The Assignment (13 page)

It was the morning of the fifth day and Ortega did not wake like a child. He was awakened by someone leaning over him and shaking his shoulder. At first it was a nightmare and then misinterpreted reality. Desperately he thrust his hand under the pillow and tried to throw himself onto the floor. And then a voice: “Calm down, calm down, for Christ’s sake. It’s only me.”

Eventually he sat up again and stared at the man who had awakened him. It was Fernández.

“Something has happened and I thought I’d better wake you.”

“What’s happened?”

“I don’t know, but there’s a hell of a row going on in town. It’s already been on for some time. Gómez has had a look out front and says it’s to the right somewhere. There was a whole string of explosions at first, a long way off, almost like an air raid; more than two hours ago. Now they’re shooting away like mad. You can hear yells and screams too, Gómez says.”

“Get out while I dress.”

He did not bother to shower, although he was soaked with sweat and still dazed by the sleeping tablets. He rinsed his hands and face, however, but the water only trickled spasmodically out of the faucet. He dressed and strapped on the Astra, shrugging on his jacket as he went into his office. For once he forgot to be afraid of the door and this time there happened to be someone in there. But it was Gómez.

He lifted the telephone receiver and looked at the clock,
which said twenty-five past five. He had to wait a long time before getting through to the switchboard, but police headquarters answered immediately. An excited voice said: “The chief? No, he isn’t—yes, just a minute—he’s just going past.”

There was a clatter.

“Hell—yes. Behounek speaking.”

“What’s happened?”

“The dirty rats have blown up the pumping station and the mains at the waterworks. The buildings up there are on fire and the whole town’s without water.”

“Who did it?”

“A Communist sabotage group—about two and a half hours ago. Nearly all the men who work up there have had it, and one of my men too.”

“But what’s all that shooting?”

“The Citizens’ Guard has got its emergency forces out. They’re trying to get into the—for Christ’s sake, can’t you see I’m talking to the Resident—yes—into the workers’ sector at the north end. Excuse me—I must go now.”

“The north end, did you say? I’ll go on up there.”

“No, for God’s sake don’t. Please don’t. No one can be responsible for anyone’s safety up there at the moment.”

“I’ll take the risk.”

“You’re the last person on earth who should go there now. But if you must, then at least come in my car. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”

The Chief of Police was gone but he must have flung the telephone receiver down onto the table, for footsteps and shouts and telephone signals could still be heard.

Ten minutes later a white Dodge, its siren wailing, drove straight across the square.

“Get in the back. No, I’ve no room for your gorillas. They’ll have to go in their own car.”

He sat in the front seat next to the driver and turned
the knob of a short-wave set which crackled and hissed. In the back sat the deputy from the airport, Lieutenant Brown.

“Hope to hell we won’t need the army’s help.”

“Is it so critical?”

“So-so. If we survive the next two hours, the danger is over. They started this at the worst possible moment.”

“Who?”

“The Citizens’ Guard. Before half past five the mineworkers haven’t gone off to work. That means that nearly four thousand able-bodied men are still inside the barricaded area. They’re the dangerous ones. There’s a risk of a coordinated break-out. I can’t cope with that.”

“How do the workers get to the mines?”

“They walk. It takes about an hour and a half for them to get there.”

Manuel Ortega thought that this must be a considerable crowd of people and he wondered why he had not seen anything of them, not even in the evenings. Behounek promptly solved the problem for him.

“They walk along a special road in a curve southeastward around the town.”

“But to blow up the waterworks,” said Manuel. “That affects everyone in the same way.”

“No, it’s better calculated than that. The native quarter isn’t dependent on the waterworks. It’s in the old part of the town where there are several wells. Not very good ones, but all the same. But the whole of the center of town and the villa district will be without water. It’ll be sheer hell.”

The car drove at a tremendous speed down the middle of the road between the stone walls, its siren wailing and its warning lights on. There were a great many people on the road and police jeeps were parked along the walls.

