by Per Wahlöö
She looked up in quick, cool surprise but said nothing.
Five minutes later Dalgren telephoned.
“Your speech was excellent,” he said. “May I be the first, on behalf of the Citizens’ Guard, to express my regret over the impetuous events of this morning? Youthful imprudence and a spontaneous desire for revenge got the upper hand for a while. You were right to condemn such behavior. You’ll be glad to hear that the whole executive committee is in agreement with me on this.”
Then he went on to the subject of maintaining the water supply.
“We’ve twenty large tankers now in use. I assume that’s enough. I’ve put my own people to work figuring out what quantities should be dealt out to each household. You can leave those details to us. But I should be glad if you would keep an eye on the work on the reservoirs. Otherwise we might find ourselves in a situation where the tankers would be immobilized because we haven’t enough collecting places.”
Soon afterward an unidentified citizen called and said: “I hope you haven’t inadvertently overlooked the situation we villa owners find ourselves in. We’ve invested very large sums in laying out our gardens and in this climate they’ll burn up in a few days if we can’t water them. Some of the transport must be detailed for this purpose.”
“You must understand that we must first see to the people’s drinking water requirements and after that make provision for matters of hygiene.”
“Yes, yes—I see I’ll have to talk to Dalgren personally. You don’t seem to understand what I’m talking about.”
A moment later Colonel Ruiz was on the line again.
“I’ve just had the first reports from the officer in command of the engineers’ company. He thinks the business at the waterworks should be fixed up to a limited extent in about two or three days.”
“Can you possibly put a few more vehicles at our disposal?”
“Not at the moment.”
“The construction of the reservoirs is going too slowly, especially in the southern sector.”
“I’ll try to send a few more men there.”
Later on in the afternoon, even Behounek made his presence known.
“Behounek speaking. Just wanted to tell you that peace and quiet reigns in all sections of the town.”
“What’s the atmosphere like? Rebellious?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Not in the workers’ quarter, either?”
“No. Your appeal has had a calming influence. We put it out over the internal loudspeaker system.”
“And it was well received?”
“Yes. Especially among the natives. Most of them are decent peaceable creatures. Like children. Believe what you tell them.”
“Have you counted the casualties?”
“Yes. At the waterworks one policeman was killed, two slightly injured. Of the Citizens’ Guard one man was killed, only a youngster by the way, and seven injured, one seriously.”
After a moment’s silence Manuel asked: “And the natives?”
“That’s not certain. At a rough estimate, about thirty-odd people were killed, no more, I don’t think.”
“By the police?”
“My men reported six.”
“And injured?”
“About ten have been taken to the hospital. But that figure is of course neither reliable nor final.”
“How many arrested?”
“None so far. But you’ll be pleased to hear that the saboteurs will probably be tracked down tonight. They were brought in a small truck. An hour ago we found the truck wrecked in a sector which is well known to us. I think I even know where they are.”
Behounek’s voice was cold and hard.
No one called for the next ten minutes, and Manuel Ortega took the opportunity to think out a few points. At least thirty people had been killed in the workers’ sector, and according to Behounek, only six of them were victims of police bullets. The others had been killed by an organization which was in all respects illegal. In other words, there had been twenty-five murders and none of the murderers had been arrested or even taken in for questioning. No one seemed to expect the police to make any arrests, not even the next of kin of the murdered men. The appalling injustice of this filled him with cold rage and without another thought he picked up the receiver and called Behounek.
The conversation that followed was heated.
“I refuse to accept your failure to arrest people who commit murder under the cover of an illegal civil-military organization.”
“You saw for yourself, for God’s sake! Everything was just one great shambles. Can you say who shot whom? Do you think we’ve time to carry out police investigations of individual cases in time of war and revolution?”
“In that case you should arrest Dalgren as responsible for the Citizens’ Guard and its members.”
“You’re crazy! Whom should I arrest for the death of one of my men who was shot down there?”
“Whoever killed him or whoever gave the order.”
“Man, can’t you hear what I am saying? I don’t know who killed him. I don’t know who was responsible! That’s why I haven’t arrested anyone.”
“In that case it is your duty to find out about it. If you take sides in a conflict like this then you’ve misinterpreted your duties. It is possible that you’re a good officer, Captain Behounek, but you’re a bad policeman!”
“That’s enough insults. What did you yourself do during the whole mess? I’m just asking. What did you do? Stood and gawped a quarter of a mile away. And besides, you had an opportunity to watch me working all the time.”
