by Morris West
‘Could we speak with her now?’
‘I’m afraid not. She’s up-country at our mission in Mendoza. She flies back in three days’ time.’
‘That’s running it very fine.’
‘I know. But it’s the best I can do; and, if she consents, she’s the best possible person: no local ties, no immediate connection with us in Buenos Aires. How shall I get in touch with you?’
‘I’ll call you – and remember, I’m Erwin Hengst. Next question. Can you assemble a medical kit for me: drugs, surgical instruments, that sort of thing?’ He fished out his wallet and laid a stack of bills on the table. ‘Pay for it out of that and keep the rest for the mission.’
The Mother Superior left the money untouched on the table. She asked gravely:
‘I have to ask this, Mr Spada. What are the risks for Sister Martha?’
‘Minimal.’ Spada was very definite. ‘Once we’re on board the worst is over. Tell me, what kind of woman is Sister Martha?’
‘As a physician, first-rate. As a woman –’ The Mother Superior gave a faint, ironic smile. ‘Let’s say she gets on better with men than with women. In a convent, that does create certain problems . . .’
‘If that were our biggest problem.’ said John Spada, ‘we’d be very fortunate people.’
In the dining-room of the Kunz apartment, Major Henson clipped a series of hand-drawn charts to the table top and outlined his battle-plan.
‘… From Buenos Aires to the mouth of the Parana river and the ferry terminal for Martín Garcia is about eighty miles by road. I’ve driven it by day and night. In traffic you have to allow two and a half hours. If there’s a jam in the city, it can take longer. However, at night, we should do it in two . . . Now, here’s the island of Martín Garcia; and here, on the mainland, is the ferry jetty. As you see, there is a parking spot in front of the jetty, and then a quarter of a mile of narrow road leading back to the highway. On either side there are citrus groves, good for concealment. However, the approach to the jetty can easily be blocked, and our vehicles could be bottled up. So, it’s a good place to hide but a bad place to fight . . . Now, follow the main highway back about eight miles and you’ll see this other turning down to the river. There’s a quiet beach there where we can bring in the motor-boat from the Freya. The Freya will be lying here, just on the edge of the channel… All clear so far?’
There was a murmur of agreement round the table. Henson laid another, smaller chart over the free space on the table.
‘Now let’s look at dispositions and time-tables. We’re divided into two parties. I have my detachment in the truck, with the driver whom Sancho has found for us. We park by the jetty, with our boys dispersed on the edges of the orange groves. There’s no ferry traffic after midnight; so it should be nothing more than a quiet waiting game . . . ’
‘Back in the city, Colonel Juarez has dinner at the Staff Officers Club. Some time between eleven and midnight he goes to Rosita’s, here, on this other map. He dismisses his driver at this corner, and then walks ten paces down the colonnade to the entrance of Rosita’s. That’s where he’s accosted by Sancho, Dr Lunarcharsky and Spada. They show him their security cards. They walk him back to the car, then he is driven out of town to Sancho’s safe house, which is about twenty minutes from the jetty. From there, the Colonel makes his telephone call to the prison. Then you all continue to the jetty to form part of the reception committee…’
‘With the Colonel?’ Spada was dubious.
‘I advise it,’ said Sancho curtly. ‘It adds urgency and authenticity to the scene when the prisoners are brought from the prison under escort and handed over. If he makes a false move, we cut him down.’
‘What’s the next move?’ Again it was Spada’s question.
‘You and your people drive with Vallenilla to the embarkation point and head out to the Freya. The rest of us go back to town. Finish, done! Simple as that.’
‘It sounds simple but what are the principal risks?’
‘Tell him,’ said Major Henson to Sancho.
‘First that a police patrol comes by the jetty. They prowl that stretch of highway and, sometimes, they turn off to the water for a smoke or ten minutes with a girl they’ve picked up. In that case, we turn very formal. We show them our security cards, tell them there’s an operation in progress, and hustle them off. Even the police don’t meddle with the goons from security. The second and bigger risk is that someone at the gaol has checked back to security headquarters, and they’ve decided to mount a raid. That means the boys in the orange grove have to decide whether to open fire or disengage on foot. We’ll have one advantage. We’ll arrive last, with the Colonel. We’ll cruise past the turn-off and double back. That way we should be able to spot an ambush . . . The only other risk is that either of the vehicles runs into a routine highway check, coming or going. Again, the only answer is to flourish the security cards and bluff our way through. Any other questions?’
