Breaking Lorca

by Giles Blunt

  A drop of sweat splashed onto the paper, blurring the word blood. Victor was sweating profusely, even though the room was cool. Another drop fell, smearing the word screams. He slid open the balcony door a little, letting the rain hit his face. Lightning briefly lit up the street below like a flashbulb. He breathed in the cool night air; smells of concrete and rain and car exhaust filled the room. Somewhere a horn was stuck, and angry voices shouted.

  He read over what he had written. I turned the power up past three. Her screams were terrible. He tried to write in point form, in chronological order, but his brain flashed with images, as if illuminated by the storm outside.

  A knock at the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me.” Strange, how he had come to love her cracked, unattractive voice. “It’s Lorca.”

  He opened the door a few inches.

  “I was nervous,” she said. “The storm. May I come in?”

  “Let me come to your room in a little while. An hour or so. Just now I am writing my testimony. Trying to work up some courage.”

  “I won’t disturb you. I will sit quietly.”

  Those terrible sentences-he would never be able to write them with Lorca in the room. “Give me one hour,” he said. “Maybe not even so long.”

  The brown eyes went hard and cold. She left the doorway, and a moment later her door slammed.

  With hesitations and crossings out, honesty took much longer than he had anticipated. He wanted to write simple statements of fact, but the facts were disgusting. We starved her for three days, and then I fed her a meal full of cockroaches.

  He rewrote everything in chronological order, from his induction into the special squad to his desertion at Fort Benning. Point by point, he described what had been done to Lorca, to Labredo and to the real Ignacio Perez. By the time he was finished, he had filled eight foolscap pages. He signed the last one with his real name, Victor Pena.

  “Victor Pena,” he muttered to himself. “Victor Pena, coward and torturer.” Victor Pena. Victor Pena felt numb. Victor Pena felt like a man whose home has exploded before his eyes. Destruction beyond his comprehension.

  He sat in silence for some time.

  “Nothing,” he said aloud, he didn’t know why. And a little later, “Zero.”

  Through his reflection in the window, he saw that the rain had slowed. He switched off the desk lamp and his face disappeared. Now he could see clearly into the hotel across the street. On the second floor there was some sort of fancy party in progress. Black waiters in white jackets served champagne from silver buckets. No one had told Victor that Washington was such a black city; he had never seen so many black people in his life, not even in New York. Whenever you saw Americans in El Salvador, they were white.

  Music drifted over from the party, Brazilian music it sounded like. He could see some of the horn players on a stage at one end of the ballroom, and several couples dancing. The scene was framed in the window like a painting, and wishing you were in it was futile. The happy scene was inaccessible to anything but longing.

  The higher floors were mostly dark. Perhaps it was a slow week, perhaps everyone was at the party. In a corner room a man in shirt sleeves was talking on the phone. In another, a room-service waiter arranged a vase of flowers. Then a light went on, two rooms over, revealing a man with binoculars.

  At first Victor thought the man was looking directly at him, and he shrank from the window. His own light was out-the watcher could not possibly see him-but Victor moved behind his curtain anyway. The man was wearing a cream-coloured suit and a red tie. He had a moustache, and he was talking to someone, gesticulating with his free hand. The binoculars were trained to one side, on the corner of Victor’s own hotel or on something beyond it.

  A peeping Tom? Such a creature would not be likely to chat with a confederate as he stared, however. Perhaps a thief, sizing up a prospective target.

  The man jabbed the air for emphasis. He does that just like my uncle, Victor thought. Then the man turned slightly, lowering the binoculars.

  “Mother of God,” Victor said. “Oh, dear Mother of God.”

  The man watching his hotel was Captain Pena. Victor had no sooner recognized him than the room across the street went dark and a second man joined his uncle at the window. The light from the street below distorted their features, but it was bright enough to see that the second man was about six inches taller than the Captain.

