by Glenn Meade
So Hernandez became her guardian, gave her what he could afford each week, got her a job on the cleaning staff at the cathedral near the plaza. He’d arranged with the woman who introduced them to call on Graciella every day, attend to anything she couldn’t manage. But somehow she always managed.
The men no longer bothered her. A friend of his, a tough, honest man who worked on the riverboats, acted as her guardian angel. Already her guardian had cut and bloodied the faces of several who had not respected his protection.
Graciella’s shanty house had three tiny rooms. They were in the largest, the room that served as a kitchen, a room the girl had proudly decorated in a simple, clean way. Whenever Hernandez came by, he always made sure he brought her something—a plant, some candy, a cheap trinket—to please her, to see the smiling brown eyes look up at him with innocent gratitude. But not tonight.
It was after 3 a.m. now, and Hernandez sat restlessly at the rickety old kitchen table. Graciella refused to leave his side and sleep in her tiny bedroom, wanting to be near her protector. But Hernandez was not tired. Too much was going through his mind. Graciella had proudly made them a supper before she fell asleep on the mattress on the floor.
The tape machine lay on the table, and he had the earphones on. Having listened to the tape so many times in the last seven hours, he knew the words the way an actor knows his script, every word engraved in his memory, every inflection noted. Graciella had been mildly intrigued. When she saw Hernandez with the tape machine, she had smiled and said, “Music, Rudi?”
Hernandez smiled back and shook his head. “No, something more important than music, Graciella.” She hadn’t comprehended and turned back to her cooking. It would have been pointless trying to explain; she never would have understood.
Now he looked again at the tape. What was on there wasn’t much, certainly not as much as he had hoped for, though at least it was something. But what?
He rewound the tape, pressed the PLAY button.
“The shipment . . . ?”
“The cargo will be picked up from Genoa as arranged.”
“And the Italian?”
“He will be eliminated, but I want to be certain we don’t arouse suspicion concerning the cargo. It would be prudent to wait until Brandenburg becomes operational. Then he will be dealt with along with the others.”
Pause.
“Those who have pledged their loyalty . . . we must be certain of them.”
“I have had their assurances confirmed. And their pedigree is without question.”
“And the Turk?”
“I foresee no problems.”
“The woman in Berlin . . . you’re absolutely certain we can rely on her?”
“She won’t fail us, I assure you.” Pause. “There are no changes to the names on the list?”
“They’ll all be killed.”
“Your travel arrangements . . . everything has been organized?”
“We leave Paraguay on the sixth.”
“The schedule . . . perhaps I should go through it once more?”
Hernandez pressed the PAUSE button, sighed.
What was the shipment the men talked of? The white powder Rodriguez mentioned? And the men, who were they? Buyers from Frankfurt? The men who came to South America to negotiate contracts? But Hernandez sensed that something didn’t fit. Something was strange about the older man, the one with the silver hair, but he didn’t know what. A shiver rippled down his spine. He replayed the last part of the conversation again.
“We must take our leave of you. It’s a long drive back north. The driver will take you to the safe house.”
He waited for a moment, then pressed the STOP button.
He made up his mind then that he would phone Sanchez, tell him everything he knew, ask his advice. But already the men would be changing their plans, surely. Hernandez shook his head. In a way, he had risked so much for so little: voices on a tape, discussing something he could not comprehend.
He glanced at his watch. Three-ten. Sanchez wouldn’t be on duty until eight, maybe nine, in the morning. Hernandez cursed silently. He wanted Sanchez to hear the tape. Perhaps he could help decipher it.
He looked down at the angelic face of Graciella sleeping and felt a twinge of guilt. The men wouldn’t find him in La Chacarita; he felt certain of that. But no matter how remote that possibility, he was putting her in unnecessary danger.
Hernandez pressed the machine’s EJECT button, and the tape popped out. He held it between his fingers. Perhaps it would be better to put it in his safe place until he could speak with Sanchez. That way, he would have nothing incriminating on him if the men found him.
