The Assignment

by Per Wahlöö

  “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.”

  “In point of principle, I can say that we don’t know you. You might, from want of judgment, make sudden concessions to the pueblos which would give this so-called Liberation Front a free hand. Only a month ago such a concession would have been disastrous, would have lead to the whole province, yes, even this town, within a few days, yes, even hours, being flooded by plundering, murderous mobs. They’d have raped our women, tortured us and our children, everything that has been built up with tremendous sacrifices and infinite pains would have collapsed, mines, farms, factories, and workshops. Before the army could intervene, thousands of lives would have been lost and the greater part of all the invested capital would have been irretrievably lost. Finally it would have perhaps involved the whole country in a meaningless war.”

  Dalgren smiled in a friendly way and lowered his voice.

  “Now fortunately the situation is no longer the same. So you needn’t think that the Citizens’ Guard’s sentence cannot be revoked. Within this organization, as in most others, there are some wilder ones, youngsters who want to play dangerous games, just as you and I did at that age. The threat against you today almost certainly came from that direction. I can assure you that the Citizens’ Guard is a well-organized movement. Of course it can’t control what every individual member says and thinks, but it has their activities under complete control. I think that you, just by waiting and not doing anything too hastily, can feel secure as far as the Citizens’ Guard is concerned. The real danger comes from another direction, as the case of Larrinaga clearly shows.”

  He beckoned to a waiter in a striped waistcoat and they both took a Martini from the tray. Dalgren raised his glass and said: “In a way, I admire your courage.”

  “I haven’t come here to be brave. I’ve come here to be sensible and practical and to be of some use.”

  “Then you’ve got a good basis for a start. The new political situation smooths the way for common sense. What happened in our neighboring country to the south three weeks ago has saved us and perhaps the whole of the Federal Republic from a serious crisis. When the Socialist regime down there eventually fell after two years of misrule, the whole situation changed. All our troubles stemmed from there. Just think, night after night they sent rebels and armed bands of murderers across the border, day after day their press and radio poured out lying propaganda, directed against us. A considerable number of people came over from there in a steady stream. That’s what made our soldiers into martyrs. How can one finally defeat an enemy who only has to withdraw over a boundary line when the ground begins to sizzle under his feet? And who can feel himself safe? But now it’s different. In a week at the most the old administration down there will be out of the running. Then the border will be closed and all we need do is to take care of the last of these terrorists left on our side of the mountains. It’s a job that’ll be cleared up in a few weeks, or a month at the most. Everything that is evil comes from down there. They quite simply carried on a war against us without giving us a chance to hit back, a creeping war which gave all the trumps to one side. When you get to know the natives here in the province, you’ll soon see that none of this really comes from them. They are poor and ignorant but in some way or other happy. They obey their own natures and like everyone else, all they want is to be left alone. They are like children. Unfortunately, like all children, they have to be punished sometimes.”

  Dalgren smiled and let his glance slide over his guests before he went on: “Well, now, I haven’t asked you to come here just to give you a lecture. But I’ll give you a bit of good advice. Stick to your common-sense line, don’t rush into anything, and don’t try to force any settlement. Then there’ll be no danger from the Citizens’ Guard. But you must be careful all the same, especially in the next few weeks. There are still terrorist groups about, the same kind of people as that madman who shot my old friend Orestes. The ground is shaking beneath their feet now. They’ll be desperate and then they’ll kill anyone, just to be able to kill.”

  He tossed down his drink, put his glass on the ledge of the balustrade, and said to a man standing a few yards away: “Dr. Alvarado, have you met our new Provincial Resident?”

  Then he went away with his white dinner jacket and his smile.

  Dr. Alvarado turned out to be the Medical Superintendent of the military hospital, and was slightly drunk. He said: “I heard those last words by chance; to kill for the sake of killing. He’s right. It’s the final consequence of hate and desperation. Personally I don’t give a damn for their politics. I try to patch up those who come my way regardless of who they are and where they come from. When it was at its worst they came into the hospital and shot the wounded in their beds. Only six months ago, that was.”

  “Who did that?”

  “A gang of crazy school kids with guns in their hands. I’ve seen a couple of them in the streets since. With schoolbooks in straps and gym shoes slung around their necks. The Citizens’ Guard, that is. The others let loose their excesses in the country. And they shot one or two Provincial Residents too.”

  He took a drink and glanced at Ortega.

  “Why don’t you report them if you recognize them?”

  “I’m a doctor. As I said, I don’t give a damn for their crazy politics. Anyway they were mentally sick at the time. I certify them as unaccountable. They’ll get better and become outstanding citizens of the country.”

