Ricardi nodded. "Sounds good. Do it. Meantime, I'll go see the assault commander, arrange for the chopper and have him put a squad of assault police on stand-by."
She and Rolo spent the day going over property records. Though the delta area was huge, their task was easy now that property data had been digitalized. Hundreds of islands were under sole ownership, but less than a hundred possessed structures. By consulting the property tax rolls, they were able to narrow their search to twenty-four sole-proprietor islands with significant villas. Next they consulted aerial photos to determine which of these possessed out-buildings. By the end of the day they had three suspect properties.
Marta phoned Ricardi. "We're ready to take a look," she told him. "I know it's late for a fly-over, but if they're preparing to bust into Magdalena, my hunch is they'll be training at night. My suggestion: fly over at midnight with night-vision equipment and see if we can pick up movement. If we do, and are certain we have the right island, then storm them at dawn just when they're falling off to sleep."
"Good plan!" Ricardi said. "Go home, get some rest. I'll send a car for you at eleven." He paused. "Did you hear about Viera?"
"Just what I read this morning."
"He resigned this afternoon as Finance Minister. Good riddance, huh?"
"Yeah, good riddance," she said.
It was, she thought, when she saw it on the six p.m. TV News, an amazing moment in an altogether extraordinary piece of news footage. And each time it was replayed (and it was replayed over and over through the evening, as if to make certain no one in the country would miss it), it struck her as even more amazing, a moment that crystallized exactly who José Viera was:
An unruly mob of reporters, photographers and TV news cameramen were shown jostling in front of the Finance Ministry awaiting Viera following his sudden resignation.
Before he emerged, a number of flunkies came out and formed a phalanx to protect him. Then another flunky stuck his head out the door, took in the situation and retreated.
Next, half a dozen burly policemen emerged, followed closely by Viera, the cops pushing their way through the boisterous crowd to the limousine hovering at the curb.
As Viera worked his way through, the journalists closed in, creating a gauntlet of flashing strobes and shouted-out questions, most having to do with whether Viera would admit to brutally beating up his wife over some faked up photos in which she appeared in a murdered lesbian's embrace.
Viera moved through this gauntlet with studied indifference until he reached his car. There he turned, lifted his chin and preened while the strobes burst like lightning across his face.
It was only then, after a nearly interminable pause, that Viera issued his rejoinder:
"Why do you assholes need so many pictures of me? Are you going to masturbate to them?"
He smirked while the strobes lashed his face, then calmly stooped to enter his car. As soon as one of the cops slammed the door, it took off toward Avenida La Rábida, circled behind the Casa Rosada and disappeared.
It was that vicious smirk, following the vulgar rejoinder, that Marta found so amazing. For it was, she thought, Viera's actual face, the one he hid behind his expression of compassion and strength—the expression that would have appeared on his campaign posters had Raúl not taken on the task of destroying his image of high rectitude and by so doing turned his political ambitions to dust.
Five a.m., on a police speedboat on the Río Paraná de las Palmas: Marta felt the dampness and the chill. The new moon was mirrored on the smooth water ahead, while the water churned by the boat formed an ever-widening "V" behind.
She studied the shoreline. The air was windless. The trees stood still like sentinels...or multi-armed monsters, or perhaps, she thought, dinosaurs frozen at the water's edge. It looked very different here on the water than it looked when she and Ricardi flew over the area hours before, definitively locating the island where the crocs had built their camp.
She turned to Ricardi, standing beside her, smoking, staring straight ahead.
"In daylight they say the water's 'lion-colored' here," he told her.
"Right now it looks black as oil. And creepy."
Ricardi nodded, threw his cigarette into the water. "We'll be turning soon."
She went to the prow to join Rolo. She could smell the shore, a combination of tropical vegetation and autumnal rot. The River Police captain, who commanded the vessel, stood beside his helmsman.
At the captain's signal, the boat slowed. Then its lights went out as it slipped quietly into the narrow Arroyo El Banco.
