The Rocket Man (46 page)

‘Yes, there would be questions asked,' said Vargas, ‘But there would not be any answers. Let me tell you a little story.' He leaned back in his chair as if he had all the time in the world. ‘A year or so ago, a man from Norway disappeared in the Chaco. I cannot recall now what business he was on. Eventually when he did not turn up questions were asked by his relatives. The Norwegian Embassy in Buenos Aires made investigations, but he was never found. So what happened? Was he killed? Did he change his name and go into Bolivia, and then who knows where? Is he working somewhere here in the Mennonite colonies under another identity? Nobody has the slightest idea. No-one has ever discovered what has happened to him.‘ Vargas shrugged expressively. ‘That is the kind of place the Chaco is,' he said.

Dmitry stood in silence. Outside, through the open door, it was now quite dark. The soldiers shifted restlessly behind him. Vargas smiled. He was probably enjoying himself; life must be pretty boring in Mariscal Estigarribia. ‘I think I have been remarkably patient, don't you?' Vargas got up. ‘Well, have you no explanation to give us? You are not going to tell us you are
periodista
, a journalist? That is the usual excuse. Why will you not admit that you shot this soldier? Let me tell you this; it is the guilty man who is protected by the right to silence. This is the fundamental flaw in all systems of justice. In my experience, the innocent man always protests his innocence. He would say that he had not done it, or he would describe in the greatest detail what had happened, he would want to confess, because it would be in his interest to do so. Or he would say he did not mean it, it was an accident, it was self-defence. Was it self-defence, Señor Gavrilov?'

Dmitry opened his mouth to say something, but the words would not come. He was paralysed with indecision. Vargas got to his feet. ‘I don't think you can realise the seriousness of your position,' he said. ‘Come on, talk to me. Do we have to force it out of you?'

So it had come at last; the threat of physical abuse. Dmitry had been expecting it; it did not make him feel any more frightened. He said, ‘It was self-defence. I gave myself up willingly. I need not have done. I would not have done so unless I was innocent.'

‘So,' said Vargas, ‘Explain to us what happened; exactly what happened.'

Dmitry was having trouble with his Spanish. He was exhausted, confused, his head was throbbing, the right words would not come into his head. ‘They were holding me at gunpoint. The American threatened to take me to the rocket range and have me shot. I thought that he was serious. There was a struggle, I got hold of a gun. I didn't mean to fire it; I never had any intention of killing him.'

‘But you did kill him. With one shot. That was a very unfortunate accident. Why did the American – Haynes, I think is his name – want to have you shot?'

Dmitry hesitated. It was so easy to say, because I was running off with his wife. Why didn't he say so? They might just believe him. But he was afraid to mention Katie's name. He had visions of them arresting her on the road to Asunción and asking her questions, trying to force her to incriminate him, something he had stupidly made her promise not to do. He didn't think that she would willingly do what she thought would betray him; she would lie, to save his skin; they would know she was lying; it could get very unpleasant. He thought they would not treat her badly, not these days, not in Asunción, and especially not a British citizen, but she would be frightened enough – and she was pregnant. He decided he would keep her out of it.

He said, ‘Perhaps he also thought I had come here to find out about the rocket project, or to interfere with it.'

‘Exactly. That is what I also think. Come on, we want to know the whole truth; how you came here, who sent you, what you have found out. We want names, dates, places. This is what Richter's men have asked for.'

Dmitry felt an overpowering sensation of depression and helplessness wash over him. ‘But I have no such information. I've told you, this is a mistake.'

The phone rang, loudly. Vargas snatched it up. He answered in monosyllables. Then he slammed the phone down. ‘We have contacted the UN. It seems the resident representative has never heard of you. He has no knowledge of anyone of your name being in Paraguay.'

Dmitry closed his eyes.

‘We have also checked with immigration. They have no record of you either.'

Dmitry said, ‘I crossed the border at Ciudad del Este. They did not ask to see my passport.'

‘And where is your passport?'

‘I told you; it was stolen. The American, Haynes, took it from me in the hotel.'

‘Ah, yes, the American; the American who is working for Señor Richter. But unfortunately for you, it appears that you are not working for Señor Richter; in fact, his people are very anxious to find out who you are and why you are here. They have asked us to find out from you. Come now, be reasonable. This is your last chance to tell us.'

