"Stop worrying about what your colleagues think of you,” said Pedro. “A few of them might be your friends, but most of them would just as soon see you fall flat on your face. I made a deal with your father a long time ago, and if you're willing to step back and take an honest look at yourself, you’ll understand that this has been a very beneficial time for all of us. If you're not willing to do that, then let’s end it now. Here's what you’re going to do, Edward. You're going to go downstairs and get some fresh air, have a smoke, and then you're going to come to one of two conclusions. Either you're right – we're all wrong, and you have all the answers – or you're going to figure out that you've become an insufferable ass whom no one can work with."
John – who had been listening – had never wanted to punch anyone so badly. "I can't be bothered with all of this," he said, before slamming the door in anger. Edward shook his head.
In Pedro's world, everything boiled down to a matter of black and white. Those under his command followed his orders precisely and flawlessly. There were no exceptions: rules had to be followed to the letter. But John had many questions and no answers. Who was this man? And what did he want?
John was keen to go somewhere quiet to read Pedro's diary, and sitting in a nearby coffee shop, he sipped his latte, just to give himself a second to think. He opened the first page, and thanks to the basic Spanish he’d managed to pick up during his years drifting around the world, he quickly realised that this little black book was mostly an official record of events in Pedro's past, back in Argentina during the Dirty War. John still didn't know what to say, or think – too many things were swirling around in his head. He sat back, looking just the littlest bit pleased with himself. He knew the answers were in the book.
Pedro's Diary
1976, Buenos Aires
I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve passed that house without giving it a single thought. It doesn't possess any remarkable qualities. It has no side entrance, no life, and no real history. Just its own dark secrets. I know of the suffering in its basement.
That day, my hands grasped the edge of the solid double metal gate, shaking hard. Releasing my grip, I stood back and drifted into my own thoughts. Uneasy, unpleasant feelings lingered in the air.
In front of the crowd in the square was a strong-looking, well-dressed man in his late sixties, snugly attired and in a grey silk scarf, thick gloves, and a dark felt hat. His eyes looked hardened, framed by a web of deep wrinkles. He raised his arm and gestured purposefully. I respect this man and have done so for a long time – ever since I was a child and during the revolution, I remember him helping my family when money was tight.
Practically every building of any size had been seized by the workers and was draped in the red or black flag of the anarchist; every wall was scrawled with hammer and sickle and with the initials of the revolutionary parties; almost every church had been gutted and its images burnt. Churches here and there were being systematically demolished by gangs of workmen. There were no private motor cars. They had all been commandeered, and all the trams and taxis were painted red and black. The revolutionary posters were everywhere. The town had a gaunt, untidy look; roads and buildings were in poor repair; the streets were dimly lit at night. The shops were mostly shabby and half-empty. Meat was scarce and milk practically unobtainable. The old man was once a powerful, well-respected and tough person in the community, always making sure my family were well looked after.
I always talk about this man, and tell my friends that I have become the person I am today because of the old man. Everyone used to think he was a spy, but he is a retired police officer with whom I’ve become friends.
I helped him walk down the gravelled path, the soft pebbles crunching noisily beneath our feet. Only when we were away from the crowd did we speak.
'Papers wouldn't be hard for me to acquire,' I told the old man.
'Oh, yes, Pedro! It's getting to know the right people that matters, and of course, having the right papers in place. If you need any more help to become a policeman, just give them my card,' he said while knocking out his pipe against the heel of his shoe.
I saw something in his face then that deeply moved me, and I wondered whether I would always be grateful to the old man.
