The Assignment

by Per Wahlöö

  He went in and a few seconds later López was there, red-faced and panting. The curtains rustled and a woman came out into the shop. She showed him several pairs of sunglasses. He chose one, and just as he was about to pay, the woman said: “I know who you are. If I didn’t have to depend on you to help us against the mob, I wouldn’t sell you a corn plaster. Not for all the gold in the world.”

  When they came out onto the street again, López said reproachfully: “You mustn’t do things like that. If you want to go in somewhere you must give me a sign first so that I can catch up to you.”

  There was hardly anyone on the streets; all he could see were a couple of police jeeps and a few cars, gray with dust.

  In the lobby of the hotel a porter was fast asleep with a newspaper spread over his face. When he woke and stood up, Manuel saw that he was wearing a cartridge belt and an old American revolver in a holster on his right hip.

  The chief surveyor, whose name was Ramirez, was in the hotel lounge playing billiards with two other men. He looked astonished as he put his cue to one side and went out into the lobby.

  “But why … why didn’t you call me? Perhaps I should have come on my own, but I didn’t think of it.”

  “I need to get about myself sometimes too. Well, how many men have you got here?”

  “Twenty now. We were twenty-eight to start with.”

  “Where are they at this moment?”

  “Here at the hotel.”

  The man seemed surprised.

  “Why aren’t you working?”

  “We haven’t done any work for a month.”

  “Why not?”

  “The police wouldn’t let us. We had already lost eight men then, and the risks were thought to be too great.”

  “But the reform committee depends on your results, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose so, but we’ve heard nothing from them. In fact, we’ve heard nothing from anyone for a month. But money is sent to us, so someone knows we’re here. We just sit and drink away our pay. What else can we do?”

  “How much of the work is completed?”

  “About five per cent, perhaps. Probably not even that much.”

  “Have you enough men to complete the job?”

  “Not within a reasonable time. I’ve always thought of this group as a token force.”

  “What happened to the eight men who are no longer here?”

  “Four were shot by the farmers when they demanded access to their land, one was murdered by the natives—we know that because they wanted his clothes and boots—and three just vanished.”

  Manuel Ortega went back to the Governor’s Palace. Despite the sunglasses, the glittering white heat was blinding and intolerable. As he crossed the square his head was buzzing and the sun burned his skin right through his clothes. It was like walking through liquid fire.

  Before he opened the door to his office he put his hand on the butt of his revolver as usual.

  He went up to the woman and said:

  “Call Captain Behounek.”

  He was put through in two minutes.

  “Behounek speaking. What’s the trouble?”

  “Why can’t the surveyors get on with their work?”

  “Risk’s too great. And I’ve had orders from above too.”

  “From whom?”

  “The highest. Ministry of the Interior.”

  “That order came a month ago, during the crisis. They’ve probably forgotten to countermand it.”

  “Don’t ask me.”

  “Another thing. Why is there practically no one in the streets?”

  “You’ve forgotten something. A state of emergency has been declared.”

  “And what does that involve?”

  “Among other things, the natives are not allowed past the police barriers into the center of town.”

  “But that’s absurd. They’re citizens of the town too, aren’t they?”

  “The whites aren’t allowed into the native quarter either. It’s been done to protect both sides.”

  “But what if these natives, as you call them, want to buy something, what if they want food and so on?”

  “They’ve got their own shops. What could they possibly want to buy anyway?”

  “Who declared the state of emergency?”

  “General Gami.”

  “Who has the right to end it?”

  “General Gami.”

  “And the Minister of the Interior.”

  “Yes. I guess he can order the Military Governor to end it.”

  “Where is General Gami?”

  “Away on active service.”

  “For how long?”

  “For at least another week. I told you that before.”

  “How would you say the situation in the province was at the moment?”

  “Definitely good.”

  “I’ll get in touch with the Minister of the Interior.”

  “Good luck.”

  Manuel Ortega sat immobile for a long while. Then he picked up the telephone receiver and heard Danica Rodríguez answer.

  “Get me the Minister of the Interior, Zaforteza.”

  Ten minutes later, she told him: “Can’t get through to the federal capital. The line is down. But we can cable.”

  He pondered for half an hour what he should say in his cable and even then he was not satisfied with it. It ran: “Situation satisfactory. Order military commander end emergency. Arrange report on reform committee’s results. Order survey to be continued. Ortega.”

  Danica Rodríguez sent the cable. The telephone exchange promised that it would arrive within an hour.

  Manuel Ortega waited the whole afternoon for an answer. By five o’clock he had still heard nothing. The telephone exchange informed him that telephone communications were still broken off.

  At half past five he tried to get hold of Behounek. He was told that the Chief of Police was out on an important mission.

  At six o’clock he had an idea and called the headquarters of the Third Infantry Regiment. The duty officer informed him that General Gami was not with the regiment and neither was Colonel Orbal. Weren’t they in their office at the Governor’s Palace? The regiment’s commanding officer, Colonel Ruiz, had gone home, but probably could be reached the following morning.

