The Assignment (11 page)

Again she paused. Then she said: “If I hand my father’s statement over to you, what will you do with it then?”

“Publish it, whatever it contains. In my capacity as his successor, I would consider it my duty.”

“And in my capacity as his daughter and closest friend, I regard it as my duty to consider very carefully what should be done with his effects.”

Where does she get it all from? thought Manuel Ortega, humbled. But he collected himself at once and resumed: “For various reasons I am interested in the circumstances of your father’s death. Does it pain you too much to talk about it?”

“I can talk about anything,” she said.

“As you were present at the time …”

He broke off.

“Yes?”

“I have been told that the murderer was carried away with his head covered.”

“That’s true. I was sitting in the car outside and heard the shots. When I went in, my father was already dead. He had been hit in the chest with about fifteen or twenty shots. The
escort officer, a young lieutenant, had shot the murderer. The man was badly wounded in the pelvis and was lying on the floor behind the counter. He was shouting curses and abuse like a wild animal. A captain who came shortly afterward gave orders for him to be silenced, and some soldiers took a tablecloth and wound it around his head and tied it up with a belt.”

“Could you make out what he was saying?”

“I was, as you can understand, deeply upset. And the man was badly wounded too. In fact I think his wounds were fatal. In any case, he would have been a permanent invalid. He was probably in great pain, for his voice was blurred and it was hard to catch his words. As far as I could make out he was cursing the man who had shot him, the generals, the government, and the Citizens’ Guard.”

Manuel Ortega looked at the young woman. Her face was calm and her voice controlled. She was using the same tone of voice as that of the person who had threatened him two days earlier.

“Thank you for your kindness in giving me this information. Will you also allow me to see your father’s statement?”

She replied at once: “I cannot decide that now. But I shall give you my answer within four days.”

“Forgive me if I ask you one more question. Who other than yourself knows that this document exists?”

“You.”

“I think it would be wise if you refrained from letting anyone else know.”

“The moment,” said Francisca de Larrinaga, “when I shall be in need of your advice is, as far as I can judge, very far away. Should it arise, which I doubt, I would take up the matter on my own accord. To be more precise: I don’t know you, sir, and neither have I any opinions about you. The information I have given you, and might eventually give you,
I am putting at your disposal because I think you have a right to it in your capacity as my father’s successor.”

They rose from their seats.

“Who is the man with the sunflower seeds?” she asked.

“My bodyguard.”

“Really? Good-by.”

“Good-by.”

In the car, Fernández said to López, who was slightly dazed with sleep: “What a bird! Jesus Christ, what a piece! You should’ve seen her. I could almost feel my cock rising on the spot. Quite a different kettle of fish from that bearded scarecrow up with us.”

He drummed his fingers on the wheel and said unhappily: “Sorry. My manners aren’t very classy, I know. I can’t help it.”

“Drive on,” said Manuel Ortega.

He felt physically and psychologically exhausted, as after a tennis match or an important business deal. Just before Fernández had begun to speak, he had thought that Francisca de Larrinaga was one of those women whom he could not imagine undressed.

Well, he said to himself, there are different views on most things.

Then he thought: Why have I begun to think about those things so much?

As they drove through the dismal screened-off workers’ sector, it struck him that anyone lying behind the wall with a rifle could easily fire and no one would be able to do a thing about it.

To his own mortification, he hunched up behind Gómez and tried to keep his head as low as possible.

At two in the afternoon he got in touch with Captain Behounek.

“How is the situation?”

“Calm.”

“And out in the country?”

“I’ve just come from there. Made a little personal inspection.”

“And?”

“Calm.”

“No attacks?”

“Hardly any. I think our patrols have pushed the partisans up into the mountains.”

“I’d like to go with you sometime on a trip out into the country.”

“There’ll be a very good opportunity tomorrow. A sanitary patrol is visiting one of the bigger Indian villages. It’ll have a safe escort.”

“Will you arrange the matter for me?”

“Certainly.”

“One question. What is meant by a blasting detail? One of your subordinates used the term as if it were quite an ordinary event.”

“Well, it’s quite an unpleasant story. Roughly speaking, it’s like this: the youngsters in the Citizens’ Guard have learned to use plastic bombs. It was a European idea to begin with, I gather. You get a tough mess of stuff which you stick onto something, and then you put in a fuse with a flint in it. Well, at night, small groups go into the native sector and stick plastic bombs here and there. During the worst disturbances we had a great deal of trouble with them. The streets there are badly lit—mostly not lit at all. It’s difficult to keep an eye on them at night.”

“Does this still go on?”

“To a limited extent.”

“Was there a raid of that kind last night?”

“Yes.”

“And the damage?”

“Trifling. These bombs have an open explosive effect and the damage is usually not very great. I shudder to think what
would happen if they ever think of putting the stuff into iron pipes for instance.”

“Was anyone killed last night?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Think?”

“I mean that nothing has been reported. Some of the natives are pretty peculiar, you see. They won’t or daren’t report damage and casualties. But their faith in us is growing steadily.”

“Have you caught the raiders?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, let’s hope for the best.”

He put down the receiver, rang for Danica Rodríguez, and was surprised when he saw her. She was dressed as on the previous day, but her face was pale and resigned and her eyes very serious.

He could not help saying: “How are you feeling?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“You hadn’t come in when I left this morning.”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, well—do you know if the telephone lines are in order yet?”