The spare, unused tape lay on the table where he had left it.
Hernandez stood. Graciella stirred, turned over, continued her sound sleep. He would leave the car. It wasn’t far to walk to the station where he kept the rented locker. He could take the side streets and be back in twenty minutes once he safely hid the tape. He stepped quietly into the hallway, slipped back the bolt of the front door, and took the spare key from the nail on the wall where Graciella always left it.
• • •
The man was tired.
He had scoured the streets of Asunción all night, and now it was after three o’clock. There was a year’s pay for the man who found the car or the driver, and the thought of all that money was the only thing keeping him awake. The description of the guy he was looking for was vague; really, he needed a photograph. But the car was a help. It was easier to find a car than a face, and an old red American model shouldn’t be difficult. But so far, no luck. The same with the other men; they passed each other in their cars as they scoured the city.
He had met two of his comrades at a coffee stand near the Plaza de la Constitución. They didn’t know what was going on, either. Only that the man or the car had to be found, on Franz Lieber’s orders. The money was proof enough that this was important.
The man rubbed his aching eyes and turned his car onto the plaza. The dark streets of La Chacarita loomed beyond. Not the kind of area you ventured into unless you wanted to risk your life. Even the thieves here were legendary. They joked about it in Asunción: make sure that if you’re driving in La Chacarita and you have to give hand signals that you’re not wearing a wristwatch.
The man grinned to himself. He had a .45 automatic pistol in the glove compartment, and a knife under his seat. Anybody hassled him and he’d blow a hole in him the size of a fist.
He drove across the brightly lit Plaza, and the car rolled gently downhill into La Chacarita . . .
• • •
It took Hernandez ten minutes to walk to the old railway station. He wasn’t afraid; many people knew him in the barrio. The maze of narrow streets was deserted, and he walked slowly.
Fifty yards from the station entrance, he froze. Parked across the street, facing the entrance, were two cars, a dark Mercedes and a white Ford. Two men stood beside the Mercedes, smoking, talking. Hernandez swallowed. Such a sight would not have troubled him normally, but there was something odd about the scene. No trains were due for another four hours at least. Why would men like these wait outside the station at this hour? Both men wore suits, looked European. Like the men at the hotel. Like businessmen. Hernandez stepped into the shadows.
He looked toward the entrance, caught a glimpse of two more men standing idly by. One was young and blond and wore a leather jacket and open-necked shirt; the second was middle-aged, burly, and casually dressed. These did not look like businessmen, but they were waiting for him, Hernandez felt certain. Covering the station in case he tried to leave the city.
He swore. What he did at the hotel must have set off alarm bells.
Relax. Take it easy.
But what if there were more men inside the station? How could he get safely to the luggage box?
He waited in the shadows for several more minutes until a thought struck him. He smiled. Perhaps there was a way.
• • •
<
br /> Hernandez reached the rear of the station minutes later. A double wooden gate served as a rear entrance, one the railway workers used.
It was unlocked and he stepped into a small yard. A uniformed station worker sat in a tiny, glass-fronted office reading a magazine. The man stared up at him for a moment, then continued reading. People living in the barrio took this shortcut all the time.
A minute later, he was on the nearest platform. An ancient diesel engine stood silently up against the buffers, the smell of grease and oil thick in the humid air. The area where Hernandez stood was deserted, but he could see the platforms nearest the station entrance clearly, perhaps sixty yards away.
Indians and peasants slept nearby. An old man selling water and pistachios was asleep at his stand, his head down, nestled in his arms. Women in colored shawls waited with their husbands and sleeping children for the early morning trains. But no burly men in business suits like those at the hotel. The locker area was tucked away behind the shuttered concession stands, thirty yards from where he stood.
He scanned the distant crowd again, but he could see nothing unusual, no men like the ones he had seen outside. Still, it would be prudent to be careful. Hernandez saw a railway official sleeping soundly on a nearby wooden bench. His uniform jacket lay on the back of the bench. Hernandez crossed to where the man lay, saw that no one was watching, took the jacket, tugged it on, and continued walking.
