This piece of shit. Who does he think he's talking to?
“If you don't, I'll see how much some magazine editor will pay me for those files.”
The files. How could it happen that someone like Turturro was given the final responsibility for shredding them? Or was he bluffing? Had the files been destroyed after all, as he had ordered?
“If I give you a hundred million lire, what will you do? In another six months you'll need more money. You throw everything away on brandy and bookmakers. You're one of life's losers, Turturro. I'm not giving you another penny.”
“What will your pretty daughter say when she reads about the things you did?”
“I'm not giving you another penny.”
“I'll tell them everything. I mean it. You remember that woman you shot in the head? The way her brains sprayed up the wall? That should get you a few paragraphs in La Repubblica . What will your daughter think of you then? And your wife?”
“My wife already knows,” Angeli growled. “As for everyone else they'll never believe you. Look at you. You're a drunk, a gambler, a loser. Who will pay any attention to you?”
“You're a fucking murderer and I can prove it.”
Angeli saw his wife come out of the showroom with two shopping bags. “Get out,” he said to Turturro.
“I'll fucking show you!'
At Angeli's signal Marco opened the back door and hauled him out of the car. He threw him onto the footpath at the feet of some startled shoppers. Francesca, to her credit, hardly broke her stride. She stepped adroitly over him and climbed into the back in the seat already warmed by Turturro's ample behind. She was still chatting to a friend on her mobile telephone.
“George's,” Angeli said to Marco as he got behind the wheel.
Turturro got to his feet and made an obscene gesture through the passenger side window as they drove away.
I will have to do something about you very soon, Angeli thought
Very soon indeed.
Chapter 81
SIMONE HURRIED OUT of the glass doors of the apartment. There was ice on the cobblestones. She zipped up the mauve ski jacket, and hefted the day pack onto her shoulder, at the same time fumbling in her pocket for the keys to her Lancia.
She stopped. Someone had slipped a brown manila envelope under the windshield blades of her car. She opened it, puzzled. There were dozens of photocopied pages; photographs, pages from a handwritten ledger, printed forms with typewritten inserts.
“I thought you might like to give those to your father,” a voice said.
She whirled around. A heavy-set, balding man in a leather jacket and thick black polo-neck sweater stood in the gateway, his hands in his pockets. As he came towards her she could smell the grappa on him, even though it wasn’t even seven o’clock. She took a step back. “Who are you?”
“You don’t need to know who I am. Just give those to your father. Your father, the fucking murderer.”
***
The little bitch was terrified. Good. He could see her measuring the distance back to the apartment, wondering whether to run or brazen it out. He grinned, enjoying her discomfort.
The grappa in his hip flask had made him truculent. He didn't want any shit from this girl. He had taken enough from her father.
“Have another look at what's in the envelope. Do you know what your papito did in the dirty war? You must have guessed. Don't tell me Colonel Angeli's little girl is that fucking stupid.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“I'm talking about your father's career in the army. Ask him how many of the junta's enemies he disappeared, how many leftists he tortured and murdered.”
“He had nothing to do with that.”
“Is that what he told you?” Her face was the colour of chalk. Poor stupid little rich girl. “Don't look so shocked. Go on, look at that stuff. It's his file from the Command Action Group. Did he ever tell you about that? It makes good night time reading. They’re some of our records of interrogation. You'll notice all of our clients ended up one way.”
“I don't believe you.”
“Of course you do. I think you always suspected. Didn’t you?”
“Who are you?”
“My name's Turturro. Sergeant Raoul Turturro. Ask him, he'll remember me. I was there, I worked for him. I wasn't a sadist like some of them, I just did the paperwork. I helped a lot of them, massaged their legs and arms after they had been tortured with the electricity. I tried to stop the worst of it. Sometimes your father tortured them so badly they couldn't speak, their voices had gone they had been screaming so hard ... what’s the point of trying to make someone talk when you hurt them so bad they can only drool?”
“Shut up!'
“There were a lot of bad ones, but he was the worst. Sometimes he stayed in the torture room for twenty four hours, sometimes more. He'd go home but a couple of hours later he'd be back again. He couldn't stay away, he loved it. Sometimes, if we were interrogating young girls, maybe the same age as you are now, he'd make the doctor and everyone else leave the room and lock the door.”He lowered his voice. “He'd fuck them then he'd shoot them in the head!'
She turned and ran away, fumbling with the security lock on the apartment door. If he had wanted to, he could have stopped her. Instead he just stood there, his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, shaking his head. He almost felt sorry for her.
The door slammed shut. A kitten darted away into the shadows.
He walked back to the piazza. Now it was done he felt almost let down. Baiting her hadn't been as much fun as he had thought. Still, it would let the colonel know he meant business.
Chapter 82
ANGELI WAS IN THE dining room, eating his lunch alone; Francesca had gone to her health club. The housekeeper, Fulvia, had prepared coda alla vaccinara, which she had served with a half bottle of Barolo.
