Renaldo

by James McCreath

  “Oh no, not again. It’s my turn this time! You said you would share,

  man. It’s not fair!” Ramon Vida called out after his Argentine cohort who had

  trapped the pass. Vida lay on his stomach, facing the Polish goal twenty yards

  away, the defender Wroclaw sprawled underneath him. He was yelling at the

  black numerals ‘one-seven’ on the back of his teammate’s jersey.

  Renaldo De Seta was in the right place at the right time again. Dead

  center of the field, square on the penalty spot. Red-clad defender Jacek Poznan

  closed to intercept the intruder, but the boy turned to his right, then put on

  the brakes.

  The Pole was running at full speed and could not stop when the Argentine

  feinted. Poznan overshot his mark, then made a vain attempt to reach back for

  the ball with a lunging left leg. A stationary Renaldo watched the twirling

  sphere rotate ever so slowly at his feet. He took one glance goalward, then

  merely let swing his own left leg.

  Poland’s keeper moved too late. His feetfirst dive at the ball resembled

  someone jumping into a swimming pool. The shot was past him to his left

  before he could get his arms in the outstretched position. Rising only inches

  off the turf, Renaldo De Seta’s sure blast came to rest in the mesh at the rear

  corner of the Polish net. Argentina 2, Poland 0. An earthquake of jubilation

  shook the entire country.

  Mallory Russell could only stare in awe at the spectacle taking place a

  few tables to her left in the Café Inglaterra. She had never seen one man devour

  so much food while holding what seemed to be some sort of continual press

  conference. People with notepads and tape recorders were shown one by one

  to his table, where they were encouraged to stand and listen to the gospel

  espoused by this terribly large and ebullient man.

  Only the waiters who cleared and then restocked the table interrupted the

  dialogue. The regular morning diners had all but deserted the café’s comfortable

  confines, and tables were being quickly reset for the noon meal, except for

  the two occupied by Mallory Russell, her father, and the much sought-after

  epicurean.

  Mallory knew from the Spanish she was able to decipher that the man

  was connected with the World Cup Tournament in some way, but she had been

  unable to determine exactly how. Curiosity had gotten the best of Reginald

  Russell, who sought out the maître d’ to reveal the hungry one’s identity. He

  was all smiles when he returned to join Mallory at the table.

  3

  JAMES McCREATH

  “You won’t believe our luck, my dear. It seems that our breakfast companion

  is some big shot from Buenos Aires. But no ordinary big shot. The man is the

  chairman of Newton’s Prefects, who happen to be the current Argentine first

  division champions. But it gets better! He is also the personal manager of that

  boy, De Seta. You know, the one that scored both the goals for Argentina last

  night. What was his given name? You wrote it on your notepad, didn’t you?”

  “Renaldo, Renaldo De Seta. Young, only nineteen. Has never played a first

  division game. Came to the National Team directly from their feeder system.

  There is next to nothing in the team’s biographical information about him.”

  As usual, Mallory Russell had done her homework in her signature

  thorough fashion. She knew the names and statistics of every player who

  remained in the hunt for the sport’s ultimate prize. The Russells were looking

  for a few diamonds in the rough to take back to England with them, and both

  Reggie and Mallory had spent hours of preparation prior to and following their

  arrival in South America. Both were determined that they would not go home

  empty-handed.

  “I tipped the maître d’ to get us an audience with Señor Glutton before

  he departs. Judging by the food still left on his table, we should have plenty

  of time.”

  Several minutes later, an impeccably turned out gentleman ventured to

  the Russell’s table.

  “Herr Wolfgang Stoltz at your service. I am Astor Gordero’s executive

  assistant. The maître d’ informed me that you have requested a few minutes of

  Señor Gordero’s time. May I be of assistance, for as you can see, Señor Gordero

  is in great demand this morning.”

  A warm smile rained down upon the seated Anglos as Stoltz finished

  his introduction and glanced admiringly at his pontificating employer. Reggie

  Russell rose from his seat and handed the visitor his card.

  “Sir Reginald Russell of London, England, Herr Stoltz. A pleasure to meet

  your acquaintance. This is my daughter, Mallory.”

  The gorgeous blonde lady extended her right hand. Stoltz held it tenderly

  and brought it to his lips. A slight click of his heels accompanied the respectful

  gesture.

  “An honor, my Lady.”

  “Would you be so kind as to join us for a moment, if you can spare the

  time, Herr Stoltz?”

  “My pleasure, to be sure, my Lord,” responded the German as he drew

  another chair to the Russells’ table.

  “We were wondering, Herr Stoltz, as to the status of one of Señor Gordero’s

  clients. The young soccer star, Renaldo De Seta. You see, Mallory and I operate

  a first division professional soccer organization in London. You may have heard

  38

  RENALDO

  of the Canary Wharf Football Club if you are a fan of the game. Are you a fan,

  Herr Stoltz?”

