planning stage of the cadre’s new operations. That Lonnie was so thoroughly
brainwashed into the cause of the people’s revolution was, in part, due to her
oratorical skills and, in part, due to her oral skills. Rhetoric was always followed
by passionate lovemaking, and she knew that it was her skill as a lover more
than his passion for politics that kept Lonfranco De Seta a member of the
Montonero movement.
Lonnie never doubted any of the plans that Serge came up with. He was
like a big pussy cat, except for one nagging matter. The fledgling terrorist
wanted to prove that he was a worthy warrior, personally. The police station
operation seemed tailor-made for Lonnie to draw his first blood.
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JAMES McCREATH
The armored police personnel carrier arrived at its destination right on
schedule. Serge sat behind the wheel of the getaway vehicle, half a block away
from the front gates. On his lap lay a remote control detonator. Celeste was
covering the left flank on foot, thirty yards down the street from the car bomb.
Jean Pierre had taken up a similar position on the right flank. Lonnie was
sitting at the bar in a small café, directly across the street from the police
station gates. He wore a hat and dark glasses, concealing his face further by
engrossing himself in the daily newspaper. When he saw the police vehicle
approaching, he turned his back to the window in order to avoid flying glass.
The blast was deafening. Café patrons hit the floor as the walls of the old
building shook from the percussion. Lonnie was out the front door and across
the street in an instant, his Llama nine millimeter pistol at the ready.
Celeste and Jean Pierre converged on the armored vehicle at the same time
that Lonnie arrived. While the blast had been loud and devastating to nearby
buildings and passenger vehicles, it had only seared some paint off the side of
its intended target. The dazed driver and guard refused Lonnie’s threats to get
out of the cab and open the rear prisoners’ door. The cab’s doors and bulletproof
glass were intact, and there was no way that the two men on the inside were
setting foot on the outside. Jean Pierre was trying to force the rear door open
and having very little success when a frustrated Lonnie joined him.
“The driver has locked himself inside. I can’t get the keys. Ten seconds,
and we are out of here.”
His mute companion nodded in agreement. Celeste was busy with her can
of spray paint, while waiting for the first police reinforcements with her cocked
Uzzi ready for action. She didn’t have long to wait.
Just as the lady artist had completed her standard calling card on the
exterior wall of the prison, three uniformed officers rushed from inside the
compound toward the back of the vehicle. As soon as they opened fire on the
partially concealed terrorists that were trying to force the prisoner’s door ajar,
Celeste cut loose with her own automatic weapon.
It was no contest. The standard issue .38 caliber handgun that the officers
possessed was like a peashooter compared to the Uzzi. All three of the constables
fell in Celeste’s hail of lead. But there were more men on the way, too many
policemen to ward off. The prisoners’ door would not budge, and now it was
time to flee so that they could fight again.
Serge had pulled up in the getaway car, and the three pedestrians piled
through its doors. The squeal of rubber was intermixed with the pop-pop-
pop of the police revolvers. While they had been unable to rescue any of the
‘Disappeared’ from the clutches of the corrupt authorities, they had, at least,
managed to block the entrance to the compound with the armored vehicle. It
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would be several minutes before the police could follow in pursuit. Celeste took
one last glance at her handiwork as the car turned a sharp corner.
“One thing’s for certain, they know who was here!” she smiled.
The four revolutionaries abandoned the first escape car, then drove a second
vehicle casually to the boarding house in Tigre. Their mood was sullen and
the air was thick with frustration. It was the nonfamily member that finally
vocalized his dismay.
“Well, as I see it, we didn’t accomplish a damn thing today. No freed
prisoners, no cash, just three dead policemen. That is sure to bring the heat
down even harder. The people’s movement isn’t really benefiting in a tangible
way from our little escapades, are they? And I have done fuckall to help! We
have to do something that will make a difference. There must be something I
can do to make a difference!”
“Lonnie, remember that we are soldiers of the people, fighting against
terrible odds. Especially right now, with the security forces on the alert. We
have let them know that we exist, and that we are ready to kill and be killed for
the people. But I understand your frustration. You are a young Turk, anxious
to lose your virginity, draw your first coup. Well, I have just the job for you. I
will explain everything back at the boarding house.” Serge Lavalle spoke in an
almost fatherly tone to the anxious young buck.
As promised, less than five minutes after arriving back at their headquarters,
the cadre leader summoned his troops.
“Sit down at the table.”
Serge had retrieved a folder from the secret compartment of his suitcase.
The others joined Lonnie at the dining room table.
“Miguel Tobias Panzino, under secretary for economic coordination. Here
is his picture. Take a good look at it, study it. His job, Lonnie, is to distribute
funds to various government agencies, including the military and social services.
