The Assignment (28 page)

“Ortega, let’s get this clear once and for all. It’s high time. First: There are no troops here. Just a force of about sixty or seventy men for guard duties. I really thought you knew that. The night before you came the Third Infantry Regiment was moved north. Together with all other regular forces of the Fifth Military Command they’ve been on the alert for eight days along the northern border of the province. For eight days those troops have been in control of all roads and communications. That’s why poor Ruiz couldn’t let you have more than three vehicles, why he had to order out even the cooks and tailors and orderlies to the pumping station and the reservoirs. He had no regiment at all. That’s why I was afraid too—yes, really frightened—during the rioting a week ago. As far as the other thing goes, you needn’t cable the
Minister of the Interior. You can call him up, right now, and get through to him in twenty minutes.”

“Aren’t the lines still cut?”

“The lines never were cut. But the army installed a control post at the border and let through only certain calls.”

Manuel Ortega stared at the man in the white uniform.

“But you can’t call up the President,” said Behounek.

“Why not?”

“Because at the present moment there is no President. Radamek left the country today, this morning.”

“But the government?”

“The government will be dissolved at about six o’clock tomorrow evening.”

“And you think that this gives you a free hand to break all the promises that the outgoing government has given? No, Captain Behounek …”

“One moment, Ortega. I am a federal official, as you are, and I act according to orders.”

“What orders? From whom?”

Behounek rose, unlocked the safe in the wall, and took out several papers.

“Here,” he said, “you will see the orders for the arrest of the six Communist delegates. Signed by the Prime Minister. This was flown here yesterday.”

“Jacinto Zaforteza is not the Prime Minister.”

“But he will be at seven o’clock tomorrow evening, when this order is to be carried out.”

“And who will be President?”

“Who do you think?”

Manuel Ortega burst out laughing, a half-surprised resigned laughter. He leaned his elbow on the edge of the desk and rested his forehead against the palm of his hand.

“Yes, of course,” he said. “So simple. General Gami.”

“According to rumors I’ve heard, nine of the commanders in the field out of thirteen support General Gami’s candidacy.”

“You call it candidacy too. A candidate who has thirty thousand regular troops on the alert, ready to march against the capital and take over all the important positions?”

“Well, call it what you like. That, however, is the situation.”

“Will Orbal be Minister of Defense?”

“Hardly. But a general and Commander-in-Chief of the Fifth Military Command.”

“And you yourself?”

There was a long pause before Behounek replied. First he looked at the wall map, then at Manuel Ortega. Finally he said: “I shall get my reward tomorrow evening.”

“When you arrest these poor people?”

“Yes. Then I hope to be allowed to leave this province, forever.”

“And I am to be sacrificed?”

“Not at all. You have, as far as I can make out, done your duty very well. You’ve even performed a miracle, though it was unintentional. The appointment itself probably won’t exist much longer, but in the administration there’s rarely a shortage of appointments for faithful workers.”

“Then it’s my honor that’s to be sacrificed? Don’t you consider …?”

“What don’t I consider?”

“That I’m committing a terrible betrayal against these poor people?”

“That’s the second time you’ve used that phrase, Ortega, and the first time was once too many. These poor people bear the blame for the sacrifice of five thousand lives during the last two years. Their struggle was senseless from the very beginning, bound to fail. It resulted in chaos, confusion, and degradation in which people were turned into mad dogs. Like those three mineworkers in Pérez’s villa. Like Colonel Orbal’s sixteen-year-old son. Like …”

“Like yourself, Captain Behounek …”

“Yes, like myself. That’s absolutely true.”

He fell silent and drummed his fingers on the top of the desk.

“Do you think I’d overlook such an important detail as myself and my own actions?”

“You yourself are evidence of your own rightness, then?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“And if I reach over the desk and pick up the telephone and tell Ellerman and warn him, what’ll you do then?”

“You won’t warn Ellerman. And that’s why you’ll never know what would have happened if you had.”

Manuel was still sitting with his head in his hands. He felt an emptiness rising within him and thought about the churning ache.