  “But it could happen again. They could do it again.”

  “Yes, they could, or someone else could. But their victims didn’t look so frightful as those I had in from the country. There are grades of corpses too.”

  He was silent and drank, but then said suddenly: “Are you thinking of pushing self-government and enforcing agricultural reforms? Well, of course you can’t answer that sort of question, but if you are, then we’re bound to meet again.”

  “The government is certainly thinking along those lines,” said Manuel evasively.

  “I think you should call up Radamek and ask him if he hopes to be President when the almond trees bloom,” said Alvarado poetically.

  The doctor was manifestly not on his best behavior. As if he had noticed that his companion was disturbed, he turned to Manuel Ortega and, gripping his dinner jacket lapel, he said: “Before you go, I’ll just tell you a great and uncontestable truth. Orestes de Larrinaga was a stupid old fool. From every point of view he was a dolt. The stupidest thing he did was to try to do his job properly. I hope you’re too clever to do the same thing.”

  An orchestra had begun to play dance music in the corner of the terrace. The sky was black and starry, the air heavy and filled with dust. When Manuel Ortega went looking for the washroom he saw Danica Rodríguez standing at the cocktail bar with a
tall officer in a black uniform. She was drinking whiskey and she glanced fleetingly at her boss. Her eyes were shining and she looked unsteady.

  A moment later he saw her again. She was dancing with the same officer and had taken off her shoes. As far as he could judge she danced very well.

  Then he met Captain Behounek, who thumped him on the back and talked for a while. Finally he said: “Your secretary is quite a piece though she’s nothing much to look at. My young officers here have gone quite crazy, I see. She gets them like a knife through butter. But now an infantryman has got hold of her. Well, well—these army chaps.”

  A little later he ran into his host, who took a flat container out of his inner pocket and said: “You’ll find it difficult to sleep at first in this climate. These are excellent sleeping tablets which my laboratories have just brought out. You’ll sleep like a child and wake up eight hours later—like a child, bright and rested. But never take more than two at a time.”

  “Thank you. In fact, I am very tired, and I must be going soon. I can see a hard day’s work ahead of me tomorrow.”

  “Oh, don’t overdo things too much. But I understand. I hope we’ll meet again under equally pleasant circumstances.”

  Manuel Ortega went across to López, who was sitting on the balustrade ten yards away.

  “We’re going now. Do you know where the lady is?”

  López pointed at the door near the orchestra platform.

  Manuel opened the door and went into an empty room containing comfortable chairs and potted palms. He went straight across the floor and pushed open another door, which was standing slightly ajar.

  “Señora Rodríguez?” he said. At the same moment he saw her. She was leaning against the wall inside the door, barefooted and with two buttons of her dress undone. The tall officer was pressed against her and was kissing her. He had one hand over her breast, under the material of her dress, and the other on her stomach, very low down. She had her hands in his hair.

  The officer started and turned angrily toward Manuel Ortega. He had an ordinary, foolish face, and was quite young.

  The woman freed herself and took a few nervous steps into the room, took out a cigarette, and lit it.

  “I’m sorry. I was just going and only wanted to ask you if we could give you a lift into town.”

  “No,” she said curtly and tonelessly. “I’m staying.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  The officer grinned complacently and put his hand on her shoulder, but she immediately shook it off.

  When Manuel turned to go, he found López standing only a few yards behind him.

  “You don’t make much noise, do you?”

  “No.”

  On the way back he made another attempt at conversation.

  “Your colleague, Frankenstein or whatever he’s called, where has he gone?”

  The man at the wheel shrugged his shoulders, stuck out his lower lip, and said nothing.

  Even his attempt to strike a lighter tone had failed.

  The main road was lighted by street lamps which stood fairly close together, but the slums on each side were mercifully hidden by the white stone walls. At the entrance to the center of the town a barrier had been set up across the road. A white jeep was parked to one side and a policeman was standing in the middle of the road holding a red lantern. López braked the car and the policeman shone his light on their faces. Then he saluted and stood to one side.

  Somewhere behind them, three shots rang out and they heard a shrill drawn-out cry.

  “What was that?”

  “Don’t know,” said the policeman.

  López put the car into gear and drove off.

  Manuel Ortega was very tired but still not sleepy. He nodded once or twice in the car but jerked awake again immediately. He felt sticky and unhealthy and the revolver seemed to be weighing him down on his left side.

