The Assignment (10 page)

“I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

“I don’t really know myself either, yet. But the one who
carried out the assassination not only failed to shoot this Martínez—he also stayed where he was sufficiently long for the lieutenant to have time to take out his pistol and fire three shots, of which at least one hit the assassin and wounded him badly. And yet there was a door behind the counter which he could have fled through.”

“One can’t expect people to behave logically in that sort of situation.”

“I’m certain that our friend over there eating tamales always behaves completely logically. Your explanation could be true, though. So I have another question, though this one is slightly vaguer.”

She was speaking in a low voice and Manuel Ortega leaned over the table to listen.

“Despite the fact that at the moment there are definite regulations about how and where military vehicles and personnel may put in an appearance outside the barracks area, one of the army prison vans arrived at the Governor’s Palace less than ten minutes after the assassination.”

“What’s strange about that?”

“It can hardly have been passing by chance. As you know, practically the whole regiment, or the garrison, or whatever you call it, has been confined to barracks since Radamek became President and played the soft line. So that the atmosphere should remain calm, only certain activities and routine guard duties have been allowed outside the garrison area. Larrinaga had a military escort because he was a general and had raised hell to get it. Even so the prison van was there seven or eight minutes after the murder.”

“As far as I can see, that proves nothing. They telephoned for it, I suppose. Have you any more questions like that?”

“One more. The lieutenant wounded the assassin with at least one shot. He was hit in the pelvis and was obviously very badly hurt. He bled profusely and couldn’t walk or even
stand up. The soldiers who took him out to the van had wound a cloth around his head. It took ten minutes to transport him back to the army barracks—the distance is, in fact, so great that only prison vans can cover the distance quicker without previous warning. Only a few minutes after the murderer had arrived there, an execution order was produced, signed by General Gami. Five minutes later the firing squad dragged the man out to the execution place in the inner barracks square and shot him. He couldn’t stand up but had been propped on all fours on the ground when they shot him, and he still had a cloth wound around his head. When he was dead the cloth was taken away and he was put on public view. He was lying like that when Behounek got there, and an hour or so later he was buried out there somewhere.”

“Is this information really true?”

“I’m almost certain it is. What I want to know is roughly this: Why was there such a terrible hurry? And why did they have to hide the man’s face when they let him be seen later?”

“And what do you think the answer is?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where do you get all these details?”

“Let’s just say I’ve been assembling them.”

Manuel leaned back in his chair, fingered his glass, and heard himself saying: “Is that why you sleep with officers?”

She sat up straight and irritably bit at the cuticle of one nail. Her eyes flickered.

“I’m sorry. That was a completely unwarranted question. I really didn’t mean to say that. I do apologize.”

She looked at him and now her eyes were firm and serious.

“You don’t have to apologize. I’ll even give you an answer. No, it isn’t why I sleep with officers. It’s not even the main reason. Not at all.”

They sought distraction and gazed around the room. The only person left was López. He had already finished his meal. Now he was picking his teeth, philosophically staring around
the room. It was pitch dark outside the window and very hot and stuffy inside.

After a while the proprietor came up to their table and said: “I’m afraid I must close now. Because of the state of emergency.”

They walked together for a short distance until they came to the block where she lived. López followed in their tracks, six or seven yards behind. When they stopped at the entrance, his steps stopped too.

Suddenly she giggled.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Sometimes I think such stupid things. I thought: If you come up with me, will he sit there with his hands on his knees, watching while we go to bed together? Or will he sit on a swivel chair outside the door and listen?”

She giggled again and began to rummage in her bag for her keys. As she did so, she butted him playfully in the chest with her head.

“What have you got there?” she said suddenly, fingering the revolver butt through the material of his jacket. “Goodness,” she said.

It was the same old situation. He was being overcome and at the same time he felt that it was all very foolish. To hell with López and Behounek and General Gami. He took a step toward her and said: “Danica.”

She stiffened at once, took a last drag on her cigarette, and crushed it out against the wall. Then she said: “I must go up and get some sleep now. Haven’t had any sleep these last few nights, as you know. Good night.”

He was still thinking about her as he crossed the square.

Then he heard an explosion a long way off and soon after that another. He stood still for a long time, listening, but he didn’t hear any sirens.

When he got to his bedroom he felt unreasonably afraid and twice he peered around the door to see if López was still
sitting outside. Only when he undressed did he discover that his clothes were soaked with sweat. He took a shower, but it didn’t make him feel much better.

Then he took two of Dalgren’s tablets, got into bed, and thought about a door he had to open though he did not dare to. He got out of bed and took the Astra from the bureau and put it under his pillow. Then he fell asleep.

At nine o’clock the next morning he called the police headquarters. The officer on duty informed him that Behounek had not yet arrived. Manuel Ortega asked: “What sort of night have you had?”

“Calm.”

“I heard a couple of explosions just before eleven last night.”

“Just a blasting detail, I would think.”

“What sort of detail?”

The duty officer did not reply to his question but said: “I’m sure Captain Behounek will be here by midday.”

Half an hour later he went out to see General Larrinaga’s daughter. Fernández drove and Gómez sat in the back. Fernández smelled of garlic, chewed his seeds, and was full of chatter. He also had difficulty in finding the way and drove badly.

Both at the exit from the center of the town and at the foot of the slope leading up to the villa area they were stopped at police barriers. Both times the engine stalled.