  “Mother of God,” Victor muttered again. It made perfect sense, of course, if Captain Pena were planning to kill someone. Oh, yes. If the Captain intended to kill someone, Tito would be the man to bring. Tito would be just the man you’d want.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  How he yearned for peace. Here he was in this great city-he could only compare it to visiting Rome at the peak of the Roman Empire-and instead of seeing the sights with his wife and children at his side, he was holed up in a hotel room with a thug.

  “It looks like she’s gone out,” Tito said.

  “She has not gone out. She is taking a shower, fixing her makeup, who knows. She has not gone out.”

  “So, why don’t we pay her a visit right now. Give her the business. Take the rest of the night off.” Tito put on a waiter’s voice. “Good evening, senorita! Room service!”

  Captain Pena shook his head, keeping his eyes on the corner room across the street. “We’ll stick to the plan. We do it outdoors.”

  “Why that bitch is still alive I will never understand.”

  “She is still alive because the former Corporal Pena is a world-class idiot. Not too many soldiers could miss a prisoner at point-blank range.”

  “He is your nephew, Captain. Otherwise, I would cross the street and kill the little scum right now. On the spot.”

  “Sergeant, we will stick to the plan, and you will follow my orders.” This constant reining in of thugs with guns, it got to be exhausting. How he hated the war.

  “Where is that coward now? His light’s gone out.”

  “He was writing at the desk for two hours. Now he is taking a nap. Gone out somewhere. It doesn’t matter. It’s the woman we want.”

  “I still say we go over there, fix that bitch right now. Take care of it quick and dirty. Fuck this waiting.”

  “It’s too early. There are people everywhere. We will visit Miss Viera in due time, sergeant. Take over for me now.” He handed the binoculars to Tito and went into the bedroom to use the phone. He called his embassy first and by prior arrangement had them patch the call through. That way, the Hilton’s phone record would show only a local call. “Hello, my sweetheart,” he said. “What are you doing up at this hour?”

  “Mommy said we could stay up until you called.”

  “She did, eh? Things have taken a liberal turn in my absence. I’ll have to talk to your mother about that.”

  “Where are you, Daddy? Why don’t you come home?” The other twin was on the other line now. He smiled at his mental image of the two of them, their dark hair shining from the bath and smelling of shampoo. They would be in their matching pyjamas: elephants and leopards.

  “Daddy’s working. You know I have to work long hours sometimes. I hope you’ve brushed your teeth.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And don’t forget to say your prayers. Put your mother on now.”

  “Hello, soldier. Your little girls certainly miss you.”

  “I miss them too.”

  “All your girls miss you. How is the war treating you?”

  “A little slow at the moment. I was thinking of you, wondering what you were up to without me.”

  “I was hemming my new dress. The girls are impossible when you’re away. Such moods!”

  “Like their mother.”

  “It’s true. I wish they could be even-tempered like you. My life would be much easier. Where are you, Eduardo? I know I’m not supposed to ask.”

  “No, you’re not. What’s happened to my army wife?”

  “She’s fe
d up with being an army wife. It’s when you’re away that I worry the most. That’s when I think the worst. Are you far away?”

  “Very far. I can’t tell you where.” Security, discipline, these were not usually so difficult for Captain Pena, and it surprised him how badly he wanted to tell his wife where he was. He wanted to tell her he had seen the Washington Monument today, and the Lincoln Memorial. More than anything, he wanted to tell her he had seen the White House. She would be so envious. But all he said was, “I wish you were here with me, darling.”

  “Really? You never say that, Eduardo.”

  “Usually there is danger when I am travelling. This place is different. Here, there is no danger.”

  Tito rapped on the door. “Something happening, Captain.”

  “Duty calls, darling. Kiss the girls for me.”

  “Promise me you’ll be careful. I want you back in one piece.”

  Captain Pena made his promises, sent his hugs, kisses and blessings down the telephone line, and joined Tito in the other room.