  The operator at the switchboard in the Governor’s Palace informed him that the Military Governor’s offices were closed. General Gami and Colonel Orbal were away on active service for ten days and the office staff had been transferred to the headquarters of the Third Infantry Regiment.

  At seven o’clock Captain Behounek had still not returned. A lieutenant who was on duty did not think he would be back until the following morning.

  Manuel Ortega glanced at the immobile López. Then he rang for his assistant. No one came. The young man had evidently gone home.

  I am alone in this fearful building with a dumb bodyguard and a girl with a mustache and a bruise on her right breast, thought Manuel Ortega.

  He rose and went in to Danica Rodríguez.

  She was sitting with her left elbow on the table, smoking, while she read a thick mimeographed report. Without looking up, she said: “In 1932 the infant mortality rate in this province was estimated at forty-eight per cent. Last year it went up to sixty-two per cent. In 1932 illiteracy among the Indians was ninety-eight per cent. A statement made just over two years ago put it at ninety-seven. A native mineworker here earns, contract and all, a tenth of what a coalminer earns in the northern province as a basic wage.”

  She stubbed out her cigarette and went on: “This is an official report made by sociologists at the university in the capital. It was completed last winter and was immediately classified secret by the Ministry of Justice. You should read it.”

  “Where did you get hold of it?”

  “Stole it,” she said calmly.

  “Have you had anything to eat today?”

  “No.”

  “Shall we look for a place to eat?”

/>   She nodded without looking up. After a while she said: “Did you know you’ve got a large apartment in the town? Five rooms, kitchen, and servants.”

  “What’s all that nonsense?”

  “It’s not nonsense at all. But a Mr. Frankenheimer inspected it just before we came here. He condemned it and dismissed the servants. Who landed us with that expert?”

  He was about to reply but stopped himself. Why should he confide in his secretary?

  “No idea,” he said.

  “Where’s he gone anyway.”

  “Went back to the capital, I suppose. He’s probably sitting in the shade in some sidewalk restaurant at this very moment, having a cool drink.”

  The telephone on her desk rang. He stood there waiting to take the receiver but then realized that the call was not for him. He heard her say: “Yes. Hullo.… Thank you, too.… No, not tonight.… No, I’m busy in fact, and I must get some sleep afterward.

  “Yes, of course you can.…

  “Yes, just call when you feel like it.”

  She replaced the receiver and brushed her fingers across her forehead. Her eyes looked tired and resigned and far away.

  Manuel Ortega stood silently for a moment and then said:

  “Will you put the phone through to me. I’ve a call to make before we go.”

  He went back to his room, shut the door, called the Larrinaga household, and asked to speak to the daughter. There was quite a wait before she came to the telephone.

  “Yes, this is Francisca de Larrinaga.”

  “My name is Ortega. I have succeeded your father as Provincial Resident. I am calling partly to express my admiration for your father and his work and to present my condolences …”

  He paused.

  “… and partly to ask you to do me the favor of meeting me personally.”

  She sounded hesitant and said: “Tonight?”

  “Whenever it suits you, of course.”

  “Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock?”

  “Where?”

  “Here at my home. I don’t like going out while we’re still in mourning.”

  He went back to the secretary’s room.

  “Well, shall we eat?”

  She nodded, arose, and picked up her bag.

  As he walked behind her down the corridor he was very conscious of her physical presence so near to him.

  They found a restaurant in a side street off Avenida de la República. It was small and practically empty, and they sat down in one corner and ordered wine, bread, and meat. López sat against the opposite wall. He studied the menu for a long time and for once did not look entirely indifferent.

  “Let’s gobble down our food and run out and then he’d have to leave whatever he’s ordered,” said Danica Rodríguez.

  They both laughed.

  The wine was flat, the goat meat tough and sinewy, and the bread badly baked, but neither of them had had anything to eat for a long time, so they swallowed the food ravenously.

  “Well, I suppose one can’t expect gourmet food in a country like this,” said Manuel Ortega.

  “And this would be a feast which eighty per cent of the people down here have never experienced.”

  She said this in a tone of voice he had never heard her use before. She must have noticed it herself, because she shook herself and said lightly: “That was a pretty banal statement, but it was what I was thinking. But one should never say what one thinks.”

  They were sitting opposite one another and they went on drinking the poor wine. All at once she put both elbows on the table and her hands against her cheeks. She smiled and said mockingly: “Are you interested in Orestes de Larrinaga? Or just in his daughter?”

  “Do you listen to my telephone conversations?”

  “Of course.”

  This exchange left him speechless and to save himself he took a large gulp of wine.

  “But if you’re interested in Orestes de Larrinaga, then I’ve one or two questions to put to you.”

  “What about, for instance?”

