"Please leave your fee on the seat of the chair, Señora, and exit through the other door." He pointed. "It will take you to another building, then eventually out to the street. No one will know you've been here. The moment you leave I will have forgotten you. Good luck with your quest. It will be difficult to achieve, but I believe you will be successful in the end."
She left two hundred pesos on her chair, then, following his instructions, opened the second door. It led her down a long hallway which led in turn to an apartment house courtyard. She crossed, opened a door on its far end, entered another long hall. When she opened another door she found herself at the rear of an ice-cream store. Exiting the store, she realized she was now a block away from the ceramics shop on another street.
Leon was skeptical. "Raúl must have told him about your mother. Or he did a quick computer search. As for your father, I don't remember him walking that way."
"Well...it did seem like Dad when he did it."
"That was just a trick to gain your confidence. But the reptiles—he was telling you something."
"Reptiles with long jaws and rows of teeth—that has to be a reference to the crocs," she said, referring to the outlawed, right-wing, anti-Semitic military group who called themselves the Crocodiles. "A lot of people think they assisted the terrorists who bombed the Israeli Embassy and the AMIA. My primary victim was an Israeli agent running a honey-pot operation. Maybe he was after the crocs, using blackmail, trading sex videos for information. The crocs found out what he was up to, tortured and killed him and the girl. She was probably in one of the blackmail videos he was offering in exchange."
Leon kissed her hair.
"No one thinks much about the crocs anymore," he said. "Not since they sent that guy, Kessler, to prison."
"But there're rumors they're still active. I think Raúl's clairvoyant may have pointed the way...even if he did fake my father's walk."
Sometimes, when they made love, she found herself shivering with desire. With Leon's body pressing upon hers, she opened herself to him and thought: I'm turning inside-out.
His skin smelled of the sun, and his sweat tasted like the sea. She loved opening herself to him, opening her legs and raising her knees, giving herself over to pleasure. He was the best lover she'd ever had.
Often, at breakfast, she would gaze at Marina over her mug of coffee and marvel that such a beautiful creature had sprung live from her loins. It seemed a miracle that she and Leon had created this person, so sweet and graceful, innocent and eager to taste all the wondrous flavors of life.
This morning, when Leon tuned the radio to the all-tango station, Marina stood up from the table, then began to stalk the kitchen, moving through tango figures with the grace of a cat.
"Oh, darling look at her move," Leon said. "She makes it look so easy!"
Marta watched with delight as Leon took hold of Marina, then the two of them began to dance their way around the breakfast table.
"We're off to school now," Leon said, when the song ended.
Marina ran to Marta, kissed her on both cheeks, wriggled into her backpack, then joined her father at the door. "See you at dinner," she said, throwing Marta another kiss.
"I want to concentrate on the crocs," Marta told Ricardi. Jazz was playing softly on his radio. "Can you set me up to interview Kessler?"
"Kessler's got brass balls. He won't tell you anything."
"Doesn't matter," she said. "His people will hear I went to see him. They'll know I'm on their trail."
"Another provocation." Ricardi studied her. "This one could be dangerous for you. I don't want to find you nailed to a wall."
"Don't worry about that. They wouldn't dare."
Ricardi shook his head. She knew what he was thinking—that they would dare to kill a cop, that if threatened they wouldn't hesitate.
"Look," she told him, "I don't like being messed with. I still don't know who sent me the fake photos. But I think Viera and Charbonneau could be allied with the crocs and they may be behind the murders. The way the victims were tortured looks like Crocodile work. That's my theory. I want a chance to prove it."
On a brilliant late April autumn morning, she and Rolo drove south across the pampas to Magdalena Prison. The leaves on deciduous trees were close to full color, and the sky was so blue and the air so clear she felt she could reach up and touch the soft clouds floating high above.
