Wilson’s jaw hardened. “Are you accusing us—?”
Da Silva looked bland. “My dear Wilson, I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m merely stating a fact. And if your conscience bothers you because of your past history in similar cases — a list I’m sure you’re even more familiar with than I am — then I’m sorry.”
Wilson stared at him a moment and then crushed out his cigarette. He reached for the bottle. “If it will help,” he said quietly, “let me assure you on my word as your friend that nothing like this is being planned, not even faintly.”
“As far as you know.”
“As far as I know. And I would know.”
Da Silva grinned. “Wilson, I love you. And, within certain limits, I trust you. But, if I were in your shoes, and I were under instructions from Washington, I’d also be circumspect.” He held up a hand to prevent interruption. “Also, if I were the head of C.I.A. sitting up in Washington and planning something, I doubt if I would put out a mimeographed release of all my plans. Not even to every member of the C.I.A.”
“In other words,” Wilson said slowly, “you wouldn’t believe me no matter what I said.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Da Silva said, “but I admit, in this case, that I’d come pretty close.” He put out his cigarette and smiled. “In any event, it’s my job to cover all the angles. Even as you would do if this meeting were taking place in Washington. After all, it’s our basic responsibility not to have anything happen. If this meeting were taking place in Washington, you’d probably be walking around with guns in every pocket, and a cutlass between your teeth.”
Wilson tried to simmer down. He took a deep breath and forced himself to take a light tone to equal Da Silva’s. “Not me,” he protested. “My dentist wouldn’t permit it. Besides, I’m the peaceful type.”
“Now, that’s where I’m different,” Da Silva said, and sighed. “I’m the curious type. For example, I’m curious to know why people don’t stay home.” He raised one large hand quickly. “Not tourists, of course — which we desperately need — but diplomats, at least. It seems to me that it would be a lot more diplomatic remaining in one’s own capital than endangering foreign relations by being stoned, or spat upon, or being shot at. And, of course, it would leave a lot of policemen time for a few other chores, like handling the already overloaded docket.”
Wilson tried to go along with the concept. “You mean no more international meetings? A return to the sixteenth century?”
Da Silva shook his head. “On the contrary. I mean moving into the enlightened twentieth century. After all, scientists sweated blood to develop satellites and closed television — why not use these technical advances logically? Why not use closed television for these meetings? That way everyone could stay at home in front of his own fireplace. It seems to me to be a lot more practical use of the invention than simply showing the Easter Parade on Fifth Avenue to natives of Zanzibar, or running off old cowboy movies for the confusion of eighteen races.” He thought a moment. “Including yours, of course...”
“It’s really not a bad idea,” Wilson conceded, “although I can think of a few objections.”
Da Silva frowned at him indignantly. “Name one!”
“Well,” Wilson said slowly, fingering his glass, “suppose one of the delegates didn’t like what another one was saying. He might just reach across and switch off the set.”
Da Silva stared at him. “And you consider this a disadvantage?”
Wilson grinned, his past irritation forgotten. “Well, maybe not. A far greater disadvantage, of course, is that under that system, how would we get rid of counterpart funds? And can you imagine the uproar in Congress if none of the public’s money was used for junkets abroad? Why, you might even balance the budget! And you’d definitely put the airlines out of business in a week. Not to mention two thousand clerks in the General Accounting Office.”
“That’s true,” Da Silva conceded, and grinned. “It wouldn’t bother me greatly to put the airlines out of business, but I’d hate to think of the blow to the United States economy if two thousand clerks were let loose on the streets of Washington all at one time.”
“Two thousand more, you mean,” Wilson said.
“Plus eighty C.I.A. agents,” Da Silva added innocently.
Wilson’s smile faded abruptly. “You’re still on that kick, are you? Will you please accept the fact that the C.I.A.—”
“—is a fine organization full of dedicated men with excellent ideals and good profiles,” Da Silva ended. He smiled. “Unfortunately, not particularly interested in Brazilian problems, which is what I have to worry about.” His smile faded. “In any event, we’ve rounded up as many of our own bad boys as we could find — or recognize — and we’ve got the docks and the airports covered pretty thoroughly. We’ve picked up a couple of men who might have caused some trouble, but I’m sure we haven’t gotten them all.”
Wilson looked at him sardonically. “And none of them Americans?”
“No,” Da Silva admitted, “but that doesn’t impress me too much. Now that you’ve exported chewing gum and sunglasses and Hollywood shirts around the world it’s pretty hard to tell an American from a native. And also, of course,” he added with a faint smile, “people — who I won’t name — have been known to hire local talent to do their chores for them.”
Wilson shook his head hopelessly. “Once you get an idea in your head, Zé, it’s hard to reason with you. As far as Juan Dorcas is concerned, there have been other attempts to get him before this. Now, I suppose, you’ll claim they were all the work of the C.I.A.”
“No.” Da Silva looked at him steadily. “Not all of them. Maybe none of them. Feelings run pretty high in some of these countries down here; diplomats sometimes speak for their governments and sometimes don’t — but they seldom speak for the people. And often when they do it’s for the wrong reasons. And people being what they are, it’s not uncommon to try and solve problems the quickest way. But no matter who may want to solve the problem of Juan Dorcas, our job is to see to it they don’t. At least not here in Brazil.” He sighed. “I’ll be a lot happier when these O.A.S. meetings are over.”
“I can well imagine,” Wilson said with pretended sympathy. “You won’t have to dream up your wild cloak-and-dagger ideas out of your head — you can go back to getting them from the TV.” He snorted. “Dorcas! He must be some sort of a nut!”
Da Silva contemplated him curiously. “What makes you say that? Have you ever seen the man? Or talked to him?”
“No,” Wilson admitted. “I don’t think I’ve even seen a good, recognizable photograph of him. I understand he doesn’t like newspapermen, or photographers.”
“And in your opinion that makes him some sort of a nut?”
Wilson refused to be drawn in by the gentle sarcasm. “That’s not the reason. The man’s supposed to be fantastically wealthy, with large investments in almost every South American country—”
Da Silva nodded evenly. “That’s true.”
“—and yet,” Wilson continued, “he opposes every move our Government makes to try and hold off revolutions in these countries. Even though he’d be the first to lose everything if any Government came in that followed even the most minor form of expropriation. In my opinion, that makes him some sort of a nut.”
Da Silva shook his head slowly. “You know, Wilson,” he said at last, “this may be hard for you to accept, but not everyone agrees with the means your Government takes to combat revolution. In fact, some people think your means actually fosters it.” He shrugged. “Dorcas happens to be one of them.”