  “Most definitely so, my Lord. I attended last evening’s festivities. A

  triumphant occasion! I am also well aware of the great history and past glory

  of the Canary Wharf Football Club. Any student of the game would recognize

  that name. You are newly promoted to the top division, is that not so?”

  Reggie Russell was reassured by the stranger’s knowledge of things

  ‘English,’ and at the same time, put at ease by his comfortable manner and

  openness.

  “Tell me, if you don’t mind my Lord, what did you think of the atmosphere

  at the stadium? Did you feel safe attending the game? I am very interested to

  know your thoughts on our country, as well as on our football players.”

  The three soccer fanatics launched into a candid half-hour discussion

  on a myriad of topics. Football was always the cornerstone of each segment.

  Throughout the thirty minutes, the central theme would continually revolve

  back to the handsome Argentine footballer with the prolific scoring touch.

  Renaldo De Seta had been discovered!

  Stoltz, for his part, was impressed with the gentleman’s astuteness

  regarding Argentina’s culture, politics, and sports. But it was the sculpted

  beauty of the lady’s fine features and the cultured lilt of her accent that really

  enthralled him. It became evident to Stoltz that this woman was no vapid piece

  of fluff from the first time she opened her mouth to speak. The German found

  himself hoping that his employer would continue to lecture the two journalists

  that had become his latest attentive audience for a considerably longer period.

  “I like to think of myself as a ‘facilitator’ more than anything else,” a

  thoroughly satisfied Astor Gordero mu
sed to his new English acquaintances.

  “It would seem that these days, I am forced to wear many different hats, but

  whatever function I am performing, I always strive to facilitate a conclusion

  that is of benefit to all the parties involved. I have spent my life putting people

  together and facilitating supply and demand. I practice law only to ease the

  transactions to their happy endings. That is my calling. That is what I enjoy

  most in life, the transfer of knowledge and currency. I have thought about

  entering politics many times, to perhaps facilitate on a grander scale, but in

  reality, I operate more effectively on the fringes of the system. Bipartisan,

  that kind of thing. A facilitator must always be flexible, ready to adapt to the

  moment.”

  39

  JAMES McCREATH

  Gordero paused to sip his cappuccino and pulled a chained pocket watch

  from his vest. His raised eyebrows attested to his sudden concern. He addressed

  his European guests once more.

  “At this moment, my Lord and Lady, I, like yourselves, am consumed with

  the evolution of this football tournament. I have lingered far too long in the

  glow of last night’s achievements. This country has a ‘what have you done for me

  lately’ attitude. There are many factors that combine themselves into making

  a championship team, and I operate by leaving as few of them to chance as I

  can manage. I must, therefore, be off to consult with manager Suarez. You are

  interested in young De Seta, is that correct? Herr Stoltz informed me briefly. A

  very fine choice of talent. Young, raw, impetuous, with great natural skills. He

  could be trained to adapt to your style of soccer. I have always said that he plays

  the game as if his head and feet are one!”

  As The Fat Man attempted to stand, Stoltz appeared out of nowhere,

  grasped his employer under both arms from the rear, and literally hoisted him

  to his feet.

  “Here is my card with my local phone number. I will be in Rosario

  until matters dictate a return to Buenos Aires. Perhaps we can have a cocktail

  together and further our discussions. Are you guests of this hotel?”

  “Most assuredly so, Señor Gordero. We occupy suite 358. Allow me to

  present you with my card and credentials. To further our relationship, it would

  be our distinct pleasure to offer you dinner at the establishment of your choice.

  Shall we say tomorrow night?”

  Lord Russell was quick to capitalize on the one weakness to which his new

  Latin friend obviously was prone.

  “Dinner, tomorrow evening? Are we clear, Stoltz?”

  The German produced a trim, leather daybook from his breast pocket,

  pulled the red ribbon marking the current week, and ran his index finger down

  the column for June fifteenth.

  “General Ustedes requested an evening meeting to discuss stadium

  security at the local Officer’s Club. Your acceptance is still pending.”

  Stoltz left the last statement dangling in the air.

  “The Officer’s Club, my God, I’ve dined there before. It’s a miracle that

  I am still alive after eating the garbage that they pass off as food. Send my

  regrets to the general! Lord Russell, I would be more than happy to accept your

  offer. Shall we say Ristorante Borgo Antico at nine o’clock? It is on Avenida

  Ricardone. A short cab ride. I must be off now. Until tomorrow then, a pleasure

  my Lady, my Lord.”

  The maître d’ and waiters had formed a line of revue past which their

  famous patron quickly departed. Stoltz, haven taken leave of the English,

  discreetly slipped an envelope stuffed with currency to the maitre d’ as he

  followed his employer past the formally clad servers.

  380

  RENALDO

  “A ‘facilitator’ is he now? What a fancy term for a fat tub-o’- lard,” Reggie

  Russell commented half under his breath as the South Americans left the

  room.

