The Assignment (7 page)

“Then you know nothing?”

“No, unfortunately.”

Manuel was silent and looked thoughtfully at him. The young man seemed intelligent but not very willing to cooperate. In some way their relationship had gone awry from the very start. Things had not begun well.

“How do I call my secretary?”

“Use the telephone—it’s connected.”

Manuel cursed himself for overlooking this simple solution.

“May I go now?”

“Yes.”

He lifted the receiver and the woman answered at once.

“Get me the Chief of Police, Captain Behounek.”

About three minutes later she opened the door and said: “It seems to be difficult. I just get through to someone who refuses to put me through to anywhere.”

“Let me speak to him.”

He lifted the receiver and heard someone mumbling.

“Hullo,” said the voice. “Are you still there, beautiful?”

“This is the Provincial Resident. To whom am I speaking?”

“Duty officer.”

“Will you put me through to the Chief of Police.”

“He’s at a meeting.”

“Then get him. If you don’t allow me to speak to him then it’s at your own risk.”

The duty officer hesitated slightly.

“One moment—I’ll find out.”

Silence for a moment. Then there was a click and someone said: “Behounek speaking.”

“The Provincial Resident speaking. Manuel Ortega.”

“Ah, welcome. Unfortunately I was unable to meet you today. But we’ll meet this evening, won’t we?”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you had the invitation? Strange. A party at Dalgren’s. Particularly appropriate as it can be a welcoming party for you as well. You’ll have the opportunity of meeting a lot of people and making a few contacts.”

The man’s voice was lively and forceful. He sounded at ease—forthright and humorous.

“I’d like to have a private talk with you first. Preferably with General Gami and Colonel Orbal too.”

“Unfortunately I have to inform you that the General and his Chief-of-Staff will not be able to meet you for at least a week. They are much occupied with important military matters.”

“Are they out of town?”

“I imagine so. To be quite honest, I don’t know. But personally I’m at your service of course. When can you come?”

“I’d prefer to talk here in my office. In an hour. Will that suit you?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll be there.”

A moment later Danica Rodríguez opened the door and said: “We’ve had an invitation to some kind of party this evening. Do you want to go?”

“Yes. Accept it and find out the details.”

“Don’t you think it a bit unsuitable for me to go too?”

“Not at all. The Chief of Police is coming here in an hour. I think it’d be wise to note down in shorthand the gist of our conversation.”

“Undoubtedly.”

He looked at her in surprise as she went out. She still walked like an animal.

Captain Behounek arrived forty minutes late and seemed completely unaware of the fact. He was a heavily built man with a narrow black mustache, a rugged sunburned face, and a rumbling laugh. He threw himself into the visitor’s chair and looked with amusement at López, who was sitting immobile in his chair.

“One of your specialists?”

Manuel Ortega nodded. The sun was very low and the heat almost intolerable. He felt sweaty and dull, especially in the presence of the police officer, who was lolling in the armchair, untroubled and good-natured, as he studied Danica Rodríguez’s feet and long bare legs.

“Would you mind reporting on the situation in the province at the moment, from a police point of view. Only broadly, of course.”

Behounek dragged his eyes with obvious reluctance away from the woman with the shorthand notebook, took out a cigar, cut off the top of it, lit it, and carefully put the match in the ashtray.

“It is calm,” he said. “The situation is satisfactory. I have a feeling our problems will solve themselves in the near future.”

“How many crimes of violence have been reported during this last week?”

“Practically none since the tragic death of General Larrinaga. Guerrilla activity in the countryside seems to be fading out. Here in the town we haven’t had any incidents worth mentioning.”

“How do people react to police action?”

“Very positively. In most cases with absolute confidence. The idea of the Peace Force has grown in everyone’s mind. And it’s an idea which has a certain validity. Thanks to our air patrols we have been able to cover the country districts pretty well, and our people work efficiently. Considering how quickly the force has been built up and organized, the behavior of the rank and file is astonishing. They have instructions not to use force except when absolutely necessary. As a result, the number of casualties is low and their own losses very slight.”

“And the number of arrests?”

“Very few too. May I—yes, I must be quite frank with you. The fact is, in view of what happened before, my men have
had orders not to be too zealous. The army’s activities, guerrilla attacks, the perpetual killing. All our activities are based on common sense and persuasion. In general, people can be talked into things, both the poor and the rich. As a result, we have in many cases turned a blind eye to illegal activities. Personally, I’m convinced that this method will lead to success more swiftly than any other.”

Manuel Ortega liked both the man and his reasoning. It was in pleasant contrast to the negative attitude he had so far come across, and to the hysteria he had in the federal capital, in men like Zaforteza and Uribarri. He glanced at the unmoving López, and Behounek, who followed his gaze, suppressed a smile. But the glint in his brown eyes was not so easily hidden and Manuel had to draw his hand across his mouth to prevent himself from smiling.

“I’ve been here for seven months now,” said Behounek. “It takes time to get used to this country, but one does in the end. I thought we were definitely on the road to success when this unfortunate lunatic went and shot Larrinaga.”

“Apropros of that, when does the murderer come up for trial?”

Behounek stared at him, and then said: “You can’t try a dead man.”

“Dead?”

“Do you mean you don’t know what happened? Has the government really been too cowardly to publish a true version? Didn’t you know that the assassin was court-martialed and executed less than half an hour after the murder? Anyway, you know now.”

“Why didn’t you intervene?”