  “For instance, the following: The assassin shot Larrinaga at a distance of three yards with a machine gun which had ninety bullets in the magazine. Two steps from Larrinaga there was a lieutenant whose name, I gather, was Martínez, and who was presumably taken completely unawares. As far as one can make out, it would have been a mere nothing for the murderer to have shot the lieutenant too while he was about it, wouldn’t it?”

  “I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

  “I don’t really know myself either, yet. But the one who carried out the assassination not only failed to shoot this Martínez—he also stayed where he was sufficiently long for the lieutenant to have time to take out his pistol and fire three shots, of which at least one hit the assassin and wounded him badly. And yet there was a door behind the counter which he could have fled through.”

  “One can’t expect people to behave logically in that sort of situation.”

  “I’m certain that our friend over there eating tamales always behaves completely logically. Your explanation could be true, though. So I have another question, though this one is slightly vaguer.”

  She was speaking in a low voice and Manuel Ortega leaned over the table to listen.

  “Despite the fact that at the moment there are definite regulations about how and where military vehicles and personnel may put in an appearance outside the barracks area, one of the army prison vans arrived at the Governor’s Palace less than ten minutes after the assassination.”

  “What’s strange about that?”

  “It can hardly have been passing by chance. As you know, practically the whole regiment, or the garrison, or whatever you call it, has been confined to barracks since Radamek became President and played the soft line. So that the atmosphere should remain calm, only certain activities and routine guard duties have been allowed outside the garrison area. Larrinaga had a military escort because he was a general and had raised hell to get it. Even so the prison van was there seven or eight minutes after the murder.”

  “As far as I can see, that proves nothing. They telephoned for it, I suppose. Have you any more questions like that?”

  “One more. The lieutenant wounded the assassin with at least one shot. He was hit in the pelvis and was obviously very badly hurt. He bled profusely and couldn’t walk or even stand up. The soldiers who took him out to the van had wound a cloth around his head. It took ten minutes to transport him back to the army barracks—the distance is, in fact, so great that only prison vans can cover the distance quicker without previous warning. Only a few minutes after the murderer had arrived there, an execution order was produced, signed by General Gami. Five minutes later the firing squad dragged the man out to the execution place in the inner barracks square and shot him. He couldn’t stand up but had been propped on all fours on the ground when they shot him, and he still had a cloth wound around his head. When he was dead the cloth was taken away and he was put on public view. He was lying like that when Behounek got there, and an hour or so later he was buried out there somewhere.”

  “Is this information really true?”

  “I’m almost certain it is. What I want to know is roughly this: Why was there such a terrible hurry? And why did they have to hide the man’s face when they let him be seen later?”

  “And what do you think the answer is?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where do you get all these details?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve been assembling them.”

  Manuel leaned back in his chair, fingered his glass, and heard himself saying: “Is that why you sleep with officers?”

  She sat up straight and irritably bit at the cuticle of one nail. Her eyes flickered.

  “I’m sorry. That was a completely unwarranted question. I really didn’t mean to say that. I do apologize.”

  She looked at him and now her eyes were firm and serious.

  “You don’t have to apologize. I’ll even give you a
n answer. No, it isn’t why I sleep with officers. It’s not even the main reason. Not at all.”

  They sought distraction and gazed around the room. The only person left was López. He had already finished his meal. Now he was picking his teeth, philosophically staring around the room. It was pitch dark outside the window and very hot and stuffy inside.

  After a while the proprietor came up to their table and said: “I’m afraid I must close now. Because of the state of emergency.”

  They walked together for a short distance until they came to the block where she lived. López followed in their tracks, six or seven yards behind. When they stopped at the entrance, his steps stopped too.

  Suddenly she giggled.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing. Sometimes I think such stupid things. I thought: If you come up with me, will he sit there with his hands on his knees, watching while we go to bed together? Or will he sit on a swivel chair outside the door and listen?”

  She giggled again and began to rummage in her bag for her keys. As she did so, she butted him playfully in the chest with her head.

  “What have you got there?” she said suddenly, fingering the revolver butt through the material of his jacket. “Goodness,” she said.

  It was the same old situation. He was being overcome and at the same time he felt that it was all very foolish. To hell with López and Behounek and General Gami. He took a step toward her and said: “Danica.”

  She stiffened at once, took a last drag on her cigarette, and crushed it out against the wall. Then she said: “I must go up and get some sleep now. Haven’t had any sleep these last few nights, as you know. Good night.”

  He was still thinking about her as he crossed the square.

  Then he heard an explosion a long way off and soon after that another. He stood still for a long time, listening, but he didn’t hear any sirens.

  When he got to his bedroom he felt unreasonably afraid and twice he peered around the door to see if López was still sitting outside. Only when he undressed did he discover that his clothes were soaked with sweat. He took a shower, but it didn’t make him feel much better.

  Then he took two of Dalgren’s tablets, got into bed, and thought about a door he had to open though he did not dare to. He got out of bed and took the Astra from the bureau and put it under his pillow. Then he fell asleep.