Diplomatic Intrigue

By Robert G. Morris

At the beginning of Diplomatic Intrigue John Pauley and Carl Friedrich return to the United States embassy in the South American country of Colonia after a frustrating year working in the Washington bureaucracy. As the new ambassador Carl insisted John be his deputy. This is a complete turnaround from their earlier relationship in which Carl called John Johnny-Come- Lately, scorning him as an irregular foreign service officer who, because he was a science specialist, had not come up through the ranks. Shortly after their arrival Carl and his wife Betty are called back to the States for a funeral. As acting ambassador John is immediately confronted by a demonstration in front of the embassy protesting the imminent extradition by the United States of a Colonial naval officer who fled the country accused of murder and torture under the previous military government.

John expertly handles the demonstrators and decides to go through with the farewell party that evening for Henry Nielsen after all. It was Henry who advised John a year ago not to go to Washington to take a job like the one Henry himself has now accepted. For both men deputy assistant secretary of state has an enchanting ring. Johns old friend from the Foreign Ministry, Edgardo Martn Ponce Tedesco, accompanies Ricardo Snchez Cardona to the party, Johns nemesis who had declared him persona non grata and expelled him when John exposed Colonias nuclear program as a sham. Edgardo announces Snchez Cardona as the new foreign minister.

Johns wife Barbara and seventeen-year-old son Charley arrive at their new post in time for Christmas, coming in on the same plane as Captain Federico Morales, the naval officer extradited from the United States. Carl hosts a welcome party for them. Carl is much too good- looking to be a foreign service officer. Formerly a ladies man he is now a faithful husband and father. Charley meets Karen King, daughter of the public affairs officer Graham King and his wife Susan. Karen is also interested in archeology and she and Charley agree to go to a nearby ruin Karen has already visited. She suspects it is a burial ground for victims of the militarys human rights violations.

At the site, Charley and Karen elude a military patrol, for they are on an army base. They have an idyllic afternoon by an old pond near the ruin of a Jesuit mission. Among other things they try some of Karens cocaine, Charley for the first time. Karen stows the drugs in Charleys nearly identical back pack by mistake, which another patrol seizes..

Arriving home somewhat the worse for his experiences, Charley learns there has been a coup Snchez Cardona has assumed the office of the president. The former president is under house arrest. The government seizes the nuclear authority. Its head, Mara Elena Montoya, threatens Snchez Cardona that she and Edgardo will reveal what they know about deaths under the old military regime if he makes changes at the authority. Snchez Cardona pardons the extradited Captain Morales, also known as the Blond Avenger. Morales suspects that Snchez Cardona has pardoned him for what he knows and might tell at the trial. On the basis of Charleys seized backpack, the government charges him with drug possession and subversion on a military base as well.

The ousted Colonial president finds sanctuary in the embassy. While Washington debates recognition of the Snchez Cardona government, Barbara take the president concealed in an embassy car to Buenos Aires where he receives asylum. The Embassy begins to see that the army leveled charges against Charley based on what it thinks he knows about graves. John and Carl fail to hear from Edgardo. They need to learn what he knows about the armys human rights violations in the past, much of which he has learned from the Mothers of the Missing, a group of women who, in black head scarfs and holding candles, haunt the go

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 6, 2004
• ISBN: 9781465331816

Robert G. Morris

About the Author Robert G. Morris is from Des Moines and has a PhD in physics from Iowa State University. After teaching and doing research, he joined the US Foreign Service in 1974 and worked on nuclear nonproliferation, science cooperation, and environmental issues in Washington, Paris, Bonn, Buenos Aires, and Madrid. He has three sons; Beverly, his wife of fifty-nine years, died in 2014. The author dedicates this book to her memory.

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Copyright © 2004 by Robert G. Morris.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

FOR

ROBERT, JOHN, AND RICHARD

Chapter 1

JOHN PAULEY, ACTING AMBASSADOR

The telegram had gone out even before John Pauley got back to the embassy after accompanying Ambassador Carl Friedrich to the airport:

AMBASSADOR DEPARTED POST TODAY AT 2:45 LOCAL. HAVE ASSUMED CHARGE. PAULEY.

Carl and his wife Betty were on their way to Florida for his mother’s funeral. It was only days since they returned to South America from a year in Washington—Carl triumphantly as the new United States ambassador to Colonia, and John uncomfortably as his DCM, or deputy chief of mission. John now found himself in the ambassadorial Cadillac on his way back to the embassy where he would be the acting ambassador during Carl’s absence, the chargé d’affaires ad interim.