Dmitry said, ‘Please, I have had nothing to eat or drink. If I could just have a glass of water –'

Vargas nodded to one of the soldiers. He turned and went out, returning in a few moments with a small glass. It seemed absurd in the circumstances, but Dmitry wondered how clean it was. You were not supposed to drink unboiled water outside Asunción. Probably he would get dysentery. He gulped it down; it was not enough, but he didn't feel able to ask for more. Vargas said, ‘All right, let's have the full story. You entered the country at Ciudad del Este. When was this?'

‘Thursday morning.'

‘How did you get to Asunción?'

‘I hired a car.'

‘At about five-thirty you met with Cesar Madregón at the Bavaria Bar. You told him you wanted to come to the Chaco on an illegal hunting expedition. He drove you here. We have the number of the vehicle and your passport number which the soldier recorded. The soldier could not recall the nationality of your passport.'

‘It was a UN laissez-passer.'

‘I see. Madregón took you to the Hotel Alemán. He left you there but you didn't stay the night. Where did you go?'

He didn't want to mention Katie. ‘I wandered around.'

‘All night?'

‘Well, I slept.'

‘On the ground.'

‘Yes.'

‘Why not in the hotel?'

‘I didn't like the look of it.'

Vargas sighed. ‘The next evening you turn up again, with Haynes, his wife, and these two soldiers, Luís Castellanos and the unfortunate Virgilio Rojas. In the morning there is an argument. You shoot Rojas. You steal the guns. You bribe two soldiers. You escape, driving off, with the Englishwoman. Have I got all this correct?'

Dmitry supposed they had talked to Haynes, Luís, Feldman. It was hopeless to deny it. He said, ‘They threatened to shoot me.'

‘Yes, I am sure they did. You were a danger to them, weren't you? You were here to sabotage the rocket project?'

Dmitry said, ‘Who has told you this? Haynes? He is a liar. He has… how do I say… I don't have the word…'

‘Can you speak English?' asked Vargas abruptly.

Dmitry switched language with great relief. ‘My Spanish is not so good.'

‘No, it's not bad.' Vargas spoke with an East Coast accent. ‘Myself, I learned English at West Point. Perhaps you will now find it easier to explain yourself.'

Dmitry shifted uneasily on his feet. The whole atmosphere in the room was oppressive; the soldiers with their guns; Vargas, who probably had never had such an interesting case to deal with before; the unvoiced threat of violence. Vargas got to his feet. He said, ‘Sit down.' Dmitry sat. Vargas came over to him; the purpose of him sitting seemed not for his own benefit, but so that Vargas could look down on him. He said, ‘You are really in a very unfortunate situation. You expect me to believe this extraordinary story? Well? Where is your motive? Why do you behave in this bizarre manner? Have you any explanation?'

Dmitry said, ‘It is all a terrible mistake. I keep asking myself, how did I get into this situation? I have no way to explain myself. I can only think I have gone mad.'

Vargas appeared perplexed by this admission. Dmitry hung his head; he half expected Vargas to hit him. There was a knock at the door. A man came in, a colonel. He addressed Vargas. They talked together, very quickly, in Spanish; their voices were flat in tone and the words, broken abruptly by pauses, came out like rapid machine-gun fire. Dmitry tried to follow what they were saying. He heard them mention Richter, Haynes, the rocket project. He heard the word,
espía
, spy. Then Vargas turned to him. ‘My colleague is from military intelligence,' he said. ‘He also would like to talk to you.'

The colonel sat down. Dmitry wondered what military intelligence were involved with in the Chaco; perhaps it was with non-existent troop movements on the Bolivian border, perhaps, more likely, with drugs. They went over the whole story again, half in English, half in Spanish. Dmitry's head was aching. He kept saying, ‘Please, I haven't eaten, I haven't slept.' They asked him what he knew about Richter. He told them he knew only what he had read in the newspapers. Dmitry was several times on the point of telling them about Katie, but he didn't think that they would believe that either. It was also his last card; he would only play it when absolutely necessary.

He said, ‘Please give me time. Please let me think.'

