Chapter 5
For quite a few moments after he and his host had claimed their table and ordered drinks, America’s leading philosopher-statesman found it almost impossible to think coherently, so angered and embittered was he by the degrading and inexcusable humiliation to which he had been subjected by his countrymen before the avidly interested eyes of the nations. If anything had been needed to alienate Walter Dobius permanently and implacably from the Hudson administration and its present course of action in Africa, his public tongue-lashing by Congressman Hamilton and Senator Smith would have done it. Everything was now in place, all things were clear, his own course was finally and completely justified. Behind Cullee and Lafe, as vividly as though they had actually stood there, he could see the figures of the incompetent President and the irresponsible Secretary of State, the warmakers who were challenging all the principles of civilized and orderly international behavior to whose strengthening Walter and his friends had devoted themselves in all the difficult years since the end of World War II. Their policies were so violently contrary to those Walter knew in his heart to be right, their attitude toward him personally so mocking and disrespectful, that he was convinced now that he had been absolutely sound in his column, absolutely correct in the statement he had made after the riot, absolutely justified in everything he was doing and intended to do to hinder, defeat, and discredit permanently if he could, the present policies of Washington and the men responsible for them.
Despite this righteous certainty, however, it was not until the drinks arrived—the Soviet Ambassador had ordered Dubonnet on the rocks and Walter in spite of his whirling anger had retained enough caution to do the same, for he was not about to engage in any conversation with Vasily Tashikov half-drunk—that he finally calmed down enough to be able to pay attention to the comments with which his host was setting the stage for their discussion.
He was pleased but not surprised to find that Tashikov was stating opinions exactly paralleling his own concerning the painful episode in which he had found Walter involved when he stepped off the escalator into the dining room.
“It is disgraceful,” the Soviet Ambassador said. “Disgraceful, for your countrymen to make of their greatest journalist such a cruel public spectacle! It is typical,” he added matter-of-factly, “of those who have gone mad in the pursuit of their imperialist ambitions.”
“It was not pleasant,” Walter admitted, taking a long swallow of Dubonnet and stilling the last erratic thumpings of his heart by a sheer effort of will. “But,” he added grimly, “I think events will prove who is right.”
“They will prove it is you who is right. There is no doubt of it, for I ask you, how could they do otherwise? You are right! The United States is engaged in insanity, as you said in your column this morning. Civilized peoples everywhere regard it so. The world, I think, will show the United States what happens to neo-colonialist warmongers!”
“I would hope the Administration could be forced to withdraw,” Walter said, ignoring the anti-American rhetoric, they always felt they had to use that, and anyway it was more important to have them opposing the Administration than it was to quibble over words. “I should think that would be sufficient to place the matter back on a reasonable basis on which the UN might then consider the merits of Prince Obifumatta’s complaint versus ours.”
“Mr. Dobius!” Vasily Tashikov said in a disbelieving tone. “Mr. Dobius! Surely you do not believe the imperialist warmongers in Washington have a case in Gorotoland? Your writings do not indicate this.”
“I believe there is some merit,” Walter said carefully, for by now he was calm enough to be on guard against what he knew from long experience with Communist diplomats in Washington could easily turn into an attempt to entrap him into saying things he didn’t mean, “in the argument that missionaries working peaceably in a country have a right to be unmolested. I also believe—although,” he said with a smile indicating that in this he and his host were probably close to agreement, “I feel that one may legitimately be suspicious of American commercial enterprises in underdeveloped lands—that once a company has entered into a legal arrangement with a government, it has some right to just recompense if it is dispossessed or damaged.”
“Legal arrangement with a government?” Vasily Tashikov demanded, his squat little body swiveling indignantly in its chair, his sharp-featured face with its gold pince-nez peering angrily across at his guest, while at the next table the delegates of Nicaragua, Honduras, Ghana, and Mali pretended a casual inattention as they did their best to overhear, and farther away the two United States delegates, the British Ambassador, and the French Ambassador stopped eating for a moment to give them a speculative glance. “Now, Mr. Dobius, you are not being consistent with your recent columns. Surely you do not consider an arrangement of the illegitimate colonialist lackey Terry to be legitimate. Mr. Dobius!”
