by Morris West
‘In God’s name! Something’s got to be done! We can’t just sit here and . . .’
‘We’re not just sitting here, John!’ There was a ring of steel in Bewley’s tone. ‘Now that we’ve made contact, know what’s happened to her, we’re much stronger. I’m ordered to make personal representations to the President. I’m seeing him at ten tomorrow morning. By then, he’ll have had a personal communication from the White House.’
‘Representations for Christ’s sake! My daughter is . . .’
‘Your daughter is one of many thousands who have suffered in this way! Her husband is a far worse case and may, for all we know, be dead! You ask what representations mean. I’ll tell you. I’ll talk to the President at ten. He’ll tell me that, being a very busy man, he’s not familiar with the case, but he’ll certainly call for an urgent report on it and let me know within a week. Then he’ll pass the word down the line that it’s time to stage act two; which means prepare the papers that will prove your daughter is a criminal. Then he’ll summon me and we’ll get to dealing for her release. How tough we can be depends on how much public opinion we can muster outside – the press, television, the threat of economic sanctions.’
Meantime, Teresa’s sitting in a goddam prison cell and her husband’s dropped off the face of the earth.’ A sudden thought struck him and he swung round to face the Consul. ‘Did she say anything about Rodo?’
‘Yes. She asked if there was any news of him. The way she said it, I think she knew he was gone. They probably told her anyway to break her down more during the interrogation. I assured her we were making all possible efforts to trace him.’
‘What did she say to that?’
‘Something very simple: “At least I’m not the only one. Say thank you to Papa.” ‘
Suddenly Spada’s control snapped and he found himself weeping – salt bitter tears that gave him no relief at all. When, finally, the tears were spent and he turned to face them, they saw a grey mask, bleak-eyed and pitiless. The voice that spoke from the mask was like a voice from the dead.
‘I am not usually so emotional. You will not see me this way again. Thank you both for what you are doing. I’ll co-operate as far as I can. But I will swear you an oath. If the President refuses to release Teresa, I shall personally pay the assassins who will kill him!’
CHAPTER FOUR
At five that same afternoon, John Spada walked out of his hotel to keep a rendezvous with the Scarecrow Man.
His route lay along the Calle Florida, and in spite of his preoccupations, he forced himself to observe the colourful crowd, tune his ears to the scraps of talk, Criollo, Spanish, German, French, Italian. The air was warm and languid, a pot-pourri of pampas dust, petrol fumes and the exhalations of the silt beds on which the great city sprawled itself like an uneasy giant.
Spada was in no hurry. His appointment was made on a Latin time-scale, between five-thirty and six in a wineshop; he was grateful for the leisure to set his thoughts in order, get his tangled emotions under control. He was at war now; his hand against every man who stood between him and his objective. He could no longer afford the luxuries of regret and penitence or even the distraction of loving. He must become what he had been in his youth: a fighting machine, precise, passionless and devoid of pity.
Half-way along the Calle Florida he turned left into a narrow thoroughfare, where wheeled traffic was forbidden, and ambling citizens might hold quiet commerce with butcher, baker, tailor, a vendor of pearls, milady’s milliner, milord’s wine-seller, a binder of books in fine leather. The wine-shop was a dark cellar, ten steps below the pavement, with banquettes built out from the walls like choir stalls. The tables were wine casks covered with red cloths and crowned with wax candles, big as a man’s fist. In one corner, four cronies were playing cards. In the opposite angle, a short, tubby fellow in a grimy sweatshirt was nursing a glass of brandy. Behind the zinc covered bar, a burly, pock-marked padron studied the football scores. The Scarecrow Man sat alone with a notebook in front of him and, at his elbow, a glass of wine and a bottle of mineral water.
Spada sat down beside him, ordered a coffee and a cognac, and waited for the Scarecrow Man to make the opening gambit. Before he had time to initiate any move there was a diversion: sirens, a distant scream of brakes, shouts, a flurry of running feet, then an ominous silence.
