by Jack Treby
Claudette shook her head. She held up her nails to the window and examined them closely.
‘There are some letters,’ Lorena informed me, indicating a small stack of mail. She opened an envelope and pulled out a large sheet of paper. It was an election poster, almost identical to the one on the wall featuring Juan Federico Pelele; but in place of my predecessor there was now a photograph of me.
I took hold of the poster. Somehow, my likeness had been superimposed over the traditional image of an Escoria Indian holding his fist up in triumph. The photograph was not a flattering one. It was one of the snaps taken by the policeman inside my prison cell. I defy anyone to look good after forty–eight hours spent in a windowless cell lit by a forty–watt bulb.
Lorena stood up and removed Juan Federico’s picture from the wall. She recycled the blu–tack and used the new poster to fill the gap. Then a thought occurred to her. ‘Oh, we did get a fax through this morning.’ She moved across to the machine. ‘From your editor in London.’
I frowned. The Daily Herald hadn’t been in contact with me since Allan, the personnel officer, had given me the go–ahead for a leave of absence. Despite my elevated position, my own newspaper appeared to have forgotten all about me.
The fax was blunt and to the point: “Have just read your exclusive interview with the News Of The World. You’re fired. Love Miranda.”
‘Miranda is your girlfriend?’ the girl with the nails enquired.
‘My editor,’ I explained. ‘Well...er...my ex–editor.’ I stared at the fax. I couldn’t believe Miranda Bullock would be that petty. Then I thought about it for a minute. Of course Miranda would be that petty. I shook my head. It wasn’t as if I had been late with my article, despite considerable complications. And nobody at the Daily Herald had even asked me for an interview.
~ ~ ~
The soldiers jumped Dick Carter on his way back to the Plaza Mayor. He was forced into an unmarked van and driven off to the army barracks on Avenida 76 Sur. It was Wednesday the seventh of November and the local comandante wanted to ask him some important questions. The army were taking the new Azulito threat very seriously. Everyone, it seemed, had read Dick’s exclusive report. His article had been syndicated across the Americas. The comandante wanted more details but there was nothing Dick could add to his printed account. Besides, there was the small question of journalistic integrity to consider. After half an hour of fruitless questioning, he was released.
Dick hurried back in the direction of the Plaza Mayor and arrived with minutes to spare. The man is never late for an appointment. He could be abducted by aliens and would still manage to turn up on time. No one has ever quite worked out how he does it.
The plaza was quiet, so he found himself a table out on the pavement in front of his usual drinking hole. Nacho would be along at any minute and Dick was already wearing his special shoes. The lace–ups didn’t quite match his lime green shorts or beige ‘Mr Fantastic’ t–shirt. As soon as the interview was over, he would pull on a pair of sensible sandals.
Nacho arrived five minutes later. Dick greeted him as if he had never seen the boy before in his life and Nacho lifted his left leg up onto the wooden footrest.
‘All right, kid, what have you got for me?’
Nacho made a start on polishing the faded leather.
‘Big news,’ he said. ‘My cousin, he get word. Something is going to happen tomorrow. You give me money?’
Dick took a deep breath. The Azulitos were making their move, just as Cabrón had claimed. ‘But do you know what they’re planning to do?’
Nacho nodded. ‘He say they are preparing bombs. Big explosions.’
‘Bombs?’ Dick frowned. That didn’t sound like the Azulitos at all.
Nacho was insistent. ‘The people, they are going to hit somewhere in Toronja. A big bomb. Maybe more than one. I don’t know where.’
‘And definitely tomorrow?’
‘Yes. I go tell army people too. You give me money now?’
Dick reached for his wallet but Nacho held up a hand. A woman at a nearby table had just left some coins for her drinks. The boy darted across and swiped the money before the waiter came out of the café. He returned to Dick’s shoes before the man reached the table. The customer was now long gone and the waiter eyed Nacho suspiciously.
Dick, meantime, was thinking hard. There was only one major event in the city the following day. The press conference to mark the return of Father José Luis Sentido. It was an obvious target. In all probability, that was where the Azulitos would strike.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Security was tight at City Hall. Everyone was being searched on the way in to the Ayuntamiento. After Dick’s article and the tip off from Nacho, the military were taking no chances. Metal detectors had been set up. X–ray machines were scanning bags and equipment. The authorities had even drafted in a couple of sniffer dogs. No one would be allowed into the hall without being checked and double–checked.
General Federico Hernandez Malvado would probably have preferred not to call a press conference at all. He had a natural antipathy towards the media that he would never be able to disguise. And the last thing anyone in government wanted was to give Father José a platform on which to publicly accuse them of complicity in the assassination attempt.
Ironically, the priest had no desire to return to the public arena either. He had barely recovered from his recent ordeal and his voice was still rather weak. But he had insisted on returning home and the media would not allow him back into the province without the appropriate fanfare. And so journalists from the world’s leading news agencies – and one or two from cable television – had gathered together in the main hall to witness an unequivocal demonstration of the provisional government’s commitment to freedom of speech. Always assuming the Azulitos did not blow everybody to Kingdom Come.