‘Only one,’ said the Scarecrow Man. ‘How good are your troops, Major? For instance, will they stay cool enough to sweat out a police check?’
‘They’d damned well better. I’ve told them that I’ll kill the first son-of-a-bitch who even breaks wind without an order.’
‘Did you say that in Spanish?’ asked Spada with a grin.
‘No. Sancho said it for me. And they seemed to believe him.’
‘One more question,’ said John Spada. ‘What happens to the Colonel?’
‘He’s ours,’ said Sancho flatly.
‘What will you do with him?’
‘Why the hell should you care?’
‘Because I’m a party to all this – and, afterwards, that fact will be known.’
‘That’s the risk you took at the beginning.’
‘So, I repeat the question. What are you going to do with the Colonel?’
‘Sweat him for information; then kill him. Objections?’
‘None,’ said John Spada. ‘Just so you don’t plant the body on my doorstep – or try to charge me undertaker’s fees.’
‘How could you possibly think that,’ said Sancho with sour humour. ‘A deal’s a deal, isn’t it?’
‘Provided you can read the small print,’ said John Spada.
In the infirmary of Martín Garcia, they were trying to keep Rodolfo Vallenilla alive. Doctor Wolfschmidt prescribed the regimen; the junior aide administered it with a constancy and a tenderness touching to see – except that there was no one to see it save the doctor, who had a profound contempt for anything remotely resembling humanity. He had a whole repertory of epithets for his junior: ‘my mother superior, sister sweet-lips, our young gelding, the Commandant’s choir-boy’. Yet there was a limit line which, drunk or sober, the good doctor never dared to cross.
Whatever he did in the torture-rooms, inside the infirmary he never laid violent hands on a patient. He might neglect his charges; but he might never insult them. Once, and once only, he had tried it, and had been reduced to gibbering terror by the cold, murderous fury of his assistant, who had backed him into a corner of the surgery and demonstrated how many, how subtle and how painful ways there were to kill him, and how, waking or sleeping, inside the prison or abroad, there was always an executioner in attendance.
The fact that Wolfschmidt submitted to the blackmail, was a matter of wonder to the inmates, but to his junior it was an exquisite, if dangerous, calculation, because Doctor Wolfschmidt was wanted by the Israelis and by the underground and was, moreover, avid for dominance and punishment which no one but this pale youth had the courage to inflict on him. So, the strange relationship persisted, and the dark angel of Wolfschmidt’s gehenna became the minister of mercy to his victims.
For Vallenilla he had developed an almost filial affection, a protective gentleness, from which all sexual emotion had long since purged itself. He washed Vallenilla’s bent and emaciated body. He fed him, patiently, as one might feed an infant, spoonful by spoonful. He coaxed back the courage upon which Va
llenilla’s slim hope of survival depended.
‘Listen to me, Rodolfo! Don’t give up! I need you alive. We all do. What you have in your head, what you will one day tell the world, is important to us all – even to a nothing man like me. Oh yes, you must believe that. I feed you like this; but you feed me too. One day I will be able to stand up and say: “You see that great man? I gave him back to the world. The words he says are the words I wish I could say” . . . That’s my boy! Eat another spoonful. It’s good broth. I made it myself on the burner . . . Not like the prison slop, is it? . . . That’s splendid! Now lie quiet while I make up your injection . . . I know it hurts; but that’s because you’re too skinny. When I fatten you up, you won’t feel it half as much . . .’
But the battle was not easily won. Often Vallenilla would slip away into the black pit of depression, where he cowered, fearful and fretful, suspicious even of his benefactor.
‘Why are they treating me like this? They never cared before I The security boys want me back, don’t they? They’re just trying to get me better so they can put me through it all over again. They’ve done it to others . . .’
