The Assignment (29 page)

Ortega: “You took a considerable risk.”

Behounek: “I considered it was a small one. You’re an official. You fight according to orders with your papers, as I do with my gun.”

Ortega: “I’ve still got a couple of hours.”

Behounek: “Time’s running out. Besides, you’re not capable of making a decision. You’re frightened and tired. The easiest decision is always not to make one.”

Ortega: “For that matter, was it you who arranged the murder of Larrinaga?”

Behounek: “No, that was an internal army affair.”

Ortega: “Who was Pablo Gonzáles?”

Behounek: “You’ve a good memory—but that wasn’t his name.”

Ortega: “What was his name?”

Behounek: “Bartolomeo Rozas. A Communist worker we arrested and executed a few days before the murder.”

Ortega: “And the real murderer?”

Behounek: “Don’t know. One of the young right-wingers they brought here from somewhere. I just supplied the identity papers. They didn’t even bother to inform the officer in command of the escort. And the murderer was shot, much to his surprise. He probably expected that they would … let mercy go before justice.”

Ortega: “Would you under
any
circumstances let mercy go before justice?”

Behounek: “Hardly any.”

Ortega: “What about our barter?”

Behounek: “What barter?”

Ortega: “I offer my honor and refrain from warning them. You offer your hatred and refrain from killing them.”

Behounek: “That’s no honorable barter, because you won’t warn them anyway. Besides, I’ve certain orders to take into consideration, just as you have. We’re officials.”

Ortega: “I can still call Ellerman. Some of these people can still be saved.”

Behounek: “You never consider the question whether they are worth saving. You never think that perhaps we can save ten thousand other people by killing these six. For that matter, shall I arrest your secretary?”

Ortega: “Not if it can be avoided.”

Behounek: “Of course it can be avoided. If I want to avoid it. You probably know she’s a Communist and even a member of the Party.”

Ortega: “Have you known that all along?”

Behounek: “Almost. She’s down on our books. A miracle she succeeded in duping the ministry.”

Ortega: “It can be avoided then. But are you thinking of avoiding it?”

Behounek: “Let me make a proposal for once. I arrest your secretary and in exchange we refrain from executing Carmen Sánchez. Both will get prison, perhaps five or ten years. You can choose between having Carmen Sánchez dead or Danica Rodríguez free—or both in jail.”

Ortega: “Do you mean that seriously?”

Behounek: “Of course not. And I won’t suggest exchanging your secretary’s life for the six people we’re going to execute tonight.”

Ortega: “Thank you. Why must it take place tonight?”

Behounek: “In a few days the state of emergency will be
lifted, no one knows when. Then the time for death sentences will have gone.”

Ortega: “And Danica Rodríguez?”

Behounek: “Can go of course. For that matter, she’s not very dangerous. A little naïve, half-intellectual. And she sleeps around. It may be tempting but it’s not a good method. Nearly always ends badly.”

Ortega: “Spare me your wisdom.”

Behounek: “Certainly.”

Ortega: “Strangely enough, right up until this morning I thought it was fear that had broken me. Only now do I realize that it has been you.”

Behounek: “It’s neither. We are wholly victims of ourselves, our own thoughts and our own actions. I was the first victim of my activities down here.”

Ortega: “You’re beginning to be banal.”

Behounek: “I’m a little tired. You see the houses over there on the other side of the quarry?”

Ortega: “Yes.”

Behounek: “That’s Mercadal.”

Manuel Ortega, you, at the desk on the platform. Behind you your assistant and a secretary you’ve never seen. And in front of you the faces.

You speak: “The other delegates should be here by now. They’ve been delayed by their deliberations—internal procedural matters, I imagine.”

Human faces. Which have names.

Irigo—white-haired, wrinkled old man’s hands, hornrimmed glasses. He is trembling a little—he is afraid.

El Campesino—partisan expert from Cuba, tall and strong, and brown eyes, restless, watchful—afraid.

