Plantation A Legal Thriller

by J M S Macfarlane

  Chapter 63

  Once they were awake, Rosa sat and talked to the old woman about where she’d decided to go. After a while, they were given a coffee, then Rosa said goodbye and they were ready to leave. Before they went, Ashby took out a hundred dollar bill and gave it to the old woman. At first, she refused to accept it but was prevailed upon by both of them to take it.

  Soon they were heading east to pick up the coastal road north of Buenos Aires, following the Rio de La Plata in the direction of the Uruguay River and the border between Argentina and Uruguay. Ashby still had the feeling they were being followed but said nothing.

  After an hour, they had left the capital behind and were passing through the towns of Campana and Zarate, close to the delta of the Parana River which flows into northern Argentina. At Zarate, they took the highway which crossed the river. When they reached the river, there was a twin-span bridge which took them to the opposite bank and the port.

  “Where exactly are we going ?” asked Ashby.

  Rosa used a map to trace out the journey for him.

  “We will take National Route 14 north – it is the highway close to the Uruguay River. We will pass the cities of Gualeguaychu and Concepcion del Uruguay until we reach Concordia, two hundred and fifty miles from here. Then we will cross the Salto Bridge into Uruguay and stay in Salto overnight.”

  The journey was long and uneventful while the Volkswagen clattered and wheezed. She asked him about London, what it was like and why he’d gone to Buenos Aires. When he said that he worked for an American company, her mood changed. The Americanos ruled South America as if they owned it, she said. They were causing all the trouble. But what about the communists, asked Ashby. They were no angels either, were they ? At this, she responded angrily. The communists were fighting for social justice – for the peasants, to give them land they could farm. There would always be injustice in South America without socialism. And if the Americans had not interfered, there would have been land reforms and a more equal division of wealth. In Chile, the CIA had overthrown Allende and the elected government. The Americans talked about democracy but would do the same again. That was why there was an armed struggle. The Americans were supporting dictators and murderers. The people couldn’t choose their own government. So much for democracy. To this, Ashby said nothing ; it was clearly a sensitive topic. She would not be persuaded by anything he had to say and arguing was pointless.

  Halfway at Concepcion, they stopped at a roadside cafe to have something to eat. It was full of truck drivers heading into and out of Buenos Aires. They were Paraguayan, Uruguayan, Brazilian and Bolivian. Most of them seemed to know each other.

  Back on the road, it was dusty and dry. The highways were endless, trailing off into the distance. Then, after a time, the traffic slowed. There was a long line of trucks which had made their deliveries in Buenos Aires or further south and were heading out of Argentina, mainly in the direction of Brazil. The names of the haulage companies were emblazoned on their sides. Most of them were Brazilian.

  By now, Rosa had forgotten the gun and Ashby could talk freely without the worry of getting shot.

  “Tell me, what happened to your brother ?” he asked.

  The question distressed her and it took her some time to reply.

  “It is a long story – it is what has happened to my country. When I think of these times, it is like some, how you say, nightmare. Yes.....a horrible dream......Once, my family was rich. We owned much land in La Pampa province – we had a farm and ranch with many cattle. My father was a businessman and.....seven years ago, our family was happy. I had two brothers. Yes, ‘had’ – they are gone – all of my family are gone.” She paused to wipe away the tears which streamed down her face. The memories were painful for her, as if something was wrenching her heart. “My oldest brother was a student at the university in Buenos Aires. Secretly, his friends were ‘politicos’. They wanted him to join them – to be a socialist, to change our country. They made him feel guilty. Our family was rich and there were many poor. It was the same everywhere in South America – the rich, the powerful....the corrupt – they have the country for themselves. Everyone else lives in poverty. So, to become a socialist – it was very dangerous. For more than twenty years, there is civil war in Argentina. First came the Perons and then the juntas and then what we call the ‘Dirty War’ – the Guerra Sucia – the murders – the ‘disappearances’ of socialists, unionists, students. My father and brother, they argued very much. My father was afraid for my brother but also, for all of us in our family. But my brother was angry and would not listen. He said we must fight the regime, we have no choice, it is our conscience. He wanted to be like Che Guevarra and fight for social justice. He said the revolution would stop the tyranny. Then, he joined the Montoneros guerrillas in the mountains and fought with them. One day, we read in the newspaper of his capture. My father wanted to see him in prison but is arrested too and so is my younger brother. All of this worry makes my mother ill and when we try to visit them in prison, we are told there are no records of them. No-one in the police or army has heard of them. It is as if they have never lived. My mother’s health becomes worse. After six months, soldiers arrive at our home and say that all of our property, the ranch and the farm are taken by the state to pay for taxes we owe. My mother and I have nowhere to live and soon after my mother dies. Much, much later – I learn that my father and brothers are taken to a camp in the south of the country and killed by the military. And it is then that I cry with tears of blood that I will avenge them.”

  For some time, she was silent before being able to continue.

  “On the day the soldiers take my father and brother – my life – it ends on that day. My future is gone after my family are taken from me. At this time, I think to myself – ‘Why has this happened’ ? Why it happens to us ? Because I have no money and am poor, now I hear what the peasants say. Now I understand that life is hard for them. And I think – my brother, he is right – revolution is the only way. Democracia – the Americanos and their democracia – it is a dream. They own the countries of South America – ha, except Cuba. Fidel fought them and won. And Fidel will help us to win. So, I carry on our struggle for freedom which my brother began.”

  “And you joined the guerrillas ?”

  “Si, the Montoneros. At first, it was difficult. I asked to go to them in the mountains. Where they live – it is far away. And they must be sure I am not a spy. But now, they are my family. And we will fight the murderers and torturers and bring justice to our country. One day, I will avenge my father and my brothers and our suffering. If I am killed, others will take my place – to punish these monsters for what they do. We will not rest until there is justice in Argentina.”