He ate slowly, reading that day’s edition of l”Osservatore Romano. The intercom buzzed downstairs. A few moments later he heard a commotion at the door, heard Fulvia raise her voice to a visitor, which she had never done in all the years she had worked for him. He looked up in surprise.
As soon as he saw her he knew something was wrong. She was breathing hard, as if she had been running. Her face was flushed. His first thought was that she had been in a car accident or had been attacked in the street.
He jumped up to embrace her but she backed away from him. “Caro? What's wrong?”
She did not answer him.
“Simone?”
“Why did we leave Argentine?”
He knew immediately what had happened: Turturro! He cursed himself for a fool. He had underestimated the man's greed and spite; and vastly overestimated his intelligence.
“Papa?”
“I have told you many times. After the Malvinas ...”
“You're lying to me.” There was a look on her face he had never seen before.
“Caro, what are you saying?”
“This man was waiting for me outside my apartment. He said he knew you, he gave me this.” She threw a manila envelope on the table. Angeli picked it up, flicked through the photostat pages inside. Son of a whore! So, he had not been bluffing.
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Enjoy? Enjoy what?”
“Enjoy torturing all those people. Raping those young girls.”
He stared at her for a long time. “You are not well. I am going to call the doctor.” He went to the telephone.
“He said you were in charge of one of the death squads. He said he used to work for you.”
“People spread lies about me all the time. The communists ...”
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
He ran a hand across his face. When he spoke again his voice was very soft. “How can you ask me this question? What sort of a man do you think I am?”
“He said he took orders from you at one of the detention centres. That you were his commander.”
“You believe th
ese lies?”
“Are they lies?”
“Of course! Of course they are lies! You think your father is a monster?”
“I don't know.”
“Simone, a man, especially a wealthy man, gains many enemies in a lifetime. There are many people who would like to hurt me. They can hurt me most of all through you.”
Simone pointed to the papers scattered on the floor. “But what about those!'
He sighed, let his arms hang limp at his sides, a gesture of resignation. “I was in charge of some of the arrests. All right. Yes. But what happened after that ... that was not my concern. We were fighting a war. That is what you have to understand. The important thing was gathering information. The people I arrested, they were not civilians. The Montoneros bombed our barracks, I had seen my friends and their wives and their children blown to pieces. These people were evil. But I did not torture or murder anyone. I just did my job.”
She shook her head. He could see she wanted so much to believe him.
“It is the truth. Please.”
The tears came then. He held her in his arms, felt the great sobs course through her body. He kissed her, held her, stroked her hair.
“I am innocent of these things,” he whispered. “You must believe me. I give you my word. I am innocent.”
But she did not believe him. How could she? It would never be the same now. Turturro had broken something precious to him and now he would make sure that he paid for it.
Chapter 83
TURTURRO HURRIED ACROSS the crowded departure hall towards the Alitalia desk, his luggage on a stainless steel trolley, the carpet bag with its precious contents over his left shoulder. He was going to get a ticket out of the country, it didn’t matter where. Now that he had sobered up, he was cursing himself for his recklessness.
But as soon as he reached the counter two carabiniere stepped up behind him. “Turturro?” one of them said. “Raoul Turturro?”
His knees almost gave way under him. These men are not police, he thought. Their uniforms were perfect down to the white crossbelts and the red stripes on their trousers. Thgey have the swagger. But he knew they weren’t police.
He tried to bolt but one of them grabbed him and wrestled him to the ground. There were gasps and everyone in the terminus stopped and stared at them. He shouted at them to help him. But who was going to interfere with two carabinieri going about their business? It was the same psychology that had let their Command Action Group abduct so many people in broad daylight in Buenos Aires; no one challenges authority, because no one wants to become another victim.
They frog-marched him out of the doors. He heard himself shouting at people to call the police, even though he knew how ridiculous that must sound. Tourists and business people stared with those particular expressions of revulsion reserved for madmen. It was hopeless. He was lost.
There was a dark blue Fiat parked in the forecourt, a beacon on its roof, CARABINIERI written on the doors in large white letters. They handcuffed him and bundled him into the back seat.
One of the carabinieri went back inside the terminus to retrieve the cap he had lost in the struggle and fetch the carpet bag Turturro had dropped. He recognised him now. It was Angeli's driver.
His colleague jumped behind the wheel of the Fiat. “I wouldn't be in your shoes for anything,” he said to Turturro. “Signor Rivera is a very unhappy man. Anyone else but you, I’d feel sorry for them.”
***
A fool was a fool for life, Angeli thought. You could never save a man from himself. Greed, anger, lust; if a man did not control his venal instincts, they led him to disaster.
The room he had rented was over a garage and machine repair works. It reminded him of one of the detention centres they had used in Buenos Aires, at Orletti. In those days they had owned the garage themselves, had a corporal race the engines to cover the sound of the screams when there was a torture session in progress. But this would do just as well.
He ran up the flight of metal steps to a padlocked wooden door. He took a key from his pocket, unlocked it and went inside.