  “She yanked the curtains suddenly. I thought you should know. It looked like something was up.”

  “Her light is still on. Probably she just got out of the shower. Didn’t want nasty voyeurs like you looking in.”

  “Hah. I saw her skinny little tits when she pulled the curtain. There! You can see her shadow when she moves in front of the light. What if she doesn’t go out, Captain? What if she decides to stay in?”

  “We’re in Washington, sergeant. She won’t be able to resist going out.”

  “She might play it safe. Stay in her hotel room all night.”

  “Suppose a fire alarm were to go off? A diversion of some sort. Outdoors is best, but if we have to, we will simply cross the street and make a little social call.”

  “I can’t wait to fix that bitch. Teach her to testify.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  As he backed away from the windows, Victor’s knees shook beneath him. Still a coward, he thought, no matter how I spell my name. He went down the hall to Lorca’s room and banged on the door. “Lorca!” He tried to open it, but it was locked. He could hear the hiss of the shower.

  A room-service waiter trundling a cart eyed him suspiciously, and Victor took the elevator to the ground floor.

  Beyond the lobby, a corridor led to various business suites and conference halls. Two men in identical blue suits sat at a table, partially blocking the hall. From the suite of rooms behind them, eager voices issued. Victor told the guards he needed to see Bob Wyatt.

  “You have some identification, sir?”

  “No. I am a witness at tomorrow’s hearing. I have to speak with Mr. Wyatt. An urgent matter. Can you find him for me?”

  “I’m not paid to find people. I’m paid to keep unauthorized persons out of this area. Now, unless your name is on my list-”

  A small knot of people came out of one door and crossed the hall toward another. Wyatt’s booming voice filled the hall, even though he was almost hidden behind a glossy young man with very thick hair and a beautiful pinstripe suit. Victor called out over the heads of the security guards, “Bob! Bob, I must speak with you!”

  Two lines of annoyance formed between Wyatt’s luxurious brows. “What is it, Ignacio? I’m busy.”

  Victor motioned him away from the crowd, away from the security guards.

  Wyatt cursed under his breath. “Ignacio, really. I don’t have time for this now.”

  “Lorca is in danger. Men from the little school are here. They are watching us from across the street.”

  Bob gave a short, skeptical laugh. “In Washington? Get a grip, Ignacio. I understand you’re nervous, but let’s not get totally paranoid. I’ll see you a little later. We’re planning strategy here.”

  “Your strategy won’t be worth anything if your best witness dies. They are here, Bob. They are right across the street.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake. How could they possibly know Lorca is here? How could they even know she’s alive?”

  Victor waved his hands at the crowded hall. “Obviously because you told everyone in the world. We have to hide her, keep her somewhere safe until tomorrow.”

  “I can’t leave now. We’re wrapped up in strategy here. If you want to take it up with the reception desk, go ahead.”

  The pinstriped young man had been moving closer as they spoke. Now he laid a cautioning hand on Wyatt’s arm. “Couldn’t help but hear, Bob. If this man has legitimate security concerns, we should take them straight to Greg.” He shook hands with Victor. “Roger Carey, chief coordinator.”

  Competence shone from the young man’s features; he had the smile of a Kennedy. Victor shook his hand with relief.

  “Come on, I’ll take you through. It’s okay, guys,” he said to the guards. Then, to Victor: “Greg is our security wizard. Actually, he’s the Senator’s security wizard. State Department coughed him up.”

  The three of them passed through a living room full of flowers and fruit, as if someone were in hospital. The bedroom next to it had been converted into an office where students typed at computers and talked urgently into telephones. Carey rapped on the next door. “Greg! It’s Roger!”

  A voice told him to enter.

  “Give me a second,” Carey said, flashing his Kennedy smile, and slipped into the room.

  Wyatt turned on Victor. “How did you recognize these so-called hit men? I thought you were blindfolded at the little school. How did you see them, Ignacio? How can you possibly recognize them now?”