The card-players continued their game, unheeding. The barman folded his paper carefully, took down a ledger from the shelf and began a painful pantomime of totting up his accounts. The tubby man in the corner stooped, as if to pick up a dropped coin, then burrowed into the dark belly of the barrel and drew the tablecloth over the aperture. The Scarecrow Man took a sip of wine, a mouthful of mineral water and continued his note-taking.
A moment later, two men in sports trousers and leather jackets thrust open the door, clattered down the stairs and stood silently surveying the drinkers. The barman shrugged and made a gesture that said: ‘What you see is what is here.’ The four card-players delved into their breast-pockets, brought out documents, laid them on the barrel top and continued playing. The Scarecrow Man still wrote assiduously in his note-book. Spada watched with the wary puzzlement of a stranger.
The two men made a perfunctory check of the card-players’ documents then walked slowly to Lunarcharsky’s table and stood over him. One of them said curtly:
‘You! Pay attention!’
The Scarecrow Man looked up, mildly surprised, almost obsequious. He said in Spanish:
‘Yes, gentlemen. What can I do for you?’
‘Documents!’
‘Of course. Documents.’ He put his hand into his breast-pocket, brought out his passport and handed it to the interrogator. ‘I am, as you see, a visitor to your country.’
First one, then the other, examined the passport; then the questioning began.
‘When did you arrive in Buenos Aires?’
‘The date is indicated by the entry stamp, there.’
‘The purpose of your visit?’
‘Excuse me.’ He fished again in his pocket and brought out a large, official envelope. ‘This is a letter from your Embassy in London, to the appropriate ministries in Argentina. It explains, better than I can, the purpose of my visit.’
After they had read the letter they were suddenly respectful.
‘Excuse us, sir. This is a security operation. We had no wish to disturb you.’
‘Of course not.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘About fifteen minutes. Why?’
‘Did you see anyone else come in or go out?’
‘No one.’
‘Why did you come here?’
‘As you see, to have a drink. I’d been for a walk. I was tired and thirsty.’
‘Where are you registered?’
‘The Plaza Hotel.’
‘These studies of yours. What precisely are they?’
‘May I offer you gentlemen a drink?’
‘No thank you. We have work to do. Please answer the question.’
‘Well . . . How shall I put it? I study the development of language under environmental influences. You two for example. You both speak Spanish. Yet I would guess that you, sir, are from the North near Uruguay, and your friend comes from much further South, perhaps from the sheep country near Tierra del Fuego. Am I right?’
‘How do you know?’
‘Oh, the intonations, the quality of the vowels, the slurring of certain consonants.’
‘Well, you could be right.’
‘May I have my documents please? I’d be lost without them.’
With obvious reluctance the interrogator handed back the documents.
‘How long do you intend to stay in Argentina?’
‘I’m not sure. But the visa is valid for three months, yes?’
‘Yes. After that you must leave – or apply for renewal.’
‘Thank you, gentlemen.’
‘You’re sure you saw no one else here?’
> ‘I saw no one else; but, as you observe, I have been writing up notes. Anyone could have come and gone without my knowing. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ They dismissed him with a shrug and turned their attention to John Spada. He handed them his passport without a word. They examined it minutely then asked: ‘What is your business in Buenos Aires?’
‘I own a large company here. Impresa Spada de Argentina.’
He had expected an immediate reaction. When none came he was puzzled. Then he remembered that Teresa would be known under her married name: Vallenilla. The interrogator closed the passport and handed it back.
‘How long have you been in this place?’
Spada pointed to his coffee and the brandy glass, both untouched.
‘I have just sat down.’
‘Then enjoy your drink!’
‘A good idea.’ Spada raised his glass in an ironic toast. ‘Salud!’
Abruptly as they had come, they were gone. Like a figure from a Boccaccio novella, the tubby fellow emerged from under the table-cloth, with the glass of liquor still in his hand. The card-players continued their game. The Scarecrow Man bent again to his notes. Spada said nothing. After a moment the barman approached the table and refilled their glasses.
‘With the compliments of the house, gentlemen.’