I joined the secret police in the working-class neighbourhood of La Boca. The entrance to the headquarters – a splendid stone building in the middle of the town with a cobbled courtyard to the rear – is through two tall wooden doors. Crimes are investigated, information dug up on the criminal in the hope of gaining money. Bribery is common. The world stinks of corruption and I have my nose in every crevice. I’ve quickly climbed the ladder and become quite a figure in the underworld of the secret police. Most of all, I’ve gained respect. Wherever I go in my local neighbourhood, people look up to me. Corruption leads to situations which attract power, and this was something that some of the secret police aspire to: announcing discovery of incriminating files, 'proving' that the communists are on the brink of a long-planned revolution. Women and children are sent in front of the terrorist groups. It scarcely matters that there is no proof of such allegations. Suspects are rounded up in military-style trucks.
More and more now, I am casting covetous eyes at the ever-growing strength in the southern corner. The last barrier has been broken, and now anything might happen. People waste no time on meaningless goodbyes, no need for pockets, or huge suitcases, or fashionable clothing. Surveillance is crucial: people want order. It is estimated that a new administration would need between six and nine months in which to achieve major changes; if it does not seize the opportunity to act decisively during that period, it will not have another such opportunity. The threat of violence or simply non-compliance is always lurking in the background, threatening the life of one brittle government after another. Doorbells ring harshly, echoing from one side of the stairwell to the other.
A letter has arrived assigning me to advise on the situation in Chile. I have been ordered to travel immediately, so I have packed what I can and am about to overnight. I have been put in charge of Operation Sebastian.
* * *
John looked up, rubbing the rough stubble on his chin as he said to himself, My God. His eyes shot to the clock. It was nearly five. He hurriedly rifled through the last few pages. For a moment he couldn't focus on anything, and he swallowed past the lump in his throat. Pretending he was calm and under control was nearly impossible for him.
John stared ahead of him, completely dumbfounded at what he had just read.
Chapter 27
Pedro stayed close to the phone throughout Tuesday morning, and even if he knew it hadn't made a sound, he kept picking up the receiver every few minutes as though he were yanking it from a holster. He just wanted to check it was still working.
A few hours later, Rosa called and suggested they meet at her school next Thursday. The call was a welcome distraction and, excited to hear from her, he agreed to come at 6 p.m.
On the day, he put the car into gear and whipped it around – causing gravel to spit out from under the tires – but he still arrived a little late. Today was not a day for second-guessing or regret; it was a day for action. And he was ready for it.
There was a couple sitting in the corner of the room. The man was rangy and thin, with a face that tapered severely into a dribble of a chin. The woman was just ugly – brazenly, beyond the scope of everyday ugliness: with tiny round eyes, a long twisted nose, and pale skin speckled with tiny spots. She told Pedro, "This is my partner; we used to dance like this."
Carefully considering his answer, Pedro finally replied, "Just a guess of mine, but I'd say you were the best."
"Over here, Pedro," Rosa called – she had spotted him.
She pulled him onto the dance floor, taking his coat and putting it on the chair. Her nimble fingers arranged his tie into an expert knot: she knew that presentation was important. Rosa laughed like an impressionable schoolgirl and Pedro realised that there was more
to her laugh than she revealed – though nothing bad. She didn't drink, smoke, or do anything to harm her health.
Pedro was jittering from one foot to another, desperate to do something, but moving slowly as though his bones hurt. It was easy to tell he was definitely out of practice.
"Now we'll find out what you all know." Rosa started to click her fingers, then clapped her fingers rhythmically in the air and to the sides of her leg.
Pedro nodded mechanically. He didn't really know what she meant, but he wanted to seem as cooperative as possible.
"What does the clicking of the fingers mean?" he asked.
"Counting and clicking the fingers is a way to get into the world of the living rhythm," she replied.
He smiled. She really was an impressive creature. "Shall we go for a drink after we're done?" he suggested.
She smiled, her fingers still clicking away.
They walked down the high street and into Restaurant Triangle, which had a nice little bar at the back. After the waiter took their order, there was a long silence broken only by the sound of someone in the kitchen, throwing pots and pans around in either a fit of temper or in extraordinary clumsiness.
They smiled at each other, laughing at the noise and breaking the ice, and they sat there all night, drinking glasses of wine and talking.