Carmen Sánchez—slim with short hair, defiant. Already biting her nails—afraid.

El Rojo Redondo—heavy and large and coarse, hairy
wrists, wiping the sweat from his forehead—already afraid.

Two more men but neither of them Sixto. Not Sixto.

These will die. But you are alive. Thank you, God. (Must go to mass soon. Thank you, Frankenheimer. Thank you, Behounek.)

Treachery and already they know it.

That uproar—those overturned chairs—those cries. Those white uniforms—those odds against—those machine guns—those glittering chains between the handcuffs—those metallic clicks in the locks—that roar of engines—those looks—that distant reality—those faces on the other side of the veil.

Manuel Ortega remained sitting at the chairman’s desk while the police took out the prisoners. Captain Behounek had not put in an appearance.

Ten miles from the town they saw the fireworks and the bonfires. Red, green, white, purple, the rockets drew rising curves across the night sky.

In the beam on the spotlight in front of the radiator they could see yellowish-gray gravel and a great many stones and once a little lizard. The heat had become more oppressive and sultry after nightfall. The night lay over the countryside like a sleeping hairy black animal.

“They’re already celebrating the victory,” said Behounek. “General Gami’s appointment has been made official. Colonel Orbal is probably speaking from the window of the Governor’s Palace.”

“Are the rockets coming from the villa area?”

“No, from all over the town. Fifty thousand rockets and roman candles have been distributed. Suggested by the Citizens’ Guard.”

“To usher in the new President?”

“Naturally. Then there’ll be executions for a week or two. But as soon as they’re dealt with, he’ll remember his old province and lift the state of emergency. The people will be
happy and will be able to walk about in their own streets. He’ll become a hero for a few days. General Gami knows how to do it all. He’s neither the first nor the last to climb onto these people’s necks on the way to power. As I said, it’s all routine.”

Manuel Ortega lit a cigarette.

“Is the prison van behind or in front of us?”

“In front.”

“Have you seen them?”

“No, I’ll be seeing them in good time.”

They drove in under the first banners, saw the first portraits and the swinging placards. Viva Gami! Viva Orbal! Viva la República!

“Viva Ortega,” said the man sitting beside the Chief of Police.

“Yes. One can indeed say that,” said Behounek. “There’ll be several extra masses. Shall we go to one?”

The cellar was large and cold with a concrete floor and whitewashed walls. Along one of the walls stood a wooden table on trestles and under it was an old ammunition box with rope handles and metal edges. To the right of the table was a gray steel door.

Along the opposite wall stood the six Communist delegates. They were still bound, but the police had now fastened the handcuffs to staples in the wall and they could no longer leave their places. The woman was leaning with her head and shoulders against the wall, but the rest were standing more or less upright, rocking on the soles of their feet.

In the middle of the room Lieutenant Brown was standing with his legs apart and his hand on the butt of his revolver, and along one wall stood three policemen in white uniforms. Their machine guns lay in a row on the wooden table a yard or two away from them.

The steel door opened and the Chief of Police came into the room.

He was bare-headed but otherwise was dressed according to regulations, in boots and newly pressed uniform with his gun in his belt and the strap diagonally across his chest.

“Good day,” he said. “My name is Behounek.”

He placed himself a few yards from Lieutenant Brown and looked at the prisoners with benevolent interest.

“You are condemned to death,” he said. “The execution will take place by firing squad but without military honors. It’s due to take place at nine-thirty, that is, in …”

He looked at his watch.

“… exactly twenty-five minutes. The formal sentence will be read out to you immediately before the execution.”

He looked at the floor for a moment and rubbed his lower lip with his right forefinger.

“Well,” he said. “Which of you is El Campesino?”

The Cuban raised his head and looked at him. The man had watchful brown eyes; he was frightened, but not without a trace of defiance and expectation.

“Set him free,” said Behounek.