The hall was packed to capacity. The background rumble began to fade as figures emerged from the sides and walked across towards a platform at the front of the chamber. General Malvado came first. Behind him were several ministers, including Ronaldo Pelón and Miguel Corto, two of the other members of Malvado’s five–man provisional administration. Alberto Viscoso brought up the rear. The men – they were all men – took their places on a row of chairs facing outwards towards the assembled press.
~ ~ ~
I was sitting two rows back from the main stage. I wasn’t sure whether I had been invited in my capacity as a journalist or as an opposition leader. Dick Carter was sitting to my left, quietly lighting up a cigarette. It was reassuring to have him by my side.
We had been out for a drink earlier that day and had quickly caught up on events. I had probably drunk a little too much but I had needed to steady my nerves after all he had told me.
Dick was the first to catch sight of Father José. All around us, lights began to flash and television cameras started to broadcast the live pictures. Highlights from the conference would be seen on the evening news, even in San Doloroso. In an unprecedented action, the Junta had given permission for the state–run Canal 7 to relay images of the event. If the press conference could not be prevented, the Junta were obviously keen to make the most of it. The government were desperate for good publicity.
A young woman with short, curly hair was holding the priest’s arm as he ambled slowly towards the stage. Presumably, she was his nurse. With her help, Father José climbed the three steps up onto the platform and lowered himself gently into a plastic chair.
General Federico Hernandez Malvado rose up and strode forward to a microphone on a stand at the front of the stage.
‘Ladies and Gentleman,’ he began, in his soft, whispering voice. ‘Today we welcome back a prominent and much respected member of our community. The attempt on the life of Father José Luis Sentido was a shock to us all. No stone is being left unturned, even now, in tracking down the perpetrators. We of the provisional government are committed to the principles of free speech. The father may not always
speak fondly of us, but we defend the right of all citizens to speak their mind without fear of persecution.’ The general, to my mind, spoke with a convincing approximation of sincerity. He was at least as good a liar as he was a hardened soldier. But none of the press were fooled by his words. They were all waiting for Father José. Sensibly, General Malvado kept his introduction short.
When the priest stood up, assisted by his nurse, he was greeted with rapturous applause. A further burst of photographic illumination dazzled the platform. Father José seemed surprised by the enthusiasm of the crowd. There was even some cheering from the audience, though mostly from a small contingent of local, independent journalists.
‘My friends,’ Father José began, hesitantly. ‘I am overwhelmed by the warmth of this reception.’ Loudspeakers projected his words across the auditorium, but they couldn’t disguise the weakness of his voice. ‘I am only a priest. I am not deserving of so much affection. But nevertheless, I thank you for it.’ The father paused, bringing a hand to his throat momentarily. ‘I must also extend my thanks to General Malvado and to the army for saving my life and for bringing me here today. I do not believe that they acted from the purest of motives, but I am grateful nonetheless for their protection. I regret I cannot speak at length. My voice is not what it was.’ There was a jug of water on a small table beside the microphone. Father José’s nurse had poured him a glass and he sipped from it now. ‘I have said before that I do not believe this government is committed to the principle of democratic elections. The events of the last few weeks have done nothing to alter that opinion. This is a government committed to its own preservation, not to the well being of the people of San Doloroso. This government conspires to undermine democracy, while trying to present an image of honesty and fair play. We are not fooled by this image, no more than we are fooled by the publicity stunt of allowing me to speak here today. Nobody can take seriously an electoral process in which three political leaders have been assassinated, and in which an Australian journalist, who can barely even speak Spanish, has been forced at gunpoint to stand in place of one of those leaders, in order to divide the opposition vote.’
To my left, Dick Carter was shaking with laughter. It was bad enough having my foreign–language abilities belittled so publicly, but to be referred to as an “Australian”...
General Malvado was equally grim–faced. I doubted much of Father José’s speech would make it into the edited highlights on Canal 7. The elderly priest appeared to know a lot more about recent events than anyone could possibly have suspected. It was common knowledge that I was a government stooge, but no one had said anything publicly about the methods the Junta had employed to ensure my cooperation. How could he know? I hadn’t spoken to Father José since the day of the shooting in Ardiente.
But no one could seriously disagree with the point he was making. ‘This government,’ he said, ‘is corrupt to the core. It cannot and will not stand. But neither will it be defeated by the ballot box. These elections are a sham. No right–thinking person can condone them or participate in them. There are others means of bringing a government down. I do not advocate violence. As we have seen in recent weeks, assassination – even attempted assassination – only creates more problems. Violence begets violence and I will have no part in it, whatever the cause. We must resist all forms of corruption. We must take back our country, but in so doing we cannot allow ourselves to become corrupted by it. We must destroy the enemy, but in so doing we must not become the enemy. That is the teaching of our Lord Jesus Christ. Put your faith in Him and act accordingly. Then we can work together to build a better future for all of us. This government will attempt to stand in our way, but it will be them that falters and not the people. Because history is on our side.’
