The new Resident was selected less than twenty-four hours after the murder of General Larrinaga. His name was Manuel Ortega, and very few people had ever heard of him. The appointment reached him by telegram early in the morning on June 17, and he was given exactly four hours to decide whether to accept or decline.
Manuel Ortega was Assistant Trade Attaché at the Republic’s embassy in Stockholm. He had already held the post for two years and had had time to become used to Sweden. He lived in a furnished flat in Karlavägen in the Ostermalm part of the city, and about six months earlier he had sent for his family.
Outwardly he was fairly commonplace, a Latin in some ways but no one would have been surprised if he had turned out to be a Greek or a Pole or a Finn. He had brown hair and brown eyes, was five foot ten, and weighed a hundred and fifty pounds. A badly cared-for soccer injury from his university days had left him with a slight limp in his right leg, but it was noticeable only when he was in a hurry.
He was called to the embassy just before eight o’clock, and the Ambassador himself handed him the cable signed by the President of the Federal Republic. Manuel Ortega read it slowly and carefully with that lack of surprise one usually experiences in the face of something totally unexpected.
What on earth is this lousy job? he thought coldly.
And soon afterward: Might as well say no right away.
The Ambassador was wearing a smoking jacket and had not yet had time to shave. He was standing up because he was altogether too nonplused to contemplate sitting down and he completely misunderstood the other man’s attitude.
“Naturally you’re asking yourself why you of all people should have been chosen. I can perhaps help to shed a little light on this point. You’re a lawyer and an economist, used to dealing in a businesslike way. What is needed down there is someone rational with a sense for practical solutions. You are nonpolitical too, and always have been. We others have all got our—well, our burdens.”
The Ambassador had held various ministerial posts in three consecutive half-Fascist governments, and since then had only with considerable difficulty survived a series of sensitive changes of regime.
He went on: “This is of course an interesting offer worth looking into. If you make any definite progress down there, you can consider yourself made. If you fail, on the other hand …”
He cleared his throat and at last sat down behind his desk.
“Sit down by all means, my dear fellow,” he said.
Manuel Ortega sat down in the visitor’s armchair and put the cable down on the desk. Then he leaned back and crossed his legs carefully so as not to spoil the crease in his trousers.
“On the other hand,” said the Ambassador, “the assignment should naturally not be overrated, nor the seriousness of the situation either, for that matter. Our country is large and prosperous and orderly. This border district … Have you ever been there, by the way?”
“No.”
“Well, I’ve flown over it once or twice. As I’ve said, this border district is, as you know, thinly populated and totally infertile. Thanks to a handful of farsighted pioneers and their sacrifices it has to a certain extent been made productive. These people and their descendants obviously have certain rights, which speak for themselves. The rest of the population is a backward minority which, of course, must be emancipated gradually but which is still, for all practical purposes, ineducable. There are minorities like this in all countries, even here, you know …”
He snapped his fingers.
“Of course, the Lapps.”
“Exactly, but here it has been possible to make them into a tourist attraction thanks to the favorable geographical circumstances. The country down there lacks all that and is merely scorched and inaccessible. Despite the country’s efforts, and with the exception of a very small number of mines, it is still practically worthless. But you know all this as well as I do.”
Manuel made a vague but polite gesture.
“In any case the present situation would never have arisen if the atmosphere hadn’t been poisoned by foreign provocation and lying propaganda. Before this the army was always quite capable of keeping the territory under control. If it had been allowed to continue its operation six months ago, then … well, then we would not be sitting here discussing the matter.”
He drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment, looking across at the window. Then he said: “I knew Orestes de Larrinaga for a long time. He was a first-class officer and a great man. It is idiotic that an assignment like this should be the cause of his death. He was much too well qualified for the post and I don’t understand why he let himself be talked into accepting it.”
Manuel Ortega leaned forward and brushed a small flake of ash off his trousers. Suddenly he said: “Perhaps he wanted to do some good.”
