Authors: Edgard Telles Ribeiro
The months went by. And with them, the tensions between the two colleagues continued to escalate. Despite the close ties that joined Max and Carlos Câmara professionally, the heavy cloud of secrecy under which they were operating would take its toll. By mid-1973, there were unmistakable signs of the crisis looming between them. Max’s relocation to Santiago would come about as a result of the clash.
We could sense the impending military coups that were to break out first in Uruguay, and then, a few months later, in Chile, following what had happened in Brazil and Argentina. The separate and self-contained conflicts taking place in each of these countries would ultimately affect the so-called forward observation post from which our accomplices were operating.
The uneasiness between the two men went way back, and to some extent predated the relationship. Over time, they’d irreversibly progressed from the simple level of misunderstandings to the heightened plateau of confrontation. As early as Câmara’s triumphant arrival in Montevideo aboard the air force jet, Max had detected a bravado that bordered on poor taste. Not even the seemingly pleasant lunch that had followed at the French restaurant had quelled his reservations.
Câmara had no grand illusions about his subordinate either. He couldn’t fathom what the ambassador, a sensible and discerning man, imagined he’d found in Max. And he regretted having to deal with someone so aloof and independent, when
their mission required sensitivity and tact. They basically saw the same flaws in each other, which proved the ambassador’s wisdom in recognizing the same qualities in both. So much so that, in selecting the duo, he’d been dealing with two sides of the same coin.
When push comes to shove, they won’t let me down
, he’d rightly thought. And he told himself,
It doesn’t matter that they’ll come to hate each other. The more they dislike one another, the more diligent they’ll be
.
Just as the coups were about to be staged, matters came to a head. Carlos Câmara accused his younger colleague of postponing action with the Chileans for explicit personal and political gains. Their work, he’d emphasized, was intended to be collaborative.
What little information I have about the subsequent quarrel is sketchy. Apparently Max responded by citing Sun Tzu (“A sovereign should not assemble his troops in a state of anger”). Carlos Câmara, who also knew the Chinese master’s work by heart, retaliated with another excerpt of the
same
maxim and then, for good measure, fired at Max two lines from Max Weber and one from Adorno, in a flurry of citations that had infuriated his adversary by catching him off guard.
At Carlos Câmara’s initiative, there would be a temporary truce between the two diplomats for a few weeks — the kind that foretells storms on the horizon. Sensing his colleague’s frustration at the chasm growing between them, and perhaps foreseeing the underhanded moves his partner might one day use on him, he had taken advantage of his seniority to bend the rule about public meetings both had abided by.
Under the pretext of repaying Max’s invitation, which had taken place quite some time ago, he asked him to lunch. As they began their entrées, Câmara raised a topic he’d alluded to once before, speaking openly — even casually — of a project
of particular interest to the Brazilian military
. Lowering his voice, making it virtually inaudible, he confided that it was based on an idea that
he himself had originated a few years earlier, “during my days in Germany with our boss.” The long-awaited nuclear topic had finally been broached.
At the first opportunity, Max had shared his thoughts on the matter with Ray Thurston. The two had spoken a few times about nuclear energy, but always vaguely. It was time to take the conversation to the next level. “I need ammunition,” Max told Ray at one point. “A few poker chips so that I can at least get into the game.”
In order to make the most of the revelations that conversation might afford, MI6 decided to yield to their agent’s suggestion and provide Max with classified information gathered in Bonn and other cities (Washington, of course, but also Paris and Moscow) regarding Brazil’s progress in the nuclear arena.
On learning that he would finally have access to this information, Max felt like a warrior entrusted with the flagship of the imperial fleet. When he next met with Carlos Câmara, he would be fully prepared. He also felt something more important, which transcended the fact itself: a shudder of pride at having been accepted as part of MI6’s inner circle. It hardly mattered that Her Majesty knew nothing about him —
Raymond Thurston knew
. And had someone told him that he had lost his way, irresponsibly getting involved in maneuvers that might result in a conflict of interest with his own country — unthinkable, given his diplomatic position — he would have replied that the people trying to interest Brazil in nuclear weapons, paving the way for an all-out arms race in the region, were the reckless ones. God is known to work in mysterious ways. If Max here exemplified the saying to its fullest, it wasn’t so much to align with those who opposed arming Latin America with nuclear weapons but to deal his rival what he hoped would be a fatal blow.
