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The private runway at the Diego Aracena airport was in worse condition than the commercial ones, as the airport's maintenance services did not take charge of it. That was one more way to make money from wealthy foreigners. They were provided with an airstrip, which was shared with thousands of private flights a year, and a hangar to store their aircraft, but they were required another maintenance fee.
The Beechcraft King Air landed with little effort, thanks to its powerful turboprops. Chacon had thought that this plane was a disproportionate waste for the company —which had invested almost six million in that bug— but the truth was that it had been amortized to a large extent. Being able to cross the world from end to another end in a few hours had facilitated their lives on many occasions. In addition, they had rented the plane for business flights many times, charging real fortunes for just a few days. After a quick stopover in Paris to pick up Mauro and refuel, they had taken off for Chile at four in the morning.
A Jeep Wrangler was waiting for them at the foot of the runway, and when they climbed down the ladder of the modern airplane the tropical heat hit them hard in the faces. Mauro, who had spent the whole trip without looking and manipulating his Beretta again and again, came out first, so excited that he looked like a kid on a trip. Chacón detested to travel, especially the ocean liners, but at least he had not woken up since leaving the French capital and was quite rested. The pilot signaled to them, confirming the plan to prepare the plane and to stay near the airport for a possible emergency takeoff. Chacón nodded.
The journey to Iquique was only fifty kilometers, but the old man felt worse in that car than in the whole flight by plane. The Jeep did not stop bumping into the bumpy road, and the driver —an Arican less than five feet tall— seemed to want to take them all.
—You, Chilote, could you not try to dodge at least one of those potholes? — The old man replied sullenly.
—Yes? — replied the man, who stopped looking at the road to turn around completely.
—Nothing, look at the road!
At noon, they were booking two luxury suites at the Terrato Hotel.
—What now? —Mauro asked anxiously.
—Now, my friend— answered Chacon smiling, patting him on the back—. Now let's go sightseeing. I have been told that here they prepare cocktails that take away the jet lag in one go.
****
He had spent most of the trip to Jurgen's house without opening his mouth. The German, nevertheless, talked endlessly about the wonders of his city. He explained to an absent Jonás that the architecture of the palaces that were huddled up in the old town possessed up to three styles as differentiated as the neoclassical, the Arab, and the North American colonial in their facades; that the port was a construction worthy of the best engineering, and that the long Chilean coast possessed one of the best coral areas in the world. Jonás nodded, but he was very far away.
—In response to what you're thinking— Jurgen interrupted, knowing what was in the young man's mind—. Anabel Santorini was once called Mariana Zaffaroni, daughter of the important judge Mauricio Zaffaroni. The couple was kidnapped in 1976 in Argentina by members of the Gladio in one of the many operations that Condor led. Years later, Mariana reappeared as Anabel Santorini, who had been adopted by a member of the intelligence service. She had lost her parents’ track years ago in a clandestine car center, and later she came to know that they had been transferred, and possibly killed in Uruguay. The material author was a member of the CIA, according to Delle Chievo, but everyone knew about the terrorist and his implications. Stefano took care of the kidnapping, but the girl's torture and the subsequent murder of her parents was taken over by a young man who had just started in the crime business, a boy named Mauro Delle Chievo.
—Holy Virgin!
—Yes, Holy Virgin— accepted the German—. Anabel has been chasing Mauro since Stefano left the business to his son, since he has been in a wheelchair for fifteen years, and for that he has thrown his career in the intelligence services into the trash; and practically his whole life.
—Yes, I know the obsessions that this organization has created since it began — Jonás said remembering his own family.
—The fact is that Anabel has unlimited resources and contacts, and in addition to Mauro, in her mind there was room for one more obsession.
Jonás looked at the pendant on Jurgen's neck, and he nodded.
—Anabel longs to take revenge on Mauro and get this— continued touching the medallion—. Possibly to disappear and start a new and safety life.
—Are you going to tell me once and for all why everyone wants that medallion? — Jonás was getting tired of Jurgen's mysterious aptitude.
—Jonás, I want you to know that I didn’t give it to Anabel or your father for a simple reason— the German had hardened his tone—. And it's for my own safety. The moment I lose this shield nobody assures me that I’ll not end up like everyone who has been involved in this story.
—I don’t want the pendant— Jonás explained—. Just understand this story and see how I can destroy those killers.
—My father, in his last years dedicated himself to two things in an almost obsessive way —he continued—. One was to give asylum to those who mattered him, former colleagues or relatives, and another was to distribute the Tiempos Libres’ fortune for hundreds of accounts in tax havens. As you know, my father was the intellectual part of the organization, and both Chacón, Gutiérrez and Delle Chievo were dedicated to killing and requisitioning. When my father got the light, he gradually distributed those possessions in banks around the world. He emptied the accounts and blocked them, distributing them on different diskettes; then he created one more, where he saved the unlock codes. Before dying, my father handed the account numbers to Anabel as payment for my safety, promising that they would be hers once I was safe and those murderers in jail or dead. I don’t know where those accounts are, but I do know where is the one that unlocks all the Tiempos Libres’ fortune.