Colonel Ignacio Kessler Márquez: As Rolo drove, Marta studied his file. It was composed entirely of newspaper clippings, since the crocs had never been investigated by the Federal Police. The investigation had been conducted by Army CID. The trials had been held in military courts and Kessler and his colleagues were now serving their sentences in military prisons.
Kessler had been a brilliant officer: first in his class at the National Military Academy, star playmaker on the academy soccer team, decorated twice while a lieutenant for heroic actions during the Malvinas War.
After the Malvinas debacle, he'd been assigned to form and lead a new elite army unit, code-named "The Crocodiles" on account of the small flashing jaws image sewn on the front peaks of unit members' berets.
Later it was revealed that the jaws image, along with each member's serial number, were also tattooed during an initiation ceremony on the inside upper portion of each unit member's arm.
There was considerable consternation when this came out since it was also reported that during the Nazi era, SS officers had their serial numbers tattooed in their armpits.
Kessler had scoffed at the coincidence. A shared tattoo, he'd said, was simply a way to build unit pride, and the ritual made for a fine solidarity-building initiation.
The Crocodiles were supposed to be the Argentine equivalent of the
U.S. Delta Force. They would conduct anti-terrorist operations, defend against hostage-takers and hijackers, track narcotics smugglers and take on any person or group that threatened the integrity of the Republic or tried to subvert civilian rule—all missions the army had conspicuously failed to accomplish during the time of the Proceso.
In the end the Crocodiles had attempted a coup d'état of their own. One night they flew helicopter gunships to Buenos Aires in an attempt to take over the Casa Rosada and the Ministry of Defense. Loyal units confronted them, the coup was defeated, the special unit was disbanded, its officers and senior non-coms tried and given ten-year sentences. Kessler, unit commander and coup instigator, was singled-out for a life term.
As they approached the main gate, Rolo admitted that he was nervous. "They live in a different world. They have their own culture. They're stern with outsiders," he said.
Based on the charmless manner of the guard at the gate, Marta had to agree.
They were instructed to leave their car in the civilian parking lot. From there they were driven to the prison in an army jeep. From the time they boarded the vehicle, accompanied by an unsmiling escort, Marta understood the message: they were now under military control and would remain so until they left.
At the prison, they walked through a guardroom, handed over their police weapons, were issued Guest ID necklaces, then, joined by a second escort officer, a Captain deFrancis, were led to the warden's office for final clearance.
The warden, a short stocky army colonel named Liendo, kept them standing while he reviewed Marta's documents.
"This is highly irregular," he said, tossing the papers down. His office was austere with just an Argentine flag and a framed photo of former President Videla behind his desk.
"Nothing irregular about it," Marta said. "The Federal Homicide Chief requested permission for me to conduct an interview. The Army Chief of Staff signed off."
"This is a men's prison. We didn't know they were sending a woman."
"My name's on all the papers. How many men do you know named Marta?"
Colonel Liendo scowled.
"Look, Colonel," she said, "lots of criminal attorneys are female. Lots of prosecutors, judges, police, and even, if I'm not mi
staken, military personnel. So is that really the problem, or is it that Kessler has special status here and is being coddled? I hope that's not the case."
Liendo looked again at the papers. "You alone will be permitted to see Inmate Kessler. But not your sidekick. My legal officer," he indicated deFrancis, "will also be present. The interview will be recorded."
Marta shook her head. "No, Colonel, that's not going to happen. Officer Tejada needn't attend the interview, but neither will your legal officer. And there will be no recording. I insist on absolute privacy as specified in the approved request."
Liendo glared at her. "I was warned about you. I was told you were a troublemaker."
"I'm investigating a double homicide. The victims were tortured using military methods. So let's get on with it, or would you prefer I go back to Buenos Aires and file a complaint?"
"DeFrancis, escort these people outside."
DeFrancis escorted them to the waiting room, then re-entered Liendo's office.
Rolo whispered: "Did you see how red in the face he got? He looked like he was going to have a coronary."