“I doubt that this was the right way. But the tragedy is, of course, that he did do some good. It opened people’s eyes. Even so-called world opinion should, after this, see things in their right perspective. And as soon as foreign propaganda is silenced then the problem will cease to exist.”
He paused and sighed: “In any case, I certainly don’t want to influence your decision, but I think you should be allowed to see a communication which arrived here last night.”
He took a folded slip from his briefcase and pushed it across the desk. The man in the armchair picked it up with a certain hesitation, as if he did not know whether to put it in his pocket or to begin reading it at once.
“Of course, my dear fellow, go ahead and read it.”
Manuel Ortega took his glasses out of his top pocket and unfolded the piece of pink paper. As he read he heard the continuous drumming of the Ambassador’s fingers on the edge of the desk.
“ministry of foreign affairs to all embassies: three hours after murder of provincial resident the following communique was sent out from leaders of citizens guard: one of the most famous men in our country, general orestes de larrinaga, has today fallen victim of a murderous communist assault. this terrible crime has three aims: (1) to remove a brilliant personality and an objective and just representative of the law and the government. (2) in this way to make way for a politician and an administration which has less power to resist foreign provocation. (3) to create anarchy. his death has deeply disturbed all right-minded inhabitants of the province. the most disturbing issue is the knowledge that general larrinaga died holding a meaningless post and that his and many other honorable mens lives could have been saved if the army had been allowed to fulfil its duty. we responsible citizens in this town and this province demand the immediate intervention of the army. we hereby place ourselves under the protection of the armed forces and we promise to give the troops every imaginable support in the fight against the reds who threaten to flood our country. we demand also that the provincial resident—if a successor to general larrinaga is to be appointed at all—shall have military forces at his disposal. as resident we can only accept an officer with technical knowledge of this area. if the government should give way to undue outside pressure and appoint another official we demand that he should in the interests of the country refuse the assignment. if he does not we should be forced to use violence. a civilian provincial resident or anyone who wishes to accept this post without the full support of the army can assume that he is sentenced to death at the moment he accepts the assignment. two weeks at the latest after his arrival this sentence will be carried out. (this communique has been distributed by air, posted in public places, and broadcast in news bulletins.)”
Manuel Ortega folded up the piece of paper and placed it on the desk. He thought once again: What a lousy job. Aloud he said: “This hasn’t been mentioned in the newspapers.”
“My dear fellow, seen in a wider context, our problems are very minor and scarcely worthy of notice. I am not entirely convinced that even our own newspapers will take up the matter. The whole thing is futile. If General de Larrinaga had not been such a famous man, his death would certainly not have aroused any attention, at least outside the country. It all concerns just a handful of people who are far away, in their own country as well as from us.”
Manuel Ortega pointed at the slip and said: “Do you think, Excellency, that this stand they have taken can be defended?”
“Not officially, of course. But I imagine their position is very difficult, very difficult indeed. The death of Larrinaga has scared them considerably. He was the symbol of their security. Now they’re fighting desperately, not only for their rights but also for their lives. And the army is their only hope.”
“Do you think President Radamek will give the army a free rein?”
“I am not convinced that this decision rests with the President.”
“What is meant by the expression ‘an officer with technical knowledge of this area’?”
“Presumably the commanding officer of the command there, General Gami, or his Chief of Staff, Colonel Orbal.” The Ambassador again looked toward the window. “Excellent men, both of them,” he said.
There was silence for a moment or two. Then Manuel Ortega said: “And the Communists murdered General Larrinaga?”
“Yes, just as they will kill anyone else who works against their interests.”
“The new Resident is condemned to death by both sides then.”
“It looks like it. If the army doesn’t take over.” The Ambassador looked at the clock. “You’ve not much more than three hours,” he said apologetically. “Or have you already come to a decision?”
Manuel Ortega rose hesitantly.