They swung up toward the villa district, around a few bends, and then stopped at exactly the same place where Manuel had parked for a moment the day before.

Behounek got out of the car. He had a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck. The driver was trying to adjust a portable short-wave transmitter. A large open American car crammed with men wearing yellow armbands rolled past them going downhill. Most of the men were armed with rifles and had cartridge belts slung over their shoulders.

“The Citizens’ Guard,” said Behounek. “They’re beginning to rally round now. Not sending kids out any longer.”

“Do you let them through the barriers?”

The Chief of Police did not answer the question, but said: “If it gets too awful I’ll swear them in as militia. I’ve done that before now. The problem now is to keep the natives inside the barricaded area and the whites as much as possible outside it.”

From the triangular section of the town below rose a cacophony of shrieks, shots, and unidentifiable sounds of violence.

“D’you see?” said Behounek. “There—you see the smoke over the ridge there?”

“Why did the trouble break out here?”

“Most of the Citizens’ Guard live up here,” said Behounek laconically.

He had got the walkie-talkie working and had made contact with someone.

“Clear the square,” he said.

Manuel tried to concentrate his gaze on the open space in the middle of the jumble of houses. It looked filled to bursting, but only a few minutes later several white jeeps drove up to it and one could see how the crowd was scattered and driven into the side streets.

“You must stop those idiots from shooting at the road,” Behounek shouted into the transmitter. “What have you got there? Yes. Yes. Send them. Send everyone you’ve got. At once. Make sure the road is opened and people get moving along it. Listen! There’s a bunch of kids from the Citizens’
Guard in the field west of the road in square 14. They’re shooting at people on the road. You must get them to stop it. Now. At once.

“This is madness. They’re preventing them from getting through to the mines. There’s a standstill on the road already. They must be stopped! And see that people keep moving along the road. The quicker we get the workers away from the town, the better.”

Against his will, Manuel was fascinated by what he saw. The distance made the drama more or less abstract; made it hard to believe and to realize that every dot down there represented a separate individual.

Nor did he escape the infection of Behounek’s dynamic direction of operations, just as he had been similarly affected by the chief’s fear when the Citizens’ Guard had aroused the wrath of the workers by shooting at them on the road to the mines.

“Disperse the crowd by the wall in section 3. Immediately!

“Barricade the road from the square to the eastern well.

“Four extra men to the north gate. Is the loudspeaker system working? Good.”

Aside he said: “We’ve got a loudspeaker system down there. They’ll get orders now to go indoors and stay there.”

Half an hour later the shooting had practically ceased. Behounek’s orders became more positive in character.

“Clear section 1.

“Clear section 2.

“Are the loudspeakers still working? Good. Tell them that everyone who has to get to work has free access through the east gate. And that they must go quickly.

“I think it’s over now, for this time,” he said to Manuel Ortega.

He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and took his right foot down from the low stone wall.

“Would you lend me your binoculars?” said Manuel Ortega.

“Yes, yes, of course. Here you are. But I warn you, you’re not going to like what you see.”

As he focused the lenses, Manuel realized the extent of the tragedy of which he had been a passive spectator for the last hour or so. In the square alone he counted eight bodies. He let his glance slide on, along stretches which were more or less clear. He lost track of the number by the time he reached twenty. Only policemen in white uniforms could be seen down there now. In some places he saw people bending over prostrate figures and then walking on, as if they had not found what they were looking for. Then he turned the binoculars to the east and saw clumps of people walking diagonally across a scorched field toward the road which led to the mines.

He had a sudden attack of shivering and nausea, and he lowered the binoculars.

The Chief of Police glanced at him.

“Yes. There it is. Quite a few lives lost for this.”

“How many do you think?”

Behounek shrugged his shoulders.

“How should I know?”

Then a little later: “All I know is, it could have been worse, much worse.”

I stood and watched them die, thought Manuel Ortega in confusion. I stood up here as if on a platform and watched people being maimed and killed and all I thought about was how long it would take for the police to clear the streets and disperse the crowds.

