by Per Wahlöö
“Call up the Federal Court and tell the commissionaire that a new law on the matter must be confirmed within twenty minutes.”
The Chief of Police smiled.
“Listen, Captain Behounek. Here I am, sitting here, and in my hand I have an order which is dated tomorrow and which among other things contains two decisions made by the country’s highest judicial authority, which will also be made public tomorrow. The order is written by someone who thinks he will be the head of the government tomorrow and is issued by a general who is thinking of becoming a dictator tomorrow.”
“Today, Ortega, all this is happening today. It’s already a quarter to one.”
“It seems to mean that Gami, whom I have never met but who obviously is just an ordinary power-mad officer, before he has even succeeded in making himself dictator, can direct the highest judicial authorities and the country’s legislature.”
“You forget Zaforteza. He has been the Minister of Justice in three governments.”
“What does he look like, this Gami?”
“Like most generals. Nothing special. Slightly corpulent. Red-nosed. Fat wife. Four children.”
“Does this mean that the death sentences are also already prepared?”
“In principle … yes. Only three of them are completed however, those on El Campesino, Irigo, and José Redondo. I’ve got about twenty blanks, though. All signed by Colonel Orbal.”
“And who will fill them in?”
“I shall.”
Manuel Ortega felt that the cocoon which had separated him from the world now enveloped the man on the other side of the desk too. He said: “If we could get on to a less formal level, I would like to ask you: What pressures do you think could have persuaded Radamek into making this sudden exit?”
“Well, informally speaking, I can say this: Radamek and the whole of the Liberal regime had gotten to the stage where it was a question of blinding the opposition here at home and gagging the talkers abroad. It has been dependent on the support of the army all the time and has certainly never taken one single independent decision. Zaforteza has been the driving force in the cabinet and he is in all respects the general’s man. As far as Radamek is concerned, I’m convinced that he did everything for money. He could hardly be described as hard up when he left the country yesterday.”
“And yet it was he who created the Peace Force,” said Manuel.”
“Yes,” said Behounek, glancing at the map. “He created the white police, the Federal Police, the Peace Force.”
“And when the Peace Force goes to a village everyone runs to the woods and women hide their children under rags and piles of sticks.”
“There are no woods here, but you’re right in principle.”
“How many village populations have you wiped out, as in Santa Rosa?”
“About ten, perhaps. Always for the same reason. They’ve helped El Campesino’s murder gangs hide or flee. Sometimes they themselves have plundered and killed.”
“Do you feel very unhappy when you think about it?”
“Sometimes, yes. But not often. You exaggerate in your mind the drama of what happens on such occasions. In fact it’s just routine, no grand gestures. Usually at five in the morning. That’s a time of day which doesn’t invite melodramatic actions. But many have died, that’s true. Who is to blame, then?”
“Now we’re back there again. And I repeat. The blame is yours.”
“Because I obey orders?”
“Yes.”
“It’s as well, both for you and for me, that you’re wrong. The blame lies with men like this Cuban, El Campesino, who have taught impoverished illiterates to kill. With ridiculous theorists like Irigo and Ellerman and with spreaders of hatred like Carmen Sánchez.”
“And with madmen like Isidoro Behounek.”
“To some extent, yes.”
“With madness.”
“And, Ortega, with inconsistency, don’t forget that.”
“As I said.”
“One must choose a side.”
“Must one?”
“Yes, definitely.”
“Have you, Captain Behounek, ever played with the thought of letting mercy go before justice?”
“Many times, but not in cases like these.”
“Then it’s unrealistic to expect a certain mildness on your part tomorrow? Some kind of barter?”
“Let’s sleep on it.”
They went to their rooms.
Between three o’clock and three minutes past three in the morning on June 19, Manuel Ortega, formerly an assistant trade attaché in Stockholm, thought:
I must call Ellerman. I must call Ellerman. I must call Ellerman. If I call Ellerman, I am staking my life and in any case destroying forever my career and my livelihood. I would be officially guilty of failing in my duty and would end up in prison. The logical thing would be for them to kill me at once. If I break the promises made to the Liberation Front, then Sixto will kill me. I must flee, immediately. Nevertheless, I must call Ellerman.
Suddenly: Manuel Ortega, you’re a federal official. Your duty is to obey orders until those orders are rescinded.
Nevertheless, I must call Ellerman.
Why must you call Ellerman? Because you happened to say you would to a nymphomaniac you want to sleep with? That’s irrelevant.
But you must.
You know that you’re not going to call Ellerman. The churning has stopped. The grinding is over.
Conversation along a stony mountain road, in the front seat of a white Land-Rover with a canvas top.
Ortega: “Why did you tell me all that yesterday?”
Behounek. “Because I wanted you to know exactly what you were doing. So that you will never at any time be able to say, not even to yourself, that you were acting in good faith or under the influence of surprise. However you act now, you are doing it fully conscious of the fact that you have analyzed the situation, even if during a sleepless night. In the future you can probably deceive others, but I don’t want to give you the chance of deceiving yourself.”
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 l
ay 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.