He changed his position and put his clenched fists under his chin and looked at Behounek. The Chief of Police was sitting quite still with his arms on the desk and his hands loosely clasped.

Manuel leaned forward and pulled the telephone toward him. He lifted the receiver.

“Hotel Universal, please.… I want to speak to Señor Wolfgang Ellerman, please.”

There was a long wait before Ellerman replied. He had evidently been asleep, for his voice sounded harsh and confused.

“Yes, Ellerman speaking.”

“Ortega. Sorry to disturb you, but it’s a matter of the utmost importance.”

“Yes?”

A moment later.

“Yes? Are you there?”

“Can you give me the exact time of Dr. Irigo’s arrival tomorrow?”

“Between half past nine and half past ten. I can’t be more precise than that, I’m afraid.”

“That’ll do. Thank you. Good night.”

Manuel put down the receiver and pushed the telephone away. He put both elbows on the table, clasped his hands, and pressed his knuckles against the base of his nose. He listened to his heart.

Behounek had not moved once the whole time. Neither had he said anything and it was impossible to determine whether he was looking at anything at all. Now he said: “I loathe playing with hidden cards. Therefore, before we continue this conversation, I must let you have a look at one more document.”

He extracted one of the papers.

“These instructions are for you,” he said. “It was intended that I should give them to you tomorrow, an hour before the beginning of the operation. Here you are.”

Manuel took the document and turned it and twisted it before breaking the seal.

The government’s memorandum was in the form of a personal letter; it was prefaced with a few conventional phrases but came swiftly to the point.

“… owing to the President’s sudden departure for reasons of health and the consequent necessity to re-form the government, the situation is now considerably altered. General Gami’s first measure as President is to eliminate the threat from both internal and external enemies of the nation. In these endeavors he has the government’s full support. To this purpose the Federal Court has today made two announcements. First: The Federal Court confirms (rejecting President Radamek’s proposal) the legislature’s bill declaring the already disbanded Communist and left-wing socialist parties in the country illegal. This means that all members of Communist or crypto-Communist organizations, from 12.00 p.m. today on, can be regarded as reasonably suspected of crimes against the laws of the state and should be considered a threat to the
security of the nation. Second: The Federal Court confirms that the ideological orientation of the so-called Liberation Front is clearly Communist. (In this respect the Federal Court has aligned itself with both the legislature and ex-President Radamek.) I therefore urge you to treat all relevant matters in accordance with the above judicial decisions.

“To ensure a smooth interim period a military state of emergency in your province is to be reimposed from 1800 hours today on. This will be lifted after a short period of time. The Federal Police have been granted unlimited authority to apply martial law.

“I advise you to cooperate closely with the Chief of the Federal Police, Captain Isidoro Behounek, who has received detailed instructions in this matter.

Zaforteza. Prime Minister”

Manuel Ortega folded the paper and leaned back in his chair.

“This is the end,” he said. “And your name’s Isidoro, is it? I didn’t know that.”

“Yes, isn’t it awful? Children should have the legal right to rechristen themselves when they’ve reached a reasonably mature age.”

“Call up the Federal Court and tell the commissionaire that a new law on the matter must be confirmed within twenty minutes.”

The Chief of Police smiled.

“Listen, Captain Behounek. Here I am, sitting here, and in my hand I have an order which is dated tomorrow and which among other things contains two decisions made by the country’s highest judicial authority, which will also be made public tomorrow. The order is written by someone who thinks he will be the head of the government tomorrow and is issued by a general who is thinking of becoming a dictator tomorrow.”

“Today, Ortega, all this is happening today. It’s already a quarter to one.”

“It seems to mean that Gami, whom I have never met but who obviously is just an ordinary power-mad officer, before he has even succeeded in making himself dictator, can direct the highest judicial authorities and the country’s legislature.”

“You forget Zaforteza. He has been the Minister of Justice in three governments.”

“What does he look like, this Gami?”

“Like most generals. Nothing special. Slightly corpulent. Red-nosed. Fat wife. Four children.”

“Does this mean that the death sentences are also already prepared?”

