‘Congratulations,’ said Grivas. ‘You are indeed clever. It’s a touch more subtle than the way you picture it, but you’ve got it fundamentally right.’
‘So, I hold the trump card,’ said Linda, ‘and I’m not asking much for it. Paul?’
Hawker conceded defeat. ‘Okay, you were correct. I had decided as you said. But now as you seem to be the only one with an answer to our problem, I agree to your condition.’
Linda gave a little whoop.
‘Shake on it,’ she said, jumping up from the armchair. ‘Then I’ll go rouse Sullivan.’
‘I have one condition of my own,’ said Hawker, still holding her hand. ‘That you don’t say a word about this and my family to the others. The fewer who know the safer.’
‘Sure,’ said Linda, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze before letting it go and heading for the door. ‘And the same goes for you, Comodoro Grivas. Your little secret is safe with me.’
She went out of the room and Grivas busied himself with tidying some of the magazines scattered around the room. He avoided Hawker’s gaze as he worked, each knowing they could never again look the other in the eye in the same way as they once did.
Friday 14 May 1982
Friday night was nominated by Grivas as the perfect time to move against Olga Tsenyenko without raising any suspicion, which was just as well because it took them almost all of Thursday, Thursday night, and hours more on Friday to get Hawker’s apartment set up.
Grivas and Linda agreed that it could remain as an obviously family apartment. In the first place it would be simpler, and the story of Linda being a mixed-up expatriate wife with a husband who’s away too much, leaving her to fret over her own sexuality, was more than acceptable. ‘Typical,’ Grivas had said.
Sullivan had taken to the task with glee. He confirmed Linda’s hunch that he had handled this type of operation before, and even went into lurid detail about the sexual deviations and intimate physical peculiarities of several British government officials, mostly in Customs and the Home Office. He’d done man/woman, man/man and once even man/animal but never, he said looking Linda up and down with unconcealed anticipation that made her squirm inside, never two women together.
The thought of being naked in front of Sullivan terrified Linda more than any misgivings she had about touching another woman. She insisted that Hawker be there to supervise Sullivan in the closet they rigged as a photographic hide and insisted on the right to have Sullivan searched – physically if necessary – for any negatives he might be tempted to keep for personal use.
Yet with it all she had to admire Sullivan’s professionalism.
He gave Grivas a shopping list of the gear he would need the same morning they briefed him, jotting it down on a notepad in Hawker’s bedroom after half an hour’s careful study of all the angles in the room. He specified the Pentax ME Super 35mm SLR camera because he was familiar with it and he knew it had an exceptionally quiet shutter mechanism. He ordered two camera bodies, a range of different focal length lenses, two sturdy tripods, and 400ASA Kodak TriX film stock.
‘Black and white, high speed,’ he explained. ‘Still a wee bit grainy but we’ll have to put up with that to keep the room lighting in the right mood.’ And he had winked at Linda in a way that sent a shiver down her spine.
Sullivan then set about rearranging the bedside lights, fiddling and adjusting as if he were on a movie set, and he got Hawker to help him move the stereo into the bedroom so that the speakers flanked the head of the bed. It was a Phillips compact system, one of those types in which the components have been miniaturised to the point that the turntable is not much bigger than an LP disc. It fitted quite neatly into a shelf near the bed, but still seemed to Linda to be out of place in the room. Hawker had the same thought and voiced it to Sullivan, who said, ‘We need the sound from a music source close enough to the bed to cover the noise of the shutter. It’s a small room, there’s really no other way.’
‘You can easily explain it if you have to,’ he said to Linda with a leering wink. ‘Tell her that since you saw that Bo Derek picture you can’t get off properly without Ravel’s Bolero.’
