The Assignment

5

"There’s no proper airfield here," said the pilot, staring downward.

The country below them was without contours. It looked as if the sun had not only scorched all life out of it but also reshaped the whole of the surface of the earth into a hard rugged crust of stones and soil, yellow-brown flecked with gray.

"There is in fact nowhere in the whole province where one can land. The army fixed up a landing strip just south of the town for its own small observation planes. But even there it’s very dangerous to try to land a plane."

Manuel Ortega yawned. He had slept for a while and had just woken up. The woman at his side appeared calm and composed. She was wearing dark sunglasses and was sitting with her elbow on her knee and her chin supported by her hand. Her fingers were long and thin. She was looking toward the ground.

"They say it’s because of the heat," said the pilot. "The asphalt melts, and when they tried using concrete, the blocks swelled up and broke. Strangely enough, the nights can sometimes be very cold."

Manuel Ortega blinked and shook his head. But he still could not focus his eyes to get a clear picture of the desolate landscape below.

"You’ll soon see for yourself. The provincial capital is just behind that ridge. We’ll be there in ten minutes."

The helicopter rose a little to climb over the ridge with a comfortable margin. The peculiar sun haze made judging distances hazardous.

All visual observations must be very uncertain, thought Manuel Ortega.

He had not even seen the mountain himself until the pilot pointed it out to him. Now they flew over it. He saw ragged, crumbling chunks of stone and scrubby bushes and suddenly a road with carts and a few gray huts. Then the first people, a great number of figures in straw hats and white clothes. They were walking in a long file with bent heads and woven baskets on their shoulders. More figures, a swarm of them, a great open gash and tracks and dark entrances into the mountain. More huts, a smelting works, tall and gray and sooty, and a plume of poisonous purple-yellow smoke which shot out of the tallest chimney and at once spread itself and sank like a membrane toward the ground.

"The manganese mines," said the pilot. "If it weren’t for them, the whole damned country could be evacuated and given back to the mob that lived here in the first place. There’s the town, by the way."

Manuel Ortega raised his eyes and saw a gray-yellow plain, diffuse and rugged and endless. In the middle of it he could see a group of square boxlike buildings, looking as if someone had happened to drop a collection of white-painted building bricks and then had not bothered to pick them up again. Diagonally down toward the town ran a dead straight gray-white ribbon which must be a highway. When they got nearer he saw that there was some sort of jumble of buildings around the tall white structures, and also a slope with villas and some tentative, dusty grass.

The helicopter droned in a wide curve around the western outskirts of the town, swept over the roofs of a row of large gray barracks and sank toward the ground.

The pilot let his machine down slowly and with infinite care, swearing all the time.

"If the Bolshies want to take this bloody country from us, then they’ll have to use parachute troops. No sane person can land here."

"What Bolshies?"

"Well-the Bolshies," said the pilot, vaguely. "Down there."

He made an indefinite gesture toward the hazy mountains far away in the south.

"The government in the country you’re alluding to was not Communist," said Manuel Ortega pedantically. "At the most it was Socialist and democratic. Moreover, it fell, as you perhaps know, three weeks ago and was replaced by a right-wing one."

"Thank God for that," said the pilot.

At last the helicopter was standing on the ground. The pilot switched off and the shrill whistling of the blades above was heard as the engine gradually turned over more and more slowly. He climbed out of his seat, opened the hatch, and jumped down to the ground, stretching out his hand to the woman. She took it and jumped down lightly. Manuel Ortega noted that she smiled swiftly and automatically as her eyes met the pilot’s. He himself picked up his briefcase and raincoat, put one hand on the pilot’s shoulders, and jumped. His right leg gave way under him and he nearly fell headlong.

As he looked around he felt the hot, uneven asphalt burn through his thin soles. The heat was unbearable. He was already soaked through with sweat.

The airfield was very small and surrounded by a double row of barbed-wire fence. The ground was covered with coarse gravel and the buckled asphalt runway was perhaps a hundred and fifty yards long. At the far end of it lay the burnt-out wreck of a small aircraft which had crash-landed.