When he reached the locker, he inserted the key.
“Señor . . .”
Hernandez heard the voice behind him and froze. He turned his head slowly, felt the instant fear. He saw the elderly man standing there.
“Por favor, señor . . .”
The man’s face was dark mahogany, his skin deeply wrinkled. He carried an old, battered suitcase. An unlit cigarette hung from his lips. He smiled at Hernandez and pointed to the cigarette.
It took Hernandez a moment to understand. Then he fumbled with shaking hands in his pockets, gave the old man the cheap plastic lighter, and said, “Keep it. I have another.”
“Muchas gracias, señor.” The man turned and shambled away. Hernandez exhaled. Quickly, he opened the locker door, placed the tape on top of the envelope containing the photographs, and locked the door again. He replaced the keys in his pocket, crossed back to where the sleeping official lay, and returned the jacket.
• • •
The man had decided to drive down to the river and work his way back up, zigzagging through the warren of dark streets. At the water’s edge he stopped, wrinkling his nose at the smell of sulfur and rotting fish. He wondered whether to turn left or right. He decided to turn right. He had the doors locked, and the automatic pistol was out now, on the seat beside him.
After three hundred yards of driving slowly, eyes scouring the waterfront and the tiny alleyways that ran between the shanty homes, he glimpsed the flash of red. An old red Buick, its rear badge unmistakable, its chassis rusting, stood parked in front of a house with white peeling walls. His hand automatically reached for the gun as he pulled into the curb. He smiled and grabbed for the phone on the seat instead and punched in the number quickly.
The line clicked. A voice said, “Sí?”
“It’s Dortmund . . . I think I’ve found the car.”
• • •
Hernandez walked slowly back along the river, taking his time.
La Chacarita was a deserted place of shadows at this early hour. He would tell Sanchez about the tape tomorrow, tell him everything he knew, hope that he could help. Leaving the tape in the locker had been a wise decision, he reflected. Even if the men caught him, he could bide his time, perhaps do a deal if he was forced to. What the voices on the tape said must be important. The presence of the men at the station testified to that.
He was too nervous and excited to sleep. He stopped by the river and lit a cigarette, thinking, knowing that something was happening, something really big, worth killing for, remembering the faces of the men on the first floor as they came out of the elevator, knowing with certainty that they would have killed him. He would tell Sanchez all this; it was too dangerous for him to pursue this alone now.
Hernandez looked at his watch in the lunar light. It was time to get back to Graciella’s place and try somehow to get some sleep. He flicked away the lighted cigarette, watched as it cartwheeled into the silvery water, then turned and started to walk back toward the house.
• • •
As he approached he saw that the front door was open.
He froze.
He had closed the door after him, he was certain. Or had he? His mind was in such turmoil . . .
Hernandez heard the click and wheeled around instantly, felt the blood draining from him, saw the two men armed with pistols lunge at him, their faces a blur because already there was a rough hand over his mouth, stifling his cry, another gripping his hair, jerking his head back, pushing him into the house. As the door burst in, he was propelled forward with an almighty force, into the kitchen now, lights blazing in the tiny room, crowded with men . . .
Hernandez felt a sharp punch in his side, the hand still on his mouth, stifling his scream. Figures crowded around him, more blows rained down, pulped his face, bruised his body until he could hardly stand, the salty taste of blood in his mouth. Rough hands threw him back against the wall, two quick, sharp blows to his kidneys making him want to throw up.
Two big men held Graciella, her tiny body like a rag doll’s between them. A white towel gagged her mouth, and there was blood on her pretty face, terror in her eyes. The recording equipment lay on the kitchen table still. Two of the men from the hotel, the dark-haired one who had opened the door to him and the elderly, silver-haired man, they stared at Hernandez with contempt.
