His passionate and enthusiastic speech failed to awaken the reactions he had expected. Chacón noticed and was not surprised in the least. All the members of that table were there because they had chosen them to perform a task, but as they became rich men, they had settled down and lost sight of the purpose for which they had reached the top.
—I do not understand this obsession to impose a dictatorship again— the fat man complained grumpily, who with his pouts looked like the world's fattest baby—. We have more power than that we can handle.
Chacon stood up and went hobbling to the man, helping himself with the walking stick until he reached to where he was. With a movement so fast that some did not know what had happened until a few seconds later, he hit one of the legs of the chair and the fat man finished with his bones on the floor. Almost before he could make a sound, Chacon hit him with the tip of the stick three times in a row on the chest, and a stronger one on the nose. The impact was so brutal that blood splashed all over his leg, staining his suit pants halfway up. The man held his nose with both hands and went back to a corner like a beaten dog, sobbing with humiliation and pain.
—Don't forget you have what you have because we wanted to give it to you, miserable— Chacon spitted out—. But you can always find a substitute for a dead director in a tragic accident.
The fat man shook his head repeatedly, and several droplets of blood spattered the wall.
—Then go back to the table and close the damn mouth!
With the same slowness that had approached before, he returned to its place. The fat man, after wiping his nose on the edges of his shirt, did the same.
—As I was saying before this unfortunate incident— the host continued—. It's time to mobilize. Vargas, you are going to find a newspaper that will be sold weekly. I’ll send you the contents in a few weeks, currently look for competent people to put it into operation.
He pointed to a commensal, who despite being almost half a century old, he barely looked half.
—López, you will take care of the networks— the aforesaid nodded—. Like the others, I will tell you the kind of contents that you should distribute. The thing is about becoming aware.
In some of those present there was a huge discomfort in their faces.
—Gentlemen, we have one of the largest companies’ holdings in the country— he informed—. We control the textile, the real estate, the banking and other sectors. We have economic interests in more than twenty countries, and a myriad of accounts in different paradises that makes that nobody can relate one to each other. Now is the time to turn our sights towards a more political power.
—With all the respect in the world— interrupted a man with red skin like a hemorrhoids’ advertisement. I don’t see the need, I mean, we already manage a very important part of the economy in this country; We are all very rich and we have influences, why invest millions in politics?
When he finished, he glanced at Chacon, but he remained impassive in his chair.
—Friend, probably you didn’t know anything about all this, because you were hardly a child when it happened, but this conglomerate of companies and businesses that we are talking about came out from the state, or, to put it in a better way, from politics.
He cleared his throat with a sip of wine, and went over the faces again, each time less convinced.
—Gentlemen, we live convulsive times. The political parties don’t have the confidence of the people and we have no one to govern us. It could happen that any party that would be electedwould close us the tap — he stopped to let his words sink—; the economy continues in a crisis that increasingly leaves more families on the street or eating from charity. Hate, racism, envy and despair increases, and people cling to any lifesaver that comes to them, no matter what the ideology is. Hunger weighs more than reason, and that's where we come in. Our companies will increase their profits, we will obtain new permits and we will create jobs.
—How do you plan to get that? — asked the same man with the face’s color like that of a grenade.
—We will begin a policy against immigration in our companies, and we will hire national staff.
—The collectives and human rights groups will be on us! — he said angrily—. That's crazy and it is our economic grave!
—We will bomb the networks with our ideas to save the country — he continued, ignoring the comment—. We will start a campaign of our political party in a big way, we will launch that lifesaver to those who want to take it, and pay attention to me, there will be many.
—Hernenegildo, I cannot submit to that madness— the man declared, looking at Chacon—. I depend on these companies, and even if you started them, we have continued them.
The host drained his glass and smiled sardonically.
—Of course, we're not new to this— he reassured—. None of our names will be related to this. We will put a few straw men, found a few companies and a party, and provide the necessary funds for the baby to start walking.
The sighs were audible all throughout the room. The faces relaxed ostensibly knowing that their companies only ran the risk of losing a few million, and that their names would not be involved.
—And once we have sown the seed, we will collect the fruits as we have always done.
For the first time that night cheers were heard, and wine and liquor ran again in charge of the two young men, who had disappeared until that moment.
****
Hermenegildo called Chacón aside when most of the guests joked between drinks in the garden.
—Paco, find the pen drive, we need it— he whispered—. And the photos also, just in case.
—What do we do with Millán's grandson? — he asked, showing his upper teeth slightly in a craving grimace.
—I'll leave that to your criteria— he suggested with a wave of his hand—. Entrust it to Mauro or do it yourself, but make sure that it is not a problem.
—Done— he assured—. When will we start with the real plan?
Hermenegildo turned to the group that drank and played jokes among them.
—When they are ready for the slaughterhouse.