In other words, it is this man, and this man alone, that decides if the army gets
a new tank or farmers in a flood-stricken village get emergency aid.”
“Guns or butter, Lonnie! Remember, just like in my tutorials,” Celeste
interjected.
“That is right, guns or butter,” Serge continued. “But this bastard has
been in the pocket of the junta since they took power. Look at the military
spending increases in each of the last two years. Not only that, this man is
lining his own pockets. He is on the take. Government contracts also pass his
desk. They are available for a healthy deposit to the bank of Miguel Tobias
Panzino. Welfare and social benefits have been halved under this arrogant pig.
The people are suffering as a direct result of this man’s actions. Now, if he were
eliminated, the person replacing him might be inclined, primarily out of fear
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for his own life, to reconsider those allocations. The voice of the people will be
heard, Lonnie, and I am giving you the opportunity to be their spokesman.”
An electric current surged up Lonnie’s spine. This was it! A chance to
make a difference by simply squeezing the trigger of his Llama pistol. A hit! A
contract! An assassination! Viva la revolution!
He was euphoric as Serge detailed the particulars of their next exercise. It
would be necessary to change their base of operations immediately following
the hit, fo
r the two brothers had already stayed longer than most guests at the
boarding house in Tigre. To remain would only arouse suspicion.
There were already composite sketches of the Banco Nacional murderers
circulating the capital. The sketches were poor quality and bore no resemblance
whatsoever to the physical appearance of Serge and Celeste. He had cut his full
beard and was now clean-shaven. She had discarded the red wig, then cut her
natural dark curls and used peroxide to turn her remaining hair blonde. Only
Jean Pierre’s likeness was even close to the way he had appeared, and at that, it
was still highly flawed. But to stay in Tigre would be a mistake. The odds of
fooling the authorities and the townspeople were getting slimmer by the day.
The next morning’s newspapers were full of the horrors of the police
station bombing. The three officers had all been killed, a testament to Celeste’s
proficiency with a submachine gun. There was the usual outrage from high
officials, but there was also another denunciation by Adolfo Bertoni. Speaking
on behalf of not only the Montoneros, but for all people’s revolutionary activists,
the part-time coke dealer swore to wash his own dirty laundry and rid the
country of these killers.
The two-faced bastard! were the words that came to Serge Lavalle’s mind.
Bertoni reaffirmed that his own people were hot on the trail of these ‘rebels,’
and that they would shown no mercy if the real Montoneros found them first.
“We will do the job on Friday the eleventh, four days from now,” Serge
announced at their evening meeting. “It will be the start of his weekend. He
should be relaxed, off-duty, and somewhat off-guard. You will hit him in front
of his residence. He lives on a quiet street in Recoleta. We have four days to
perfect our schedule, memorize his routine, and find new accommodations for
us after the fact. Lonnie, we will need more money for cars and necessities. We
can go to your bank this afternoon, right after we do our first drive-through
Panzino’s neighborhood. Lonnie and I will set this one up alone. It is too
dangerous for us all to be in the capital together. Any questions?”
The excitement of his first real revolutionary act clouded the fact that
Lonnie was being used for exactly the purpose Celeste had recruited him
for. The new soldier just could not see the facts. He was financing the entire
operation through his personal bank account. He was now going to take the
fall if anything went awry with the pending assassination. Celeste had molded
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him into exactly the person that she had set out to create. She was aware of the
tremendous physical power she had over him. If football and politics didn’t
mix, no one could say the same for sex and politics!
At exactly five-thirty p.m. on Friday, April eleventh, the unfortunate
Miguel Tobias Panzino happened to step out of a brand-new Mercedes sedan
in front of his residence on Callao Avenue. Señor Panzino had a taste for fine
automobiles, and he had declined a chauffeur on this day to drive the vehicle
by himself. The spacious, walled casa was situated directly up the street from
Recoleta Cemetery. At that moment, the under secretary had no idea that he
would be taking up permanent residence there very shortly.
Panzino’s usual police escort, a precaution afforded to all high-ranking
government officials because of the recent surge in terrorist activities, had been
reduced to one police car. Serge had been right. The unsuspecting official must
have figured that a quiet weekend lay ahead, free from state or public business.
No need for extra security. A brief ride through the downtown streets from his
office and he would be safely home.
Serge Lavalle sat behind the wheel of the latest ‘terrorist taxi,’ as he called
the escape cars. Lonnie De Seta had moved from behind the large shrubs that
bordered the entrance drive to Señor Panzino’s casa. Serge could see the under
secretary wave the police car goodbye as he collected his briefcase and personal
effects. Lonnie, having seen the cruiser depart from his hiding place, was now
twenty paces up the driveway, quickly approaching his target.