“I don’t agree with Prince Terry’s policies, no,” Walter said calmly, now curious to see what he could provoke, “but he is the legitimate government. You cannot deny that.”
“Can I not?” the Soviet Ambassador cried. “But I am! I do! It is accomplished, my denial! What then?”
“Please do not excite yourself,” Walter said coldly, feeling it time to bring the conversation down to earth. “I agree as you know with your opposition to the basic United States position in Gorotoland. Certainly you are aware I agree 100 percent with your opposition to our latest action there. There is no point in confusing our understanding of each other with semantics.”
“Ah!” Tashikov said with a sudden smile. “Semantics! Now you touch upon one of the great difficulties in bridging the gap between the two worlds, Mr. Dobius. Your use of words in the West is so foreign to us. It is so contrary to the way we use them. Democracy and freedom to us are perfectly clear and understandable terms. But we have learned to know that when the United States and the West uses them they mean imperialism, exploitation, dictatorship over helpless peoples, and tyranny. It took us many years to realize this. But we know it now.”
“Well, Mr. Ambassador,” Walter said dryly, “you know perfectly well that I cannot accept that. It seems to me we are getting far afield. I repeat, I trust the Security Council this afternoon will order American forces withdrawn from Gorotoland. After that, the issue can be discussed on its merits free from the threat of war.”
“It is not only the threat, at this moment,” the Ambassador said. “As you have written, it is war.”
“Then I surely hope it will be condemned as such,” Walter said firmly. “The Administration deserves no less.”
“Mr. Dobius,” Tashikov said with a sudden embracing smile, “you are an inspiration and a strength to those of us who oppose your government’s fatal neo-colonialist policies. It is so comforting to know that America’s greatest journalist and his friends are on our side in the endless battle to defeat America’s imperialist aggressions all over the world.”
“America’s greatest journalist,” Walter said calmly, for it did no good to become angry with them, it only got you lost in competing rhetoric, and anyway, he was America’s greatest journalist, “is interested above all things in helping to preserve peace in the world. I believe you will find if you examine my writings that there have been occasions on which I have condemned Soviet aggressions, too.”
“I can remember nothing as devastating as your column this morning, Mr. Dobius,” the Soviet Ambassador said cheerfully. “And may we thank Lenin for that! Shall we order?”
After they had done so, Tashikov requesting a filet mignon and Walter scallops in a wine and curry sauce he remembered fondly from his last visit to the UN, the Soviet Ambassador leaned forward confidentially.
“For your information in writing about events here, Mr. Dobius”—and Walter was pleased that he was doing this, it was the sort of inside information he was seeking and he was gratified that Tashikov was volunteering it, it showed a real confidence in his integrity as a reporter, which Walter prized above all else—“for your information, I understand that your government will offer an amendment to the resolution of condemnation this afternoon. This amendment will attempt to bring condemnation of the People’s Free Republic of Gorotoland. We will veto it. Then the resolution condemning your government will come to a vote. Your government, the United Kingdom, and the alleged representative of the illegal Government of Taiwan, as is customary in such cases, will abstain. The Council will then proceed to approve the resolution of condemnation and your government will then stand convicted before the world, as it should be, for its unprovoked imperialist invasion of an innocent country. That will be the procedure we will follow today.”
“That is very interesting, Mr. Ambassador,” Walter said solemnly, though he had already heard the same prediction from his sources in the State Department and none of it was news to him. “I appreciate your confidence. The only thing I question is whether it will be quite so easy to defeat the United States amendment criticizing Prince Obi’s government.”
“I have told you,” Tashikov said with a shrug. “The U.S.S.R. will veto it. Then, Mr. Dobius, the world will turn upon the United States, as you invited it to do in your column this morning, and punish it for its insane crime against civilized humanity.”
Again Walter decided not to challenge this interpretation. He was anxious to learn other things.
“Suppose the United States refuses to withdraw even though the resolution is passed by the Security Council?”
“Then the United States will also stand convicted by the world’s opinion as the destroyer of the United Nations!” Tashikov said promptly.
“Even though the Communist powers have similarly ignored resolutions of the Security Council?” Walter could not help suggesting blandly. The Soviet Ambassador gave him a look equally bland.
