The Assignment (3 page)

“I am not convinced that this decision rests with the President.”

“What is meant by the expression ‘an officer with technical knowledge of this area’?”

“Presumably the commanding officer of the command there, General Gami, or his Chief of Staff, Colonel Orbal.” The
Ambassador again looked toward the window. “Excellent men, both of them,” he said.

There was silence for a moment or two. Then Manuel Ortega said: “And the Communists murdered General Larrinaga?”

“Yes, just as they will kill anyone else who works against their interests.”

“The new Resident is condemned to death by both sides then.”

“It looks like it. If the army doesn’t take over.” The Ambassador looked at the clock. “You’ve not much more than three hours,” he said apologetically. “Or have you already come to a decision?”

Manuel Ortega rose hesitantly.

“Weren’t you just going on vacation?” said the ambassador.

“Yes. Today.”

“Where were you thinking of going?”

“Tylösand.”

“Ah, Tylösand, wonderful. Then the choice should not be all that difficult.”

“No,” said Manuel Ortega.

“Then at midday at the latest you’ll let me know, will you? If you accept you must figure on going this afternoon.”

“Yes.”

Manuel Ortega walked down into the dim hall, put on his rubbers and raincoat, and began unsheathing his umbrella. But when he went out onto the steps to Valhallavägen, the rain had stopped, so he hung his umbrella over his arm and walked slowly along the wet shiny pavement. He bought a newspaper at the stand in Karlaplan and, a bit farther on, sat down on a bench and tried to think. It was not easy; he felt irritatingly indecisive, as if the conversation had simply confused the issue for him. He glanced over the front page of the newspaper and then flipped to the foreign news. He found it there: a short item with the headline
Political murder
. The
General’s name was spelled incorrectly. The Ambassador was right: their country apparently played no role on the world scene.

Manuel Ortega rose and walked on. Large drops of rain fell from the trees onto his head and shoulders. At Sibyllegatan he crossed against a red light and was almost run down by a taxi. Three minutes later he opened the door to his apartment. He did not want anything and did not know what he should do.

A little while later he was sitting down drinking coffee. He had taken off his shoes but not his jacket and he was leaning back in his armchair watching his wife as she went out of the living room. With a faint feeling of distaste he noticed her buttocks moving beneath the slightly too tight dress and he saw that she had a fold of fat at the nape of her neck beneath the heavy black knot of hair. Nevertheless, she was in no way unattractive.

He sighed, put his coffeecup down, and went across to the large french window. The rain had started again and was streaming through the trees along Karlavägen.

With a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and his hands in his pockets, he stood and watched the rain making small pools and streams in the sandy path of the avenue. He heard his wife come into the room.

“What do you think I ought to do?”

“It’s not my affair.”

“You’ve already said that.”

“But if you think there’s a chance you really would benefit from it …”

“But perhaps I might be able to
do
some good for once.”

“To whom?”

“To all these people.”

“They themselves have said that only the army can do them any good.”

“But all the others? Three hundred thousand other people live there too.”

“That mob? Who can neither read nor write? Who live like animals? What can you do for them? If you’d been a doctor or a priest, but …”

It was as simple as that then.

“In some ways you’re absolutely right.”

“But if this is a real opportunity, then you should take it. I don’t want to advise you. It’d be absurd if I started advising you on your work.”

“It entails a certain risk too.”

“You’re thinking of General Larrinaga? You’re no general, Manuel. And you’ve got Miguel as well, if it proves necessary.”

Miguel Uribarri was her brother. He had for several years been head of the criminal police in the federal capital.

After a while she said: “But if you can see quite clearly that this is not an opportunity, then you should refuse it.”

Manuel Ortega clenched his fist and beat on the door frame.

“Don’t you see that I too want to do something? Something real?”

“Presumably your work here is considerably more important to the country.”

Dryly and factually. She was not unintelligent and was almost certainly right—from her point of view and from many others too.

“I don’t want to be cowardly either.”

“That’s a point of view for which I have much more sympathy. If it’s my sympathy you want.”

She left the room. After a minute or so he went back to the chair and sat down. He looked at the clock. Quarter past eleven already.

She came back.

“Have you decided?”

“Yes. I’ll accept.”

“How long will it be for?”

“At the most six months. Probably not that long. Do you think it’ll be difficult? With the children?”

“I’ve managed before.… Don’t worry on that score,” she added with a sudden spurt of tenderness.

He remained sitting in the chair, feeling empty and listless, almost apathetic. The children came into the room.

“Children, Daddy’s not coming with us to the beach.”

“Why not?”

“He’s got some important work to do.”

“Oh.”

“Come on then—off to your room now.”

They went.

Manuel Ortega was no longer thinking about the assignment. He was thinking about himself. He thought about himself and his marriage and his family. Everything was perfect. His wife was perfect, apart from that little bit of corpulence. From the very beginning their marriage had been successful and had never really ceased to be. Sexually, it was technically perfect even now. The children were so perfect it almost scared him. Sometimes he wondered whether the years in this perfectionist little country, with its bad climate, had not transformed them into an ideal family, into museum pieces. He could see them standing in a glass case, with labels. Father of family, 42, born in Aztacan, Latin type. Boy, 7, born in London, utterly satisfactory model. Girl, 5, born in Paris. Woman, 35, mother of two children, well preserved. Perfect relationship between equal partners. Please note their tenderness and absolute openness toward each other.

