This was my client, then, the Argentine government.
The mothers and grandmothers who circled the Pirámide began to sing a lullaby. I couldn’t imagine the fear these people endured as they nodded off each night, wondering if they’d wake to the rumble of boots on the stairway. I’d read reports of beatings, rapes, and plucked fingernails at the government’s infamous detention center, the old navy yard. Still, the mothers and grandmothers came.
I wanted a photo, just one, to remember it all. I pulled my Minolta from a satchel and drew the lens in on a woman who could have been anyone’s grandmother anywhere. Freda, perhaps. Deep creases ran from the corners of her mouth to her chin. She was thick and bent at the waist, aided by a woman half her age, both of them wearing kerchiefs. They circled the monument that celebrated the nation’s birth. As I framed the shot, people standing near me stepped away. I’d thought I had little to fear as a foreign national. But the moment I snapped the photo, two men grabbed my arms and hustled me to a perimeter post, by an idling van.
I wanted no part of that van, not if Liesel or my parents wanted to see me again. Four more policemen approached. One cut the strap to my camera and opened it, exposing the film, which he then ripped from its sprockets.
“Identification!”
I presented my passport.
“A Frenchman? What does a Frenchman want at Plaza de Mayo? Are you a photojournalist? Are you preparing some trashy exposé of our country? What are you doing here? What!”
I could barely follow his rapid-fire Spanish. My interrogator, a man in his mid-thirties, had a clean-shaven, intelligent face and wore at his belt all the instruments of authority: gun, club, cuffs, pepper spray, bullets. The leather was shiny; the lead tips of the bullets, dull. I glanced at my camera, which a second policeman had stashed into a bag with a half-eaten sandwich and a glossy magazine festooned with images of large-breasted women.
Exactly how much trouble am I in? I thought. I tried finding out in a language other than Spanish.
“Español!” the man roared.
I reached for a letter from the Ministry of Antiquities, printed on stationery with an embossed federal stamp. It had arrived in Munich, par avion, the day before I left: instructions, in Spanish, for customs agents to give me every courtesy and expedited treatment so that I could pursue business important to the state. Though Colonel Batista was my main contact, the letter was signed by his superior, General Perez.
The policeman read the letter, looked at me, and read it again. The mothers, meanwhile, had begun another lullaby, something about the seasons—how they know just when to come because the one true God, el Dios, loves his children and brings sweetness, in time, to those who wait.
“You have business in Argentina?”
I nodded.
“You have business here? In Plaza de Mayo?”
“My business is later this afternoon. Now I’m a tourist,” I said. “My guidebooks say, come to Plaza de Mayo if you want to know the soul of the country. It’s supposed to be the most beautiful plaza in all Buenos Aires. However—” I pointed to my exposed film on the ground. “I’ll have to start over with photographs. Perhaps it’s not the right day for photos? My Spanish is not so good. Can you tell me, what are all these women celebrating?”
The man listened closely for cracks in my story. He reviewed the letter of introduction a final time: “It is our mistake, Señor. And no, this is not the right day to be taking photos. You’ll find a tourism shop on Avenida de Mayo, one hundred meters that way. Just there.” He pointed. “They’ll have all the photos you need. My sincere apologies.”
I smiled at the news. “I assume there’s no need to mention this to General Perez? He and I are having dinner this evening.”
The policeman blanched. “No, not necessary. But give him my regards.”
I reached into my jacket for a pen and slip of paper. “That would be my pleasure. Please, give me your name.”
He thought the better of it and waved me off. “We’re too busy for this. One of my men will escort you to the tourism shop. Enjoy your stay in Buenos Aires.”
I pointed to the bag with my Minolta. “If you would.”
The policeman said: “Manuel, give the man his fucking camera.”
twenty-seven
“El Preciado . . . It will be our grandest success, Señor Poincaré! One billion in gold and silver coins, if we’ve read the ship’s manifest correctly. And a statue, a life-sized golden statue, of the Virgin Mother!”