He refilled her drink once more and sat back on the hard wooden chair, thinking how wonderful it was to speak in his mother tongue again, and how lovely she was. The bar seemed to cheer her up, but he knew she must be hungry after all that dancing. He asked if she would like something.
"Most of the time I'm far too busy for things like this. I eat at my school," she replied.
"Would you like some Bayonne?"
"Bayonne, that's like ham, right? We should get some," she said. She raised an eyebrow at him, "I'm intrigued."
He brightened a little more and reeled off a rather lame line: "How long have you danced for?"
"Eh, so what?" Rosa said shrugging her shoulders, her usual way of beginning a conversation. "All my life I have only cared for my music and my dancing, especially when I was at school. I used to dream of one day becoming a famous dancer." Her eyes glazed over a little as she pictured her old dream.
Heavy black kohl framed her tiny brown eyes, presumably to make them appear larger, and he couldn’t stop staring at them – they were fascinating. They talked mostly about Latin music and a little about the history of the tango, and several hours into their discussion, his mobile phone rang.
"Not, now." He tossed it back on the table top, and it made such a racket that the girl at the next table jumped. She blushed and smiled at his apology, flicking her hair over her shoulder in a way that she must have thought was alluring.
He nodded politely and looked away, figuring she'd get the picture. In fact, Pedro didn't have the urge to date around. It seemed like a waste of energy to get a relationship going only to realise that it wasn't working and that he'd jumped the gun. He didn't really care that much. As far as he was concerned, this was work.
"Actually, did you know, Rosa, that the origins of the tango are related to brothels? And that it was danced between men and prostitutes but in a marginally lower class area?"
"It’s most certainly a sexy dance," she said, smiling.
He shrugged a yes; she scanned his face for his reaction, both their elbows on the table.
He waited a moment, then looked her in the eye as he asked, "Do you have a boyfriend?"
She blushed. "I have many friends who are married – not many who are happily married, but many married friends. The few happy ones are like my parents: they're baffled by my singleness. A smart, pretty, nice girl like me, a cool job, money not an issue. They sit with their cups of hot chocolate and try to think of men they can set me up with. So the answer to your question is yes and no. What I have is my dancing."
"I understand."
What she didn’t tell him was that she had been in a pretty serious relationship not so long ago, for a year. But she began to find him alarming: there was a problem Rosa had that put her off men for a while.
"Sometimes I do feel lonely, and I go home and cry for a while. I am almost twenty-eight. That's not old, I know – especially in London – but the fact is, it’s been a few years since I’ve even really liked someone. Sometimes I wonder whether there's something wrong with me. I smile a lot to make up for my face, but this works only sometimes. In college I even wore glasses for a bit, fake ones with clear lenses that I thought would lend me an affable look."
"Oh," Pedro said, with real concern in his voice. "You're beautiful, and don't let anyone tell you any different. I know, it's hard to come to a new town and it’s hard to make friends."
"Sometimes I think that there is something wrong with me, perhaps unfixable," she whispered, casting her eyes down.
Pedro stared at her, arms crossed. "Look, you have to move forward."
She shrugged, looking up at him again. "Actually, all the stuff I don't like about myself has been pushed to the back of my mind. To be honest, I feel naturally happy."
It was getting late, and the waiter, who had pale blue eyes that jittered like an unnerving tic, stood next to them, hoping they would ask for the bill. For a while he shuffled around clearing empty glasses, then he started to move in all the chairs and tables from outside.
Rosa said that maybe it was time to go, but also that it was a shame as they were having a good time. They laughed. The waiter looked over again. They were running out of things to say; it was Monday night and tomorrow would be a long day. They exchanged silent smiles as they walked out into the cold, into the great ‘What next?’.
"Can I give you a lift home?" Pedro asked.
She nodded, and they walked down the high street to find the car. His hand on the small of her back, their faces stunned by the chill. They got in, and the music whispering in the background changed to something mournful right on cue, filling the interior of the car with an invisible weight. Pedro shifted into gear and stared straight ahead.