‘No, Rodolfo! No! I keep telling you, the Commandant is scared. If you die, he’ll be blamed; because everybody saw what happened in the exercise yard. He can’t afford that. He’s a bastard; but even among the bastards there are rules . . . Come on now! You know I’m your friend, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I know that. But promise me something.’
‘Anything, Rodolfo. Anything in my power.’
‘Then swear to me!’ The bony hands clutched at his stained jacket. ‘Swear that if you ever hear they’re taking me back, you’ll kill me! You can do it . . . a pill, an injection – anything! On your mother’s grave, swear it!’
‘I can’t swear it on my mother’s grave. She’s still alive, and sleeping with an artillery sergeant. But sure, I promise. They’ll never get you back . . . There now, don’t cry! Wolfschmidt will be back in a minute. You’ve got to look strong and defiant!’
It was a promise easily given, and at the final test, not too hard to fulfil. He had finished off more than one poor devil too broken to survive and yet not so far gone that they could not inflict a few more agonies on him. It was not hard to accomplish – a bubble of air in the syringe, while the butchers were relaxed and waiting for the next session. There were no post-mortems to worry about, and collapses were all too commonplace . . . He drew the blanket over his patient, made him close his eyes and crooned over him until he lapsed into a restless, wheezing doze. Poor devil! All that brain, all that fire, in such a frail carcass.
The door of the infirmary creaked open and old Corporal Pascarelli came in, bleeding all over the floor. He had been trying to take out a broken pane from the window in his quarters. He had slipped and gashed his palm. He needed stitches and a large shot of brandy from Wolfschmidt’s cupboard. The son-of-a-bitch would never notice! While the operation was being performed, he talked compulsively in a conspirator’s whisper.
‘I’ve got a couple of messages from outside. One’s for your boy over there.’ He jerked his head in the direction of Vallenilla’s bed. ‘Tell him somebody’s sending him a fish in a box.’
‘Is that all – a fish in a box?’
‘That’s all.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘I never ask, sonny boy. It’s safer that way. People outside pay me to deliver messages and then forget. If they want an answer, I try to get one back.’
‘How do they know the message has been delivered?’
‘They know me. They trust me.’ There was a glimmer of pride in the rheumy, bloodshot eyes. ‘It’s a good reputation to have. Not every prisoner stays in this dump forever. When they get out, they remember old Pascarelli. A lot of the other guards are idiots. They forget that, when they’re transferred, there’ll be someone waiting to stick a knife in their ribs or kick ’em to death in a dark alley. Not me! Live and let live, I say. Better to have money in your pocket than six inches of steel in your gut. So, pass the message like a good boy, eh?’
‘Sure, sure! Hold still now while I get the dressing on . . . Who’s the other message for?’
‘Chavez – but he’s been in solitary for six days. Gets out tomorrow if he’s lucky.’
‘Which means he’ll probably end up here first. What do you want me to tell him?’
‘The tiger’s sniffing around. Got that?’
‘Got it! . . . There, you’re wrapped up like a wounded hero. All you need is a medal to go with it.’
‘For our kind of war,’ Pascarelli grunted contemptuously, ‘there won’t be any medals, just curses scratched on our tombstones. Well, thanks! See you, sonny boy! Keep your back to the wall!’
On the morning of his departure for Buenos Aires, Colonel Juarez made his customary round with Major Gutierrez. As always, the Colonel was elated by the prospect of four days’ freedom in the capital.
When he came to the infirmary and saw Rodolfo Vallenilla huddled under the soiled blankets, his spirits rose. He twitched back the covers with the tip of his cane and surveyed his victim with tolerant contempt…
‘Good! My little dog looks better. They must be feeding you well. Enjoy it while you can. It won’t last forever. I’m going up to the city today. I’ll let the security boys know you’re almost ready for another interrogation. Did you think they’d forgotten you? Never! They have a passion for detail and there are still a lot of unanswered questions. But don’t let it worry you! After this vacation you’ll be able to stand quite a long session! Go back to sleep now, little dog… Sweet dreams!’