The car raced past the lines of apartments and offices, cream-colored, gray, and white, still bright in the sun against the blue sky on a November afternoon when the Southern Hemisphere Spring days were still lengthening toward their December maximum. John noticed nothing, not even when the driver circled the Gran Plaza, around the statue of Cervantes, past the quarter circle that was the ornate Congreso, then past the Ministry of Foreign Relations, and north on the Avenida San Martín toward the embassy. Through side streets on the right John could have caught glimpses of the silvery Uruguay River, so wide here that Uruguay on the other side was often only just visible in the haze.

Ordinarily the driver alerted the embassy when he was one or two minutes out. Before that, the embassy called the car. John recognized the voice of Bill Bream, the security officer. Embassy calling zero-zero-one. Do you read me? Over.

John leaned forward. The driver pressed the send button on the microphone and answered with some of his few words of English. Zero-zero-one. I read you. Over.

Tell Mr. Pauley—the DCM, no the chargé—that demonstrators have surrounded the embassy. They told the government TV station that they will present a petition to the ambassador at the gate. We recommend you turn away and not try to enter.

John seized the microphone. This is Pauley. What are they demonstrating about?

Hi, John. We think it’s about the extradition. The Frontistas are afraid of what the government will do to him when he is sent back from the U.S.

John knew that Capitán Federico Morales had fled Colonia for the United States several years ago to avoid trial as a human rights violator under the old military government. The new civilian government had tried, convicted, and imprisoned several dozen, mostly military, for kidnapping, torture, and even murder. As a capitán de navío, Morales was equivalent in rank to a United States naval captain.

I can’t go and hide, Bill. With Carl gone, my place is with you.

You’ll never get in.

Have you called the police?

Immediately. And they came. To watch. And get on television. There must be a dozen cameramen out there.

John looked at Oswaldo, Carl’s driver, and asked him in Spanish, You understand?

Oswaldo nodded.

Can we get in?

Oswaldo nodded vigorously. He had been the driver of zero-zero-one for ten years and was as unimpressed by coup attempts, terrorist attacks, and demonstrations as he was by chargés d’affaires.

Oswaldo thinks we can make it. I have to try.

I recommend against it. When there was no reply he continued, Give me five minutes to get down to the gate house. I’ll talk you in from there. Maybe we can create a diversion.

But no shooting.

We’ll just pour some boiling oil over the wall on them.

Does Washington know?

Charley Trout has an open line to the department.

Oswaldo did a U-turn and retraced the route for several minutes before directing the Cadillac again toward the embassy.

Come ahead—if you must, Bill called. Graham King is down behind the fence taking pictures of the crowd. This has them off balance for the moment.

Here we come.

I have marines here at the gate with me. They have side arms and are prepared to protect you if anyone threatens to shoot you.

John’s throat constricted another notch and he realized he was very thirsty. With his dry mouth he managed to say, I don’t want anyone to get hurt.

Neither do we. Including you.

As soon as the car came into view Bill radioed, They’re still milling around but they’ve stopped yelling, and the fires are dying out.

Fires?

They brought their own truckload of old tires. They may have set one car on fire that was parked in the street.

Oswaldo drove slowly toward the gate. At first no one seemed to notice. Then a cry went up from the crowd as they saw the big American car carrying a small flag on the fender. El embajador, they shouted and rushed toward the gate.

Get ready, Bill called.

The guard turned the switch to open the electric gate and sheathe the spikes in the driveway designed to puncture the tires of unauthorized vehicles. The car pulled in past the gate and stopped. Before it could swing shut three marines filled up the space, facing off the demonstrators. Slowly the gate swung closed while the marines guarded the narrowing opening. Perhaps the demonstrators realized pursuit was futile, for there was a second gate still firmly closed. Not until the first gate had banged shut did the guard open the second gate ahead of the car, and the driver gunned his way toward the embassy door.

Few people were on the stones of the courtyard. The head marine stood on the embassy steps with a portable radio. Henry Nielsen came running out of the door and down the steps. He and Bill Bream reached the car at the same moment, but Oswaldo was already opening the door for John. As he stepped out John saw dense columns of smoke from the burning tires.

You all right, Plucky? Henry asked.

John nodded.

Thank God, said Bill Bream.

Your marines formed a human gate to get me in, John said to Bill Bream and looked at the marines standing by. He recognized Seth Bridger, the guitar player and the first marine he had met the day when Henry had shown him and Carl through the ambassador’s residence. This ornate old building was also inside the embassy fence. The government had built the new embassy right next to the old residence so that it could be included within the embassy’s security perimeter.

Patti Carducci, the young lady who served as secretary for Carl and John, came out the door and started down the steps.

All personnel are to stay inside the building, Bill said firmly but not unkindly.

I just wanted to see if Mr. Pauley was OK.

I’m fine. Let’s all go in and have a quick meeting in my office. Patti, would you ask Mr. King to come if he’s finished taking pictures for the record. And Mr. Fremont.

Charley Trout is already there, Bill said. It’s the safest office in the building with those big doors.