“Communist powers do not act in violation of the civilized rules of mankind, as the United States is doing. Therefore Communist powers do not recognize condemnation by anyone. It is not pertinent. It is not worthy of recognition. Communist powers act for freedom and justice, Mr. Dobius. They do not act for war and imperialist conquest. The world is aware of that.”
“I am glad to hear you explain the difference.”
“I did not think I would have to,” Tashikov said with a humorously chiding air, “after your magnificent column this morning, Mr. Dobius. It appeared to me as I read it that you thoroughly understood the difference! So has it appeared to all of us here in this house. I think you will find your position almost universally applauded here. America’s greatest journalist—perhaps the world’s greatest journalist—having the courage to criticize his own country because he loves peace and justice. It is an inspiring thing, Mr. Dobius. We are all inspired!”
“Thank you,” Walter said, even as he told himself again that he must avoid traps. “Providing the Security Council action today saves the peace and lays the groundwork for reasonable UN discussion of the situation in Gorotoland, I shall be content.”
“I think you may be assured that there will be ample discussion of the situation in Gorotoland.” Tashikov gave his short, barking laugh. “Ample, Mr. Dobius! Ample!”
“I’m glad everything’s funny over there,” Lafe observed from across the room where he was starting dessert in the company of Cullee, the French Ambassador, Raoul Barre, and the British Ambassador, Lord Claude Maudulayne. “I wonder who’s doing what to whom?”
“I think,” Raoul Barre said, “that Vasily is congratulating Walter on saving the world and Walter is congratulating Vasily on the same thing.”
“With the assistance of France, as I understand it,” Lord Maudulayne suggested. The French Ambassador nodded matter-of-factly.
“Certainly. My government feels it has no choice but to join the U.S.S.R, in this resolution of condemnation. We cannot possibly support the good Harley and his industrious colleague, Orrin, in their little enterprise. The risks are too great.”
“And the possibility of assisting the United States too great,” Cullee suggested dryly.
“And the possibility of hurting her too attractive,” Lafe added.
Raoul Barre smiled and shrugged.
“You take it personally. You Americans always take it personally. It is quite impersonal, I assure you. My government simply does not agree with these tactics of pressure and invasion. Have we not a right to express ourselves?”
“No one challenges your right,” Cullee said slowly. “It’s just that in recent years it always seems to be expressed against us.”
“Someone must argue for sanity,” the French Ambassador said. “Someone must try to stand in the middle.” Lord Maudulayne chuckled.
“And who better equipped, eh? Certainly not we, God knows, who find ourselves with no choice now but to support the United States.”
“Would you not if you had the choice?” Lafe asked. “Just what would you do, Claude?”
“Absolutely what you are doing, I suspect,” Lord Maudulayne said. “But with a little more feeling that it was our own idea, possibly.”
“I don’t think the President could have waited,” Cullee said. “In a case like that I think the decisive act is worth any number of battles.”
“You will get,” Raoul predicted calmly, “any number of battles before this is finished, I think, my friend. May they all go as decisively as the opening act—though I think they may not.…I understand the United States intends to introduce an amendment to the French-Soviet resolution which would condemn Prince Obifumatta’s government. You do not expect it to pass, of course.”
“No,” Lafe said with a glance that flicked across Cullee’s for a second. “We do not expect it to pass.”
“It will be vetoed,” Raoul said. “We can rely upon Vasily for that.”
“But it will serve a purpose,” Lord Maudulayne suggested, “as things in the UN do serve a purpose in these days of dissolution—the same purpose. Propaganda—headlines—attention to a problem, even though nothing comes of it—possibly a little delay before things rush on toward wherever they are going, in this odd world of ours. At least it will remind some of our friends in Africa and Asia that there is another side to this.”
“There is no other side for most of them,” Raoul said flatly. “Why pretend that they are sophisticated enough to be appealed to? Their minds are closed. If they needed further closing, the President’s action has closed them. It is an exercise in nothing to try to appeal to them on this issue.”