What surprised me more than General Perez’s office with its intricate cornice moldings and Persian rugs was that the general wore a suit, not a uniform, though his staff, all in army green, addressed him as General. The Ministry of Antiquities occupied the upper floors of an ornate government building three blocks west of Plaza de Mayo. I had seen buildings like it in many European cities. Indeed, Buenos Aires itself had the hybrid feel of this office, part old world and part new. I was seduced by its cafés and handsome parks, its many invitations to sit and talk. Yet what I had seen of the madres demonstrated nothing if not the bitter truth that talk in this city was dangerous.
I didn’t for a moment doubt that, as in Nazi Germany, informers insinuated themselves into every crevice of society. Where could anyone feel safe? Not at the University, where police hunted down leftists. How about the confessional? Years later, I would read the testimony of priests who apologized for their church’s support of the dirty war. If church fathers ministered to the families of the disappeared, they also assigned chaplains to comfort soldiers who showed signs of stress after torturing enemies of the state. So while Buenos Aires invited its people to talk in one lovely venue after the next, I saw no one talking.
“Yes,” I answered the general. “I’ve read all about the wreck of El Preciado. I know you’re not the first to search for it. But you’re the first with a definite fix on her location. Congratulations.”
The general had lined his office with artifacts from Argentina’s rich history: indigenous handicraft and weapons in one display case; colonial-era books in another; presentations of armor; and, closest to his desk, gold coins mined and minted in Argentina over the centuries. Behind the desk hung a photograph of President Videla and, below that, portraits of the other generals who led the junta.
Perez smiled. “Evidence, almost certainly,” he said. “A ship’s bell with two letters still legible, and space enough for six more. We’re all but certain, Señor Poincaré, that she is El Preciado, and we’ll need every bit of your skill to reclaim her riches. Colonel Batista tells me the platform you built for the Lutine will work splendidly for our application. He says that you and Mr. Chin are the right men for the job. Isn’t this right, Colonel?”
The colonel bowed to his general.
I don’t believe I’ve formed an impression of anyone as quickly as I did of Alphonse Batista. A handshake in the outer office and thirty seconds of preliminaries were all I needed to peg him as a honey-tongued weasel who lived to advance his own career. Batista chilled me the way President Videla, staring from his portrait like a latter-day Himmler, chilled me.
“Yes, General. My visit to the dive site in Holland was most impressive. These are the men we need. They’ve done fine work.”
“So there we are,” said Perez.
“But nothing’s certain until I see the site, General.”
In fact, I had seen the site in my descent to the airport. I had read extensively on the tidal flows in the estuary. I knew the volume of water moving through the Rio de la Plata in every season, and I’d calculated the likely stresses on the anchor beams. I’d even read analyses of the geological features of the river basin and knew, for a fact, that the platform Alec and I had designed for Terschelling would work well for the Preciado.
Still, I hedged. I didn’t like these people. I didn’t like what I’d seen in the plaza. “Each site has its challenges,” I continued. “I can’t guarantee our platform will be the right approach. But let’s establish that
when we get to the site. It’s important that you know all the possibilities ahead of time.”
“Of course,” said Perez. “But you’ll forgive me. I won’t be able to travel with you today. My schedule has erupted beyond my control, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to meet for dinner either. I understand you’re leaving tomorrow. A pity! Please give all your confidence to Colonel Batista. Speak with him as you would to me. I know you’ll find a solution that allows us to begin salvaging the wreck next spring.”
The general showed us to the office door.
“It’s a vast treasure,” I said. “I know you have excellent museums in Buenos Aires. Where will you be displaying the coins and artifacts? Many ships have sunk in Rio de la Plata. If this truly is El Preciado, you must have plans.”