Then he turned around and went over to the table, pulled out the box, and selected something from it—a lead pipe about a foot long and two inches in diameter. He weighed it in his hand.

The Cuban was free and had taken three steps away from the wall. He was standing with his head bowed, massaging his wrists to get the blood circulating normally again.

Behounek walked across the floor, very calmly, and without taking his eyes off the man for one moment. One step away from him he stopped, bit his lower lip, and rocked his body a little with his heels off the floor. Then he hit the Cuban a tremendous blow on the back of his neck with the lead pipe.

The man fell headlong and for a few seconds lay still on his knees and forearms. It looked as if he were alive, but he was probably already dead; he fell at once onto his side and lay immobile with his eyes open and knees drawn up.

Behounek turned around, took two steps toward the wooden table, and threw the lead pipe back into the box. Then he returned to the wall.

It was absolutely quiet in the room.

Again he rubbed his forefinger along his lower lip and looked at the prisoners in turn. Finally he stopped in front of the woman, who was standing farthest to the left in the row.

“Carmen Sánchez,” he said absently. “Beautiful Carmen Sánchez.”

The girl had short black hair and was wearing faded jeans, Wellington boots, and a dark-blue blouse.

Behounek gripped the front of her blouse and ripped it down so that the buttons spun off. Underneath she was wearing an ordinary bra, clean and white against the dark skin. He stuck his forefinger in the middle and tore it apart. She cried out in pain as the straps cut into her sides and back. The cry was shrill and childish. Then he thrust his hands between her trousers and the brown elastic skin and jerked. He did not succeed at first and a vein in his temple swelled as, with a tremendous effort, he tore her jeans and pants apart.

The only sound to be heard in the room was the noise of rending material and ripping seams.

He took a step back and looked at her. Her breasts did not look especially firm and her nipples were round and small and pale brown. She was not as thin as one would have thought, seeing her dressed. The skin of her stomach was a trifle slack, as if she had once given birth to a child, and the hair below was sparse and reddish brown.

From her body rose a faint smell of sweat and enclosed body warmth.

“Not much,” he said.

Then he looked at his watch and said to the policemen: “You’ve got nineteen minutes. Do what you like with her.”

Lieutenant Brown leaned over the man on the floor and said: “I think he’s dead, sir.”

“Shoot him anyway,” Behounek said, and left the room.

Manuel Ortega was sitting in the visitor’s chair in the Chief of Police’s room. He was pale and sweating and his hands trembled as he struck a match and tried to light one of his dust-dry cigarettes.

Behounek came into the room, unbuttoned his tunic, and flung himself into the swivel chair behind his desk.

He bit his thumbnail thoughtfully and seemed to look beyond the other man to a point far away. Then he said: “Have you ever killed anyone? I mean actually—by force?”

“No.”

“Then you’ve got something to be thankful for.”

Manuel stared at him.

“You see, the first time one kills, one burns one’s boats in some way. One deprives oneself forever of the right to what one has left behind on the other side. One cannot gather any of it up. It’s lost and gone.”

“What is lost and gone?”

“It’s hard to explain, and besides, it’s supposed to be the same for everyone, but I find that hard to believe. If I say that you can never live again as you lived before, that you can’t love, can’t feel you’re yourself and be happy about it, not even sleep with a woman or get dead drunk, then of course you won’t believe me. Nevertheless it’s true. You can, of course, do all that, live, be happy, sleep with women, whatever you want to do, but you can only do it in a technical sense. Your technique can be improved, but it’s all a bluff. You can never deceive yourself, at least not for long. You soon realize that.”

“You’re really destructive.”

Behounek rose from his chair, laughed, and walked around the desk.

“Isn’t it absurd?” he said. “Isn’t it absolutely ridiculous to think that I was once a happy man? Yes, it’s true. I remember it very well. Together with a woman. Sometimes I wake in the night and think I remember what it feels like.”