“Except for the historical record,” Lord Maudulayne said thoughtfully. “It pays to make a record, even in these times when all records may be summarily destroyed by the blast of a bomb. Someday there may be a history to be read, of these times. If there is, it will be important to know how the United States came to take the action she has taken, and who it was who provoked her. And how my Government happened to associate itself with her, and the things we believed in.”
“That is assuming that it will be people like us who are there to read the record,” the French Ambassador said dryly. “I consider it rather unlikely.”
“It will be unlikely if we don’t stand together,” Lord Maudulayne agreed. “Where stands France?”
Momentarily the French Ambassador looked genuinely annoyed. Then he spread his hands and shrugged.
“France stands where reason dictates.” He smiled ironically. “It is not always comfortable, but it is intellectually satisfying.”
“If you survive it,” Lord Maudulayne said. “And, of course, in such excellent company”—he gestured in the direction of the Soviet Ambassador, grinning and rocking and making some obviously flattering comment to Walter Dobius—“there is no question that you will.”
Raoul Barre shrugged again.
“To survive in these times one method may be as good as another. The frustrating thing about it is that one may not know for a hundred years if one has chosen the right course. And by then it will be much too late.” He looked thoughtfully at Cullee Hamilton. “Much, much too late.”
“Don’t look at me,” Cullee said. “I haven’t any doubts about our course. If you doubt yours, that’s too bad. But I’m not worried. It had to come sometime.”
“If one accepts the premise that it ‘had’ to,” Raoul agreed, “then perhaps this is best. Not all of us are that positive. In fact, nine-tenths are not.”
“If France would stop fishing in troubled waters and stop trying to pick up adherents in Africa and Asia by playing the anti-American game,” Lafe said calmly, “she might be positive about something—if she had a more positive purpose than mere mischief-making. But I suppose that’s too much to ask of a power that has substituted spite for policy.”
“That I resent,” the French Ambassador said sharply. “That I do resent as an unwarranted attack upon my country.”
“Sometimes the game gets real,” Lafe said laconically. “I’m sorry if it hurts. Are you through, Cullee? I expect we ought to go down to the Delegates’ Lounge and politick a little before Security Council begins. Coming, Claude?”
“Right-ho,” Lord Maudulayne said.
“I shall go and speak to Walter,” Raoul Barre said stiffly.
“Good luck with him,” Cullee said, rising and turning away with scant courtesy. “He’s on your side.…”
“I’m sorry we let ourselves become annoyed, Claude,” Lafe said as they left the table and started for the Lounge, “but every once in a while I get fed up with that damned superior attitude which is nothing but a screen for troublemaking. It gets a little wearing, now and then.”
“Delusions of grandeur,” Lord Maudulayne suggested with a smile. “The grandeur goes, but the delusions remain.”
Yet this might have been a somewhat too-cavalier way in which to dismiss the French Ambassador, who was angrily convinced, as he moved toward Walter Dobius through the bowing, greeting nations, that it was impossible to reason with colleagues so bent upon self-destruction as the Americans and the British. He did not mind an occasional slap at his country, certainly he contributed enough of them himself in the opposite direction. But he did resent the accusation that France had no other purpose than troublemaking. He was quite convinced that his government was following the only correct policy in joining the Soviet Union in sponsorship of the resolution demanding U.S. withdrawal from Gorotoland.
Only if American forces were withdrawn could the situation be restored to some semblance of normalcy so that negotiations could be undertaken to create a permanent stability and remove the threat of major war. France’s position, he was convinced, was very practical. He could not always remain patient with the Americans, who were so impatient themselves. France wasn’t siding with the U.S.S.R. all the way. France had a plan, if her friends would just be patient enough to let her achieve it. France always knew what she was doing. He found it hard at times to be properly tolerant of those who could not perceive it.
But here, at any rate, was one who did. His columns on many occasions had reflected his approval of France’s busy anti-American activities—or, at least, if not approval, then a sympathetic understanding so perceptive of French motivations that Paris had justifiably taken it to be approval. Raoul Barre extended his hand cordially as the Soviet Ambassador half rose and gestured to a chair beside him.
“Walter,” Raoul said, “it is good to see you. May I—?”
“Please do,” Vasily Tashikov said. “I have been explaining to our friend the strategy that will be followed in the Security Council this afternoon.”