The Chief of Police rose and said: “Because I didn’t have time. The escort officer, a lieutenant, wounded the assassin with a pistol shot and then the man was taken by the soldiers in the escort and they took him off to the barracks of the Third Infantry Regiment. He was executed there almost immediately.
I went there ten minutes too late to stop it. Perhaps I wouldn’t have been able to stop it anyway.”

“Who gave the order?”

“General Gami personally. That way it wasn’t even illegal. General Gami is the Military Governor and after Larrinaga’s death he was in every respect the highest authority. He condemned the murder as an attack on an officer and the situation was so serious that he could apply martial law. These army people! Do you remember the old saying about act first and think afterward? Even as a policeman I must deplore the whole thing. And what an opportunity we lost for interrogating someone who might be useful! One gets cynical in one’s old age.”

“Who was the assassin?”

“A young worker, God knows where from. Called something quite ordinary, Pablo Gonzáles, I think. I have the information from his Communist Party card. We managed to collect what he had in his pockets before they buried him, but that was all.”

He looked at the clock.

“The army were naturally a bit touchy about the whole thing. General Larrinaga relied on the army, the way you do on your experts. Anyhow—are you coming to Dalgren’s place this evening?”

“Yes, with pleasure. Who is this man Dalgren?”

“This man Dalgren,” said Behounek calmly, “is the outstanding right-wing extremist and member of the Citizens’ Guard. Perhaps its leader. It is presumably with him we shall negotiate, if anything is to be negotiated. No, don’t ask me why I don’t arrest him. Technically speaking, every single inhabitant of the whole province is a member of either the Citizens’ Guard or the Liberation Front. I’d have to arrest two hundred and fifty thousand people.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you.”

“Otherwise, Dalgren was originally a pharmacist, a druggist.
He found the raw materials for certain medicines here in the province and began a pharmaceutical manufacturing concern. It’s already earned him millions. Basically, of course, it’s pretty squalid: impoverished Indians, women and children, climb all over the mountains for weeks and months collecting roots, or whatever they are, which he then buys from them with a shrug of his shoulders, and they get practically nothing. So he becomes a millionaire and they starve to death. But that’s what it’s like. We’re not supposed to be able to change it.”

“No, hardly. My life, moreover, was threatened by the Citizens’ Guard today.”

“I know,” said Behounek.

Manuel Ortega started and opened his mouth, but said nothing.

Behounek glanced at the telephone and shrugged his shoulders slightly.

“The person who threatened you was arrested ten minutes later. A young lady who owns a perfume shop three blocks away from here. A rather exalted type. Full of talk. There are lots like her. Tomorrow we’ll let her go again. But,” the Chief of Police went on thoughtfully, “that doesn’t mean that your position is not a very tricky one. We must hope that there’ll be a relaxation of tension in a week or two. I’ll keep an eye on you and then you’ve got your …”

He jerked his head toward the man in the chair.

They rose and shook hands. Manuel Ortega had collected his wits and was able to say: “One more thing. Will you send copies of your reports and your crime statistics over, so that I can let my staff work on them?”

Behounek thought for a moment.

“Yes, for the last seven months. You can have them in the morning. What happened before then will be in the military records.”

They parted.

Manuel Ortega went in and had a shower and changed his shirt and underclothes. When he went out into the corridor again, López was sitting there on his swivel chair.

If he doesn’t take his hands off his knees soon, I’ll strangle him. I must send these orangutans back to Uribarri. Otherwise I’ll go crazy. Nice not to have to look at that Frankenheimer anyhow.

As he put his hand on the doorknob and heard López’s slothful movements behind him, the terror clutched at him. He thrust his hand inside his jacket and nervously gripped the butt of the revolver before pushing open the door to his office.

There was, of course, no one in there.

The villa was large and white and lay at the top of the artificially irrigated hillside. In front of it was a wide veranda with a grand colonnade of white marble. Dalgren was holding his party there. The darkness fell swiftly and the air seemed even thicker and hotter.

Manuel Ortega and Danica Rodríguez drove there in the little French sedan. López was driving and appeared later on on the veranda, where he sat on various chairs and ate tiny sandwiches.

Dalgren was a man of about sixty, thin and bald and dressed in a flimsy white dinner jacket. He gazed at his guests through rimless glasses, peering in a friendly way. Early in the evening while everyone was still standing in groups talking quietly, he walked up to Manuel Ortega, took him by the arm, and spoke to him. He talked calmly and informatively and in a strictly businesslike manner. He said, among other things: “I’ve identified myself wholly with the Citizens’ Guard and if you’d lived here as I have for thirty years, or perhaps for only ten, you’d understand why. I’m telling you this at the start to clarify my position.”

“Your organization has issued me a death sentence. One of its members threatened my life only today.”

“I must point out that this organization can in no way, nor should it, be called mine. But I know the Citizens’ Guard sometimes resorts to very stern measures. However, there is one thing that deserves noting. All the members, except a few schoolboys, are hard-working people, people who have families and positions to defend, who live here and who in many
cases have lived here all their lives, and who as a result base their whole existence on this part of the country and this town. Do you think such people would resort to violence without very good reasons? Without feeling that they are forced to? Do you know that during the last fourteen months more than eight hundred of the best people in this province have lost their lives? You can imagine what that means, can’t you? They are dead—gone. They don’t exist any longer. They were farmers, teachers, technical men—all sorts—they are dead, but in many cases their murderers are still alive. And what kind of people are these murderers? Yes—half-crazy whining cretins who sleep in caves and creep about in the mountains—wild people with guns and knives and ammunition belts.”

“It’s horrible, but even so, I can’t really see that it is sufficient reason to take my life.”