Jonas remembered the pen driver on his jacket —and that he had kept in his friend's laptop case— and a cold sweat ran down his spine. His legs bended when he understood that his father had hidden it there when he realized that the murderer was going to kill him.
—For this reason, Jonás everyone is looking for this— he pointed his index finger at his neck—. Anabel to flee, and Chacón and the others because for more than thirty years they have been looking for the money that will allow them to start up a new dictatorship.
****
A storm had broken loose in his mind that threatened to make him lose his mind, but nevertheless he remained silent until they reached the promenade, from where the high facade of Jurgen's house could be seen at the end of the bay. He told himself that he should call Juandi as soon he got to the house and alert him about that memory stick. His friend and Rachel must be safe.
—How should we act now? —asked Jonás.
The German gave him a scrutinizing look and then watched the horizon as he walked along the promenade.
—I'm sorry about your father Jonah, but I'm not going to act in any way— he admitted—. My father left me this pendant to protect me and that it didn’t fall into the hands of someone you know, and until now it has been like that.
—But we must stop those murderers!
—I agree, but before you, others tried before, and with all my respects, now they are breeding mallows. I like my life here, my work and my freedom, and I'm not going to give up on that for putting three old men in jail, who at the most, they will have their penalties forbidden for being very old.
Jonás stopped, trembling with rage. The German stepped forward a couple of steps and turned to look at him. Instinctively he put his hand to the pendant.
—I understand your frustration, but if I get rid of this I am sure that I will end up with my bones on some beach, and my corpse devoured by seagulls.
—Sooner or later they will come for you.
—Yes, and when they do, the pendant will be very well hidden.
The young man quickened his step and passed the German, imprisoned by an internal fury that burned his insides and made his cheeks flush. They arrived at the villa without saying a word, and as soon as Jurgen opened the door, Jonás disappeared up the stairs, presumably to the guest room where the German had prepared a room for him. They spent the rest of the afternoon separated. Jurgen took the opportunity to rest for a while, and Jonás went to the beach in the middle of the afternoon— when the German was asleep— and he had not yet returned.
Jurgen had meditated on what he had told Jonah, and although he would have loved to possess the courage of the young man and go on a mad hunt for assassins and destroy secret organizations, he was not a brave man. He just needed his independence, to enjoy the second chance that life had given him, and to dedicate himself to having as little worry as possible, and that was to keep the memory stick.
It was almost eight in the afternoon, and although it was still at least an hour before it began to get dark, Jurgen began to worry about Jonás. He knew he had gone to the beach, because he was missing one of his swimsuits and a towel, and although the sea was calm, it became quite treacherous when it got dark. He noticed a certain emptiness in the stomach and decided to prepare an appetizer early before dinner to reconcile with the Spanish. He entered the kitchen and placed on one of the plates a smoked salad that he had left macerating two days before and cut some wedges of a great Argentine cheese. He heard the door when he was about to open a bottle of white wine and went out to greet the young man with two glasses. In the hall there were a man pointing a gun and an old man who had just sat on the couch.
—Man, wine! —he exclaimed cheerfully—. You know how to receive visitors well! Come on man, do not be shy, sit down with me.
The youngest made a gesture with the tip of the gun, telling him to do what he was being asked.
—Oh, don’t worry about the bottle— said the old man, taking the two glasses from his hands—. Mauro will take care of bringing it from the kitchen. Sit next to me and relax.
****
Jonás had seen the Jeep approaching down the avenue and two men that had come down from it and who he could not distinguish from the distance in which he was. He had spent the whole afternoon sitting in the mouth of the harbor, where the waves broke gently. From his position he could see the back porch of Jurgen's house, but he could not tell if the German had gotten up from his nap, and if he had, where he was.
The two men who had left the SUV headed towards Jurgen's house, stopping at the annexed houses they passed through. They seemed to look for a specific number. When they reached the at the point of the whitewashed facade of the German, Jonás lost sight of them —since from his position he could see the back, but not the front porch—. Stung by curiosity, he walked along the edge of the beach to the edge of the promenade, which led to the coast, where the white cloth tents seemed to have increased significantly. Beyond the breakwater the sand of the beach bustled with action, and you could glimpse some steaming grills prepared for dinner and several guitars singing melodies. Jonás approached cautiously, stuck to the retaining wall where the sand gave way to the cement of the promenade, and when he was right in front of the German's porch he went to the shore with the towel he had put on his shoulders and head in a protection mode. From there the interior of the kitchen could be seen, although only in part. He squinted so that the sun that was hiding on the horizon did not detract from his vision, but he could not see anything except the hammocks and the porch table. He cursed and approached— avoiding any kind of precaution— until he reached the wooden banister that connected with the stairs. The moment he climbed the first step to enter the house, a man made his appearance in the kitchen. Jonás threw himself on the ground, praying that he would not give him to inspect the porch. He heard him knock on the closet doors and grumble loudly. When he disappeared through the entrance to the living room, Jonás stood up in a hurry and ran as low as he could until he reached the top of the porch. From there he had a better view of the rest of the kitchen and part of the living room, which it could be seen through the opening of the partition. The man who had just left occupied most of his field of vision, standing with a bottle of wine in his hand, which he left with little care on the glass table. Immediately, a wrinkled hand took the bottle, and Jonás knew that those guys were the two men who had come down from the jeep. He had to act quickly.