****
Francisco Chacón took out his cell phone when he was several kilometers away from the country house. The new model that they had provided him was a modern terminal with which he didn’t finish to ingratiate with. He pressed a number that he had learned by heart and waited. At the second tone a woman's voice answered.
—Hello?
—Annabel— he answered short—. I need his position.
—To do this you already know what my request is— answered the voice.
—You'll have Delle Chievo, you have my word.
—Don’t misunderstand me Billy, but your word is as valuable to me as Monopoly’s notes.
Chacon sighed angrily. When all that was over he was going to personally take care of that witch from the pampas.
—He will come with me— he whispered to the speaker with suppressed rage—. You can catch him there.
The line fell silent, and Chacon thought he had pressed one of those damn keys on the touch screen and lost communication.
—Iquique, Chile— resonated in his ear.
Then the sound of static occupied the loudspeaker, and Chacon realized that he had been hanged.
Chapter 35
The sound of the waves felt like they were floating above them. The house— the structure was like the old saltpeter town’s houses—, showed a daring fusion of the European movement in perfect conjugation with American elegance, which contrasted with the wooden constructions that Jonás had seen along the way.
—It's Georgian style— said Jurgen, reading his thoughts—. I bought it when they were about to demolish it and rebuilt it as faithfully as possible.
Jonás stared at the huge beach that ran along Avenida Balmaceda to the bare hills of the coast on its eastern side, and he felt at peace. Hundreds of tents waved through the sand, their white cloth fusing with the snowy ma
ntle of sandstone that formed dunes swaying in the wind.
—It is usual that the beach is filled with tents of the vacationers from the avenue to the old hippodrome —he explained following his gaze—. In the strongest months they almost reach the vicinity of the Cavancha peninsula.
—Is... incredible.
—Yes, that's why I spent a small fortune in this house.
Jonás and Jurgen were on a wooden porch that went to the very beach, in the back of the house. The strange mixture of neoclassical arches carved in wood, together with the Mozarabic motifs that decorated a good part of the cream facade, interlaced a mixture of races and cultures very present in the beginnings of the city. A light breeze began to blow, and the paper coasters that Jurgen had placed on the table beside their drinks, flew across the endless coastline, flapping like birds that had escaped from their cage.
—Jurgen, what do you have to do with my father? —he asked again.
The German shifted uncomfortably in his wicker chair and refilled his glass with gin.
—I knew your father through Anabel, an agent of the disappeared SIDE Argentina —began—. I worked for them as a kind of infiltrator.
—My father?
—Yes. Anabel learned about your grandfather's relationship with Chacón and the others and investigated him. She tried to reach an agreement with him, but she couldn’t convince him, so he launched herself for a more "cooperative" dam
—My father more cooperative? — that doesn’t sound very realistic.
—According to Anabel, your father was not very convinced at first, but when he learned the true story of your grandfather he wanted to compensate for the years of injustice to which he had been subjected by his own family by clearing his name.
—And what do you have to do with SIDE? —he asked—. Why my father turned to you
Jurgen shifted again in the chair, focusing on the sea in the background and the white canvas of the tents that fluttered in the wind. He was visibly upset.
—As I have already told you, my father was a true instigator in different countries; He was an active part of the Nazi commandos in Germany, and when that was over, he became an active part of the Franco’s regime, —Jurgen explained without looking away—. Along with the three men that I mentioned before, they extorted and diverted all kinds of funds and possessions in ghost organizations attached to the regime in different paradises. Although my father was a man of action, he also studied engineering and had enormous experience and wisdom in matters related to falsifications and account management, learned from his years in the ranks of Hitler and carried out with the possessions of millions of murdered Jews. Both Chacón and Gutiérrez thought of him as a man of confidence of the chieftain, twisting the accounts and taking care to advise the Generalissimo in seeing what actions suited him, and which were better to let them pass. With my father’s “wise” advices, Franco deposited into the hands of his men lands and expropriations that seemed to have no value, and that the ghost companies of Chacón were responsible for acquiring them after being discarded by the regime.
—In a few words, they cheated a swindler— Jonás clarified.
—Roughly speaking. The fact is that they started to get out of hand. Stefano Delle Chievo, the fourth leg of the chair, was a murderous terrorist who was not satisfied with the same as Chacón and Gutiérrez and began to spread his networks to the rest of the world, allocating Tiempos Libres’ funds for attacks in cities that didn’t enter within the interests of the group. For my father and the others, Spain was enough; they were rich and imposed their law in the way they thought best, through fear, beatings or bribes. They also received pats on the back from the government for it, but Delle Chievo was not like the others, his sick mind longed for blood. He made attacks against several governments, important people, and against other countries with a similar regime than that of Spain.
—That is, he removed the hornet's nest.