  “Do you think that day will ever come ?” asked Ashby.

  “Yes – it must – it will – I am sure it will.”

  “And was it the Montoneros who gave you the documents which were stolen from the generals.”

  “Yes, my comrades cause much trouble for the junta. You are British, so we choose you.”

  “But how did you know about me ?”

  “Our friends, they are everywhere – some are in your hotel in Buenos Aires. They see your passport when you check in. No-one who is British visits Argentina at this time. There is hatred for the British because of Las Malvinas.”

  “Don’t the Montoneros want the Malvinas too ? Don’t they want them for your country ?”

  “Certiamente. But first we must destroy the generals and rid our country of this evil – this junta.”

  “And you don’t feel that you’re betraying your country ?”

  “Ha, we have no country. It is already destroyed by these criminals. It is my duty to stop them any way I can and destroy them.”

  “In the prison, did you tell them how you got the documents ?

  “No. They tortured me by burning me with their cigarettes on my legs – I have the wounds and I am in pain – but I did not tell them.”


  “We must get you some medicine.”

  “It is nothing. The pain, it reminds me what I must do.”

  “And what will you do ?”

  “You will see when we cross the border.”

  “What about your passport ? How are you going to get across ?”

  “My friends in the hotel give me a false passport. There will be no trouble. You will see. I have used it many times before.”

  And so it transpired. When they reached Concordia on the Argentine side of the river, there was a long line of trucks and a long wait at the check-point. The border guards were going through all of the hauliers’ documents to make sure the correct taxes had been paid before they left Argentina. Ashby and his dusty Volkswagen beetle were waved along, their passports stamped and waved on again.

  “See – denada,” said Rosa.

  “Just as well for us,” he thought.

  Before long, they had crossed the bridge over the Uruguay River and by late afternoon, had stopped at a small pensione on the northern outskirts of Salto. When the manager saw his passport, he said nothing but Ashby could tell what he was thinking – the man read the newspapers every day. Even in Uruguay, the British were viewed as neo-colonialists and the enemy of Argentina. War was not far away.

  Salto was quiet and resembled a small provincial Spanish city. A cathedral dominated the centre of the town with two sharp spires in the colonial style. Rosa went to a chemist, bought some medicine for the burns on her legs and made a phone call. She told Ashby that the next day, they would go further north and asked him to take her to a small city called Bella Union, around seventy miles away, at the junction of the borders of Uruguay, Argentina and Brazil. Then, as they were both exhausted from the day’s events, they agreed to meet the next morning at seven o’clock.

  Even if he’d been attracted to her (which he wasn’t – she was devoted to the revolution), her emotional scars ran too deep for her to have any form of relationship. Even a mere friendship would not have been possible. He could see that she was incapable of forming any attachment, no matter how comforting it might have been at such an uncertain time. It was apparent she trusted no-one, not even the Montoneros : she called them her family but if any of them were captured, she knew they would betray her under torture. As they were the only real opponents of the regime who could bring change, there was nowhere else for her to go. At least they had a common purpose of fighting the junta. Nothing else mattered to her. She was consumed with revenge.

  At seven the next morning, they breakfasted, left the pensione, stopped at a petrol station, then headed onto the northern highway in the direction of Bella Union.

  When they reached the town, she gave him directions to an area far away from the centre, near the river. It was largely deserted apart from an occasional house in the distance. After a short drive, they stopped at a cafe in the middle of nowhere. Rosa ordered two coffees and they sat inside, with a view out of the front window.

  “Now, we wait,” she said. “It will not be long.”

  “Are your friends coming to collect you ?” he asked.

  “We must wait,” was all she would say.

  Half an hour passed in silence. Neither of them was in the mood for conversation. Ashby thought about the South American temperament. They had the continental European fixation with ‘either fascism or communism’. You had to choose one or the other. There was nothing in between.

  The morning air was still. Only the sound of birds and the murmur of the river could be heard in the distance. No-one else was in the cafe ; the owner had apparently gone off somewhere. Outside, the street was empty although strewn with rubbish.

  After a further twenty minutes, a solitary car appeared but the occupants did not get out. They sat where they were with the engine running. The driver and his passenger in the front seat seemed to be looking at Ashby and Rosa in the cafe.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, machinegun fire was heard from the side and the rear of the building. The car was hit by a rain of bullets. The driver attempted to move the car but could only turn it off the road.

  Ashby shouted “Get down,” and pushed Rosa under the table. Instantly, a number of shots were fired at the cafe by those in the car, shattering the windows and showering their table and the bar with splintered glass.

  Rosa took out her gun, crawled around to the front doorway and fired off a couple of shots.

  A gun battle proceeded for the next five minutes until it was clear that the occupants of the car had been overcome by the hail of fire. When all was quiet, two men appeared from behind the cafe and cautiously walked across the street with their guns at the ready.

  The car was punctured with scores of bullet holes. Inside, the driver and his passenger were motionless.

  In the cafe, Ashby slowly got up and after seeing that the gunfight had ended, helped Rosa to her feet.

  “You arranged this, didn’t you ?” he said while looking into her eyes. “You knew they’d been following us, all the way from the hotel in Buenos Aires. Didn’t you ?”

  She said nothing but ignored him while brushing the broken glass out of her hair and clothes. Then, she calmly walked over to the gunmen who were inspecting their trophy, as if it had been a lion or an elephant they’d shot.

  When Ashby joined her, the gunmen ignored him, as if he wasn’t there. He opened the passenger door of the car. A bloody corpse slumped sideways, half out on the road.

  “It's Raeburn,” he said.