***
Turturro woke to the smell of oil and grease, the howl of a revving engine. He could not move his arms or legs. He thought he was going to vomit. He remembered now. Those bastards had injected him with some sort of drug after they abducted him at the airport.
Someone was standing over him, but he could not see him clearly, his vision was still blurred.
“You still think it was a good idea to say those things to my daughter?”
Por Dios! Angeli.
He wanted to sit up, but his wrists and ankles were tied to some sort of frame. He tried to scream but they had stuffed a rag in his mouth and no sound came. He thought he was going to faint. He lost control of his bladder. He thrashed around, trying to get free, until he was utterly exhausted. He knew what was going to happen. How many times had he done it himself?
Chapter 84
ANGELI SET HIS BRIEFCASE on the floor and sat down on the chair beside the bed, crossing his legs. He leaned back, making himself comfortable. “Well, my friend. How many times have you done this to someone? Now it's your turn.”
There were four bare brick walls, no windows. The room was lit by a single bulb on a worn piece of flex. Old car parts, rusted mufflers, empty oil cans, ancient carburretors, a dented mudguard, were piled in one corner. A bedframe and a single chair, both metal, had been placed in the middle. A brand new battery-operated cassette player sat on the dusty floorboards.
Turturro was spreadeagled naked on the bedframe, his wrists and ankles secured with thick wire. He was naked. He looked, Angeli thought, like some hairy whale. His genitals, frozen by cold and fear, looked ridiculous, dwarfed by the flaccid mound of his belly. There was a gag in his mouth that made his nostrils flare as he tried to breathe. His eyes were as big as soup plates and even in the dank chill of the room Angeli could smell the sweat coming off him. It reminded him of the barracks at Ezeiza, a scent as poignant as the perfume of an old lover.
“Do you remember the old days,” Angeli said. “You used to have a lot of fun with the picana.”
Turturro shook his head.
“You don't remember? Or you don't want to remember? Or are you trying to tell me something else?” He shook his head, like a teacher with a recalcitrant pupil. “I did not kill you straight away, I gave you a little money, I was indulgent. But you were greedy. Now you try to ruin my life. You have no gratitude.” He smiled. “Gratitude is not something we are born with. It must be learned.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I am going to remove the gag for a moment. But if you scream, I shall have to hurt you. Do you understand?”
Turturro nodded his head, desperately.
Angeli pressed the 'play' button the cassette recorder. A precaution in case Turturro made too much noise. He turned up the volume. Abba: Dancing Queen. Turturro's eyes darted frantically in his head, trying to understand the significance of the music. It was a joke of course. But the joke was on him.
Angeli ripped off the sticking plaster and pulled the rag out of Turturro's mouth.
The words came in a rush, like popping the cork from a bottle of champagne. “Please don't hurt me, don't hurt me, don't kill me. I have a lawyer. He has copies of everything. Anything happens to me, he sends them to all the newspapers. Just let me go, I'll give you everything. I swear ...”
Angeli did not have time for this. He stuffed the rag back in Turturro's mouth and snapped off the cassette player.
Young and sweet, only seventeen.
“What you are telling me could be true or it could be bullshit.” He snapped open the briefcase, took out some sheets of yellowed paper. “These were in your bag at the airport.” He flicked through them, as if seeing them for the first time. There were career files on dozens of officers and enlisted men in the Command Action group that he had once directed. There were also records of interrogation of some of their victims, enough to do him considerable damage in
the public arena should they find their way into the wrong hands. Already these same documents had damaged his relationship with his own daughter. How much damage time alone would tell.
He found the page he was looking for; his own face stared back at him, unsmiling, from a black and white photograph, together with his service record. How had Turturro smuggled these out? He would not have given him credit for such ingenuity.
“Originals,” he said. “Now if I were you, these are the ones I would have lodged with a lawyer.” He nodded slowly, his lips pursed, as if considering some deep mathematical problem. “But perhaps you did make copies and had those lodged somewhere. Perhaps ... but how can I be sure?”
He produced a neatly folded butcher's apron from his briefcase. He put it on. Then he snapped on a pair of white rubber gloves. The last item he produced was a filleting knife.
Turturro's chest was heaving and a high keening sound escaped the gag. Angeli leaned over the bed and turned the blade under Turturro's eyes, so that it caught the light. “Do you see this? You used to have one like this.”
Turturro was bucking up and down on the bed, his belly quivering like jelly.
“Listen to me, Turturro. Listen!' The bucking stopped. “Good. Now, it's very simple. I am going to remove the gag. If you scream I shall castrate you. Do you understand?”
Turturro nodded. Even though it was so cold, there was sweat running down his face, into his eyes.
“Now I am going to ask you if there any copies, and if there are, I want you to tell me the name of the person you gave them to. If you don't tell me, I shall replace the gag and cut off two of your toes. Do you understand?”
Angeli pressed 'play' on the cassette player. You can dance, you can jive. Turturro fouled himself. The stench filled the room.
Disappeared Page 24
