Teresa sat back, lit a cigarette, inhaled, then blew out a plume of smoke.
"I've thought a lot about this, Marta—tried my best to come to terms with it. I'm in a service business, but even a service-provider has her needs.
The fantasies I enable Pedraza to realize here are a kind of mockery of what he and his military buddies did to others. But in the process of 'training' him, I get to mock him too. So in addition to whatever pleasure we both receive, we both also learn from our sessions. In his play-suffering, he learns what it feels like to be dehumanized, while I, inflicting that play-suffering, gain insight into the sadism which I think is basic to human nature."
Marta found herself growing impatient.
"Justify it however you like, Teresa. I'm not interested in your insights. I want to know how Granic came to you, exactly what he wanted, and then what happened when you refused."
"Ivo's the one who introduced me to Pedraza. It was at one of his parties. At the time I didn't know who Pedraza was. Like a lot of the guests, the upper half of his face was masked.
"Anyhow, after the party, Pedraza asked Ivo about me and Ivo gave him my number. He called and a few days later started coming here for sessions. He's always been a perfect gentleman, always courteous and correct. After session we unwind with some light conversation and a drink. Of course Ivo knew the sort of sessions I did, and he knew Pedraza was seeing me. So one day he came to me. He wanted to install a tiny camera in my dungeon room to videotape one of our scenes, then hold the tape over Pedraza's head. He believed Pedraza would do almost anything not to be exposed as a masochist who paid a Jewish girl for domination."
"Because that would hold him up to ridicule?"
"Worse. It would undermine his authority with his neo-Nazi buddies. According to Ivo, Pedraza would do anything to keep that part of his life secret. Once Ivo had him in his power, he planned to run him as an agent. With Pedraza he'd be able to penetrate the highest levels of extreme right-wing circles. Ivo was very ambitious, Pedraza was a very big mark, and I was supposed to risk my life to help recruit him."
Indeed, Marta thought, Ivo Granic was ambitious, perhaps even grandiose. She had no trouble imagining his glee at the prospect of recruiting a notorious anti-Semite as an agent.
"You refused?" Marta asked.
"Like I told you, I have a very nice life here. I wasn't interested in putting it at risk."
"So after you refused he dropped the plan?"
Teresa shrugged. "I have no idea what he did."
Marta studied her. There was something about the emphatic way Teresa stared back that told her she knew more than she was saying.
"You've left something out, Teresa—something important."
Teresa shrugged again.
"You'd better tell us right now, you being so vulnerable to rumors and all."
Teresa looked away. Marta didn't have to spell it out. The merest hint to Pedraza, and Teresa would be as good as dead.
"Ivo was also after someone else."
"Who?"
"I don't know. He said it was a man who had the potential to do tremendous harm."
"What else did he say about him?"
"Nothing. He just kept saying: 'This thing is big, Teresa. A crazy like Pedraza can be marginalized. I need him to help me nail someone else, someone very dangerous who could reach the highest pinnacle of power."
Viera! Marta felt a thrill as she made the connection. She turned slightly away from Teresa to conceal her excitement, then, turning back, continued her questioning.
"That didn't persuade you?"
"Absolutely not! I don't give a shit about politics. I'd made up my mind I wasn't going to be used. I told him so again. He didn't take it well. He tried every way he could to convince me."
Instinct told her she was now close to the truth. To get to it, she knew, she'd have to bear down hard.
"He was pressuring you?"
"Too much! Calling me every day. He'd even show up here without calling first. I didn't want any of my clients to see him. I schedule my appointments far apart. But then suddenly he'd show up. He was making me crazy!"
"You could have told your doorman not to let him in."
"I was afraid to. I didn't want a scene."
"You were really frightened of him?"
"Of course!"
"I understand. He was a Mossad agent. They're known to be ruthless. Also he knew things about you, intimate details. He could put you out of business."
"He threatened to. One time he said he'd spread it around I was working for the Israelis."
"To extort material from you he could use to blackmail Pedraza?"