“They’re still cut.”

“Have you asked whether there’s a reply to my cable?”

“It hasn’t come yet.”

“Send a reminder then. No, don’t—send a copy of the text and point out that there is some urgency.”

“Yes.”

When she reached the door, he said: “Come back for a moment, please.”

He tried to smile at her, but either it was an unsuccessful attempt or else there was no way of breaking her seriousness.

“I’ve got some information for you. About the assassination.”

He repeated all the details of the murder that he could remember from his conversation with Francisca de Larrinaga.

She listened with interest but made no comment. Then she said seriously: “Did you find that out for my sake?”

“Well—partly.”

“Thanks.”

When she walked away he stared at her thighs and hips. Earlier he had tried to decide whether she was wearing a bra but had been unable to come to any conclusion.

A moment later he turned to the fat man who was sitting against the wall, his hands on his knees.

“López, are you married?”

“Yes.”

The conversation was not prolonged. He had thought for a moment of asking a question such as “Have you any children?” or “What do you think about it then?” but he decided not to.

Manuel Ortega sat and felt the heat become thicker and thicker, filling the room more and more. Despite the fan he was soaked with sweat, but he did not bother to go and shower.

When he tried to analyze why he did not bother he discovered it was because of fear. He did not want to have to open the door to his room unnecessarily and go in while López was still sitting on the chair behind his back. But after a while he went in after all, to shower and change his clothes, trying an experiment by leaving the door ajar. When he opened the door to his living quarters there was some kind of draft, probably caused by the fan, and the door slammed shut.

He returned, as usual, with his hand on the butt of his revolver.

This thing with the door had become an
idée fixe
. Common sense told him that there were many situations in which he had equally good or better reasons for being afraid—but what use was common sense in a situation like this? He repeated the question to himself.

What use is common sense?

Then he sat down and thought over the situation. He was
trapped by a string of foolish circumstances and abandoned to the arbitrary decisions of others.

As long as the Ministry did not answer his cable he had no idea how to go about his present job.

As long as General Gami and Colonel Orbal were pleased to stay away he could not carry out any discussions at the highest level.

As long as the girl in the big house on the hill had not decided what she was going to do with the famous papers he would know nothing about what General Larrinaga’s work had really involved.

All this tied him down and forced him into inactivity.

He also accused himself of being too official, too lacking in initiative, too bound to conventional points of view on how an assignment should be carried out. And worst of all, his single-mindedness was turning his assignment into a simple office job.

And also, he was afraid.

He thought he ought to make an extensive trip around the town, but could not make himself do so. The town frightened him and he did not want to become involved in its violence any more than he already was. Also he was certain that the picture that he had built up of the atmosphere in the community was correct. At least in its essentials.

He went to the window and looked out over the great deserted square and the white cobblestones on the other side. In some way he found this empty, sizzling, desolate plaza more repugnant than the rank odor of destitution and privation in the native quarter.

At six o’clock he went in and asked the woman in the green dress to go out and have dinner with him.

“I’m afraid not,” she said, “not tonight.”

He borrowed her copy of the sociological report and went back to his room. He switched on the radio and listened for
two hours to the local program which consisted almost entirely of screeching records and advertisements for various more or less meaningless goods. A routine-type appeal from General Gami, asking for calm and order, was repeated three times. The General’s voice was supercilious and dry.

Once a news bulletin was read; indifferent and meaningless reports from distant countries where something had happened and where people at least seemed to know what was happening.

At nine o’clock he took López with him and ate a wretched meal.

When he got back he went straight to bed.

He began to read the sociological report and that kept him occupied until he heard Fernández relieve López in the room outside.

At that, part of his relative feeling of security vanished too. He ascertained with a certain surprise that he had evidently relied more on the one than the other although he really did not know either of them.

He got up and took two of Dalgren’s tablets, looked under his bed, put the light out, and went back to bed.

His last conscious action was to see that the Astra was in its place underneath his pillow.

Manuel Ortega fell asleep with his hand on the walnut butt.

The sanitary patrol started out from the plaza at eight o’clock the next morning, two hours after the prescribed time.

In the first vehicle, a large white Land-Rover with a searchlight and a canvas cover, sat the escort officer and three policemen. Manuel Ortega and Danica Rodríguez went in the army-type medical car, equipped for rough ground with coarse-treaded rubber tires and red crosses on the rear doors. Then came Gómez and Fernández in their gray Citroën, and last an ordinary police jeep with two more policemen in it. Captain Behounek was obviously not a man to leave anything to chance.

The convoy drove diagonally across the square and continued southward between the dusty palm trees along Avenida de la República. The sidewalks were almost deserted, but outside the great new church at the corner of the Avenida and Calle San Martín there were quite a few people who were evidently on their way home from mass.

The town looked white and dead and very hot.

They passed the police barriers and the barracks, which looked almost equally dead. Only a couple of sentries could be seen at the iron gates and a few idle soldiers were scattered about the great dusty barracks square.

A mile or so farther south, the highway came to an end. A barbed-wire barrier had been erected across the road and behind it they caught a glimpse of great heaps of stones, one or two skeletons of trucks and a bulldozer, solid with rust. The work seemed to have been broken off at very short notice and quite a long time ago, as if those engaged in it had suddenly lost interest in the project and just walked away.