"So what'd you think about that, slut?"
She didn't respond. To do so would be to acknowledge that the denigrating words applied.
Stay cool and don't become their accomplice, she told herself, hoping this abduction was just another more violent form of threat from the same source responsible for the middle-of-the-night hang-ups and Nazi-era music.
"Believe me, you won't like it," Knifeman assured her, reaching inside her jacket, grasping hold of her right breast, finding her nipple, squeezing it hard.
She winced. It was a horrible violation. It infuriated her and it hurt. Yet she took it, absorbed the pain, knowing that with her arms pinned down and her pistol out of reach, there was no way she could resist.
"We're going to attach electrodes to your cunt, then turn on the juice," the driver said. "Then guess what?"
When she stayed silent, Knifeman squeezed her nipple again, so hard this time she felt she might faint.
"Answer him, bitch!" Knifeman yelled.
Stabs of pain coursed through her body. Trembling, she shook her head.
Knifeman let go. "You'll scream, that's what. Your body'll tremble and shake. We've had a lot of fun over the years torturing Jews. You'll dance for us. Dance dirty too."
"We'll be...Lords of the Dance," the driver said, amused.
For an hour they drove her around the city, insulting and demeaning her. They stayed on the freeways. Whenever she tried to catch a glimpse of one of them around the sides of the painted glasses, Knifeman would go back to work on one of her nipples.
"Don't flinch! Take it, cunt!" he ordered.
She moaned.
"That's more like it," the driver said to Knifeman. "I bet she's wet down there. I hear these Jew-bitches like it rough."
"Maybe she wouldn't like it so much if we did it to her little girl," Knifeman said. "Marina's her name, right? Sweet looking piece of ass. Yeah, I don't think you'd like it if we wired up her cunt lips. I think then you'd do most anything we wanted, wouldn't you, slut?"
"Yes, I'd do anything," Marta admitted, finally breaking her silence, terrified at their mention of Marina's name. "Tell me what you want and I'll do it," she pled. She almost meant it too.
"Think we're stupid? Think we'd believe anything you say before we go to work on her? We'll only believe you after we hurt her. That's what we call 'technique.'"
"What do you want from me?" she yelled.
"Ha! That's for you to figure out."
"I don't..."
Knifeman grabbed her hair again, yanked back her head. "Shut up and listen! Here's how it's going down. First we're going to hurt you. Like this," he said, reaching for her left nipple this time, twisting it so hard she cried out. "Know why? Because we like the sounds you make when we do that. We like the way your face gets all twisted up. Your daughter will be there. She'll cry when she hears you scream."
" 'Oh, mommy! mommy! please do what the bad men say!'"
"Nice falsetto!" Knifeman said, complimenting the driver. "Then it'll be little Marina's turn," he continued. "We'll hurt her in front of you. 'Stop hurting her. I'll do anything,' you'll beg. And that's when, maybe, we'll be convinced. Because by then, believe us, you will do anything! By the time we're done you'll both be groveling, licking the bottoms of our boots."
There was no way to respond to such abuse except to act frightened, terrorized—which she didn't need to fake. Knowing they wanted to see her terror, she no longer tried to hide it. Yet she did her best to preserve her dignity by holding her head up, knowing this too was what they would expect of her.
There were gaps at the edges of the glasses, through which, when she shifted her eyes to the side, she could see within a narrow range. So even as she played along, she kept shifting her eyes in the hope of catching glimpses of their faces. The only feasible times for doing this were when Knifeman twisted her nipples. Then she would writhe in pain, twisting her head just a bit to catch a glimpse of the driver.
They were other clues: their manner, accents, the crude way they spoke. She was sure they weren't crocs. They had none of the discipline she'd expect in military men. She was certain they were cops or ex-cops, not from the Federal District but most likely from Buenos Aires Province, where, she knew, many cops were thugs. Also, in the first moments of her abduction, she noticed a vertical scar on the driver's cheek and a mustache on Knifeman. The locksmith's wife, describing the men who'd asked about her, spoke of a scar on one and a mustache on the other. She was sure these were the same guys.