"Yes! It was awful!"
"Did you describe this harassment to Pedraza?"
"I may have implied something. But I never told him Ivo wanted to tape our sessions."
"What did you tell him?"
"Like I said, he and I would often gossip after a session. He knows I'm Jewish. It doesn't bother him. In fact, I think he rather likes it. He also knew Ivo was a blackmailer. We'd laugh together about his sex parties and the suckers who paid him not to tell their wives about their infidelities."
"But Pedraza didn't know Ivo was an Israeli agent?"
"I'm sure he didn't."
"And you didn't tell him?"
"Do you think I'm nuts?"
"So what did you tell him about Ivo?"
Teresa hung her head.
"I think I know, Teresa. You told him Ivo was looking to blackmail someone high up in right-wing politics."
"Look, I didn't know anything about that man. He wasn't a client of mine, so why should I have given a damn about him?"
Marta nodded. She understood. It was coming clear to her now. Granic was pressuring Teresa to help him blackmail Pedraza, in order to force Pedraza to provide damaging information on Viera. To stop the pressure, Teresa casually mentioned to Pedraza that Granic was after someone seeking high national office.
"It wasn't just this politician you didn't give a damn about," Marta said. "It was Ivo, wasn't it? He was pressuring you. His pressure was relentless. You had to get him off your back. So you relayed a little gossip...and by doing that you signed his death warrant. You knew exactly what you were doing, and now Ivo's dead, Pedraza still comes to you for sessions, you still have your precious lifestyle and your lovely little business. And for all that you don't feel the slightest guilt. It was just a little throwaway bit of gossip after all."
Even before Marta finished speaking, Teresa had begun to weep.
She was exhausted by the time she met with Raúl Vargas just before midnight at an all-night gas station in Barracas.
As usual he looked fresh and eager, while she felt bedraggled having been up most of the previous night trying to squeeze information out of men who'd hurt and threatened her, then chewed out by Ricardi, then accused of soliciting a bribe, then chastened by Judge Schell for threatening her scummy abductors.
As she put it to Raúl: "This has been a horrible twenty-four hours."
But as soon as she said it she realized in fact it had been her best day in a long while, for, though she lacked any proof, she was certain that now she finally understood why Granic and Santini had been killed.
She had no intention of passing along her theory to Raúl. She was meeting with him for an entirely different purpose. Turning to him now, she proposed an arrangement she'd spent the early part of the evening figuring out.
She would tell him a story, perhaps a little incoherent in places, and admittedly with a few loose ends, to which he would listen without interruption. When she was finished, she would answer a limited number of questions by either nodding, shaking her head, or shrugging if she didn't know the answer. Then she'd leave. Nothing she said could be attributed to her. If he decided to publish her story, he would attribute it to "an authoritative source who spoke only after receiving a promise of anonymity."
"One thing I can promise you," she said. "This story is the kind you like. Where
you find it speculative, it'll be up to you to fill in the holes."
Raúl smiled. "Sounds good. Anything else?"
"A couple of things. What can you tell me about Dr. Osvaldo Pedraza?"
Raúl grinned. He liked to show off his knowledge.
"He sees himself as a sort of right-wing Che, an heroic ideologue who promotes a political theory he calls 'a post-democratic matrix' for Latin American nations, in which normal political institutions such as the Presidencies, Congresses and Constitutional Courts are bypassed by a 'mystical bond' between a charismatic leader and the masses, with the military and police acting as 'the social cement.' It's a twenty-first century neo-fascist vision, much like Mussolini's in the 1920s and Perón's in the 40s, with a hefty measure of Hitler's anti-Semitism thrown in. Like Che, he's strongly anti-gringo. He ridicules what he calls 'their ridiculous so-called liberal democracy' and refers to the American ruling elite as 'the Jewish mafia.' Like Perón, he's an ultra-nationalist. He wants Argentina to develop nuclear weapons. Basically he's looking to exploit the corruption here by finding a politician who can fulfill his image of 'messianic leader'."