“Weren’t you just going on vacation?” said the ambassador.
“Yes. Today.”
“Where were you thinking of going?”
“Tylösand.”
“Ah, Tylösand, wonderful. Then the choice should not be all that difficult.”
“No,” said Manuel Ortega.
“Then at midday at the latest you’ll let me know, will you? If you accept you must figure on going this afternoon.”
“Yes.”
Manuel Ortega walked down into the dim hall, put on his rubbers and raincoat, and began unsheathing his umbrella. But when he went out onto the steps to Valhallavägen, the rain had stopped, so he hung his umbrella over his arm and walked slowly along the wet shiny pavement. He bought a newspaper at the stand in Karlaplan and, a bit farther on, sat down on a bench and tried to think. It was not easy; he felt irritatingly indecisive, as if the conversation had simply confused the issue for him. He glanced over the front page of the newspaper and then flipped to the foreign news. He found it there: a short item with the headline Political murder. The General’s name was spelled incorrectly. The Ambassador was right: their country apparently played no role on the world scene.
Manuel Ortega rose and walked on. Large drops of rain fell from the trees onto his head and shoulders. At Sibyllegatan he crossed against a red light and was almost run down by a taxi. Three minutes later he opened the door to his apartment. He did not want anything and did not know what he should do.
A little while later he was sitting down drinking coffee. He had taken off his shoes but not his jacket and he was leaning back in his armchair watching his wife as she went out of the living room. With a faint feeling of distaste he noticed her buttocks moving beneath the slightly too tight dress and he saw that she had a fold of fat at the nape of her neck beneath the heavy black knot of hair. Nevertheless, she was in no way unattractive.
He sighed, put his coffeecup down, and went across to the large french window. The rain had started again and was streaming through the trees along Karlavägen.
With a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and his hands in his pockets, he stood and watched the rain making small pools and streams in the sandy path of the avenue. He heard his wife come into the room.
“What do you think I ought to do?”
“It’s not my affair.”
“You’ve already said that.”
“But if you think there’s a chance you really would benefit from it …”
“But perhaps I might be able to do some good for once.”
“To whom?”
“To all these people.”
“They themselves have said that only the army can do them any good.”
“But all the others? Three hundred thousand other people live there too.”
“That mob? Who can neither read nor write? Who live like animals? What can you do for them? If you’d been a doctor or a priest, but …”
It was as simple as that then.
“In some ways you’re absolutely right.”
“But if this is a real opportunity, then you should take it. I don’t want to advise you. It’d be absurd if I started advising you on your work.”
“It entails a certain risk too.”
“You’re thinking of General Larrinaga? You’re no general, Manuel. And you’ve got Miguel as well, if it proves necessary.”
Miguel Uribarri was her brother. He had for several years been head of the criminal police in the federal capital.
After a while she said: “But if you can see quite clearly that this is not an opportunity, then you should refuse it.”
Manuel Ortega clenched his fist and beat on the door frame.
“Don’t you see that I too want to do something? Something real?”
“Presumably your work here is considerably more important to the country.”
Dryly and factually. She was not unintelligent and was almost certainly right—from her point of view and from many others too.
“I don’t want to be cowardly either.”
“That’s a point of view for which I have much more sympathy. If it’s my sympathy you want.”
She left the room. After a minute or so he went back to the chair and sat down. He looked at the clock. Quarter past eleven already.
She came back.
“Have you decided?”
“How long will it be for?”
“At the most six months. Probably not that long. Do you think it’ll be difficult? With the children?”
“I’ve managed before.… Don’t worry on that score,” she added with a sudden spurt of tenderness.
He remained sitting in the chair, feeling empty and listless, almost apathetic. The children came into the room.
“Children, Daddy’s not coming with us to the beach.”
“Why not?”
“He’s got some important work to do.”
“Oh.”
“Come on then—off to your room now.”
They went.