"Yes," said the helicopter pilot. "That was their Piper Cub. Now they’ve got only the Arado left."

In one corner of the enclosure was an arched corrugated shed. In front of it stood a gray sedan. It had evidently been waiting for them; before the rotor blades had stopped whistling, the car began to roll across the bumpy field. It stopped, and a tall man in a crumpled striped linen suit got out.

"My name is Frankenheimer," he said.

He put his hand in his pocket and produced his identity card. Manuel Ortega recognized his brother-in-law’s flourishing signature.

The wail of a siren rose from behind the iron shed, and a white jeep swung onto the field. The man in the linen suit glanced at it and said: "Our car is a good one, though it’s small. I and my colleagues drove down in it. I suggest that you use it while you’re here." Then he said: "I think so. In fact, yes."

The car was French, a CV-2 type Citroën. Manuel had seen some like it in Sweden.

The jeep braked a few yards away from them, and two police officers in white uniforms climbed out of it. The one who had the most stripes on his sleeve saluted and said: "Lieutenant Brown of the Federal Police at your service. I bid you welcome. Unfortunately neither General Gami nor Colonel Orbal was able to meet you personally. They have asked us to convey their apologies."

"Are you the Chief of Police?"

"No. Captain Behounek is the Chief of the Federal Police. He could not manage to come either, but he is prepared to meet you later today. I’ve been detailed to take you to your quarters."

"We prefer to use our own car. But perhaps you’d be good enough to see to the luggage."

"Of course," said Lieutenant Brown, glancing at the man in the linen suit.

He looked totally unconcerned.

"Aren’t you going to come too and have something to eat?" said Danica Rodríguez to the pilot, who was standing close to her and shifting his feet.

"I’d like to of course, but I must be back at the base before it gets dark. But some other time …"

After a pause he added: "Anyhow, I’d rather get away from here before civil war breaks out or there’s an earthquake or a volcanic eruption or something."

Manuel Ortega looked around with interest as they drove past the barracks. Inside the rusty fence he could see only a very few soldiers. They were half lying in the meager shade below the walls.

The man in the linen suit turned off the main street and drove in behind a stone wall along a narrow beaten track. To the right was a jumble of small tottering shacks. Most of them were clumsily put together with twine and planks; others consisted of rusty tin plates propped up with posts. Children were swarming about everywhere-dirty, ragged, half-naked, and emaciated. Women with faded strips of cloth wrapped around them were sitting on the ground. They were busy with iron pots and small charcoal fires. Others were walking along the street with water jars on their heads or buckets slung from yokes across their shoulders. Some of them turned their heads and stared at the car with apathetic, animal-like animosity. From the buildings rose a heavy rank stench of decay, sweat, and garbage.

Frankenheimer found an opening in the wall and swung back onto the main street.

"Have you ever seen anything like it? Excuse me for saying so, but this really is a lousy town."

Danica Rodríguez had not looked around once the whole time. She sat upright in the back of the car staring straight ahead of her.

They drove into the center of the town, past the monotonous dazzling white blocks of apartments, shopwindows behind locked grids, and a few bars which looked as if they were locked and bolted. Short, withered palm trees grew along the sidewalks. The streets were practically empty.

"It’s still siesta time," said the man at the wheel. "And people don’t dare go out either. Anyway, there aren’t many people left here."

He drove across the square and stopped outside the Governor’s Palace, which was large and white and looked fairly new, with its wide picture windows and rows of white pillars on the cornices. A policeman in white and a soldier in black flanked the entrance. The jeep was already there and their luggage had been taken out of it. Lieutenant Brown was sitting in the front seat smoking. He did not bother to get out or even turn his head.

As Manuel Ortega stood on the sidewalk he heard a faint humming noise and, looking up, saw the helicopter like a grotesque insect against the vapid pale-blue sky.

Pull yourself together, he thought.