Marta turned. Two larger boats, each carrying ten assault police, also made the turn. When the lead boat turned again, this time into an even narrower channel, the engines became so quiet she could barely feel their vibrations.
The three boats began to move slowly through a series of narrow interlocking streams, turning right then left, right then left, until, within minutes, she realized she was lost.
Another labyrinth...like this whole damn case! she thought.
They were in the maze of waterways that constituted the Delta del Paraná, working their way between hundreds of little islands demarcated by narrow creeks and canals. There were small clusters of houses on the islands, simple vacation fishing shacks and an occasional luxury villa. But mostly the land was overgrown with willows, reeds and hydrangeas, which, in the darkness, made a barrier as impenetrable as a jungle. The sounds issuing from the shore were jungle-like too, screeches of exotic birds, cries of nocturnal creatures scavenging for food.
The Delta de Paraná was much beloved by Porteños, a favored weekend destination. She and Leon had brought Marina here once to explore the complex of waterways in a hired boat owned by a fisherman who steered them about for the afternoon.
Marta had marveled then at the exotic beauty of the islands. But that had been in daylight, an escape from the noise and fumes of the city. This visit was different. She, Rolo, Ricardi, and the squad of assault police had come tonight to storm an island. The police helicopter they'd used earlier was standing by in Tigre, awaiting Ricardi's order to swoop in.
She peered into the blackness. The boats had cut their engines, were drifting silently toward shore. The island they were preparing to storm was called "Isle of Gulls," but the locals, Marta had learned from the captain, referred to it as "Dignidad" for "Villa Dignidad," the name of the beautiful Palladian-style house that rose grandly just a hundred feet behind the island's landing dock.
As the two larger boats floated off in opposite directions to flank the island, Ricardi summoned Marta to the stern.
"If we don't catch the crocs asleep, they're going to fight. I know you're a great pistol shot, Marta, but I want you to stay back. Let the assault police do their job."
When she nodded it was to indicate she'd heard what he'd said, not that she took his words as an order. He'd tried several times to dissuade her from joining the raid, and each time she'd told him she had no intention of sitting it out.
The assault police wore all-black uniforms and black helmets with communication and night-vision equipment attached. They carried rocket propelled grenades and automatic weapons.
She watched as their leaders led them ashore, then directed them with hand signals into the bush. There was silence for a time, then a flurry of small arms fire in the distance. Suddenly there was a flash and explosion behind the house. Just as the lights in the house went out, the assault police shot up flares. Then Marta could see the silhouettes of men as they criss-crossed in front of the house, could hear more fire-fights breaking out, and then two large explosions in the outbuildings area behind.
When she saw a policeman fall, she could not longer hold back. She rushed toward the house, pistol drawn, zig-zagging her way, stumbling over the roots of trees, falling, thrashing like a swimmer through a web of vines. Finally, rolling free, she landed in a bed of dead flowers.
She crawled toward a thick bush, cautiously pulled herself up as the fighti
ng ebbed, then hovered in a crouch as it broke out again.
She saw one of the assault police toss a grenade at the front door of the house. When the door burst open, four more police rushed inside. She got up and joined them, holding out her pistol with both hands.
Inside the front hall she found shattered glass, mangled chairs, the wreckage of a chandelier. Ignoring the sounds of gunfire, placing her penlight beside her pistol then gripping them together, she moved rapidly through the downstairs rooms, finally finding herself before a set of closed double doors.
She moved forward and tried the handles. They turned, but the doors remained shut. She stood back, carefully aimed her pistol and fired at the lock. Both doors sprung open.
The room was large, double-storied. Swinging her penlight around, she saw that the furnishings were sparse, just a set of eight leather upholstered armchairs arranged in a semi-circle as if to embrace the enormous painting on the far wall.