‘Thank you,’ said the Scarecrow Man placidly. ‘You are very kind.’
‘On the contrary,’ said the barman. ‘You are welcome here at any time, either of you.’
‘The shits are everywhere these days.’ One of the card-players spoke over his shoulder. ‘It’s nice to meet a pair of gentlemen.’ He slapped down a card and raked the money towards him. ‘How come you speak such good Spanish?’
‘It’s a knack.’ The Scarecrow Man chuckled, heh-heh, in his rasping fashion. ‘Like dealing cards. Either you can or you can’t.’
The tubby fellow tossed off his drink at a gulp and made to leave. He paused a moment by their tables and said softly:
‘I am called Sancho. If either of you needs a service, ask for me here, any time. Someone will call you. Oh, and watch out at the Plaza. The girls on the switchboard listen to the calls. Hasta la vista, amigos.’
‘Hasta la vista,’ said the Scarecrow Man.
‘Go with God,’ said John Spada.
‘Believe me,’ said the barman. ‘Sancho is a good friend and a bad enemy.’
‘I’ll remember it,’ said the Scarecrow Man. He raised his glass to John Spada. ‘Damnation to all bastards.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ Then, more quietly, he asked: ‘What news?’
‘Vallenilla’s alive, but in bad shape. They’ve moved him out of the Fun Palace.’
‘Where are they holding him now?’
‘Martin Garcia. It’s a prison island at the mouth of the Rio de la Plata.’
‘Are you sure of that information?’
‘I am always sure,’ said the Scarecrow Man reproachfully.
‘Plans?’
‘When does Henson get here?’
‘Tomorrow, from Madrid. He’s booked into your hotel.’
‘First move, Henson looks at the prison and the approaches. Second, I’ve got to get information about what goes on inside and, if possible, a set of plans. I’ll need help with that.’
‘What sort of help?’
‘Contacts among the underground groups. They’re closed tighter than oysters. The only way in is by recommendation from outside.’
‘What do you mean, outside?’
‘The South American Revolutionary Junta in Paris. They have emissaries coming in and out all the time. Of course, you may not want to compromise yourself by dealing with them.’
‘My daughter and her husband are in the hands of the butchers. I’ll deal with the Devil himself to get them out. I’ve a friend in Rome who might help. He’s a member of Proteus – and of the Italian Communist Party.’
‘You’d better move fast,’ said the Scarecrow Man. ‘There’s a high casualty rate in Martín Garcia.’
‘My Ambassador is talking with the President in the morning. I’ll wait for his report. Then I’ll decide whether I can safely leave for a few days. I’ll come back via Munich and Rome.’
‘Have you ever thought,’ asked the Scarecrow Man, ‘that once your daughter is extradited she can never come back?’
‘I should have thought that was obvious.’
‘Have you thought they might extend the ban to you too?’
‘I’ve thought of it,’ said John Spada grimly. ‘That’s why I’ve got to go to Germany! . . . Finish your drink and let’s go for a walk. There’s someone I want you to meet.’
He signalled to the barman to bring the check. As he was sorting out the change, the barman said in English:
‘It is not wise to come here too often. We get a lot of unwelcome visitors . . . You were talking about Martín Garcia.’ Spada and the Scarecrow Man looked at each other. The barman pointed at the ceiling. ‘In the cellar the sound travels. At the bar I hear everything. Fortunately, the others do not understand English.’
‘Thanks,’ said John Spada.
‘That Sancho,’ the barman lowered his voice to a whisper, ‘he was a prisoner for twelve months inside Martín Garcia. Maybe he could help.’
‘Maybe he could,’ said the Scarecrow Man. ‘Ask him if he’d be willing to meet me – and where. I’ll call you for the answer tomorrow.’
‘Make it the day after,’ said the barman. ‘He’s a busy man. Always on the move. Hasta la vista, senores!’