“In principle … yes. Only three of them are completed however, those on El Campesino, Irigo, and José Redondo. I’ve got about twenty blanks, though. All signed by Colonel Orbal.”

“And who will fill them in?”

“I shall.”

Manuel Ortega felt that the cocoon which had separated him from the world now enveloped the man on the other side of the desk too. He said: “If we could get on to a less formal level, I would like to ask you: What pressures do you think could have persuaded Radamek into making this sudden exit?”

“Well, informally speaking, I can say this: Radamek and the whole of the Liberal regime had gotten to the stage where it was a question of blinding the opposition here at home and gagging the talkers abroad. It has been dependent on the support of the army all the time and has certainly never taken one single independent decision. Zaforteza has been the driving force in the cabinet and he is in all respects the general’s man. As far as Radamek is concerned, I’m convinced that he
did everything for money. He could hardly be described as hard up when he left the country yesterday.”

“And yet it was he who created the Peace Force,” said Manuel.”

“Yes,” said Behounek, glancing at the map. “He created the white police, the Federal Police, the Peace Force.”

“And when the Peace Force goes to a village everyone runs to the woods and women hide their children under rags and piles of sticks.”

“There are no woods here, but you’re right in principle.”

“How many village populations have you wiped out, as in Santa Rosa?”

“About ten, perhaps. Always for the same reason. They’ve helped El Campesino’s murder gangs hide or flee. Sometimes they themselves have plundered and killed.”

“Do you feel very unhappy when you think about it?”

“Sometimes, yes. But not often. You exaggerate in your mind the drama of what happens on such occasions. In fact it’s just routine, no grand gestures. Usually at five in the morning. That’s a time of day which doesn’t invite melodramatic actions. But many have died, that’s true. Who is to blame, then?”

“Now we’re back there again. And I repeat. The blame is yours.”

“Because I obey orders?”

“Yes.”

“It’s as well, both for you and for me, that you’re wrong. The blame lies with men like this Cuban, El Campesino, who have taught impoverished illiterates to kill. With ridiculous theorists like Irigo and Ellerman and with spreaders of hatred like Carmen Sánchez.”

“And with madmen like Isidoro Behounek.”

“To some extent, yes.”

“With madness.”

“And, Ortega, with inconsistency, don’t forget that.”

“As I said.”

“One must choose a side.”

“Must one?”

“Yes, definitely.”

“Have you, Captain Behounek, ever played with the thought of letting mercy go before justice?”

“Many times, but not in cases like these.”

“Then it’s unrealistic to expect a certain mildness on your part tomorrow? Some kind of barter?”

“Let’s sleep on it.”

They went to their rooms.

Between three o’clock and three minutes past three in the morning on June 19, Manuel Ortega, formerly an assistant trade attaché in Stockholm, thought:

I must call Ellerman. I must call Ellerman. I must call Ellerman. If I call Ellerman, I am staking my life and in any case destroying forever my career and my livelihood. I would be officially guilty of failing in my duty and would end up in prison. The logical thing would be for them to kill me at once. If I break the promises made to the Liberation Front, then Sixto will kill me. I must flee, immediately. Nevertheless, I must call Ellerman.

Suddenly: Manuel Ortega, you’re a federal official. Your duty is to obey orders until those orders are rescinded.

Nevertheless, I must call Ellerman.

Why must you call Ellerman? Because you happened to say you would to a nymphomaniac you want to sleep with? That’s irrelevant.

But you must.

You know that you’re not going to call Ellerman. The churning has stopped. The grinding is over.

Conversation along a stony mountain road, in the front seat of a white Land-Rover with a canvas top.

Ortega: “Why did you tell me all that yesterday?”

Behounek. “Because I wanted you to know exactly what you were doing. So that you will never at any time be able to say, not even to yourself, that you were acting in good faith or under the influence of surprise. However you act now, you are doing it fully conscious of the fact that you have analyzed the situation, even if during a sleepless night. In the future you can probably deceive others, but I don’t want to give you the chance of deceiving yourself.”