this occasion. They removed the stolen license plates that had been mounted
on the Corvair just for the heist and affixed the original plates registered to
Señor Marco Figueroa. Once he was satisfied that everything was in order, Serge
addressed the group one final time.
“You should all be very proud of what we accomplished today. Not only
did we succeed in showing the whole nation that the people’s movement is still
alive and strong, but we garnered an incredible sum of money right from under
the noses of the military, without the loss of one human life. That is something
to tell your grandchildren.” The leader stopped to take a large swallow of
the champagne in celebration. Wiping a few errant drops from his beard, he
cautioned his followers.
“We must be extremely careful from this moment on. The search for us
will be massive. Lonnie, I would suggest that you and Celeste take a vacation
together. Is there somewhere safe that they know you? Somewhere that no one
will be suspicious when you suddenly show up? I would advise you to re-adopt
your past lifestyle. Nice clothes, the Mercedes, all those things you used to do
last summer. That should divert attention from your present guise. Can you
do that?”
“I think it shouldn’t be too hard to accomplish,” Lonnie said with a grin.
“I preferred driving my Mercedes to the Corvair, to tell you the truth. I guess
the people’s revolution still has to work on my materialistic values some more.
As for the rest of it, well, I told my mother that Celeste and I were traveling
for the summer, but most years I work at my father’s camp for terminally ill
children in Tigre. I don’t think anyone would be suspicious if Celeste and I
showed up there to lend a helping hand for awhile. How does that sound to
you?” He directed the question to Celeste.
“Fine with me. You have told me so much about the camp, I would really
like to see it. How long would we have to stay?”
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“It all depends on the heat,” replied Serge. “Usually they round up hundreds
of suspects when something like this happens. Our escapade will prove to be
all the more embarrassing for the junta because of the ‘peaceful nation’ and
‘nonexistent terrorists’ bullshit they are spewing to the press. Security and a
calm atmosphere for the World Cup has become their top priority. Well, we
just showed the entire world that the people of Argentina want social justice,
not some football circus.” The leader spat out his final words contemptuously.
Another pull on the bottle, then he revealed his own plans. “Jean Pierre
and I are going to Mar del Plata to get lost in the summer crowds. We have
already rented a flat, and we just plan to disappear. Write down the address of
the camp in Tigre for me, Lonnie, and I will contact you when we are ready
to strike again. My brother and I will drop our bounty off at the local cadre
headquarters, then head directly out of town. I suggest that you two leave
Buenos Aires as quickly as possible, for the roadblocks are bound to go up
around the capital in a matter of hours, if not sooner. Any questions?”
The room was silent, then, one by one, they embraced and said their good-
byes. Serge and Jean Pierre left the garage first, carrying the spoils of battle
in an old duffel bag that matched their change of attire. Jean Pierre had a
knapsack slung over his shoulders that contained the two Uzzis and several
more hand grenades, but to those that they passed on their walk to the bus
terminal, they looked just like any other transients in this down-on-your-luck
part of town.
“So, do we head to your casa to get the car and new clothes?”
“The Mercedes is stored at the dealership, so that’s no problem,” Lonnie
responded to Celeste’s query. “As for going home, I would rather not. Too
many questions to answer, especially if I run into my mother. I have my real
identification in a safety deposit box at my bank. Tomorrow we can retrieve
it, take out some money, and go shopping. You can pretend that you are my
socialite girlfriend helping me spend all my hard-earned cash. Who knows, you
might even have fun and cast aside the powers of the revolution for the powers
of the almighty American Express card.” Lonnie shot his lover a sarcastic grin
as he pulled her tight against his muscled torso. The excitement of the day’s
activity had stirred his manly urges.
“Where will we stay tonight, your place or mine?”
“I’m way ahead of you, my preppy hero. I have already vacated my flat for
good. End of school term you know. My things are at a storage facility. We can
pick up what we need tomorrow. I am sure that I will find your accommodations
up to your usual five-star standards. Let’s go. I can hardly wait to order up room
service.”
214
Chapter Sixteen
Nijinsky, Pavlova, Stravinsky, Strauss, Bernstein, Caruso, Callas,
Toscanini, Nureyev, Barishnikov, the list goes on and on. Each one
had performed their artistry on the great stage of Teatro Colon, and
very shortly, Renaldo De Seta was going to be standing on that exact same
stage. He would not, of course, ply his particular trade among the gilded boxes
and mauve velvet armchairs. There would be no football played beneath the
great seven hundred-bulb chandelier. But there was no mistaking the reason
that close to four thousand souls had filled every nook and cranny of this
venerable theater.
