The Assignment

by Per Wahlöö

  “How do you know all this?”

  She did not reply, but went on: “Captain Behounek is quite right when he says that no one lives in that village I asked you to question him about. Santa Rosa was a very small village. About twenty people lived there. The saboteurs, who wrecked their vehicle, took to their heels and the inhabitants hid them. Soon afterward the police came. The saboteurs fled but were overwhelmed, as you know. Then the police returned to Santa Rosa and executed twelve of the thirteen adult villagers. The children were taken away somewhere, God knows where. One of the saboteurs was taken prisoner, but Captain Behounek personally is supposed to have maltreated him to such an extent that he died.”

  “How do you know all this?” said Manuel Ortega once again.

  “There were thirteen adults in Santa Rosa. One of them got away. He even came here into town.”

  “That person is an extremely important witness.”

  “Yes. And he has already been taken to a place which is supposed to be safe.”

  “Is all this the truth?”

  “On that point, I naturally can’t give any assurance. I can only sit here and tell you about it. And in doing that I’m taking a certain risk.”

  “If this is true, then Behounek should be arrested.”

  “By whom?”

  Manuel Ortega looked helplessly at her.

  “Anyway,” she said, “he’s not altogether without official and legal backing. There’s a military emergency regulation which states that anyone hiding people who are manifestly a danger to the security of the state, or anyone helping them to flee, can be tried by court-martial and sentenced to death.”

  “There must be a way out. This can’t be allowed to go on. What you tell me, and what I saw today …”

  “I know nothing about what you saw today,” she said.

  “Obviously there are active elements on both sides, and it ought to be in everyone’s interest to restrain them.”

  “But they are restrained,” she said. “It’s obvious. Practical leaders like Dalgren and his confederates stop most of the more meaningless ventures. It’s the same on our … yes, the same on the Liberation Front side. No one really wants things like the sabotage the day before yesterday and the murder this morning. At least that’s what most people think.”

  “But evidently anything can happen at any time.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “The solution still lies in peace negotiations then.”

  “Yes, that’s a possibility.”

  “The only one, I would think.”

  “As long as we can rely on the President and his government.”

  “The government is the only thing we can rely on.”

  Manuel Ortega raised his glass and swallowed the aniseed brandy, which was sour and raw and burned his throat.

  “Come,” he said. “We must do some work.”

  They stepped out into the devastating afternoon heat and walked across the square. All around them everything was shimmering white, the ground, the buildings, and the sky.

  In the middle of the square, Manuel Ortega said: “I had a shock today. You’ve given me another one, but you’ve also been a great help.”

  “That’s a good thing. I want to be a help.”

  Manuel Ortega sat at his desk and López by the wall. Danica Rodríguez stood in the doorway. Everything was as usual. He looked at the woman and felt nothing of the desire for her which had irritated him the last few days. All he felt was the heat and the sweat which ran down his chest and stomach and soaked through his shirt and underclothes. And all he heard at that moment was an echo of the dull muffled buzzing of flies in the low house with its blue shutters and its dead woman on the sofa.

  Now, he thought, now there’s only one thing to do. To work. To negotiate. To arrange the conference. To be reasonable, even if all the others, including my bodyguard and my secretary, are mad.

  He phoned Colonel Ruiz.

  “The colonel is taking a siesta.”

  “Wake him up.”

  “He’s not to be disturbed.”

  “I’m not asking you to do this. It’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  While he was waiting he took a cigarette out of the pack on his desk and pressed the ends so that the bits of tobacco would not fall out. He seldom smoked and his cigarettes were as dry as snuff by the time he bought another pack.

  After three minutes Colonel Ruiz came to the telephone.

  “Have you begun to take the water to the northern sector?”

  “No. Not enough trucks.”

  “How are the vehicles distributed?”

  “There’s a reservoir in the square, one at each entrance to the center of town and two in the villa area. Each one is served by three vehicles. One is being repaired.”

  “But you’ve got twenty. Where are the other four?”

  “Busy in the villa area.”

  “Doing what?”

  No reply.

  “Doing what, I said!”

  “Irrigation.”

  “Get them to take drinking water to the northern sector at once.”

  “I can’t. I simply haven’t got the authority. The vehicles are private property and I’ve no right to dispose of them.”

  The colonel sounded dismissive but somewhat uncertain. Manuel broke off the conversation and called Dalgren.

  “Señor Dalgren is at a meeting.”

  “Interrupt it.”

  Dalgren came.

  “Is it true that you’re using four tankers for watering the lawns although there’s no drinking water in the northern sector?”