Manuel Ortega was no longer thinking about the assignment. He was thinking about himself. He thought about himself and his marriage and his family. Everything was perfect. His wife was perfect, apart from that little bit of corpulence. From the very beginning their marriage had been successful and had never really ceased to be. Sexually, it was technically perfect even now. The children were so perfect it almost scared him. Sometimes he wondered whether the years in this perfectionist little country, with its bad climate, had not transformed them into an ideal family, into museum pieces. He could see them standing in a glass case, with labels. Father of family, 42, born in Aztacan, Latin type. Boy, 7, born in London, utterly satisfactory model. Girl, 5, born in Paris. Woman, 35, mother of two children, well preserved. Perfect relationship between equal partners. Please note their tenderness and absolute openness toward each other.
She said in a friendly tone: “Aren’t you going to call His Excellency?”
He roused himself, arose, and went over to the telephone. He dialed the number direct but did not get through. Instead he got through to the secretary and told her his decision.
“Check-in time at Arlanda is three-fifteen. You must be at the airport by then. The car will pick you up at exactly half past two. Tickets and money are arranged for.”
Everything was so businesslike.
Just as he put down the receiver, the telephone rang. It was the Ambassador.
“After our conversation this morning I have been thinking the matter over further. I have reconsidered my ideas. It would be wrong for you to refuse the assignment, to reject the faith that has been shown in you.”
“Good. I have already said that I accept.”
“What? Excellent. I am pleased that my little experiment worked so well.”
“Experiment?”
“Yes. Now I can admit that what I said earlier was not meant very seriously. A stupid attempt to test your ability to deal with matters and make independent decisions. At least partly. But, you must understand, all the facts were correct. But forgive me all the same.”
“Of course.”
He felt his mouth go dry.
“One more thing. In Copenhagen you will be meeting one of your co-workers. A lady who will act as your secretary. She is from down there and has outstanding qualities. Called—one moment—oh, these Slavic names—of course, I’ve nothing against the President, ha ha, yes—here it is … Danica Rodríguez. She’s already received her instructions. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Good luck then. You’ll have a difficult but interesting job.”
“Thank you.”
“And, Manuel—be careful. They mean it.”
“Yes.”
Manuel Ortega put the receiver down slowly. The Ambassador had never used his first name before, nor had he ever used that tone of voice with him before. The conversation had been confusing, almost unreal.
Be careful, Manuel. They mean it.
Much later he said to his wife: “Where is my revolver?”
“I’ve already thought about that. I’ve heard it can be dangerous down there. It’s in the bottom drawer of the desk, on the right. Will you get it yourself?”
“Yes.”
The revolver lay there (as she had said), wrapped in a soft cloth and neatly tucked in the shoulder holster. He unwound the straps and the cloth and weighed the weapon in his hand. It felt heavy and firm and was well oiled. He took three boxes of cartridges too, and put them all in the top of his suitcase. Then his wife shut the lid and locked it.
A little before half past two, Manuel Ortega kissed his wife and children and got into the front seat next to the driver. His wife said: “Don’t forget the seat belt.”
The car drove away. His family stood on the sidewalk and waved. He waved back.
At twenty-five to four he climbed the steps into the plane. Just as he bent over and stepped inside, smiling at the girl who was standing at the door, fear snatched at his heart.
It came like a shock, without warning.
Orestes de Larrinaga had been given three weeks to live. He would not even get that much.
Two weeks at the latest after his arrival the sentence will be carried out.
Be careful. They mean it.
He was sweating, and as he pushed forward between the people in the aisle, he fumbled for something that would give him security. He thought of the revolver and how it had lain in his hand, heavy and cold and comforting.
The revolver was a g-millimeter Astra-Orbea with a walnut butt, made in 1923 in Eibar. His father had given it to him for his twenty-first birthday. He had never been without it since then. He had never had cause to point it at any living creature, not even as a joke, but sometimes he used it for target practice on empty bottles and tin cans.