The general flicked a speck from his sleeve. “Señor Poincaré. You may have read that these are trying times for my country. We face labor strikes. Our economy is struggling, and the political situation . . . perhaps you read the papers. Order and stability are threatened. Should this wreck be El Preciado, I assure you the Argentine government will find uses for the gold and silver. The statue of the Virgin will go to a museum, of course. As for the rest, a billion is a large number. A treasure this size could help stabilize the economy and provide our nation with the tools we need to restore order. I am Minister of Antiquities, but my responsibilities extend well beyond giving attention to the past. All of us must work for a stable Argentina, present and future. Good day, Señor.”
BATISTA DIRECTED the pilot to bank over the soccer stadium. “Look there,” he said. “The game begins this evening, and already a long line of cars. In the stadium itself, people are seated. I have a feeling Argentina will do well in this World Cup. It’s not so common for the host country to win, you know. But we’re confident.”
I listened through headphones as the pilot maneuvered the helicopter. A muddy river basin opened before us from a narrow neck in the west to a wide, gaping mouth at the Atlantic: treacherous waters, I knew, with a full catalogue of ships lost over the centuries. The shifting gravel banks of the estuary were notoriously difficult to read. Ships that ran aground would take a beating from violent gusts off the Atlantic, blowing from the east, while the river’s current ran from the north and west, creating a devastating shear. Experienced pilots shadowed the far shore, the Uruguayan border, though that came with the risk of submerged rocks. The river had earned its reputation as a cemetery.
The general said they’d found the ship’s bell. It was the grail of any dive, definitive in establishing a wreck’s identity. I asked Batista about it to keep him talking, for I needed time to think.
My decision whether or not to help them was not a technical one. My problem was the madres and the police van and the barely controlled terror on the face of my driver from the airport. The money from this dive was going to fund more boots on stairwells and more vans that took people away and never brought them back. I didn’t know what I would say when the helicopter landed. I only half-listened as Batista recounted the improbable story of how a fisherman had found the wreck.
“Over there,” he said to the pilot, pointing to an orange circle on the shoreline. I saw several concrete, tin-roofed buildings, a water tower, and a recently constructed pier alongside which bobbed a large skiff with a machine-gun mount. A flag at the end of the pier flew the federal colors.
The colonel pointed to a spot some seventy meters off the pier. “It’s hard to believe,” he said, “but El Preciado is that close. When the general saw this, he said, ‘The water looks like mud but will taste like gold.’ We have high hopes for the dive, Señor. It is my special project, and I will make my name with it. We are very pleased to have you advising us.”
I adjusted the microphone on my headset. “I see a problem, Colonel.” The pilot turned the helicopter into the wind so that dust kicked up by the rotors wouldn’t blind him.
“A problem? What problem?”
“For the barge.”
The only problem would be breaking the news to Alec that I’d rejected a rich contract. “The barge we designed is too heavy for this application,” I said, inventing one bogus detail after the next. “It draws seven meters. I’ve studied the average depth of the river, thinking the dive was farther offshore. This close, during the summer, the hull will sit too near the wreck and put your divers in danger.”
Batista shrugged. “Let us worry about the divers.”
No surprise there.
“The wreck itself could be damaged,” I continued. “We could build a smaller barge, but that would require drawing up new plans for a different configuration of sheds, cranes, and the like. We don’t have room in our schedule, I’m afraid. I’m sorry, but I didn’t understand until now. I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time. Please tell your pilot to take us back.” All this, and beside me, in my briefcase, I had a complete set of workable plans. With a signature, I’d walk away with a check for 50,000 Argentine pesos.
Batista looked at me, amazed. “You don’t want to inspect the site? We’re here. Step out of the helicopter, Señor. Please.”
“I’d just be humoring you,” I answered. “I don’t want to waste your time.”
Batista removed his headphones. “You may have already wasted my time. Come, step out of the helicopter. Humor me.”
I followed him onto the dusty riverbank.