But if they let her go (and she was certain now that they would, that if they intended to kill her they wouldn't waste so much time and effort terrorizing her) how would she be able to find them? It was vital that she not let them abandon her until she uncovered more clues to their identities.
"Can I say something?" she asked.
"Go ahead."
"I'm scared. I don't scare easily, which means you're doing a good job. But unless you tell me what I'm supposed to do, I won't be able to do it."
"That's bullshit!" the driver shouted.
"You think we're idiots?" Knifeman screamed in her ear.
He went for her right nipple again. She thrust out her chest. She wanted him to twist it. It would give her another chance to glance at the driver. So she stayed silent.
Go ahead, hurt me. Go ahead!
When he did, she twisted her head to the left as far as she could, then raised her eyes just a fraction. This time she was lucky. She caught a quick glimpse of the driver full-profile—the shape of his nose, the contour of his lips and a clear view of his scar. After committing his features to memory, she allowed herself to scream.
"All right! I get it now. I'm supposed to figure it out for myself. All right! Please stop! Stop! Please!"
"Now that sounded real, didn't it?" Knifeman asked.
"Sounded real to me," the driver said. "Let's check her purse. I hear she carries a big gun."
She could feel Knifeman's body twist against hers as he turned to the back seat. Then she heard him going through her purse, tossing the contents over his shoulder.
"Here's her cell phone." He placed it on the car floor, then stamped on it. She heard it crunch beneath his boot—perhaps a street cop's regulation boot, she thought.
"So much for those annoying late night calls, right? And look—here's her gun. Fancy! A Sig no less."
She heard him extract the magazine, clear the chamber, expertly extract the bullets, wind down his window.
"Bye-bye bullets," he said. "I just tossed them out. Too bad you don't carry a revolver. If you did, I'd play Russian Roulette with you. Hey, what's that on your wrist? Nice watch!" He roughly detached it. "Gift from hubby?"
She nodded. He laughed. "Well, bye-bye to that." Again she felt him twist against her as he put it in his pocket. "I sure wouldn't want to be hubby when he comes to see you and little Marina at the hospital. You two are going to be so messed up it'll break his ever-loving heart."
The driver swerved the car, made a couple of quick sharp turns, then pulled to a stop. Hearing the roar of traffic above, Marta realized they were now parked under a portion of the freeway, probably a cluster of the pylons.
"This is where our paseo ends," the driver said, cutting the engine. "Before we leave, we want you to take a minute to reflect on what we could've done to you."
"We could've killed you," Knifeman said.
"We could've dumped you in a garbage heap, then covered you with a ton or so of trash," the driver added.
"We could have stripped you naked, written FEDERAL POLICE OFFICER on your body with markers, then dumped you at one of the homeless encampments around here where there're guys who'd like nothing better than to gang-rape a cop."
"We could've cut off your hands. You wouldn't be doing much competition shooting then."
"We could've done anything we wanted to you, and no one would know it was us who did it. Listen up, slut! You were approached before, given the message nicely, offered a lot of mon
ey too. You didn't respond in a respectful manner. This time the message is the same, but the delivery hasn't been so nice. Next time, if there is a next time, the delivery will be even harsher. Along the lines we mentioned...or a lot worse. Hear what we're saying, bitch?"
She nodded.
"Good! I'll say this for you—you took more than most guys could. A tip of the hat, professional respect and all—not that we really give a shit. In the end nothing matters except the message. We've sent it. We hope you received it, for your sake and Marina's."
"We're going to leave you now. We're going to take your gun and keys. The gun we'll keep. You'll find the keys in the garbage bin ahead. Count to a thousand out loud before you take off the glasses. We'll be watching you. Take them off earlier, we'll come back, use the knife on you, then fuck your ass till you bleed."
"Stay cool, obey orders, count nice and loud and slow."
She heard the car doors open, heard the men get out.
