The Assignment

by Per Wahlöö

  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.

  The villa was large and white and lay at the top of the artificially irrigated hillside. In front of it was a wide veranda with a grand colonnade of white marble. Dalgren was holding his party there. The darkness fell swiftly and the air seemed even thicker and hotter.

  Manuel Ortega and Danica Rodríguez drove there in the little French sedan. López was driving and appeared later on on the veranda, where he sat on various chairs and ate tiny sandwiches.

  Dalgren was a man of about sixty, thin and bald and dressed in a flimsy white dinner jacket. He gazed at his guests through rimless glasses, peering in a friendly way. Early in the evening while everyone was still standing in groups talking quietly, he walked up to Manuel Ortega, took him by the arm, and spoke to him. He talked calmly and informatively and in a strictly businesslike manner. He said, among other things: “I’ve identified myself wholly with the Citizens’ Guard and if you’d lived here as I have for thirty years, or perhaps for only ten, you’d understand why. I’m telling you this at the start to clarify my position.”