"Quite a mouthful! He sounds like a nut. What about his personal life?"
"Shadowy. He's secretive and the people around him are very discreet. Word is he's unhappily married, but I've no hard information." Raúl looked searchingly into her eyes. "Why so interested?"
Out of friendship, she decided to throw him a bone. "I think Granic was trying to get something on him," she said, "and that's why he was killed."
"That fits in at least one way: if Pedraza needed dirty work done, he'd call on the crocs." He peered at her again. "Can you tell me more?"
She shook her head. "That's another part of our arrangement. Your questions can only be about my story, not about other aspects of my investigation."
"Hey! Not fair!"
"Of course it's fair! Anyway, that's the deal. Take it or leave it."
"Damnit, Marta! Sometimes you're just too tough!"
She smiled. "My partner says I remind him of a cat."
"How about a hunter gunning for very big game."
"I like that. Just don't call me a policewoman with a Joan of Arc complex."
"Did someone say that about you?"
"Enough! Get out your notebook. I'm ready to talk."
The story she wove was about a pair of corrupt former cops known henceforth as "The Goons," who were hired, according to one, by an active high ranking federal "Police Officer," and by the other, by that officer's "Father," a former provincial police official now retired. These Goons abducted a certain police "Inspector" working on an important homicide case, threatened the Inspector and the Inspector's family, then, when arrested, denied everything and counter-charged that the Inspector had threatened and abused them. Which was absurd on its face, considering the Goons' prior histories and the Inspector's sterling reputation.
In any event, a certain investigative magistrate, known for his leniency toward corrupt cops, chose to accept the Goons' denials and let them loose. Which would just be another chapter in a saga of intra-police disputes, except for one striking fact: it turned out that the Father was working as chief of security for an organization supporting a "Politician" who was an as-yet-unannounced presidential candidate. And the "Confidential Associate" of this Politician has now accused this same abducted and abused Inspector of soliciting a bribe.
Which leaves one, she said, with a cast of seven characters of varying degrees of power and influence: at the top the "Politician" and the "Confidential Associate;" in the middle the "Father" and the "Police Officer;" and at the bottom the two "Goons" who performed the abduction and made the threats — all six trying to knock out the "Inspector."
When Marta was finished, Raúl spent a couple of minutes writing up his notes. Then he turned to her.
"I have four questions. First, the Goons—did they physically touch or violate the Inspector?"
Marta nodded.
"Viciously?"
She nodded again.
"Second, what made the Goons think the Inspector wouldn't recognize them?"
Marta shrugged.
"The Inspector was blindfolded?"
She nodded.
"But still the Inspector recognized them?"
She nodded again.
"How?"
She shrugged.
"An informant?"
She nodded.
"Right! Third, in regard to the Politician—might he be the same one whose spouse was shown in flagrante delicto with another woman in a doctored set of deliciously salacious photographs?"
She nodded.
"Last, is the Confidential Associate what we might euphemistically call 'a man of the cloth'?"
She nodded again.
"Hell of a story, Marta. Real spider's web."
"I agree."
"But here's the big question: Who exactly is The Spider?"
"Well," she said, "I have some ideas about that. But, still off the record, that's yet to be determined."
"Right! Got it!" Raúl closed his notebook. "Hop on my motorcycle. I'll give you a lift back to your hotel."
Chapter Twelve
THE REPLICA
Hank was annoyed. DiPinto wouldn't let him meet the jeweler who'd taken the dagger photos, or give him the Pedrazas' address. And now, when Hank phoned to say he was feeling antsy, DiPinto insulted him by suggesting he find local female companionship.
"Check out the café at the corner of Cordoba and San Martin," DiPinto told him. "Classy girls there—not the kind who'll drug you and steal your wallet. Most speak a little English. I'm sure you'll find one you like."