"There goes your airman," he said jokingly to the woman.

She gave him a cold, tired look. "Yes," she said.

Then she dropped her cigarette butt, stepped on it and walked through the swinging doors behind the soldier who was carrying the luggage.

Manuel Ortega went into the marble hall. A sudden thought made him stop and look around.

"Mm," said Frankenheimer. "This is where it happened. Just here. The lad who did the shooting stood there behind the counter. We’ve said we don’t want any more messengers here. The white chaps will have to put a man in here. I’ve told them about that too, but they haven’t done it yet."

He looked tired and sweaty, and he wiped his forehead with a rolled-up handkerchief.

"Ye-es," he said. "I’ve told them. I’ve done that."

The offices were one floor up, a suite of rooms along the length of a white corridor. Most of them were empty and looked as if they had hardly ever been used. It was almost dark in all but two of them, for the shutters had been closed in order to keep out some of the heat. Nevertheless, the air in them was heavy and dusty and suffocating. A relatively young man in a black sateen jacket and dark glasses was sitting in one of the rooms. He had pulled out the bottom drawer of the desk so that he could put his feet up on it while he read the newspaper. When they opened the door and went in, he looked up, put down the newspaper, and stood up.

"I’m in charge of the chancery," he said. "But there isn’t a chancery."

"Are you the only official here?"

"Yes. There were only three of us. The General and I and an ex-lieutenant who was the General’s adjutant and secretary. He left immediately after the General’s death."

"Probably given a medical discharge, yes, no doubt," said Frankenheimer.

Before they had had time to close the door behind them the young man had once again sat himself down with his feet on the desk drawer and was reading the newspaper.

At the end of the corridor was the room which Orestes de Larrinaga had used. It was large and light and bare, but at least there was an electric fan on the ceiling.

Danica Rodríguez stood by the window, smoking. She looked out over the square, and when the draft from the fan lifted her short hair, he saw that the slim nape of her neck was covered with tiny beads of sweat.

On a chair by the wall a short fat man was sitting with his legs apart and his hands on his knees, doing nothing whatsoever.

"This is López," said Frankenheimer. "He and I’ll be on duty together and we’ll always be near at hand. Twelve hours at a stretch from midday to midnight. Then the others change with us. You meet them tonight."

Manuel Ortega looked around. There were no files in the room, no books, no papers, nothing except the furniture. He pulled open one of the drawers in the desk. It was empty. He went out to the secretary’s room. Equally empty. A green safe stood there, its door open. It was empty. He went back to the others.

"If you don’t mind then, we thought we’d do it like this," said Frankenheimer, and then he fell silent.

"Like what?"

"You take this room and the lady sits in the other; don’t you think it should be like that?"

The woman by the window looked dejectedly at him.

"One of us will always be in here. Where the other is-well, you needn’t worry about that."

"You must have one of us here in the room because there are two doors," he added gloomily, as if complaining about the plan of the building.

Manuel began to feel tired and irritable.

"Hurry up," he said.

The man in the linen suit looked sadly at him.

"Then we’ve got the problem of where you’re to live," he said.

He took a couple of long strides out into the corridor, glanced to the left, took out a key, and unlocked the door on the opposite side.

"Here," he said. "This way it’s all right. Two rooms, one through the other, bedroom farthest in. There’s a bathroom and shower too. When you’re in in the daytime and in the evenings, then the one on close duty will be in the corridor."

"Close duty?"

"Yes, we call it that. It’s usually called that. I’ll put a chair here-a swivel chair will be fine."

He said this very thoughtfully.

"Couldn’t we get all this over and done with a little quicker? I’m tired and would very much like to have a shower and change."

"When you’re asleep or staying permanently in the inner room, then the one on close duty will be in here, in the outer room. Is that all right with you?"

"What do you mean by permanently in the inner room?"

Frankenheimer did not answer the question.

"Yes-well-that must be about everything," he said absently. "No, of course not. The girl."