“I maintain that you saw thirty people murdered without lifting a finger to find those responsible. You haven’t even bothered to count the casualties.”
“You can go to hell with your moralizing!”
“Do you call thirty dead men moralizing? Have you no respect for human life? You’re a monster!”
“What are you then? What are you doing here? You’re a completely meaningless figure, a nobody sent here to … well … at least I know my job.”
“No, I repeat. You do not know your job. And if you do then you hide the fact damned well. You’re either a rogue or a bungler, Captain Behounek. You should resign or give yourself up to the police!”
There was a silence for five seconds, then Behounek said with dreadful acerbity and concentration: “You are upset because today you’ve seen something new and frightening. I am tired because I’ve been working without sleep for forty-eight hours. For the sake of both of us, therefore, I refuse to continue this conversation.”
Manuel Ortega slammed down the receiver in the middle of the last word.
He got up and raged backward and forward across the floor. His heart was thumping and his eyes glistening. He breathed heavily and unevenly and the sweat poured down his face.
Never before had he experienced anything like it. It was years since he had found himself in such a state of emotional upheaval. He was used to carrying out both his work and his private affairs in a rational and businesslike way. Now he could not even see the people around him, neither the totally unmoved López nor Danica Rodríguez, who had come into the room just as he had slammed down the receiver. Obscurely he realized that it was Behounek who had drawn the longest straw, who had succeeded in keeping cool and had had the presence of mind to collect himself for his final rejoinder. But despite this he was convinced in some way that it was he himself who was right and that he had followed a clear line throughout. In other words, he had acted correctly.
Manuel Ortega tramped backward and forward once or twice more. Then at the door he suddenly stood still and remained there for perhaps half a minute with his head lowered. Then he banged his fist on the doorpost, turned around, and looked at the others. López was sitting on his chair with his hands on his knees. With his short legs and fat arms he looked like some Oriental idol.
Danica was standing by the desk, smoking and holding a piece of paper in her hand. She
stood absolutely still and looked at him and her gray eyes seemed to glitter. She put the paper down on the desk, took the cigarette out of her mouth, and smiled a narrow, avid smile. Then she turned around and went back into the other room.
Manuel Ortega stood still and watched her go, gripped by a wild impulse to fling her over his shoulder, carry her into the bedroom, throw her down on the bed, and tear off her clothes. He crushed the impulse and went back to his place behind the desk.
Most remarkable, he said to himself, shaking his head.
At dusk their work was far from completed. The telephones went on ringing and reports flowed in. Through the window they could see people in the plaza working by the headlights of cars on the construction of a water reservoir of planks and tarpaulins. It was soon finished and half full of water. The situation was under control.
At half past eight the telephone rang for about the fiftieth time. It was Behounek. His voice was calm and formal.
“I want to emphasize,” he said, “that I still think it more important to track down and put out of action a bunch of irresponsible terrorists who might even tonight appear again and blow up the hospital or the power station, than to go from door to door asking decent citizens what they were doing at six o’clock this morning.”
“I’ll admit that, but I still don’t think that the one duty should override the other. Anyhow, I apologize for the tone of voice I used in our earlier conversation.”
“I do too. We were both exhausted, and for my part it looks as if there’ll be no sleep for me tonight either.”
“I wish you success in your search.”
A little while later Manuel Ortega at last went out to the woman in the other room.
“Are we eating together tonight?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I’m sorry, but I’ve another engagement. I’m afraid I can’t.”
“I suppose it’s not much to cry about.”
At about ten he got López to drive him around the town. The reservoirs were ready and well filled, the streets mostly deserted, and only in a few places could the patrols with the yellow armbands of the Citizens’ Guard be seen.
As they were standing in front of the Governor’s Palace again, all the lights suddenly went out.
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:
KINDLY REFRAIN FROM INTERFERING IN GOVERNMENT AFFAIRS STOP FIRST TASK SOONEST POSSIBLE ARRANGE ARBITRATION MEETING BETWEEN AUTHORIZED REPRESENTATIVES OF CITIZENS GUARD AND LEADERS OF COMMUNIST LIBERATION MOVEMENT STOP SAFE CONDUCT FOR ALL STOP POLICE AND ARMY INFORMED SEPARATELY STOP RECOMMEND COOPERATION WITH BEHOUNEK WHO IS YOUR SUBORDINATE UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE ZAFORTEZA
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.”