Out of curiosity, Hank stopped by the café. The girls were young and pretty enough, but they didn't strike him as particularly "classy." They sat in pairs, gabbing into their cell phones. Whenever one caught his eye, she'd make obscene sucking motions with her mouth. After enduring several minutes of this, he gulped down his coffee and fled.
He wandered down Calle Florida to the Galerías Pacífico, an Art Deco mall of luxury shops. Descending to the basement food court, he ordered a slice of pizza. As he ate, he wondered what DiPinto really thought of him.
Is it because I specialize in Third Reich material he thinks I'm willing to cheat our employer and shack up with a café whore?
Perhaps, Hank thought, the time had come to give up the gig and go home. He had his ten thousand. They couldn't take that away. And he had a good excuse. When he'd agreed to take part, he wasn't told he'd be treated like a lackey. How could he be expected to trust people who made it clear they didn't trust him?
Under normal circumstances he'd walk. It was only the Reichsmarschall dagger that made him hesitate. If these people were really on to it, he couldn't leave...no matter how poorly they treated him.
He walked the streets late into the night: Florida with its organ-grinders, black market money changers and silvered "living statues;" Lavalle with its cinemas, bingo parlors and obscene street comedians; Corrientes, lined with pool halls, all-night bookstores and cafés.
At the corner of Corrientes and Esmeralda he saw a Gardel impersonator singing mournfully to passersby. On Avenida 9 de Julio, he encountered a handsome threesome, a young man and two young women, beautifully dressed, sitting in a marvelous open-top dark green vintage car. One of the girls smiled at him, the light changed, then the boy, who was driving, accelerated with a roar.
After midnight, back at his hotel, he ascended to the roof to again contemplate the constellations in the Southern sky.
He woke up suddenly at four a.m., seized by a memory. There was something he'd seen in the dagger photographs that hadn't fully registered.
Turning on his bedside lamp, he re-examined the pictures. He'd looked at them at least fifty times, studying the dagger, searching for flaws and other signs of forgery. But this time, he didn't concentrate on the dagger itself, rather on what the pictures could tell him about the place where they'd been taken.
&n
bsp; Most showed nothing but the black velvet jeweler's pad on which the dagger was displayed. In a few, he could see the tips of the jeweler's fingers.
The jeweler had been thorough. He'd positioned the dagger in numerous ways so that his security camera could document it from every angle. He'd even, it seemed, tilted it so its reflective surfaces would catch the light. This caused the hilt and pommel gemstones to glow, and created reflections on the blade. It was these reflections, which appeared in three of the photos, that now caught Hank's attention.
There was some kind of design in them. It was his memory of this that awakened him. Because the reflections had nothing to do with authenticity, they'd only registered subliminally. Now, focusing on them, trying to decipher them, he thought he could make out objects.
He put the three photos down, shut his eyes, worked to clear his brain. Then he picked up the first photo again.
The reflected image, which vaguely resembled a desert mirage, seemed to show the blurred interior of a store. He made out counters, cabinets, and possibly a window. But the more closely he looked, the more he feared he was seeing things that weren't there.
Again, he shut his eyes to clear his head, then looked quickly at the second picture.
Yes, he decided, there was a window. And there was lettering on the glass, two slightly bowed rows of letters, the upper row bowed down, the lower row bowed upward. He couldn't read the letters. The distortion was too great. He made out lettering in the third photo as well.
He was excited, also perplexed. He considered taking the pictures to a photo shop and having them blown up. Then he remembered that enlargement reduces clarity. The more he'd enlarge them, the less he'd be able to see in them...until, in the end, he'd see whatever he imagined.
Reduction wouldn't help either. But then, he thought, there was something he could do, another way he could look at these pictures. Because reflections in the blade were mirror images, lettering on the jewelry shop window would appear in mirror-reverse. All he had to do to right this lettering was to examine the photos in a mirror.
He turned on the low wattage hotel room ceiling lamp, took the photos to the dresser, then held the first one up to the mirror. In the first line he made out three letters, missed three, then picked up one at the end: J O Y _ _ _ A.
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