A moment later John and the others were on the third floor in the office suite for the ambassador and his deputy chief of mission, or DCM. Charley Trout was just finishing talking with Washington but did not hang up the phone. Frank Fremont entered followed by Graham King, still carrying his camera.

I ran out of film but I kept shooting because the flash still went off. Graham was the public affairs officer, or PAO, responsible for press relations, scholarly exchanges, and the U.S. libraries in Colonia. He had taken Cass Carboy’s place in the two-year interval since John had served previously in Juan de Solís. From that time John also knew Frank Fremont, the tweedy, low-key station chief for the Central Intelligence Agency.

They all found chairs. Patti sat nearest the door so she could answer telephones in the outer office. A television behind the desk showed the scene being captured by one of the crews in the street, but the sound was off.

John was ashen but calm. What can you tell me?

Bill began. A group of about two hundred came on foot and in busses about half an hour ago.

They had tires to set on fire, Charley Trout added. He was the political counselor who had acted as chargé the whole year John and Carl had been in Washington.

And a number of American flags, Graham said,

They set fire to a couple of cars parked in the street, Henry put in.

They threw a few smoke bombs, but no Molotov cocktails, Bill said.

Any shots? John asked. From either side?

No. Certainly not from our side.

Anyone hurt?

No. But lots of noise along with all the smoke. They have bull horns and every once in a while they chant.

What do they say?

Oh, anti-American things mostly.

Frank Fremont spoke up. Several times they referred to Morales’s extradition.

I should say that they are very mad at us for announcing now that we are going to send him back here for trial here after dithering so long, Charley said.

We think a lot of demonstrators are off-duty military, Frank said. You can tell from their shoes, and some of them are wearing fatigues.

And the police have been no help?

Not at all, said Bill. They haven’t exactly thrown smoke bombs themselves, but they haven’t lifted a finger to help us.

Have you warned the dependents to lie low? John asked.

Yes, Patti said. We used the standard pyramid calling scheme right away.

And we contacted American businessmen the same way, Henry said.

Has anyone called the Foreign Ministry?

There was a squawk on Bill’s radio. Through the static they heard that a dozen television cameramen were now on the scene and that one of the leaders was calling on the ambassador to receive a letter of protest.

They always do that, Bill said. It’s a great opportunity for the ambassador to get shot.

Graham said the obvious. The ambassador isn’t here.

John looked at Charley. No, but I guess I’m standing in for him. Ask Washington what they think.

Charley picked up the secure phone and spoke quietly, turned in his chair away from the group. They’ll get back to us, but they think you probably shouldn’t go out. But they always leave a lot to the discretion of the people actually involved.

What’s with these heroic DCMs anyway? Henry said. He turned to John. A couple of years ago when Carl was DCM he carried a bomb out of the ambassador’s office. Except it wasn’t a bomb. Just some pottery Toni, his secretary, had bought in Paraguay.

Since we didn’t get anywhere with the police, John said. We should call the Foreign Ministry. They’re responsible for the safety of the personnel at all the embassies.

But whom do we call? asked Graham. The minister?

We could call Edgardo, Henry said. We all do more business with him than anybody else.

No, we should call the minister’s chef de cabinet, Charley said.

Is he in the directory? John asked.

The directory is so old that it doesn’t even list the present minister, but I have the number we need. Charley dashed out.

In the momentary lull Henry said, Edgardo called me today to ask me to ask you if he could bring a guest to my farewell party tonight. I told him OK.

John had forgotten all about the reception. He looked at his watch. Four-fifteen. The reception was scheduled for eight in the residence to send Henry off to his new job in Washington.

Charley returned and dialed on the regular phone. After a brief exchange he turned to the group. Not back from lunch yet.

After four o’clock? Henry said.

Bill’s radio squawked again. The marine reported that the man with the bull horn was shouting that if the ambassador came out to receive the demonstrators’ written protest they would not set fire to any more cars and would leave.

Indistinct sounds next came out of the secure phone handset, amplified by the wooden desk on which it was sitting. Charley picked it up and listened. Then he told Washington, The police are still just watching, and the fire department has still not come. We’re trying to reach someone at the Foreign Ministry. He listened some more, then put the phone back on the desk. Under conditions of no police protection they advise against going out to get any submission from the mob. But they won’t forbid it.

Does Washington know the ambassador is gone? Graham asked.

Of course. They think the demonstrators might not believe he is gone and refuse to give it to John.

Let’s try Edgardo, John said, He will know what to do.

Edgardo Martín Ponce Tedesco handled relations with the United States. A graduate of two universities there, he understood the American mind and spoke idiomatic English.

Charley dialed the Foreign Ministry and gave the switchboard Edgardo’s number.

