by Morris West
‘Please! Call no man happy. It’s bad luck. In these times one is grateful to stay alive. My grandson, a boy of eighteen, was shot by the military six months ago.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said John Spada. ‘My daughter is in the hands of the police. Her husband, Rodolfo Vallenilla, is a prisoner in Martín Garcia.’
‘I know. His father is an old and dear friend. I have been selling him sporting prints for many years. I shall do my best to help. You should go now. And don’t forget…’
‘I won’t. Three days from now, we’ll talk about the price of the Tratados, edition of 1552. By the way, who does have that edition?’
‘It’s in the President’s library. Not that he ever reads it; but I’m sure he wouldn’t sell it to the likes of you or me. Go with God, my friends.’
‘Do you still believe in God, Senor Gonzalez?’ asked John Spada.
‘It gets harder every year,’ said the tiny grandee. ‘But if you can open up Martín Garcia, I’ll go to the Archbishop’s Mass on Sunday!’
As they walked out of the shop into the glow of a dusty sunset, the Scarecrow Man said:
‘Permit me to say you are a surprising man, Mr Spada.’
‘Permit me to say. Doctor, that I want to be able to open that goddam prison like a can of sardines – and I don’t want the key breaking off in my hand!’
‘Amen,’ said the Scarecrow Man.
The man behind the desk looked like an actor type-cast for the role of military dictator. He was lean, dark and saturnine. His uniform fitted him like a skin. His gestures were restrained. His Argentine accent was hidden under a high Castilian gloss. His hostility was masked by a punctiliously formal address.
‘… As President of Argentina, I intervene rarely in the affairs of my Ministries. However, as a gesture of fraternal goodwill to the President of the United States, I made a personal study of the case of Teresa Spada. There is no doubt in my mind that she is guilty, as charged, of aiding and abetting the enemies of the State and of obstructing police investigators. Confronted with all the evidence, she wrote and signed a full and free confession. She has also signed a statement that, at all times during her imprisonment, she was treated with due respect for her sex and for her legal and personal rights. All of this is noted in the protocol and confirmed by the photostat documents which I shall deliver into your hands Now, Mr Ambassador . . .’ He leaned back in his chair and joined his hands finger-tip to finger-tip, like an inquisitor considering a nice point of theology. ‘Now, Mr Ambassador, you see my dilemma. This young woman is an American citizen, who was granted the privilege of residence and work in this country. She has committed grave crimes, for which the penalty is long-term imprisonment. I am bound by oath to maintain law and order and the due process of justice. What would you do if you were in my position?’
Ambassador Charles Bewley permitted himself a thin, bleak smile.
‘I was a banker before I became a diplomat, Mr President. I think in terms of costs and profits. An act of clemency would cost you nothing and would certainly pay good dividends.’
‘What sort of dividends, Mr Ambassador?’
‘Better relations with the White House. A degree of personal absolution from the excesses of your subordinates.’
‘Do you think I need absolution?’ There was a faint overtone of anger in the question. ‘You talk like a banker. I think like an historian and a soldier. Revolutions are not made with rose-water!’
‘Sebastien Chamfort to Marmontel. I’ve read some history too, Mr President. I know recent history very well. The horse that rode you into the Palace was saddled by American and other business interests in this country. If you want to stay in the saddle you need markets for your agricultural products, you need industrial investment to employ your workless. Fifteen per cent of your exports are absorbed by companies controlled by John Spada. Ten per cent of the dollar investment in Argentina passes through his hands. And you want to hold his daughter in prison?’
‘No. I want to know what I get if I let her go.’
‘Then talk to Spada yourself. He’s waiting outside. But take my advice, Mr President, let me meet him first, with the act of amnesty in my pocket.’
There was a long silence in the chamber, a silence broken only by the ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantel. Finally, with an odd, finical care, the President tied the pink ribbon round the folder on his desk and thrust it towards Bewley.
‘It’s all there: the protocol, the documents, the act of amnesty. The girl will be delivered to your Embassy at midday tomorrow. I want her out of the country in twelve hours.’