  “Easy now, father. Let’s not form hasty opinions. Señor Gordero might

  just be the one man that could facilitate respectability for the Canary Wharf

  Football Club. Let’s give him a chance to prove that he can do more than pack

  away the groceries.” Mallory’s warm smile and clear logic melted the old man

  once again.

  “I suppose you are right. What have we got to lose? Why don’t we prepare

  a short list of prospects that are acceptable to us and present them to the great

  facilitator tomorrow evening? If he truly loves to wheel and deal, we will give

  him ample opportunity to produce ‘a conclusion that is beneficial to all the

  parties involved.’”

  381

  Chapter twenty-Five

  Five days had passed since Lonnie and Celeste’s arrival at camp No Se

  Preocupe in Tigre. They had been able to slip out of the capital by bus

  and train during the Argentina-Italy soccer game on the night of June

  tenth. Every living soul they encountered on their journey had only one focus

  that evening, ‘the match.’ No one gave the two fugitives a second glance.

  Still, Lonnie was careful not to leave a trail directly to the camp. The part-

  time local resident had been insistent that he and Celeste walk from the train

  station in Tigre to their new hideout. Those people hunting the terrorists might

  ask questions of an unsuspecting cabbie. The train station could be staked out

  by any number of adversaries at this very moment.

  They arrived at the camp shortly after midnight. June was a slow period

  at the facility, and Lonnie had no trouble breaking into a remote cabin

  undetected. Because of the football match, there was a good chance that the

  night watchman might be less observant on his rounds, if he chose to work at

  all. The old cabin was one of the original dormitories and still contained cots,

  mattresses, and blankets. With any luck, they could stay unnoticed for a day or

  two, long enough for Lonnie to snip and shave away the vestiges of his shabby

  former persona.

  Celeste was not in good shape. She talked incessantly about a plan to find

  Serge, and Lonnie had to keep reminding her that their own survival remained

  the most pressing matter. To find her brother, they would have to expose

  themselves, and Lonnie knew one thing for certain. It was not Serge Lavalle

  that was being hunted as the ‘Attractive Assassin,’ it was Lonnie De Seta! His

  trail was getting hot, and it was all he could do to keep the two of them alive

  and free.

  By June the fourteenth, four days later, they were still undetected by

  anyone on the campground. It seemed that the entire complex had been shut

  down for the World Cup Tournament. There was some activity during the

  day at the administrative office, but there were no patients, nurses, or other

  staff to be seen. Even the exterior maintenance men were nowhere to be found.

  Everyone in the entire country was focused on ‘the show.’

  Lonnie’s physical transformation had been swift and startling. Clean-

  shaven and hair close-cropped, he bore no resemblance at all to any of his

  former identities. His hair had never been this short. He liked it, especially

  after the flee-bitten locks that he had worn for the last several months.

  JAM
ES McCREATH

  The fugitive had walked into town under the cover of darkness the night

  following their arrival, then had hidden in the bushes until the groceteria

  opened at eight a.m. He filled two rucksacks with essentials, then headed

  cautiously back to the camp.

  He took to the woods wherever possible, keeping out of sight and avoiding

  all contact. His money was almost gone, and he knew that he had to think out

  the next move in this chess game for survival.

  The one distraction that took Lonnie’s mind off his own predicament

  was the amazing good fortune of his brother, Renaldo. The newspapers were

  singing the boy’s praises, especially since the team had done so poorly against

  Italy without him in the lineup. It was certain that he would play against the

  Poles, or so the press was speculating. Strangely, there was almost as much ink

  concerning his good looks as there was about his football ability.

  “Matinee Idol of River Plate!” screamed one tabloid sports page. There

  was a picture of Renaldo accompanying the story, and it was obvious that it

  had been taken prior to his run-in with Torok’s elbow. The more current photos

  showed a somewhat swollen beak and dark circles under his eyes, which seemed

  to add a masculine roughness to the boy’s features. The result was an even

  sexier young football star, according to many female fans interviewed in that

  same tabloid. Lonnie noted that Ramon Vida was number two with the ladies

  in the beefcake sweepstakes.

  Renaldo and Ramon have a lot of high expectations to live up to, both on and off the

  field, Lonnie mused as he tuned in his erratic portable radio to the Argentina-

  Poland game from Rosario.

  “I hope this little piece of junk doesn’t let me down tonight! Come on,

  baby, be good to daddy. I went and bought brand-new batteries for you. Be a

  good baby and work for daddy Lonnie!”

  The gentle coaxing achieved positive results, and an ecstatic Lonnie De

  Seta continued to cradle the radio’s black form lovingly in his arms two hours

  later.

  “Two goals! My God, I can’t believe it! Two! I knew all along he was pretty

  good, but this, two goals for Argentina in the World Cup, unbelievable!”

  He was talking to no one in particular, for Celeste had long since retired to

  the far end of the dormitory, his screams of delight having woken her twice.