John took the phone and identified himself. I’m calling you in my official capacity as acting ambassador. He wasn’t used to the term chargé. Carl Friedrich is in the States for his mother’s funeral. There was a pause while Edgardo expressed his condolences. We have a problem here at the embassy. There are about two hundred demonstrators in the street. They are burning tires, throwing smoke bombs, setting fire to cars. And the police are just standing watching.

Tell him the fire department hasn’t come although it’s been over an hour.

John did so and went on to review their conversations with Washington and their attempts to reach someone in authority in the Foreign Ministry. He identified the Morales extradition as the apparent issue of the demonstrators and said he was prepared to receive a protest document from the demonstrators. As I understand it your ministry is responsible for the safety of this embassy and all of us who work here.

John listened for over a minute, then thanked Edgardo. We were sure we could count on you. He hung up. He’ll take care of it.

Do you think he can? asked Graham.

Maybe. We’ll see, said Charley

The group had gradually come to ignore the raucous noise from the street which had if anything grown worse. Some of the demonstrators pried up paving stones and threw them at the embassy over the fence. They didn’t come close but soon littered the courtyard. Others in the mob ran staves along the iron fence, turning it into a devilish xylophone of which all the notes were the same. John and Charley walked through the third floor to the front of the embassy, overlooking the street to observe the mob which showed no sign of dispersing or being dispersed.

They could hear the general sound of the bull horn but not make out the words through the glass. But they could see that members of the mob seemed to be putting up tents and even had brought in some kind of food kitchen on wheels where two or three were starting a fire.

Let’s walk through the building and see how everybody’s doing, John said.

Good idea.

Officers from the economic section had grudgingly moved to the office of their dread enemies in the political section. No work was being done but no one seemed worried. Several had been through worse embassy sieges in other countries. A marine stood guard outside the iron door of the message center; inside the communicators continued to receive messages but had none to send. One man had begun to shred documents in a standard exercise to keep them from falling into unauthorized hands in the event the demonstrators overran the building. Colonial nationals who staffed the business offices and part of the consulate sat quietly talking, occasionally looking out the windows at the mob. Since the embassy and residence were sealed off, the consulate was closed. Two hapless Colonials caught on a quest for visas sat in the lobby waiting for the gate to reopen.

No one seems to be too upset—or scared, John said.

No, but they will start to fret big-time if they’re stuck here many more hours.

Finally, on a visit to the basement cafeteria, the manager told them, There’s enough food and coffee for at least twenty-four hours, and longer if people aren’t too particular what they eat to ward off hunger.

When they returned to the office Bill said, They’re calling again for somebody to come out and accept their petition

John remained standing. I think I’d better go down and get it over with. Maybe then they’ll go home.

Give it a little time, John, Bill said.

Charley agreed. Give Edgardo a chance to do something. At least to get some police out here.

At that moment the lights went out. The sun was still in the sky so they could see, but all the electrical machines stopped, the automatic doors could only be opened by special key, the Selectric typewriters—if there were any still running—fell silent.

They cut our power, Frank said.

The emergency generator will kick in, Graham said.

Don’t count on it, said Henry. It’s never worked yet.

Bill rushed out of the office nearly running over the weary-looking communicator who came from the message center to say that all the systems were down. Charley checked the phones. These phones are still working.

Bill returned, puffing. The technicians think they can get the generator going in a few minutes.

I’ll wait until they do, John said. I don’t want it to look as if I’m doing it because they turned out the lights.

The group fell silent. Graham tried to read a newspaper, but gave it up after a minute. Patti picked up the stack of yellow slips from her desk and crossed to where John welcomed the distraction. Just past thirty, Patti was a small lady with brown wavy hair worn close to her head. She had a merry face with a turned-up nose, clear, pale skin, and a perpetual smile.

Mr. Pauley, while you were at the airport you had a call from a staff assistant for—she looked at the yellow slip—Congressman William Weiss.

I cannot escape that man, John said quietly to himself.

I beg your pardon.

Henry looked over at the two of them. Staff assistant?

From William Weiss’s staff.

Oh, that guy. Yes, he called last week. I told him I couldn’t help him. He should call back after you got here. You were the only one that could help him.

You didn’t.

No, not really. I did tell him to call back, but that was because he wanted to talk to somebody who would be here when Weiss and his delegation come in January.

John let go with a rare expletive. What now? We showed him Colonia has no nuclear weapons. Then he hounded me in Washington and Moscow about recognizing Cuba.

This time it’s human rights.

There haven’t been any abuses of human rights in Colonia since 1984 when the military were kicked out.

That’s what I told him. Economically speaking, the country can no longer afford the suspicion and disgrace.

The lights flickered on and then went out again. John looked at his watch. Five minutes to five. Bill ran out again.

Henry smiled at John. Maybe you should go down and offer to fix the generator with your Swiss army knife.

Patti looked interested, and Henry immediately rose to the occasion. "Why, one time John—Mr. Pauley—fixed the air conditioning