Panzino was stooped over the backseat from the rear driver’s side door.
When he stood erect and turned to enter the house, his arms full of folders and
a large leather briefcase, he came face-to-face with the barrel of Lonnie’s Llama
pistol.
Miguel Tobias Panzino was not a brave man, and he was not above begging
for mercy in order to save his life. The official started to tremble, and a warm
wetness ran down his trouser leg.
“Please, Señor, do not shoot me. I have money I can give you, anything
you want! Stop, in God’s name. Do not shoot me. I have children. Oh, Holy
Mother of Jesus . . .” Panzino’s voice was rising in volume as he pleaded for his
life. The under secretary was virtually screaming by the time he uttered his
last word.
“This is for the poor people of Argentina, you military lackey. May your
soul rot in Hell!”
Lonnie was almost sorry that he had to pull the trigger. He was enjoying
the self-serving puppet’s discomfort so much. The single report of the pistol
reverberated throughout the neighborhood. The shot hit Miguel Tobias
Panzino squarely between the eyes, from a distance of six yards. The force of the
gunshot hurled him backwards into the rear door frame of the Mercedes, then
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rebounded his near lifeless body forward, directly into the arms of a surprised
Lonnie De Seta.
The terrorist noticed that there was very little blood evident on Señor
Panzino, only a peso-sized entry hole above the bridge of his nose. As he tried
to free himself from the dying man’s grasp, a screaming Señora Panzino came
flying through the front door of the casa.
“Assassin, you have shot my Miguel. Assassin!”
She was fast approaching the Mercedes. Lonnie turned the pistol on her.
The lady stopped dead in her tracks.
The temporary diversion was costly to the people’s soldier. With his dying
spasm, Miguel Tobias Panzino raised his right arm and managed to dislodge
Lonnie’s dark glasses and baseball cap. The shocked killer stood staring,
unmasked, at the newly widowed Señora Panzino.
“Assassin! I have seen your face! I will remember your face to my dying
day. Shoot me now, for I will never rest until I see you tortured and hanged!”
She spat on the drive in Lonnie’s direction.
Lonfranco De Seta could only stare blankly at this shrieking apparition.
His finger only had to squeeze the trigger once more and he would be rid of
this vile, threatening woman. The blast from Serge’s car horn shattered the
temporary silence.
“Soldier, get in the car, now!” Serge called out through the passenger
side window. Lonnie’s trigger finger seemed frozen, unable to react. He knew
that he should waste the bitch. She could now identify him. She could ruin
everything! But the rookie murderer could not kill a second time. He simply
lowered the Llama, turned, and walked slowl
y to the car.
The assassin’s last image of the scene in the Panzino driveway was of
Señora Panzino sobbing uncontrollably as she cradled her dead husband’s body.
That woman could be my undoing, Lonnie thought to himself as Serge hit the
accelerator.
The ‘terrorist taxi’ traveled only a few blocks until it was abandoned in
favor of another vehicle. That car then headed south on Del Liberator Avenue
straight into Boca. The rush hour traffic and early Friday night revellers made it
easy for the two people’s soldiers to meld in. The first stop was a pay telephone
booth, where Serge made a brief call to a local radio station.
“Listen to what I have to say and don’t talk. I am a member of the
Montonero cadre that has just assassinated the under secretary for economic
coordination, Miguel Tobias Panzino. He has been slain because he was a
member of the antipopular economic team of the military dictatorship. He has
committed economic atrocities against the underprivileged masses. The people
will rise against injustice. Viva la revolution!”
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The next stop was the room in Barracas, where Celeste would be
waiting.
“You did a dangerous thing back there by not killing that woman, Lonnie.
She saw your face, she can identify you. Man, you should have blown her away!”
Serge Lavalle lectured his neophyte killer.
The soldier sat pensively looking at his general. They were parked in
front of the nondescript transient hotel in Barracas that had become Lonnie
and Celeste’s new home. While Serge’s words echoed eerily through the small
vehicle, Lonnie’s thoughts were fixed on the words of the recently widowed
Señora Panzino.
“But you did well, Lonnie, you made a clean hit. The people of Argentina
will make you a hero for this. You are a true revolutionary now, so take pride
in your achievement.”
For some reason, Lonnie could find little solace in the praise of his leader.
Serge continued to address him.
“Be very careful now. Do not go out until you talk to me again. The heat
will be intense because of your actions. I will be in touch in a few days. Here,
take these. They will hide your face as you make your way to Celeste’s room.
Do not look at anyone, do not speak to anyone. If my guess is correct, your
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