"I thought he was going to strangle me," Marta said.
"What's he doing now?"
"Nothing. It's a face-saving thing. The Army Chief of Staff signed off. He tried to bully me, I stood up to him and now he's sulking in his tent."
"Would we really have walked out?"
"Absolutely! Kessler isn't going to tell me anything. We made our point just by coming here."
Captain deFrancis stepped out of Colonel Liendo's office.
"Follow me," he said. "The prisoner will meet us in the attorneys' conference room."
Marta, no longer interested in ingratiating herself, followed silently as deFrancis led them down several intersecting corridors, then through a series of locked gates. The prison was extremely quiet. She was used to the raucous noise of civilian jailhouses. Here, it seemed, perfect order was imposed. In Argentina the military had always stood apart.
The conference room was guarded by a sentry in battle dress. Marta could see Kessler through a small window in the door. He was sitting very still in his chair as if in some kind of trance.
"As requested, Inspector, you're permitted to see the prisoner alone." DeFrancis looked at his watch. "Your interview must be completed in fifteen minutes."
Marta nodded, took a deep breath and moved toward the door. The sentry opened it, then shut it after her.
She took a chair opposite Kessler. "My name's Marta Abecasis," she said. "I'm an Inspector in the Homicide Division of the Federal Police."
Kessler looked up, smiled slightly. They studied one another. To Marta he appeared just as pictured in the newspapers: buzz-cut hair, gaunt face, ramrod straight back. His prison uniform was immaculate, the creases in his trousers sharply pressed. But the one aspect the news photos failed to convey was the sharp steely grey-blue of his eyes. When he looked at her his eyes seemed like drills poised to bore into her brain.
"I know who you are," he said, speaking softly. "I'll tell you right off I've no intention of answering your questions. But I will speak to you about matters that interest me."
"Go ahead," she said.
"The government's a pigsty, rotten to its core." His voice remained soft despite the fury in his words. "Everyone's on the take from the President down to the lowliest cop on the street. They're crooks, kikes, whores and buffoons, the lot of them. The only purity is to be found in the armed forces. And we, the purest of the pure, are temporarily prisoners of the state. I'm not concerned. It's only a matter of time before matters get sorted out. Our current government's in thrall to the government of the United States, which everyone knows is controlled by North American media Jews. They're crooked, venomous, Christian-hating fanatics, but every dog will have its day, and the day of reckoning will soon arrive.
"Argentina must build nuclear weapons. We have the brains, the know-how, everything but the will. If the Israelis have A-bombs, we must have them too. People think I hate the Israelis. Not true. I respect them. They understand how to use power. Better to respect one's enemies than underestimate them. That being said, here in Argentina you've a better chance of seeing a purple cat than finding a trustworthy Jew.
"Let's get down to the bones of it. My enemies put me here and by so doing besmirched the reputation of the army. Soon things will change, a new government will come to power, there will be a great cleansing, the stains on the national honor will be bleached away, the army will be purified, and once again Argentines will hold up their heads with pride.
"On a personal note, I'll admit it's painful to be imprisoned. I miss marching, group calisthenics, every face angled in the same direction, every arm, every boot in line. But this pain must be endured. It's a test for me, for all of us. My officers and I discipline ourselves. We never complain. Just as we were perfect officers, now we are perfect prisoners. There is beauty in our courage. Our guards tell us so. They admire us, as we pity them, for we serve a cause, while they serve only crooks, kikes, whores and buffoons.
"So...which of us is truly serving out his sentence—we, prisoners of conscience, who maintain our dignity, or the guards who can only keep the rules? Something to think about. And now that your fifteen minutes are nearly up, I'd like to ask you a personal question...if that's all right?"
"Go ahead," Marta said, reeling from his monologue, all the more horrifying on account of the soft-spoken almost courtly manner in which he'd delivered it.
"Your name—Abecasis what kind of name is that?"