“Does he approve?”
Walter nodded.
“I do,” he said in his most judiciously contemplative voice. “While I could wish that certain details might be handled differently, still the basic purpose of removing the American forces so that stability may be restored to Gorotoland seems to me perfectly justified and indeed imperative if a full-scale war is to be avoided.”
“So it seems to us,” the French Ambassador said. “It is good to know that we may expect further commentaries by you which will help your countrymen to understand why the decision of the Administration must be reversed at once.”
“I shall certainly continue to write against it until it is reversed,” Walter said. “And speak against it, too.”
“Yes,” Raoul said. “I have been pleased to receive from Patsy Labaiya an invitation to attend your banquet Friday night.”
“I, too,” said Tashikov. “It should be an interesting occasion.”
“I hope to make it so,” Walter said with a tight little smile. “There is much to talk about.”
“Including, no doubt,” the French Ambassador said, “some discussion of possible presidential candidates and how the present crisis will affect the coming campaign.”
“It would appear to be a logical subject of comment,” Walter said, his smile a little less humorless. “I intend to go into it.”
“Why has Governor Jason not commented?” Raoul inquired. “I should think it would provide him with his opportunity.”
“I really do not know,” Walter confessed. “I’m puzzled, quite frankly. I haven’t talked to him yet, as I’ve been assuming that at any moment the news would come. But so far—”
“Possibly he is going to support the President,” the Soviet Ambassador suggested. “Stranger political things have happened, in your country.”
“I don’t see how he possibly can,” Walter said. “It would be counter to everything he believes.”
“I repeat,” Tashikov said, “stranger things.…But perhaps in your speech Friday night you will be able to persuade him.”
“I have no doubt whatsoever,” Walter said firmly, “that long before Friday night he will have made his position clear. Events are moving too fast for him not to.”
“Let us hope so,” Tashikov said. “His support would be helpful.”
“It also,” Raoul Barre suggested, “might be decisive in helping him become President. In which case a more sane and responsible policy might be followed by the White House hereafter.”
“If this ends in a week or two,” Walter said slowly, “it probably will not affect the campaign. If it drags, it will. If we are still involved six months from now, or even two months from now, the effect may be decisive.”
“Then I would think the Governor would have no choice,” Raoul said.
Walter smiled.
“If he hasn’t gone on record by Friday night, I hope to make it clear to him in my speech that he has no choice.”
“It is amazing, your influence in the United States,” Vasily Tashikov said in an admiring tone, his eyes briefly meeting the French Ambassador’s. “Absolutely amazing.”
“And so deserved,” Raoul Barre agreed smoothly. “It is of inestimable help in persuading the American people to support a sound and constructive policy.”
“It is a great help in the fight for peace and justice everywhere,” the Soviet Ambassador said solemnly.
“A major weapon in the cause of sane and rational international behavior,” Raoul affirmed. “Indispensable!”
“Except,” Walter said with a wry expression, “that sometimes in the White House, where it is most needed, it is totally ignored.”
“But you have the last word, Walter,” Raoul said soothingly. “You journalists always have the last word.”
Walter Dobius looked solemn.
“I have devoted my working life to being worthy of the responsibility.”
“And have succeeded brilliantly,” Tashikov assured him.
“Thank you,” Walter said gravely. “I do my best.…By the way,” he said abruptly as the waitress brought the bill and they prepared to leave, “what do either of you hear about Felix Labaiya?”
It seemed to him that for a split second the Soviet Ambassador looked knowledgeable about something, but as quickly the expression vanished; and he could sense that Raoul Barre knew nothing. He said as much, in a puzzled tone.
“I do not know, except that he departed abruptly last night for Panama. I was not aware of any crisis down there. It seems odd, on the eve of the Security Council meeting, though I suppose his deputy will represent him.”
“Nor do I know of any crisis down there,” Walter said, “which is exactly why I wonder if perhaps there isn’t one. What do you hear, Mr. Ambassador?”
But Vasily Tashikov was ready for him. He shrugged.
“The comings and goings of the Ambassador of Panama,” he said with a bland smile, “are almost as unexpected and unexplainable as those of his wife, the surprising Patsy. I do not know. I am puzzled, too.”