—It could be said. The fact is that his movements began to pillory Tiempos Libres and, therefore, to Chacón, my father and Gutiérrez. If Franco found out what they were doing, they wouldn’t have enough world to run or hide in, so they decided to silence their activities. They changed the names of their companies, closed others and declared war on Delle Chievo. Stefano went into exile and made a hole here in Chile, with Pinochet, which allowed him to continue developing his criminal activities, this time under another flag. Tiempos Libres gave way to Fuerza Nueva, this to another, and that in turn, to another more. They became more cautious, but at the same time more implacable. Chacon had become a bloodthirsty man who did not care about money anymore, only to be able to give free rein to his instincts without having to worry. Gutierrez is even worse, because besides being a sadist he is a coward that focuses on the weak, women and children. My father, who, although radical, was a martial man, he began to distance himself from his companions.
—Good morning green sleeves— Jonas muttered under his breath.
—What you must understand Jonás, is that although I know the history of my father, I never saw it that way —Jurgen justified himself—. When I was born, my father was still in the organization, but he had delegated in the new members. Its mission was mainly focused on the management of accounts. When I turned five he didn’t belong to the group anymore, and he died when I was ten. For me, my father, was always a caring and attentive man with me, and I didn’t know about his past until much later. The only thing I remember of his life was the story told by his own lips, and the tremendous anguish he felt for what he had done.
—That does not excuse him from having killed people— attacked Jonás.
—My father was many things— he faced Jonás—. But he never murdered anyone outside the war. His biggest sin was being a man who looked the other way.
—That is not picnic here either!
—No, I do not exonerate him in the slightest way, and that is why I continue to atone for his sins— he replied sadly—. When he realized where the organization was going, he wanted to leave, to escape from everything and live what was left of his family’s life, and that cost him the death of his wife, his own, and the exile of his son.
Jonás wanted to reply, but he understood that this man was not the person to relieve his anger and frustration.
—I'm sorry Jurgen, I didn’t want...
—It doesn’t matter— he refilled his glass—. Anyway, my father at least did one good thing before he died. When the grief for the murder of my mother finally engulfed him, he spoke with several of the secret services of the countries where the members of Tiempos Libres were being sought. The SIDE Argentina was the most interested, and my father leaked to them documents and evidence in exchange that they take care of me if something happened to him.
—And if the Argentines had evidence against Chacón and Tiempos Libres, why They haven’t stopped it yet?
—Because the Argentines are not really interested in Chacon— he confessed. Not even the current Argentine secret service maintains open cases against them after the denial of extradition from Spain.
—And then what are they looking for? —Jonás did not understand anything of that—. Why did they have my father collaborating with them?
—In fact, your father was not "signed" by SIDE, but by his former boss, Anabel Santorini, who is currently suspended and acting on her own.
—What the hell...?
—What you've heard. Santorini was the one that took over the task to send me here, to Chile— he revealed—; the one that "burned" your father, and before him, your grandfather; she is also the only one who knows where I am.
—All this is for bringing Chacón to justice? —Jonas was surprised, he could not understand why an Argentine intelligence chief was risking her life for a criminal from another country—. That is not very logical.
Jurgen had finished with the cup, and his blue eyes were muted and watery. He tried to speak, but on two occasions the hiccups did not let him.
—No Joná
s, Chacon does not care to her in the least —he said—. It is only a tool to reach her true goal.
—And which one is it?
Jurgen reached for a pendant that he wore around his neck in the shape of a hermit crab and unscrewed the lid of the base. When he removed the case, a small silver pen drive fell into the palm of his hand. He smiled bitterly as he watched.
—Jonás it is for this— he confessed, getting caught between tears and the alcohol—. This is what Santorini is looking for. This, and Dellle Chievo.
****
At first it had been hard for him to fall asleep, but then he fall exhausted and slept soundly the rest of the night. When the seagulls finally woke him up it was already ten o'clock in the morning. He approached Jurgen's room, but the loud snoring told him that the German was still sleeping it off from the night before.
He prepared himself a breakfast based on toast and raspberry jam, and after finding a swimsuit that fitted him moderately well he went down to the beach by the back porch. At about five hundred meters, the bathers crowded on the edge of the sand at the foot of their tents, but the small bay that angled with Jurgen's house was empty. At first, he did not stop thinking about everything the German had revealed, but all that vanished when he got into the water. He swam to the horizon until his arms ached, and then he let his body float on the waves. When his face began to ache due to the sun, he returned to the coast. Jurgen was standing there on the wooden porch, dressed entirely in white linen pants and shirt. The enormous sunglasses with which he tried to hide the hangover were visible even from that distance.
—It seems that you have decided to enjoy a little of your trip- he syllabized with a pasty voice—. I don’t know how you can.
—I have extensive experience with hangovers —he admitted—. They cannot with me anymore.
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