"Sephardic. My father emigrated here from Salonika, Greece. Even though I'm married, I continue to use it out of respect."
"By Sephardic you mean Jewish?"
"My father's family is Jewish, yes."
Kessler smiled. "Well, there you are! I smelled it on you the moment you walked in." He snickered. "Really, I'm not surprised they put a Jewess on this case. Yes, I know all about your case. You won't get anywhere with it. But back to the Jewish question I always trust my nose. Jewish, half-Jewish—you all smell the same to me."
He set his face into a frozen grin, then gazed into her eyes to measure how she was taking his abuse.
"I'm glad I came," she said, lightly. "I learned something important today."
"Oh? What's that?"
"That, as expected, you know all about the case I'm working on...and that you're totally insane."
She stood, turned her back, went to the door, signaled to the guard to let her out.
"Come!" she said to Rolo, loudly so Captain deFrancis would hear. "We've done what we came to do. Let's get the hell out of this dump!"
That afternoon she went to the police firing range in the basement of the Federal Police Headquarters Building, purchased two hundred rounds of 9mm ammo from the rangemaster, then stepped on to the range. Over half an hour she fired every round, ripping target after target until there was nothing left of them but shredded cardboard.
But that was still not enough to cool her anger, so on her way home she stopped off at the police gym to exercise. She noticed Liliana Méndez there in sports bra and boxing trunks, slugging away at the heavy bag. When Marta was working out on a weight bench, Liliana came over, stood above her, all pink and perspiring flesh, grinning down. She was wearing the same cloying violet-scented perfume that had repulsed Marta the night they met over Silvia Santini's body by the cemetery wall.
"How's your boss these days?" Liliana asked.
"Ricardi's doing great."
"He's an asshole."
Marta, looking up, disgusted by the woman's scent, decided not to take the bait. She raised the weight bar again. Liliana, she noticed, didn't shave her underarms.
"I'll spot for you," Liliana offered.
"Thanks, but I'm just finishing up."
"Want to spar a few rounds? I'll go easy on you."
"Don't be ridiculous. You outweigh me by seventy pounds. Anyhow, I don't box."
"You should, sweetie. Self-defense is importa
nt."
"When I need to defend myself I use my gun," Marta said.
Liliana nodded meaningfully. "Yeah, I hear you're quite the sharpshooter. That's one way to do it, I guess." She smiled cryptically, then wandered off.
At 2:00 a.m. her cell phone rang. Receiving no response, she was about to hang up when she heard music. It was a scratchy recording, a song sung by male voices to the beat of a military marching band. She pressed the earpiece close as she tried to make out the words. When she realized the song was in German, was an old Third Reich marching song, she hung up.
"Who was it?" Leon asked.
"The jerk again. They think they can frighten me. I'm not frightened by cowards."
In the morning, in the Homicide Division locker room, she found a swastika scratched into the paint of her locker.
She went straight to Ricardi.
"I'm not surprised," he said. "Even Homicide's got its share of turds."
"You can't condone this."
"Of course not!" He picked up his phone. "I'll have your locker repainted within the hour."
"How about starting an investigation?"
"I'm short of people, Marta. I can't spare anyone now."
"You can put a surveillance camera in the locker room."
"Everyone'll see it, so what's the point? Whoever did this will just do something else, like gouge a swastika on the hood of your car."
He was right, of course, but still she was mad. That afternoon she went back to the firing range, and, to the delight of the range master, again shredded every target in sight.
There were three more anonymous calls that night. The first two times the caller played a scratchy recording of one of Hitler's radio speeches. The third time, a male voice spoke: "We know why Ricardi put you on the case. He's playing his Jewish card." Then the caller hung up.
In the morning at breakfast Marina asked why there'd been so many calls during the night, whether there'd been some kind of emergency.
"Nothing like that, darling. Just wrong numbers," Marta told her.
City of Knives Page 11