‘Thank you, Mr President.’ Charles Bewley stood up and smoothed the front of his jacket. ‘I’ll call the White House and my people at State. I’m sure they’ll be pleased and grateful for your decision. May I now know what decision has been made in the matter of the lady’s husband – Rodolfo Vallenilla?’
‘No decision at all,’ said the President calmly. ‘For the simple reason that nobody knows where he is. He was not arrested as you suggest. Neither the police nor the security forces have any idea of his whereabouts.’
Bewley digested the answer in silence. The President added a cold comment.
‘… However, even if he were in custody, his case would be dealt with as a domestic matter. It would be – shall we say – an indiscretion for the United States to intrude.’
‘So I am to inform Mr Spada that his daughter will be released, but that there is no record of her husband’s whereabouts.’
‘Exactly, Mr Ambassador. You will also inform him that his daughter will not be permitted to re-enter Argentina, and we should be obliged if he himself would restrict his own visits to the minimum necessary to conduct his business affairs here.’
‘With great respect, Mr President…’
‘Yes, Mr Ambassador?’
‘You consented to receive Mr Spada at the conclusion of this talk. May I suggest that a more humane attitude on your part may be, in the end, more profitable to your country. Mr Spada is a man of much influence.’
‘I am grateful for your advice.’ The President was brusque. ‘Does Mr Spada speak Spanish?’
‘Spanish, French, Italian, German – and I believe Russian.’
‘A formidable accomplishment.’
‘He’s a formidable fellow altogether . . . By your leave, Mr President.’
‘Until we meet, Mr Ambassador.’
In the ante-room, Bewley gave Spada a final, terse counsel.
‘Teresa will be out tomorrow. The President denies all knowledge of Vallenilla’s whereabouts. He’ll see you now. Hang on to yourself, for God’s sake! I’ll wait for you in the car.’
Spada nodded but said nothing. Bewley hesitated a moment and then left him, rigid as a marble statue under the eye of the guard. A muted bell sounded. The sentry opened the door to the presidential suite, motioned Spada inside, saluted as he passed and then closed the door silently behind him.
He had expected a long ritual walk to the feet of the potentate. Instead, he found the President standing in the middle of the room, a grave and penitent host. His first greeting was a bow. His second an apology.
‘I do not offer you my hand, Mr Spada. I am sure you would not wish to take it. Were I in your shoes, I should feel the same . . . However, I hope you will endure my presence for a few moments.’
John Spada said nothing. The President motioned him to a chair and then stood looking down at him. He said calmly:
‘I know what is in your mind, Mr Spada. Your daughter is still in the hands of the police. You will do or say nothing that may compromise her safety. Let me tell you, therefore, that whatever passes between us in this room, your daughter will be released at midday tomorrow. I have informed your Ambassador that she must leave the country within twelve hours.’
‘My aircraft is already on standby here. We shall embark as soon as my daughter is released. I had hoped her husband would be able to accompany her.’
‘Nothing
would have given me greater pleasure, Mr Spada. Unfortunately – he seems to have absented himself – which, in the circumstances, does him small credit.’
‘He was abducted, Mr President; and I have witnesses to prove it.’
‘Then you should make their testimony available to the police.’
‘And put the witnesses in jeopardy too? No thank you.’
A faint smile twitched at the corners of the President’s mouth. He said:
‘You are a man like me, Mr Spada. You understand the usages and the exactions of power. Your daughter has been tortured and violated by professional interrogators under my command. Had I known at the outset who she was, such things would never have been done. I have three daughters of my own, I shudder to think of them in the hands of my own minions. But, in this unstable country, I am forced to use such methods and such people. Is there not a proverb which says: “Fear keeps the garden more safely than the gardener.”? If you feel the need of a personal revenge, I will give you the names and addresses of the officials responsible. I will even send them to New York where you can deal with them at your pleasure. But what good would that do? I would find others to take their place, just as you replace the guard-dogs in your factories once they become tame or lazy. So, I offer you a sweeter vengeance. I abase myself to you. I ask what effect this unfortunate affair will have upon your business dealings with my country.’
