“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 Chávez’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 Tomás, 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, Chávez.
“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
Mimi 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.