They had the room and cameras set up by the early hours of Friday morning. Racing against the coming of the dawn light, Sullivan shot a roll in the still night-dark room to test his lighting and exposures. He got Linda to lie on the bed before he and Hawker disappeared into the closet behind the rail of hanging clothes they had positioned forward of its normal place. It was a deep closet with big sliding doors, so they had been able to set it up more or less to Sullivan’s satisfaction without the major structural changes he had at first warned could be needed. The idea was that the closet door be left open, just enough for the camera to get a view. The rest of the room was arranged to a degree of casual untidiness that fitted with the door being ajar. A dress and bra were artfully draped over the chair at the dressing table, cosmetics were left out, a few books were scattered on the shelves behind the bed.
The cameras were set up between the folds of the clothes hanging in the closet and Hawker followed Sullivan to climb through to the cramped space behind them. Linda giggled at the sight of them. Neither had shaved for days, in preparation for looking like genuine castaways, and they both seemed to her to be the epitome of what a porn photographer should look like. But then Sullivan began to call muffled directions to her, and it no longer seemed such a joke.
‘There, that’s where you need to be,’ he called, ‘so her head will be facing us. There’s no use shooting her fanny for identification, now, is there?’
By late Friday morning Sullivan showed them the test shots after he had processed them in a professional standard darkroom Grivas had commandeered at the Naval School of Engineering. After studying each frame carefully and with plenty of discussion with Hawker, Grivas and Linda, he requested a trip back to Olivos to make certain lighting adjustments. That done, and a second test roll developed, printed and examined, he declared himself satisfied and ready for action by late afternoon.
Grivas personally drove Linda, Sullivan and Hawker back to the apartment. He left them there, saying he would return by eight to pick Linda up, and dropping a subtle reminder to Hawker that he would be phoning Gaffney in Montevideo for his regular scheduled call. The phone in the apartment, Hawker already knew, had been disconnected long ago.
‘You could get away now,’ Linda urged Hawker when they were alone in the living room. Sullivan was in the bedroom fiddling with the set dressing. ‘You could punch me. Give me a good shiner so I can spin a yarn about trying to stop you.’
She lifted her face to him and closed her eyes. It was a gesture so generous and so gentle it touched Hawker to the bottom of his heart. He stepped closer and held her lightly by the shoulders. She flinched a little, involuntarily, at his touch, but kept her eyes closed tight.
‘I can’t do that,’ he said softly.
‘I can take it,’ she protested. ‘You told me you know where your wife and daughter are and they’re not in jail. Get away now and you’ll have a good chance to rescue them. You could get right out from under this.’ She opened her eyes when he released her shoulders and took a step back.
‘Yes, I know where they are. But they may as well be on the moon.’
He told her in brief, brutal detail about the arrangement between Anaya and Gaffney. Her eyes opened wide and tears welled in their corners.
‘Oh, Paul. Poor, poor Paul,’ she said and reached forward and hugged him.
‘This is surprising sentiment from a drug smuggling urban guerrilla who’s about to become a lesbian,’ he said gruffly.
‘My fight is with politicians and soldiers, not women and children,’ she said. Then, brightening back to her usual manner, ‘Anyways you can still get away. At least phone your wife and tell her.’
Hawker walked her to the window. He pulled the curtain aside and pointed to the street two floors below.
‘Grivas is not a fool,’ he said. ‘See that blue Fa
lcon up the street?’
The car was parked at the kerb outside an apartment building just far enough away to seem unconnected. Inside, behind the tinted windows, the low afternoon sun exposed the vague bulky silhouettes of three big men. From where they sat, they had an uninterrupted view of the entrance to Hawker’s building.
‘They’re my own personal minders. They were there before Grivas left.’
‘You really are trapped. You have to go through with this all the way,’ Linda said sadly, then turned back to the living room. ‘In which case you’d better show me where you keep the booze.’
‘Dutch courage? You’ll be a wreck before you even start tonight if you get going on it now.’
‘I don’t want a drink, stupid,’ she gave him a plucky wink. ‘This is supposed to be my home. I’d look pretty dumb if I can’t offer my special guest a drink because I don’t know where the liquor’s kept.’