  “My dear fellow, it’s at the demand of the villa owners up there. And they’re using their own vehicles too. And they say that the water in the wells is quite drinkable.”

  “I’ve promised the people in the northern sector drinking water and it’s a promise I mean to keep. Are you refusing to release those four vehicles?”

  “My dear fellow, as I said before, the vehicles are privately owned and I can’t do much. Remember that thirteen other privately owned tankers are being used too.”

  Manuel Ortega got a wet towel, put it around his neck, and called Behounek.

  “Dalgren, and with him the Citizens’ Guard, refuse to release four tankers which are being used for watering gardens in the villa area, despite the fact that the northern sector has still not got its drinking water.”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Under present circumstances I have the right to requisition private property for official use, haven’t I?”

  “I presume so.”

  “Then I’m requisitioning the seventeen vehicles already in use. You must implement my decision. From now on four of them will begin serving the northern sector.”

  “I must have a written order.”

  “Send a man over here at once to get it.”

  “It’ll be done.”

  “And another thing, Captain Behounek. I understand you applied military emergency regulations in a village called Santa Rosa last night? Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hereby give you definite orders that, from now on, under no circumstances whatsoever are you to apply that or any other military ordinances, but strictly follow police regulations.”

  “Your right to give me orders can presumably be discussed.”

  “I shall immediately send you a certified copy of the cable I received today from the Minister of the Interior.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Do you submit to the order then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want it in writing?”

  “Yes.”

  An hour or so later the first tanker arrived at the northern sector. Somewhat earlier Behounek had called.

  “The order about the vehicles has been carried out.”

  “Did it present any problems?”

  “Not at all. They’ve got more vehicles.”

  Manuel Ortega phoned Dalgren, w
ho laughed and said: “Well, you got your vehicles.”

  “As you see.”

  “Good. A bit of initiative here and there won’t do any harm.”

  “I have a more important question to discuss with you. Today the government has requested me to arrange a conference between representatives of the Citizens’ Guard and the Liberation Front as soon as possible. All participants are guaranteed safe conduct.”

  “There’ve been rumors before about some kind of action like that from the government’s side,” said Dalgren evasively.

  “What do you think about the idea?”

  “Personally, I am not entirely in favor of it. But I shall take up the matter with the executive today.”

  “I would like to emphasize that, as far as I can see negotiation is the only means of creating law and order in the province.”

  “I shall pass that on. You’ll hear from me sometime tomorrow.”

  “I’m also counting on you, Señor Dalgren, to do all in your power to stop any reprisals occasioned by the murder of the Pérez family.”

  “As I said, I’ll let you know something tomorrow.”

  His voice was cool and impersonal.

  Manuel Ortega looked at the clock. Half past six. The sun was low and it was hotter than ever in the room. The fan made practically no difference. He began to understand what Behounek meant when he said that the weather had been fine and fresh during the last few days, for this heat was different, clinging, cruel, and crippling. He was breathing heavily and unevenly and his heart was thumping.

  He went in to Danica Rodríguez and saw that her white dress already looked soiled and was sticking to her back.

  “Shall we have dinner together?”

  “Yes, I’d like to.”

  Manuel went over to his living quarters and changed his clothes. Then he went through the usual procedure, with López at his back and the door in front of him, and although he was certain nothing could happen today, he had his hand on the butt of the revolver as he stepped through the doorway.

  At that moment the telephone rang. It was Behounek.

  “We’ve got them,” he said.

  “The ones who murdered Pérez?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alive?”

  “I’ve got them here now. Come down and have a look at them if you’re interested. Then we can talk about the other thing at the same time.”

  “I’m coming.”

  “Don’t forget your bodyguard. I’ve got only eighty men here. Is it the same one as last time?”

  “Yes.”

  Manuel Ortega went to the girl.

  “Would you like to come too?”

  “No, I’d rather not.”

  “I’m sorry, but I must go. Partly to talk to him and partly because I want to see to it that he’s not too hard on them. I’m really very sorry.”

  “It’s not really much to be sorry about. Anyway, I must do some washing tonight. As long as there’s some water.”

  The police depot and headquarters were in the western part of the town, not far from the radio station—several long, low buildings surrounded by a white stone wall with barbed wire along the top. The Chief of Police was sitting in his office, talking into the telephone. He had unbuttoned his collar and tunic, and his belt with its holster was hanging over the back of a chair. On the wall was a large map of the province with a great many white, red, and black pins stuck into it.

  “The white ones show where our patrols are or should be at the moment,” said Behounek when he had finished his phone call. “The red ones mark the places where groups of partisans have definitely been seen during the last three weeks.”