It was this painting that drew her into the room. She played her light upon it, examining its glossy surface. It was a larger-than-life, full-figure portrait of a husky man wearing a military hat, jodhpurs, shiny tall black boots, and a long uniform dress jacket covered with medals and decorations. In one hand he gripped what looked to be an elaborately decorated baton. His other hand rested on the hilt of an equally elaborate dagger that dangled from a set of silk hangers suspended from the thick black leather belt that hugged his jacket to his waist.
The setting was alpine. Ice-covered mountains filled the background. The sky was overcast except for a brilliant shaft of sunlight that broke through the cloud cover to illuminate the man's face, endowing it with the same glow of enlightenment she'd seen in religious paintings on the faces of saints.
But this man's face, though idealized, was not at all beatific. Round, firm-jawed, almost grim, it reminded her of pictures she'd seen of busts of cruel Roman emperors. It was depicted in three-quarters view, the eyes staring out of the painting at some distant point in space and time. A half-smile of vindication slightly turned the subject's lips.
Moving forward, she noticed a brass plaque attached to the bottom of the frame. She walked closer, shined her light on it, then stooped to read:
REICHSMARSCHALL HERMANN GÖRING por OSCAR VALASCO, 1992
She was taking this in, recalling the name Göring from history class, when a harsh beam of light fell upon her and a familiar voice cut to her from across the room:
"So...Santa Incorrupta herself!"
She turned. There was no one in the doorway. But above it, on a little balcony entered from the floor above, she saw the silhouette of a man shining a heavy-duty directional lantern at her face.
Brilliant light from a flare suddenly burst in through the windows illuminating the entire room. It was then that she recognized the man on the balcony. It was Charbonneau, gazing down at her with unconcealed distaste.
He did not look his usual composed self, nor did he appear apoplectic as he had on the day she'd confronted Viera in his office. He was dressed peculiarly too, in a white night-shirt that hung upon his body like a dress, covering everything except his bare bony legs. A simple wooden cross hung from a rough strand of rope around his neck.
They stared at one another as the light of the flare slowly dimmed. When the room went black again, he switched off his lantern. When she pointed her penlight at the balcony, he was gone.
She rushed back to the front hall, found a policeman, ordered him to block the back stairs, then raced up the main stairs to the second floor.
He was somewhere up here, she knew. It was a miracle to have discovered him in this house the very day of Viera's resignation. Now she wanted him more than any quarry she'd ever tracked. He was, she knew, the key to everything, the only person who could link the kill-orders to Pedraza.
She began flinging open doors, rapidly searching bedrooms, bathrooms, closets, making her way methodically down the central hallway, all the time shouting out his name. She had him cornered. There was no chance he could slip by her now.
In one room she paused to look out the window. There were fires burning behind the house. A watch tower was ablaze. The shooting had turned sporadic. She saw several bodies sprawled on the lawn. The assault police were herding a half dozen disarmed crocs, bare to the waist, hands cuffed behind their backs.
Back in the hallway, she hollered: "Come out, Charbonneau! No one's going to break out Kessler now! Give yourself up. It's all over for you and the Immaculates."
She was standing there, in combat stance, pistol extended in both hands, waiting for him to show himself, confident he would, but unsure whether he would try to take her on.
"What do you know about the Immaculates?" His voice was subdued, close too, issuing through the door of the next room down the hall.
She moved to the door, carefully pushed it open with her foot. She was disoriented for a moment. The room seemed much too small, there was a railing ahead, and beyond it an abyss. Of course! This was the balcony above the big room with the painting. But where was Charbonneau?
She shined her light around, discovered a narrow vaulted space to the left, a tiny chapel. A man in a nightshirt, back to her, was kneeling before a crucifix mounted on the wall.
"I know all about them," she told him. "Pedraza's in charge. He gave the kill-orders to you and you passed them along."
"Ah, our little Juana de Arco is smart, a real smarty-pants." He looked over his shoulder at her, leered as she played her penlight upon his face.
"You know too much," he said softly, reaching for something between his knees.