She spent the rest of the afternoon pacing the apartment until she knew the layout of everything in it backwards. At seven she began to get ready for the night.
She shooed Sullivan out of the bedroom, took a shower in the ensuite, being carefully careless in where and how she draped the damp towel. She really was beginning to feel her way into the role of a distracted, self-absorbed woman, she thought with a wicked sense of satisfaction.
Dried and naked, she laid her things out on the bed. She had bought them that morning in a shopping spree through the boutiques of Calle Florida which should have been a joy. She had not shopped for sexy evening clothes for years, almost since her student days, but this time she had Grivas tagging along with the cheque book instead of Daddy, and he was a constant reminder that what she was buying had nothing to do with her own pleasure. Grivas had been all business, examining every garment she suggested from the point of view of attracting this Olga woman.
They eventually agreed on a stunningly simple evening dress in vivid electric blue. It was less frothy and feminine than Linda thought Grivas would have gone for, but he explained that she should not come across as the pink and delicate little girlie. Olga would be more attracted to a hint of “animal feminine” as Grivas put it. And Linda had to agree, with some secret frisson of pleasure, that in this dress she certainly had it. The front was cut for a revealing deep décolletage, the sides were slit so the soft fabric slid sensuously over her thighs when she walked in the high heel evening slippers Grivas insisted on as the perfect match.
Linda looked at the dress laid out on the bed beside the provocative black lingerie she and Grivas had agreed on to go under it: the sheer transparent brassiere, the briefs cut with lacy edges that arced high on her hips, the nonsense suspender belt. She tried to imagine the woman it was all meant to impress. She drew a blank. She shivered suddenly and slowly, thoughtfully began to dress.
Later she made three attempts to get her lipstick on straight without smudging it. Her hands had never shaken like this before.
When she was finished, she went into the living room and took pleasure in the unbridled admiration she got from the two men.
‘I think I’ll have that drink now. Scotch. Straight,’ she said to Hawker. When she put the glass to her lips, she hoped neither of them noticed how it rattled against her teeth.
Two drinks later Grivas arrived to take her out. She now felt more under control, if a little light headed. Take it easy on the booze tonight, she thought to herself, or you’ll screw up the whole damned thing. Just keep focussed on how many lives depend on how well you pull this off. Especially that one little girl in the photos now locked away out of sight in the apartment.
She blew a kiss to the father of that little girl and went out to the car.
‘I must compliment you,’ Grivas said as he drove towards the city centre. ‘You look stunning. If I know Olga, it will be as easy as just telling her your name. She won’t be able to keep her hands off you.’
Linda shivered despite the warmth of her fur evening jacket, borrowed from Anne Hawker’s wardrobe.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’re looking pretty smart yourself. Though I was expecting something a tad more flamboyant.’
‘Gay, you mean? We’re not all raving queens, you know.’
He wore crisply tailored beige slacks, a blue blazer jacket and a discreetly striped shirt with a bow tie.
They drove in silence until Grivas turned into Calle Reconquista, the nightclub hub of Buenos Aires, and crawled down the street looking for a place to park. The buildings on either side of them blazed with light, the flickering pastel coloured enticements of neon lights, the bold white light of the Perspex banners headlining the entertainers. It was early yet for this part of town but already the pavement was thronged with people. Young couples strutted arm in arm. Groups of young men, already well primed for the night, linked themselves arm and shoulder and staggered along like untidy rugby packs. Tailored executives in twos and threes tried to look important as they drifted from one expense account bar to another. Above it all was the noise. The cars on the road and the feet on the footpath were only a base to the driving Latin rhythm that throbbed out of speakers at every doorway down the street.
Grivas parked the car and helped Linda out with more style and good grace than all the Anglo-Saxon men she had ever known put together. He said the club was some way back, so they joined the throng. They passed a news stand where every group in the crowd, even the advanced revellers, paused to scan the headlines. Many bought evening newspapers and read them nervously, stiffly, as they strolled away.