The elite of Argentine society, as well as the nation’s most powerful
military and political figures, had come to see and be seen at this extravagant,
yet culturally rich fundraising gala. But the magnet that drew them to the
fabled opera house was not drama or music this time . . . it was football! The
eyes of the world would be focused on their turbulent homeland in a few short
months, and fifteen other nations would be their guests at a very special party,
the FIFA World Cup of Football.
A call, one could say almost a plea, had gone out to all Argentines
regardless of social standing to pull together to make the games of the eleventh
World Cup the best that had ever been staged. The junta had promised all
its native sons and daughters a spectacle that they would never forget, as long
as the organizers were allowed to focus on the athletic concerns and not on
terrorist threats or acts of sabotage.
The recent bank robbery near the army headquarters in Buenos Aires had
outraged not only the military leaders, but also many left-wing supporters,
including trade unionists, students, and the leftist-working press. They were in
sympathy with the government-inspired editorials that vilified the perpetrators.
The vast majority of both Porteños and Provincials saw this mindless act of
violence as a blight on their country’s concerted effort to show the world that
Argentina was a safe and sane land, a land where tourists from around the
world could come and enjoy the most popular sport on earth in comfort and
safety.
Now three misguided zealots had blasted their way into the world
> headlines, severely undermining much of the credibility that the junta had tried
so hard to establish. The fact that the robbery occurred in broad daylight across
JAMES McCREATH
the street from Argentine army headquarters reflected badly upon the whole
national security program. ‘Heads were rolling’ in the corridors of power, and
on the streets. Heaven help anyone that got caught in a police sweep without
letter-perfect identification.
But on this night, Saturday the fourteenth of February, all the tensions
seemed to melt away once the patrons were seated inside the plush amphitheater.
No one without a valid ticket could get within a city block of the teatro,
and all the guests and performers were electronically screened and searched
upon entering the building. Not even the society matrons objected to this
inconvenience, so great was the outrage at the thought that their country was
perceived as a breeding ground for thugs and violent revolutionaries.
Six people had been killed by exploding hand grenades as they tried to
follow the Montonero thieves from the Banco Nacional.
Colonel Xavier Rodrigues Borges, the country’s senior antiterrorist
strategist, was among those slain. Argentines from all walks of life wanted an
end to the cold-blooded insanity. This night at Teatro Colon was to be their
new beginning, a new focus on the spectacular events to come. Three thousand
military policemen ringing the opulent Greco-Roman structure in the heart of
the capital were there to ensure that nothing would disrupt the gala evening.
The program was artistically enchanting, covering all aspects of Argentine
music and folklore, from ancient times to modern day. Native Indians were
playing the Quena and Charanga, mournful melodies played on a great, long
instrument called an Erke. Gauchos were performing their Milongas, Estilos,
and Cifras, always rousing and immensely entertaining. Then, of course, a tribute
to the late Carlos Gardel, the celebrated innovator of the tango, the national
dance of Argentina. The legendary Argentine composer Hector Panizza was
honored with a moving selection from his greatest symphonic works. A host of
other talented singers and musicians complimented the program.
The pièce de résistance for the young generation, however, was the
performance, late in the show, of the nation’s number one pop star, Symca. She
was to be followed directly by the much anticipated unveiling of the National
World Cup Football Team.
This gala evening was being broadcast live over state radio and television,
and listeners were constantly encouraged to mail donations to the World Cup
Organizing Committee’s capital fund. A letter of gratitude and a poster of the
National Team would be sent to all donors.
By positioning the vivacious Symca near the conclusion of the schedule,
the producers ensured a national audience until the very end of the festivities.
Astor Gordero had arranged the entertainment and structured the acts to
receive maximum exposure vis-à-vis mail-in donations. The introduction of the
National Team, followed by a spirited and emotional rendition of the national
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RENALDO
anthem, was anticipated to bring tears to the eyes, not to mention pens to the
checks, of millions of patriotic Argentines.
Renaldo De Seta sat watching the musical feast on one of several television
monitors placed in the banquet hall, where the National Team waited
impatiently. He, like all the other footballers, was attired in his new navy blue
blazer, the breast pocket adorned with a luminous gold crest, which offset
the black letters ‘AFA,’ (Asociacion Del Futbal Argentino). Lightweight grey
flannel slacks, black Ferragamo loafers, and a powder-blue and white-striped tie
completed the ensemble for all the National Team hopefuls.