The fateful conversation with his superior took place a few days before Max carried out another of his missions in Santiago, availing himself, as usual, of the air force jet (whose pilots could
cross the Andes with their eyes closed by now). He casually brought up the nuclear discussion with Carlos Câmara again. Only this time,
he
was the one holding the cards. The unprecedented move left his partner visibly bewildered. Recognizing the desired effect he’d had, Max couldn’t resist the temptation to go beyond what Raymond Thurston had advised: he’d crossed the line between what he could imply and what was better left unsaid, referring to details he couldn’t possibly have known at that stage of the negotiations between Brazil and Germany.
Could Max be in cahoots with the ambassador on this?
Câmara had wondered in astonishment. His colleague had suddenly taken on an ominous dimension. He’d gone from being a subordinate to a rival.
Max, in turn, had seen in his superior’s eyes — and read in his body language — all that had emanated from the former ambassador years earlier, when, days before his departure for Brazil, he’d been confronted with the matter of the stolen Brazilian passports. Max had noted the alarm, smelled the fear. And been fortified by both.
Carlos Câmara was convinced then and there of Max’s direct ties to the CIA as well as their boss in Brasilia. And in both cases, Câmara realized he was excluded from the operation’s front line. He couldn’t grasp quite how this had happened. It was, as would later be confirmed, a classic case of pure paranoia. A common feeling in this sinister environment, resulting from the confined and oppressive atmosphere in which everyone lived and worked — a climate that sometimes emotionally destabilized players who put their faith in distrust and intimidation.
The wake-up call had served a purpose, however: feeling threatened, Câmara decided to act. The seeds that would lead to Max’s transfer date from this period.
It just so happened that Carlos Câmara knew Eric Friedkin, the CIA agent in Montevideo, from his time at the War College in Rio de Janeiro. Câmara sought out Friedkin under some
pretext or other. He spoke to his friend of his concerns about the unchecked and (from his perspective) dangerous way his subordinate was operating in Santiago.
“I never liked that guy,” Friedkin said wryly, before dropping his bomb: “In contrast to the Brits, we never trusted him completely, except for training exercises.”
Câmara almost fell off his chair. He swallowed and inquired meekly, “The British?”
And Friedkin, who resented the other man’s silence when he would sound him out on certain topics of particular interest to Washington, reveled in the cruelty. “You didn’t know? Max works for them. Even has a code name. It’s not exactly a big secret.”
Câmara asked for a glass of water, then stood, pulling out a handkerchief and pacing the room in search of air. Once he had digested the information, though, the two decided to join forces and burn Max. And to do it soon — before he returned from his brief stint in Santiago.
Friedkin ended the conversation with the following pragmatic assessment. “Like you, we know that he didn’t do too badly in Chile. But things have advanced there and we won’t be needing him anymore.” After a slight pause, he’d added, “The best way for us to get rid of the guy is to figure out how to transfer him to Santiago. Which is
up to you
.”
Still in a state of shock over Max’s British connection, Carlos Câmara took a minute to process what the CIA agent was proposing. “Santiago? Why Santiago?” he’d stammered in confusion.
“Where better to bury him?” Eric Friedkin replied, going on to explain, “With things already taken care of in Chile, he won’t have anything to do there.”
Taking advantage of Max’s absence (and an extra flight on the air force jet bound for Brazil), Carlos Câmara shot over to Brasilia, where he confronted his boss at the presidential palace. In a steady tone — but with a resolve that wasn’t lost on the other man — he laid out on the table the nuclear dossier they’d compiled together in Bonn, from the first social contacts made to the draft agreement hidden in a secret place. Then he mentioned what Max seemed to know about the subject, keeping his eyes fixed on the former ambassador’s face throughout. In conclusion, forgoing any attempt at a smooth transition, he asked for his subordinate’s head.