Grivas read the banner headlines and commented, ‘We had better make sure this works tonight. Time is fast running out.’
‘The Skyhawks and that supply ship?’ said Linda.
In the past few days news had come through that the British had sunk a ship attempting to run the blockade into the Falklands and Linda had seen the electrifying effect it had on the Argentinians, even from her tightly restricted view. A day later three Skyhawk fighter/bombers were shot down.
‘They’re just skirmishes,’ said Grivas. ‘Nibbling at the edges. That is where time is running out for Anaya.’
He gestured back towards headlines reporting yet another breakdown in negotiations at the United Nations.
‘Anaya has convinced the Junta to drag the negotiations out, to give him time to pull this off. They are using words to hold the taskforce at bay, away from the Malvinas. It’s critical because even Galtieri admits that the troops he has on the islands are no match for the British. Once their soldiers get a foothold on the Malvinas, the loss of a couple of planes will look like a very minor casualty.’
They walked on, past the corners with Calle Corrientes and Calle Lavalle, where the throng of fashionable people was at its thickest, to where the lights seemed brighter and the entrances to the clubs were definitely plusher. Grivas nudged through the crowd and led Linda on towards the relative dimness of Calle Tucuman.
‘You parked far enough away,’ Linda whined, emphasising her point with a theatrical stagger drawing attention to her high heeled shoes.
‘Discretion,’ he said. ‘Much more important than comfort.’
He turned into a tiny alley that glowed with the pulsating light of one neon sign. It said Zulu Club.
Linda gripped Grivas’ arm in a nervous reflex.
‘You’ll be fine,’ he said, patting her hand gently. ‘We will go in together because you may not be up to handling the stares you’d get alone. We’ll have a drink or two and I’ll run into Olga by chance. All you have to do is play the coquette. She will do everything else, believe me.’
‘Now you’re telling me you didn’t even arrange to meet her here tonight?’
‘She will be here,’ he said with assurance and led Linda down worn carpeted steps to the cellar.
The walls on either side of the steps were covered in grotesque murals in hot pink and black. They depicted scenes of Africa that no native African would be likely to recognise. Big black men, their naked well-muscled bodies lo
vingly painted, twined around palm trees and each other. The men were all painted with the bodies of weightlifters. Their buttocks were all tight and small. There was an occasional woman, always with equally firm and small breasts and mostly with a cruel sneer of aggression on her face. One was shown standing with a whip, her legs spread wide apart, with her crotch a strangely ambiguous mixture of female and male forms and between her feet a man cowering in the foetal position.
The people inside the club were almost all a disappointing anti-climax to the entrance. The room was dark and cavernous, lit by the frenetic pulse of a strobe light mounted above the cluster of dancers on the centre floor. Most of the men Linda could see at the bar looked as conservative as Grivas. Men and women dressed if anything less outrageously than the hetero crowd they had mingled with out on the streets grouped at tiny tables around the dance floor. Most tables, Linda noticed, were all male or all female, making the mixed ones stand out as an aberration of the pattern.
She relaxed her grip in Grivas’s arm.
‘See, I told you there would be nothing to worry about,’ he said, close to her ear because of the loud music. ‘What drink would you like?’
They sat at the bar and Linda became more attuned to the atmosphere of the place. She realised that the gorgeous brunette who served their drink was not a woman at all, despite the skimpy sequined dress with a neckline that plunged deep to reveal a cleavage she could envy. And on the other hand, many of what she had at first seen as short haired men turned out to be women.
‘Where is she?’ Linda asked, scanning the tables of women. ‘Should I be looking for something in a pinstripe suit?’
‘Not here yet,’ he said and casually sipped his drink.
They sat through three drinks. Linda ignored her earlier resolve to go easy.
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