He went back to the office. Danica Rodríguez was still standing by the window, smoking, and the fat little man was still sitting in his chair.

"You can live here too," said Frankenheimer, picking his nose. "We can fix it."

"Thank you."

"But if you don’t want to, we’ve arranged for you to have an apartment in town. About three blocks from here. Two rooms."

"I’d rather do that."

"Yes. It’d be better. Then we’ve got you out of the way."

"In any case I’d prefer to have the apartment."

"We did it-so to speak-out of solicitude."

"Thank you."

"We haven’t had any instructions about you. But it wasn’t difficult. There are plenty of apartments. So many people have left lately," said Frankenheimer, staring at her breasts.

"Then I’ll go there now, thank you."

"And change? Yes."

"No. I thought I’d blow the place to bits."

Frankenheimer’s expression remained quite unchanged.

"What shall I do about my luggage?"

"Tell someone," said Frankenheimer.

That man will drive me mad, thought Manuel Ortega.

The telephone buzzed. Frankenheimer put out his hand and picked up the receiver. He seemed to listen for a moment or two and then put it down again.

"Who was it?" said Manuel Ortega.

"Well, it was someone who said he thought you ought to be rubbed out."

"In the future I’d prefer to take my calls myself."

"In this hole you can trace a call in ten seconds.… If you want to," he added.

The telephone buzzed again.

"Yes. Ortega."

"Good. Welcome to the town. This is the Citizens’ Guard executive branch speaking. We want to remind you that you will be dead within two weeks, however many bodyguards you have. As we hope to avoid unnecessary executions, however, we are giving you this opportunity to leave immediately. This you must do by eight o’clock tonight at the latest. This is good advice, and we mean it. Good-by."

The caller was a woman. Her voice was clear and calm and businesslike, in no way unfriendly. She had stressed the word "unnecessary," and afterward Manuel Ortega thought that it was this particular detail which had made him tremble and fumble for the back of the chair.

When he looked up, his eyes met those of his secretary. She looked at him thoughtfully and frowned. Suddenly he thought that she was beautiful.

"Don’t worry about them," said Frankenheimer.

Danica Rodríguez shrugged her shoulders. She picked up her suitcases and went out. They looked heavy, but she carried them without undue difficulty.

Three quarters of an hour later Manuel Ortega had had a shower and had put on a clean shirt and a light-gray suit. When he went out into the corridor, López was sitting on a swivel chair just to the right of the door, quite still, with his hands on his knees.

Manuel Ortega went into his office. As he was opening the door he felt his heart thumping, as if he were expecting something to happen. He sat down at the empty desk. Although the fan was whirring, the heat in the room was almost unbearable.

He sat still and thought: What if that fat pig were sitting in a chair in the corridor. What if he followed me in here. I went in first and he was in no special hurry, and if someone had been standing in here he’d have had plenty of time to kill me ten times over before anyone could have done anything about it.

Then he thought: I must get the revolver. I must carry it on me.

He heard someone moving about in the other room and he rose to see who it was. Two steps from the door he stopped and looked at López, who was sitting immobile on his chair. Manuel opened his mouth to say something but at once closed it again.

This is sheer madness, he thought.

Anyhow there was someone out there. He took one quick step and whipped open the door.

Danica Rodríguez was sitting at the desk and sorting a pile of documents. Her legs were bare and she was wearing thonged sandals. Her dress was green and simple, made of some very light material, and she looked fresh and clear-eyed.

"You’re quick."

"Yes," she said.

He felt his shirt sticking to his back and the sweat running down his neck and trickling between his skin and his collar. He went back through the office, across the corridor, into the outer room, took off his jacket, and opened his case. He took out the revolver, cleaned it carefully with a rag, opened one of the boxes of cartridges, twirled the chamber with his thumb, and put in six bullets. Then he fastened the strap over his shoulder, thrust the revolver into the holster, put on his jacket, and buttoned it up. It pulled a bit when he moved his arms, so he unbuttoned his jacket again and let it hang open. The fat man stood by the door all the time, watching. Or rather, not exactly watching, for his eyes were glazed and seemed to rest on some point much farther away.

