press reports he’d received:
One read, ‘Mayor Crowley coerces Boston judge.’ The other, ‘Manslaughter charge on John Fitzgerald dropped.’
Mick Faughnan grinned – after what he’d done to his friend in Lima, he hoped he’d now made up to Johnny.
Back in Lima, Yolanda’s legal skills were much in demand. The Samanez government had established the Banco Agrícola – a state bank charged with helping Peruvian agriculture survive the international economic crisis. John had introduced Yolanda to senior bank officials he’d met working for the Kemmerer mission.
For days, Yolanda barely slept, hardly took a break for meals and John rarely saw her. Pedro helped her with documentation, putting his law degree to good use. She came and went from her lodgings. She was in and out of meetings, negotiating. Lengthy telephone conversations with Mr Schultz up north: the old man was pressured to give more than he would have ever contemplated during better times. And John suggested which government officials would be more helpful to Schultz.
But, in the end, Yolanda did it: the loan from Bank of Massachusetts was finally repaid by borrowing from Banco Agrícola. Old Schultz was in no doubt that sending Yolanda to Harvard had been a blessing for his Hacienda Chicama.
Hacienda Chicama was out of the clutches of Mr James Randall III, for the time being, and the jobs of hundreds of sugar cane croppers were saved, also for the time being. John gave an overjoyed Yolanda a big kiss but warned her Randall wouldn’t give up.
Amidst the doom and gloom, they relished a reason to celebrate something, but not for long.
Vilma told Carolina she’d seen a couple of strange men in the neighbourhood – they discreetly watched her every time she left the house. Burglars? Apparently not. Unusually for such a peaceful resort, the house on the corner had received a visit from the police. Why? The house maid had told Vilma the police were looking for a foreign fugitive, thought to be hiding in Chorrillos.
The Titans of the Pacific Page 29