"One more thing," Knifeman said. She could tell by his voice he was leaning in through the open window. "We know everything about Marina— where she goes to school, where she plays soccer, where she takes tango class, everything. Now thank us for being so nice to you."
Marta stared straight ahead.
Knifeman reached in, patted her cheek, then rested his palm first on her left and then on her right breast. "They'll probably be tender for a couple of days. But no permanent harm, least not this time. Lucky you're not a guy, or I'd have gone to work on your balls. Well, that does it for today."
He used his forefinger to give her right nipple a final flick. Then they were gone.
Hands shaking, body twitching, driving home fast as she could, she thought: Yes, they made me scream. Yes, they made me afraid. But for all they did, they didn't break me. Now it's important I show them that.
She knew what she had to do first: Send Marina out of the country. Put her and Leon on the night hydrofoil for Uruguay. Marina could stay at her mother's place in Montevideo until the case was finished. Marina wouldn't like that. Marta would try and explain it to her. But how do you tell an eleven year old that she and her mother have been sexually threatened?
There's only one way. Tell her straight. She's smart, brave. She can handle it. But if I tell her a phony story, she'll see right through it. Then she'll have nightmares.
As for the animals who'd abducted her, they belonged in cages. The people who'd sent them deserved far worse.
How could anyone think threats would stop a person like me? Make me scream? Sure! But intimidate me? Only an idiot would think that.
But there was still a question that haunted her:
They already tortured and killed Granic and Santini. Killing means nothing to them. So why not kill me if I'm such a threat? What is it about me that they're afraid of?
There was only one answer she could think of: her reputation. Make a martyr of a heroine and the public outcry would not be stilled. Governments had been brought down by less.
For now I'm safe, but I must be very careful. There's only one way they can get around the aura of La Incorrupta—discredit me, make me appear corrupt. If they're smart, they'll try that next.
Chapter Eight
TRASNOCHADORA
Within days of her arrival in Buenos Aires, Beth Browder had fallen into a typical milonguera's routine: waking up at noon, attending an afternoon tango class, followed by a practica, then a late dinner followed by one or more milongas, with a return home just before dawn. She'd become a total night-owl, what the locals called a trasnochadora.
She had also moved from the Residencia Europa into a rambling apartment on Avenida Scalabrini Ortiz. The apartment belonged to a middle-aged widow, Sabina Bernays, who, having subdivided the back section into five small bedrooms, had created a mini rooming house for foreign milongueras in need of long-term lodging in the city.
Sabina's address and phone number had been on the list Sandi Barnett handed Beth her last day in the city. But Sandi had not been encouraging about the possibility of Beth getting in.
"There's a waiting list. Everyone wants to stay there. Sabina's rooms are cheap, she's a dancer herself and she's takes good care of her guests. If you get sick, she finds you a doctor. If you have a toothache, she sends you to her dentist. It's girls-only. Boyfriends are welcome to stay the night, but they have to be out before breakfast. There're dancers in Europe who won't come over till Sabina's got an opening. When she tells them she does, they book the next flight."
Beth had called Sabina anyway, if only to meet the famous lady, who, it seemed, knew just about everyone in Buenos Aires tango circles. Sabina, in turn, invited Beth over for tea, which, Beth later learned, was her way of checking out prospective tenants. They got along well, and, a few days later, Sabina called to offer her a room.
"An English girl just cancelled. If you want you can take her place. You'd be sharing a bath with a Swedish girl, Kirstin Anders. Let me know within the hour, Beth. There's a South African girl who's been bugging me for months."
Beth moved in that afternoon.
There was a lot more to living at Sabina's, she quickly discovered, than just getting a good deal on a room. Sabina's was a lifestyle, perfectly designed for foreign female tango enthusiasts who might otherwise be devoured by the demanding local scene.
Sabina was like a den mother, advising her girls on how best to cope with life in stressful Buenos Aires. Communal noon breakfasts in the kitchen, presided over by Sabina in her role as mother hen, were opportunities for guests to exchange notes on their experiences in the tango halls the night before, and to receive Sabina's advice on their love affairs, nearly all of which were in states of unhappy irresolution.