The hand that covered Hernandez’s mouth came away for an instant, and the dark-haired man’s fist smashed into his face. Hernandez felt a sharp crack of bone and reeled back in pain, the bridge of his nose shattered, his scream muffled by the hand again over his mouth. Another blow struck him across the neck, fists raining down on him. Someone gripped his hair and jerked his head up so that he was staring into the face of the dark-haired man.
The eyes were gray and cold, threatening. “You will answer my questions. If you lie, the girl dies. If you tell the truth, she lives. You understand?”
The man jerked his hand toward Graciella. The two men holding her yanked her head back savagely by the hair until the whites of her eyes showed. One of them ripped her dress. The other took a big silver knife from behind his back, pressed the tip of the blade against the girl’s chest.
The dark-haired man said again, “You understand?”
Hernandez heard Graciella’s muffled cries and wanted to vomit. He nodded quickly.
The man stared into his face. “How did you know we were at the Excelsior? Answer quickly now.”
The hand on Hernandez’s mouth came away.
Hernandez gasped, “I was at Tsarkin’s house the day he killed himself . . . covering the story for La Tarde . . . a call came . . . from the Excelsior Hotel . . . I answered the telephone . . .”
The dark-haired man’s eyes lit up, understanding. He wrenched at Hernandez’s pockets, ripped out the wallet, and examined the contents. He plucked out the press identity card, scrutinized the photograph, then handed it to the silver-haired man, the one in charge, before he nodded for Hernandez to go on.
Hernandez’s voice came in short gasps, thick with fear, as he told him about Rodriguez. What he had been told about the men. About the equipment. About his plan. The dark-haired man turned pale. He turned to look at the older man, whose face was even paler, eyes glaring over at Hernandez.
The dark-haired man nodded toward the table. “The tape. We checked; it’s blank.” His tone demanded an explanation.
Hernandez sucked in air. His body was on fire with pain; the blows had almost crippled him.
“Answer!” the man screamed.
“The microphone . . . there was a prob
lem with it . . .” Hernandez began quickly, but the man suddenly cut him short with a sharp wave of his hand, as if he knew, a sadistic smile on his face now, his hand coming up to seize Hernandez’s jaws in a painful pincer grip. Hernandez wanted to scream: No, the real tape is in a safe place, I can take you to it. We can deal. But the man spoke quickly.
“Rodriguez . . . what he told you . . . who else did he tell?”
Hernandez tried to shake his head. The man’s grip still held him. “He told no one else . . . Only me.”
“You are certain? I want the truth.”
“Yes.”
“And did you tell anyone else?” Urgency in the man’s voice now. His grip tightened.
“No. No one.”
Pause. “Tell me . . . why did you leave this house?”
“To get some air. I . . . I couldn’t sleep.”
“Where did you go?”
“I . . . walked along the river.”
The man’s eyes searched Hernandez’s face for the truth. “The cargo Rodriguez told you about . . . what do you think it was? Answer truthfully now. The girl’s life depends on it.”
Hernandez looked at him through bruised and bloodied eyes. “White powder. You’re shipping cocaine.” Saying it and not caring, knowing now that he was dead no matter what he said, knowing that Graciella was dead, only hoping for her sake it would be quick . . .
The man released his grip. Hernandez begged, “Please . . . the girl . . . knows nothing. She’s only a child.”
The dark-haired man was smiling now, laughing as if something had amused him. He turned toward the older man with the silver hair. The man nodded.
The dark-haired man turned back. He stared into Hernandez’s eyes.
“You’re one stupid Latino!”
Then he turned and clicked his fingers. It happened quickly. The man holding the knife in front of Graciella raised his hand. The blade flashed. Hernandez was about to scream, but a hand came over his mouth again. He watched in horror as the knife came down, sliced through her chest from the valley between her breasts to the navel of her stomach. Hernandez saw blood spurt in a fountain, the whites of her dying eyes looking to heaven, her body suddenly limp, engulfed in blood. He felt the vomit rise in his stomach.