They were still discussing the mystifying nature of Felix’s sudden flight home when they caught up with the Indian Ambassador, and with him walked slowly along to the Delegates’ Lounge, a-buzz as always with the greetings, gossip, and rumors that comprise 75 percent of the UN’s business on any given day.
The subject of Felix was of interest in Washington, too, where, among all the other business of the onrushing crisis—the notification of the arrival of the first American ships off Tanzania, the landing of the first squadron of fighter-bombers in Leopoldville, the crash of a Marine transport on takeoff from Libya, with fifteen killed—(U.S. GOROTOLAND TRAGEDY, the afternoon newspapers cried with triumphant headlines and news stories that dwelt with loving attention on America’s shortcomings. OWN PLANES CROWDED US, SURVIVOR SAYS)—the President still had time to check with the Secretary of State on what was going on in Panama. He received from him a puzzled but intuitive guess. Helen-Anne Carrew, equally intuitive, was at that same moment going right to the source.
“Patsy, love,” she was saying as she leaned confidentially over Patsy’s shoulder in the closing moments of the special luncheon the Women’s National Press Club was giving for the First Lady at the Mayflower, “what’s this I hear about your hubby dashing home? My sources tell me Panama may explode at any minute. Is it true?”
“Helen-Anne,” Patsy began in an annoyed tone and then hastily modified it—“darling—I don’t know WHERE you pick up all these silly rumors you peddle all the time. Really, I don’t. I told Walter last night and I’ll tell you today that Felix has gone to ‘Suerte,’ the family estate down there. I believe there’s some problem with the workmen. His mother and grandmother are too old to tend to it, so he’s gone home for a day or two. He’ll be right back, for heaven’s sake. What is everybody so worried about?”
“I didn’t know anybody was, except Walter and me,” Helen-Anne said, giving a dutifully cordial nod to the First Lady, four seats beyond Patsy at the head table. She emitted her sardonic snort. “If we are, I can assure you the whole world soon will be. But if you say he’ll be back, I suppose he’ll be back.”
“He WILL be back. Before you can even print it. So why bother?”
“I don’t know,” Helen-Anne said with a speculative look in her eyes. “I still heard something funny last night at the Indonesian Embassy.”
“Indonesia?” Patsy said with a sniff. “What do they know about anything?”
“They’re experts on Australia,” Helen-Anne said with a wry chuckle. “You ought to hear them rave. Well, O.K., sweetie, if that’s all you’ll tell Auntie Helen, I guess it’s all you’ll tell her. Don’t let Felix make a liar of you, now! I’d hate to have to drag the whole stinking mess into the open.”
“Oh, Helen-Anne!” Patsy said as she turned back to the Ambassadress of Guinea on her left. “You do run on so.”
“Maybe,” Helen-Anne agreed. “But it usually adds up to something, sooner or later.”
But what it would add up to this time, the small, neat, dark-haired, dark-visaged figure standing on the terrace at “Suerte” and gazing far down the valley between the mountains was not quite sure at the moment. Don Felix Labaiya-Sofra, oligarch of Panama, son of a President, his country’s Ambassador to Washington and the United Nations, generator of many plans, focus of many discontents, had been home twelve hours, and out of them no clear picture as yet emerged.
To his mother and to ancient Doña Anna his grandmother, huddled away in their far corners of the rambling old estancia, he had said merely that he had felt it was time to check on the work of the estate now that spring was almost here. Doña Anna had received this with the inattention of age, his mother with a certain silent skepticism that annoyed him but which he did not feel he need expend the energy to combat. They had retired together to their rooms and, as far as he knew, had not been aware of the steady stream of visitors who had come furtively through the night from Panama City to the brooding acres at the foot of Chiriqui. Or if they had been aware they had not emerged to say so, and so he had felt free to proceed without reference to the nagging feeling at the back of his mind that of course they would not approve, could they know what he was undertaking.