Aside from the boyfriends-must-be-out-before-breakfast rule, life in the apartment was freewheeling and relaxed. When girls departed, they often passed their boyfriends on to other tenants. Girls also teamed up, nightly hitting the tango halls in pairs. Meantime, Sabina, true to her reputation, made introductions, received confidences and prepared nourishing broths if a girl was ailing.
Beth's bathroom-sharer, Kirstin, turned out to be a very tall, rail-thin, blonde with glacial features and a highly neurotic personality. In addition to indulging her tango obsession, Kirstin was taking advantage of another service readily available in B.A.: psychoanalysis. She'd found herself a shrink/tanguera, a woman who, after seeing her patients afternoons, danced away her nights at tango clubs.
"See that vamp over there? She's my analyst!" Kirstin told Beth their first night out, pointing to a svelte middle-aged woman dancing with a much younger man in a flamboyant erotic style.
"How can you confide in her after seeing her slobber over her partner like that?" Beth asked.
"Doesn't bother me. She's still great at figuring out my dreams."
Kirstin was involved in a miserable on-and-off affair with a boy named Jorge, another in the seemingly endless local population of sweet-natured gigolos who, calling themselves "tango instructors," nightly haunted the dance halls in search of affluent foreign female prey.
The second time the three of them went out together, Jorge asked Beth if she'd like to meet his friend, Fernando.
"He's a great dancer. He asked me about you, says he likes the way you move. That's him across the room, the guy in the maroon silk shirt."
Beth knew enough not to peer too closely lest Fernando take her stare as a come-on. In the two weeks she'd been in B.A., she'd learned to be careful about the men she danced with. Most of the cute guys turned out to be sleazy horndogs barely able to wait till the end of a first tanda before asking her out "for coffee."
Not that she had any qualms about having sex with a native milonguero. But she had yet to meet one who excited her. If only Mr. DD would show up!
She got her chance to study Fernando when he started dancing with somebody else. He was good looking enough, she thought, nicely built with dark hair, full lips, a neatly trimmed mustache. He was, she guessed, perhaps ten years younger than
herself, and looked to be a clever dancer.
During the next interval, she gave him a good strong glance followed by a smile. He picked right up on it, headed straight over. Dancing the next three tandas with him was the high-point of her evening.
"Would you like to have coffee?" he asked her in gallant fashion when, finally, they sat down.
"I think I might," she said.
"You're staying at Sabina's?" Beth nodded. Fernando grinned. "My ex-girlfriend stayed there. Which bedroom?"
"The one next to Kirstin's. We share the bath in back."
"I know that room! This is great! We can all go back to Sabina's together. Since Jorge and I are close friends, it'll be 'like family' the four of us sharing the bath, I mean...."
Thus Beth acquired her first Buenos Aires boyfriend.
Beginning the next night, she, Kirstin, Jorge and Fernando started hitting the tango halls as a foursome.
Beth appreciated the no-boyfriends-at-breakfast rule. It gave her an excuse to get Fernando out of her room. He was a decent enough lover, perhaps not so clever in that department as he was out on the floor, but good enough until she found Mr. DD again, or until someone better came along. He was, like Jorge, affable, sweet-tempered, empty-headed, and, of course, totally broke. After discussing the matter with Sabina, it seemed reasonable to pick up his dinner tab, pay club admissions, and, of course, all the taxis to and from.
As Sabina put it when Beth brought the matter up at breakfast: "Just think of it as a transaction, dear. These boys make great dance partners and they're good in bed. In return, you pay their way."
"I don't know about 'good in bed'," Kirstin said.
"At least most of them are considerate," a girl from Germany put in.
"Frankly, 'considerate' doesn't cut it for me," Kirstin said. "Back in Sweden we expect more from a man."
"Why don't you talk to your shrink about it?" the German girl snapped.
"Believe me, that's all we do talk about," Kirstin replied.
Everyone laughed.
Later, when Beth was on her way out to take a tango class, Sabina called her aside.
City of Knives Page 15