As he started driving, he brought up the dance school again. "How do you raise money to support the school?" he asked.
She seemed very relaxed now; they were really hitting it off and they felt comfortable in each other’s company.
"My grandma back in Miami used to send me money each month."
"I see. Rosa, where do your parents live?"
"I haven’t seen them since I was a very little girl,” she replied. “I remember my mum – she had long wavy hair – but I can’t really remember my dad. My grandmother doesn’t talk much about my parents."
"Do you have any pictures of them?" he asked, hoping he sounded casual.
Mellowed out from the drink, Rosa didn’t find the question odd at all, and she opened her purse to take out a little photograph of a woman.
"This is my mother."
"She is very pretty,” Pedro said, glancing quickly at the photo. “What happened to her?"
"All I can remember is that when I was little, my mum would take me to the park every week. There was a small group of people there every time. It was the first time that I listened to Latin music – they had this old-fashioned record player that they kept playing. Ever since it’s been in my head, even now. I remember people used to pass by and watch what I was doing. They would meet every week and just sit around having coffee, and sometimes they danced a little to the music."
Pedro said it reminded him of when he was a little boy back in Argentina: of Sunday afternoons at the Plaza Dorrego in Buenos Aires, in his neighbourhood of San Telmo. "We would all go there and watch the people dancing the tango. Sometimes it’s nice to remember those good times, though there's something disturbing about recalling a warm memory and hoping you feel good afterwards."
"I know what you mean,” Rosa agreed. “They’re mostly sad memories for me, though. I remember a man who would keep talking to my mum. He was in his thirties, with long wavy black hair, and he always wore a short bla
ck leather jacket. He drove a brown Mustang car. As he would drive away, he would wave to Mum."
She remembered sometimes that her mum would cry as they walked back home. One morning, she’d got up late for school, and when she came down the stairs, her grandma was in the kitchen baking bread. "Rosa, you’re up," she’d said.
She asked her grandmother where her mum was; she had a really bad feeling that something was wrong.
"Rosa, Mama has gone away for a couple of days."
She burst into tears straight away, knowing deep down that something had happened. “Where’s she gone?"
"Rosa, please don't worry, I am going to look after you," Grandma said.
Rosa looked over at Pedro. "There was another person sitting with my grandma: a tall man with glasses. It looked like he had one leg shorter than the other when he stood up – it was as if he was standing at an angle. He just smiled at me and told me not to worry, that everything would be alright. Grandma told me to go and wait in the other room, and I could hear her asking how long it would take. The man said he would have to wait at least five to ten years before he could do anything. I have always wondered what they meant, but my grandma always used to say to me that one day I would be proud of my mama and papa. This always used to make me feel happy, as it meant that one day my parents would come back."
Pedro nodded slowly. "Rosa, how did you manage to come over to Britain?" he asked.
"My grandma helped me a lot to become a dancer; she made me join the local dance club, where there was an opportunity to enter competitions. She used to say to me that one day I would be a great dancer. She told me I should go to Europe as the best of the best were there, and I was incredibly excited at the thought: I loved dancing, and I started thinking that maybe I could fulfil my dreams there.”
She sighed, smiling at Pedro. “It was my eighteenth birthday party, I remember it well. My grandma gave me an envelope, and all my friends were sitting around the table. They all watched as I opened the letter and took out a shiny blue form, which turned out to be a one-way ticket to London. I didn't know what to say, I just smiled and said thanks to grandma. Her friends cheered, and Max, my boyfriend, just smiled and nodded his head. The next week I was on the plane to London. I've lived in London for seven years now, and I still love every minute of it. I thought my dreams were ridiculous, and never imagined they could come true, or that I could feel this way.” She smiled again, shrugging. “I tried not to worry too much, but it was hard.”
The Assassin's Keeper Page 23