by Noel Hynd
“So late in 1930,” Sam continued, “Santo Domingo got knocked flat as a tortilla by a hurricane. Trujillo suspended the constitution to speed along the cleanup. Any unidentified bodies were cremated. So Trujillo decided that what his island needed was even more unidentified bodies, as long as he could decide who they would be. This coincides with the vanishing of several political enemies. Get it?”
“Got it,” she said.
“When Santo Domingo was rebuilt, it was also renamed. Ciudad Trujillo. Trujillo City. Can you imagine that? From there, Trujillo received support from Washington for three decades. His methods for suppressing dissent were torture and mass murder. Know what FDR said? He said, ‘Trujillo is an SOB, but at least he’s our SOB.’ ” Sam laughed. “I always liked that,” he said.
Behind the glasses, behind the cigar smoke, Sam was enjoying this. The clop of the horse’s hooves patterned nicely on the walkway. At this hour on a weekday, the park was closed to motor vehicles.
“Flash forward to the 1950s and ’60s” Sam said. “The press was controlled, so was the judiciary, so were the unions. Trujillo personally took over some state monopolies. Salt, insurance, milk, beef, tobacco, the lottery, newspapers, and he had a big chunk of the sugar industry. The only thing he didn’t have was bananas and tobacco, and that’s because the US companies had those. By 1958 he was personally worth about $500,000,000. Then when it started to look like Castro would take over Cuba, the US began to worry that Trujillo might inspire a similar revolution. So the CIA began plotting Trujillo’s assassination in 1958.”
“Which was before Castro took over Cuba,” she said.
“Correct,” Sam said. “And not a coincidence.”
“CIA agents made contact with once-loyal Trujillistas who were plotting an assassination. They were wealthy Dominicans who had personal grudges or who had family who had suffered. The CIA supplied several carbine rifles for the hit on Trujillo, and they promised US support for the new regime once the dictator was dead.”
They stopped at an intersection. Sam relit his cigar.
“You’ve heard of the Monroe Doctrine, the Marshall Plan, the Good Neighbor Policy?” Sam said. “I got to laugh at all that crap. Know what we used to call the John F. Kennedy Doctrine?”
The light changed. They continued.
“JFK once told the CIA, referring to the Dominican Republic, ‘There are three possibilities… a decent democratic regime, a continuation of the Trujillo regime, or a Castro regime. We ought to aim at the first, but we really can’t renounce the second until we are sure that we can avoid the third.’ How’s that for situational ethics?”
She nodded. “Not bad. How’s the cigar?”
“It’s good. You want one? I know ladies smoke them these days.” “Not this lady.”
“Ever tried cigars?”
“Yes. I don’t mind if a man smokes a good one, but I don’t care for them, myself.”
“I think a lady with a petit corona is kinda sexy. Let me buy you one.”
“Finish your story, Sam, okay?”
“Okay, well, Trujillo got whacked in May 1961 on a deserted patch of highway. A sniper picked off his driver from a thousand meters away, the car crashed and gunmen came out of the bushes with handguns to finish him off. The coup didn’t have traction, though. The assassins were rounded up along with their families and friends. Some committed suicide. The rest were taken to Trujillo’s hacienda. They were tied to trees, shot, cut up, and fed to sharks at a nearby beach. Eventually the US Atlantic Fleet arrived in Santo Domingo’s harbor to try to keep the lid from blowing off the place.
“The 1962 elections brought a physician and writer named Juan Bosch to power. Bosch was anti-Communist, but hey, he was a reformer, which is a damned fool thing to be in Latin America ’cause you’re gonna get hit by one side or the other. Anyway, Bosch was dedicated to land reform, low-rent housing, and public works projects. He was deposed by a CIA-backed coup after seven months. When a popular countercoup tried to restore Bosch to power in 1965, the US Marines paid a visit.”
Sam moved toward conclusion and his point.
“It’s all about oil, money, international relations, and corruption in South America, same as Eastern Europe, Middle East, you name it. It’s very simple, we put them in, and we take them out. From Trujillo to Saddam Hussein.”
