in Caracas in a homosexual dispute: he was found stabbed to death in a cheap hotel, wearing panties and a bra, with lipstick on his mouth. The forensic examination determined that he had sperm in his rectum. How did Colonel Abbes manage to establish contact so rapidly, in cities he barely knew, with denizens of the underworld, the gangsters, killers, traffickers, thugs, prostitutes, pimps, and pickpockets, who were always involved in the scandals, the delight of the sensationalist press, in which the regime’s enemies found themselves embroiled? How did he set up so efficient a network of informants and thugs throughout most of Latin America and the United States and spend so little money? Trujillo’s time was too valuable to be wasted checking into details. But from a distance he admired, like a connoisseur with a precious jewel, the subtlety and originality with which Johnny Abbes García rid the regime of its enemies. Exile groups and hostile governments could never establish any link between these horrendous acts and the Generalissimo. One of his most perfect achievements had to do with Ramón Marrero Aristy, the author of Over, a novel, known all over Latin America, about sugarcane cutters in La Romana. The former editor of La Nación, a frantically Trujillista newspaper, Marrero had been Minister of Labor in 1956, and again in 1959, when he began to send reports to Tad Szulc, a journalist, so that he could defame the regime in his articles for The New York Times. When he was found out, Marrero sent retractions to the gringo paper. And came with his tail between his legs to Trujillo’s office to crawl, cry, beg forgiveness, and swear he had never betrayed him and never would betray him. The Benefactor listened without saying a word and then, coldly, he slapped him. Marrero, who was sweating, reached for his handkerchief, and Colonel Guarionex Estrella Sadhalá, head of the military adjutants, shot him dead right there in the office. Abbes García was charged with finishing the operation, and less than an hour later a car skidded—in front of witnesses—over a precipice in the Cordillera Central on the road to Constanza; in the crash Marrero Aristy and his driver were burned beyond recognition. Wasn’t it obvious that Colonel Johnny Abbes García ought to replace Razor as the head of the Intelligence Service? If he had been running the agency when Galíndez was kidnapped in New York, an operation directed by Espaillat, the scandal that did so much harm to the regime’s international image probably would never have come to light.
Trujillo pointed at the report on his desk with a contemptuous air:
“Another conspiracy to kill me led by Juan Tomás Díaz? And organized by Consul Henry Dearborn, the asshole from the CIA?”
Colonel Abbes García abandoned his immobility long enough to shift his buttocks in the chair.
“That’s what it looks like, Excellency.” He nodded, not attributing too much importance to the matter.
“It’s funny,” Trujillo interrupted him. “They broke off relations with us, obeying the OAS resolution. And called home their diplomats but left us Henry Dearborn and his agents so they could keep on cooking up plots. Are you sure Juan Tomás is part of it?”
“No, Excellency, just some vague hints. But ever since you dismissed him, General Díaz has been seething with resentment and that’s why I keep a close eye on him. There are these meetings at his house in Gazcue. You should always expect the worst from a resentful man.”
“It wasn’t the dismissal,” Trujillo said aloud as if talking to himself. “It was because I called him a coward. To remind him he had dishonored the uniform.”
“I was at that luncheon, Excellency. I thought General Díaz would get up and leave. But he stayed, turned pale, broke into a sweat. When he left he was staggering, like a drunk.”
“Juan Tomás was always very proud, and he needed a lesson,” said Trujillo. “He conducted himself like a weakling in Constanza. I don’t allow weak generals in the Dominican Armed Forces.”
The incident had occurred a few months after the defeat of the landings at Constanza,