When he had gone, Rodolfo Vallenilla lay curled into a foetal position, trembling and chattering as if in an ague. The junior aide sat on the edge of the bunk and tried to comfort him.
‘Relax, Rodolfo! He’s gone now. He’ll be gone the whole weekend – Monday and Tuesday as well. I’ll make you some coffee with lots of sugar. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘No! I don’t want anything.’ The intensity of the protest was like a convulsion racking his withered frame. ‘I can’t take any more! I can’t!’
‘He’s playing a game. Can’t you see that? Ignore him’ Pull the shutters down and blot him out of your mind.’
‘He means it. Why else does he let me stay here? He wants me dead; but he doesn’t want to kill me himself. He knows the security boys will do it for him. Please, my friend! You made me a promise. Kill me, I beg of you, kill me!’
As suddenly as it had flared, the fire died in him and he lay whimpering like a small animal. The junior aide sponged the sweat from his face with a wad of cotton wool and crooned over him softly.
‘Come on! I’ve got a message for you from outside.’
‘What sort of message?’
‘Someone’s sending you a fish in a box.’
‘Say that again.’
The frail, bony hands clutched at his sleeve.
‘A fish in a box.’
‘Then I’ll try to hang on.’
‘You do that.’
‘But promise me you’ll never let them take me back to the Fun Palace?’
‘I promise! I’ll give you something to make you sleep now.’
‘Thank you.’ A grateful whisper. ‘You’re a kind boy.’
‘When you get wherever you’re going, Rodolfo, say a good word for me, eh?’
‘The best I know,’ said Rodolfo Vallenilla. ‘The very best . . . Will you sit with me a while? I . . . I’d like to feel you near until I go to sleep.’
‘It’s still early.’ Sancho parked the car in a shadowy angle at the end of the colonnade. ‘You two stay here. I’ll stroll down past Rosita’s and make sure everything’s quiet.’
He got out of the car and strolled casually through the shadows of the vaulted passageway. Spada turned to the Scarecrow Man.
‘Everything’s OK?’
‘Everything. Henson left on time with his troops in the truck. The woman doctor’s on board the F
reya. The boat is already at the rendezvous point. We’re in good shape.’
‘So far,’ said John Spada. ‘Sancho’s coming back.’
Sancho slid into the seat beside Spada and gave a last hurried direction.
‘We should get ready now. There’s a doorway on either side of the entrance to Rosita’s. You two take up positions there. As soon as the Colonel moves into the colonnade, close on him. Make sure he doesn’t ring the bell, because the fellow who opens the door is a security man. Just flash your cards at the Colonel and say you’d like a few words with him. I’ll make sure his driver has moved off; then I’ll come in from the rear. We walk him back here, put him the middle of the back seat and then shove a gun in his ribs . . . Clear?’
‘Clear.’
‘Let’s go!’
They waited five, ten, twelve agonising minutes in the shadows, until they saw the military vehicle draw up a few yards down from the entrance, and the driver hurry around to open the door for his passenger. They heard the ritual exchange:
‘Pick me up at ten in the morning. Until then, enjoy yourself.’
‘The Colonel is too kind. I have to watch my pocket.’
They saw the Colonel pause on the sidewalk, straightening his jacket, twitching at his tie, setting his cap square on his head, while the driver engaged the gears and moved off with decorous precision. Then Spada and the Scarecrow Man stepped out of the doorway to accost Juarez. It was the Scarecrow Man who spoke the first words in a very passable Buenos Aires accent.
‘Colonel Ildefonso Juarez?’
‘Yes!’ The Colonel stiffened into a defensive formality.
‘Security! Our identification . . . We’d like a few words with you. We won’t detain you long.’
‘Oh! Let’s go inside then.’
‘Our car is just up there. If you please, Colonel.’
The Colonel hesitated a moment; but when he saw Sancho moving out of the shadows he shrugged and said irritably:
‘Very well! But I hope you understand that…’
‘Perfectly, Colonel.’ The Scarecrow Man was politeness itself. ‘But the matter is urgent, as we shall explain.’