“You’re not telling me anything new, Sam.”
The carriage had arrived at the East Seventy-second Street Plaza. Alex was ready to depart.
“No. I’m not,” he said. “But here’s what you have to remember in Latin America. The US screws around with the politics, but the alternative is ten times worse. The world works at the behest of the banks and corporations, and policy is enforced at the point of the gun. Because of that, you and I can walk free and are privileged to pay six bucks a gallon for gas. If it ever works the other way, it means the Islamo-fascists have defeated us, and they’d rape a nice-looking educated girl like you or hide you in a burka or burn you at the stake. So think of it as the binary system for world politics. You have two choices. Where would you rather live today? Cuba or the Dominican?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. “That’s your poli sci lesson, and that’s why Chavez’s options are clear. He can be a world outlaw, or we’ll take him out.”
He let his lesson settle.
“When are you leaving for Caracas?” Sam asked.
“I haven’t even decided if I’m going,” Alex answered.
“Of course you have,” Sam said. “I’ll make sure you have a weapon and a contact when you get there. Be sure to go to the doctor and get some antimalaria meds. If the heat, the gators, and the snakes don’t kill you, malaria might.” He eyed her as she stepped down from the carriage. “That’s a nice skirt, by the way. I like it. Looks good on you. You got the legs for it.”
“Thanks.”
“Want to have dinner later?”
“So long, Sam.”
She hopped out of the parked carriage and didn’t look back as she walked toward Fifth Avenue. Before she reached her apartment, she had pulled her cell phone out of her skirt pocket and phoned Joseph Collins. She would make the trip to Venezuela. That same evening, she phoned her friend, Don Tomas, in Washington. He had been the Counselor for Political Affairs at the US Embassy in Caracas. It had been his last tour with the Foreign Service, capping a distinguished career. He had even been there during the unsuccessful coup.
From his usual skeptical perspective, he gave her a rundown on current Venezuelan politics, particularly as affected by the current-day demagogue, Chavez.
“Venezuela has turned into a very dangerous place,” he said. “Almost as bad as Colombia next door.”
“I know,” she said.
“If you must go,” he said, “avoid the many bad areas of the city. My cleaning lady asked me that her schedule ensure that she would be able to get to her home in daylight. She lived in this hillside slum named Petrare. Governmental authority and social services only reached halfway up the hill. Toward dusk and after dark, hoodlums swaggered about with their guns exposed. Of course, there was always the threat of vigilante justice. Sometimes neighbors got really fed up with it and Petrare would ‘smell of kerosene,’ the favorite lynching tool. Police intervention was nonexistent.”
“Charming,” she said.
“Aside from that, travel safely and good luck.”
“Thanks. Should I carry a gun?” she asked.
“A woman on assignment in that part of the world?” he answered with a laugh. “You’d be a fool not to carry two guns.”
FIFTY-NINE
M imi was dressed to kill when she arrived at the Club San Remo shortly before midnight. Sailor Moon all the way. Blue and white blouse. Red shoes and knee-high red socks. She wore a blue miniskirt, which normally was eight inches above the knee but she had used pins to take it up another two inches. Two ponytails, one to each side. Blue tint in her hair. The works.
Her escort was a handsome young
plainclothes member of the carabinieri, a guy named Enrico. If he was going to get paid for escorting girls to clubs like this, well, he had the best job in the world. And Mimi, she liked the looks of her escort right away. He wasn’t the smartest guy she’d ever met, much less the most sophisticated. But he sure was well put together. She had hit the daily double on this assignment, she reasoned. She would get paid and have some fun.
They had another man in the club to watch their backs, but Mimi never even knew who he was. All she knew was what her job was, how to dress so a guy couldn’t miss her, much less say no, and then how to get the job done.
Enrico worked a cell phone once they were inside the club. The contact had been shadowing Anatoli all day.