‘To hell with business! Let’s talk about my daughter. She was arrested and tortured because she performed an act of mercy – took a bullet out of a man wounded in a police raid.’
‘I have already told you how much I regret what has happened, Mr Spada. I am now concerned with a larger matter: the economic well-being of my people.’
‘Business is like prostitution,’ said John Spada flatly. ‘The brothels were still open while they were washing Caesar’s blood off the stones of the Forum. My enterprises will still be here when you are dead – unless you want to expropriate them, which you can’t afford to do.’
‘And your personal attitude to my government?’
‘Is private to me; but I’ll tell you anyway. You have no government. You have a tyranny.’
‘But you still profit from it, Mr Spada – and your profits have doubled since I took over the presidency.’
‘I know. What should I do about that? Hang myself for a Judas or kill you for a butcher?’
‘You’d be dead before you pulled the trigger, Mr Spada’
‘I wonder. Do you read much, Mr President?’
‘Very little now – except official papers.’
‘A pity. You seem to have a taste for proverbs. Try this one from Cervantes: “To every pig comes his Martinmas.” I bid you good day, sir.’
‘Good day, Mr Spada,’ said the President bleakly. ‘I trust you find your daughter in good health.’
That night, in the apartment loaned to him by George Kunz, Spada held a council of war. Those present were the Scarecrow Man, Major Henson, a swarthy, taciturn fellow with a West Country accent and a leery eye for the civilians who surrounded him, Salvador Gonzalez who dealt in rare books and prints, and a lean, leather-skinned man in his late fifties, who was the father of Rodolfo Vallenilla. Spada’s briefing was precise and detailed.
‘Teresa will be delivered to the US Embassy at noon tomorrow. I’ll fly back with her to New York. I’ll spend enough time there to see her settled and tidy some business matters; then I’m going to Europe to make contact with the South American Revolutionary Junta and find myself a new identity. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘How long will you be gone?’ asked the Scarecrow Man.
‘Ten days, I hope. Two weeks at most. Meantime, I’m relying on you to come up with a plan to break Rodo out of Martín Garcia. What progress so far?’
‘You have a headquarters,’ said the elder Vallenilla. ‘I own fifty acres of orange groves on the river flats. There is a large house and the staff is loyal. It’s only a twenty-minute drive to the waterfront opposite Martín Garcia.’
‘Plans of the prison . . .’ The’ little antiquarian was eager. ‘I have an old drawing of the fortress itself, and an up-to-date pilot chart of the river approaches. There’s a small company that makes aerial surveys up-river. We’re trying to find a man who could take photographs from the air.’
‘I’ve spoken to Sancho,’ said the Scarecrow Man. ‘That’s the fellow we met in the wine-shop. He’s making sketches of the interior layout and any strategic points he can remember. He’s also giving us details of prison routine . . . I think he’ll do more if you can come back with a clearance from the Revolutionary Junta.’
‘I can supply vehicles,’ said the elder Vallenilla. ‘Two jeeps and a couple of farm trucks. Also sporting guns and pistols.’
‘Manpower?’ The question came from Spada.
The rancher shook his head.
‘No! I can’t compromise my staff.’
‘Again we come back to Sancho,’ said the Scarecrow Man. ‘He’s an organiser in the underground; but he won’t risk his groups unless there’s official approval from the Revolutionary Junta. Once we’ve got that, however, Henson can start a training programme.’
‘Training for what?’ It was the first time Henson had spoken. ‘I’ve taken a look at Martín Garcia, cruised up there with a local boatman. There’s no way you’re going to assault it, short of bombardment from a cruiser. Even if we did get in, there’s no place to go when you get out. It’s just a bloody great lobster trap. If you want your man out, you have to get the prison authorities to hand him over.’
‘And how do you propose to do that?’ asked Salvador Gonzalez.