Manuel Ortega felt somewhat more secure as he walked back to the desk and sat down. He opened his briefcase, took out the documents he had brought with him from Stockholm, and put them down in front of him. They had nothing to do with the matter. Nothing had anything to do with the matter. All resolutions and preconceived ideas could be scrapped.

For twenty minutes nothing happened.

Once or twice the chair under López creaked. The sun began to pour into the room and the heat became even more intense.

There was a bell on the desk, an ordinary one of black bakelite with a black button on it. He pressed it and wondered what would happen.

About a minute later someone knocked on the door and the youth with the thin jacket and the smoked glasses came into the room.

"How far did the General get with his contacts for negotiations?"

"As far as I know, he had no contacts."

"But hadn’t he planned to make any in recent weeks?"

"I don’t know anything about that."

"What have you been doing these last three weeks?"

"Me personally?"

"Yes."

"Nothing whatsoever."

"Were you present at the meetings?"

"There haven’t been any meetings."

"Didn’t anyone come to see the General?"

"A few."

"With whom did he negotiate?"

"I don’t know whether he negotiated with anyone. But Colonel Orbal came here a few times. And a druggist called Dalgren. Perhaps some others, but no one I knew or recognized."

"What did the General do during those weeks? I mean while he was in the office?"

"He used to sit in here."

"Where are all his papers?"

"He didn’t have any papers. But he did get a newspaper every day, which the cleaning woman threw away the next morning. She had orders to do that."

"And the mail?"

"There wasn’t much. What did come, the adjutant had to read. If there were anything special he read it out loud to the General. Then he threw away the letters."

"In other words, you’re suggesting that Orestes de Larrinaga didn’t do a single thing during the whole of his time as Resident?"

"I’m not suggesting that. He was working on a proclamation."

"A proclamation?"

"Yes, a personal statement."

"Every day for three weeks?"

"I imagine he was very conscientious."

"Where is this proclamation?"

"It was never finished."

"But in that case the General must have left some papers behind, drafts and notes?"

"He never wrote things down. He dictated everything to his adjutant-sorry, secretary."

"Then this secretary should have left the notes behind, the draft of the proclamation, that is."

"Yes, the proclamation should be in the safe. It wasn’t all that long. At the most one typed page. All the drafts and notes were destroyed."

"There’s nothing in the safe."

"No."

"You knew that before."

"Yes."

"Where do you think that draft copy has gone to?"

"I don’t know. The General did not take me into his confidence. He never spoke to me and never made use of my services. Perhaps the adjutant destroyed the draft when the General died."

"Then you know nothing?"

"No, unfortunately."

Manuel was silent and looked thoughtfully at him. The young man seemed intelligent but not very willing to cooperate. In some way their relationship had gone awry from the very start. Things had not begun well.

"How do I call my secretary?"

"Use the telephone-it’s connected."

Manuel cursed himself for overlooking this simple solution.

"May I go now?"

"Yes."

He lifted the receiver and the woman answered at once.

"Get me the Chief of Police, Captain Behounek."

About three minutes later she opened the door and said: "It seems to be difficult. I just get through to someone who refuses to put me through to anywhere."

"Let me speak to him."

He lifted the receiver and heard someone mumbling.

"Hullo," said the voice. "Are you still there, beautiful?"

"This is the Provincial Resident. To whom am I speaking?"

"Duty officer."

"Will you put me through to the Chief of Police."

"He’s at a meeting."

"Then get him. If you don’t allow me to speak to him then it’s at your own risk."

The duty officer hesitated slightly.

"One moment-I’ll find out."

Silence for a moment. Then there was a click and someone said: "Behounek speaking."

"The Provincial Resident speaking. Manuel Ortega."

"Ah, welcome. Unfortunately I was unable to meet you today. But we’ll meet this evening, won’t we?"