He threw the slippers over the railing into the sand of the beach, and barefoot opened with all the touch that was able the sliding leaf of the window. The other sheet was open, but if he tried to enter there he would be exposed. If either of those two men had the idea of looking in his direction, he would be exposed.
He entered the house covered with the poor protection offered by a dishwasher, and from there he risked reaching the pantry. In that place, at least, he had a place to hide if they decided to make another trip to the kitchen for something more. He listened to the voices —which from that new position came clear and close to him— and felt an atrocious chill through his spine and settle into his heart when he heard the name of the man trying to find out what Jurgen possessed.
****
He filled both glasses of wine and offered him one. He waited while stirring the golden liquid in the glass and brought it to his lips. He clicked his tongue with satisfaction.
—Come on Jurgen— he said in a conciliatory way—. Or should I say Otto?
—I don’t know what you're talking about— the German restless defended himself—. Leave my house or I'll call the police.
—Oh, don’t worry, can I be familiar to you? I am a policeman! — Jurgen's face changed from fear to sheer terror—. Oh, not here, in this Third World country, or at this moment, but I was in Spain— he clarified—. Do you remember Spain Jurgen?
—I've never been there— he lied.
—If we are going to create a friendship relationship, we must show confidence towards each other —he expressed meekly—. If you want, I'll start, as the young people say, to break the ice.
Jurgen could not take his eyes from that face. Although he was old, in that face did not peek nor the slightest hesitation; those eyes —a little bulging— distilled a self-conceit from that one who knows that he will win the game.
—For example, what could I tell you? —he said pretending to think—. I have a collaborator that we both know, wow, what is called a common friend!
The German frowned, bewildered.
—But don’t make that face, if you know her! —he exclaimed amused—. Her name is Anabel.
At that time Jurgen broke down. Until that moment he had imagined who they were or what those men were looking for, but once the suspicion became certain, he collapsed. The old man took advantage of his moment.
—Come on Jurgen! —his indulgent tone became even more pronounced—. We haven’t come to drink your wine, but to talk as people with common friends.
Mauro began to get impatient and showed the Beretta clearly. He began to caress her, as if reassuring her.
—As soon as you give us what we have come to look for, we will go to enjoy this wonderful country of natives, and you can stay here peeling the turkey with those aborigines with whom you have sex.
—Take what you want— the German sobbed—. But don’t hurt me.
—Give me the codes— he asked threateningly.
—I don’t know what you're talking about— he answered hesitantly.
Mauro rushed forward on him with his pistol raised, but Chacon held him up with a wave of his hand. The Italian stared at the old man with a wild hatred.
—Jurgen, my patience has run out. We know that your father sent you here to get away from us, but you see, we have found you, and if in ten seconds you don’t start to cooperate, the efforts he made to protect you will not be of any use.
—You're right— he admitted—. I'm Otto's son, and I also know Anabel, but I don’t know what you're looking for. I hardly met my father, and I know nothing about any codes.
He tried to appear strong, but the trembling in his voice betrayed him, especially before an interrogator of the Chacon’s category. The old man gestured to Mauro, but he did not move. His eyes were fixed on the German, and his face exuded a hatred that that one of the people who yearn to do harm. Chacón got up and faced the Italian without saying a word, and shortly after, turning around and facing Jurgen.
—Go for a walk Mauro— he ordered bluntly—. Jurgen and I must catch up.
Without waiting for Mauro's answer, he took off his belt and waited for the Italian to leave the room to close the doors.
****
Jonás watched as Mauro approached to the kitchen and he barely had time to hide. He went as fast as he could into the buttery and half-closed the door, which hit his body and could not be completely blocked. He prayed that the Italian did not have hungry and wanted to make snack. Through the aperture he saw that the man crossed the kitchen without stopping and went out onto the porch. There he walked restlessly along the balustrade, until he leaned his elbows facing the horizon and pulled out a pack of tobacco. He pulled a chair to the edge and sat down, smoking one cigarette after another as Jurgen's screams echoed through the walls of the house.