She said in a friendly tone: “Aren’t you going to call His Excellency?”

He roused himself, arose, and went over to the telephone. He dialed the number direct but did not get through. Instead he got through to the secretary and told her his decision.

“Check-in time at Arlanda is three-fifteen. You must be at the airport by then. The car will pick you up at exactly half past two. Tickets and money are arranged for.”

Everything was so businesslike.

Just as he put down the receiver, the telephone rang. It was the Ambassador.

“After our conversation this morning I have been thinking the matter over further. I have reconsidered my ideas. It would be wrong for you to refuse the assignment, to reject the faith that has been shown in you.”

“Good. I have already said that I accept.”

“What? Excellent. I am pleased that my little experiment worked so well.”

“Experiment?”

“Yes. Now I can admit that what I said earlier was not meant very seriously. A stupid attempt to test your ability to deal with matters and make independent decisions. At least partly. But, you must understand, all the facts were correct. But forgive me all the same.”

“Of course.”

He felt his mouth go dry.

“One more thing. In Copenhagen you will be meeting one of your co-workers. A lady who will act as your secretary. She is from down there and has outstanding qualities. Called—one moment—oh, these Slavic names—of course, I’ve nothing against the President, ha ha, yes—here it is … Danica Rodríguez. She’s already received her instructions. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good luck then. You’ll have a difficult but interesting job.”

“Thank you.”

“And, Manuel—be careful. They mean it.”

“Yes.”

Manuel Ortega put the receiver down slowly. The Ambassador had never used his first name before, nor had he ever
used that tone of voice with him before. The conversation had been confusing, almost unreal.

Be careful, Manuel. They mean it.

Much later he said to his wife: “Where is my revolver?”

“I’ve already thought about that. I’ve heard it can be dangerous down there. It’s in the bottom drawer of the desk, on the right. Will you get it yourself?”

“Yes.”

The revolver lay there (as she had said), wrapped in a soft cloth and neatly tucked in the shoulder holster. He unwound the straps and the cloth and weighed the weapon in his hand. It felt heavy and firm and was well oiled. He took three boxes of cartridges too, and put them all in the top of his suitcase. Then his wife shut the lid and locked it.

A little before half past two, Manuel Ortega kissed his wife and children and got into the front seat next to the driver. His wife said: “Don’t forget the seat belt.”

The car drove away. His family stood on the sidewalk and waved. He waved back.

At twenty-five to four he climbed the steps into the plane. Just as he bent over and stepped inside, smiling at the girl who was standing at the door, fear snatched at his heart.

It came like a shock, without warning.

Orestes de Larrinaga had been given three weeks to live. He would not even get that much.

Two weeks at the latest after his arrival the sentence will be carried out.

Be careful. They mean it.

He was sweating, and as he pushed forward between the people in the aisle, he fumbled for something that would give him security. He thought of the revolver and how it had lain in his hand, heavy and cold and comforting.

The revolver was a g-millimeter Astra-Orbea with a walnut butt, made in 1923 in Eibar. His father had given it to him
for his twenty-first birthday. He had never been without it since then. He had never had cause to point it at any living creature, not even as a joke, but sometimes he used it for target practice on empty bottles and tin cans.

Over southern Scandinavia the clouds seemed about to break up, and when Manuel Ortega leaned against the window he could see the contours of the land quite clearly, as if on a map. Their course was almost directly west, and to the south one could faintly discern a large town, which must be Malmö. Evening began to arrive and the sunlight that lay over the countryside was already slanting and golden red.

The plane sank lower over the water, flattened out over a level square island, and swept its broad-winged shadow across a peaceful little harbor with red customs sheds, fishing boats, and a ferry. Only a few moments later the rubber tires bit into the runway and the plane taxied up toward the airport buildings at Kastrup.

Manuel Ortega let out his breath and unhooked his seat belt. He had never been able to get used to landings, however routine they seemed, and even this time the procedure had claimed all of his attention. For a few minutes everything else had been pushed to one side.

The waiting room was the same as those in all the other airports he had seen from Dublin to Santa Cruz, and he thought that flying not only robbed the journey of its pleasure but also obliterated the individuality of the countries as well as the traveler’s identity.

He drank a glass of beer in the bar and went to the men’s room to wash his hands. Then he remembered the woman who was to meet him and went to the waiting room to look for her.

He saw no one who resembled the picture he had already
created in his mind, and he soon gave up. Common sense told him that the woman could look like almost anyone. Moreover, there was no guarantee that she would be waiting there.

When he returned to the bar for another glass of beer, he was detained by a middle-aged man wearing a tweed hat and a wind-breaker. The man turned back his jacket and gave him a glimpse of a press card which was fastened to the breast pocket of his blazer with a paper clip.

“You’re Manuel Ortega, aren’t you? The new Provincial Resident?”

“Yes.”

“The man with the suicidal assignment?”

“Well, there’s no reason to overdramatize it.”

“It didn’t go all that well last time. Are you used to assignments of this kind?”

“No. And besides, the situation is a very special one. But is the general public here really interested in our little problems?”

“Not very. But in you personally. Anyway, it might become more interesting. Would you mind answering a few questions?”

“As well as I can.”

Most of the questions were foolish and irrelevant. Such as: “What did your wife say when you left?” and “How many children do you have?”

He answered in monosyllables or by shrugging his shoulders.

“Are you yourself from this province?”

“No. I was brought up in the capital, in the north of the country.”