"What do you mean?"

"Haven’t you had the invitation? Strange. A party at Dalgren’s. Particularly appropriate as it can be a welcoming party for you as well. You’ll have the opportunity of meeting a lot of people and making a few contacts."

The man’s voice was lively and forceful. He sounded at ease-forthright and humorous.

"I’d like to have a private talk with you first. Preferably with General Gami and Colonel Orbal too."

"Unfortunately I have to inform you that the General and his Chief-of-Staff will not be able to meet you for at least a week. They are much occupied with important military matters."

"Are they out of town?"

"I imagine so. To be quite honest, I don’t know. But personally I’m at your service of course. When can you come?"

"I’d prefer to talk here in my office. In an hour. Will that suit you?"

"Yes, of course. I’ll be there."

A moment later Danica Rodríguez opened the door and said: "We’ve had an invitation to some kind of party this evening. Do you want to go?"

"Yes. Accept it and find out the details."

"Don’t you think it a bit unsuitable for me to go too?"

"Not at all. The Chief of Police is coming here in an hour. I think it’d be wise to note down in shorthand the gist of our conversation."

"Undoubtedly."

He looked at her in surprise as she went out. She still walked like an animal.

Captain Behounek arrived forty minutes late and seemed completely unaware of the fact. He was a heavily built man with a narrow black mustache, a rugged sunburned face, and a rumbling laugh. He threw himself into the visitor’s chair and looked with amusement at López, who was sitting immobile in his chair.

"One of your specialists?"

Manuel Ortega nodded. The sun was very low and the heat almost intolerable. He felt sweaty and dull, especially in the presence of the police officer, who was lolling in the armchair, untroubled and good-natured, as he studied Danica Rodríguez’s feet and long bare legs.

"Would you mind reporting on the situation in the province at the moment, from a police point of view. Only broadly, of course."

Behounek dragged his eyes with obvious reluctance away from the woman with the shorthand notebook, took out a cigar, cut off the top of it, lit it, and carefully put the match in the ashtray.

"It is calm," he said. "The situation is satisfactory. I have a feeling our problems will solve themselves in the near future."

"How many crimes of violence have been reported during this last week?"

"Practically none since the tragic death of General Larrinaga. Guerrilla activity in the countryside seems to be fading out. Here in the town we haven’t had any incidents worth mentioning."

"How do people react to police action?"

"Very positively. In most cases with absolute confidence. The idea of the Peace Force has grown in everyone’s mind. And it’s an idea which has a certain validity. Thanks to our air patrols we have been able to cover the country districts pretty well, and our people work efficiently. Considering how quickly the force has been built up and organized, the behavior of the rank and file is astonishing. They have instructions not to use force except when absolutely necessary. As a result, the number of casualties is low and their own losses very slight."

"And the number of arrests?"

"Very few too. May I-yes, I must be quite frank with you. The fact is, in view of what happened before, my men have had orders not to be too zealous. The army’s activities, guerrilla attacks, the perpetual killing. All our activities are based on common sense and persuasion. In general, people can be talked into things, both the poor and the rich. As a result, we have in many cases turned a blind eye to illegal activities. Personally, I’m convinced that this method will lead to success more swiftly than any other."

Manuel Ortega liked both the man and his reasoning. It was in pleasant contrast to the negative attitude he had so far come across, and to the hysteria he had in the federal capital, in men like Zaforteza and Uribarri. He glanced at the unmoving López, and Behounek, who followed his gaze, suppressed a smile. But the glint in his brown eyes was not so easily hidden and Manuel had to draw his hand across his mouth to prevent himself from smiling.

"I’ve been here for seven months now," said Behounek. "It takes time to get used to this country, but one does in the end. I thought we were definitely on the road to success when this unfortunate lunatic went and shot Larrinaga."

"Apropros of that, when does the murderer come up for trial?"

Behounek stared at him, and then said: "You can’t try a dead man."

"Dead?"