The shop of Salvador Gonzalez, Dealer in Rare Books and Prints, was a narrow building with a single dusty window protected by wrought-iron grille-work. The window revealed nothing except a few yellowed prints and nondescript volumes bound in leather. Inside, it was orderly and immaculate; the examples of the old cartographers’ art beautifully framed and illuminated, the folios of prints laid out on a vast refectory table, the antique volumes meticulously dusted, their leather binding dressed by tender hands.
Salvador Gonzalez himself was a singular specimen of a singular race; the antiquarians who somehow managed to survive wars, earthquakes and political change and emerge, unharmed, still clutching their precious relics as a talisman against misfortune. He was a tiny, gnome-like man with a mane of white hair and a grandee’s beard, always neatly trimmed. His suits were of antique cut. He still wore buttoned boots and spats, and sported a monocle, hung from a ribbon of black silk, and a gold watch-chain with a seal, draped across his waistcoat.
A bell tinkled over the doorway as John Spada entered with the Scarecrow Man. The tiny grandee advanced to greet them.
‘Good day, sirs! You are welcome. I am Salvador Gonzalez. You wish to see something special . . . prints, maps . . . I do not think I have had the pleasure of meeting you before?’
‘The loss is mine,’ said John Spada gravely. He held out a visiting-card on which was the symbol of the fish in a box. ‘You are Dolphin. I believe that you may be able to find me a rather rare map.’
The little man screwed the monocle into his eye, studied the card for a moment and then passed it back to Spada.
‘Ah, yes! Mackerel told me to expect you. And what map are you looking for?’
‘Martín Garcia,’ said the Scarecrow Man crisply. ‘The river approaches, the island and its installations, the interior and exterior of the fortress itself. Warning systems and electrical circuits. How long?’
The bell over the shop door sounded and Salvador Gonzalez launched himself, like an actor, into an elaborate monologue:
‘… A very rare copy of the Tratados of Bartolome de las Casas, edition of 1552. The condition is not as good as one would wish, but the rarity of this edition fully justifies the asking price. I do not have the volumes myself but I could . . . Oh, my dear Senora Moreno! A pleasure to see you, as always. Your picture is framed. Permit me to show you . . . Excuse me a moment, senores. This way please . . .’
&nb
sp; He followed his visitor, a young and attractive matron, through the rear door of the room and up the stairs. They were gone about five minutes and, when they returned, the young woman was carrying a flat package about a third of a metre square. When he had ushered her out of the shop, the little man became brisk and business-like.
‘What you need . . . it’s quite a lot. I’m not sure how much information is assembled on Martín Garcia. I’ll need at least three days to see what’s available and put it together.’
‘This hour, three days hence,’ said John Spada. ‘One of us will be here.’
‘Better you telephone first. I have an odd selection of clients. That one, the Moreno woman, for example. She’s the second wife of one of our prominent generals. He likes antique pornography. She collects it for him. I sell her whatever comes my way. Ay de mi! It’s a shame I’m too old to enjoy it myself. When you call, mention the Tratados and the edition of 1552. Tell me you’d be interested if the price could be revised. Oh, and talking of price . . .’
‘Let’s not talk money,’ said John Spada politely. ‘We need the map and your service. We are prepared to pay for them.’
‘Please!’ The grandee was eager to avoid any misunderstanding. ‘For the friends of Proteus, the price is minimal; but there are always some incidentals, small items…’
‘Always,’ said John Spada. ‘I’m sure we can agree them without contention. Now, I’d like to forget business for a moment and let us see some of your treasures.’
‘This, for instance . . .’ The Scarecrow Man pointed to a large parchment map, carefully laid under glass. The little man looked at him with new respect.
‘Ah, I see you have the connoisseur’s eye. That is one of my best pieces. Its provenance is well established. It is one of the charts of the Rio de la Plata, prepared by the cartographer of Pedro de Mendoza in 1536 . . .’
‘I’ve seen another like it in London,’ said the Scarecrow Man.
‘You must travel a great deal.’
‘Regrettably yes. I envy you this scholar’s life, with all these beautiful pieces.’
The little man frowned and shifted uncomfortably on his buttoned boots.