Enrico sat at a table with Mimi and they sipped scotches. Mimi kept crossing and uncrossing her legs, enjoying the growing attention from her escort. Finally, Enrico turned to her.
“That’s him,” he said, indicating to his left. “That’s Anatoli.”
Enrico closed his phone. Mimi leaned over and put an arm on Enrico’s shoulder, but her real intent was to look past him and get a better view of her mark.
Anatoli, Federov’s onetime sidekick and bodyguard, sat at a corner table with two beautiful young women. He wore a leather jacket, his hair was cut short, almost an old-style KGB cut.
“He’s nice looking,” Mimi said in Italian. She recognized him from his picture.
“What did he do?” Enrico asked. “Why are we watching him?”
“I think he killed someone.”
“Oh,” Enrico said. “After we’re finished here, want to go get some food?”
She looked at Enrico. She smiled. “Sure,” she said. The nice thing about Enrico to Mimi, aside from how good looking he was, was that he was with the national police, so if he had killed anyone it was probably legal and he wasn’t in any trouble for it. Unlike Anatoli.
“Then let’s get this done and let’s get out of here,” Enrico said.
“You don’t like the music?”
“No.”
“You don’t like the drinks?”
“They’re okay.”
“But you do like me?” she laughed.
“A lot. Let’s go somewhere.”
“Your place?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay,” she said. “Keep me covered.”
She gave him a kiss on the cheek and went to work.
She fingered the small tacklike transmitter that she had concealed at the waist of her skirt. She pulled out a change purse that was filled with small coins. She unzipped it partially and stood.
She worked her way toward the ladies room, which, by good fortune, took her past Anatoli’s table. As she passed the table, she unzipped the purse. The contents, entirely coins, spilled out. As they fell, in the erratic light of the club, she whacked them so that they’d roll under Anatoli’s table.
Mimi then let loose with a loud profanity in Italian. Now she had Anatoli’s attention. He stared at her as did the women at his table. She had everyone’s attention now.
Her hands went to her face as she surveyed the loss of her coins with feigned horror. Anatoli, checking her out, slowly started to smile.
“ Oh, scusi, scusi, scusi! ” she pleaded.
Anatoli laughed. He didn’t speak much Italian. He gestured with his hands that it wasn’t a problem.
More sign language. Mimi pointed to herself and then under the table. “ Voi permette? ” she asked. She gave him her sexiest most excited smile. Could she maybe crawl underneath and pick things up?
Anatoli nodded. Mimi went down to her hands and knees, a flurry of bare arms and legs, and disappeared headfirst under the table to retrieve the coins and conduct her larger bit of business.
She crawled around between four bare female legs and two male legs in jeans. Working quickly, she picked up coin after coin. She got Anatoli and his two female friends quickly conditioned to feeling her movements, brushing against them, reaching past their shoes and boots. Anatoli was predictably amused and fresh, giving Mimi a solid pinch on her butt. She gave his hand a playful slap, which only encouraged him more. Then his hand came to rest on her butt and gave it a squeeze.
Perfect timing, just what she wanted. It gave her the opportunity to “retaliate” by holding his foot. At exactly the same moment he was examining her backside, she withdrew the little homing device from her waist and shoved it firmly into the heel of his boot. Then she wriggled free and emerged with a laugh from beneath the table.
The two women with Anatoli glared at her. But he was all hearts and flowers.
“ Va bene? ” he asked. Find everything?
“ Suffisamente,” she answered. Enough. “ Grazie mille. ”
“ Prego. ” He answered.
She turned and sauntered back to Enrico, feeling Anatoli’s eyes on her backside as she left. She slid into the seat next to Enrico.
“Got him,” she said. She wasn’t nervous at all. Inside, she felt remarkably cool. “We can get out of here,” she said.
“No, no,” Enrico answered. “We wait a few minutes. No reason to make him suspicious if he sees you leave right away.”
“Then I’ll have another scotch,” she said.
In fact, she had two of them. Both doubles.
