“Ford is a weak president who won’t be reelected,” Omar Torrijos predicted in 1975. He was speaking to a group of influential Panamanians. I was one of the few foreigners who had been invited to the elegant old club with its whirring ceiling fans. “That’s the reason I decided to accelerate this Canal issue. It’s a good time to launch an all-out political battle to win it back.”
The speech inspired me. I returned to my hotel room and scratched out a letter that I eventually mailed to the Boston Globe. Back in Boston, an editor responded by calling me at my office to request that I write an Op-Ed piece. “Colonialism in Panama Has No Place in 1975” took up nearly half the page opposite the editorials in the September 19, 1975, edition.
The article cited three specific reasons for transferring the Canal to Panama. First, “the present situation is unjust — a good reason for any decision.” Second, “the existing treaty creates far graver security risks than would result from turning more control over to the Panamanians.” I referenced a study conducted by the Interoceanic Canal Commission, which concluded that “traffic could be halted for two years by a bomb planted — conceivably by one man — in the side of Gatun Dam,” a point General Torrijos himself had publicly emphasized. And third, “the present situation is creating serious problems for already-troubled United States — Latin American relations.” I ended with the following:
The best way of assuring the continued and efficient operation of the Canal is to help Panamanians gain control over and responsibility for it. In so doing, we could take pride in initiating an action that would reaffirm commitments to the cause of self-determination to which we pledged ourselves 200 years ago…
Colonialism was in vogue at the turn of the century (early 1900s) as it had been in 1775. Perhaps ratification of such a treaty can be understood in the context of those times. Today it is without justification. Colonialism has no place in 1975. We, celebrating our bicentennial, should realize this, and act accordingly.3
Writing that piece was a bold move on my part, especially since I had recently been made a partner at MAIN. Partners were expected to avoid the press and certainly to refrain from publishing political diatribes on the editorial pages of New England’s most prestigious newspaper. I received through interoffice mail a pile of nasty, mostly anonymous notes stapled to copies of the article. I was certain that I recognized the handwriting on one as that of Charlie Illingworth. My first project manager had been at MAIN for over ten years (compared to less than five for me) and was not yet a partner. A fierce skull and crossbones figured prominently on the note, and its message was simple: “Is this Commie really a partner in our firm?”
Bruno summoned me to his office and said, “You’ll get loads of grief over this. MAIN’s a pretty conservative place. But I want you to know I think you’re smart. Torrijos will love it; I do hope you’re sending him a copy. Good. Well, these jokers here in this office, the ones who think Torrijos is a Socialist, really won’t give a damn as long as the work flows in.”
Bruno had been right — as usual. Now it was 1977, Carter was in the White House, and serious Canal negotiations were under way. Many of MAIN’s competitors had taken the wrong side and had been turned out of Panama, but our work had multiplied. And I was sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Panama, having just finished reading an article by Graham Greene in the New York Review of Books.
The article, “The Country with Five Frontiers,” was a gutsy piece that included a discussion of corruption among senior officers in Panama’s National Guard. The author pointed out that the general himself admitted to giving many of his staff special privileges, such as superior housing, because “If I don’t pay them, the CIA will.” The clear implication was that the U.S. intelligence community was determined to undermine the wishes of President Carter and, if necessary, would bribe Panama’s military chiefs into sabotaging the treaty negotiations.4 I could not help but wonder if the jackals had begun to circle Torrijos.
I had seen a photograph in the “People” section of TIME or Newsweek of Torrijos and Greene sitting together; the caption indicated that the writer was a special guest who had become a good friend. I wondered how the general felt about this novelist, whom he apparently trusted, writing such a critique.
Graham Greene’s article raised another question, one that related to that day in 1972 when I had sat across a coffee table from Torrijos. At the time, I had assumed that Torrijos knew the foreign aid game was there to make him rich while shackling his country with debt. I had been sure he knew that the process was based on the assumption that men in power are corruptible, and that his decision not to seek personal benefit — but rather to use foreign aid to truly help his people — would be seen as a threat that might eventually topple the entire system. The world was watching this man; his actions had ramifications that reached far beyond Panama and would therefore not be taken lightly.
I had wondered how the corporatocracy would react if loans made to Panama helped the poor without contributing to impossible debts. Now I wondered whether Torrijos regretted the deal he and I had struck that day — and I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about those deals myself. I had stepped back from my EHM role. I had played his game instead of mine, accepting his insistence on honesty in exchange for more contracts. In purely economic terms, it had been a wise business decision for MAIN. Nonetheless, it had been inconsistent with what Claudine had instilled in me; it was not advancing the global empire. Had it now unleashed the jackals?
I recalled thinking, when I left Torrijos’s bungalow that day, that Latin American history is littered with dead heroes. A system based on corrupting public figures does not take kindly to public figures who refuse to be corrupted.
Then I thought my eyes were playing tricks. A familiar figure was walking slowly across the lobby. At first, I was so confused that I believed it was Humphrey Bogart, but Bogart was long deceased. Then I recognized the man ambling past me as one of the great figures in modern English literature, author of The Pride and the Glory, The Comedians, Our Man in Havana, and of the article I had just set down on the table next to me. Graham Greene hesitated a moment, peered around, and headed for the coffee shop.
I was tempted to call out or to run after him, but I stopped myself. An inner voice said he needed his privacy; another warned that he would shun me. I picked up the New York Review of Books and was surprised a moment later to discover that I was standing in the doorway to the coffee shop.
I had breakfasted earlier that morning, and the maitre d’ gave me an odd look. I glanced around. Graham Greene sat alone at a table near the wall. I pointed to the table beside him.
“Over there,” I told the maitre d’. “Can I sit there for another breakfast?”
I was always a good tipper; the maitre d’ smiled knowingly and led me to the table.
The novelist was absorbed in his newspaper. I ordered coffee and a croissant with honey. I wanted to discover Greene’s thoughts about Panama, Torrijos, and the Canal affair, but had no idea how to initiate such a conversation. Then he looked up to take a sip from his glass.
“Excuse me,” I said.
He glared at me — or so it seemed. “Yes?”
“I hate to intrude. But you are Graham Greene, aren’t you?”
“Why, yes indeed.” He smiled warmly. “Most people in Panama don’t recognize me.”
I gushed that he was my favorite novelist, and then gave him a brief life history, including my work at MAIN and my meetings with Torrijos. He asked if I was the consultant who had written an article about the United States getting out of Panama. “In the Boston Globe, if I recall correctly.”