  In his bedroom he strode up and down for a long time before taking a shower and putting on his pajamas. Then he remembered something and took out the container he had received from Dalgren, shook out two tablets, went into the bathroom, and filled a glass with water. He had all but got the tablets on his tongue when he stopped himself and put them down on the shelf. He went back into his bedroom and walked round the bed several times. Then he said: “No. It won’t be like that. But just think—what a simple way …”

  He got the tablets, swallowed them, and went to bed.

  His last thought before he fell asleep was of the three shots and the long wailing cry from the native quarter.

  The tablets fulfilled their donor’s promise. Manuel Ortega woke up at exactly eight o’clock. The room was murky and very hot. The sheets were tangled and wet and his pajamas were clinging to his body like plaster.

  When he had dressed he went into the other room; a man was sitting there. Manuel Ortega jumped and was fumbling for the gun inside his jacket before he realized that this must be the man who had taken over from López at midnight.

  The man was called, quite simply, Fernández. He was small and ordinary and was reading a comic book. His colleague was out in the corridor, an older and coarser man but just as ordinary, called Gómez.

  Like the fat López Fernández stood behind him as he opened the door and went into the office.

  Manuel Ortega decided that he would have to take up the matter with the man in the linen suit. Then he realized he would be worse off with his back unprotected and that the chances of there being anyone in the room were very small, and anyhow the whole thing was absurd. Of course no one would try to kill him. There was no valid reason why anyone should.

  He opened the door into the outer office and saw Danica Rodríguez, dressed as she had been the day before. She said: “Good morning. Captain Behounek has already sent over the papers.”

  The copies of the reports lay in stacks on the desk. He stood beside her and flicked absently through the papers. Then he shifted his glance to her. She looked fresh and bright and her dress was loosely buttoned. When she unthinkingly leaned forward to scratch her shin, he noticed two details. She was not wearing a bra and deep down on the inside of her right breast was an elliptical purple bruise.

  He walked over to the window, looked out, and said:

  “Were you late last night?”

  “The party finished about two.”

  “Are you tired?”

  “No. I didn’t drink very much.”

  Manuel Ortega stood silently for a moment. Then he said: “Let the man look after this.”

  He went into his room, sat down at his desk, and waited.

  Fernández made more noise than López. He rustled his comic book and chewed seeds of some kind which he apparently kept loose in his pocket. Sometimes he got up and roamed around the room. Once he opened the door and waved at Gómez, who relieved him for a while.

  Right up to midday, Manuel Ortega waited for something to happen. It was absolutely silent in the building and the heat was appalling.

  By ten past twelve López had come and Fernández gone. Manuel Ortega suddenly realized that this was the only thing that had happened during half a working day.

  He picked up the telephone and called Captain Behounek.

  There was a short wait before the Chief of Police came on the line.

  “How was last night?”

  “Absolutely calm.”

  “And out in the country?”

  “Calm.”

  “I heard cries and shots near the northern entrance when I was going home last night.”

  “I’ll investigate the matter. Probably nothing very serious.”

  There was a silence. Manuel was about to put a badly phrased question but stopped himself. He thought for a moment and said: “Have you, with your experience here, any views as to what measures I should take first?”

  “None at all.”

  “What do you mean by none at all?”

  “Just what I say. Wait.”

  “You’ll keep me informed if anything
happens, won’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  He put down the receiver and rang for his assistant. The young man came at once.

  “Have you had a look at those reports?”

  “Yes, but it’ll take quite a while. I’ve almost forgotten what one does when one works.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I wanted to ask you one or two other things. Do you know where the members of the reform committee and the legal experts are?”

  “The whole committee went back to the capital when the troubles were at their worst a month ago. About the same time as General Larrinaga was appointed. They’re working there now, I suppose. The only people left here are a group of surveyors. They’re living at the hotel.”

  “Which hotel?”

  “There’s only one. Called the Universal. I’m living there myself now—since yesterday.”

  The last remark sounded bitter.

  “Are they there now, do you think?”

  “They were there yesterday.”

  “Another thing. Do you know if General Larrinaga has any relations in the town?”

  “Yes. His widow lives here and so does his daughter. The girl who teaches at the Catholic school.”

  “Thanks very much. You can go.”

  Manuel Ortega got his hat. On the way he said to López: “I’m going out for a while.”

  He came out into the blazing heat of midday. There was no one to be seen in the square apart from the two guards at the entrance. Everything was blinding white, the sunlight and the buildings and the cobblestones. He thought: I must get a pair of sunglasses if I don’t want to lose my sight.

  On the main street he passed a shop that sold optical and medical goods. He looked into the window for a while and saw López’s reflection as he stood on the other side of the street.