The Assignment (15 page)

The whole world became utterly silent. The only sound Manuel could make out was the gentle trickling of water from the temporary reservoir. The darkness had not brought the slightest cool breeze with it. The heat was heavy and oppressive and the night as black as asphalt.

Ten seconds later López switched on a flashlight and went ahead into the building. Manuel went into the office and called police headquarters.

“Just a fault on the line,” said the duty officer. “A not infrequent event.”

Manuel Ortega lay on his bed, abandoned to the room’s absolute darkness. He was both psychologically and physically exhausted, but for the first time he felt a certain satisfaction with himself. He was also aware that he had something to look forward to tomorrow, something positive and meaningful, which would give him cause to test his strength and throw in his lot wholly and completely.

Soon after that he fell asleep, free of fear.

He woke at about two. The light was on and he heard Fernández moving about in the outer room. He got up and undressed, looked under the bed, and put the gun under his pillow. Then he lay down, but it was some time before he fell asleep again.

Manuel Ortega lay on his back with his eyes closed and let the binoculars glide over the sun-baked dirty-yellow stones as he counted the outstretched bodies. One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight.

All the time he remembered the metallic voice giving the order: “Clear the square.”

It was half past seven. Manuel Ortega opened the door and saw Fernández seated on the swivel chair. He took two steps across the corridor, laid his left hand on the doorknob, and thrust his right hand inside his jacket. He felt the security of the revolver butt.

Fernández had not yet begun to rise. Manuel opened the door and went into the room. It was empty and the cramp in his diaphragm loosened its grip at once. He went over to the window and looked out over the town, the large blinding white square, the white cubelike buildings on the other side, the tall dusty palm trees, the reservoir of planks and tarpaulins, and in front of it a little line of people carrying metal pails and clay water pots, and two members of the Citizens’ Guard.

These two were women, wearing yellow bands diagonally across their breasts, and they had rigged up a sun shelter of canvas. Beneath this stood a little table which everyone getting water had to pass; the women were busy with some kind of rationing control and despite the distance he could see one of them stamping the papers as each person went by.

“See if my secretary has come,” said Manuel Ortega.

For some reason Fernández was the only one of his bodyguards to whom he could bring himself to give orders or send on errands. It seemed absurd to him that he should be able to give orders to López or the huge Gómez, not to mention Frankenheimer.

Manuel watched Fernández as he opened the door. At first
the man took a short step onto his left foot, leaning slightly forward, pulling his head down between his shoulders as he kept the weight of his body on his right leg. His whole body looked tense and watchful. He reminded him of a cat walking into a strange house. Manuel Ortega shuddered with distaste and then Fernández pushed open the door, relaxed, and said indifferently: “Yes, she’s sitting in there.”

“Señora Rodríguez!”

She was wearing a thin white dress and certainly no bra, for the lines of her body looked soft and natural and he thought he could make out her nipples beneath the material. Her expression was different from usual. It had never before seemed so open and expectant.

“The answer to your cable has come,” she said. “A policeman brought it here two or three minutes ago.”

He held the folded piece of grayish brown paper in his hand before opening it. It looked very official, with
EXPRESO
,
PRIORIAD
and
SERVICIO OFICIAL
stamped on it, and he thought resignedly of the long time he had already had to wait for it. Then he read:

Manuel Ortega was aware that the woman was watching his face as he read, and he made an effort not to move a muscle.

“Thank you,” he said.

Danica Rodríguez could not entirely hide a certain disappointment, which for some reason pleased him. She went
out but turned at the door and said: “Next time you talk to your friend Captain Behounek, you might ask him what the Peace Force was doing in the village called Santa Rosa last night.”

“Could you explain that a little more clearly?”

“Unfortunately not.”

The cable lay on the desk in front of him. His first reaction to the preliminary reprimand had been impotence and rage, but after reading it a second time he realized that the fundamental point of Zaforteza’s message was that the government had given him a constructive and positive assignment. The instructions were clear and concise, in fact orders, and he could think of no other order which he would rather carry out. To arrange a conference between the opposing sides would be anything but easy, but on the other hand it really was a task worth tackling. He had thought so much earlier, perhaps even in Stockholm and he had been aware that discussion at the highest level between the two sides was the only way that would lead to a peaceful solution.

Even the final piece of advice in the Minister of the Interior’s cable seemed sensible. To reach the right people he would be to a large extent dependent on the resources of the police and on Behounek’s personal experience and general view of the situation.

Just as he put out his hand to call police headquarters, the telephone rang.

“Yes, Ortega.”

“Behounek. Morning.”

“I was just about to call you about an extremely important and urgent matter.”

“I think I know what it’s about. Ten minutes ago I had a certain telegraphic communication from the Ministry. And a friendly exhortation to cooperate with you.”

“Do you think the government’s plans can be realized in the relatively near future?”

“Yes, why not? The difficulty will be enticing certain gentlemen out of their holes in the mountains.”

“I suggest that we meet for personal discussions sometime today. By the way, how did things go last night?”

“According to plan.”

“You mean …”

“Yes. We surrounded the saboteurs, six men, in the sector I told you about before. Unfortunately we couldn’t get them alive.”

“None of them?”