Thirty minutes later, they were back out on the street. They walked a block. There they found Rizzo in a car, waiting. He was just putting down a cell phone when they approached.
“Perfect,” he said. “The signal is strong.”
“It’s in the heel of his right boot,” she said.
“I won’t ask how you did that,” Rizzo said.
“Use your imagination.”
“Mimi, you’re a genius. And I love your outfit.”
He handed her an envelope. Impetuously, she opened it. There were five hundred Euros in it in cash, ten bills of fifty Euros each.
“Anytime,” she said. This was the easiest money she’d ever made.
“I’m off duty now?” Enrico asked Rizzo.
He gave the handsome young man a nod. “Just see that Mimi gets home safely,” he said. “Eventually.”
“Eventually,” Mimi said, hanging on Enrico’s arm now.
They all laughed.
Rizzo pulled away from the curb. Enrico took Mimi under his arm, and, mission accomplished, they went their own way for the rest of the night.
SIXTY
T he formal way for the US government to persuade a foreign government to do something is through a demarche, which can be made either in Washington to the foreign embassy or in its capital or in both places at once.
It can be done at any level, up to and including “calling in” the foreign country’s ambassador for a senior state official to deliver the request or having the US ambassador approach the host country foreign minister or even prime minister.
In the case of the American couple who had been shot to death on a cold evening in January, the American government needed to be coy in its handling of the case. The Italians were already fuming over American handling of several intelligence issues, and there were still warrants out for several CIA agents concerning “renditions” carried out in Italy. Worse, the Italians knew that the CIA had embedded some excellent contacts in Rome right under their noses within the various Italian police agencies.
Hence, a prickly problem it was. The CIA station chief in Rome informally approached his contacts in Italian intelligence and began to exert whatever informal influence could be brought to bear upon the Roman police. The scandals about CIA flights with disappeared persons transiting Italian airspace did not make this any easier. Similar contacts were made in Washington through the Italian ambassador.
An additional complication was that the Italian government was, as always, a delicate coalition. Such requests reaching the public, or at least certain members of parliament, could actually blow apart the ruling coalition.
Nonetheless, the matter of Lt. Rizzo’s investigation went through the usual bac
k channels. Rizzo felt he had made highly praiseworthy progress on the case. So when he found himself summoned to the office of the minister of the interior, he should have beamed with pride, expecting to be congratulated upon his fine work. But one never knew which way these meetings with bosses would go. Nor, in any way, could he expect to know where his investigation would be headed next.
SIXTY-ONE
M onday morning. Alex stood in the security line at JFK in New York, waiting to check in for her flight.
Time for everyone to be searched. She read all the signs. Every bag to be X-rayed. Take off your jacket. Take off your socks and shoes. High risk of terrorist attack. Drop your slightly used undergarments in a one-pint ziplock and turn them over to the baggage handlers.
Hey, got a steel pin in your hip? Take it out so we can check it.
What nonsense. Okay, okay. She knew she was anxious over this new trip, and she tried to cool it. But what was her country coming to? Give me your tired, your poor, your teeming masses, your fingerprints.
Signs, signs. Everywhere there were signs, as the old pop song went. Messing up the view. Messing up everyone’s mind. No cigarette lighters on the aircraft. No scissors. No knives. No booze. How about a numchuck or a Tai Chi sword?
Yeah. Long-haired freaky people didn’t need to apply, but they were actually going though the security line just fine. A woman who looked like someone’s great grandmother was being searched, however. A security person was examining her roll of lipstick. Alex sipped from a fresh bottle of cold water that she knew she was going to have to relinquish.
The fear had taken root all over America by now, planted by excessively reckless people in the government. Having been in Ukraine on the day of the RPG attacks, having had to fire lethal weapons at other human beings and shoot her way out, she knew what real fear was. She knew what it was like to be scared, to understand what a true threat feels like, to be a moment away from a painful death or perhaps permanent disfigurement if she acted wrong or was just plain unlucky. She knew what it was like to lose someone she loved in an attack that made no sense.