The road to the villa area led upward in long snaking bends, and as they had plenty of time, Manuel had the car stopped on a bend where there was a wide view out over the workers’ part of the town. The area sprawled out below him was triangular and enclosed by barbed-wire fences and tall, crooked walls. Now he could see that not all the buildings were tin shacks and wooden huts, but that there were also a great many squat yellowish-gray stone houses with flat roofs. Between these ran a network of narrow streets and in the center of the district was a square marketplace. There were quite a
lot of people moving about, and here and there he could make out white police cars. At least two were parked in the marketplace. It was obviously a very old part of the town which had been built on to in the simplest way to hold about four times its original number of inhabitants. When he got back into the car he remembered that about half the apartments in the middle of the town were empty, and always had been, for people preferred to live within the artificially irrigated area.

The house which Orestes de Larrinaga had lived in was a very large one, almost a palace, and in front of it was a garden the upkeep of which must have required tremendous effort and enormous quantities of water.

A servant with a mourning veil tied in a rosette on his white jacket led them to a patio where there were stone seats, a spring, and beautiful flowers. The patio was covered with slate slabs, as was the bottom of the goldfish pond.

Manuel Ortega sat down on one of the stone seats and waited. Fernández cleared his throat and pondered at some length on where he should spit, and in the end decided on the goldfish pond. When one of the goldfish came up to the surface to look at the gobbet of spit, he laughed, quietly and heartily, for a long time.

Manuel decided quite definitely that this was the most objectionable member of his bodyguard, especially now that Frankenheimer had gone.

After a few minutes the servant came back with two glasses of chilled almond milk on a silver tray. Fernández sniffed at his suspiciously and put it to one side on the stone seat. Then he took out his revolver and twirled the magazine with his thumb as he slowly took out bullet after bullet and looked at them. Manuel thought that this was in no better taste than taking out one’s false teeth and adjusting them at the table, and he was driven to saying: “Remember that we’re in a house of mourning.”

Fernández glowered at him in an offended and uncomprehending
way. Then he sighed and put away his revolver, very meticulously and ostentatiously adjusting his gun in its holster.

Manuel thought: I must get rid of this tribe of apes. And I’m sure they’re useless anyway. Behounek will have to arrange something from tomorrow on. Aloud, he said: “When the lady comes, move over to the other side, out of earshot.”

Five minutes later Francisca de Larrinaga came down the stairs from the floor above. Manuel Ortega rose and went to meet her. She was dressed in full mourning and was undoubtedly very beautiful, but in some way it was an impregnable beauty which did not excite him.

They sat down by the goldfish pond and the servant brought more almond milk. Manuel glanced at Fernández, who was looking at his two glasses with a confused and unhappy expression.

It took Manuel no more than two minutes to find out that he could come straight to the point. The woman listened politely to his conventional phrases. Then she said sharply and coldly: “What do you want?”

“During his tenure as Provincial Resident, the General must have undertaken certain measures …”

“My father never spoke of his work at home, neither when he was in the army nor during this last period.”

“Nonetheless, he seems to have been working during these last three weeks on a proclamation, a personal statement.”

“It is possible.”

“This proclamation was never completed but seems to have been almost ready.”

“And?”

“The text of it was not found after his departure.”

“Will you kindly explain what you mean?”

“Let me be quite honest. I have succeeded your father in this difficult post and want to carry on the work in the spirit in which your father would wish and with the same intentions with which he began. The enduring contribution your father
wished to make was obviously bound up with this proclamation. I think it would therefore be very valuable to get some idea of its contents and the views it expressed. Best of all, of course, I would prefer to see it.”

After a short pause, he added: “In fact I believe the text was destroyed at the time of the General’s death by someone who didn’t want it to be known. Either by the murderer or by his employers.”

The conversation ceased. The only noise was Fernández chewing and scraping his feet on the other side of the fish pond.

Francisca de Larrinaga looked at her visitor. She was frowning slightly and her face was hard and serious beneath her mourning veil. Finally she said: “You are wrong. If the murderer or his employers had known the contents of the proclamation, my father would still be alive.”

Manuel said nothing. He thought feverishly but could think of nothing to say.

After a while she said: “You are surprised. Well, let me say this at once. There does exist a copy of the draft of my father’s statement. By sheer chance I found it after his death. In the pocket of his smoking jacket. He must have taken his papers home with him to study in the evenings. This was contrary to his usual habits and in itself shows how much importance he attached to this … proclamation. On the other hand, he never spoke of it. I had no idea at all of his work, just as little now as before, when he was on active service.”

“And you’ve read it?”

“Yes. I have read it and kept it. The views he expresses in it would surprise many people if they were published. I was astonished myself. My father was a man of strict principles, everyone knew that, but lately he seemed to have changed his opinions on quite a few points.”

“In what respects?”

She did not answer the question but said: “I was very close to my father. He found that with me he could relax and be
himself more easily. I went in the car with him practically every morning. On one of these occasions he talked to me about his mission; not exactly to me but more to himself. He did that sometimes, in the company of someone he knew very well and could trust implicitly. I was one of these people, perhaps the only one. Anyway, I received the impression that the government had demanded that he call and lead a conference, some kind of peace negotiations between the so-called right-wing extremists and the Communists. He refused, partly because he—as he expressed it himself—was a soldier and not a shifty-eyed diplomat, and partly because he thought it degrading and preposterous that men like Count Ponti and Dalgren and General Gami should sit at the the same conference table with Indians and mountain bandits and partisan chiefs, El Campesino, and whatever they are called now.”