“No, not a single one. One of them was still alive, but he died on the way here. There was some wild shooting out there. One of my men was killed and another wounded in the leg. That’s three dead in less than twenty-four hours. Nothing hits so hard as when my men have to sacrifice their lives on duty.”

“I understand.”

“I’m afraid you probably don’t. I brought most of these men with me from other parts of the country. They have homes and families which they ought to be able to return to. They’re not soldiers and haven’t come here to die but to create security and order. Oh well, those saboteurs hardly ever let themselves be taken prisoner. They’re well armed and usually put up a stiff resistance to the end. It was like that this time too. Just as well we managed to surprise them, otherwise our losses would hardly have been only one man.”

“And they were all killed?”

“Yes.”

Manuel Ortega again thought of that caustic order: Clear the square.

Aloud he said: “Congratulations on your rapid progress.”

“Thank you. What’s more, it’ll save us quite a bit of trouble in the future.”

“And how are things here in town?”

“Calm, or near enough. That was what I was calling about,
actually. The northern native district is reported to be in somewhat of a state of unrest. It seems that some kind of delegation from there is trying to get permission to see you. At the moment I gather they’re on sitdown strike at the police barrier.”

“Do you know what they want?”

“They maintain that the water in their wells has been poisoned.”

“Can that be true?”

“I don’t know. It sounds unlikely. Poisoning wells is a method which I can scarcely imagine an organization like the Citizens’ Guard using. But one of my lieutenants who is in charge in the northern sector says that the water does seem mysterious. Yes—that’s his own word—mysterious.”

“Send a sample of water to the hospital for analysis. Dr. Alvarado’s laboratory staff should be able to settle the matter quickly.”

“Yes, that’s an idea. I’ll get it done immediately.”

“And I’ll receive the delegation, of course.”

“Ye-es. How many shall we let through?”

“Can’t they decide that for themselves?”

“If you don’t give them definite instructions you’ll have about two thousand people in your room within half an hour.”

“Oh yes. Well, three should be enough.”

“Three then. All right. And what time?”

“Let’s say eleven o’clock. Perhaps the analysis of the water will be done by then.”

There was a moment of silence during which Behounek seemed to be making notes. Then Manuel said: “One more thing. Someone has asked me to put a question to you.”

“What about?”

“The question is: What was the Peace Force doing in a village called Santa Rosa last night?”

Behounek didn’t answer right away. Finally he said: “Who asked that highly remarkable question?”

Manuel almost answered truthfully but collected himself at the last moment. “I don’t know. It was an unidentified voice on the phone—a man as far as I could make out.”

“Hmmm. Oh yes, on the phone …”

“Yes.”

“You see, whoever asked seems to be suspiciously well informed. Santa Rosa is the name of the place near where our patrols succeeded in surprising the Communist saboteurs last night.”

“And the village itself?”

“It’s abandoned. No one lives there.”

Manuel Ortega went in to the woman in the next room and, standing by her desk, said: “The Communist terrorist group who blew up the waterworks was wiped out near Santa Rosa last night. The village itself is abandoned. No one lives there.”

“No,” she said, without looking up. “That’s quite true. There is no one living there.”

He stayed for a while, looking at her black hair, which was short and untidy. She nervously bit on a nail and did not raise her head. Suddenly she said: “You made a mistake when you said it was an anonymous telephone call. He can immediately check on it at the listening-in post.”

Manuel Ortega started.

“Listening in,” he said acidly. “And you …”

Then she raised her head and looked at him, calmly and seriously.

“Yes, I’ve told you that I listen in.”

Manuel Ortega did something completely unpremeditated. He raised his right hand and slapped her across the face. Her head jerked sideways, but otherwise she did not react at all. Then she looked at him again, with the same look as before, and said: “You must understand one thing—I’m on your side, now, to some extent anyway.”

“I’m sorry …”

He said this confusedly, and made a movement which as far as he could make out was not intentional. He raised his hand again and stroked her gently across her cheek. She did not move and her eyes were firm and positive.

He left the room, got the cable from his desk, went back, and put it down in front of her.

She took her time reading it. Then she said in a low voice: “This implies very great possibilities.”

She lightly brushed the backs of her fingers over his hand.

They said no more and soon afterward he went back into his room.

He was on the telephone for the next two hours, talking to men like Dalgren and the man in charge of the waterworks, mostly about transportation and water rationing. He also thought of sending the twenty idle surveyors up to the pumping station and immediately put the idea into action.

Promptly at eleven o’clock the three-man delegation of workers arrived. They were escorted by a policeman in a white uniform who demonstratively stood on guard at the door. Manuel’s first thought was to tell him to leave, but then he changed his mind after a glance at the sharp, resigned, rancorous faces of the three men. The delegates glared darkly from the policeman at the door to Fernández, who had unbuttoned his jacket and swiftly eased his way over to an unoccupied spot by the wall. Fernández’s gait was reminiscent of Danica Rodríguez’s, but only on certain occasions. This was one of them.

The three men stood in a row in the middle of the floor. All three held their hats in their hands and were wearing the usual floppy white clothes. Two of them were older than the third and were obviously Indians. These two bowed deeply and humbly. The third gave no sign of greeting. He looked fairly young, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty, and appeared to be a half-breed of indeterminate origin. It was he who spoke for them.