  “They took my blindfold off for the land transfer ceremony. Believe me, I can recognize them.”

  “From that one instance? Are you sure, Ignacio?”

  “My name is not Ignacio.”

  The furry brows contracted. A meaty paw rose to stroke the great beard. “Oh, really. Really. That’s interesting. That’s extremely interesting. Maybe you’d like to tell me-”

  Carey appeared at the door again and beckoned them inside.

  “So what the hell is your name?” Wyatt hissed as they went inside.

  A man was on the phone, his back to them. He swivelled from side to side in a chair with a high back, so that all they could see of him was his hair-flat, blond, schoolboyish. It was the colour of corn and flashed each time he swivelled toward the desk lamp. “Is that so?” he was saying on the phone. “Is that what he thinks?”

  Victor tried to get a better look at him, but Wyatt’s bulk was blocking his view. Wyatt turned to him now and said, “You’re going to have to explain yourself, you know.”

  “Everything will be explained. Just now, Lorca is more important.”

  Carey watched them quizzically. The blond man was still hammering at the same point on the phone. “Well, you ask him this,” he was saying. “You just ask that son of a bitch who does he think is paying the bills down there.”

  His words flicked a switch in Victor’s memory. He could not immediately place the phrase, but it sent his nerves, already straining at the top notes of fear, up another semitone.

  “No, you ask him,” the man was saying into the phone. “Just you ask him: who does he think’s paying the bills down there?”

  The flat blond hair flashed again, and Victor remembered now. The American had said those same words to Lorca. They had echoed harshly off the tile walls of the little school: “Who do you think pays the bills around here?”

  The phone was slammed down.

  The man swivelled around and introduced himself to Wyatt. “Greg Wheat. What can I do for you?”

  Carey answered for him. “Gentleman here thinks he saw some personnel from El Salvador. Military personnel.”

  “Who did?” He aimed a thin finger at Wyatt. “You? You’re personally familiar with the El Salvador military?”

  “Not me,” Wyatt said. “Ignacio here thinks he saw them.” He turned to indicate his annoying charge, but the space where he had been standing just a moment ago was empty.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Lorca ope
ned the door tentatively, and Victor pushed his way past her. “Pack your things,” he said. “We’re moving.”

  Lorca’s hair was still wet from the shower and clung to her neck in a damp tangle. She frowned at him. “Moving?”

  “There’s no time to talk. Just pack. Where’s your suitcase?” He found the suitcase in her closet and threw it on the bed. He started heaving her clothes into it: her good shoes, a sweater, the dress she had chosen for her appearance before the committee. “Are there things you need in the bathroom?”

  Lorca stood frozen in the middle of the room. Shadows he had not seen for weeks darkened her face. She opened her mouth to speak, the jagged tooth visible.

  Victor grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “Lorca, now!”

  “They have come for me,” she said dully.

  “Yes. They have come for you. For both of us. The Captain and one of the men. There may be others.”

  “I knew they would come. I knew from the beginning.”

  “Lorca, get your shoes on. We have to move.”

  She sat on a chair and reached blindly for her shoes. She started to put one on, stopped, and looked up at him. Then the question came, as he had known it must come. “How did you recognize them, Ignacio?”

  “I saw them at the deed ceremony. It does not matter. The point is, they are in the hotel across the street. Right this minute. Watching this room.”

  “They allowed you to see their faces?”

  “Mother of God, Lorca, we have to go!”

  “You were blindfolded. All of us were blindfolded.”

  “Lorca, I was not blindfolded at the deed ceremony. Will you please tie your shoes?”

  “You saw their faces, and they didn’t kill you? This I don’t believe.”

  “Fine. Stay and die.”

  Still she did not move. Behind the dark, frightened eyes, facts and suspicions were clicking into place. Victor could almost hear it, the sound of her world reconstituting itself.