That he should be undertaking it, finally, after so many years of preparation, of planning, of dissembling, and making do with half-best at the hands of the hated creators of his country, was, he believed, a tribute to his own ingenuity and skill in profiting from Yanqui mistakes. He had watched, with a semblance of tolerance but an inward contempt, while the blundering homeland of his wife and brother-in-law had staggered from one defeat to another down the slippery slopes of the later twentieth century. Six months ago the tempo had appeared to accelerate, when he had successfully steered through the United Nations and brought close to final victory the motion to censure the United States in the wake of Terence Ajkaje’s visit to South Carolina and all its consequences in focusing world disapproval upon America’s racial practices. Briefly the Americans had seemed to recover, there had been a lull. Then had come the rebellion in Gorotoland, the American intervention on the old-fashioned, no-longer-valid theory that missionaries should be protected, that a country’s nationals should be safe on good behavior, that commercial rights granted by a legal government should be protected—and the Achilles’ heel of America’s persistent naïveté concerning the cold-blooded realities of a coldblooded age was once again revealed.
It had seemed the opportune time to advance certain plans that first began at “Suerte” fifty years and more ago, in the time of his grandfather, Don Jorge.
He had sent word that he was coming home, and obediently, some from the professions, some from the university, some from the slums but quite a few, also, from the opulent homes where they suavely entertained the rulers of the Canal Zone, his friends had slipped away and come to him in the night.
Whether this was indeed the time, he did not know for sure, even though many of them told him so. He was close enough to America, both by marriage and from all the years he had spent there, so that he was not one to underestimate the United States, for all its fumblings and its often wide-eyed incompetence in world affairs. Its action in Gorotoland might furnish the ideal opportunity, but it also demonstrated that the Colossus was quite capable of moving, and moving fast, when it thought it had to. Therefore Felix hesitated, though in his final conversation before leaving the UN yesterday he had been assured that all was in readiness; had been reminded of the distance between Panama and Gorotoland; and had been urged to take the step that would, in his colleague’s opinion, irrevocably commit the United States to a course it could not possibly pursue without disaster.
Felix was not so sure, nor was he so sure that he should move before his brother-in-law made his position known. Governor Jason was one of the few men Felix feared, both because of the economic pressures his companies could exert upon Panama, and because of something more personal, a brain as shrewd and cold as his, a personality as self-assured and forceful, the suspicion that in both these respects there might be more than equality. Felix was never sure how completely Ted Jason saw through him, nor was he certain what Ted Jason could do to thwart him if he really set his mind to it. And while he thought the Governor would oppose the move in Gorotoland and so, consistently, oppose any other move that might follow, he could not be sure. Ted wanted the White House in the worst way, and when men want that, consistency does not always apply. Ted had never granted Felix much consideration in his own right, and now that he and Patsy were in the midst of an uneasy separation teetering on the edge of divorce, Ted no longer need give him even minimal consideration as a brother-in-law.
Felix, too, belonged to the many who wished on this hectic morning that the Governor of California would declare himself. He might know then more certainly what he would do.
For the moment he expected to continue as he was, talking to friends, conferring with supporters, quietly making arrangements that he might, before long, decide to implement. There was no immediate hurry. Whatever happened would not happen for several days, and the necessity for concealing his activities imposed a certain slowness on him in any event. It was best that the owners of the Canal not be aware of the traffic to “Suerte.” He was sure they did not even know he was home, and he intended to keep it so. His friends drifted in and out of Panama City casually, sometimes singly, sometimes in groups of two or three. There could be no open indication of where they were going, no alerting the hostile ones that Felix was home. He was certain he had concealed it from his friends in the North, and he was certain his presence was unknown to his enemies in the Canal Zone, who in any event were nervously involved in listening to radio and television, wondering what they would be called upon to do as a result of the President’s action in Gorotoland and the consequences that might flow from it in the Security Council meeting this afternoon. They were too busy right now, he thought with a grim little smile, to worry about him.
So brooded Felix Labaiya, oligarch of Panama of the new style, generator of plans, focus of discontents, on the terrace at “Suerte,” while along the valleys between the mountains his friends continued their furtive pilgrimages and in cities of power far away men who had the responsibility of being aware of such things noted that he was home, read secret reports on his visitors, and wondered, as they liked or feared him, how soon they would be called upon to come to his support, or root him out.
***