Vargas said, ‘So that you can think up more of these lies? We want the truth. We have been extremely patient with you, much more patient than you might have had the right to expect.'

A long silence fell in the room. The soldiers at the door shifted on their feet; one of them stifled a yawn. Dmitry was beginning to feel a sense of hollow dread, as he imagined a man might feel who was about to be led out to his execution. He thought, for some reason, of being beheaded; he imagined the sensation of laying his cheek on the cold block. Perhaps it might even be a relief to know that it was all over; what disturbed him most at that moment was not knowing what was going to happen. Suddenly, unable to bear the silence any longer, he asked: ‘What are you going to do with me?'

The question seemed to infuriate Vargas; he had obviously been considering this very point. ‘Take him away,' he said to the soldiers. ‘Let's see whether a night in a cell makes him more talkative. We'll check out what he says in the morning.'

They took him out and escorted him to another building. He was led down a corridor and into a small room with a heavy door and a tiny, high window. They took everything off him but his clothes, even his watch and belt. He saw no bed, nothing in the room but a bucket in the corner. The door was slammed behind him and he was left alone. A little later a soldier brought in a glass of water and a mug of thin stew in which a few lumps of meat were suspended. Dmitry ate it hungrily. There was nothing to be done; he lay down on the hard floor and tried to sleep. His head ached so much that he could hardly bear to rest it on the concrete; but he was so exhausted that eventually he slept.

He was woken in the night by a distant rumbling sound which at first he took to be thunder. But the sound was different; hollow, booming, flat. It sounded like bombs exploding. Weird flashes momentarily lit up the walls of the room. He lifted himself up and went to peer out of the window; he could see a strange, pale light in the sky over the flat expanse to the north. He could hear raised voices and see a group of soldiers staring into the distance. He heard another bang, louder and clearer now; something bright lit up the sky a long way off, and now the glow in the sky was turning red. Dmitry knew what it was, now; he thought, my God, they are blowing up the rocket range. He could hear a telephone ringing; there were loud voices. A truck filled up with soldiers and roared off down the road. Then he heard a plane fly overhead.

After about ten minutes he heard voices in the corridor. The door opened and two soldiers came inside. Without saying a word they pushed him out into the corridor and propelled him along to the office.

Vargas was waiting for him. He said, ‘Now we are going to get at the truth from you. We have had nothing but lies and evasions. It is no coincidence that you are here. Sit down.'

They forced him down onto a chair. Dmitry felt the difference in their mood at once. While before he had felt that perhaps Vargas did not really care, that he was puzzled by him and, although he wanted to know why he was there, was not in any desperate hurry to find out, he now saw that he was deadly serious. The door opened and the colonel came in. He had been drinking whisky. His clothes looked dishevelled, as if he had just pulled them on; perhaps he had just got out of bed or come from the whorehouse. There would be nothing much else to do here in your spare time but drinking and whoring. He looked unpleasant. ‘We have been wasting our time,‘ he said to Vargas. ‘In Stroessner's time we would have known what to do with him. Let's try him in the
pileta
.'

The phone rang. Vargas answered it. He went outside and started to shout orders. The colonel came and leaned over Dmitry, putting his hand on his thigh. He squeezed it, gently, almost caressingly; Dmitry instinctively shrank from his touch. ‘You see,' said the colonel, breathing whisky fumes all over him, ‘We can do absolutely anything we like with you. Anything. Do you understand me?'

‘Yes, I understand.'

The colonel turned to the soldiers by the door. ‘All right, you know what to do with him.' The soldiers nodded and took him out of the room.

They walked down the corridor. The two soldiers looked at him with blank, impassive faces. They opened a door and indicated for him to go in. Dmitry had intended to stay calm and dignified, whatever happened, hut when they asked him to step into the room his will failed him. His legs trembled uncontrollably and they had to push him over the threshold. He stood there, uncertain. The room was about fifteen feet square and was lit by a single bulb on the ceiling. Perhaps it had been designed as a storeroom. There were cobwebs and dust; it looked as if it had not been much used. The room was empty but for a chair and a large tin tank, the kind that might be used as a water storage tank or as a cattle trough. One of the soldiers turned on the tap on the wall above it. The sound of the water running made saliva pour into Dmitry's mouth.