The youngest aspirant cut a resplendent figure, one that would make
almost any lady feel weak at the knees. But at this very moment, his thoughts
were of one lady in particular. The subterranean structure of the Teatro Colon
extended for three stories, with seemingly miles and miles of corridors, salons,
reception rooms, and general work areas. The football players were told to
stay in their designated area, but because they were the last group to go on
stage, it didn’t take long for many of them to become restless, despite the fully
stocked bar and endless procession of hors d’oeuvres. Two armed soldiers and
two civilian security guards had been placed outside the banquet room with
strict orders that absolutely no one was to enter or leave the room.
The guards were only human, of course, and somewhat in awe of these
national heroes. As a result, they were easily persuaded to turn a blind eye
when required. An autograph, a handshake, or a brief conversation with one of
their idols seemed to provide sufficient distraction for several of the players to
simply disappear.
Renaldo was able to deftly slide through the door and down the corridor
without being noticed or missed. Sometimes being an unknown commodity has its
benefits, he thought gleefully as he set out to find his lost treasure.
That treasure, buried somewhere in the cavernous depths of Teatro Colon,
was to be found in a remote, tiny room, two stories below where the musical
history of Argentina was being woven and spun with great passion.
A star, a solitary star, much like the one the fabled wise men of years
gone by must have followed, marked the end of his search. Emblazoned within
its glittering five silver points was one word, a word that set his heart racing,
‘Symca.’
“Come in,” was the response that greeted the footballer’s knock on the
door. Renaldo paused for several seconds. “Come in! It’s alright, I’m decent.”
Peering into her makeup mirror, she tried to focus her eyes on the handsome
figure that now stood just inside the cramped closet. “Renaldo, my God, is
that really you?” Dressed in a rose-colored satin robe, she let out a little girlish
squeal of delight and leapt into his arms, kissing him full on the lips. He was
taken aback by her enthusiasm.
21
JAMES McCREATH
“Easy, easy, or we will ruin your makeup. You look absolutely ravishing.
How have you been?” The athlete was suddenly aware that his reaction to her
greeting had awakened a sleeping giant. He pretended to show interest in the
beautiful pink roses that adorned a side table, managing to stand with his back
toward her.
“These are lovely. From a secret admirer?”
“Not so secret. A mutual acquaintance actually, Astor Gordero.”
She was at his side now, running her fingers through the long curls that
fell past the nape of his neck. A tremor flashed up his spine. He turned, intent
on removing her hand and freeing himself from any physical contact, lest he
lose all control.
Instead, the chanteuse again pressed her lips to his once their eyes met.
She leaned against his torso, and he simply melted into her arms.
Even with his eyes closed and his heart pounding, he was still aware of
the firmness of her breasts against his c
hest, not to mention the inflamed heat
of her womanhood as the robe parted under the pressure of his concealed,
unyielding organ.
The embrace had unleashed a pent-up passion the young man never knew
he possessed, and his mind surrendered to the spell of her feminine sensuality.
His right forearm held her tightly to him. His strength and hardness took her
breath away. Their tongues excitedly explored uncharted waters, entwined in a
romantic dance of their own.
When she finally found it necessary to disengage and step back a few
paces to collect herself, her eyes were glossy and temporarily unfocused. She
then locked on to his massiveness and licked her lips with unconcealed lust.
“You may be just a boy in age, Renaldo, but you are more of a man than
I have ever felt. Look at you! Those trousers are about to rip at the seams. It’s
unbelievable! I never would have thought . . .”
He had turned scarlet in color and was trying vainly to conceal his passion
from her devouring eyes. Renaldo found it impossible to regain his composure,
however, for she stood in front of him with the robe askew, her lovely breasts
and light-brown bush fully exposed.
“I’m sorry, Simone, I should have been more discreet. It’s just that I have
never been . . .” She was at his side once more, her fingers pressed to his lips.
“Do not be sorry, Renaldo. Football is obviously not the only gift that
God endowed you with. There is no cause for embarrassment. I am totally in
awe!”
Her hand softly traced the outline of his straining member for a fleeting
moment. Her eyes traveled from his midsection to his handsome face and back
again several times before she abruptly stopped her explorations and addressed
him in a more controlled tone of voice.
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RENALDO
“Now, we must regain our composure, my love. Just look at me! You have
ruined my makeup, and I still have to dress for the show. I was not counting on
such a distraction to my normal pre-stage routine. So off you go. I don’t trust
myself in your presence anymore. Do you have the backstage pass that I gave
you?”
Renaldo was unable to form a coherent response for several seconds. He
could only stare at the embodiment of eroticism that stood before him. It was
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