Cavalcanti scowled. “Bullshit, Harry. I just got through saying you guys don’t try to fool us, and here you are handing me a line of pure bullshit. You teach us how to use them, then you can’t get ’em for us because it’s pig-slaughtering time in Nebraska? Don’t fuck with me, Harry. You know I can close down your whole fucking operation here in two minutes if I want to. You tell me what happened, and tell it to me straight.”
Harry looked at the General, who suddenly seemed to resemble an enraged pit bull. “OK,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t get them for you. The ambassador found out. He’s ordered them held in customs until he can find out why they were shipped, and to whom. There’s nothing I can do.”
The General exploded. “Well, fuck him. Customs is part of the Brazilian government, not the US. That goddamn striped-pants fairy can’t order them held in our customs. I’m going to order them released.” He reached for Harry’s phone. “Right now,” he said.
“I wouldn’t do that, Oscar. I agree he’s a pain in the ass, but he is the ambassador of the United States of America. You don’t want to piss him off with C-Day coming up. They do listen to him in Washington. And incidentally, he’s not a fairy. He’s got a wife. And one of our guys spotted him talking with a chickie at a bar in Copa a week ago. We haven’t got hard proof yet. But we’re working on it.”
Cavalcanti sat down again. “Shit,” he said. Harry decided to say nothing.
“Is he against the revolution?”
“He can’t be against the coup officially. It’s the ‘policy’ of the United States to support it, to make it happen. We’ve given a few million dollars to a few governors who are supporting your side. But if it were up to him, we’d be standing aside just waiting to see what happens. He seems to believe all that crap about supporting ‘democratically elected governments,’ and about the rule of international law.” Harry fiddled with the mustache on his upper lip. “Oh, I like the sound of that stuff as well as the next guy, but it’s not realistic. And it won’t protect my country from the commies.”
The general was lost in thought. Finally, he looked up at Harry. “The United States wouldn’t like it if the ambassador disappeared, would it?”
Harry was puzzled. “Of course not,” he said.
“And if it appeared that he had been kidnapped by a cell of young Communist supporters of Jango, and Jango did nothing about it, that would be a pretty good reason for a military coup against Goulart, wouldn’t it?”
Harry looked at the general in disbelief. “And where in the hell would the army find a bunch of leftist kids to kidnap the Ameri-
can ambassador?”
Cavalcanti smiled. “For a spook, you’re not that quick, are you? Of course, they’re not leftist kids, Harry, they are soldiers making believe they are leftist kids, soldiers who would love to be promoted to sergeant, earn a medal, and maybe draw thirty days TDI on a nice beach somewhere in the Northeast. Of course, if any of them even breathe a word about what really happened, we shoot him.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
The general nodded.
“And what happens to Carter?”
“Oh, we hold him in a basement somewhere in Santa Teresa or maybe Tijuca for a few days, and then our soldiers ‘rescue’ him from the ‘commie kids’ once the coup is over and he can’t do any harm.” Cavalcanti gazed at Harry through half-closed eyes. “Of course, we’d need a little information from your team. Like what time he goes to and from work, what’s his normal route, what car he drives, who’s his driver, whatever you can find out about his girlfriend, if he has one—like where she lives—that kind of stuff. We’ll take care of the rest.”
Harry drew in a large breath. The Agency help the Brazilian Army kidnap the United States ambassador? As far as he knew, it had never done that before. “I don’t think we can do that, Oscar,” he said.
The general got up from his chair. “I don’t think you can’t do it, Harry,” he said, “if you want your guys to go on operating here.” He picked up his jacket and walked out of the door.
It was a good Brazilian lunch: rice, garlicky black beans, fried potatoes, farofa, a well-done fillet steak that weighed at least half a kilo, four glasses of chopp, a cafezinho, and a good Bahian cigar. Pity, Cavalcanti thought, to go back to work. A nap would be much nicer. But this work was actually going to be a pleasure. The cattle prods would have been more satisfying, but this project wasn’t bad either. He picked up the phone and waited. Four minutes later he had a dial tone. He dialed hastily lest the line drop before he got through.
Colonel Augusto Bastos de Melo, chief of staff for the Third Division of the Second Army stationed in Rio, answered the phone himself. “Alo,” he shouted into the phone, “Quem fala?”
“It’s me,” Cavalcanti replied. “Oscar.”
“Oscar, what Oscar?”
“Oscar Cavalcanti,” he shouted back. If Augusto could destroy his eardrums, he could destroy Augusto’s.
“Oh, why didn’t you say so?”
“I did.”
“What?” Colonel de Melo shouted.
Oscar decided to leave the introductory conversation there. “Listen Augusto, I need your help.”
“What?”
“I need your help. I need ten or twelve young recruits maybe seventeen or eighteen years old for about two weeks, and I want them before you guys chop their hair off. Long-haired students would be best. You know, kids.”
There was silence on the line.
“Shit,” Cavalcanti said out loud. “The goddamn line’s dropped!”
“No, it hasn’t dropped,” de Melo said. “Have you gone queer on me or something?”
Cavalcanti laughed. “No, Augusto,” he said. “I’ve not gone queer. I need about a dozen recruits to play college students in a little project we are setting up.”
“Oh,” de Melo said. “Well, that’s all right, I guess. Sure, I can get them for you. When do you need them?”
“Tomorrow,” Cavalcanti said. “Or Friday. We are going to have to train them. And Augusto, could you send half a dozen pistols along with them? Any big model will do. We want them to be seen.”
“Sure,” Colonel de Melo said.
“And one more thing. Would you have a couple of old cars you can lend us? Not military vehicles, some old sedans.”
“That’s harder,” de Melo said. “I don’t have any of those. I suppose we could steal you some,” he said doubtfully. “A couple of old taxis maybe.”
“No,” Oscar said. “Never mind. I’ll find some.”
CHAPTER 8
For over a week Carter had wrestled with his conscience. Like Jack Sprague said, he was a married man. He had never cheated on Priscilla before. And he was the ambassador of the United States of America. If he were caught with a whore he would be fired. Not that you could call her a whore. Maybe a call girl, or perhaps a streetwalker. But never a whore. Not with that sparkle in her eye. Not with her little factory in Bangu where she made clothes for tots. Not working for another ambassador, passing out books at a diplomatic reception, even if she was sleeping with him on the side. Almost any ambassador in Brazil would sleep with a girl like that. But the American ambassador? Not if he wanted to keep his job. And