  “And the black ones?”

  “Show where terrorists, singly or in groups, have been caught or put out of action since we came here.”

  Manuel Ortega studied the map. The white pins were all over the place but with distinct areas of concentration in the southern part of the province and around the capital.

  The red pins, perhaps forty of them, were almost entirely in the mountain districts in the south. Only five were placed in the town or the immediate vicinity.

  The black ones were evenly distributed over the whole of the province, from the border in the north to the mountain range in the south. The map gave a good idea of how the partisans had been pressed southward since the Federal Police had taken over the responsibility for dealing with them.

  “That’s where Santa Rosa was,” said Behounek. He put his thick brown forefinger on the head of a black pin about twelve miles outside the town.

  “That pin means eighteen dead then?”

  “Nineteen. Six terrorists, a policeman, and twelve villagers.”

  Manuel Ortega looked at the Chief of Police’s plastered, bruised hand but said nothing. López gazed at the map indifferently.

  They went down an iron spiral staircase, along an underground passage, and through a guarded barred door. Behounek stopped in front of a steel door. Before knocking on it he took a cigar out of his breast pocket, bit off the top, and struck a match against the wall.

  Manuel felt an excitement which could only be explained by the fact that he had never to his knowledge seen a murderer before, in any case not one who could be linked to a definite crime. All the time he was thinking about the terrible things he had seen in that white house, the man on the floor and the woman on the sofa, and worst of all, the child whom he did not see. He thought also, with a certain distaste, of the state of mind the murderers might be in, but at that moment that did not particularly disturb him.

  A policeman opened the door. The room inside was large and bare, with benches fastened around the walls and a few small apertures high up near the ceiling.

  Against the far wall sat three men in ragged white clothes. Their dirty wide-brimmed straw hats lay on the floor in front of them.

  “Get up,” said Behounek.

  The men rose at once. Manuel Ortega looked at them. They might well have been the three men who had stood in his office eight hours earlier.

  “They’re mineworkers,” said Behounek. “Did it on the way to work this morning. Then they carried stones for ten hours and were caught on the way home.”

  “How?”

  “We received some information. They took quite a lot from the place. Alarm clocks, small change, the woman’s rings, a tin trumpet, several other toys. Pérez’s pistol too for that matter, with his name plate on it and all … yes, this and that.”

  “Did they try to use the pistol?”

  “No, they didn’t know how to. Couldn’t make out where the safety catch was. They thought it was no good and threw it away.”

  “What do they themselves say?”

  “Confessed. What else could they do? That one on the right has even got blood on his trousers. These people hardly ever deny things anyway.”

  The three men stood there with their heads bowed.

  Again Manuel Ortega saw before him the woman on the sofa and her husband on the floor and the child’s bicycle in the garden. Suddenly it was as if a wave of blood rushed through his head. His brain throbbed behind his forehead and buzzed at the back of his head.

  “What have you done to them?”

  He found it hard to control his voice. The first words sounded like a hoarse croak.

  “Arrested them. Questioned them a bit. Let them put crosses and squares on a statement.”

  Manuel again looked at the police officer’s right hand.

  “Wasn’t it a temptation to use … other methods?”

  Behounek shook his head.

  “You don’t understand. These are the ones who are led astray.”

  He took a puff at his cigar.

  “Interrogation,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s hardly worth it. Just listen to this.”

  He pointed at the man farthest to the right. He was a little man with a round face, a black mustache, and melancholy brown eyes.

  “You there, take a step forward. That’s right. Are
you married?”

  “Yes, señor.”

  “Have you any children?”

  “Yes, señor.”

  “How many?”

  “Two, señor.”

  “Which of you murdered Señor Pérez?”

  “Juan, señor.”

  He pointed at the man nearest him.

  “Why did he murder Señor Pérez?”

  “Don’t know, señor.”

  “Who killed the señora?”

  “Don’t know. She wasn’t dead when we left.”

  “No, but she died soon afterward,” said Behounek aside.

  Then he said: “Who cut the child’s head off?”

  “I, señor.”

  “Why?”

  “It was crying.”

  “Don’t your children cry?”

  “Yes, señor.”

  “Well, why did you kill Señor Pérez and his wife and his child?”

  Silence.

  “Which one of you said you were going to do it first?”

  “I, señor.”

  “When?”

  “This morning, when we went past the house, señor.”

  “Have you killed anyone before?”

  “No, señor.”

  “Did you suggest it as a joke? That you should break into the house?”

  “Yes, señor.”

  “Did you know Señor Pérez and his wife?”

  “No, señor.”