‘I don’t know yet. The information we have is still too sketchy. I do know we can’t stage any sort of operation without adequate intelligence: geography, time-tables, details of prison personnel, local communications. A job like this can take weeks to set up.’
‘My son may not survive that long,’ said the elder Vallenilla.
‘A lot more people will die if we botch the operation.’
‘There’s a problem,’ said the Scarecrow Man. ‘Rodolfo Vallenilla is a liberal. He was never a member of the Revolutionary movement. Why should they risk their own people to liberate him?’
‘That’s why I’m going to Europe,’ said John Spada. ‘I want to make a deal with the Revolutionary Junta. If they’ll help us with Rodo, we’ll help them with any one of their people they care to nominate.’
‘So now we’re talking about two people, at least.’ Henson was a very persistent fellow. ‘We’re also talking about double jeopardy – the security boys on one side and the revolutionary groups on the other. I’d hate to get caught in that nut-cracker.’
‘Let me say something.’ The elder Vallenilla was suddenly a commanding figure in the group. ‘I know my son. He would never consent to save himself at the expense of other men’s lives.’
‘We need him,’ said John Spada flatly. ‘We need his voice in witness against the tyranny that exists in this country.’
‘His wife, who is also your daughter, may have something to say.’
‘Nothing!’ John Spada was grim. ‘What we do henceforth is for our own reasons, at our own risk. Now, let’s try to set down what information we need, and where we’re likely to get it…’
Punctually, at noon the next day, Teresa Spada was delivered, under military escort, to the US Embassy. When he saw her limping up the Embassy steps, refusing the arm of the escort, John Spada swore with impotent rage. She was twenty-eight years old; but her dark hair was streaked with grey and her skin was golden and transparent, like honey in a jar. She might have been blood-sister to the Madonna Annunziata in Palermo, with the same big, sombre eyes, the same sad irony in the mouth. Although there was no visible deformity, she supported herself with a cane, and when John Spada clasped her to his breast she winced and whispered:
‘Handle me gently, Papa. I still hurt.’
There was a brief, strained ceremony of wel
come at the Embassy, a hectic drive through the noonday city, a swift diplomatic clearance at the airport and then they were driving across the tarmac to the big Boeing with the Spada emblem on the fuselage. The rear of the aircraft was converted into an emergency surgery, with a doctor and a nurse in attendance. The girl protested weakly; but Spada was adamant.
‘It’s a long haul back to New York and we don’t want any nasty surprises on the way. Doc Timmins will examine you and see what attention you need when you arrive. Please, let us coddle you now.’
‘First, you promised to tell me about Rodo!’
‘We know he’s alive – in Martín Garcia. I’ve got a whole team down there, making plans to get him out. I’m going back as soon as you’re settled. Trust me, bambina!’
‘I have to, Papa!’
She began to cry then, soft, grateful tears; and, as they took off, she held his hand and leaned her head on his shoulder and gave a great shuddering sigh of relief, like a child wakened out of a nightmare. The full horror of the nightmare was made clear an hour later when Doctor Timmins came to make his first report.
‘I’ve given her a sedative, John. She’ll sleep for two or three hours.’
‘How is she, Doctor?’
‘You know she’s lost the baby?’
‘Yes. Give me the rest of it.’
Timmins hesitated a moment and then began to check off his notes in a dry, clinical fashion.
‘There is extensive evidence of trauma, both internal and external. The lower dorsal region is scarred as if from beating. There is damage to the fifth lumbar disc and inflammation of the sciatic nerve – which accounts for the limp. Both breasts show burn marks, either from cigarettes or cigars. The nipples are cauterised and would have to be opened surgically to permit lactation after childbirth. She’s been repeatedly raped, both by male congress and by instruments; so that there is much damage to membrane tissue. There are cardiac irregularities, probably due to the repeated application of electric shocks. There is bruising of kidneys and spleen. There are rales in both lungs; and she, herself, diagnosed pneumonia after water-torture.’