Even before she saw the revolver, she was poised to shoot. She hesitated only when he turned the gun toward himself.
"You can be sure we'll win in the end," he told her, then thrust the barrel into his mouth. He grinned at her, shut his eyes and pulled the trigger, showering the crucifix just behind with his blood.
After the bodies were picked up, the prisoners hauled off, the fires extinguished, the arms, escape plans and model of Magdalena Prison collected, catalogued and taken away, Hector Ricardi, whom she knew only as her hard-ass Chief, cradled her in his arms.
"You couldn't have stopped him, Marta. Who'd have thought a priest would commit the mortal sin of suicide? Go easy on yourself. Because, damn!, you did it, brought them down."
If that were true, and she wasn't sure yet that it was, she took surprisingly little satisfaction in it. Pedraza was still walking free. Without Charbonneau, there was no way she could tie him to the killings.
For a moment she was tempted to phone Shoshana, tell her everything she knew about Pedraza, leaving it to the Israelis to settle the matter as they saw fit.
But she couldn't do that. Justice, she knew, could not be properly rendered unless she could prove her case. And since she could not...there the matter would have to rest.
But there was a phone call she was eager to make. It would be the best call of her life—to Montevideo, to summon Leon and Marina, to call them home.
Chapter Twenty-One
MOSSAD ENDGAME
Hank Barnes stared skeptically at Marci as she promised she would now be straight with him. She understood, she told him, that he didn't trust her, but she hoped he'd at least hear her out before adding her to his list of egregious liars.
"Sure, I'll hear you out," he said. "But not here in my wired hotel room."
"Right," she said. "We'll go for a walk." She smiled, moved closer to him, spread her arms. "Pat me down, Hank. Assure yourself I'm not wired too."
As he patted her down, he couldn't help but laugh. "Still miss my body?"
"Shhhh!"
"What? Your colleagues don't know about us?"
She glared at him, whispered: "Of course they know!"
"Yeah, I figured."
Outside it was dark. Curved street lamps burned yellow in the misty air. Stepping out of the hotel, Marci gestured down Avenida Alvear. This was, he knew from his walks, one of the best residential blocks in B
uenos Aires, lined with graceful apartment houses that reminded him of buildings in Paris.
His first demand, he told her as they started to walk, was that they have a one hundred percent honest conversation. At this point, he told her, nothing less would do. He also demanded a new hotel room. If he decided to go through with the dagger exchange (and that, he told her, was "one very big if") he'd do so at the Alvear, but he wouldn't sleep there anymore. Depending on how well she explained herself, he told her, he'd move to another hotel or head for the airport.
She nodded. "Fair enough, Hank. Perfectly understandable."
Right! And you'll agree to a lot more before we're finished!
"So what's with the Pedrazas and what's with the dagger?" he asked, leading her toward a side street.
"Let's keep walking straight," she said. "I want to show you something. We'll talk on the way."
A young man, striding toward them, held leashes attached to a dozen dogs of different breeds. A pair of joggers passed, then speedily turned the corner.
Osvaldo Pedraza, Marci told him, was the ideological leader of a covert group of neo-Nazis who called themselves the Immaculates. They in turn controlled a larger illegal group of right-wing military known as the Crocodiles. The leadership of the Immaculates had inherited a Nazi dagger—Hermann Göring's Reichsmarschall dagger brought to Argentina by Göring's aide, Walter Hobler. Hobler had founded The Immaculates in 1954 along with a Nazi-sympathizing priest. The dagger was a symbol of the Immaculates' Nazi roots and it was used by the leadership group as a totem.
"You mean they worship it? Pretty hard to believe."
"I don't know that they worship it, Hank, but they respect it greatly. When they hold a leadership meeting, the leader, Pedraza, places the dagger on the table. After that, whoever is speaking picks it up and holds it. Then he hands it off to the next speaker, and so on. So it's totemic in the sense that the one who holds it also holds the floor."
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