Father José took another sip of water. For several seconds, the hall was shrouded in a polite, expectant silence. Then, when it became clear that he had finished, General Malvado came forward once more to ask if there were any questions.
The general was presenting a remarkably calm façade, but no one could doubt how angry he would be at Father José’s explicit condemnation, especially since it had been Malvado’s direct order that had saved the priest from the Azulitos.
The audience were keen to find out more about the attempt on his life, particularly later events at the farmstead. Father José was quick to pay tribute to the people who had helped him escape. He spoke with particular emphasis about a “farming family” and the terrible sacrifice they had made.
The question and answer session was kept brief, as Father José was visibly tiring. After just half an hour, the press conference was wound up; and nothing had gone awry. Nobody had been killed by an Azulito bomb.
Sitting beside me, Dick let out a deep breath. ‘Not like Nacho to get it wrong,’ he joked.
I for one was sincerely glad that he had. It had taken some persuading to get me to come to the press conference at all. I could only assume the rest of the media were ignorant of the bomb threat, as no one else was looking particularly worried. Dick was always ahead of the pack.
Father José’s nurse was helping him down from the platform. I jumped from my seat, intending to have a quick word with him, but a soldier sprang forward and blocked my path.
The government ministers were vacating the stage as well. They disappeared quickly into a back room.
I tried to reason with the soldier. It was not irrational for me to want to speak to the priest. ‘I’m the leader of the PRD,’ I explained. ‘Señor Viscoso will vouch for me.’ The soldier wasn’t having any of it. He pushed me backwards with a grunt and I was forced to leave the hall by the front steps with the rest of the assembled press.
Outside, Dick was talking amiably to Isabella Valentía, the Radio Libertad producer. Isabella had been released from prison the previous week. The charges against her had been quietly dropped. Dick beckoned me over. ‘You remember Isabella?’
I nodded. We had met briefly, the day of the Radio Libertad raid.
She extended a hand. ‘Nice to meet you again.’ Isabella was a short, dark–haired woman with black eyes and an elfin face. She had a relaxed, friendly manner and surprisingly good teeth. ‘I’ve called your office a couple of times to try and arrange a proper interview, but your secretary never phones me back.’
‘Yes, sorry about that,’ I apologised. ‘She’s not terribly efficient.’ It was a shameful lie. I was getting rather too good at being a politician.
We descended the steps and walked out onto the pavement. ‘I really would like to arrange an interview,’ Isabella insisted. ‘I know you’ve done the odd photo shoot and a couple of bits for the newspapers, but a little more local exposure might do your campaign a lot of good.’
I glanced at Dick. He knew the woman better than I did.
‘You might as well, mate. You can’t just give a couple of interviews and then retire. Don’t worry. Isabella will look after you. She’s the best in the business.’
Isabella denied this vehemently.
Dick’s Beetle was three blocks down the street. Isabella handed me her card. ‘Think about it, anyway. If you’re interested, give me a call. We can arrange...’
A sudden roar interrupted her words and the buildings around us began to shake.
‘Is it an earthquake?’ I asked, in alarm.
Dick shook his head. ‘More like an explosion.’
Isabella ran out into the street. A plume of smoke was rising into the air, a good half a mile away. ‘My God!’ the young woman exclaimed. ‘That’s Radio Libertad!’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Normally, when a bomb explodes in the middle of a capital city, people are desperate to get away. When the Radio Libertad building exploded, the opposite seemed to be the case. Perhaps it was just my perception that was skewed. I had walked out onto the street in the presence of more than a hundred journalists. It was natural for such people to want to be at the sight of a major breaking story; and hardly surprising that everyone started
to run. The television journalists were the quickest off the mark. The man from CNN disappeared as if in a puff of smoke. The rest were not far behind him.
It wasn’t just journalists, of course. A whole host of politicians and political leaders were leaving City Hall at the same time. They were as surprised as we were by the explosion and as concerned to discover exactly what was going on. Only Father José and Emilio Títere were whisked off in the opposite direction. There were cars waiting for them at the back of the Ayuntamiento, outside the emergency exit. Neither was given any choice in the matter. The provisional government were not about to take any chances with these two men.
Dick and I followed the herd, though I confess I struggled to keep up. I was not quite as fit as I would have liked. Even so, it took us less than ten minutes to reach the Radio Libertad building.
Edificio Libertad was a five-story affair – one of the tallest buildings in a capital city bedevilled by earthquakes – but the bomb had blown out the heart of it. It was as if a huge boulder had smashed right through the centre of the building. The guts of the second and third floor could be seen but a pile of rubble had completely buried the front entrance.
The emergency services had only just arrived at the scene. A handful of policemen were desperately trying to keep the onlookers back. There was a real danger that further parts of the building might collapse. Almost certainly, many people would be buried under the rubble.
Isabella Valentía had pushed herself through the crowd and was clambering up onto the debris. A policeman shouted out to her but Isabella would not stop. She began to pull at the rubble with her bare hands, in a desperate attempt to clear some of it away. It was a futile gesture, but an understandable one.