"Do you mean you don’t know what happened? Has the government really been too cowardly to publish a true version? Didn’t you know that the assassin was court-martialed and executed less than half an hour after the murder? Anyway, you know now."

"Why didn’t you intervene?"

The Chief of Police rose and said: "Because I didn’t have time. The escort officer, a lieutenant, wounded the assassin with a pistol shot and then the man was taken by the soldiers in the escort and they took him off to the barracks of the Third Infantry Regiment. He was executed there almost immediately. I went there ten minutes too late to stop it. Perhaps I wouldn’t have been able to stop it anyway."

"Who gave the order?"

"General Gami personally. That way it wasn’t even illegal. General Gami is the Military Governor and after Larrinaga’s death he was in every respect the highest authority. He condemned the murder as an attack on an officer and the situation was so serious that he could apply martial law. These army people! Do you remember the old saying about act first and think afterward? Even as a policeman I must deplore the whole thing. And what an opportunity we lost for interrogating someone who might be useful! One gets cynical in one’s old age."

"Who was the assassin?"

"A young worker, God knows where from. Called something quite ordinary, Pablo Gonzáles, I think. I have the information from his Communist Party card. We managed to collect what he had in his pockets before they buried him, but that was all."

He looked at the clock.

"The army were naturally a bit touchy about the whole thing. General Larrinaga relied on the army, the way you do on your experts. Anyhow-are you coming to Dalgren’s place this evening?"

"Yes, with pleasure. Who is this man Dalgren?"

"This man Dalgren," said Behounek calmly, "is the outstanding right-wing extremist and member of the Citizens’ Guard. Perhaps its leader. It is presumably with him we shall negotiate, if anything is to be negotiated. No, don’t ask me why I don’t arrest him. Technically speaking, every single inhabitant of the whole province is a member of either the Citizens’ Guard or the Liberation Front. I’d have to arrest two hundred and fifty thousand people."

"I wasn’t going to ask you."

"Otherwise, Dalgren was originally a pharmacist, a druggist. He found the raw materials for certain medicines here in the province and began a pharmaceutical manufacturing concern. It’s already earned him millions. Basically, of course, it’s pretty squalid: impoverished Indians, women and children, climb all over the mountains for weeks and months collecting roots, or whatever they are, which he then buys from them with a shrug of his shoulders, and they get practically nothing. So he becomes a millionaire and they starve to death. But that’s what it’s like. We’re not supposed to be able to change it."

"No, hardly. My life, moreover, was threatened by the Citizens’ Guard today."

"I know," said Behounek.

Manuel Ortega started and opened his mouth, but said nothing.

Behounek glanced at the telephone and shrugged his shoulders slightly.

"The person who threatened you was arrested ten minutes later. A young lady who owns a perfume shop three blocks away from here. A rather exalted type. Full of talk. There are lots like her. Tomorrow we’ll let her go again. But," the Chief of Police went on thoughtfully, "that doesn’t mean that your position is not a very tricky one. We must hope that there’ll be a relaxation of tension in a week or two. I’ll keep an eye on you and then you’ve got your …"

He jerked his head toward the man in the chair.

They rose and shook hands. Manuel Ortega had collected his wits and was able to say: "One more thing. Will you send copies of your reports and your crime statistics over, so that I can let my staff work on them?"

Behounek thought for a moment.

"Yes, for the last seven months. You can have them in the morning. What happened before then will be in the military records."

They parted.

Manuel Ortega went in and had a shower and changed his shirt and underclothes. When he went out into the corridor again, López was sitting there on his swivel chair.

If he doesn’t take his hands off his knees soon, I’ll strangle him. I must send these orangutans back to Uribarri. Otherwise I’ll go crazy. Nice not to have to look at that Frankenheimer anyhow.

As he put his hand on the doorknob and heard López’s slothful movements behind him, the terror clutched at him. He thrust his hand inside his jacket and nervously gripped the butt of the revolver before pushing open the door to his office.

There was, of course, no one in there.