“The problem jumps out,” I said. “Let me suggest a simple solution that will save you money. Run a cable system with pulleys from the shore to a fixed anchor beyond the wreck. Attach an engine on shore—and run barges smaller than the one I designed back and forth, like a ferry service. The divers and whatever they find will come and go from those. You don’t need my barge. In fact, I’d be stealing your money. I won’t do it, Colonel. It wouldn’t be honorable.”
“Honorable?”
“Honorable. Why would I take your money?”
“I saw your operation in the Netherlands. It seemed ideal for our use. Your partner, Señor Chin, thought so.”
Alec would, I thought. “He didn’t have the advantage of being here. The waters need to be deeper for a fixed barge. I’m sorry.”
“Then you will design the pulley system for us, and also the buildings we’ll need on the shore to handle all the gold we expect to find. We’ll transfer capabilities from the barge to buildings on land. This will work. The general was quite specific that he wanted the same team that Lloyd’s of London used. Please understand, this has nothing to do with the expense. We want you.”
I chose my next words with care. “Our company is backlogged with business,” I said. “We couldn’t possibly take on this work until sometime next year. This is unacceptable, given your schedule. Please apologize to General Perez for me.”
I was thinking of the police van as I reached for my checkbook. “You went to considerable expense to bring me here, and the fault was ours. I have the paperwork for the airfare.” From another pocket, I produced a receipt. I was thinking of the madres and the driver. I wanted nothing, not a peso, from these people. Batista watched me and made a cutting motion for his pilot to kill the engine.
“Come to the pier, Señor.”
He motioned for me to follow.
Rio de la Plata cut through a coastal plain as flat as a dinner table. In the distance rose the towers of Buenos Aires. I was alone and vulnerable. I wanted to get no closer to the water, but Batista was waving me on. To refuse him would bring down a world of inconvenience, or worse, and no letter of introduction would save me this time.
“What is it?” called Batista.
I had paused after the first step. “I’m just a bit hesitant around piers and bridges.” I tried laughing. “It’s funny. You’d think an engineer who designs these things wouldn’t have problems.”
Batista made his own attempt at laughter. The river behind him was vast and muddy. Anything that fell in had a very good chance of being lost for a long time. “Yes, Señor Poincaré. We all have fears to conque
r.”
By the time I joined him at the end of the pier, I was sweating.
“My fear,” he said, “is looking like a fool in front of General Perez. This is my project. This is my promotion. What are we going to do?”
“You’re going to look very smart.”
“And how’s that?”
I dabbed a handkerchief at my forehead. On the back of the paper sleeve that held my airline reservation, I sketched the pulley system I had suggested. I noted the gauge of the cable and the length and shape of the anchor beam. “Colonel, take this to the general and explain why you refused my services. Copy this design in your own hand and tell him an idea occurred to you that could save paying my fee. You will spend a few thousand to build this—” I handed him the sketch—“when you would have spent twenty times that to buy my plans. You’ll look smart and loyal,” I said.
Batista thought it over, and I wondered if I’d be taking a swim in the near future. Like the other man in uniform I’d seen that afternoon, he wore a holstered gun, and this for a desk job at the Antiquities Ministry. His effort at smiling seemed to hurt him. He smiled and nothing cracked: “You were about to write a check,” he said.
Alec would be spitting mad.
“So I was. It’s only fair.”
“In that case, write two. One to the government of Argentina for the wasted airfare. And one in the same amount to me, for services rendered. Round up to the nearest thousand, if you would.” He turned to admire the river. “My first name is Alphonse—with a silent e.”
twenty-eight
Now that I was paying for my hotel room, I canceled the reservation at El Presidente and found a modest guesthouse. I didn’t put it past the grim-faced colonel to send a collector to Europe looking to recoup expenses for his Lutine visit. But I couldn’t worry about that. My main concern was to avoid all interactions with the Argentine police until my return flight Friday evening. I found the Braniff offices and exchanged my first-class ticket for coach and a cash refund. My day would be spent looking over my shoulder for Batista and his cousins.
The Tenth Witness Page 15