“But why, if he’s doing so well?” the ambassador countered as he lit his pipe. Being the cunning old fox he was, he hadn’t shown surprise. On the contrary, he’d actually been secretly pleased by the news — knowing it would come sooner or later. And he felt a pang of sorrow for his young colleague, whose insatiable appetite and ambition he’d detected during his days back in Montevideo.
“Because he spoke of you with disrespect,” Câmara replied. “And because he’s working for the Brits.”
Dismissing the first remark — which he deemed comparable to pillow talk, never worthy of his attention — the ambassador smiled knowingly as he pondered the second, making a passing observation: “For the Brits. Who would have thought …” Two puffs later, gaze fixed on the ceiling, he said under his breath,
almost to himself, “Marcílio always had very good taste. It was inevitable that eventually he’d seek someplace better than the dump where we stuck him.”
Câmara remained unflustered. For the first time in the twenty years they’d been working together, he’d scowled at his boss. And while he didn’t say anything overtly offensive, his attitude had conveyed the classic
It’s him or me
.
He came out on top — as expected. Largely because the ambassador had other things on his mind and wasn’t one to sweat the small stuff. “But let’s promote him to counselor before we transfer him to Santiago,” he urged. And before Câmara could protest, he said, “In fact, I’ll take care of it with the president today.” Patting his friend’s hand, he thoughtfully added, “So he’ll still think fondly of us. Take it from me, son, with a fellow like him, that’s wiser.”
Câmara gave in. He’d won the battle — in terms of what mattered — and headed straight from his meeting with the former ambassador to Brasilia’s air base, where the trusty air force jet was awaiting him. And he managed to land in Montevideo before Max arrived from Chile.
The next afternoon, the two met, as they always did when Max returned from a trip. Câmara listened to a detailed debrief of the political and military scene in the Andean country. Max could hardly contain his excitement. He hadn’t ruled out the possibility that the Chilean coup might even precede the one in Uruguay.
After sharing their impressions, both men concluded that the sequence didn’t really matter. What was important were the different aspects the processes would take on: radical in Chile, moderate in Uruguay — given that the latter would maintain the outward appearance of a democracy while the generals ruled from behind the scenes. This pleased Brazilian military heads, since it left our country better protected against eventual accusations of interfering. Moreover, as we shared a border with
Uruguay, the government wasn’t particularly interested in having next door the kind of ruthless Prussian-style military regime taking shape in Chile.
A week after this conversation, Carlos Câmara crossed paths with Max on the embassy’s ground floor and, in the tone of one delivering good news, slyly announced, “A telegram just arrived with word of your transfer.”
Still standing near the entrance, Max struggled to close the wet umbrella he was carrying and asked in a voice he managed to keep firm, “Transfer? Where to?”
Merciless, Carlos Câmara couldn’t resist teasing: “Pretending you have no idea, are you? Before you know it, we’ll be hearing you’ve been promoted to counselor.”
News of his promotion arrived by cable two days later.
The SOBs never let up
, thought Max, infuriated. He was able to control himself, though — once again paraphrasing Sun Tzu for his own purposes: “A leader never fights when he’s angry.”
Payback took more than a decade. When the Brazilian press, no longer under censorship, disseminated over the course of a month a series of articles on his performance in Uruguay, Carlos Câmara was forced into a humiliating and abrupt retirement, to the joy of the enemies he’d accumulated throughout his career. He objected as much as he could, but the military, concerned with amnesty in their own quarters on the eve of the coming civil government, didn’t lift a finger on his behalf. Nor did they heed his demand that the source that had leaked the stories be identified.
When the National Congress, echoing the people’s indignation, had demanded Carlos Câmara’s head, “as Itamaraty’s number one Fascist,” Max happened to be on vacation in the Aegean Sea, cruising the Greek isles — at the invitation of a coffee importer.
There are things that only madmen and children are able to fully apprehend. Young Pedro Henrique Magalhães de Castro Andrade Xavier had foreseen in his own way what lay ahead in this strange new land to which they’d been banished: before coming down with a high fever, he’d burst out crying in the Santiago airport as soon as he and his parents had landed from Rio de Janeiro.