“I stood and watched them die,” he mumbled.

“Yes, well, we managed all right,” said Behounek, and he peered up at the sky. Then he added absently: “It’s going to be a hot day. Otherwise this week’s been a good one.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes. It’s just that you’re not used to it yet. These last few days have been fine and fresh. It’ll be worse today.”

He turned to the police car.

“It’s all over down there now. Shall we go and have a look?”

Manuel Ortega looked absently at him. Behounek frowned.

“Perhaps it would be better not to after all. They probably don’t think much of you at the moment, and someone might take a pot shot at you from one of the houses. You don’t look too good either.”

He looked at his watch.

“Eight already. I must go over to the pumping station. It doesn’t look too good either. You’ll tackle the water question, won’t you? Damned nuisance that General Gami should be away.”

“Who is his deputy?”

“Colonel Orbal.”

“And his?”

“C.O. of the regiment, Colonel Ruiz.”

“I’ll contact him.”

Manuel Ortega went back into the town in the little French car with Gómez and Fernández. On the way they saw several army ambulances, and at the breaks in the walls, police stood on guard together with members of the Citizens’ Guard in their yellow armbands.

“Something doesn’t fit,” said Manuel Ortega to himself. “Doesn’t fit at all.”

He felt tired and ill, and as soon as he went into his bathroom he was violently sick. When it was over, he saw that someone, probably the cleaning man, had put two earthenware jars of water there. After lying on the bed for a quarter of an hour, staring apathetically at the ceiling, he pulled himself together and went into his office. When he opened the door, and saw that someone was standing in the middle of the floor, he jerked back as if from a blow or a sharp jab of pain, although he must have seen who it was immediately.

Danica Rodríguez looked at him, seriously and searchingly, before she said: “Have you been over there?”

“Yes. It looked appalling.”

“It is appalling.”

“The worst thing was that no one really seemed to mind much. When it was all over, the men went off to the mines, just as if nothing had happened. And there were at least thirty people lying dead in the streets and the square.”

“These people are fatalists,” she said. “They have to learn to be. They think it’s the only way that pays. It’s always been so.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“I was born here.”

He went over to the window and looked across the blinding white plaza. A group of men with rifles and yellow armbands was marching across the far side.

“The C.O. of the regiment has called you three times.”

“Contact him.”

He got through right away. Colonel Ruiz spoke in a high voice and very quickly, as if we were trying to sound efficient.

“The position is precarious but we have put all available forces in to clear it up. I have ordered a company of engineers to the waterworks. As soon as the fires have been extinguished, they’ll begin repairs.”

“Have you any idea how long it will take?”

“Hard to say. Forty-eight hours perhaps. Could take less, but could also take longer. We can’t estimate the damage yet.”

“How will water supplies be maintained until then?”

“We have three army tankers and private companies have put twelve more at our disposal. That’s fifteen altogether. They’ll have to do a forty-eight-hour shuttle service. I think we should be able to get going in a couple of hours at constructing temporary reservoirs in the town. We need volunteers for that. When you speak on the radio it would be appropriate if you would urge volunteers to report either to the plaza or to the main entrance gates.”

Manuel Ortega had had no idea that he was expected to
speak over the radio. In fact he had forgotten that the radio was an available means of communication. He said: “Can’t you get detachments from the army to construct the reservoirs?”

“I’m short of men,” said Colonel Ruiz briefly.

He went on smoothly: “But I can contribute overseers and a few engineers. My position is not entirely agreeable. The Chief of Police has, for example, requisitioned sixty thousand yards of barbed wire. I’ve only half that much.”

“What does he want so much for?”

It was a spontaneous question which of course should never have been asked.

“To strengthen the barricades, I presume,” said the colonel suspiciously. “It’s probably necessary. Moreover, I should inform you that I’ve given the Citizens’ Guard authority to take over responsibility for order in the center of town.”